Outside People and Other Stories

by Mariam Pirbhai

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Reggie protested, rushing over to slam his locker shut. “You can’t do that!”

  It took the woman a few seconds to register the fact that she was being spoken to, that there were two other people in the room. She said nothing and hurriedly returned to whatever mission she had come to fulfil.

  Reggie protested again, making a point of standing sentinel in front of the lockers, his arms crossed defiantly.

  “Step aside!” the woman growled, without looking up.

  “That’s not your property, lady!” Reggie barked back.

  “This is my property. All of this is my property!”

  Alarmed by her razor-sharp authority, Reggie stepped aside but remained close. “What happened? Why are you taking their things? Did something happen?”

  The woman remained undeterred till every item had been cleared out of the remaining lockers. Then she headed over to the cots, where she proceeded to gather all the men’s personal effects, including watches, notebooks, Bibles, even Hector’s language CDs—whatever she could find of the men’s belongings. She worked at a furious pace before heading for the door.

  “Wait! There’s a sick man here! He’s coughing blood, for god’s sake. He needs a doctor!” Reggie ran after her like a storm chaser following the path of an angry tornado.

  The woman stopped and turned around, dropping the duffle bag by her feet and using the weight of her back to hold the door open. Wafts of snow and a wicked wind blew into the bunkhouse, dousing the little heat generated over the course of the night.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asked sternly. Reggie could see that she was much older than she had at first appeared. He also noticed the Dumfrey farm crest on her jacket’s upper right breast pocket.

  “Regina,” he blurted out. “I mean, Reggie. Reggie Taylor.”

  “And him?” She glanced over at Amaru who was now sitting upright at the edge of his cot, the strain of getting up visible in every line of his angular face.

  “Amaru … López,” he managed to say, trying to stave off the mounting pressure in his lungs. “Where is Hector? Why you take their things?”

  The woman looked at her watch, clearly nervous about something. “There was an accident this morning. A truck hit the van.”

  “This morning?” Reggie’s mind struggled to catch up: accident, hit, van.

  “Worst crash of its kind around here. Only one survivor.” Then, looking at Amaru, she declared: “You sure picked the right day to be sick, pal. I’d say you’re pretty damn lucky.”

  “Lucky,” Amaru repeated, the word floating past Reggie in a cold-induced stream of ghostly vapour.

  The woman lifted the duffle bag now heavy with the men’s belongings and walked into the blizzard, releasing the door to close on its own. The door started to swing itself shut but couldn’t surmount the force of the wind that held it ajar.

  “Wait!” Reggie shouted, rushing to the door. “You said ‘survivor’? One survivor!”

  Reggie’s voice was clipped by the sound of the door slamming hard against the bank of snow amassing at the threshold of the bunkhouse.

  CORAZON’S CHILDREN

  CORAZON LIGHTLY BRUSHED her feather duster along the outer edges of the framed photographs. Unlike most of the residences she cleaned, there were very few photos cluttering the Hartmans’ home. This made her pay more attention to the six black-and-whites they had taken the trouble of having professionally matted and mounted in brushed-silver frames.

  In the first frame closest to the front door was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Hartman. Mrs. Hartman’s right hand was interlocked in Mr. Hartman’s left hand and pressed close against his chest. Mr. Hartman was an athletic man with a slightly dishevelled crop of greying hair, a strong jaw-line and kind, smiling eyes. Mrs. Hartman looked a lot like the elderly Japanese woman in the portrait displayed among a modest cluster of table-top frames in the living room, the only other set of photos Corazon had come across. She had spotted the resemblance the first time she picked up the photo, surprised by the weight of such a tiny frame. The woman in the photo had Mrs. Hartman’s high forehead and the same little gap between her front teeth.

  Lucky features, Corazon reflected, turning her attention to the delicate task of cleaning the glass protecting the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Hartman. Corazon admired Mrs. Hartman’s tailored ivory suit, cinched at the waist by a belt made of the same silky material. Mr. Hartman was formally dressed too. He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, though his tie looked just a little bit crooked. Corazon wondered how someone as fastidious as Mrs. Hartman hadn’t straightened it out before the picture was taken. Especially when she learned that this was their wedding photo. A Justice of the Peace wedding, Mrs. Hartman had said matter-of-factly on Corazon’s first tour around the home, adding: “In fact, my name is Murakami-Hartman—Dr. Murakami-Hartman—but you can call me Janet.” Corazon had never referred to a boss by a first name and she had trouble pronouncing “Murakami,” so Mrs. Hartman just stuck.

  The second photo was of Mr. and Mrs. Hartman rising above an alien landscape in a hot air balloon. “Our honeymoon in Turkey,” Mrs. Hartman explained. “In a place called Cappadocia. Which means fairy chimneys because of those funny-looking rocks the region is famous for. People actually live in them you know,” she said, pointing out the windows and doorways carved out of one of the larger rocks. An odd place for a honeymoon, Corazon had thought at the time, though now she had grown accustomed to the image, its strangeness neutralized by multiple viewings.

  The third photo was of a younger Mrs. Hartman in a long black gown and square hat. “The day I became a doctor—a psychiatrist,” she beamed. The fourth photo was of Mr. Hartman at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. He was at the foot of a very long bridge. There were a lot of official looking people standing next to him, all of them grinning artificially for the camera. The people looked familiar and so did the tropical vegetation behind him. “Mr. Hartman’s an engineer. That’s him at the opening of a new bridge he helped build overseas,” Mrs. Hartman explained proudly. It looked a lot like the Philippines, Corazon thought but didn’t have a chance to say so because Mrs. Hartman had already moved on to the fifth photo. It was of her this time, hugging two smiling children, a girl and a boy. Corazon thought they looked like her cousin Delia’s children, in Los Angeles. “My niece and nephew—my brother’s,” Mrs. Hartman clarified. And the last photo was of Mr. and Mrs. Hartman again. This one was taken in their home. Corazon recognized the wall of windows overlooking the Vancouver harbour. The only difference was the living room colour: the walls used to be white and now they were painted an elephant grey. Mr. and Mrs. Hartman were sitting in front of a cake with icing script that simply said “Happy 10th.” “Our wedding anniversary,” Mrs Hartman said. “Taken just a few weeks before the Agency sent you to us.”

  Corazon noticed the third photo from the right had become a little lopsided, like Mr. Hartman’s tie. She walked over to it and straightened it out. It was the one of Mrs. Hartman on her graduation day. She looked a lot like she did in her wedding photo. Understated in her elegance, a pearl choker and a silver wristwatch her only adornment, and the hem of another pencil skirt just peeping through her voluminous black gown. She was shaking the hands of an older man with spectacles. He was handing her a piece of paper rolled into a cylinder. Mrs. Hartman looked so confident, like she could talk to anyone about anything. Corazon could only hope that her daughter Amanda would grow up to be so self-assured. Like Mrs. Hartman.

  Corazon stepped back to examine the photos. Mrs. Hartman was very particular. She would notice even the slightest displacement. It wasn’t always easy for Corazon to remember exactly at which angle or on what table an object was placed, so she tried her best to clean around the bric-a-brac as much possible. At least the photos hanging in the foyer were easy to manage. They either lined up or they didn’t. The second last photo of Mrs. Ha
rtman and her brother’s children was definitely off a few degrees, Corazon thought, second-guessing herself. She walked over to reposition it, straining to line it up perfectly with the other five. She examined the picture again as she held the sides of the frame between her hands, nudging it a millimeter this way, then a millimeter that way. The boy was standing behind Mrs. Hartman who was sitting cross-legged on a sloping rock, a waterfall cascading behind them. The boy had his arms wrapped around her neck from behind, and a little girl of no more than three years was sitting in the crook of Mrs. Hartman’s crossed legs. Such nice-looking children, Corazon remarked. And Mrs. Hartman looks so happy in their company. It’s a wonder she doesn’t have any children of her own.

  Corazon knew little about the Hartmans. They were never home on the Mondays and alternating Fridays she came to clean. During the first few weeks the Agency assigned her to them, Mrs. Hartman made a point of keeping a watchful eye on Corazon, though she spent most of her time looking over some kind of graph, which Corazon had spotted in the recycling bin on her next visit. It turned out to be a series of graphs, each one corresponding to a single month. When Corazon examined the graph patterns penned in red by, she assumed, Mrs. Hartman, they each looked quite different and Corazon deduced they had something to do with Mrs. Hartman’s patients.

  Much to Corazon’s relief, Mrs. Hartman’s vigilance was short-lived. After those first few weeks, Mrs. Hartman must have concluded that Corazon could be trusted, and Corazon let herself in and out of the house, having little contact with Mrs. Hartman, and even less with Mr. Hartman. Until a few months ago, when Mrs. Hartman came home early. She barely said hello, headed to the master bedroom and closed the door behind her with a rather haunting finality. Corazon hadn’t cleaned the bedroom yet, and wasn’t sure what to do. She was kept to a strict timetable, and even stricter instructions to avoid unnecessary run-ins with the clients. In their ideal world, the Agency would stuff her down the chimney like one of Santa’s elves, and make her go about her work undetected. Corazon stood outside the bedroom door, debating whether to knock. “We lost it, Mark,” she heard Mrs. Hartman say. Corazon couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard Mrs. Hartman crying, so she stepped away and hurriedly finished cleaning the other rooms. Mrs. Hartman didn’t re-emerge, and Corazon could only hope that she wouldn’t be held accountable for the day’s unfinished job.

  Corazon stepped back and looked at the photos again. She was finally satisfied that they all lined up perfectly. She had spent far too much time on them today. Much like the photo she kept with her at all times, in her apron pocket. She had even started bringing it to work lately. It was of Amanda and Robbie, her babies. They were standing in front of Corazon’s grandmother’s house in Mindanao. Amanda was wearing a pair of knee-length blue shorts and a Dora the Explorer T-shirt that Corazon had sent by overseas mail in her first year as a Live-In. Robbie looked well, but he wasn’t wearing any slippers. Corazon’s brother Edgar had taken the picture at her request. Truth be told, it was a terrible picture. The sun was too bright, the children were squinting, and they weren’t even smiling. To make matters worse, her grandmother was standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette while looking away, most likely at the flowering banana trees or the mountain range behind her. Corazon only wanted a picture of the children to see how much they had grown in the time she had been away; her grandmother was an intrusion. And the sight of Robbie without slippers bothered her to no end. Was it too much to ask to take one decent picture, she thought sourly, thinking of her children growing up under her brother’s guardianship. She had told herself their separation would be temporary. Just a few years as a Live-In, she rationalized. Then I can apply for permanent residency and bring the children. The argument appeared sound at the time. Only when the work visa arrived did Edgar finally acquiesce. He already had three children of his own so she didn’t blame him for resisting at first. I can’t pass up this opportunity, Edgar, she pleaded again. They’re recruiting now. The Live-in Caregiver program is different. The government regulates it. And I have the right to apply for permanent residency after two years. Just two years, Edgar.

  That was four … more than four years ago, Corazon corrected herself. Amanda was seven when she left and Robbie was only three, likely the same age as the little girl in Mrs. Hartman’s photo. She was still haunted by the image of him fighting to untangle himself from Edgar’s grip. She imagined him crying every night. She couldn’t remember when her own tears had run dry. Was it after their first Christmas apart? Or was it after Amanda’s ninth birthday, when it was clear she wouldn’t be able to go home for a short visit? Maganda Amanda, she used to call her when she was a baby in her arms. She was growing up too fast. Soon enough they would have to start worrying about boys. She wondered if Edgar was strict with Amanda, or if he was oblivious to the comings and goings of his children—her children.

  She paused to catch her breath, tracing the raw edges of the photo in her apron pocket. I’m doing this for them, she reminded herself for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day. Some day they will understand why the years have dragged on. But how can I ever tell them about Mr. Lawrence, she cringed. His poor children had no one else to take care of them since their mother had passed away.

  She had hated leaving them. But she had not come all this way to be treated like some mail-order bride. And would they even believe what happened with the Changs? she wondered sadly, pushing back a stray clump of hair from her eyes. That they almost killed me, making me sleep in that basement with hardly anything to keep me warm? It was the Agency that had made Corazon leave when Mrs. Chang complained they hadn’t paid good money for a sickly caregiver. And yet, as bad as it was, she would have stayed with the Changs had someone only told her that leaving them meant starting back at zero. No matter who was at fault. No matter who broke the terms of the contract. No matter how loyal she had been to the Agency. None of it mattered. What should have been a two-year contract to live with one family had become a four-year period of living in three different households.

  But that was the past. She had finally worked for one family for an uninterrupted and uneventful two years. Corazon instinctively reached for the crucifix pendant her grandmother had given her on her last visit, which now felt like a lifetime before Edgar had taken that photo. She kissed it in gratitude. She was free to apply for her residency now. Amanda and Robbie would be here already, she sighed deeply, but seven thousand dollars! At least seven thousand to sponsor the children, the immigration lawyer had told her. She would have to start saving every last penny. What this would mean for the children while they were still in Edgar’s care, she didn’t know. All her earnings went back to Edgar. It was the only way he agreed to look after them. If she didn’t send the money home, what would become of them? Then again, if she didn’t start saving up, how was she to bring them here?

  After paying her dues as a Live-In, she begged the Agency to find her different kind of work. Please let me clean, she said, trying to assert herself like her roommates Marisol and Florence had instructed her. No more Caregiver, they told her. No more, she echoed, heeding their counsel. They had been here long enough to know how things worked. And they were right. She was one of the lucky ones now. The Agency assigned her to the maid service sector and she could work more hours if needed. And the best part was that she no longer had to live like an outcast among strangers, learn to cook food she’d never eaten, raise children whose million and one needs made her feel so inadequate. It would take her a little longer to save what she needed. But at least she had the dignity of going home to her own bed every night. It wasn’t much: a cot in a one-bedroom apartment shared by four other domestics. But they were like sisters now. Bonded.

  How am I going to save seven thousand dollars? Corazon agonized. What if I never have enough to sponsor them? The thought terrified her. But Corazon reminded herself that she had made her choice. There was no going back. Only forward to the day she would have the money
to sponsor her children.

  Corazon went to the kitchen, the room saved for last in her cleaning routine. She perched herself on one of the bar stools tucked under the kitchen counter, stealing a moment to rest her legs. She took out the wrinkled photo wedged in her apron pocket and placed it on the counter, gently ironing out the creases with the back of her hand. How small Robbie looked. Would he even remember her if she went back home now? The last time she called home she couldn’t hear him yelling in the background to his Uncle or big sister to let him speak to his Mommy, as he used to. In fact, Edgar had practically begged him to come to the phone. And Amanda was so distant. Worse: she was stiff and formal. Like she was talking to a school teacher with her mechanical responses of hindi-po this and salamat-po that. As though Corazon had become some estranged aunt the children were forced to speak to on their birthdays. She had talked to them every other Sunday for the past four years. In the first year, even if she was a minute late in calling they would get so upset. How much they cherished those few short minutes. Mahal kita, mama, Robbie would rush to say before the pre-paid phone card ran out, breaking Corazon’s heart into a million little pieces. Maybe the next time we talk it will be like it was again, she muttered to herself.

  Corazon took out the assortment of sponges and rags she cleaned the kitchen with and busied herself with her chores. Work was a relief at such times. She simply kept her mind focused on the mundane tasks at hand: wiping down a set of canisters with her microfiber cloth reserved only for delicate items. Scrubbing the grout in the glass tile backsplash with the S.O.S. pads she used in spite of instructions to the contrary. Straining to clean the hard-to-reach places, like the half-inch gap between the stove and the cabinets. Lifting the toaster to remove the crumbs lying under it, Corazon thought of Mrs. Hartman. How clean and uncluttered her life was. Everything had its place, everything had a purpose, like the various plaques in her home office arranged in chronological order along a floating shelf. Corazon liked to read them out loud to improve her accent: “Best Paper by a Psychiatry Resident, 1999.” Or “Special Recognition. Canadian Psychiatric Association, 2009.” Once Corazon even stopped dusting to read the first few pages of Mrs. Hartman’s new book. She knew it was hers because on the top page of a large stack of papers she read “Dr. J. Murakami-Hartman,” and the word “title” with a large question mark by it in red. Corazon realized the stack of papers was still there, in exactly the same spot on the desk where she had noticed it all those months ago. The question mark was still there too.