“Worried,” Jasper says, looking up the store to where the Mighton hangs, lessening, cheapening everything else in the place.
“Well, no more than usual, I guess,” Hugh says.
“No, no, I’m worried.” Jasper whispers, hugely: “About Gerald.”
Hugh shakes his head, motions with it to Gerald, wishes he hadn’t tried that motion.
“That he’ll — himself. You know.” Jasper draws a shaky old finger across his throat.
Even though it is not funny, Hugh almost laughs. “Quit it!” he says, shaking his head. He goes to the framing room to finish.
Ruth is there, stacking the certificates in a box. “Looks like Ivy was a dab hand with these! Lucky you, to find a good apprentice.”
Hugh throws his hands in the air, winces again. “Della’s with Mimi. You’re doing all the work. What’s left?”
Ruth looks at him, sparkle-eyed. She’s a bucket of vim. “Go put an ice pack on that head, that’s what. Did I hear Gerald out there? I’m going out to his place to help him bundle up some things for the Goodwill.” She leans forward, like Jasper in her whispering. “Her things, and the boy’s.”
As he goes upstairs, Hugh hears Ruth calling out to Gerald in the front, “Won’t be a minute. I brought some Hallowe’en taffy; you never know—might get some trick-or-treaters out at your place.”
(L)
Her mom swings into the driveway, late. It’s in my phone, she always says, and yet she is always late. Grey circles under her eyes. She spent all last night in the dining room working on boats, and now she’s been looking after Mimi. After whatever happened with Dad.
Slide in, buckle up, etc. Her mom grinds the clutch and backs out of the driveway. Two lurching turns later, there’s Savaya’s house. L texts: > savaya savaya let down your long hair. Then settles in to wait, because Savaya always takes forever too. The only person in the world you don’t have to wait for, in fact, is Jason.
Her mom is fiddling with her phone, so the music keeps changing. Here Comes the Sun, that’s not going to cheer anybody up. L grabs the phone and dials it round to Hawaiian guitar, which has proved soothing in the past. “We need to stop at FairGrounds for Savaya to get her cheque, ’kay?”
Savaya runs down the walk, waving behind her to April and Justice, whose real name is Scott. April’s white-blonde hair is teased, and she’s got over-mascaraed, spooky, black tear-stained eyes; Scott is in a sheet with cut-out eyeholes. They’ve been making sponge toffee for trick-or-treat, and the smell comes pouring out of the house, dark, heavy, burnt. Savaya used to hate it, she wanted to give out bags of chips, but now everybody goes by to get some famous organic sponge toffee and she’s proud of it. They make it with fair-trade sucanat. They tried locally sourced sugar beets one year, but the toffee never set.
L’s mom waves up at the porch. “Who’s April dressed as, Savaya?”
“Courtney Love. On a rough day, I guess. And my dad’s Kurt Cobain.”
Funny, very funny. Her mom laughs too loudly. But sad too.
“Courtney Love had plastic surgery,” L tells Savaya, another piece of tragedy.
Her mom says, “That’s not surprising.”
“She was a riot grrrl!”
“But she has a lot of money. Money likes plastic surgery. All those grrrls are getting to the age now where they look in the mirror and think, I wouldn’t have to look like this if I had a little bit of work done.” L’s mother has no sense of anything but herself. Everything is filtered through approval/disapproval. Just because she wouldn’t do plastic surgery herself or get a decent haircut or use some fucking moisturizer, anyone who does is condemned.
Savaya bubbles over into the gap between the seats, straining her seatbelt. “Nevaeh’s mom called me!” L turns to stare at her. “I know! Like, never before!” Savaya twirls her head. “Her dad is at the hospital so her mom had to do the calling, we can visit her tomorrow after noon. They’re keeping her in till Monday to put pins in her ankle.”
As usual, L’s mom cannot keep it in. “How many of these girls end up in hospital! I really do have suspicions of the whole cutting thing, these kids need to take up art, find something other than themselves to obsess over.”
“Mom, this is not at all helpful.” Because a) she knows nothing about cutting, and b) shut up. “Anyway, she’s not—”
“Reading a book helps with depression better than TV ever could, or the internet.”
The car stops, FairGrounds. Savaya springs out, but L can’t stop the lava boiling out of her mouth. “You are so crazy! Jeez—nobody in the world makes me as mad as you do!”
Shit, shit, shit, there goes the Buddhist vow. Give her a loving, gag-me, big-toothed smile, maybe she won’t start sobbing while Savaya can still hear.
L’s mom smiles back, in the brave precursor-to-tears way. She says, “Sorry, sorry.”
Fuck! L kicks the glove compartment with her flowery vine-laced shoe. “You’re doing it again—you’re apologizing when you didn’t do anything! It was me who was crabby. What the fuck, Mom!” Her mom just sits there staring out the window. “Dad left, you didn’t leave! Anyway you always do that, you just apologize no matter what, so you’re not at fault.”
“And am I?”
“No! I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s still my— He’s not crazy, he wouldn’t!”
A person deserves a little faith. Of course he is not having a thing with Jenny, for fuck’s sake. L slams the door open and stands on the wet pavement for a second, then leans down into the car. “Fifteen minutes, half an hour? Go see Hugh for a while.”
She runs up the stairs onto the FairGrounds porch, shaking the rain from her flying feet, going, going.
(DELLA)
oh L so sorry Mimi says sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry I say sorry too
nothing to do but wait don’t dare go back to Hugh’s in case Mighton
Jasper’s still open lights on one light, desk lamp
junkshop shelves shadow into cross-hatch
orange glow holds Jasper’s jack-o’-lantern face devil
his lantern eyes don’t change slow shift refocus
Happy Hallowe’en! Glass of cheer?
empty mouth empty eyes hand to glass a puppet moving
hands it across the counter with a leer— did he see Mighton, biting?
wine dark, strong drink up
Another? One for my baby one more for my baby … gloomy listen to me
he stares into the middle distance
does not recognize me the stab of hurt is sharp
the store has no floor because familiar
because Dad
back out not fair to look when he is in this state devil
quarters taped to his skin lucky cat on the counter
spells to draw money to him hopeless
Ruth frets as stuck with him as Hugh feels stuck with her
Hugh must be at Mimi’s needs to be black streets wind pushes leaves
straggling troops a band of monsters shepherded by a ghoul
shouts, streets over, short glittery children each house
lit and garnished
here, adults running
black leather man and woman the man’s run is that Ken
running hand in hand with Jenny?
they turn
their unmasked faces young
younger than Cobain
9. HUGH HAS GOT MY GOLDEN ARM
Mimi’s eyes open—searching, beseeching—when Hugh comes into the room. A hand comes from under the blankets, a gesture. Thin-turned forearm half-blue, tape from a needle wound on the back of her blue-ivory hand. Does she know you, though, except as part of herself?
Hugh kneels. He puts the hand to his lips. So smooth it’s frictionless, soft as the lining of her old sable coat. The one she wore to get the groceries, when they lived in the highrise on Avenue Road where a cabby delivered the groceries to the lobby. Coat on over her nightgown, feet shoved into boots for the elevator ride: an outi
ng, her hand reaching for him at the door, laughing in fright. He helped with the door, with the buttons. He was her knight. Until someone realized they hadn’t left the apartment for a month or three. Who rescued them that time? How old was he, six? He remembers the apartment: creamy white carpet, floor-to-ceiling windows, a white plastic chair like an egg on a chain, where he read. Beautiful books came to the lobby too, and cartons of cigarettes, bottles, a bag of limes. Then she got a little better, a stream of visitors came, then babysitters, then she was working all the time. But still needed help dressing in the mornings and in the evenings, before the other babysitters came. A parade of faceless strange-smelling women showing him their scars.
Forgive her. It’s not like she had any choice. Hugh kisses her hand again. This time Mimi motions to the button; he presses to make the bed-head rise. She points, or ghost-points, to a drinking cup with a bent straw. He puts it to her mouth. She drinks dutifully and smiles around the straw. “… to the last drop,” she whispers, throaty as her old commercial.
Hugh laughs, at her insouciance, at the thread of the well-loved voice back to sense and sanity if not volume. Pushing the cup away, her own hand catches her eye. She spreads the fingers, disapproving.
“Shall I do your hands?”
She nods, pleased, so he pulls the metal bedside drawer open to find her cream and a small glass file, knowing they are there because he packed them at her apartment and unpacked them here. One hand at a time, he covers the frail skin with a veil of Joy, gently pushing the skin down to reveal the moons on each fingernail, as she likes him to do. The hands are the map to her death, coming soon. Pink gone from the nails, but they are still pretty almonds. Her rings, left in the drawer, rattle loose when he pulls it open to replace the cream.
Mimi looks at her hands again, still dissatisfied. She turns her head slowly to the drawer, eyebrows up a little. “Polish?”
He laughs, it’s so nice to hear ordinary sense out of her. He shows her a bottle of topcoat; she makes a sad mouth. The deep pink she’s always used is not allowed. Nurses need to see the blue of her fingernails. He shakes the topcoat to make the tiny rattle. Mimi spreads a docile hand on the over-bed table. Even strokes, enough bead on the brush. He has been schooled in manicure. He holds each finger in turn and thinks that he might lean his head down on the bed and cry for ten years, except that would not do any good, so he does not.
“It’s Hallowe’en,” he says, tidying the last finger. “They give you any candy?”
Her eyes reproach him. She loves candy. “Ghost story,” she says.
Obediently, he starts off on the first campfire one that occurs to him. “There once was a man who had a beautiful wife, and this wife had a golden arm. They lived happily together, but after a time she fell ill, and he nursed her.” He forgot about the necessary death. But there is death in all ghost stories. She’s listening.
“Knowing she was near death, the wife said, ‘Promise you will bury my golden arm with me,’ and he said, ‘Of course I will.’ When the day came that she died, he did as she had asked. But as time went by, the man thought to himself, here I am poor and grieving, with doctor’s bills to pay. My wife is dead, she will not know, she does not need it now. So he went to the cemetery in the dark of night and dug down to her grave. He opened her coffin, and from her body he took the golden arm. He carried it home through the darkness, fearful at every step, because the night was wild and stormy. Twice, he thought he heard someone calling, and stopped to listen: nothing but the wind, or an owl calling whoo, whoooo. When he reached his house he ran straight up to bed. He lay the golden arm beside him where his wife had lain for so long, and pulled the covers up over his head. Then he heard the voice again, from far away, calling, Who, who … who has taken my golden arm? Give me back my golden arm.”
At the trembling in her hand, he checks her face. Is this too scary, now? She moves her mouth into a sort of smile, motions with her hand, go on …
“The husband pulled the pillow over his head, not wanting to hear that voice he knew so well. But it came again, Who, who, who has taken my golden arm? Giiive me baaack my gooolden aaarm … He screwed his eyes tight shut, he put his fingers in his ears. The voice came closer, closer, it was at the bedroom door, it was inside the bedroom—Who has got my golden arm?” Hugh pauses, because the story must always pause here, and then pounces tenderly on Mimi’s wasted arm: “You’ve got it!”
“You,” she says, or maybe Hugh. Not frightened. Amused and comforted. She closes her eyes slowly and seems to sleep, mouth falling open a little. Little cat mouth, still. Wide-spaced teeth terrible within, what’s left of them.
The good visits are worse than the bad visits. Hugh can’t do this any longer, come to this room and watch her dying.
He lets his head fall onto the clean sheet beside her head, to rest with her.
Ruth touches him on the shoulder.
Oh. He fell asleep holding Mimi’s hand.
He loosens his hold—her hand is slack, the polish clean except for his thumbprint on the baby finger. It’s all right, she won’t notice. Dusk in the room, everything is tidy. Nolie must have been in.
Ruth is miming. Hugh blinks and stretches his eyes, not able to make sense of her exaggerated gestures. He gets up, knees creaking. Mimi does not wake.
They go to the door. Ruth whispers, unnecessarily, “I’m back from Gerald’s, we put the bags in the back of your van. I said you’d take them to the Clothes Closet, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you go on now, I’m sure Ivy’s finished with that class thing by this time. I had supper, I’m set for the evening. Brought my crossword puzzle.”
She waves him out, moving away already into the twilight by the bed.
10. I GET A KICK OUT OF HUGH
After the post-class consult, Ivy melts into the middle distance, leaving Newell and Burton to their own devices. She refuses an over-lavish dinner, refuses to go with them to Pink’s party. You can’t look after everyone, you can only keep an eye out. It sometimes seems like the true work of life is to observe and not be asleep.
Bit sleepy now, though. And hungry—almost seven-thirty already. She throws script and coat in the back seat and reaches for her phone with two fingers.
> supper?
In a minute, Hugh comes back.
< pizza? I ought to get the framing packed etc
> I will pick up.
< go to Black Cat on parkhill no anchovies otherwise what you will
> ha! that’s the 12th night subtitle!
< okay by that I meant spinach and feta on whole wheat
He remembers what she likes!
> but you like double cheese pepperoni and green olives
< get both we will eat leftover for lunch tomorrow
To be capable of non-compromise/independence already, to be planning tomorrow’s lunch—the luxury of that sends Ivy happily down the street. She phones in the order from the number on the sign. The car is warm, thinking is pretty much over for the day, and she likes being alone, since in a minute she will be with Hugh. The thought of him makes her inner works pulse and contract—how hilarious to be in love at this late date. How hilarious that there is no obstacle. No choice, no escape, no question.
A pickup truck pulls in beside her; she glances over. A large cat is driving.
Oh yes. It’s Hallowe’en. Three people get out, grown-ups or teenagers, all masked, laughing. They come out in a minute, carrying twenty pizzas, and drive away. Cat, witch, Frankenstein.
(DELLA)
wine seeps down like rain warm rain warms face arms chest warms legs
round the block twice enough!
up the stairs to FairGrounds warm light quiet bustle of evening
L behind the till, tallying
stern goddess in a flowing Greek chiton
Jason made that?
what she must see in me: a hag, a witch
windblown hair, fright, tragedy, old age
she frowns, arrested:
Have you—been drinking?
I had a drink, a glass of wine at Jasper’s.
Well you can’t drive us to the party drunk.
I am not—Elly, of course I can— what could hurt more?
silence from the goddess
angry-eyed Athena she hates me
she doesn’t hate you, she’s mad at you
Never mind, we’ll walk. We’re early anyway.
she turns out they go delicate queens
who will inherit the earth we are old
everything that once was ours dying
mine and Hugh’s and Newell’s
Mighton by the fireplace heard all that
Need a coffee?
I am not drunk!
the urge to defend
reveals drunkenness
Mighton = malice but his Dark Gates ≠ not malice a crack/a crater
ache for all humanity Hughmanity
I never thought you were. I wanted company.
he gives up half the settee
moves aside a silver canister helmet a wooden shield sword
I’m King Arthur. I have to go to that party at Pink’s in costume.
But I’m hiding. Hallowe’en weirds me out. The whole deal of
dressing up, putting on a mask—it takes away identity and
gives us back nothing but wildness.
I forgot this: Mighton holds
conversations by himself
Didn’t you worry about Elle running through the streets?
I went with her, then. Sometimes I dressed up too.
I went as my mother, one year, in the old beige raincoat
she used to wear over her pyjamas to drive me to school
and her blonde wig.
Your mother had a wig?
It was the seventies, everyone’s mother had a wig. Hugh’s
mother had twelve! I stood waiting for Elly like my mother
used to wait for me, arms crossed across my chest, shoulders hunched—spooky.
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