“Holy crap,” said Marilyn, looking at the top of the building. “What are those people doing on the roof?”
I laughed. “It’s a sit-in to save the centre, and you’re going to sit.”
“Like hell I am.” Marilyn crossed her arms.
I rummaged around in my bag. “Now where did I put my cellphone and the number to that studio?”
“That’s blackmail,” said Marilyn, “and those people up there are crazy.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I continued to look in my bag.
If she didn’t hurry up, I’d be forced to make a phone call on my hairbrush.
Marilyn began to walk forward. “What purpose is it going to serve having me sit on a roof with a bunch of nutters?”
“Sometimes any action is good as long as it’s movement forward. Besides,” I said as we walked through the crowd, “you might meet some nice people.”
“I hate people,” muttered Marilyn. She put one blue sneakered foot on the ladder. “Do they at least have beer up there?”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Pot? Don’t people always get stoned at sit-ins? They did in the sixties.”
“The sixties are over.”
“No shit,” said Marilyn and she made her way up the ladder.
The asphalt on the roof felt warm even through my sneakers. Billy Bragg played on a portable stereo. The security guard from the choir was there. I smiled at him. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me here,” he said. He lifted his sunglasses. “I could lose my job.”
Some of the ladies from the looms clustered around a fold-up table. On top were paper cups and a plastic cooler. An older lady in an amber and red sari leaned over to an even older woman in a black abaya, her head completely covered, and said, “Do you think they will bring the tanks soon?”
The other lady shrugged and nodded, “Likely soon, yes.”
“No,” I said. “Riot police, maybe, but no tanks. Not in Canada.”
They didn’t look convinced, or worried; they sat down on the ground and began to fan themselves.
I introduced Marilyn to Lady March. “Ah, Cinderella,” said Mr. H., “we meet again. I see you still haven’t found your glass slippers.”
“See,” said Marilyn, turning to me, obviously having no memory of Mr. H. giving her the crocheted slippers at the art show. “I told you — nuts.”
“Hello, Marilyn,” said Lady March. “You have the most interesting aura.”
“Like how?” said Marilyn.
“A bright yellow, some grey, with a red overlay, interesting.”
“Good, then,” said Marilyn. “How long do I have to sit up here?”
“Until I come back to get you,” I said.
“No fair, you get to go and I have to stay.” Marilyn sat down to the left of a group of kids. A young woman read from a sheaf of papers: “Okay, The Human Wave, a screenplay by Lizzie Parker. Man at desk answers telephone —”
“That’s not how you start a screenplay!” Marilyn yelled over her shoulder.
“How would you know?” asked the woman.
“Because I’ve written seventeen, and five of them have had treatments in Hollywood.”
“No way!”
“Way,” said Marilyn.
“So how do you start a screenplay?”
Marilyn turned around. “You need the time of day, the setting interior or exterior. You need to think in terms of camera angles. You know about those, right?”
The kids shook their heads.
“You want to write screenplays and you don’t know about camera angles? Christ, you might as well jump off the roof right now. Where you kids been?”
“Well?” said one kid. “What are they?”
Marilyn sighed loudly as though she’d been explaining it for hours. “There’s the establishing shot, long shot, medium shot, over-the-shoulder shot, close-up, and each one serves a specific purpose. You gotta think about that. Anyone got a smoke? The establishing shot is like a wide angle; like, if your story takes place on a boat, you show the boat on the ocean. How about a light? Get it?”
I wandered off to find Mr. H. again. He stood looking over the edge.
“I’m surprised Girl isn’t here,” he said. “This sort of thing should be right up her alley.”
“She’s at Miss Kesstle’s baking cinnamon buns,” I said. “I think she needs some peace and quiet.” I told Mr. H. and Lady March the story of finding Girl in Miss Kesstle’s basement. I skipped the part about her going to Marilyn’s first. Mr. H. wanted to go right down and see if Girl was okay, but I promised I’d go and check on her and let her know what was going on. Mr. H. gave me a list of supplies they needed and asked me to pick them up. I had some supplies of my own to get.
First, I went back to the house. Norman sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper open in front of him. He wore a tweed suit with a dark burgundy tie. “That’s Mother, isn’t it?” he said, indicating the naked woman on the front page.
“Nothing like a little nudity to get the press out,” I said. I opened the bottom cupboard where the baking tins were kept. I thought I’d seen. . . I had to get on my hands and knees to reach the back of the cupboard.
“She’s going to get herself in big trouble one of these days.”
“So what if she does, Norman?” I backed out of the cupboard, dragging out a huge pot with handles and a lid. There had been one on the table at Miss Kesstle’s this morning and my mother had used one for letting dough rise. She called it a Grosse Backschüssel. Loosely translated, “big baking bowl.”
“You’ve been so worried about keeping up appearances and trying to be so straight to make up for the sex shops that you have no life at all.”
He looked blankly at me. I stood up and set the bowl on the counter. Spoons too. I opened the drawer and got out my friend the wooden spoon and a spatula.
“Lady March’s not worried what anyone thinks of her or if she’s measuring up. If I were you, I’d get my ass out of that chair, make some sandwiches, and get up that ladder to see what’s going on.”
“I’m afraid of heights,” said Norman.
I put the spoons in the bowl and turned to leave.
“It’s all done,” he said, “all the businesses are gone and the whole collection.” He pushed his glasses up and gave me a hopeful little smile.
I turned back. “That’s great. Now you’ll have to start thinking about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.” I took my bowl and walked out of the room.
I stopped over at Miss Kesstle’s but no one was home. I could smell baked cinnamon buns from the porch. I left a note on the front door telling them where I was, that I’d come by later, and to save me a bun.
I got back to the Centre a few hours later. I went to climb the ladder and saw a bright blue hightop runner lying at the bottom.
“Marilyn left about an hour ago,” said Mr. H. when I got to the top. “She wasn’t looking very well, kinda shaky and pale, like she was going to throw up. I wasn’t sure she was going to make it down the ladder; she lost a shoe.”
“I see that,” I said.
“She sure impressed the kids, though,” said Mr. H. “Do you think —” he paused “— if we manage to keep the Centre going, she’d like to come and teach screenwriting?”
I shrugged. “I suppose it would depend on how stoned she was that day and the current state of her shoe collection. Do you think one of the kids could give me a hand? I have a bunch of stuff to bring up.”
I sat on the roof covered in flour paste and newspaper scraps and surrounded by garbage bags full of inflated balloons, stacks of newspaper and industrial-sized bags of flour and salt.
Mr. H. came over and sat on the cement beside me. “Can I help?”
“Sure,” I said. “You can tear newspaper strips. I borrowed your bowl and stuff.”
“That’s fine.” He took a pile of papers. “Like this?”
“A little thinner,” I said. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m mak
ing?”
“I don’t care,” he said smiling. “I’m happy to see you making anything.”
Lady March came and stood beside us. “This looks industrious.”
“Bird heads,” I said, crumpling paper and taping it onto a balloon in the shape of a beak. “Stormy petrel bird heads out of papier-mâché. They should be dry by late tonight. We can cut holes in them for eyes, paint them however we want, and wear them.”
“Smashing,” said Lady March. She sat down and took up a pile of newspapers. “Brilliant for photo ops.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Solidarity. Publicity. Protest.
STORMY PETREL SIT-IN : DAY THREE
“The reporters don’t seem to be leaving,” I said to Mr. H.
“I don’t know if it’s a slow news week, or if we’re finally getting payback for all those years of wine and cheese, but either way, I’m happy.”
We painted the papier-mâché bird heads in all different colours and designs. They were amazing: flowers, stars, medieval warrior birds, suns, and moons. A regular Mardi Gras of bird heads. We had them in constant production, a string of them drying as another set was being pasted together, and someone always painting. I had my own petrel head and was now officially “on the roof.” You know what they say — you’re either on the roof or you’re off the roof. Looking through the holes of the mask at the people standing below and being up so high gave me the sense of actually being avian, and of having a purpose: to save the nest of so many artists.
Marilyn was back on the roof. “My room was too hot,” she said when she climbed up the ladder. “I might as well be up here where there’s a breeze.” She sat in her newly claimed spot by the smokestack and waited for something exciting to happen.
As Mr. H. and I stood talking, there was some commotion down on the ground. We leaned over the edge to watch. An extra-long shiny black van with smoked windows pulled up and began honking at the crowd to move aside so it could drive closer to the building.
“FBI,” whispered one of the birds.
“You mean CSIS,” said another.
“Who?”
“No, look on the side.”
On the front panel of the van, in white print, was Hassle The Man Productions. The crowd parted, the van parked, and Whitman got out the passenger-side door. The next row of doors opened and three other men bustled out, opened the cargo doors at the back, and began hauling out cameras, lights, and cords.
Whitman talked to the men for a minute, then climbed up the ladder. Mr. H. met him at the top. “What’s all this?”
“I’ve been wanting to do a documentary film for a long time,” said Whitman. “I thought the Art Centre had all the right elements. But this,” he waved his arms at the Stormy Petrels, “is brilliant. Are you interested?”
“Of course,” said Mr. H. “Thank you.”
“Great,” said Whitman. He hung his head for a minute and I could see the seven-year-old boy inside him; then he snapped back into action. “I’m going to go back down and try and arrange some pointed interviews with the PM and the mayor.”
“Look out, w5,” said Marilyn.
Whitman turned to her. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? I’m sitting in.”
“Good,” said Whitman. “I was hoping to find you today. Can you take notes on things as they happen, and we’ll use them for the narration script when we put the film together? With your name on it and credit, of course.”
“I don’t know anything about documentary writing,” said Marilyn.
“That’s okay,” Whitman said, “I don’t know anything about making one. It’s not so much, but I wanted to say I was sorr —”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Marilyn. “Next time you come up, bring me some paper and pens, nice inky ones. I’m not going to buy my own supplies.”
Whitman climbed back down and I followed him. One of the local reporters came up to him.
“What’s going on?”
Whitman cleared his throat. “Hassle The Man Productions, a Los Angeles film crew, is filming a documentary on the fight to save the Downtown Art Centre. You can call me later at this number for an interview after I’ve spoken to the city officials.”
He handed the reporter a card, walked away, and smiled at me. “If there’s one thing Canadians hate, it’s Americans knowing their dirty business.”
Marilyn stayed overnight that night but left before sunrise.
STORMY PETREL SIT-IN : DAY FOUR
Norman climbed up the ladder with his eyes shut, sat well in the middle of the building, and never looked down once. His face was the colour of spinach.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Lady March. “I was worried about you down there all by yourself.”
“Do you have complimentary barf bags for participants?” he asked.
“White light,” said Lady March. “Just visualize white light in your abdomen.”
“Couldn’t we just buy the building?”
“That would defeat our purpose,” she said.
“Which is?”
“Solidarity. Publicity. Protest.”
“Right.” Norman put his head in his hands.
Marilyn showed up again in the afternoon wearing one high-heeled shoe and one sneaker. She held her impromptu screenplay classes, took notes, and shouted rude things down at the two policemen now posted for crowd control.
Ginny must have heard about the documentary because she showed up at the top of the ladder, looking around for Whitman. She brought nail polish, makeup, and hair products to help the women keep up morale.
“It’s hard to be righteous when you’re having a bad hair day,” she said.
“I’ve never had a problem with it,” said Marilyn.
I got busy making more bird heads.
Later that afternoon, Marilyn was sitting in her regular position, leaning on the smokestack, when Girl’s head appeared at the top of the ladder.
“Hey, you crazy birds,” shouted Girl. “What’re you all doing up here without me? Now we can have some serious protesting.”
Mr. H. went over, gave her a big hug, and kissed the top of her head. He introduced her to Lady March. I stood off to the side and watched.
Marilyn stood up. Girl stared at her. “Hey,” said Marilyn.
“What’re you doing here?” asked Girl.
“Lending my support.”
“You? Support?” Girl snorted.
“I’m sorry,” said Marilyn. She wobbled over to where Girl stood. “I should have let you in. I was. . . I was scared.”
“That made two of us,” said Girl.
“I’m trying to stay on this roof,” said Marilyn, “and you’re why I’m up here.”
“Me?”
“Well, first of all, she bloody well blackmailed me,” Marilyn jerked her thumb at me. I smiled and waved at Girl. “But I’ve been coming back because I was hoping to see you so I could apologize. So, this is it. I’m apologizing. And I don’t do it very often. But I was way wrong.”
“Okay,” said Girl. She gave Marilyn a punch on the shoulder. Marilyn wobbled to the left on her one flat shoe, and then over to the right on her one high-heeled shoe, and nearly went backwards over the edge before Girl grabbed her.
“Holy woman,” said Girl, “you are one sorry shoe person.”
“I think I’ll go sit down,” said Marilyn. “Are we okay?”
“Well,” said Girl, “I’m not at all sure about you. But yeah, I’m okay.”
Girl was like a loose cannon on the roof. Her bruises had started to fade and she may have made up with Marilyn, but she was mad at the rest of the world. She painted her bird head black with red skulls and crossbones. She made up chants for the kids to yell: “The arts have heart. The mayor is a fart.” “Give us a nickel. Give us a buck. The mayor is a stupid fuck.” She only subsided once Mr. H. convinced her it probably wasn’t helping the cause so much.
Whitman was up and down the ladder, doing interviews and di
recting people. Ginny approached him a few times and he was polite, but didn’t give her any encouragement. I was surprised she stayed on the roof, but she said it was like a holiday, and that she hoped that at least one of the newspaper photos showed her face clearly so she could embarrass her former employers. She wouldn’t wear a bird head, but she did help paint them, and, true to her word, she gave facials to the women and manicures to the men.
I was sitting on the roof and tearing paper for more bird heads. We’d been getting requests from people on the ground wondering if they could buy them. Norman came up with the plan of auctioning them off on eBay if the Centre was saved.
Ginny was doing Norman’s nails on the other side of the entrance doorway to the roof. I wasn’t eavesdropping, really; the wind just blew their conversation in my direction.
“It’s not like I was making the films,” I heard Norman say.
“Of course you weren’t,” said Ginny. “You were just a businessman providing a service. If there was no demand, there’d be no need for supply, right?”
“Right. But it was still wrong.”
“Absolutely,” said Ginny. “Do you want your nails buffed?”
“It seemed more important to be successful than anything else.”
“I hear you,” said Ginny. “I’ll just buff them lightly. What are you going to do now?”
“Find something else to succeed at, I suppose,” said Norman.
“I have no doubt you will,” said Ginny.
Humph. I ripped the papers in my hands.
STORMY PETREL SIT-IN : DAY FIVE
Miss Kesstle called Norman’s cellphone in the morning. She wanted to bring Sunday dinner up to the roof and asked if Girl would come back to the house in the afternoon to help her. Girl agreed and wanted Marilyn to come with her. Marilyn had been on the roof overnight and all that day.
“I’m feeling pretty good,” said Marilyn. “I’ll stay up here today.”
Miss Kesstle called again in the late afternoon to ask if Girl was still on the roof. Norman handed the phone to me. “I think she left quite a while ago,” I said, “but it’s hard to keep track of people up here.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Kesstle. “I hope nothing has happened to her. I’ll just call a cab and get the dishes — Never mind,” she said, “she’s here now. See you soon.”
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 26