“I think his name is Harvey?”
“No - not the dog, you. Who are you and why are you in my garden at seven in the morning?”
“I came to hear the music. I fell asleep. My name is Ginny Mustard. You have nice music and I had to go to the doctor for two days and I’m tired. They want me to be retarded so Patricia can have my money.”
Instead of, “What the hell are you talking about?” his mouth forms, “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Yes. Can Harvey have some too? He’s hungry. He chewed my hair.”
In the kitchen of the big house, the man cooks an omelette with mushrooms and cheese, makes coffee in a pot. Ginny Mustard watches from her chair at the table, the puppy on her lap. The man puts food on thin blue plates, gives Ginny Mustard a white, white cloth napkin, asks if she would like cream in her coffee, sugar. Serves her first and then himself. They eat in silence until Ginny Mustard remembers that she should be preparing breakfast at Mrs. Miflin’s house for the others.
“I have to make breakfast. I cook now. Mrs. Miflin is sick with her leg.”
“Would you like to come back some time? My name is Howard James.” And he holds out a large hand. Ginny Mustard shakes it timidly. She has never shaken a hand before.
“You have two first names. Will Harvey be here when I come back?”
“Yes. I am usually away during the day, but home by six. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Ginny Mustard has met two proper people in three days. Her sister and now the music man with two first names. Her life has been abruptly altered and she ponders the change as much as she ponders anything, on her way along the river toward home.
Howard James tidies his spotless kitchen, waters an orchid, leaves a note reminding the cleaning woman, whose name he can’t recall, to dust the paintings, puts a leash on Harvey and walks with the dog along the river to Water Street and his office. Thinks about Ginny Mustard. Asks himself why on earth he brought such a person into his home, ate with her, and invited her to come back. What in God’s name was he thinking? He should have had her arrested for trespassing.
Patricia has been given the results of Ginny Mustard’s assessment and is shocked to learn that her sister is intelligent. Dyslexic, mistreated, abused, and probably malnourished for much of her life, but smart enough that no one recommends she be deprived of her inheritance. The bright idea that Patricia would find a kindred spirit in her sister has gone the sad way of most bright ideas and she is only too pleased to leave the city and never look at that face again. She contacts her mother’s lawyers, arranging the transfer of funds to a local bank. When Virginia returns she will accompany her to open an account.
Ginny Mustard has other ideas. If she can’t even write her own name there’s no point in having her money in a bank. She would like to keep it in her chest of drawers with the rest of her savings. Wrapped in a huge pair of hockey socks, bound tightly with elastic bands. She shows Patricia her treasure - $967. She will put her new money with the old. Patricia doesn’t care. Doesn’t wonder how Ginny Mustard has managed to accumulate $967. Ignores the banker’s arguments. Calls a taxi while Ginny Mustard sits on her bed, puts her money in order, tucks it neatly in hockey socks.
Judy’s wish list is complete. She has been working diligently ever since she discovered that her new best friend is rich. She has filled two sheets of paper with television sets, sound systems, clothes, even a few tattoos and some new earrings. Prices. Tax included. A car would be nice but Judy doesn’t think anyone in the house can drive, though her friend Leo could take them around anywhere they want to go. She adds car but puts a question mark next to it.
Ruth has been drinking for days. She has slept little and eaten less. There is nothing left in her stomach to throw up. She is eight pounds lighter and even her leggings are baggy. Her eyes are red and her face a pasty white. She hasn’t spoken more than two sentences to anyone since the binge began. She hasn’t bathed or washed her hair and she stinks. The others have taken to holding their noses and rushing to pass when they meet her, which isn’t often since she decided warm beer is not so bad and keeps a case in her closet.
Mrs. Miflin’s nagging got to be too much for Eve, what with everything else going on around here, so the landlady has been moved from her bed for the day and lies on one of the sofas in the sitting room. She is extremely upset by the hasty departure of her new tenant, and even more irritated by the news that Ginny Mustard is a woman of means. She supposes the silly thing will move out now, probably buy her own house and, if the last few weeks are any indication of how Mrs. Miflin’s luck is going, take the rest of that crowd with her. She can smell alcohol, she just knows it, and there’s a strange aroma coming from the kitchen. No one is paying any attention to her or answering her questions. They whisper when they talk to each other. She is no less miserable downstairs than she was in her bedroom. And all over her skin is a crawling sensation, a feeling that something else is going on that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with her.
Mrs. Miflin’s fear is real enough. It sleeps by the river, under a bridge, by day. Watches her house by night. Waits for the right moment to make its appearance. After forty-odd years in her carefully constructed cocoon, Mrs. Miflin will have to fly, and she can’t even walk. It’s just as well she doesn’t know. If she did she’d have to shoot herself.
No one is the least bit concerned with Mrs. Miflin’s woes. Ruth has gone to the dogs. Judy has glued herself to Ginny Mustard. The poor girl can’t even go to the bathroom alone. Maggie would like to swing in the playground but unable to drag Judy from her prey, busies herself by counting her letters and putting them in careful order, avoids Eve and the never ending embroidery.
Ginny Mustard wants to go back to the big house to hear the music. Has to wait until Judy is asleep to escape. By then it’s very late but she knocks on Howard James’ door anyway and he answers in a bathrobe. She has brought her pot roast from supper for Harvey and a picture of the dog for Howard. He barely glances at her offerings as she moves past him into the kitchen.
“You could have used the front door,” he says, wondering again what the hell he has done and how to undo it. She is sitting at the kitchen table, an expectant look on her face. How did he think she was beautiful? She is unkempt, uncouth and clearly lacking in grey matter.
“I’m not stupid. The doctors looked at my brain and I’m not stupid. I have what you call a disorder and I can’t read or do my numbers but I’m not stupid.”
“You can obviously read minds though,” he says, not nicely, regretting the words when he sees her confusion. Then gently, “Would you like something to drink?”
“No. I want to hear the music.”
She follows him to the library. He motions her to a chair while he makes a selection. Sits and watches her face while the music fills her, while her hands move with the sound, gracefully, delicately. She is beautiful again and if he had the energy to pull a Henry Higgins he might have a little fun. But no. He has to get her out of here once and for all. He leaves the room and rummages about for awhile, returns with a small compact disc player, grabs a few of his favourites and presents her with the lot.
“Here you are. Anytime you want music you can play it yourself. You don’t have to come all the way over here any more. In fact, I think it’s best that you stay away. You can take this wherever you go.”
He might as well tell it to the wind. Ginny Mustard is drowning in Bach. She wouldn’t hear him if he shouted at the top of his lungs. He pushes a button and the music is over. He makes his presentation one more time, shows her how to work the little machine and hustles her out the back door. Watches while she climbs the fence behind the rhododendron. It isn’t until the next morning that he sees what she brought, throws the pitiful package of meat in the garbage along with her picture, in pieces.
You can’t expect to get away with treating God’s creatures like that Mr. James, even when they look odd and don’t speak your language. Such
a lovely gift was that Ginny Mustard and now you’ve thrown her back in His face. Better you crawl into a hole in the ground, pull the earth over your head. Better to spit in His eye than to do what you have done. Looked Him square in the face and turned away, you did. And even if you hadn’t pissed God off, you should know enough in your fancy house with your fancy music and your fancy paintings, not to mess with Judy’s new best friend.
Watching, watching, he has seen Ginny Mustard come and go. Has waited for her outside the big house, followed her home, taken his place under the aspen, its leaves curling to die, choking with the strain of his company.
Mrs. Miflin is curling as well. Though she can’t be considered paranoid in clinical terms she is rapidly approaching that state of mind. The tenants, free of her grasp, have taken on lives of their own. Like those little ones you see sometimes when the bell rings for recess in October, like birds freed suddenly, startled by release, but leaping and running, pushing, grabbing at the morning in their brightly coloured sweaters and their hair moving with the wind as feathers do. Or the ones whose mommy is too far gone, who cannot reach to swat the backside, the ones who find they can cook their own macaroni and cheese, butter bread, make a tuna fish sandwich, race mad in the moonlight while she sleeps it off. Turn somersaults in the park in their pyjamas. Steal ice cream from the corner store at midnight.
If Mother were wicked. If Mother were clutching. If Mother did not allow room for growth. If Mrs. Miflin were Mother and Mother fell off a cliff, down a deep well, under a truck, her child would mourn briefly but no more than Ruth, Judy, Ginny Mustard, Maggie, Eve. Would mourn no more than anyone who discovered the death knell disguised as life force.
And no one wonders why or how they found her. Moved from another to the same. But time. It’s time that works the magic. Not the reason or the sensibilities. And the stars were in on it, and the moon, of course. And said, “These belong. Let’s put them here. Here in this place.” And time said, “Yes.” Examined each and found her wanting. Wanting Bishop’s Road, this house, now. And set about shuffling the order. Placed them here to become.
One corner turned left, not right. One person spoken to, “Do you know a cheap place to stay around here?” One mistake too many, one stone flung through the wrong window, one night in the wrong arms. And time said, “Well done.”
And Mrs. Miflin knows, as sure as she knows he has returned, that her solid grasp has weakened. That her fingers are old now and cannot hold fast the things she must control.
Ruth has had enough of her shit. She is hungry and tired. Wants food and company. When Judy says, “You smell to high heaven, Ruth, take a shower, for God’s sake,” she does. Clean and thin she returns to the kitchen where the others are hiding from Mrs. Miflin and her moaning ways. The talk is confusing but eventually she puts it all together. The bones are still in the attic, Ginny Mustard is rich, Mrs. Miflin is in the sitting room, and the kittens are all over the place.
“So what else is new?” asks Ruth. “Is there anything to eat? If I had any money left I’d order a pizza. That’s what I need. Fucking pizza.”
Ginny Mustard to the rescue. “I have money.”
Judy volunteers to order the food. No one has ever had take-out in Mrs. Miflin’s house. It’s ungodly.
Ginny Mustard brings a $100 bill to the kitchen.
“It’s gonna be fun watching the guy make change out of that,” says Judy.
They sit around the kitchen waiting for pizza, Eve in the armchair, Ginny Mustard and Judy on the daybed, Ruth and Maggie on the floor. Anyone looking through the window might think there was a party going on. Ruth contributes the last case of beer that she ever wants to see. She is thinking of switching to gin if the mood hits her again.
Maggie doesn’t remember the taste of alcohol but she accepts Ruth’s offer with a small smile. Judy takes two bottles on the first go-around but likes hers cold and fills a glass with ice cubes. Eve has one too. Shares with Ruth who, for all her good intentions, says, “What the hell.”
Five women laughing through the night. Eating. Drinking. Laughing. Even Maggie laughing. And a person listening through the window might think their laughter obscene. Might think, that is not funny, when Judy talks about her life and Ruth talks about hers. Might think, there’s something sick about these women that they laugh at such things. They should not be doing that. But a person listening through the window would be very wrong.
He hears the laughter, smells the food and drink. Hunger and thirst take hold of him. A craving for warmth. A longing such as only one outside the circle feels. He wills it away. Forces it back beneath his hatred. Locks it down.
Mrs. Miflin hears the laughter too. Her lips vanish in disapproval. Her eyes are hard lights. Calls to Judy to come and help her to her room. Calls again. Louder. They won’t get away with this. That girl has been drinking and the authorities will know all about it in the morning. She’ll have them back in their place before too long. Mrs. Miflin has worked her tongue overtime making sure that they never touch. Has kept them well apart with her, for your own good, and, be careful of that one, she’s not right in the head, and I wouldn’t trust her, my dear, you know what they say about her kind. All for nothing. She hears the laughter and it is making her sick. Late into the night she lies awake plotting revenge.
Summer is in full blossom on Bishop’s Road. On this heavy bee morning while her tenants sleep, Mrs. Miflin makes a call to Judy’s probation officer. And if he hadn’t decided to stop for a cup of coffee on his way, if he hadn’t backed his car into another as he was fastening his seat belt, if he hadn’t struck his head on the steering wheel and spent two hours waiting for stitches at the hospital, he might have been here. But by the time someone else takes over his caseload and gets around to Judy, the girl’s drinking will be the least of Mrs. Miflin’s worries.
Howard James is having a rough day as well. His secretary is late - assistant, she likes to call herself - and he hasn’t a clue where she buys his coffee. He needs copies of some important papers immediately but has no idea where she keeps them. To make matters worse, he stepped in dog shit on his way to the office and the smell is still on his shoe, though he scraped it well. There are telltale signs on the rich carpet all the way to his desk. He is trapped in the office. Alone. With no coffee. Can’t let anyone in until the mess has been dealt with and that won’t happen until Ms Know It All shows up and calls a cleaner. His computer is down. The air conditioning is on the fritz. A pretty crappy day all around.
If Dorothy Blake hadn’t stopped for his coffee just when she did, and that fool hadn’t backed into her car just when he did, she would have been there by now, would have filled Mr. James’ porcelain mug with take-out coffee (he likes to think he knows the difference between gourmet blend and Tim Hortons but he doesn’t) and be on her knees scrubbing shit off his carpet. But life is no longer going as smoothly as was planned. Everyone within a mile’s radius of Mrs. Miflin’s house had that figured out before they planted their feet on the floor this morning.
When the knock comes at the front door, it is loud and serious. Mrs. Miflin hears it first and screams to the others to answer it, hoping Judy will be the one to greet the probation officer. Wishing she could see her face. And his when he smells old beer on her breath. But it isn’t Judy who opens the door. Eve, still in her dressing gown, but face washed, hair brushed, is the one to let the man in.
Pushing her aside he demands to see Mrs. Miflin. Takes his filthy self into the sitting room to wait. “I know she’s hurt. Tell that tall one to bring her downstairs. Tell Mrs. Jessie Miflin that her husband is home and wants to see her right now.”
No one need tell Jessie Miflin any such thing. She can feel his fists. She can feel his feet kicking at her full belly. She screams as the bloody water gushes from between her legs. She cradles the infant forced from her womb. Holds its precious body to her heart while he tears their home to pieces. Hears him snore. Rocks her cold baby for hours until the woman next door co
mes to visit.
She tried to kill him after that. Pretty Jessie Miflin stole a gun from her friend’s husband down the street when no one was looking. October. Cool and bright. Followed him to the hills where he was shooting rabbits. Walked for hours until she saw the blue of his jacket. Came as close as she dared. Looked him in the eye before she pulled the trigger but aimed lower than she wanted. Stood over him while he bled, the ground around him wet, the bones of his pelvis showing sharp through the flesh, through the skin. Stayed there until she heard voices and fled.
No one believed him when he told what she had done. It must have been another hunter. It must have been an accident. Pretty Jessie Miflin wouldn’t hurt a fly. Look how unhappy she was with her baby being stillborn and all. She was so frail and sad. Pretty Jessie Miflin didn’t shoot her husband. Pretty Jessie Miflin worked two jobs for years, to overcome her grief, they said. By the time she had saved enough money to buy her house there was no pretty left in Jessie Miflin except in deepest sleep. And even if someone had said ‘and that’s the God’s truth!’ with one hand on a Bible, still no one would have believed that she could dig up her baby’s grave and steal the little bones away. Carefully wash and wrap those bones in the lovely pink blanket she had made and place them in the cradle in the attic. They put it down to vandalism. There’s a lot of that on the go these days.
Mrs. Miflin has thrown up all over herself. Eve washes her face and changes the bedding. The others are awake now and wandering about. Judy alone has ventured to the sitting room. Stares at Mr. Miflin. Thinks to herself, I could take him in a second, scrawny little bastard. He’d better not be trying anything around here. But he sees doubt in her face. Cocky as she is, this girl won’t be a problem.
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