Whitman sighed and smiled at Miss Kesstle’s retreating back. “Hand up?”
I took his hand. “Thanks.”
Mr. H. was mowing the front lawn with his vintage push mower when I went outside later in the evening. The blades clicked and threw out grass bits and the sharp scent of lawn juice. I sat on the porch and watched him for a while. After he finished, he came and sat beside me on the steps. He reached into his pocket and brought out a red hanky. It’s one of things I love about him — I mean, who still uses hankies? He wiped his face, folded the hanky back into a square, and tucked it away.
“You ever think about getting a gas mower?” I asked.
“Too much to go wrong,” he said. “If anything happens to this, I can fix it myself. Takes a little more effort to get the job done, but elbow grease is free.”
He patted my knee. “Heard you were having a bit of a tough time earlier.”
“Whitman tell you?”
Mr. H. nodded. “You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know what to say.” I picked at the peeling paint on the stair railing beside me. “Did you ever read one of those sensationalistic newspapers that tell every terrible thing that’s happened in every part of the world? And when you’ve finished, everything seems overwhelming and hopeless?”
“I don’t read those papers much, but I think I know what you mean,” he said.
“You feel like you should do something, but it’s so big and what the hell can you do anyway?” I brushed the paint bits off the step; a sliver of wood poked into my pinky finger. “Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” Mr. H. leaned over.
“Sliver,” I stuck my finger in my mouth.
“Let me see.”
I shook my head.
“You do whatever little bit you can, I suppose,” he said. “Doesn’t make it all better at once, but it makes it easier to bear. Norman tell you what he’s doing?”
I took my finger out of my mouth. “Means nothing to me.”
“He’s doing the little bit he can, Frieda. Maybe more than a little, closing all the businesses he promised to keep.”
“Doing what?”
Mr. H. squinted his eyes. “He didn’t tell you that part? I’ve let the chat out of the gag.”
“All he told me about was donating the — his father’s collection.”
“He’s been trying to set it up for months, selling the buildings he owns for regular movie or retail stores. Don’t know what he’s doing with all the merchandise, but it’s all going, lock, stock, and apparel.”
“What’s he going to do?” I thought I could feel the end of the sliver. If I were wearing press-on nails, I’d be able to grab it.
“Doesn’t know yet. Become a philanthropist, maybe. People were funny about taking his money before. Hard up as they are, not many charities want to risk funding from the profits of Wanton Warehouses.”
“Why didn’t he tell me? Here I am bitching at him and he just lets me.”
“Maybe he wanted to wait until he had it all settled.” Mr. H. stood. “Coming inside for lemonade or tweezers, perhaps?” “No. I’ll get it.”
I was still sitting on the stairs when Ginny pulled up to the curb. When she got out, I was happy to see she was dressed normally in a tan linen skirt, a tank top, and an embroidered jean jacket. She click-clacked up the front walk, up the first two stairs, then looked around and grimaced. I leaned over, pulled down the sleeve of my shirt, and scrubbed off the spot beside me on the step.
“Thanks.” She sat down beside me. “Well,” she said, “I’m soon to be the proud recipient of Hurry Up Get Off Your Ass and Find Work Insurance.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I made LG lay me off instead of firing me. Told them I had a file of names, dates, and suggestive things that had been said to me over the last two years, including some very senior employees, and if they didn’t want a messy sexual harassment suit, it would be best to check the ‘laid off due to lack of work’ box on my pink slip.”
I smiled. “What if they’d asked to see it?”
Ginny shrugged. “I’d have printed it off and given it to them. Why are you sucking on your finger?”
“Sliver. You actually kept a harassment file?”
“Of course. When one of the first things you hear from a man in your company is ‘You have a nice ass, what do you need a career for?’ it seems like a good idea. Let’s see your finger, I’ll get it out.”
I shook my head. “So what now?”
“I’m going to take a break, get a haircut, see what everyone else has been doing while I’ve been working like a crazy woman. Maybe buy some forks and make more sculptures.”
“Glad to hear the restaurant utensils of the world are safe,” I said.
“Seems nutty now. But at the time it seemed pretty reasonable.” She hesitated. “I’m going to see a psychologist too.”
“Good for you.”
“How about you, Frieda? Do you want to come and see Angelico with me? My treat? I booked a cut and colour, but if I dropped the colour, you could take the spot. I could give you the name of my psychologist too.”
“When can you get an appointment?”
“Haircut or therapy?”
“Let’s start with a haircut.”
“Hang on — I’ll call.” Ginny took her cellphone from her purse, flipped it open, and dialed.
“Captain Kirk, there seems to be no life on this planet,” I muttered around my finger.
Ginny hung up. “Tomorrow at nine.”
“In the morning?”
She nodded. “It’s best to go early and get him while he’s fresh.”
“Hmm,” I said, “like lettuce.” I squeezed my finger again; there was the end. I looked at Ginny’s long nails, held out my hand, and closed my eyes.
“Hold still,” she said.
“I am,” I said, trying to control my involuntary twitching. “Why do you help me, Ginny? Even way back in art school, was I just so pitiful that you took me on as your project?”
“Well, it was obvious you had talent, but you seemed so wobbly with it, I thought you could use some help in the self-confidence department. That’s why I helped you with the beauty stuff, not for Professor Gimlet. There we go.” I opened my eyes. She held a microscopic sliver between her nails. She flicked the sliver away and wiped her finger on my shoulder. “But you were pretty pig-headed. You acted like every suggestion to improve your work was a personal attack.”
“Maybe I didn’t want them to ruin my style.”
“Maybe they wanted to help you get better at it. So,” said Ginny, she picked up her phone, and flipped the cover open and closed, open and closed, “I hate to change the subject, but is Whitman home?”
“He was earlier when I was fertilizing the lawn with my tears. Speaking of good advice, why don’t you leave him alone, Ginny? I don’t think he’s a very good man.”
“I like him.” Ginny clicked the phone closed, stood, smoothed her skirt, and turned around. “Is my butt dusty?”
“No, it’s fine. People also might like standing in front of speeding cement trucks,” I said. “Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?” Ginny turned back around.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ve stopped thinking about it.”
Like I’ve stopped thinking about art. Suddenly it seemed I’d stopped thinking about more things than I was thinking about.
Ginny went inside to look for Whitman. I sat on the steps trying to think about things. Miss Kesstle’s front door opened and she called over from the porch, “Do you know where to catch bus number twenty-nine?”
“Downtown, I think. Where are you going?”
Ginny came back out. “He’s not home,” she said.
“I thought I might go look at the cats at the SPCA,” said Miss Kesstle.
“I could drive you,” said Ginny. I looked at her in surprise.
“Oh,” said Miss Kes
stle, “well, that would be nice. I’ll go get my purse.”
She was almost in the door when she turned. “You did such a nice job of doing my hair, Frieda, do you think you could come over later tonight and give me a trim?”
Visions of my childhood: Mrs Hernd, my mother, and the bad Toni perms at the kitchen table. “I don’t think my talents cover haircutting.” I paused. “But Ginny and I are going to the salon tomorrow.” I turned to Ginny. “Do you think Angelico could take another appointment?”
“Probably,” she said. “Dropping the colour should have opened up enough space.” She pulled out her phone.
Ginny and Miss Kesstle took off. I went into the backyard, looked around, and slipped into the shed. I left the door open and sat on top of one of the boxes. It seemed that underneath the smells of mildew and oil I could still faintly smell the sharp ammonia scent of chicken coop.
“Gladys,” I whispered, “are you here?”
And there she was, sitting on an old suitcase at the back of the shed.
“I never meant for it to happen,” she said.
“I know,” I said softly.
“After the fire, those of us that weren’t considered dangerous were released. I don’t know if they had to get Jack’s permission or not, but there I was, standing on the walkway with a little cloth bag of clothes. It was so big outside, I felt like one of those wild cats that race from shelter to shelter, never staying long under the open sky.” She wiggled back and forth on the suitcase; I watched the pile of boxes behind her teeter, then settle. “They gave me a ticket for a train to Winnipeg. I found my way to the station, sat on a bench for three hours, and waited for the train. So much noise, it seemed everyone was laughing and talking. I remember wondering how they could possibly have so much to talk about. I wasn’t thinking yet. I was doing as I was told. Take a train to Winnipeg.”
“Must have been a scary train ride,” I said.
She smiled. “It wasn’t too bad, actually. A nice older lady sat beside me and talked about her grandchildren for the whole trip. She had a bag of apples from her own tree and she gave me some. By the time I finished one of those apples, I realized I was free and I started to think maybe I could manage.” Gladys rocked back and forth on the suitcase again. “And then I started to think about my baby.”
“Did you see him?” I asked.
“I got off the train in Winnipeg. At first I thought I was in the wrong town. I didn’t recognize anything. I could have got off the train in China for all I felt like I belonged there. I only had a bit of money and didn’t want to waste it. I walked all the way to the house. You know what’s funny? The only thing I worried about was seeing someone I knew. I hadn’t looked in a mirror for years. There were none at the asylum because someone might break one and do something nasty with it. I looked in a store window, but all I could see was this shapeless coarse dress and my hair all every which way. I didn’t even have a comb. I just kept walking.”
“They could have at least given you a comb and something decent to wear,” I said.
“When I got to the house, I stood in front for a long time. I was so scared. But I knew if I didn’t go then, I never would. I walked up the steps and rang the bell. A woman I’d never seen before answered the door. She was young and pretty, her blonde hair all done, and she wore a beautiful lilac dress with pearl buttons. I’d never cared for clothes before, but I wanted that dress, I wanted to look as lovely as her. ‘Go around back,’ she said and closed the door. I stood there with my mouth hanging open and then I did as I was told. I went around back. In a moment the back door opened and she handed me a small bag. ‘Here’s a bit of bread and some cheese,’ she said, looking over her shoulder, ‘but don’t come back. He doesn’t like me to give food to beggars.’ She started to close the door. ‘You mean Jack?’ I said. She opened the door and looked at me. I stood silently and waited. I saw realization dawn in her eyes. ‘He told me you were crazy.’ ‘Maybe I am,’ I said. She asked me how I got out, probably thinking I’d climbed over the fence and escaped. She looked relieved when I told her I’d been released after the fire. ‘He read that, in the paper,’ she said. ‘He said he hoped you’d. . . gone, in the fire. That it would be more merciful.’ Fear flitted across her face and she said, ‘But he, we, got, Jack and I are married.’ You can have him,’ I said, ‘I’ve come to see my baby.’ She said, ‘Your baby? Jack Junior? But he’s seven. But you — you’ve never seen him.’ I asked if he was there and she told me that Jack had sent him to a military school down east. ‘I didn’t want him to go,’ she said. ‘He’s so young, but Jack insisted. I think it’s hard for Jack to have him around.’”
“Oh, poor fucking Jack,” I said. “As though she should feel sorry for him. What a twit.”
“I wanted to hate her,” said Gladys. “I should have hated her; she had my life, my husband, my house, and my son. But I couldn’t. She wasn’t the wicked stepmother; she was just a scared young woman. She reminded me of myself. I asked, ‘Is he all right? Is Jack kind to him? Is he. . . is he a good boy?’ And I started to cry, dry heaving that felt like it would tear my chest apart.” She put her hands over her chest and pushed in. “I didn’t know that sorrow was still there. I couldn’t catch my breath. Over and over I heaved, sorrow coming out my mouth in great gasps. I could hear her saying, ‘Oh, oh.’ Then I heard a man’s voice ask, ‘What’s going on out here?’”
“Oh no,” I said.
Gladys nodded. “It was Jack. His hair was streaked with grey, but he was still dressed in a fine suit. His eyes were on fire. ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘Get off my property or I’ll call the police and have you arrested. The asylum will seem like a party compared to prison.’ His wife said, ‘She doesn’t mean any harm.’ He told her to shut up without even looking at her. He told her it was none of her business. I stared at him, so filled with hatred that my throat squeezed shut. I could see the two of us young and half-naked in the back of that wagon, feel the straw pricking my bare skin, our hands everywhere, laughing and panting. How, I wondered, had that led to this scene? Would that girl in the wagon have believed it? I turned and walked away. Jack yelled at me, ‘If I hear of you trying to see him, I’ll send him to Australia forever!’ I kept walking, down the back path, past this chicken coop. The chickens were gone, of course; he probably chopped their heads off himself the day after I was put away. I heard a scuffle on the steps. The young woman ran up to me and handed me the bag of food. She was crying. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and then turned and ran back to the house.”
A horn honked at the front of Mr. H.’s house. Gladys disappeared, happy enough, I surmised, to not finish her story. I sat for a minute trying to compose myself. I wasn’t sure if I felt like crying or breaking things. My dear old Gladys. Here I was free, the whole world in front of me, and I didn’t want to leave the chicken coop. I got up and went around to the front of the house.
Miss Kesstle was slowly mounting her front steps. Her handbag dangled from her elbow.
“Did you get a pet?” I called.
She shook her head sadly. “There were some beautiful animals there, but none of them were quite right.”
Ginny honked again. I went over to the car and leaned in the window. “No, don’t get out, Ginny, it’s quite all right.”
“I don’t want Whitman to see me with dog smell all over me. What a miserable place that is. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It never occurred to me. What’s up?”
“Is he home yet?
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay. Ciao, bella. See you tomorrow morning. Set your alarm.”
Ginny pulled up to the curb right at 8:45. Miss Kesstle already stood on her front porch with her purse in her hands. I felt like I was going on some sort of trip, that early morning excitement when you’ve risen to go on a holiday, the dew still on the grass, the sun just rising, the promise of adventures in front of you. Then I remembered where we were going.
I opened the front car door fo
r Miss Kesstle.
She whispered, “I’d rather sit in the back. She’s a nice lady, but she drives like a fruitcake.”
I sat up front with Ginny and craned around to speak to Miss Kesstle. “Tell Angelico exactly what you want. Don’t let him do his own thing. You’ll come out of there looking like Phyllis Diller.”
“Pay no attention to her,” said Ginny. “Christ, doesn’t anyone know how to drive?” She swerved around a red Honda and honked. “Angelico’s an expert.”
“I was hoping to get something a little modern,” said Miss Kesstle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
That Fancy Woman
Miss Kesstle was very brave. After we finished in the salon, she waited until she got back in the car and clicked her seatbelt shut before she began to whimper.
“I look like a crazy person,” she said.
“No, no,” I said. “Once we get home and wash the gel out, it’ll be fine.” I thought it probably would. It was just a layered cut, but Angelico had fluffed the front up like a cockatoo and pasted the back down to her neck.
I managed to get a trim from a trainee and Ginny was her usual perfectly coiffed self. Do hairdressers have a secret sixth sense of who’s worthy of a good haircut, which people are likely to display their craft to its advantage, not tie it up in a ponytail or mess it up the following day? Seems like it to me.
We drove back down the streets towards Mr. H.’s. Miss Kesstle suddenly yelled, “Stop! Pull over!”
“Okay,” said Ginny. She signalled and pulled over to the curb. “Are you going to be sick?”
“I have some Pepto-Bismol,” I muttered.
Miss Kesstle opened the car door. “I saw Girl back there. We can pick her up.”
“Oh no,” said Ginny. “Close your door.”
“She’s back about a half a block,” said Miss Kesstle. “Her hair was a different colour but I recognized my tea cozy.”
“I’m not giving her a ride,” said Ginny. “She’s nothing but trouble.”
“Come on, Ginny, relax,” I said. “She’s not going to hijack us.”
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 23