Rear Deltoid Development
Mr. H went to bed and the mechanical ticking of the electric clock above the stove seemed to fill the room. I imagined I could smell Marilyn’s unwashed alcohol stink on my clothes. Could it be true I was a victim of prejudice so established I wasn’t even aware of it? I put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands. Were my struggles to become an artist magnified by my gender? Did I believe somewhere deep inside that the cost would be too great? Did it matter?
“How was the party?” Gladys sat across from me in Mr. H.’s chair, sporting a new look. She wore a long, plain white cotton nightgown. A kerchief of the same material covered her head.
I sat up and smiled. “Hey, Gladys, cup of tea?”
“No thanks, it goes right through me.”
“Where’ve you been?” I asked.
“Why? Did you miss me?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Oh,” she said, “did you think I died?” She gave a little snort.
“Very funny.”
“You look a little pensive,” she said.
“I’m thinking about art and women.”
“Don’t you see anything you want to paint anymore?” Gladys asked, looking casually up at the ceiling.
“No,” I said and images began to roll through my mind: Mr. H.’s profile in the blue dusk, Girl in her ragged gown in the back alley. “I don’t know. I can still feel it, maybe like the ache Mr. H. still feels for Shirley, or like I was missing an arm or my thighs.” I thought back to the early days after my break-up with Norman. “But it’s not as bad as bashing my head against that concrete wall of creativity.”
“Really?” asked Gladys.
I looked down; sorrow and regret beat their mean little fists against my ribcage. I quickly stood to get another cup of tea and then sat down again because the pot was already on the table.
“Z-O-L-A,” said Gladys.
“Pardon me?”
“Fifty-Four Down.” She tapped Mr. H.’s crossword on the table. “French novelist. Zola.”
“Oh, I’ll tell him.”
“Did you ever read Zola?”
“No.”
“You should recommend L ’Assommoir to that lady you took back to the hotel tonight.”
“How did you see that?”
“I lurk about sometimes.”
I tried to imagine solid old Gladys lurking and failed. “She’s quite the piece of work, isn’t she?”
Gladys shrugged. “Bad choices are made for many different reasons.”
“What happened to your choice to leave Jack?” I asked. “Do you think what happened to you was because of sexism?”
“Sexism?”
I hesitated. “Women being treated badly because they’re women, I suppose.”
“Things are hard for people with only one leg, or for coloured people, or for almost anyone for one reason or another. The worse you’re treated, the harder you have to work to be treated better. Do you think a one-legged man could dance if he wanted to, if he really wanted to?”
I nodded, “Of course, but —”
Gladys shook her head. “But nothing.”
I felt like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. “I don’t think Marilyn is working too hard improving her situation in life.”
“You have to find the courage to live as you need to. There will always be those who want you to be ordinary, those who expect you to settle down. Your body can settle, but you have to let your mind soar, you have to hold onto the courage of your artistic convictions. Like Olga Dobie — not only was she willing to live outside of ‘polite society,’ she needed to live out there. She was willing to make the sacrifices that come along with it, the loneliness and the pain of reaching, always, for something that most people will not understand, ignoring those who see the attempts, the process of reaching, as failure.”
“What about you?” I asked. “How did you end up in an institution instead of wooing the Kings of Europe from the stage?”
“I had my one-way ticket and I was as big as a barn. Then Jack started to watch me.”
“What do you mean, watch you?”
“I’d be in the yard cutting flowers, or in the sitting room reading, or right there at that counter” — she gestured to the kitchen counter beside us — “cutting fruit and I’d turn and he’d be standing, watching me. He made snide remarks to me about the architect, but I think even he knew there was nothing going on. He had friends over for dinner and insisted I sit with them. They all stared at me and I’d get nervous and babble, or sit silently with my head down. Once I burst into tears before the soup was even served and had to leave the room.”
“Oh, Gladys.”
“I took to doing as little as possible during the day. I’d sit and work on clothes for the baby. Surely no one could take offence with that. One night I woke up at about two in the morning. The baby was kicking and I had such heartburn I couldn’t go back to sleep. I got up, wrapped a blanket around me, and went downstairs. Jack wasn’t home. He was out swilling whiskey with his newfound rich pals. He’d probably show up the next afternoon, smelling of old booze and cheap perfume. I went outside. I hated it in this house by then. It had nothing to do with me. I stood out there in the chicken yard, closed my eyes, and imagined myself in New York. The stages, the lights, and the dances I’d do. I’d be the talk of the town. Maybe my stage name could be Winnipeg or Racy Roulston. Imagine Jack opening up the newspaper and seeing that. I hummed and swayed, dipping and turning, and I took a bow. The audience went wild, throwing roses at my feet. Then there was the sound of single pair of hands clapping. I opened my eyes and there was Jack. ‘Very nice,’ he said. After all my weeks of sitting and behaving, he finds me in my nightgown dancing in chicken crap in the middle of the night.”
“I heard it,” I said, and my shoulders gave an involuntary shimmy. “I heard someone clapping by the chicken coop the night Mr. H. and I planted flowers.”
“I imagine that sound will echo there for years still. It was the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard. He stood there staring at me and then he said, ‘You’re planning on leaving, aren’t you?’ I shook my head, afraid he’d hear the lie in my voice if I answered. ‘You won’t be,’ he said, ‘I can promise you that.’”
Gladys stopped talking. We sat in silence for a moment. I tapped my finger on a sticky spot on the table. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? It had all ended years ago. We couldn’t go and read Jack the riot act; he was nothing but bones in the ground.
“Ruminant,” said Gladys.
“Does that mean to think?”
“No, Twenty Across. Goat. Eight letters. We had a goat once and that’s what they called it in the livestock manual, a ruminant.”
“You should sit and do crosswords with Mr. H. one day, you’d have a blast.”
“I can’t.”
“Just me, huh?”
She nodded. There was an awkward silence. I didn’t know what to say. I could imagine her, young, outside in the dark yard with her big round tummy and I didn’t want to imagine it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more of her story. I stood and took the teapot to the sink to rinse it.
“I should probably tell you Norman’s mother is coming tomorrow. She thinks she’s psychic. Will that be a problem?” I placed the teapot in the draining rack and turned back to her.
Gladys grinned a little. “Shouldn’t be. You get to sleep; you’ve had a long day. Toodle-oo.” And she was gone.
“Frieda. Telephone. It’s Ginny and she sounds excited. She asked me to wake you.” Mr. H. yelled up the stairs. I crawled out of bed and went down. The phone receiver lay on the counter. This time I poured myself a cup of coffee before I picked it up.
“Hello.”
“I got it,” said Ginny in a high-pitched whisper.
“What?”
“The job, the promotion. I’m now officially Director of Design. I think Craig’s crying in his cubicle.”
; “How to be a good winner.”
“I know, isn’t it great? They’re taking me out to dinner tonight at The Zone. All the bigwigs. If you see Whitman, would you mind letting it drop in conversation that I got the promotion?”
“I’ll try to work it in.”
“Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call you tonight.”
I went and knocked on the door of the study. Papers and folders covered the surface of the desk. Mr. H. sat in the chair frowning.
“The art show only got one tiny write-up in one paper,” he said. “All that cheese and wine for nothing. I’m trying to think up a new strategy.”
“A strategy. I’ve heard those are good.”
Mr. H. nodded. “Hope eternally springs, as they say.”
I leaned against the doorframe. “Where’s Norman and Lady March?”
“Apparently Lady March missed her plane at her layover. Norman sat at the airport for hours, he’s a little ticked off. She said something called her to Chicago and she’s staying a few days. Sounds like a handful.” He smiled.
“She’s that and more. You’ll like her.”
“If she’s half as pleasant as her son, I’m sure I will.”
“Humph. Well, I’m going to get dressed.” I closed the door behind me.
My plan for the morning was going to work out. I don’t mean that everything was likely to turn out okay. In fact, I sincerely doubted that. I mean I was going to exercise. When Ginny signed up for a gym near her apartment, she was given a free pass for one month for a friend. She told me she thought I could use some toning up. Nice change, from her trying to get me to tone down.
The gym, thankfully, was almost empty. I decided to brave the weight machines while no one was in the room to watch me make a fool of myself. I settled myself on the Body Solid Pec Dec, which promised to provide optimal pectoral and rear deltoid development. I wasn’t sure what my rear deltoids were, but any development was better than none. I sat down, grasped the handles, and pulled them toward my chest. I pulled harder and succeeded only in lifting my butt off the seat and then slamming back down, which I didn’t think was the desired objective. I got off and fiddled with the knobs in the back of the machine.
“What is this place?”
No way. Gladys sat sidesaddle on an exercise bike. I looked around the room. “It’s a fitness centre.”
“What are you doing with that machine? It looks like something from the basement of the asylum.”
“I’m trying to exercise. Build muscle tone and strengthen ligaments or something.”
“You could just help someone haul bales or pick rocks.”
“I don’t know anyone with bales that need hauling.”
“Oh. Can I help you?”
“Do you know how to work one of these?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not too likely you can help, is it?”
Gladys smiled. I sat back down on the machine, reached for the bars, and reefed them forward; they flew together with no resistance whatsoever, with a crash.
“That doesn’t look too hard,” said Gladys.
I sighed, got back up, and moved the knobs again.
“Did you ever go to the Palace Theatre?” asked Gladys.
I nodded. “It’s still going. I went to quite a few concerts during my art school days.” I sat down and pulled the bars together again. Nice. Resistance, but not too much, I just might get the hang of this.
“What did you see at the Palace?” asked Gladys. “Do they still have vaudeville shows?”
“No, afraid not. Five. I mostly went to rock concerts. Six.”
“Rock concerts? I can’t imagine that being very entertaining. What did they do with them?”
“With what? Nine.” I tried to remember not to hold my breath.
“The rocks.”
“There weren’t any rocks. Rock is a type of music, sorta fast and loud. Eleven.”
“Why do they call it rock music?”
“I don’t know, maybe because it’s heavy. Twelve.”
“Heavy. I see. So can we go?”
“Where?” I was beginning to wonder why I was trying to have this conversation. The backs of my arms were getting shaky.
“To the Palace Theatre. You’re quivering.”
“I know. Sixteen.”
“Is that good for you?”
“No pain, no gain. Gotta feel the burn. Why don’t you go? You’re the one with supernatural powers.”
“I can only go where you are.”
“Eighteen. Tricky cosmic deities, so there are rules. I think Bonnie Raitt is coming in a few weeks. Would you like to go to a concert?”
“Oh no. We’d have to go alone.”
“Well, I don’t think. . . Twenty. Okay, that’s enough of that.” I dropped my arms and rubbed them. The door opened and a beefcake in shiny black shorts and sleeveless white undershirt walked in. Gladys was gone. I watched the man load a machine over in the corner with a stack of round weights and lift them once with a terrible groan. That was enough for me. I went home.
Norman called the house later in the afternoon and said he’d be gone all day. Whitman went to visit some friends across town. It was almost like old times. I puttered around and then Mr. H. and I sat down to a late dinner together. We’d all but abandoned our fancy cooking schemes and dinner was pork chops, peas, and rice. We were just finishing up the dishes when the phone rang.
I picked up. “Hello.”
“It’s me.” Ginny again.
“Hi. I haven’t seen Whitman all day, so I haven’t been able to tell him anything.”
“It doesn’t matter. Can you come pick me up?”
“From your dinner?”
“No, the downtown police station.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Go Fork Yourself
I borrowed the Valiant and drove to the police station. I was getting rather attached to the old car. It had a marvelous big steering wheel that made me feel as though I were navigating a boat. Ahoy there, mateys. There was an empty parking spot right in front of the building. There was also a meter and I had no money. I decided to risk it. Who would bother to check for expired meters in front of the police station? No one would be stupid enough to park illegally there.
The station was set back from the street with concrete stairs leading up to it. I could see Ginny through the glass windows as I went up the stairs. She sat in the waiting area, looking at a magazine. I pushed open the door, sounding a buzzer. Ginny stood up. Her hair was falling out of her updo and her mascara was smudged under her eyes. The fair maiden taken captive across the high seas.
“What took you so long?”
“I left right away. Do you need to check out or anything?”
Ginny shrugged and threw the magazine down on the coffee table. “How would I know? I’ve never done this before.”
I turned to the counter. The station was quiet but for the humming of the fluorescent lights. One officer stood behind the counter writing something on a clipboard. No eye patch or ratty parrot perched on his shoulder — quite ordinary looking, really. I still was uneasy around police, though — probably leftover fear from the musician days when there was dope everywhere, or some underlying complex about authority figures that made me sure I was always guilty of something. I walked over. “I’m taking Ginny Berger home now, okay?”
“Help yourself,” said the man behind the counter. “No, wait.” He turned his head and yelled through an open door. “Phil, the Utensil Lady is leaving! Are the spoons still beside the coffeepot? Okay, you’re free to go.” He smiled. Ha, funny policeman, pirate, purveyor of guilt.
Ginny was already waiting by the door.
“So,” I asked once we were in the Valiant and en route to her apartment, “do you want to tell me what happened?”
Ginny looked out the window for a moment. I began to think she wasn’t going to say anything at all, when suddenly everything came out in one big rush.
“So we’re at my dinner,
right? At The Zone where I’ve eaten nearly every day for the last two years, with all the bigwigs from the office and we’ve finished dinner and they’re probably about to do some nice pre-dessert toasts to me and my accomplishments, when I notice that Henri, the owner, the big fat loser, is hanging around the far end of the table, so I’m ignoring him, because, whatever, right? All of a sudden these two cops show up and ask me to please empty my pockets. Well, everyone in the place is staring, so I said no, there must be a mistake. Henri comes and stands beside me and says, ‘I’m tired of you alla time stealing things from my restaurant, this time I call the cops.’ He called the cops on me. Can you believe it? I’ve spent hundreds of dollars in there and he calls the cops on me for a few lousy forks.”
“What’s up with you and forks?” I interjected. She ignored me and carried on, her fingernails rat-tat-tatting on the dashboard like machine guns.
“So I said, ‘Forget it. I’m not emptying anything.’ I went to get up and leave, and one of the cops grabbed my arm. It was a lady cop wearing those pants with the stripes that gave her hips like a rhinoceros, which I told her, and the next thing I know I’m in the backseat of the cop car. I’ve never been so humiliated in all of my life. I’m going to have to move. Wait, where are you going?”
“To your place.”
“Haven’t you been listening to me? I can’t go back there.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know, your place? No, forget it, Whitman’s there. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“If he would have called, none of this would have happened.” She sat back and sighed.
I signaled left to turn in the direction of Trudgdain Apartments. “You’ve been stealing forks for months.”
“But I wouldn’t have taken this fork if he hadn’t dumped me.”
“Listen, I’m taking you to your place, we’ll go in the back, no one will see us. Here.” I reached in front of me and got Mr. H.’s large old sunglasses off the dash. “Put these on. There’s winter emergency stuff in a bag on the backseat floor. Maybe you can find a scarf to wrap around your head or something.”
I parked in the visitor space in the back. Ginny leaned over the seat and rummaged around. When she sat up, she was wearing a black toque pulled low over her head. She put the sunglasses on. “Okay, let’s go,” she said. She opened the car door and got out.
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 18