Dance, Gladys, Dance

by Cassie Stocks

  “Though she has Girl now; she’s probably a fine watchdog.”

  “She won’t stay forever,” said Whitman.

  “No, I suppose not. So what’s your plan?”

  “I thought I’d leave it on the porch and make it look like it knocked over the chair to block the stairs. I think the wieners will keep it occupied for a while. You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “Mum’s the word,” I said and started down the sidewalk again.

  “Frieda,” Whitman called. I turned.

  “Did you invite Marilyn to your dinner? I know she screwed up, but she’s been working hard on the film.” He reached down, patted the puppy, and grinned at me. “And everyone deserves a second chance. Right?”

  I groaned. “Okay, invite her, but if she and Miss Kesstle get into a scrap, you’ll have to handle it.”

  I carried on my way, smiling. I took the bus to Chinatown, my shopping list in hand. The streets were packed. I ended up at a standstill on a sidewalk, hemmed in on all sides. Then I heard music, cymbals and chimes. The crowd began applauding and a Chinese dragon undulated its way down the centre of the street in front of me. It was stunning, the movement and the colours: pinks, blues, oranges, pure white, shimmering all over with gold. A crowd of children followed, waving banners. They wore every colour under the sun, embroidered, appliquéd, and shining. I stood amongst the clapping crowd, everything on the street drenched in brilliance. My eyes and mind began to work: that hot pink next to that spring green, the gold with the white, the scarlet beside the violet. My fingers tingled, and I began to cry. I wanted to play with these colours, to mix them, to dip my brushes in dioxazine violet and phthalo green. I cried and I drank it in. I felt a pat on my back. A small, ancient Chinese woman standing beside me patted my back again, smiled, and nodded her head.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said waving my hand to the street, tears still running down my face.

  She smiled again. Her face was lined with a thousand wrinkles and her eyes said she’d seen a sorrow for every one of those wrinkles. She nodded twice and lifted her chin to the street where more marchers were coming. I turned to watch, feasting on the colours. I wanted to embrace it, to eat it, to own it, to celebrate it. I wanted to paint it. When the parade ended, the crowd broke up, and I couldn’t find my friend.

  I wiped my face and, both gorged and yearning, carried on my way to the food stores, the shopping list still crumpled in my hand.

  I chose the most authentic-looking store I could find, no English on the signs, everything in those amazing characters. I found most of the ingredients in the bins that I needed, guessing by smell and by sight, but I couldn’t find any ginger root. I approached the man at the counter. “Ginger?” I said.

  He shook his head and said, “Wo bu dong.”

  “Ginger root,” I said. “Uh — root.” I held my hand up and twisted my fingers in an approximation of a gnarled root.

  “Ah,” he said, smiled, got up from his stool, and went into the back area through a faded red curtain.

  Ha, I’m the queen of charades. He came back still smiling, pleased as I was with our successful pantomime. In his hand was a large bag of chickens’ feet. He held them up. “Wei dao zhen hao!”

  “Oh,” I said. “I — oh, thank you.” I nodded my head and pulled out my wallet.

  When I got back, Girl and the new dog were playing in front of Miss Kesstle’s house. “Look what showed up!” said Girl. She lay on the grass and the puppy scrambled all over her. “It’s a wheensy weeny whupsy pupsy. Isn’t she great?”

  Miss Kesstle sat on the porch beaming down at them. “She’s very smart,” she said. “She can sit and roll over.”

  “Who,” I asked, “Girl or the pupsy?”

  “But,” said Miss Kesstle, “we can’t get attached to her until we make sure she isn’t lost. Someone else might be looking for her.”

  “Oh no,” said Girl. “No one is looking for this little three-legged darling. She’s ours. I know it.”

  “I don’t mind checking for you,” I said. “I’ll call the pound.”

  “That would be wonderful, Frieda, thank you. Are you all ready for your dinner tomorrow?”

  “Not yet, but I will be. I think.”

  There was a note on the kitchen table from Mr. H. saying that they’d all gone to the Art Centre to work on the film. I was standing in the kitchen staring at the bag of chicken feet on the counter when Gladys showed up.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “What are you going to do with those?” “I have no freaking idea.”

  “Maybe you should make chili again.”

  “Chicken Foot Chili?”

  “No, normal chili. Everyone liked it last time.”

  “I’m tired of only being able to cook one thing. I want to broaden my horizons.”

  “All right,” said Gladys, “you should do all your prep work tonight. Tomorrow will be busy enough.”

  So I set to work, chopping, soaking, and spicing various things. Gladys looked over my shoulder and offered advice.

  “How come you’re still here?” I asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Well, Girl seems happy, she’s off the streets and I thought, you know, that was your goal, or my mission.”

  Gladys pursed her lips and shrugged. “Are you going to marinate those feet?”

  “Gladys. . .”

  “I can’t say.” She looked away.

  I opened a tin of tiny corn and asked, with my back to Gladys, “How long were you a —”

  “A street walker? Until I lost my looks and got too old. Then the Good Samaritans took me to a refuge. They were amazed at how well a woman off the street could bake.” She smiled. “I didn’t tell them I learned it in an insane asylum. So, there I stayed until I looked like this.” She tugged at a lock of her grey hair. “And I became, well, like this too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Invisible. No one really saw me. I was just dumpy old grey-haired Gladys in an apron in the kitchen. No one asked how I’d ended up there, no one asked who I’d been or what I’d dreamed of doing. No one asked me anything but were the pies ready yet.”

  I put down the can of lychee nuts I was trying to open next. “That bites, Gladys. That bites and stinks and pisses me off and I’m. . . I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “What’s done is done, there were thousands more like me. Stories a little slower maybe, not so dramatic, but it never stopped happening. Then one night I got old enough and I died in my sleep. Nothing dramatic, just put on my nightgown, went to bed, dreamed of dancing, and stopped breathing. And here we are.”

  “Here we are. I’m glad you came, Gladys.”

  She smiled. “So am I. You could try putting those chicken’s feet in a soup with carrots and dumplings.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  She’s A Good Girl

  It was the night of the party and I dressed the table in all the colours of the Chinatown parade: red, blue, yellow, and gold. I dressed myself in my latest thrift store purchase, a cocktail dress from the forties, black taffeta with a scoop neck and a full skirt. I even got some black nylons and a pair of black velvet pumps. I felt like a movie star. Look out, Vivien Leigh.

  People began showing up at a little after six. Ginny came dressed to the nines holding a bottle of expensive wine.

  “Ah, Pinot Gris Rangen de Thann,” said Norman. “That’s an excellent choice.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Ginny. “I wasn’t sure. Could you open it for me?” She put her hand on his shoulder. Gack.

  Miss Kesstle showed up alone. She said Girl was coming later, that she had some friends to meet. She told us that they’d compromised on a name for the puppy. Miss Kesstle wanted to call it Dorothea after her mother, meaning God’s gift, and Girl had pushed for Siouxsie Sioux. The end result: Dorothea Sioux. I thought the name would likely cause the puppy psychological problems.

  Mr. H. bustled around getting people drinks and fussing. It was cute to see him play host
. Marilyn showed up three sheets or two hits to the wind. She seemed subdued enough though, and sat in Mr. H.’s armchair, nodding off. Whitman held up his hands and shrugged. “She was like that when I picked her up.”

  I went into the kitchen to heat up the appetizers. After three experimental egg rolls had exploded while deep-frying, I’d relented on my all-authentic home-cooked dinner and nipped out and bought a jumbo box of frozen assorted Chinese appetizers. I heated them and arranged them artfully on a platter.

  No one was in the living room; they were all seated around the dining room table and holding hands.

  “Nice to see everyone getting along,” I said.

  “We’re trying to contact a ghost,” said Mr. H.

  “I sense a very troubled spirit here,” said Lady March.

  I looked around at the seven of them and shrugged. “Take your pick.”

  They sat in silence as Lady March called for the spirit. Whitman found the whole thing quite amusing and repeatedly knocked on the table with his knee until Mr. H. banished him into the living room. Gladys didn’t show for the impromptu séance but Marilyn got the heebie jeebies anyway and made everyone stop.

  “You shouldn’t mess with that stuff,” she said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be having fucking ectoplasm issues with your walls.”

  I hadn’t seen Gladys all day, which was odd. She’d missed multiple opportunities to comment on my cooking. The phone rang and Marilyn shrieked.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. It was Girl. I could hardly hear her for all the traffic noise.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Pay phone. Be right there,” she said. “Missed the bus, get the next one.” She hung up.

  We waited until seven o’clock for Girl and then I served dinner. My ginger beef (with powdered ginger) smelled quite good. The chicken with lychees had become a combination dish of other ingredients, and the rainbow fried vegetables looked colorful and possibly edible. I’d made the chicken foot soup with dumplings and added a splash of soy sauce.

  I served all the dishes at once and as luck would have it, Marilyn got the soup first. She ladled herself out a big spoonful and then spit her wine all over the table.

  “What the hell?” she spluttered.

  “Just pick the feet out if you don’t like them,” I said calmly. “The other chicken dish is a sort of Shipwreck Casserole, only with Chinese ingredients instead of hamburger.”

  “Chinese Shipwreck,” muttered Marilyn. “What do you call those boats?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Ginny.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Miss Fancy Pants,” said Marilyn. “Those Chinese sailboats.”

  “Junks?” said Norman.

  “That’s it!” said Marilyn. “I think I found a piece of junk in my plate.”

  Whitman chuckled.

  “It’s quite good, Frieda,” said Mr. H., struggling with his chopsticks.

  Miss Kesstle fiddled with her food, looking at her watch every few minutes. “Maybe I should go home and see if she’s there,” she said. “She may have forgotten about the dinner.”

  “She probably forgot where you live,” said Ginny.

  Marilyn helped herself to more and more wine and became more voluble. Whitman tried to keep her occupied by telling her about the Stormy Petrel film, but her eyes kept drifting over to Norman. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asked him.

  “I was on the roof at the protest,” said Norman. “I was the green one.”

  “No, before that. What did you say you did for a living?” Something was obviously niggling at Marilyn’s mind. I wasn’t sure Norman could withstand another attack like the one at the Art Centre.

  Norman put down his chopsticks and looked at me. “I’m a — Well, I’m sort of in-between, uh —”

  “He’s independently wealthy,” said Ginny.

  “Better than being dependently wealthy, huh, Whitman?” asked Marilyn.

  Whitman nodded. Mr. H. sent a piece of chicken flying over his shoulder.

  “There’s definitely a spirit here or something wrong,” said Lady March. “I’m feeling very uneasy.”

  “I’m feeling very queasy too,” said Marilyn.

  “So, Norman,” said Ginny, “tell me all about Kentucky. I’d love to come for a visit sometime.”

  “It’s very green,” said Norman. “Except when it doesn’t rain, then it’s very brown.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Ginny.

  “Sounds wahhhnderful,” mimicked Marilyn.

  “Will you please shut up?” said Ginny.

  Marilyn leaned over, ducked under the table with her head covered by the tablecloth, and then she sat back up. “That’s strange,” she said to Ginny, “when I was young, Barbie’s knees didn’t bend. How did you get your legs to do that?”

  “Girl is probably out getting drugs,” said Miss Kesstle suddenly to Marilyn, “and it’s all your fault.”

  “Like hell,” said Marilyn. “She was getting stoned before I met her.”

  “But you got her started on the roof again,” said Miss Kesstle, “and that was just wicked of you.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Marilyn banged her chopsticks on the table. “Girl brought the dope on the roof. I didn’t. I didn’t even ask her to. I’ve got no will power, so I took it. And I took the shit for it ’cause it seemed like she might have a chance if she stayed with you, and I didn’t want you to kick her out. Okay? No more shitting on Marilyn.”

  “Is that true?” Miss Kesstle stared at Marilyn.

  “I’d been on that roof for two fucking days straight,” yelled Marilyn. “Where do you think I got the dope? Carrier pigeon?”

  There goes my dinner party. “I hate to interrupt this stirring conversation,” I said, “but if you’ll retire to the living room, I’ll clear the dishes and be right back.”

  Miss Kesstle helped me scrape the chicken feet into the garbage. “I was wrong about Marilyn,” she said.

  “Happens to the best of us,” I said. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of people lately.”

  We finished the dishes and went into the living room. It was so quiet I thought I’d killed everyone with my Chicken Foot Soup. Mr. H. was in his recliner. Marilyn dozed in the middle of the couch. Norman and Whitman sat on either side of her. Lady March read a book in the other armchair and Ginny sat on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  “How about charades?” I said. No one answered. “Trivial Pursuit?”

  Marilyn suddenly sat upright and stared ahead at nothing. “Come over here,” she yelled, “and I’ll fuck you until your ears fall off.”

  “Sounds interesting,” said Whitman.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Norman. He got up, moved to the other side of the room, and sat on the floor beside Ginny. Marilyn slumped back down on the couch.

  “Good God,” said Ginny. “Why did you invite her? She’s a mess.”

  “She’s a talented screenwriter,” said Whitman.

  “So?” said Ginny. “Some of us get a handle on our problems and get help. She’s wallowing in hers.”

  Lady March looked up from her book. “To make sense out of change,” she said, “one must plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.”

  “Dancing?” mumbled Marilyn.

  “Vanuatu,” said Lady March.

  “Is that like Fehu?” I asked.

  “No, Vanuatu is my next destination.” She held up the book: Metaphysical Voyages for the Astrally Challenged. “There are rumours of a legendary plant in the South Pacific islands. The scent of the blossoms is supposed to create overwhelming sensations of serenity.”

  Mr. H. smiled. “The flower of positive stinking.”

  “Exactly,” said Lady March. “Be a stunning addition to floral arrangements for world leaders. You should come with me.”

  “Me?” said Mr. H. “Now that would be an adventure. I’ve never been out of Canada.”

  “You should go,” said Whitman. “See the wo
rld.”

  Norman sighed. “Why don’t the two of you take a cruise on a nice safe luxury liner?”

  The doorbell rang. “Girl, finally,” said Miss Kesstle. Mr. H. got up and went to the front door. Miss Kesstle glanced at me, then beetled over to his recliner and sat down. We waited for a minute. Mr. H. led a uniformed policeman into the room.

  “Oh, shit,” said Marilyn, suddenly wide awake.

  “What’s up?” asked Whitman.

  Mr. H. shook his head. “He wants to speak to Miss Kesstle.”

  The policeman looked young to me, but as I got older, I realized a lot of people in positions of power appeared to be the age of flyer delivery boys. He had curly red hair and his face was sombre. He held his hat in his hands and stood, as policemen seem to, with his legs farther apart than a normal person would. I supposed it was to make them harder to knock down. I glanced at Marilyn.

  Miss Kesstle stood up. I thought for a moment of making a dive for the recliner, but I’d likely lose it again anyhow when I had to go pick Girl up from the police station.

  “Are you Miss Kesstle?” asked the policeman.

  She nodded. “Was a Girl Roulston staying with you?” She nodded again. “We found your name and address on a piece of paper in her pocket.”

  “She’s a good girl,” said Miss Kesstle. “She just took a wrong turn. It’s been a pleasure to have her stay with me. If she’s in trouble, we can work it out. Don’t send her back to those foster people again, that’s no place for her.”

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” said the policeman, “but I’m sorry to tell you —”

  “No,” said Miss Kesstle. “The war is over; people don’t come and tell people things like this anymore.”

  The police officer looked at Mr. H. “Girl Roulston is dead.”

  “How?” asked Mr. H. He swayed slightly but stayed on his feet.