Bishop's Road

by Catherine Hogan Safer

  Breakfast is late. Judy has been waylaid by Mrs. Miflin first and then Eve who thinks it’s time to dig another bed in the garden and wants help. She will plant peas and lettuce, just a few of each so no one will get sick of them. Maybe a pumpkin. Tomatoes. There is so much marvelous space crying out for something more than grass. So Ginny Mustard goes ahead without Judy’s assistance. Throws eggs and leftovers together with a bit of this and a bit of that green stuff. Cooks it up in the big cast iron pan and pours a bowl of corn flakes for Mrs. Miflin, all the while humming along to the song from the attic.

  Maggie can’t eat, though she sits through the meal. She has had more excitement than she can recall and is trembling all over with it. Afterwards Eve has a rough time trimming her hair with the constant squirming.

  Eve says there is nothing to be done about the bones, they should wait to tell Mrs. Miflin, are they all agreed? Ruth says she doesn’t give a damn as long as she can have a beer now and again. Ginny Mustard is pleased they can keep the baby. They take Maggie’s movement for affirmation and Judy grumbles, but what the hell. Better than having cops asking questions all over the place with their big old boots on and just her luck they’d think she did it anyway.

  Ginny Mustard wants to clean the attic now. It’s too dusty for a little baby and before anyone can think of a good reason not to, she’s off with a mop and a bucket of water. Scrub brush. No one else will go with her so she puts a couple of kittens in her pocket for company. Quietly past Mrs. Miflin’s door, up the stairs.

  “That girl is a loon if ever there was one,” says Ruth. “And what’s with her and the cooking? Does anyone else want a beer?” She goes to the kitchen. Finds one of the kittens has climbed into the fridge. Freezes in mid-reach. It looks dead. It looks so little, tiny paws tucked under its belly. She calls for someone to come but her words have no sound. Slowly puts her hand on the baby cat. The small head moves and the mouth opens to squeak. Grabbing a beer she carries the kitten to Maggie and dumps it in her lap on the way to her room.

  Patricia Hartman settles herself comfortable in the back seat of a taxi, gives her driver the address of Mrs. Miflin’s house, reads it from the slip of paper she holds in her long pink fingers. Deciding that the woman with the best luggage he has ever seen - and he’s seen plenty - is probably good for a few dollars more than flat rate, Billy Ralph flips on the meter and takes the scenic route into town. From the airport he turns left and heads through Torbay, Flatrock and all the way into Pouch Cove telling stories and reciting history until his passenger asks him to please shut up she’s not interested. He turns around and heads back to the city. If she notices that he has taken her 30 miles in the wrong direction, she doesn’t say. He makes a quick run around Quidi Vidi Lake and through The Battery before stopping on Bishop’s Road. That’ll teach the bitch. Patricia takes off her sunglasses and stares him in the eye before paying the fare. No tip.

  Mrs. Miflin asks Eve why none of her friends have come to visit. Why Mrs. Hennessey hasn’t called. “And they call them-selves Christians. There’s not one of them cares if I’m dead or living.” Eve doesn’t have an answer but says she’ll be happy to invite them over if Mrs. Miflin will tell her their phone numbers. She doesn’t point out that she wasn’t aware of any friends, never having seen one around. For all Mrs. Miflin’s talk about the people in the neighbourhood, most of her conversations with them seem to be in passing, on her way to the market or Mass. And it is rare to hear her speak well of them, confining her reports to the sad state of the clothes on their lines or the godawful colors they choose to paint their homes. With no phone numbers forthcoming, Eve tucks a blanket round Mrs. Miflin and leaves her to her misery.

  Judy has had enough of hard labour for one day. Lately she’s been eyeing the ancient swings in the schoolyard. The heavy ropes are frayed but they have thick wooden seats, not like the ones in the park made of plastic that cuts into the sides of your ass when you sit on them. They were earmarked for replacement years ago but the process has been slowed by disinterest and lack of funds. It was simple enough to tell the students and parents that anyone who used them would surely kill themselves. The principal did concede to posting a plexiglass warning sign, though some of the older kids have long since written dirty words all over it in permanent ink and it will probably be removed if anyone notices.

  The only way to the swings when the big gates are locked is through a chain link fence. Fortunately there are some good-sized holes in it, plenty of room if you’re at all flexible. Judy nags until she finds someone to go with her. She’s no fool and if a swing breaks while she’s as high off the ground as she plans to be, she wants an extra body around to call an ambulance. So Maggie, nicknamed “good old Maggs” since her trip to the beer store, is enlisted. Puts her shoes on yet again and slowly makes her way to the fence, gets through without much effort, box in one hand, skirt dragging behind.

  Judy is swinging up high in the trees, head back and mouth wide open. Maggie takes a chance. Sits down and gives a timid push with her feet. Puts her shoe box on the ground and works the swing a little higher. And a little higher than that and a little higher than that and soon she is flying with Judy, back and forth, back and forth. And then a laugh. Starts off a gasp and leaves like music - like a spring brook - like a happy toddler - and it bubbles through the air and hits Judy square in the face and if that girl were made of lesser stuff she’d have surely fallen. For an hour they swing until their legs can pump no more and they sit on the grass under the leaves until it feels like supper time.

  When the taxi pulls up Ginny Mustard doesn’t hear it above her singing in the attic. Her brown skin is covered with dust and cobwebs and there is at least one spider spinning a home in her hair. Within a few minutes of the start of her cleaning project she had stripped to her underpants and between the heat and the dirt she is not looking much like her old self at all. She has scratches on her ankles from kittens thinking they’ve come to play and a nasty cut on her right arm from when she knocked over an old lamp. Once she shivered furiously but just assumed that someone was walking over her grave. If she had looked through the window at that very moment she would have seen the taxi, would have seen Patricia Hartman staring up at the house, seen her walk to the door and knock.

  Eve is flustered. She can’t find Maggie or Judy, Ruth won’t come out of her room, and now here’s the most elegant woman who looks vaguely familiar, claiming she has a reservation. Eve has explained that Mrs. Miflin is not well. Resting. Not to be disturbed. There’s no one taking care of the house right now and the tenants are on their own. Mrs. Miflin must have forgotten all about Ms Hartman and it would be best under the circumstances if she take a hotel room. The woman is persistent and asks Eve to speak to the landlady. She doesn’t want to stay in a hotel. Mrs. Miflin will be more than happy to have her if Eve will only give her name. So Eve tells Mrs. Miflin that Patricia Hartman is here. Watches as a little light goes on in the landlady’s head but whether it’s the thought of money making her eyes glow suddenly or the chance for new company or something altogether different, Eve doesn’t know. And while she shows Miss Hartman to the sitting room she wonders how much good a woman with fingernails like that will be around here. Wonders if she’ll like the others. Wonders how much she paid for her dress. Mutters, “Just when we have a little elbow room at the table, too,” and is quickly ashamed of her pettiness.

  While Eve checks to see that Miss Hartman’s room is in perfect condition, Maggie and Judy return from their swing in the park to find Patricia examining the wedding photographs. She introduces herself and holds out a hand. Maggie hangs her head and does nothing. Judy grabs the hand and shakes it fiercely. “Well fuck me gently. You’ve got to be something to Ginny Mustard. Except for she’s brown and you’re not, you two could be sisters.” To which Patricia responds, “Yes. We are sisters. She is unaware of my existence. Is she at home?”

  “Shit. This is a riot. I don’t know where she is. Last going off she was heading for
the attic to clean up. But wait now. You don’t want to go up there. I’ll get her and bring her down.” And Judy races the stairs three at a time thinking how interesting this day has become all of a sudden.

  Ginny Mustard is still up to her ears in dust. She found an unlocked trunk and curiosity got the better of her. She’s been examining its contents for a few minutes, old clothes and a plaster horse with a clock in its side, a teapot, a christening gown of white silk, a rifle. When Judy comes tearing into the attic, Ginny Mustard drops the gun and leaps to her dirty feet. “Shit, Ginny Mustard, what are you doing with no clothes on? Mrs. Miflin might find that ungodly, you know. You’re filthy. Get yourself together and come down. You’ve got a visitor.” Ginny Mustard dresses. Doesn’t stop to wash her face or pick the cobwebs off her arms, follows Judy to the sitting room, stands face to face with a whiter, cleaner version of herself.

  “Hello, Virginia. I realize this is a shock. Perhaps we should sit down and I will attempt to explain.”

  “Well she can’t sit on anything with that attic crud all over her. Mrs. Miflin will have a fit. Ginny Mustard, don’t you move until I get a towel or something to put under you. Wait.” And Judy disappears in the direction of the linen closet.

  Maggie has been stone since she entered the room. On Judy’s return she backs herself into a far corner, lifting her eyes now and then to take a small peek. Judy places a ragged blanket on the sofa and drags Ginny Mustard to sit, guides Patricia to sit near her and claims a place across the room where she can see the action.

  Patricia says, “Perhaps it’s best if we have privacy.” Judy says, “Well there isn’t any in this house.” And Ginny Mustard says, “Stay here.”

  “If that’s the way you want it, fine. There’s no point in dragging this out so I’ll get straight to the bottom line. My name is Patricia Hartman. We are sisters. I knew nothing about you until two years ago when our mother was diagnosed with cancer. She suffered an uncharacteristic attack of conscience and confided that she had left you in the hospital where she gave birth. Had, in fact, known there was some possibility of her doing just that, hence the trip to this city. She had been in the process of divorcing our father. He is African, from Nairobi, a professor of Anthropology. It seems that your pigment kept you behind. If you had been white enough she could have brought you home and no one would have been the wiser. As long as she could ignore our parentage, everything was fine, but obviously in your case that was impossible. Our mother was a racist but her parents even more so. She married him to escape their clutches, to defy them and eliminate them from her life permanently. Her strategy worked for several years. I was well into my teens before I met our maternal grandparents. They were unpleasant people although it is difficult to understand how she could resort to such extreme measures to upset them. Before she died I began the search for you. So, here I am. Mother left you approximately $300,000 which will be deposited into your bank account as soon as I inform her lawyers where you are. Those fools might have taken years to find you.”

  Throughout the monologue, Ginny Mustard stares at her sister’s face. Now she reaches to touch Patricia’s hair. She looks at her hands, and then her own, brown and dirty, nails ragged. She rises, takes the blanket and climbs the stairs to shower and change her clothes. Judy and Maggie follow close. “Holy shit Ginny Mustard,” says Judy. “What are you going to do? You’re rich, girl. Can we get cable? What do you think of that sister of yours? She looks a bit snotty if you want my opinion.” But Ginny Mustard has nothing to say. They sit on the floor outside the bathroom door while she washes up and follow her to the kitchen when she’s done.

  Eve shows Patricia to her room and makes a beeline to the others for some catching up. An excited Judy fills her in while Maggie sets the table. “Oh my,” says Eve. “How nice for you, Ginny Mustard, to have so much money after all you’ve been through. And such a lovely sister now when you never had any family before. You probably have aunts and uncles and cousins too. I am so happy for you, dear.”

  But Ginny Mustard is concentrating on chicken and potatoes and has no room to think about anything else. Judy is beside herself with excitement and can barely read out the recipe for gravy. She has never known anyone with money and Ginny Mustard has been elevated several notches in her estimation.

  “God almighty Ginny Mustard. I can’t believe you aren’t jumping up and down all over the place. I tell you, I’d be making a list of stuff to buy if I had all that friggin’ money, that’s what I’d be doing. But you don’t know how to make a list. I forgot. If you want I can make one for you. I’ll get some paper and you just tell me what you want me to write. Back in a minute.” And she’s gone, almost knocking over the tipsy Ruth as she makes her careful way to the fridge for another beer.

  “Do you think you should drink any more of that now, dear?” asks Eve. “Come and have supper. You haven’t eaten a thing all day. Ginny Mustard has a visitor, you know. Her long lost sister she never knew she had has come to stay for a while and she’s brought lots of money for Ginny Mustard. We’ll tell you all about it at the table.”

  “Well isn’t that great,” mumbles Ruth. Trips to the dining room. Rests her spinning head on a place mat.

  Thinks Patricia as she squeezes into her seat, “How could Mother have left Virginia to this?”

  “So where did your mother get so much money?” asks Judy, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “I never met anyone that rich and I’ve been around, you know.”

  “Yes, I imagine you have. Our mother was an artist of some fame, though chances are that you haven’t heard of her, in spite of your having been around.”

  Her insult is not lost on Judy. “Well I wonder was she as good as Ginny Mustard? Probably not. Ginny Mustard is a real good artist. Show her your pictures Ginny Mustard. All except those last ones. Show her the pictures of the trees and the river and stuff. I bet your old bitch mother never drew that good.”

  Ruth moans that she is about to be sick but can’t get up. Eve dips a paper napkin in her water glass and wets Ruth’s ghastly face, eliciting faint sounds of relief or protest, difficult to tell. Ginny Mustard has something to say finally, and no one dares leave to take care of Ruth if it means missing anything. “I wouldn’t leave my baby. I would take my baby with me and love her all to pieces. And I would sing to her and hug her all the time. I wouldn’t let my baby go to the orphan house. You can kill me but I won’t let my baby go to the orphan house.”

  Patricia is puzzled. What is Virginia talking about? Judy is ready to strike back. “Oh Patricia. You didn’t know that Ginny Mustard is simple, did you? That’s a shock for you, I’ll bet. Ginny Mustard is a retard. She can’t read or write. The only thing she knows how to do is cook and we didn’t find that out until Mrs. Miflin took sick. And she can make art too. But that’s all. She used to be a hooker, did you know that? Since she was about twelve years old. Sad that your own flesh and blood turns out to be a friggin’ loser, eh? Too bad. Guess you won’t be telling your friends about her now, will you? Probably won’t throw a party for her and invite your boyfriend will you? Sure hope Ginny Mustard doesn’t decide to move in next door to you. But now that she’s got some money to her name I suppose she can live wherever she friggin’ well wants, can’t she?”

  Ginny Mustard is pleased by Judy’s revelations. She doesn’t even wonder how she knows so much. Just puts it down to her being more clever than other people. Looks at Judy with thank you on her face.

  Patricia is not easily off-balanced but it had not occurred to her that she might find her sister anything less than she is. She was prepared for the skin color. She was prepared for the affects of a disadvantaged upbringing. She was not ready to claim an idiot as her closest living relative.

  Excusing herself she goes to her room, sits at the window and watches a man limp along the road to stand among the trees, stare at the house. She shivers for a minute before closing the curtains. What is to be done? Surely her sister cannot be left on her own to handle
her share of Mother’s money. But does Patricia really want to be burdened with the responsibility? She will have to consult a lawyer, someone local who can administer the funds, hand over enough to keep Virginia in a reasonable manner of living, make investments on her behalf. Properly handled, it should serve her well for quite some time.

  The next morning, after several phone calls she concludes that the only way anyone will do her bidding is if a psychiatrist declares Virginia incompetent. Makes an appointment Ginny Mustard is none too happy with the prospect of getting tested as Judy puts it. “She just wants all your money for herself. Those doctors pick inside your brain to see what’s there, you know. My mother had that done once and they shoved electricity into her head and she was real weird after that.”

  Terrified as she is Ginny Mustard allows herself to be guided through a series of tests, talks to a doctor for hours and then another and another. After two days under their microscopes she is exhausted and when she runs away to hear the music, falls asleep under the rhododendron, wakes surrounded by fat crimson blossoms, a puppy licking her face. Pulling his golden body to her she snuggles close until the music man comes out of the big house. Calls, “Harvey, Harvey, where are you?” and whistles. But the puppy is more interested in being with Ginny Mustard. The man finds both of them under the flowers next to the marble Buddha and stares for a long time at Ginny Mustard’s beautiful brown face and long thin arms wrapped around the puppy before speaking. “And who are you?” he asks.