Motherish

by Laura Rock

  “You need a permit to busk in the transit system,” says grey-man from the seat in front of you, looking over the slash of glass hanging low on his nose. He doesn’t direct this to anyone in particular.

  “I’m glad you asked that, sir.” The singer holds the metal pole with one hand, the other on his heart. Sincere.

  “I wasn’t asking, I was telling.” You think of your father and stifle a laugh.

  “And I have something to tell you. Greatest story ever told.” He picks up his worn Bible and waves it in the air. This guy is well put together; you can’t help noticing that. He exudes vitality. Unlike anyone else in this streetcar, he loves his job. Which may not even be a job, but a vocation. His mission in life. What would it be like to have one? Maybe you’ll find out once the baby arrives. You hope so, because, after nine months of carrying another human being and however many hours of labour will be required to deliver it, not feeling like you had a new mission would be a pretty big problem.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, folks. You’re all bottom-line people,” he says. “Who among us has never sinned?” He points around the car. “You? You?” The kids can’t take their eyes off him.

  You think about this question in spite of yourself. Do you believe in sin? It seems antiquated in a world where all human behaviour can be explained as part of something else, illness or economics or self-preservation. Do you? Don’t look at him. Fumble in your bags, finger the cashmere scarf purchased at lunchtime for your husband. Probably your last splurge gift. The financial impact of family responsibility hasn’t hit yet. And you doubt your ability to adjust. You were born without the frugality gene.

  A girl unfolds her beat-up stroller in the aisle and drops a little boy into it. She reaches up to pull the cord and then angles the stroller forward. Could be the mother or the older sister. She’s concentrating. The moment the doors swing open she bumps the stroller down the steps, leading with her baby tilted backwards. You scream and cover your mouth as she pulls back just in time. People around you shift in their seats, putting a few more centimetres of space between you and them. Grey-man lifts his eyes from the page and turns his head to the side, alert, before resuming his reading. What has happened: a car in the curb lane flying past the stop signs. She tries again, not looking upset. The lane is clear this time. For the moment, it’s safe to leave the streetcar, exposing her child to whatever may come.

  You slump back, thinking: How did I get into this? Even the most careful person, the best mother, can’t stop a driver racing the streetcar to the end of the block. Of course, you do realize how you got into this situation. But what are the options, realistically? What is in must come out.

  Your dreams have been troubled. You awoke the other night to putting the baby to sleep in the refrigerator, covered in plastic wrap. Not feeling prepared, are you? You’re forgetful. How will you remember to put the food in the fridge and the child in the crib?

  “What about you, ma’am?” the preacher asks. He noticed your reaction to the near-accident. He sees everything. “Have you accepted Jesus? Have you invited Him in, opened your door?”

  The blood pounds in your ears. Rattle your newspaper so he knows you have other things to do. But something stirs. Maybe it’s contempt for the detachment of everyone around, excepting those poor children up front. You want to make amends. You try to answer—what was the question again? Hedge.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” you say, looking into his eyes at last. They’re full of peace, warm and dark in a broad, unlined face. You could hide in those generous eyes.

  The preacher continues his patter—you’re just a segue for him, which is a kind of relief, to be returned to the ranks of anonymous commuters who happen to be sharing a ride filled with hymns. Yet, he’s induced a humming panic in you. What do you believe? How can you be fit to guide a child through life if you don’t even know the answer to simple questions?

  The streetcar is stopped at River. It should have started moving again by now. The driver’s voice cuts to every part of the car.

  “You don’t got the fare, do you?”

  You lean into the aisle to see up front.

  “No ride, you got that, Jack?”

  A straggled man, too thin, supported by canes, each with a brace where he rests his forearms. He’s digging in his pockets. A rustle of impatience rolls through the car—let’s go, we’re waiting—the sentiment hovers, palpable in the air fogging the windows.

  “Know what I’m sick of?” the driver says. “Actors and beggars. Why should I feel sorry for you? I got no time for this show.” She shakes her head. “I got the worst route in the system, the worst.”

  Grey-man closes his file and places it on the seat next to him. He stands and walks to the front in a no-nonsense way, reaching into his pocket.

  “What you want?” The driver doesn’t turn her head to look at him.

  “I’m paying his fare.”

  “This a charity ride?” She snorts.

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “You can pay and pay, but I say who rides. It’s my judgment call.” She points at the ragged man. “Get off.”

  He doesn’t argue, just turns and struggles down the steps, then crosses in front of the streetcar. You want to shout at him to stay on the sidewalk—don’t put yourself in her path, don’t be such a pathetic fool. But he makes it to the other side and curves his body into the wind as he starts to shuffle east.

  Grey-man shakes his finger in the driver’s face. “For shame,” he says. You’re surprised he would say something like that, charged with old-fashioned moral certainty. “I’m taking your licence down, do you hear me? You’re going to lose your job.”

  She looks in the mirror before releasing the brake. “You want to walk home too, Suit?” She sticks her head out the window and yells at the man on the street. “Ha! Run, cripple! Let me see you run! Ha ha!”

  People cluck, but no one else challenges her. It’s unsettling to worry about the person piloting the streetcar. Grey-man returns and sits down stiffly. He reaches for his file, holding it closed on his lap. His breathing reaches your ears. You rest your forehead on the seat ahead of you. Your hair brushes his coat.

  The preacher sees a new vision of God’s work for him. He grabs his Bible and heads for the front, leaving his coat and backpack on the seat. He must be riding all the way out and back tonight, taking his holy-roller show to a captive audience. He crouches behind the driver, whispering. You wonder where his bell and candle are: she’s a whack job whose head might start spinning at any moment. The driver starts to laugh, a loud cackle.

  Your stop is coming. You gather your things and smile at the children, who, you now realize, belong to your street. Earlier you failed to place them, but they live nearby. Perhaps they’ll come visit you, once you’re home with the baby. This is the first time a vision of yourself as mother, in a real-life scenario, has come to mind. This thing might actually happen. And you might be okay, transformed into a mother without proper planning. You allow your hand to graze grey-man’s shoulder as you pass by, a fluttering pat of appreciation that could be accidental. He doesn’t appear to notice.

  You haul your belly all the way up front, turning and squeezing. The preacher stands sideways to let you by. Before you can stop yourself, you pull the gift scarf out of the shopping bag and drape it around his neck, reaching up and almost losing your balance as the car jolts to a stop.

  “Keep warm.” You say this and immediately wish you hadn’t spoken. Is the scarf a bribe, an offering to the universe? You’re not an everyday hero like grey-man, shoring up humanity with a charitable act. It’s safe to say you are confused, careening between anger and peace, optimism and dread. Your intentions are blurred. You want to know the worst outcomes now, before the serious screw-ups, for which you will be blamed, happen.

  He touches the scarf, looks at you appraisingly. Wrapp
ing the top of your head with his large hand, he says, “God bless you, sister. And your little one.”

  “That baby doomed,” the driver says. “No-good mother like that, I feel sorry for it.”

  “Go to hell,” you say and lurch down the steps. Immediately you turn and wait for the crowd to disembark so you can go back up and do it right. Your stomach pumps acid as you try to summon better curses, powerful ones to maim the monster who blasted your baby when you weren’t yet ready to protect it.

  Riders keep coming, bumping your shoulders, annoyed at you for standing so close to the doors. Where are all these people going? They seem to have plans far more elaborate than yours, which, for the next few weeks, is simply survival. Getting through this uncontrollable period with some dignity, if that’s possible, and safety, of course. The baby. You have no idea what to do with a baby. Finally, you can’t wait anymore.

  “Listen, bitch,” you scream up at her. “That poor man is dead in the street now, dead at River Street.” You look around and open your arms wide to bring the milling crowd onside. Your voice is their call to action, but they’re sleepwalkers programmed for home.

  “I heard sirens. I saw what you did.” You point at her. “Murderer!”

  The last person steps down and around you, revealing the driver in the door space, checking her mirrors, lips twitching. She turns to look at you and laughs, shaking her head as the doors shut. The preacher’s face appears in a window, his eyes wide and concerned. His lips are moving. The streetcar wheels whine as they begin turning.

  “In a hurry? Keeping the schedule? I wait on you for hours, lady. Always late.” Your voice goes raw. “Fucking bitch, I hope you die in that driver’s seat!”

  The streetcar pulls away, shuddering, and a freezing wind whips along behind it. You’re trembling. Cold and sweaty at the same time. A person who cannot control herself from one moment of human exchange to the next. Someone who should never try to be a mother, that’s for sure. You are not the motherly type, although, to be fair, you’ve never been the deranged screaming type either, until now. You pat yourself down, arranging the bags, and try to slow your breathing. The baby kicks you in the ribs. You deserve that. There are only a few commuters left on the sidewalk. You stand as still as possible and meet the eyes of no one.

  Your husband appears out of the night, snow dusting his shoulders.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” he says. “There was an accident. I was afraid you’d be delayed.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the Don River. See it?”

  You shake your head, collapse into him, and hand him all your bags. He’s not the kind of man to quibble about carrying your purse. You love that about him. He would make a great mom, unlike you.

  He talks nonstop during the walk home. He’s been working on the house. The nursery is nearly ready to paint. Your role will be picking colours, as you’ve reached the point of the pregnancy where you should avoid all physical exertion, be gentle with yourself. It’s not a good idea to breathe paint fumes or climb ladders, not in your condition. You’ve been spinning the colour wheel, mulling over the entire spectrum without settling on a shade you can live with long term. You’re grateful that your husband will paint the room as many times as you ask him to. You squeeze his arm and think how wonderful it is to make a decision with no consequences. If you choose wrong, just paint over your bad judgment.

  Let Heaven Rejoice

  Seated at the pipe organ in the overheated choir loft of St. Cecilia’s, Mary-Pat Lilly admires her new spring dress draped across her plump but still-good legs. The fabric’s repeating lilacs pop against a field of green, jolting her with the energy of Creation’s renewal. Her hat, a lavender cloche she’s owned for decades, nods cordially to the dress without competing for attention. Remnants of a scent applied to the brim one Easter waft around her head. She inhales faded roses, wondering if the choir has noticed the pleasant smell.

  As she extends a foot to the pedal board, the dress slips, exposing her thighs. She tugs the hem down, but it rides up immediately and she leaves it. The choir director won’t gawk; he all but ignores her. She smooths the music pages. Her organist’s edition of the Catholic Book of Worship is worn, its spine split. It will remain open as long as it takes her to play the hymns selected for the tenth Sunday of Ordinary Time.

  Her watch reads 10:00 just as the lights in the loft flicker, Father Dan’s signal that the altar servers have skidded into line in the vestibule below. Mary-Pat imagines their robes swishing, feels the weight of the crucifix the biggest lad will carry, and the trouble the smaller ones will have balancing tall candles set in heavy gilt bases. She holds her hands above the keyboard and stares down her nemesis, who swivels to face his singers, baton raised. How she relishes this moment before Holy Mass begins: a gathering of grace that will be released when fingers compress keys. The time has come, yet she waits three beats to let the conservatory-educated choir director cool his jets—no, his Jet Ski. She suppresses a giggle. Czernowsky’s Jet Ski. She must remember to tell Chevy at dinner—God knows her husband needs a laugh. He’s been moping around like a man in over-starched boxer shorts, but she gave up ironing underwear in the ‘70s. So, she’ll tell her instant Polish joke and Chevy will appreciate it. He’ll pause over his plate of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas, raise his head and say, “Good one, MP.” Meaning she’s still the one for him after forty-three years, even if certain pistons of the marital engine aren’t pumping anymore.

  Her hands fall, the processional begins, and parishioners scramble to their feet. She leans into legato notes that vibrate deep in her bones, barely glancing at hymn #557. If she cranes her neck, she can see carved, dark pews lining both sides of the narrow church and a small slice of the light-filled sanctuary. But the organist doesn’t have to survey the crowd to visualize the raggedness of their collective rising. She’s had a lifetime of Sundays to observe the slovenly and slack-jawed trailing behind the devout who spring to attention and are never clothed in beachwear; the latecomers racing to empty spots before the music ends; the nursing mothers flaunting their bosoms, united in resolute sitting with the so-called invalids of the parish. There’s nothing new under the sun, God loves every fallen sparrow, but it’s equally true that her church has gone to h-e-double-toothpicks in a ham basket. She gives her all to the music ministry nonetheless; what else can she do?

  The second verse ends with a long hold on Lord. The choir director’s movements become jerky; his apple cheeks redden. Funny, when she first met Martin Czernowsky, his painted-puppet face seemed endearingly childish, a face to pinch rather than smack. Her friends in the Catholic Women’s League kept pestering her about the eligible young bachelor who had appeared last fall. How he’d worked miracles with that choir. How he’d make a perfect match for this or that daughter, inevitably a soprano. Rather than confess his aloofness toward her, Mary-Pat let them talk. As if any of their daughters stood a chance with Mr. God’s Gift to Music. When angels fly.

  Looking for her people among the churchgoers as she plays, she spots the hiked shoulders of her husband in a side pew near the front of the church. He’s standing by the aisle next to their daughter, Monica, who probably would have preferred to sit in the back, but Chevy goes up front. Since he got into fitness and lost forty pounds in a month—that unfair way men diet—his navy suit hangs askew. He looks shrunken next to Monica, a big-boned girl. An impulse to reach down and fix Chevy’s coat ripples through an octave as she worries the ivory keys.

  The procession arrives at the edge of the sanctuary; she has a clear view for an instant before it moves on. First come the readers, one carrying the lectionary. Following them are the altar boys, a snaking line of acolytes stepping not quite to her tempo. She strikes the chords more deliberately, glad to assist the procession on its journey, and is rewarded with a glimpse of her grandson: praying hands, robe too long, innocence incarnate. A shiver of pleasure leave
s her jangly in the chest. What a good boy Justin is. He runs to the car when she picks him up every week, not even waving at his lazy parents, who by rights should take him to Mass themselves. She has nearly given up haranguing them, but not quite. Hope springs internal, that’s her motto.

  Father Dan anchors the procession, as fine a model as any for vocations. Father still visits shut-ins, praises the butter tarts for which the local chapter of the CWL is justly famous, exclaims over newborns and pets alike. So he can’t organize his way out of a paper airplane, so what? Most priests need organizers. Mary-Pat has seen them come and go at St. Cecilia’s. What sets Father Dan apart is his ability to hew to the middle and avoid parish politics. The grimace he wears today is unusual, though—perhaps a sore tooth. She mentally prescribes her special healing home brew, and if it makes him a little tipsy in the bargain, no harm done. She’ll get Chevy to drop it off at the rectory after Mass.

  She sings Raise your voice, be not afraid and hums the rest of the third verse as she spies her younger son with his new girlfriend on the far side of the church. Sitting by themselves—they probably arrived late and didn’t see Chevy. Mark has brought Kara home from the city this weekend to meet the family, but Mary-Pat can’t figure out why. Not that she has anything against Asians. On the contrary, she admires their “inane respect for the elderly”—a speaker at last month’s regional CWL conference on Aging: Thinking Outside the Box had uttered that phrase and it stuck with her. Inane respect for the elderly—her own kids could use more of that. In Asian cultures, the woman had said, clicking her slides into action, they wouldn’t dream of incarcerating their seniors. In fact—a bar graph appeared on the screen—nursing homes don’t exist in some countries. What’s the difference, you may be asking? It all boils down—click-click to the last slide, Aretha Franklin dancing—it’s all about R-E-S-P-E-C-T. The CWL ladies had risen as one to applaud.