Edgy People

by Barb Nobel

  When I get to the elevators, the woman, who is carrying a purse and a large manila envelope, is waiting to get on. I try to look as unaggressive as possible. I keep my arms close to my body and my stance narrow. When the elevator comes, I step back politely to let her go on first, and stand against the opposite wall trying to look as small as possible, which isn’t easy considering I’m 210 lbs. I must look enormous to my elevator companion who must be all of 100 lbs and frail.

  I keep my eyes to the floor, but the elevator has barely started when I notice a small brown lump in the corner diagonal to me. It’s disgusting. Someone has let their dog toilet in the elevator and didn’t pick it up. And these are relatively new, high-end condos.

  But then the lump moves, and, oh, shit, it’s a mouse. Immediately, I’m five years old again, tangled in the bed sheets with a mouse, and my two brothers laughing at my terror.

  I’m staring at the mouse, paralyzed, when it makes a sudden dash at me.

  I shriek and try to get out of the way, but there is only one direction to run in this little space. With a loud thump, I hit the wall next to the old woman. She shrieks.

  The end to this episode flashes through my mind, and I see it as if watching a movie. I’ve given the old woman a heart attack, the mouse has given me a heart attack, and in the final scene, the elevator door slides open, two bodies on the floor, and the mouse emerges victorious, smoking a miniature cigar. Mouse 2, People 0.

  I glance at the lady beside me, so neat in a flowery dress, with her hair in a bun. She looks back at me.

  “It’s a mouse, dear,” she says.

  I want to tell her I know what it is, but what comes out of my mouth instead is, “I...I...I...”

  “Well, we’re almost at my floor,” she says. “Why don’t you just get off with me and then catch the next elevator up?”

  I look at the mouse, positioned right at the door.

  “Oh,” says the woman.

  Then she takes her large brown envelope and begins to chase the mouse into the opposite corner, actually saying “shoo, shoo”, to it. When it’s in the corner, she barricades the mouse with the envelope, and tells me to stand by the door so I can get off as soon as the elevator stops.

  “But hold the door for me dear, because this is my floor” she tells me.

  And that is what happens. I get off and hold the door for her, and she walks off, perfectly composed. I let the doors close. The mouse is the only passenger now.

  The woman takes a look at me, then asks me if I want to sit down. There is nothing to sit on, so I just back up against the wall. I can feel the sweat running down out of my hairline.

  “Don’t faint, dear,” says the woman. “I’m not sure I could hold you up.”

  Is that a smirk I hear in her voice?

  She puts her hand out to me and introduces herself as Evelyn. I tell her my name is Nigel.

  Evelyn’s hand is warm and boney. She rummages in her purse and pulls out a little package of Kleenex. She hands one to me, remarking on how humid it is. I use it to wipe the sweat off my face.

  “Now, dear, are you going to be all right getting back on the elevator, or do you want me to come with you for protection?” says Evelyn. She is laughing at me!

  I look at her blue eyes magnified behind her glasses and laugh till I’m almost falling over. Evelyn is laughing too, and her laugh is surprisingly hearty.

  “Evelyn, I’m taking the stairs,”

  “Okay dear.”

  The next morning, Mariella and I are coming down in the elevator when it stops at the 12th floor, and, of course, Evelyn gets on.

  “Good morning! Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she says.

  “Indeed, it is,” replies Mariella. “It’s so beautiful that Nigel and I are just going out to try flat-boarding. But I have to admit I’m a little nervous.”

  “Oh goodness,” says Evelyn. “Don’t worry about it. Your boyfriend will take care of you. With muscles like that, I’m sure he isn’t afraid of anything.”

  “You’re right,” says Mariella, patting my arm. “The man is absolutely fearless.”

  Evelyn grins.

  I grin too.

  Dianne’s Gift

  SO, HERE I AM, AND what do I do next? Put one foot in front of the other, I say to myself, and then I take a big breath and go in the front door and up the stairs to the left, following the signs.

  “Welcome to Dress for Success,” the woman at the desk says. “You must be Elizabeth.”

  I nod.

  “We have some forms to fill out,” she says, and gestures for me to have a seat. Name, address (I give the shelter address), and the usual information, but when we come to what size clothes, I have no idea. I haven’t shopped for clothes in years. Also, the question about what I need; where was the box that said “No clue”?

  “Don’t worry about it,” the lady says. “Dianne will be your fashion consultant, and she’s very good at what she does.”

  My fashion consultant?

  Dianne is a black woman, and I feel a little touch of nerves. I’ve never talked to a black woman before. There just aren’t any black people where I come from, up in farming country. I’m sure there are black people who are farmers, just none where I come from. Gordon always said that all black men were rapists and all black women were whores. One day, I said to him that if all black women were whores then black men didn’t need to be rapists. I didn’t really believe that, but every once in a while I got tired of his belittling everybody. Chinese people, Indians, Blacks, women, men who worked in offices—Gordon hated everybody.

  “What the fuck do you know?” Gordon said. “You haven’t been off this goddam farm in years.”

  And he was right. He had the keys to the truck and there was no way I could get my hands on them. So, I hadn’t been off the farm in years.

  “Hi,” says Dianne, and I say “hi” back and decide I will talk to her like I talk to anyone else. After all, the numbers of pigment cells in your skin don’t have anything to do with the way you talk.

  Then I tell Dianne that I don’t have much money. I know the worker at the shelter said the clothes are free, but I can’t believe that. But Dianne says not to worry about the money, the clothes are indeed free. I’m so relieved. I have no idea how much anything costs anymore. Gordon picked up anything I needed in town. He said that it made more sense for him to pick up whatever we needed than for him to come back to the farm and get me and go back out again. Once I told him that I would like to go into town for a bit, but of course he told me that a wife belongs in the home, and the apples were ripe, so why didn’t I get busy for a change and make some apple pies or something. And what was I bitching about, he worked all day and took care of the milk cows, while I sat around watching television, so what did I have to complain about.

  Dianne asks me what name I want to use, and I make a decision right then. I will never be Lizzy again. Lizzy is a scared woman, a woman who makes apple pies because her husband likes them, because if she does what her husband likes maybe he’ll be nicer to her. I tell Dianne I am called Elizabeth.

  We go through a curtain and I see rows and rows of clothes on racks. I’m gawking at the clothes because there’s so much. Dresses, jackets, blouses, pants.

  “Now, you’re going for a job interview. What’s the job?” Dianne asks.

  I tell her it’s a reception job. I don’t say so, but I know there’s nothing else I know how to do right now. Melanie at the shelter got me the job interview. It’s a travel agency, and basically they want someone who can smile, bring coffee to the clients, give them some brochures, and generally make them feel comfortable while they’re waiting for the travel agent. This is something I can do. I have lots of practice pleasing people. Well, pleasing Gordon anyway, and he wasn’t that easy to please.

  Dianne asks me if I would feel more comfortable in a skirt or dress, or in dress pants. I think a bit and tell her pants. I haven’t worn a skirt or dr
ess in years. Dianne starts going through the racks. She pulls out a pair of black dress pants, a plain white blouse, a blue and white patterned blouse, and a black jacket. I’m in the change room sliding out of my sweat pants when she hands me a skirt over the top. It’s a straight, red skirt, and before I can say anything, Dianne asks me to at least try it on, even if I don’t like it right now.

  The first clothes I try on are the black pants and the patterned blouse, which has short sleeves. When I step out of the change room and raise my arm to tuck in the tag, I know Dianne has noticed the scars on the back of my arm, the ring pattern, but she says nothing.

  I look in the mirror, and I’m shocked: I didn’t know that I could look like this, like a business woman. But I don’t know if I can wear short sleeves, and let people see this scar. Will people keep asking me how I got the scar? I can’t tell them I call the scar “Gordon’s gift”.

  Dianne suggests I go back into the change room and try on the other clothes, including the red skirt, looking at the different combinations, with and without the jacket. I marvel at how many combinations I can make.

  Most people would not consider this scar a gift. Most people would recognize the burn scars made by the rings of a stove burner. But, three years ago, this scar started me thinking of escape. This scar told me to make a plan.

  I was careful, very, very careful. I started selling eggs, putting a home-made sign at the bottom of the lane when Gordon was away, and making sure I got it back hidden before he got home. I knew I was taking a risk with the eggs, but I emphasized to each customer that if the sign wasn’t out, I didn’t have any eggs to sell, and they shouldn’t come up the lane.

  But, the eggs are how I got most of my funds. Of course, I also hoarded any spare change Gordon left in his pockets when I did the laundry and picked up a few bucks out of his coat pockets when he went to bed. When he came home drunk, I could take a bit more; he would never remember what he had in his wallet. I hid my cash in the kitchen cupboard. It was safe there. Gordon never opened a kitchen cupboard in the ten years I lived with him. Little by little, my stash grew.

  One Saturday, this older lady, Emma, drove up the lane to buy eggs, as she did every few weeks. Emma was friendly and liked to chat with me when she bought eggs. She told me that she worked at the bank in town, had worked there for about 30 years, and was ready to retire. She was a large woman, but she looked good with her short white hair fluffed out around her face.

  Emma asked me about the scars on my arm, and I told her about how clumsy I was, and that I was always hurting myself. She just kind of nodded her head and went “uh, huh”. I don’t think she believed me, but all she said was to be more careful.

  One day I didn’t have the sign out because it was Saturday, and Gordon was home, so I don’t know why she came. But when Gordon came out of the house, glaring, and telling her she was trespassing, she seemed to figure it out right away. She immediately apologized, pretended that she had gotten lost and come up the wrong lane. She asked for forgiveness for an old, confused lady, and when she reached out to shake my hand, I could feel a business card transfer from her palm to mine.

  When Gordon went out the next day, I called the number on the card. It was Emma’s business number at the bank. She said only that she would help me when I asked for it. She continued to come and buy eggs every few weeks, when the sign was outside, and always asked if I still had her phone number.

  So Emma is the person I called a year later, and she was as good as her word. She picked me up and bought me a train ticket to Toronto, telling me to save my funds for when I got to the city. She gave me an address to a woman’s shelter, a few bucks for food and transportation, and now I’m here.

  That’s why I call this scar “Gordon’s gift” because these scars are what started me thinking about how to get away.

  When I come out and look at myself dressed in the red skirt, the white blouse and the black jacket, I can’t help it, I smile at myself. I know Gordon would walk right by me on the street; he would never recognize me.

  “Now, you smile like that in the interview, and you’ll get the job for sure. You have a wonderful smile,” Dianne says.

  I feel tears flood my eyes at her kindness.

  “Let’s look at shoes,” Dianne says, and we both look down.

  Although I’m skinny, my feet are big. Once Gordon came home and told me he had a new pair of shoes for me. It turned out that he had bought himself new shoes, but then he used a magic marker to draw laces and a bow on the shoe box and presented it to me.

  “I’ll get you the other foot next time I’m in town,” he roared, delighted with his wit. No doubt that made a good story in the bar that evening.

  “Size ten, same as me.” Dianne guesses, and she’s right. We both look at her shoes. She has on plain black shoes, with a little heel. Dianne tells me that larger sizes can be a little difficult, but she’s hopeful they have something. I really hope so too, because I only have the old ones I’m wearing, the sole detaching from the uppers.

  Dianne tells me I can change back into my own clothes, and she’ll go and take a look for the shoes. Before I can go back into the change room, the lady from the front desk comes by. She tells me to hold on a bit, and in a few minutes she comes back with a scarf in pale blue and white. She puts the scarf around my neck, and the outfit looks even better. Than we hold the scarf up against the patterned blouse, then the white blouse, and we have some discussion about whether I could wear the scarf with the patterned blouse. The lady shows me how to tie the scarf so only the blue part shows, and then so that only the white part shows. I’m learning so much that most women my age already know. I go back into the change room and get into my old clothes, which now feel horribly shabby.

  My new clothes won’t look so good if Dianne can’t find me some shoes. And I’m kind of worried because the scarf thing took a while, so I know she must be having difficulty finding shoes. If there are no shoes I will have to use some of the money I saved to get a pair. I can ask the ladies here where to go to get some at a good price.

  I’m changed and waiting outside the room for what seems like forever when she returns. Dianne holds a pair of low heeled black shoes. She tells me to try them on. I do, and they fit. I can’t believe my luck, because they feel new. I take them off and look at the bottoms, and they have hardly a scuff mark on them. I’m elated. Everything is going my way. I can feel my confidence soar. I’ll smile at the job interview tomorrow, and I’ll get the job. I know I will. This evening I’ll get someone at the shelter to ask me interview type questions, so I can be ready.

  We go to the front, and Dianne packs the clothes in tissue and into a nice bag, except for the shoes. I throw my old shoes in the garbage and wear my new ones. It looks like I’ve been shopping for real. I can’t stop saying “thank you” to both these women. Thank you for their time, thank you for the clothes, thank you for their kindness.

  Dianne tells me I’m the last client of the day and she’ll come down the stairs with me and lock the front door. I’m still saying “thank you” when Dianne opens the door for me and tells me to watch the step at the door sill. “Good night, good luck tomorrow,” Dianne calls cheerfully as she locks the door behind me.

  I look back at Dianne. And I feel myself gasp. Instead of her low heeled black shoes Dianne now has on a pair of running shoes. They’re nice looking shoes, but they are definitely not the low black heels she had on earlier. I peer down at my own feet.

  And all I can think is: Dianne’s gift.

  If Ever You Need a Poltergeist

  I’M HALF ASLEEP WHEN I hear the footsteps come up the stairs. I raise my head and strain my eyes toward the door. I really don’t expect to see anyone there. I absolutely don’t expect to see what I do see.

  I’ve heard those footsteps coming up the stairs a hundred times, and there is never anyone there.

  But this time it’s different.

  A long, long time ago, someth
ing must have happened in this house around the months leading up to Christmas. Something bad? I don’t know. But something.

  I’ve lived in this house for almost fourteen years, and I’m no longer afraid when I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Like anything that you experience repeatedly, it had lost it threat, or promise. Like getting use to holding a snake, or seeing a mouse. Aversion therapy, I think it’s called. No, wait. That’s not it. Anyway, therapy for a phobia, whatever that’s called.

  Now I’m no longer worried about the sound of someone coming up the stairs, or shaking the bed, or stirring the wind chimes that are hanging in the corner.

  I should have been.

  Believe me, when I first moved in to this old house, I was afraid. It was just weird: the bed shaking, the feeling that someone was in the room, and the non-existent intruders coming up the stairs at night.

  After I had spent about three sleepless weeks in my new home, I thought about selling. But I had just used my life savings as a down payment, and I couldn’t bear the thought of going through the selling, the moving, and the bottom had just dropped out of the real estate market. And I liked the house. It was old and small, and had only two closets, but the bedrooms had dormers, there were odd cubby spaces, and a good size backyard. And it was all mine.

  I could take my time and fix it up as my pay increased. First on the list was planting a garden.

  I decided I would just stay for now and see what happened.

  A year passed, and nothing much happened. At least, nothing more than what had already happened. There was no poltergeist activity, no flinging around of small or large objects, no daytime activity, and no appearances of ghostly images. Sometimes, when I was having a late tea with a friend, they would hear steps going up the stairs, but that was easy enough to work with. I could see them question themselves and decide it was their imagination – after all, the sound was faint.