Dance, Gladys, Dance

by Cassie Stocks

  When I went back downstairs, Mr. H. was just hanging up the phone. Lady March sat at the kitchen table, her Tarot cards spread out in front of her.

  “What’s up?” I asked Mr. H.

  He looked stunned and spoke slowly. “The government. They already have a deal in place with a hotel chain for the site. They’re going to tear the building down and build a five-star hotel.”

  I looked at Norman. “A five-star hotel. It’s all your fault.”

  “Frieda!” he said.

  “Just kidding. Can they do that? That’s underhanded.”

  “They own the building and the land,” said Mr. H. “I suppose they can do whatever they want.”

  “Fehu,” said Lady March loudly.

  “Gesundheit,” replied Mr. H. He sat down at the table.

  “Fehu is the runestone I pulled this morning in regards to the Art Centre. It means possessions won or earned, earned income, luck, abundance, and financial strength in the present or near future. Don’t despair yet, my dear. I have a plan.”

  “Would you like to tell me what your plan is, Mother?” asked Norman with a worried frown.

  “Of course not,” said Lady March. “That would spoil the surprise.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish,” said Norman

  “Our ideas of what constitutes foolish are too far apart for me to do that. Don’t worry, darling.”

  “Famous last words,” muttered Norman.

  After they left for dinner, I went upstairs to my room and sat at my desk. I opened my paint box and looked at the tubes, all those wonderful colours. I stared at the canvas, then pushed back the chair. Not going to happen.

  I opened the wardrobe, checking as always for the entrance to the secret world, which, as always, wasn’t there. That’s all right, I was headed for another “foreign” world. I found a semi-respectable-looking pair of khaki pants and a black T-shirt. Nondescript but also non-offensive. I wanted to blend in. I took a deep breath. I was going to a mall. Not only to a mall, but to a women’s retail clothing store to buy some clothes. Clothes with original price tags. Normal, respectable, new women’s clothing. I was filled with dread.

  It was eight o’clock and the mall was filled with last-minute shoppers. The blazing fluorescent light and canned air made my eyes water. The fountains roared, fifteen different types of music played, and everyone’s conversation bounced off the concrete and glass. Courage. I picked a women’s clothing store at random and walked in. All the clothes looked stiff and uncomfortable. Some sort of techno-bop played from hidden overhead speakers. A young, done-up, and impossibly perky saleslady approached me. “Hi there! Can I help you with anything?”

  “Can you change the music?”

  “No,” she said, “we aren’t allowed to. Can I help you find anything?”

  “No. Yes. I need some clothes. Stylish, but not too stylish. Not like over the top. But in style now. What are women wearing these days?”

  “Was it for a special occasion?” She beamed at me hopefully, though why she should care if I was having a special occasion, I couldn’t fathom.

  “No. Just life.”

  “For work?”

  “No. I don’t have a job. Thanks for reminding me. Just for, you know, walking around in.”

  “Oh. Exercise wear?”

  “Not that kind of walking, just ambling around, looking at things, seeing the sights.”

  “Oh, vacation wear, then.”

  “No. I’m not going on vacation. I just want some clothes. Just clothes.”

  “Casual wear?”

  I thought I might weep. “Sure, show me some casual wear.”

  I took an armful of clothes into the dressing room. As usual, the fluorescent lights made me look like some kind of she-zombie. I put on a pair of black pants and a green turtleneck. No mirrors in the room. Would the cruelty never end? I opened the door and snuck out to peek in the multiple mirrors at the end of the change room hallway.

  “Taking up espionage?”

  “Bah!”

  Gladys floated in 3-D in the mirrors behind me. “Why don’t you try on something pretty? Show your elbows, at least.”

  “My elbows are one of my least attractive body parts.”

  “In my day, a woman could drive a man crazy with a properly displayed elbow.”

  “Probably without even getting implants.” I went back into the change room. “I’ll try something else.”

  “So, are you going to tell me about Girl?” I asked as I put on a miniskirt and a pink blouse.

  “I don’t know too much,” she said from the dressing room beside me.

  “It’s her that I’m supposed to help though, right?”

  “Well. . .”

  “What do you mean, well?” I struggled with the zipper in the back of the skirt. No handy bus drivers around to help. “That’s my mission — she’s your relative and I’m supposed to get Girl off the streets and doing her art. So she doesn’t end up being another lost voice like you. Right?”

  “Well. . .”

  “That has to be it. I don’t have any other ideas.” I slipped the blouse on and did up the buttons.

  “Uhhh. . .”

  “Okay, never mind. Did you know your descendants think you were a prostitute?”

  “Pardon me?” asked a horrified voice from outside the fitting room door. I opened the door a crack. The cheery salesclerk peered in at me, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead.

  “Ha.” I said, “Nothing — never mind. Just thinking out loud. What do you think of this?” I stepped out.

  “Super,” she enthused. “I’ll get you some more.”

  “That’s okay. . .” But she was gone.

  Gladys was behind me again. “Now that looks pretty. And look at your knees. Men will be falling over in the street.”

  “Men don’t fall over for knees, Gladys. You need to show T&A to get a reaction nowadays. It was probably that asshole Jack lying to your son.”

  Gladys looked away. “‘t&a’? Tonsils and Armpits? Teeth and Ankles?”

  “I’ve brought you a few more skirts and some dresses.” The clerk rounded the corner with an armload. Gladys poofed away. God, I wished I had that ability.

  “Thanks. That’s enough, okay? I don’t do this often; I’d better pace myself.”

  “Sure. If you need anything in a different size or colour, just holler. Okey-dokey?”

  “Okey-dokey,” I managed, rolling my eyes at her retreating back. I grabbed a few items and went back into the cage. Gladys appeared beside me in the cubicle.

  “Try the green dress,” she said.

  “Shit! It’s a little crowded in here. How about you wait next door?”

  “Okey-dokey.” She disappeared and then her voice came from the next room again. “There’s more to my story, but I just. . . Did I ever tell you about the fire in the institution?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “I don’t know if they ever figured out what or who started it. They housed the inmates in the Brandon Winter Fair Building for two years.”

  “That must have been — nuts. Sorry. You know, I think this dress actually might look okay.”

  “I missed it.”

  “Where did you go?” I walked out and looked in the mirrors. “With some sandals, I could actually pull this off.”

  “I don’t want to tell you. You — you’ll find out. . .”

  “What do you mean, I’ll find out? Tell me. Please?”

  There was a polite cough behind me. I turned. The clerk gave me a wan smile.

  “Well,” I said, “tell me, please. Does this make my elbows look fat?”

  She managed a small shake of her head and then quickly departed. Gladys didn’t reappear and neither did the saleslady. I tried on the rest of the clothing in peace and actually found some to buy.

  The clerk wrapped my purchases in tissue and rang them up. I couldn’t believe the cost. I must have appeared shocked, because sh
e sighed and began a recap of the prices.

  “Oh, no. I’m sure you rang it up right. I just usually don’t spend that much on clothes. But I don’t have to dig staples out of the sleeves like the clothes from the Salvation Army, so that’s worth something, right?”

  She nodded and held out her hand for the money. I’d ground her cheerfulness down to nothing.

  The first thing I heard when I woke up was the vacuum going. Better than cymbals, but only just. I took some of my new clothes out of the bag and put them on. I looked in the mirror. Low-rise black polyester slacks. I turned around and checked to see if my butt crack was showing. It wasn’t, but it sure felt like it was. A polyester blouse covered with monstrous cadmium yellow and purple roses. I could go and lie down in the front flowerbed; maybe I would, after I found out who was vacuuming so early in the morning.

  I walked down the hallway and glanced into the living room. Norman had a Walkman in the pocket of Mr. H.’s white apron and headphones on his ears. He swung the vacuum around and sang out loud, and way out of tune. He gave a little shoulder shimmy.

  I walked quickly past and went upstairs to his room. The photos had been placed in plastic bags and turned over on the desk. I picked up one of the Canadian bags and opened it. They looked just like the American photos — no Mounties at all. I sat down on the bed. I went to put the photos back when I glanced again at the woman in the photo on the top of the pile. She seemed familiar. She looked like — who? Like Girl, sort of, but older. No, she looked like, no, it was Gladys, the young Gladys I’d seen in the theatre. Young Gladys, but no gorgeous gown, and her expression was empty of emotion. She leaned on a pedestal smelling a rose, naked but for a pair of black button-up boots. It was by far one of the tamer photos in the collection. Art photography, really. I flipped to the next picture. There was Gladys naked on a plush couch with a man — I quickly put the photos down. Beautiful Gladys. What had happened?

  I went downstairs and back through the hallway. Norman saw me, turned off the vacuum, and removed the headphones. “Good morning.”

  I nodded, leaning in the doorway to the living room. “Where’s Mr. H.?”

  “Making a path through the junk in the attic. The Historical Society is coming for their final round today. Mom’s gone to buy supplies for her big plan for the Art Centre. I wish I could talk her out of whatever it is, but you know Mother. You look nice.”

  As he spoke, Norman walked over to me, dragging the vacuum. He stopped about six inches away. “Thanks,” I said. “I feel like I’m wearing plastic wrap. Hard as I find it to resist a man in an apron. . .” I arched my shoulders to the wall. “You wanna move back a bit?”

  I could hear Leonard leaking out of the earphones. “I’m donating it all,” said Norman. “My father’s pornography collection. To the Women’s Studies program at the University of Winnipeg. At first they only wanted the Canadian stuff, but then they agreed to take it all and donate the rest of it as they saw fit.” He stepped closer and angled his head.

  “Whoa. What are you doing?”

  “I thought you’d be happy.” He leaned the vacuum cleaner wand against the wall.

  “I am, but what does that have to do with kissing me?”

  “I’m doing it for you.” He put his hands on my arms.

  “No, you’re doing it for you, because you think I might come back to you.”

  “No,” he said, letting go and stepping back.

  “Yes. It’s like the art supplies. You bought them for me because it would be nice for you to have an artsy wife. You weren’t thinking of me at all.”

  His face was rather green, pale cadmium green, with maybe a little hansa yellow mixed in. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I bought them for you because you couldn’t afford your own.”

  “Silly, huh? You know what? I lied to you. I didn’t drop out of school because of the cost of the supplies. I dropped out because the instructor I was screwing told me I had no talent. You didn’t see me at all. You wanted the ‘pretty wifey’ that paints the pretty pictures. You didn’t want the struggle, you didn’t want the pain, you wanted to make it all go away, but if all went away, all I’d be able to paint is pretty pictures and there’s no sense in that. I was the damsel in distress and you were the white knight. It made me want to puke. I didn’t want your saving then and I don’t need it now.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What, I do need you save me?”

  Norman shook his head. I continued, “It is true, and you know what, Mr. White Knight? If you’re so concerned about disturbed damsels, why don’t you think about all the women who suffer from the way you make your money? You’re a hypocrite, Norman. You’re Mr. Gentleman. Mr. Upper-Class-Snot and you’re as much at fault as the men who exploit those women.”

  “I promised my father,” he choked out.

  “I was only following orders.”

  He stared at me. I could see him swallowing, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. I stared back at him. Greener now, cheeks — naphthol red with a lot of white — mad pink.

  “Fuck you,” he finally said, walked across the living room, and slammed out the door. I’d never heard Norman use the f-word before.

  I was stunned for a moment. Then I went after him, out the front door, and onto the porch. “Well, Fuck You Too. Oh. Hi.”

  The historical ladies stood at the foot of the porch. Norman was already halfway down the block, apron strings flapping behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  What Do You Need A Career For?

  “Come in,” I said. The ladies followed behind me at a safe distance into the house.

  I called up the front stairs: “Mr. H., the hysterical — historical committee is here.” Ha. He’d love that.

  I smiled widely at them. “Sorry. Please sit. Mr. Hausselman will be right down. Excuse me.” I escaped upstairs to my room.

  I felt sick when I thought of Gladys’ picture. A fire. The inmates housed in the Winter Pavilion. Had she escaped or been released? But what about her baby? The son she never got to see? What a mess. And I’d taken it out on Norman. That made me feel sick too. But why shouldn’t I tell him what I thought of his businesses? I could, I should, but why did I have to get so damn mad to do it? Why couldn’t I be calm and collected? Because nothing in my life had been calm and collected. Since the day I climbed into the truck with Geordie the bass player at eighteen, everything had been topsy-turvy. I’d gone so far off the path from suburbia and a white wedding gown I wasn’t sure I was even still in the same forest. Where had that path gone? Probably grown over, choked with weeds and impassible by now. So what? I still had. . . what did I have? Not my art. That trail was pretty bunged-up too. My health? Ah, shit. After what I figured was a safe amount of time, I went downstairs. The house was empty. “Gladys?” I called. “Gladys?”

  I went back upstairs to my room. Nothing. The armchair was empty. Back down to the kitchen. “Gladys? Come talk to me. Please.” I went into the study, then upstairs in the main part of the house. “Gladys? I need to talk to you.”

  Back downstairs, into the kitchen, then outside to look by the shed, the old chicken coop. I was halfway across the lawn when Miss Kesstle yelled over the fence, “Did you find her?”

  I stared wildly at her. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That I was looking for her?”

  “I asked you to, remember?” she said.

  “Oh, Girl. I thought you meant. . . I picked her up from the police station.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “She’s fine. No, she’s not. She’s not fine. None of it is fine.” I sat down in the middle of the lawn and burst into tears.

  “Oh dear,” I heard Miss Kesstle say. Moments later there was the click of the latch at the back gate and then she was sitting on the grass beside me. “There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not fair,” I sobbed. “None of it’s fair. Not Ginny, or Marilyn, or G
irl, or Gladys, or you, or me.”

  “It’s all right. Is it the. . . curse?”

  “A curse?” I wailed. “I’m cursed? By who?”

  “No, is it your time of the month?” Miss Kesstle said, still patting my shoulder. “I used to get very weepy.”

  “I have to do something and I don’t know what it is.” I pulled a handful of grass out by its roots. “I can’t know everything. I don’t know how to do anything. How am I supposed to help? The whole world is messed up; it’s too big for me.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

  Miss Kesstle dug a tissue out of her pocket. “Here, it’s clean,” she said. “We all just have to do what we can. God never gives us burdens bigger than our shoulders can bear.”

  I blew my nose.

  Miss Kesstle peered at me. “You have a little. . .” She rubbed a spot under her nose. I wiped it again. She looked, then nodded. “When my mother got sick I thought I couldn’t handle it, but I had to roll up my sleeves and get on with it. Just do the next right thing, I told myself. I couldn’t cope with thinking of months or years of bedpans, sickness, and suffering. I did it one bedpan at a time.”

  “You’re right. I’ve just got to do the next right thing. But. . .” I began to wail again. “. . . I d-d-on’t know what it is.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Whitman stood above us, the sun shining through the curls on top of his head.

  “I thought you were in Toronto,” I sniffed.

  “Turned out I didn’t need to go. I arranged everything from here. Are you okay? Is something wrong with Dad?”

  “He’s fine.”

  Miss Kesstle slowly stood, leaning her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks,” I said to her. “I’m feeling better.”

  “Sometimes a little cry does a world of good,” she said and started to head back to her place. “Don’t forget dinner on Sunday.” She hesitated and turned back towards us. “You too, Whitman. You haven’t been for dinner since you were a little boy.” She kept going into her yard, talking aloud. “Hope he’s learned to chew with his mouth closed.”