Dance, Gladys, Dance

by Cassie Stocks

  I sat in the armchair across from Whitman. Eventually Girl stopped crying and Miss Kesstle let her go.

  I handed Miss Kesstle the damp towel and she wiped Girl’s face, daubing gently at the charcoal lines on her cheeks. “You should go to the hospital,” she said.

  Girl’s lips tightened and her eyes narrowed as though by closing her face she could keep her emotions at bay. “I’m okay, just bruises. Please, let me stay here.”

  “We’ll see,” said Miss Kesstle. “Would you like some cocoa?”

  “I don’t think I can right now. I don’t feel so well.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” asked Whitman quietly. “We should call the police and give them whatever information you have so they can find who did that to you.”

  “Don’t call the police, please,” said Girl. “Please don’t. I can’t deal with them right now. I can’t — if my foster family finds out, I’m in trouble again. They told me no more chances, they’ll report me, I’ll end up in juvie.”

  “Where’s juvie?” asked Miss Kesstle.

  “Juvenile detention.”

  “You’re not in trouble,” said Miss Kesstle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Girl burst into tears again. “I did. I just wanted to earn a few more bucks so I could score and I thought I could do it. But once I was in the car, I couldn’t. I puked in his lap; he got so mad, and. . .” She pulled the quilt around her.

  “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay,” said Miss Kesstle. “Why don’t we get you into bed? You can stay here for tonight. Do you want me to call the family you’re staying with?”

  Girl shook her head.

  “I’ll get you a nightie and put it on the bed,” said Miss Kesstle. She went upstairs.

  Whitman and I helped Girl up, took her upstairs, and put her in the bedroom where I’d found the quilt. We left her alone to undress. Whitman followed Miss Kesstle back downstairs. I stood and listened at the door for a moment. I was afraid Girl might change her mind and escape out the window. There was rustling and some whimpering. I clenched my fists, then the bedsprings squeaked.

  I tiptoed back down the stairs. Whitman sprawled in the armchair as if someone had knocked him down. He stared straight ahead.

  Miss Kesstle picked up the tray from the table. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Who did she throw up on? Why would someone beat her up for that?”

  I followed her into the kitchen. “Do you want me to stay overnight too? I could crash on the couch. Just in case she wakes up and is. . . upset.”

  Miss Kesstle smiled at me. “Thank you, Frieda, but I’ll be all right. When I nursed Mother, she’d get very agitated in the middle of the night wanting more morphine for the pain. Did Girl say she was scoring? Was she playing sports?”

  “No. Scoring is buying something like morphine on the street for other kinds of pain.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Kesstle. “Oh dear. And the throwing up?”

  I hesitated. Opened my mouth. Closed it.

  “Tell me, Frieda.”

  “Remember when I told you about oral sex? I think Girl was trying to get some more money by doing it with a man in a car.”

  “What man?” Miss Kesstle stared at me.

  “I doubt she knew who he was.”

  “With a stranger? In a car? She’s just a child.”

  “She’s young, but I don’t think Girl’s been a child for a very long time.”

  “What a horrible man.” Miss Kesstle’s eyes filled with tears again. “It’s not right. It’s just not right. She’s so smart.”

  “I know,” I said. I went back into the living room.

  “Frieda, Whitman,” Girl called from upstairs, “could you come up for a minute?”

  Whitman followed me upstairs. Girl was lying in the old brass bed covered up with the patchwork quilt. She wore one of Miss Kesstle’s flannel nighties.

  “Can you imagine sewing something like this? By hand?” She held up a corner of the quilt. “It must have a thousand fucking-bitty pieces.”

  Whitman stood by the door. I went in and sat on the edge of the bed. Girl hesitated, then her face twisted. “I went to Marilyn’s first. I could see her light on from the street. I pounded on her door and she wouldn’t let me in. I thought he might still be after me. I was screaming at her to please let me in. She wouldn’t fucking open the door.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Whitman. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I just wanted you to know your friend is a major league bitch,” she said to me.

  “She’s not my friend, but point taken. She’s messed up. I’m sorry I introduced you to her. Go to sleep now, okay? We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Girl laid her head down on the pillow. “I feel like Goldilocks. I’ve always wanted to sleep in a brass bed.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  Whitman and I went back downstairs. I went into the kitchen and said goodbye to Miss Kesstle. Whitman waited for me by the front door.

  “I’d like to kill the bastard with my bare hands,” he said.

  “I’d like to tie him up and let Girl at him.”

  “We’ll have to see if she’ll tell us what he looks like. If she won’t go to the police, at least we can give the description to the outreach workers down there so they can warn other women away from him.”

  “How do you know about all this stuff?” I asked.

  “I’ve been keeping track of Marilyn for years.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Well, not really, but I’m in better shape than Girl.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said.

  When I woke up the next morning, Gladys was sitting in her armchair and looking out the window. Sun had already painted the walls of the room a golden yellow. I yawned, stretched, and then remembered Girl — bruises, cuts, curled up in the corner in the basement. Adrenaline surged through me. I sat up.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “You picked the wrong person.” I looked up, wildly feeling as though the roof was about to fall in on me. “Girl’s lost. I can’t help her.”

  “Slow down,” said Gladys. She stared steadily at me and continued to rock.

  Gladys’ placidity only served to increase my panic. I got up and began to do a whole lot of nothing with great urgency. “I’m failing. I always fail.

  I’m sorry.” I picked up a pile of dirty laundry, then threw it down again.

  “You’re not failing,” said Gladys.

  I pulled the covers up on the bed and straightened them. “Did you see her last night?” I cried.

  “I did.”

  “Should I have told her about you? Would have that helped? Please tell me what to do. I’ll do it.” I pulled the covers off the bed and threw them on the floor with the laundry.

  “Sit down. You did the right thing.”

  I looked around the room for something else useless but active to do.

  “Sit!” said Gladys. I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Telling Girl about me wouldn’t have helped and it won’t help her now. Go see her. She’s all right.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Gladys nodded. “There’s always more.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that make me feel better?” I stood again and opened the wardrobe. No jeans. “It’s like a dream. You slice the head off the monster, then, while you’re busy doing the happy dance, it grows another one.” Where the hell were all my clothes?

  “We can’t fix everything,” said Gladys, “but we can make whatever little difference is possible.”

  I stopped. “That’s what Mr. H. said: ‘Do whatever little bit you can.’”

  “He’s right,” said Gladys. “The way isn’t clear, but the only way to make it clearer is for more and more of us to travel it.”

  I found jeans in the pile of dirty laundry underneath the blankets. “You sound like Lady March. Did you know I have a broken fate line?” I held my palm out to Gladys. “
I don’t even know which direction to travel in.”

  “I think you do,” said Gladys. “Get on with your day. The world awaits.”

  “That,” I said, “is a completely terrifying thought.” Gladys vanished and I pulled on my pants.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It’s My Policy

  I headed straight over to Miss Kesstle’s. The front door was open, so I knocked on the screen door and hollered through it.

  Miss Kesstle called out to come in. The kitchen was in an uproar — pots, scatterings of flour, and lumps of dough lay everywhere. Miss Kesstle smiled. “You’ll have to wait for tea, Frieda. We’re in the middle of a cooking lesson.”

  Girl’s bruises were even more horrifying in the bright light of day. Her right cheek was almost completely purple and a bandage above her eyebrow covered half her forehead. She wore a blue checked apron over top of one of Miss Kesstle’s house-dresses and had her hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “Look at me, Frieda,” she exclaimed. “We’re making cinnamon buns.” She held a lump of dough in one hand and a dripping spoon in the other. “I’m Martha-fucking-Stewart!”

  “Girl. . .” said Miss Kesstle, trying to wipe a smear of dough off the cupboard.

  “What? Oh, I’m Martha-freaking-Stewart.”

  “I’m sure Martha would be pleased,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Stiff, though.”

  “We should probably call someone this morning. . .”

  “Is that the royal we?” asked Girl. “We did. Whitman stopped by already and gave us a phone number.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Did you know Girl can play the piano?” asked Miss Kesstle. “I woke up hearing the most beautiful song. Give me that spoon, Girl, we have to oil the dough now. I thought Beethoven had come back as a ghost with talent. But it was Girl. No one’s played that piano since Mother died.”

  Girl smiled and dipped her head. “I was just messing around.”

  I watched the two of them work for a while, then excused myself. I had a mission and those bowls of flour had given me an idea. I took the Valiant and drove downtown. I parked near Marilyn’s apartment, locked the doors, rolled up the windows, and took a deep breath.

  This time there actually was a pile of shit on the stair landing of the hotel. It looked disturbing and oddly fascinating lying there. It’s so seldom a person sees human excrement just lying around. Which is probably a good thing anyhow.

  I banged on Marilyn’s door. “Open up, it’s Frieda.” Nothing. “Open the door or I’ll —” What? Blow your house down?

  “I’ll phone Whitman’s studio and rat the both of you out.” I waited. “No more three hundred bucks cash coming your way. He’ll probably get fired.” Silence.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my hairbrush. “I’m dialing on my cellphone right now.”

  The door opened. I shoved the brush back in my purse. Marilyn leaned her head against the doorframe. She wore a giant white T-shirt advertising a muffler shop. Her eyes were puffy with sleep.

  “Can’t you people leave me in peace? What do you want?”

  I pushed past her. The room was dark, smelly, and stuffy, the curtains tightly drawn.

  “Hey missy,” she sputtered.

  “Don’t you missy me. I want to know why you didn’t open your door for Girl last night.”

  “I don’t get involved. It’s my policy.”

  “Corporations have policies. You don’t.” I walked over to the window and opened the curtains.

  “You think because I’m a drunk I can’t have a policy? I can have a policy if I want. And that’s it — I don’t get involved.”

  “Whoa,” I said, “this is about a sixteen-year-old girl who got the crap beat out of her.” My voice shook. I turned to Marilyn. She closed her eyes and put her hand to the back of her neck. “Girl thought he was still after her —”

  “How was I to know and what if he was?” Marilyn demanded, her arms flew out in the air. “Then I let her and him in, and we both end up dead? What about that? I’m worn out. I don’t give a damn, okay? Just leave me alone.” She kicked around the piles of clothes on the floor. “Besides, Whitman already came to give me shit.”

  “He did?”

  “Well, he tried. But I asked him who the hell he thought he was, harassing me when he’d been ripping me off all these years. He left looking like a whipped dog.”

  “He did?”

  “How many times are you going to say that?”

  “Anyhow, I won’t,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I won’t leave any of you alone because I’m sick and tired of this shit. I’m tired of people being worn out and hurt and not helping and not doing sweet dick all myself. Miss Kesstle took Girl in last night. An old woman who spent the last fifteen years crocheting has more balls than either of us.”

  “See,” said Marilyn, “you don’t even know what you’re saying. Having balls means male. Courage equals being a man. Why don’t we say, ‘has more ovaries’? Anyhow, I’m tired.” She sat down on the bed and squinted against the light. “It’s not just the big stuff — rapings, beatings — it’s the little shit. You’re not beautiful enough, not smart enough, you’re always trying to stay in your place, and I hate this fucking place.”

  “You mean this place?” I gestured at the mess on the floor. “That’s not surprising.”

  “No, this, this.” She swirled her hand around in the air like a mini tornado. “All this, whole, this whole male capitalist world.”

  “So why do you let Whitman use you?” I emptied an overflowing ashtray into a plastic shopping bag and tied the top.

  “Quit messing with my stuff. I need those butts. I’m using him. I blow through that crap like nothing and he gives me hundreds of dollars for it.”

  “He probably gets thousands and all the credit.” I looked around the room. “Do you have pants somewhere?”

  “So? I wouldn’t want my name on it anyway. I don’t care. I can’t do it. I haven’t got what it takes to make it out there.” She pointed at the window.

  I gave up on my cleaning efforts and sat down on the bed beside her. “You know what, Marilyn? I said the same thing to Norman once.”

  “Who’s Norman?”

  “You danced with him at the art show.” I leaned over, pulled a pair of stirrup pants from the floor, and shook the ashes off them.

  “I did? Is he good-looking?”

  “I said I don’t have it and I gave up, but I do have it. I do. And I suspect you do too. Here.” I put the pants in her lap.

  Marilyn narrowed her eyes. “What are we talking about again? We have what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But we’ve got it?”

  “Right. Get your pants on. We’re going out to travel the way.” I stood.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I had a headache before you came over and it hasn’t gotten any better, I can tell you that.”

  I reached into my purse. “I can still make that call.”

  Marilyn stood. I turned my back while she pulled on the pants. She couldn’t find two matching shoes. I suspect a good number of the orphan shoes one sees lying about the city in gutters and back alleys belong to Marilyn.

  “How do you manage in the winter?” I asked.

  “I stay in a lot,” she said. She finally went and knocked on the door across the hall and, after a great deal of bargaining and haggling with an old man, traded three sturdy shopping bags for a pair of blue size twelve men’s hightop runners. She had to lace them halfway up her knees to get them to stay on.

  “What a fashion statement, hey?” she said.

  I nodded. We went out to the Valiant. As I pulled out from the curb, Marilyn began to speak. She sat straight in the seat, her hands folded in her lap like a little girl who’s been told to “sit up properly.”

  “I had a husband once,” she said, “and a daughter. I was hitched by seventeen and had my daughter by eighteen.
Do you have a smoke?

  “No.” Silence. “And?” I said. My hands started to tremble on the wheel, but I kept driving.

  “We lived in a crappy little subsidized apartment. It had ivy wallpaper all over the walls and smelled like sour milk. In Oy-ama, in the Okanagan Valley. Land of peaches and scorpions.”

  “I’ve been through there on vacation,” I said.

  “I left when my daughter was a year old. I couldn’t breathe and I was so bored I thought my brain would implode. It might have got better. I don’t know — didn’t stick around to find out, did I?”

  “What do you mean, you left?” The traffic was thickening the closer we got to the Art Centre.

  “Claude, my husband, he loved our daughter, and his family all lived in town, or around the valley. I knew they’d take good care of her. I got up early one morning and took a Greyhound. I left and started my new life; I was gonna be a big star. What a success, hey?” She threw out her arms.

  All I could think of was Gladys and her baby being taken away from her. Gladys scrabbling at the cement walls of the institution trying to get back to him. Gladys saying, “Bad decisions are made for lots of reasons.” I looked at Marilyn. No wonder she was always tanked or stoned; there was probably no other way to take it. “What about your daughter? Don’t you want to find her? Or maybe she wants to find you?”

  “Would you want to? Would you like to walk up the stairs in that hotel, open the door, and say, ‘Oh look, there’s my mom’?”

  I hesitated. Marilyn snorted. “I rest my case.”

  “I read a bit of your script, The Devil’s Cry,” I said. “Scary stuff.”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m good at terror.”

  We pulled up near the Art Centre. I had to park in the back alley on the next block; the street was filled with cars.

  “Come on,” I said. Marilyn got out and we walked up the alley and onto the road in front of the centre. There was still a crowd on the ground and, from what I could see, the number of Stormy Petrels on the roof had increased.