Dance, Gladys, Dance

by Cassie Stocks

  Ginny snorted. Miss Kesstle got out and stood on the sidewalk, waving her arms like a hockey referee. Girl sauntered slowly up to the car. Sure enough, she had the tea cozy, but it wasn’t on her head this time; it had been turned into a purse with large plastic handles. The ends of her hair were a brilliant pink. I got out. Ginny stayed in the car.

  “Hi, Girl,” said Miss Kesstle. “Can we give you a ride?”

  “Wicked do,” said Girl.

  Miss Kesstle frowned and looked at me.

  “Hairdo,” I said.

  “Oh, thank you. I thought it was a bit odd.” Miss Kesstle put her hand to her head.

  “No way, it’s happening,” said Girl. “You’re like the hippest sixty-year-old I know.”

  “Seventy-nine,” said Miss Kesstle.

  “Wow,” said Girl, “that is frigging old.”

  “Girl!” I said.

  “I mean so old to be so cool.”

  “Can we give you a ride?” I asked.

  Girl leaned over and looked in the car where Ginny sat staring straight ahead. “Oh, her. I don’t think so. I’ve got some errands to run anyhow.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Miss Kesstle. “You could come for tea at my place if you like.”

  “Uh, maybe later,” said Girl.

  “Here, I’ll give you my address.” Miss Kesstle reached into the car and got out her purse.

  “Don’t do that,” said Ginny turning her head and speaking loudly. “You’ll wake up one morning and all your jewellery will be missing.”

  “Fuck off,” said Girl.

  Miss Kesstle wrote her address down on a piece of paper and handed it to Girl. “I’ll be home all —”

  “Do you have five bucks you could lend me?” asked Girl. “I’m a little short on food right now.”

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Kesstle. She reached into her purse and got out her wallet.

  “Lend? Ha,” said Ginny from inside the car.

  Miss Kesstle handed Girl two twenties.

  “That’s too much,” I said.

  “She can get some proper groceries.”

  “You are a dear,” said Girl. She leaned over and gave Miss Kesstle a kiss on the forehead.

  Miss Kesstle put her purse back on the seat. “Make sure you get some fruit or vegetables,” she said, “and don’t forget to come for tea.” She got back into the car.

  “At least grab a sandwich,” I said, “before you blow the rest of it.”

  Girl smiled.

  “I need to have a serious talk with you one day,” I said.

  “Sounds like fun,” said Girl.

  “I mean it. It’s about your great-great-grandmother.”

  “Could we please go?” yelled Ginny.

  I climbed back into the car and we pulled away, leaving Girl standing on the sidewalk with a puzzled look on her face.

  “She’s not going to buy food,” said Ginny to Miss Kesstle. “She’s going to buy booze or dope.”

  “Dope? You mean drugs? I don’t think so,” said Miss Kesstle. “And she’s too young to buy alcohol.”

  Ginny snorted again.

  Only Norman and Whitman were home when I got in. They sat at the dining room table. There was an almost empty pitcher of Glornics between them and the chessboard was in the centre of the table. Norman had captured three of Whitman’s white pawns and Whitman had enough of Norman’s black pieces to open a POW camp.

  “Where’s Mr. H. and Lady March?”

  “God only knows,” said Norman without looking up. He handed me a piece of paper from the table. It read, in Lady March’s large loopy script, “Mr. H. and I won’t be home tonight, duckies. Don’t worry. We’re up to no good. Love, L.M.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “What kind of no good, do you think?”

  “I have no idea,” said Norman morosely.

  “Check,” said Whitman, moving his pawn.

  Norman sighed. I hesitated for a moment, waiting for them to ask me to join them, or at least comment on my haircut. “Well, I’m going — see you later.”

  They both nodded, still staring at the board.

  “Frieda! Wake up, Frieda. You have to see this.” Miss Kesstle’s voice drifted up the back stairs. Whaaaa? I rubbed my eyes. See what? Probably some sort of exotic warbler at the bird feeder. I put my housecoat on and went downstairs. Miss Kesstle was making tea.

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  “You’ll need tea,” she said, “after you see that.” She gestured towards the table where the newspaper lay folded over.

  What is it about tea-drinkers that makes them so self-righteous? Some sort of British thing, no doubt. Just close your eyes, drink some tea, and think of England.

  “No,” I said. “I can’t look at anything without some coffee.”

  Miss Kesstle and I sat silently at the table waiting for our prospective beverages to boil and perk. I eyed the paper but stubbornly waited until I could ease a cupful of coffee out of the pot. Once I poured a cup and took a sip, I unfolded the paper and turned it over. On the front page was a photo of a bunch of people standing on the roof of the Art Centre. What the hell? One of them was naked. The headline read: “Stormy Petrel Sit-In At Downtown Art Centre.” I looked at Miss Kesstle. “Well, they’re getting their publicity.”

  “Do you think that fancy woman had anything to do with that? Mr. H. is probably up there. He’s an old man, he could get hurt. It’s ridiculous.” Miss Kesstle looked mighty pissed.

  I read the article:

  The closing of the Downtown Art Centre may be slowed by a group of protesters who have named themselves after a nearly extinct species of birds — the stormy petrel. The protesters vow they will not come down from the roof of the building until the government gives them a fair chance to save the Centre. Spokespersons for the group said that they chose the petrel because the birds appear in storms then disappear when the gale is over. There is certainly a storm brewing over the closure of the Downtown Art Centre.

  The New Zealand Petrel was once considered extinct but was rediscovered in 2003. The spokesperson noted that Canadian Arts are also likely to become extinct unless the government renews its commitment to them. The Winnipeg Society of the Arts was given a token opportunity to purchase the building, only to learn that the local government already had a deal in place with the Grainer Hotel chain to build a downtown hotel. Alderman Gene Dids is quoted as saying the hotel will bring jobs and prosperity to the downtown core. The Downtown Art Centre opened eleven years ago serving a handful of students and now has classes which over one hundred attend. “The Art Centre is a vital part of the downtown community,” said one of the protesters. “To close it down would be a crime and a slap in the face of art communities all across Canada.”

  “Wow,” I said, “that’s some piece, better than the four lines after the open house. It might work.”

  “The police will probably come and hose them all off,” said Miss Kesstle. “Is that naked person Norman’s mother? And why is she naked?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, squinting at the photo. “I’ll go and find out. Do you want to come?”

  “Absolutely not.” Miss Kesstle stood and poured her tea down the drain. “I don’t want to get mixed up in that mess. I’m going home.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for bringing the paper over.”

  She sniffed and went out the back door.

  I took the bus to the Art Centre. There were large crowds both on the roof and standing around on the grass below. I picked out Mr. H. and waved wildly at him. He gestured for me to climb the ladder. I hesitated. What if we did get hosed off?

  Mr. H. helped me onto the roof. “This is a whole different squall game, hey Frieda?” he said. “Come this way.” In the centre of the roof was a doorway. He opened the door and we went in and sat down on the stairs. “So what do you think?”

  “It’s brilliant. Who came up with it?”

  “Lady March. If we manage to keep the
Centre open, we’ll name her our patron saint.”

  “Is she the naked person in the photo?”

  Lady March’s voice drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. “Nothing like a little nudity to get the press out.”

  She came upstairs and I was relieved to see that she was covered up by one of her boisterous caftans. She sat on the stair beneath us. “We made the paper? What page?”

  “Front page,” I said.

  “See?” She patted Mr. H.’s knee. “I told you it would work. Fehu!”

  “Gesundheit,” said Mr. H.

  Lady March laughed. “You gave me the idea, Frieda. Remember when you told me about the petrels, the seabirds? I thought it was a wonderful metaphor for protesting. So, here we are, the Stormy Petrels.”

  I was pleased. I’d given someone a good idea. An idea that might actually work.

  “I hope Norman doesn’t pitch a fit when he sees the paper,” Lady March said. “He nearly had a coronary when I was arrested in Washington at the anti-apartheid rallies.” She stood. “Well, back to the battle lines.” As she went past Mr. H., she paused and kissed the top of his bald head.

  “Hmmm,” I said, smiling at Mr. H.

  He blushed and scuffled his feet. “I’m feeling as bright as the weather,” he said.

  “I’m sure you are.” I stood. “Well, I’m going now, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Will you let Whitman know I’m all right? Lady March says we could be up here for a few weeks.”

  “Weeks? How do you think he’s going to take all this?”

  “Probably not well,” said Mr. H., “but what can you do?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Something For The Pain

  I woke up in the middle of the night, unsure of what had disturbed my slumber. The clock read 3:52. I sat up and listened in the darkness. From downstairs I could hear Norman — he was either talking on the telephone or had discovered his own ghost to converse with. I got up, put on a housecoat, and went downstairs. The only light came from the streetlights shining through the windows just illuminating Norman in his blue flannel paisley pyjamas. He hung up the phone.

  “What going on?” I whispered.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, turning to me. “I was sitting down here worrying about Mother when the phone rang. Miss Kesstle’s alarm went off. She’s terrified but doesn’t want to phone the alarm company because they might send some stranger worse than whoever has supposedly broken in. I told her I’d come over.”

  The kitchen light flipped on. “Is something wrong?”

  Norman and I blinked and started like burglars caught making a midnight snack. It was Whitman in his red silk robe; his legs were bare and muscular.

  “Miss Kesstle’s alarm,” I said.

  “I’m going over,” said Norman.

  “I’ll come too,” said Whitman. He walked to the back door and put on Mr. H.’s lace-up rubber boots. Norman followed him in his bedroom slippers. I slipped on my army boots.

  “Should we bring something?” I asked and stopped at the door.

  “Like what?”

  “A baseball bat or something.”

  Norman looked around. “Umm.”

  “Here, I’ll take this.” I grabbed a metal spatula from the drying rack.

  “Very fierce,” said Whitman and opened the back door.

  Miss Kesstle had her porch light on and was waiting inside. I could see her shadow through the window curtains. As soon as we started up the walk, she opened the door. Her head was covered in a burgundy kerchief and she wore a green velour housecoat, worn down to the nub in places.

  “He’s downstairs in the basement,” she said.

  “Who?”

  She glared at me like I was an idiot. “The burglar.”

  “All right,” said Norman, “let’s go look.” He hitched up his pyjama pants and started towards the basement door.

  “If it is a burglar, shouldn’t we call the police?” I asked as I followed behind him, gripping my spatula.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Whitman whispered.

  We went down the narrow basement stairs in single file. I turned and looked back. Miss Kesstle stood at the top clutching at the lapels of her housecoat, looking ready to slam the door if she heard or saw anything.

  “The light is at the bottom, pull the string,” she whispered.

  The basement was dark and smelled of damp. Norman felt around and pulled the cord on a light bulb. There were boxes and suitcases, wooden shelves of canned food, a rack holding winter coats, and, curled up in the far corner, on the bare floor, was Girl. I looked around. One of the small wood-framed windows had been pushed in.

  We went over to her and kneeled down. She lifted her head; her eyes wandered back and forth, then focussed on my face. I tried to smile at her. Her face was swollen and bruised, mascara and eyeliner smeared down her cheeks. I could smell alcohol, sharp and sour.

  “Hey, Frieda,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Not so good.”

  “No, doesn’t look like it.” Norman reached out to her and she flinched.

  “Did you get him?” yelled Miss Kesstle from the top of the stairs. “The place is surrounded, mister, so don’t make any foolish moves.”

  “It’s Girl,” I called up the stairs.

  “Girl?”

  I turned back to Girl. She wore a miniskirt and a tube top with one of Miss Kesstle’s doilies appliquéd on the front. Her arms and legs were covered with ugly violet bruises and red cuts. I felt a wave of nausea.

  “Hi, Girl,” said Whitman. “I’m Mr. Hausselman’s son Whitman. I met you at the art show.”

  She nodded, pushing her sweaty hair from her face and attempting a smile.

  “Do you want to come upstairs?” I asked. “Have a cup of tea, maybe, or some hot chocolate?”

  “Can you get up?” Whitman asked.

  “I don’t know.” She tried to raise herself on one elbow and fell back. “Oh fuck. Kinda dizzy. I think I’ll rest here for a sec.”

  “I’ll let Miss Kesstle know everything is all right,” I said. I went up the stairs. “Let’s put the kettle on,” I said to Miss Kesstle. “I think she’d like some hot chocolate.”

  Miss Kesstle peered down the stairs. “Is she all right? Why is she in the basement? She could have come to the front door.”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I said.

  Once we were out of earshot, I said, “She’s pretty banged up, Miss Kesstle. But don’t freak out, try to keep calm. She’s upset.”

  Miss Kesstle stared at me for a moment without saying anything and then began to bustle around the kitchen. “She’s probably hungry too, poor thing. We’ll have some sandwiches.” She opened the fridge door.

  “Maybe just soft things,” I said, thinking of the bruises on Girl’s face.

  Miss Kesstle looked at me again. “I have pudding. Do you think she’d like pudding, or maybe cottage cheese?”

  “Pudding maybe.” I could hear them slowly making their way up the stairs.

  “You go,” said Miss Kesstle. “I’ll make the cocoa.”

  I walked into the living room. Whitman was helping Girl onto the couch.

  “Blanket?” he asked.

  I went back into the kitchen. “Do you have spare blankets somewhere?”

  “Upstairs. Take one off one of the beds. I just washed them all.” She put mugs on a tray.

  I went upstairs. The first bedroom I went into must have been Miss Kesstle’s. It had a woven coverlet and a dresser covered in little jewellery boxes. It smelled of lavender and talcum powder. In the next room, there was a patchwork quilt on the bed. I pulled it off and grabbed a pillow.

  Back downstairs, Whitman was sitting in an armchair while Norman stood and fidgeted beside him. Girl reclined on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I took the quilt over to her.

  “Here,” I said, “are you cold?”
r />   She nodded. I covered her up with the blanket, lifted her head, and put the pillow underneath it. She closed her eyes.

  “What should we do?” asked Norman. “We need to call someone.”

  “Shhh,” said Whitman, “just leave it for a minute.”

  Norman turned to me. “Look at her, she looks awful.”

  I frowned at him.

  “Why are we just standing here? This is an emergency.” Norman’s voice was rising. “We have to take her somewhere. We have to do something.”

  “Shut up for a minute,” said Whitman.

  “We should call the police right now.” Norman walked towards the kitchen.

  “Please don’t,” said Girl.

  “Why don’t you go home?” I said. “She’s okay for a minute. Someone might call from the Art Centre.”

  He hesitated. “Call someone. Do something.”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Go home.” I walked him to the door.

  “Don’t call anyone. We have to figure out what happened first.”

  “She looks awful,” he said again.

  “I know,” I said. “Go home.”

  He left with a last reluctant look towards the living room. I went back in and sat down.

  Miss Kesstle carried in a tray with steaming cups of hot chocolate and small bowls of vanilla pudding and cottage cheese. She put the tray on the coffee table.

  “Hello, Girl,” she said, a little too brightly. “I’m glad you came for tea.”

  Girl turned to her. “Sorry I broke in. . . I didn’t know where to go. I had your address. I didn’t want to wake you up —”

  Miss Kesstle gasped at the sight of Girl’s face. She went over to the couch. “Oh, you poor thing. Do you need to go to the doctor’s? What happened? Who did that to you?” She sat beside Girl on the couch and gently stroked the top of her head. Girl burst into tears. Miss Kesstle kept stroking her head and murmuring, “It’s all right. You’re fine. You’re safe now. You’re safe.” Tears ran down her face. I looked over at Whitman. His face was hard with anger, but his eyes were filled with tears.

  I went into the bathroom, grabbed a box of tissue off the top of the toilet tank, and wet a hand towel under the tap. I had to steady myself on the sink for a moment; my knees had gone weak. Who would do that? Who could do that? I splashed cold water on my face, dried it and then went back into the living room and put the tissue on the coffee table. Miss Kesstle held Girl in her arms and the two of them cried together.