Edgy People

by Barb Nobel

  The next day, I had gained sufficient strength from my hiatus to return home. The mouse sightings continued, but now they didn’t even need to be disturbed to put in an appearance. They appeared singly and in groups, and barely retreated when I yelled at them and stamped on the floor.

  They sat in the wall heating vents, their tails hanging out; they ran across the middle of the kitchen floor while I ate dinner; they ran into the bathroom so that I couldn’t use the facilities before I went to my restless sleep. They danced the fandango in the dining room. Or maybe it was the salsa. It didn’t bother them when I turned off the radio. They continued to dance, as if to a different drummer. The boy mice wore bow ties; the girl mice wore tiaras, and did pirouettes. They absolutely didn’t look like they were dying; they were having a great time.

  I was not.

  The mice seemed to be getting bigger and healthier than before. Their fur was glossier, their eyes shinier; they were plumper.

  I called Brian. He came again, checked the bait and replaced packages. He listened while I described the erratic rodent behavior. I didn’t mention that they were dancing the fandango in formal attire. I didn’t want Brian to know that he had a neurotic woman dealing with psychotic mice.

  He reassured me that the bait made the rodents act strange before it killed them, so we knew they were taking it. I still didn’t mention the dancing.

  In the meantime I went nowhere inside my home without turning on lights. I groped blindly around corners to hit the switch before stepping into a room. Where the light was at the other end of the room, I used a flashlight. I’m surprised that my neighbours didn’t call the police to report a burglar creeping around my house. I placed kitchen chairs at strategic locations so I would have something solid to leap up on at any appearance. One night when I was talking to a friend on the phone she asked me to get her an address.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t get off this chair, there’s a mouse running around the floor.”

  “Get a broom and chase it away,” she said.

  “Okay,” I quietly hung up the phone, curling up on the chair.

  After a week I decided to act in a more courageous manner. Several mice were sitting in the wall heating vent with their tails hanging out. I decided to use the broom to knock them down the heating vent into the furnace.

  I picked up the broom and started to advance upon them. What a triumph this would be! This was the day when I first became aware of the true meaning of the word “ambivalence”. Fear of the mice kept me from advancing upon them. I can’t even say it was two steps forward, and one back. It was really half a step forwards, and a step backwards, followed by a dead stop. Victory was theirs.

  For the next few weeks I did everything to avoid going home. I worked long hours. I ate out. I accepted social invitations to join people I didn’t like. My social life improved; my home life did not. Finally, I moved temporarily to the hotel room.

  When my Christmas tree became a fire hazard, I gritted my teeth and risked going back. Removing the decorations and putting the tree outside became a workout that combined ballet and martial arts.

  The hotel bills ate away at my bank accounts.

  I visited my home most evenings, peering in the windows, looking for live or dead rodents. Most evenings I didn’t have the courage to go inside. Eventually, the dancers ceased dancing, the joggers ceased jogging, and I saw neither live nor dead mice when I peered in the windows.

  I called Brian to do an inspection. He declared the house rodent free. After approximately three endless weeks and a lightened bank account, this sad and traumatic affair had come to an end.

  Brian is still my hero.

  Gone

  IT’S GETTING COLDER, AND SOMETHING in me says that I won’t find her here, but my mind knows that’s just the cold talking. So I keep on.

  So many young girls, mini-skirts, thigh-high boots, fishnet stockings, blouses opened to expose their breasts. They must be freezing. Green, blue and orange hair. And some normal colours. A few smoking, though not as many as I expected. I guess the health message reaches even here.

  I am looking for the small upturned nose, the fine light brown hair, the big blue eyes. Then I put the hair out of my mind. Hair can be dyed, as I see in front of me. I scan the faces. I am met with blank, curious or indifferent looks. Mostly indifferent.

  About half a block ahead of me, a girl bends into the window of a car, laughing and chatting. As she straightens slightly, I see her profile. Smooth, pale skin, a snub nose, large blue eyes rimmed in black.

  Could be, could be.

  The girl puts her head back into the car window, negotiating. I start to hurry, going as fast as my arthritic knee will let me.

  “Melly, Melly,” I call, and grab her by the upper arm. Startled, the girl pulls out of the car window, hitting her head against the rim. The car jumps ahead, the driver spooked.

  “Melly,” I say again. The girl glares at me

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she says. “I was almost done for the day.”

  It isn’t Melanie’s voice, not as I remember it. But then, it was so long ago. And she was a little girl. How could my memory be that accurate?

  “You stupid, ugly old bitch” she says, and gives me a shove. I stagger and land on my right hip. The pain is bad. The girl starts to walk away. After a few steps, she returns.

  “Old bitch,” she says again, and kicks me in the leg, though not too hard. She walks away again.

  Tears are in my eyes, and I start to get up. I’m having a hard time with it, and I decide to wait for a few minutes before trying again, although it’s so cold on the ground. I think of homeless people while I wait. I think of how they have to endure the cold day after day, and worse, night after night. I pray she isn’t homeless.

  I decide to try again when a car pulls up beside me. It is white, with blue and red., A large police officer gets out.

  “Just a minute, Ma’am.” he says, and goes behind me, lifts me, and helps me to the back seat of the car. He gets back in on the driver’s side, turns on the heat. He and his partner turn to look at me.

  “Ma’am,” he says, “what are you doing in this area?”

  The pain in my knee and hip is killing me, and I don’t reply. The large officer gives me a short lecture on safety, asks me what happened. I tell them I fell. I pass over my identification when they ask, and then wait as they call in. I’ve been through this before. The officer turns to look at me, not unkindly.

  “Come on, grandma, I’ll give you a ride to the subway,” he says. I shoot him a look. He turns a little pink. “Sorry Ma’am,” he says, “I didn’t mean no disrespect.”

  “Any disrespect.” I correct him. “My car is just around the corner about a block down.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he says, and starts the police car. In the rearview mirror I see the other officer give him a smirk.

  My knee and hip stiffen as I drive home, and I’m careful not to slip as I make my way down my own sidewalk. I know I should put ice on my hip to stop it swelling, but I can’t stand the thought of any more cold. I put my gel bag to heat in the microwave instead, and sit there and think. I smile to myself a bit as I remember the young officer. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. After all, he was only trying to help.

  I get up and hobble to the spare bedroom. I look at all the gifts. I’ve arranged them chronologically. The paper on the older ones is beginning to fade.

  The oldest is the rag doll I got her for her fourth Christmas. It has red yarn hair, a denim dress, and a red pinafore over the dress. I had it made for her. She would have loved it. Beside it sits a smaller gift with balloons and teddy bears on the wrap. That would have been for her fifth birthday. She would have just started school, half-days in kindergarten, and I carefully picked out several books, brightly coloured, some of them stories of children who were just starting school, making friends, and getting used to the teacher. The next package,
Christmas again, contained a blue velvet dress with a wide sash. Just the thing for a five-year old girl. My son used to complain laughingly that I bought his daughter only blue clothes, but I knew that he loved those big blue eyes as I did.

  As time went on, I found it more difficult to pick out the gifts. What would a fourteen year old girl like? Would she be a tomboy and want sports shoes, or would she prefer clothes? I looked at the girls in the neighbourhood. Would she be like those girls? Would she want her eyebrow pierced for her birthday?

  Now she’s nineteen, and the choices are even more difficult. Would she be thinking of getting married? Would she be in university and want something practical? This year’s gift would need a lot of thought.

  First things first.

  I hobble back to the kitchen, pull the warm gel bag out of the microwave, press it against my hip and sink into a kitchen chair.

  I pull my notebooks to me and review and think. I look at the old pictures; I look at the computer enhancement. Time to get another of those. She’s about fifteen in the last one. The police won’t help with that any more, and even the missing children’s support group, compassionate as they are, think this is a lost cause.

  I think of how she loved going to kindergym when she was three. Maybe that’s a part of her that survived. I know it’s not probable, but maybe she was taken care of, maybe whoever it was only wanted a child of their own. I have to think of all the possible options. A health club is another place to look.

  I write “health club” under Possibilities. I pull the yellow pages towards me and start a list. Tomorrow, I will start on the health clubs.

  Maybe. Maybe this time.

  Conversation For One

  OH, MISS, THANKS SO MUCH for bringing dinner. Turkey today? I love turkey. Pardon? What did you say? Do I really? Well, I do love all the meals you bring.

  Miss, look at this lovely teacup. I got it from my mother, who got it as a wedding gift. That was, oh, a long, long time ago.

  Wait, Miss, you don‘t have to go yet, do you? This teacup was hand painted; see the roses. They’re kind of faded now. I remember they were much redder before, when my mother first gave it to me. Would you believe, I still miss my mother. I always said that I would leave this teacup to my daughter, but I never had a daughter, and my sons, well, they just don’t care. They’re busy with their jobs and their families, I guess.

  Oh, just one more minute, Miss. Would you like a cup of tea? No? Well, do have a biscuit, please. Not allowed to? Why ever not? I know, I know, all you young people are in such a rush. Not young? Of course, you are. I understand, someone else is waiting, and you don’t want the meals to get cold. Maybe you can come back another time and we can visit. Well, I guess you’re busy, don’t have much time. Time is all I have. Well, my niece did say she would come visit next month. Bye, then.

  Oh, is that the mailman? Hello, hello, Mr. Wilson. Anything for me? Well, can I give you a nice cup of tea, then? I’m sure you can use it after all that walking.

  Josh

  THE DAY IS WARM AND dry, giving way to a cool, dry evening. Allison stretches and yawns comfortably as she walks toward her car. It had been a perfect day, a perfect time, to practice her tennis serve, and doubly welcome after the wet weather they have had the rest of the week. She is glad she smeared on the sunscreen, otherwise she would probably be burned by now. The mid-October leaves have begun to change colour, but are not yet red and orange. Instead they are a pale green and yellow, and the sunlight that filters through has a mellow golden look. Allison decides that there will be a great sunset, for how else could such a day end?

  She needs to sort her tennis balls; there was a puddle of water where she was practicing, and some of the balls are wet. She will drop the damp balls on a piece of cardboard in the trunk of her car. The dry tennis balls she’ll leave in the basket.

  Allison is just opening the car door when someone speaks to her. A young man, or boy, is standing on the sidewalk asking a question. Allison can not hear what he is saying, so she shuts the car door and walks toward him with her tennis racquet still in hand. The boy—or young man, for Allison can never decide at what age boys become young men—is about nineteen, maybe twenty years old. He is dressed in army fatigues, or some kind of combat camouflage, and he is carrying a large duffel bag. Allison wonders if he is an army recruit. She’s sure there isn’t any army camp near here. An uneasy feeling bothers the edges of her mind. She knows there is something incongruent here.

  As they draw closer, the boy speaks again, with a strong French accent. Allison pauses before she understands that he is asking how to get to Islington Avenue and Highway 401. He has a hand drawn map showing Islington Ave. and the 401 intersecting. As she pushes back her long, pale brown hair, and looks at the map, a second boy walks into the parking lot. This young man is about 18 years old, and has bad acne. He is dressed in the same manner as the first boy.

  It’s then that Allison registers what seems incongruent. Neither boy has the short hair required by the army. Both have “mohawks”, that strip of long hair down the centre of the head with the sides shaved bald. However, both boys are allowing the shaved area to grow out, and it is now several inches long, making the long centre hair less noticeable.

  The second boy sits down on the curb that borders the grassy area and the parking lot. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He stares at the ground.

  The boy she is talking to tells her that they are hitch-hiking to Montreal tonight. Allison explains to the boy that they have been walking south on Islington Avenue, away from the 401. It is a long walk to the 401, and Allison doubts that anyone will give them a ride. The boy she is talking to turns to speak French to the younger boy. “Henri,” he says, and Allison overhears the words “401” and “Islington”. She knows he is telling Henri that they have been walking in the wrong direction. Henri stares out in front and drops his head into his hands again.

  Allison is concerned about both boys, but particularly about the younger boy. He is the most discouraged looking kid that she has seen in a while. She tells the boys that it isn’t very safe for them to be standing out on a highway at night. She attempts to persuade the boys to stay in a youth hostel, and go on to Montreal in the morning. The boy she is talking to smiles at her condescendingly and states that they will go to Montreal tonight. The younger boy looks at the ground.

  Allison suggests to the boys that they take the bus to the subway, and the next bus north to the 401. The boy tells her that they have no money. Allison looks at the boy sitting on the curb and wonders whether they honestly have no money, or whether they are conning her. She thinks of her own son, and decides that she would prefer to lose the money to a con than have the two boys stuck without any money. She can get to a bank machine first thing in the morning. She goes to her car and her purse, and comes back with a couple of loonies and a five dollar bill. The two boys are genuinely surprised at her giving them money, and are sincere in their thanks. Allison is glad she gave them the help. She points out the bus stop to the boys; it is only about 20 feet away. She returns to her car feeling good about the decision.

  A few minutes later, Allison has finished sorting the tennis balls. The boys are still at the bus stop, sitting on their duffel bags. And just past them, Allison sees Josh coming to find her. Allison smiles to herself, watching Josh’s loose unselfconscious walk. His elbows sticks out, his hands looks too big for his arms, and his knees are huge and boney under the stylish baggy shorts. His feet are clown feet. At fourteen, Josh has inherited his father’s height and dark skin, but not yet his muscular build.

  The swim team try-outs had taken place earlier today, and by the pleased look on Josh’s face, she knows he has made the team. Spotting her, he lifts his arm, waves, and yells, “Hi, Maw”, just as if he had been born and brought up in the country rather than as a city kid. A big grin lights up his face. Allison wears a matching grin.

  Josh will pass by the two bo
ys at the bus stop, and Allison hopes they won’t ask him for money. Josh – healer of hurt birds, peacemaker, funny-faced clown to crying babies – will cheerfully dig in his pocket and give them whatever change he has left from his paper route collection. Josh will figure that they need it more than he does, and he will give it. The boys stand up as Josh draws close to the bus stop.

  Then it happens.

  The older boy reaches out and shoves Josh on the shoulder. It is one of those short, sharp shoves that men use to challenge or goad each other. And Allison hears, “Get out of my way, nigger.” She is stuck to the sidewalk.

  But, I just helped them.

  The younger boy giggles. The first boy shoves Josh again, this time with both hands. Josh stumbles and falls backwards onto the street.

  Horns blare, brakes screech and a small red car swerves into the other lane and comes to a stop.

  “What’s your problem, nigger?” smirks one of the boys.

  Allison is running.

  The door of the small red car opens, and a very large, black man gets out. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the words POWERHOUSE GYM inscribed on the front.

  The two boys take one look at him, mutter “Jezuss”, pick up their duffel bags, and flee across the park.

  When Allison reaches Josh, he is scrambling to his feet. She reaches out a hand to help, but he jerks away from her. Tears fall from his eyes, snot runs from his nose. On his face is hurt, rage, and shame. He turns his back to her and walks away, not bothering to brush himself off.

  Allison stares after him. Her gut churns.

  The sun is setting; the mellow, golden look is gone from the day.

  The Visit

  I VISIT MY MOTHER AT Sunset Acres.