Please Proceed to the Nearest Exit

by Jessica Raya

  We kept the phones unplugged and let the doorbell go unanswered. The delivery boy from Lucky’s eventually gave up and left our standing grocery order melting on the front step. Three lamb chops, three pork chops, three sirloins. I packed these things into the fridge, where they rotted in triplicate, and burned endless cheese sandwiches instead. Mom had no appetite anyway. She sipped coffee with lots of milk and nibbled at Saltines. When Mrs. Houston called “Halloo! Halloo!” over the fence, we buried ourselves under the afghan, eyes wide behind the holes in the knit, as if we expected the old woman to hurdle the fence and throw herself at the sliding door.

  Vera Miller had a logistical advantage the afternoon she called to us through the mail slot. Mom had been standing at the front door, staring at the Lucky’s bill. Instead of pork chops, the delivery boy had left notice of our overdue account. Apparently we hadn’t been paying for all that food we hadn’t been eating.

  The mail slot creaked open. “I just came by to make sure you’re all right,” Vera said through it.

  “Why wouldn’t we be all right?” Mom said, bending down to answer.

  “Oh, honey. Never kid a kidder. Look, can I come in? I brought you a casserole and it’s about to turn in this heat.”

  Mom straightened up, pushed a fist against her lips, and burped. Her other hand pressed the curve of her stomach. She did this a lot lately, but not usually at the same time. She reminded me of those women in the Midol ads.

  “Is that a yes?” Vera said.

  “You can come in,” Mom said, burping again. “But the casserole stays outside.”

  Vera entered, slowly, careful of her step. My mom had never been much of a housekeeper, but she’d managed to keep the important surfaces clear. Now our house looked like it had been lifted off the ground, held upside down, and shaken. We kept putting off cleaning up the mess the earthquake had left. “Aftershocks,” Mom had said. “Might as well wait.” For two weeks we had applied this logic to everything, including bathing and getting dressed. All other rules were suspended until further notice. There were plates of half-eaten grilled cheese all over the place. Wet towels sprawled on the backs of seatless dining room chairs. Behind Vera, newspapers were piled against the front step like a snowdrift. The grass was so high we could have sheltered Viet Cong out there.

  “Go ahead and say it,” Mom said.

  But Vera only fixed her smile and said, “I don’t suppose you have a pot of coffee on?” Which told me things were even worse than I’d thought.

  Mom led Vera to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee from a lukewarm pot. Vera scanned the table. There was no room for a cup among the paint chips and bread crusts. She gave up and held hers with both hands, suspended above her lap. I stood in the doorway watching her, worried for her white slacks.

  Mom balanced her own cup on her knees. On her better days she changed into an old work shirt she used to garden in, paired with a shapeless skirt, and talked about doing laundry or maybe running the dishwasher. Other days, she was less ambitious. Today was a nightgown day.

  “How are you?” Vera said. She reached out a manicured hand and patted Mom’s knee. Mom covered her flinch with a tight smile. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “So long as everything’s fine,” Vera said, one sculpted eyebrow arching to the ceiling.

  After a silent moment, she turned to me. “Are you fine too?”

  “Robin’s not feeling well,” Mom said.

  “So why are you the one turning green?” Vera said. “Must be one of those spring flus.”

  Mom was at her worst in the mornings, when the plastic smell of processed cheese would send her running for the bathroom. She’d stopped burping, but her face was waxy. She squeezed her coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping her upright in the chair.

  “You shouldn’t stay too long,” she told Vera. “I’d hate for you to catch it.”

  “If the bubonic plague couldn’t kill me,” Vera said.

  They stirred sugar into their coffees but didn’t drink. I could see they weren’t going to say much with me hanging around. “I think I’ll go to my room,” I said, then slipped out the sliding doors, went around the front of the house, and sat under the open kitchen window.

  “How did you hear?” Mom was saying as I wedged myself into the weedy flowerbed.

  “Let’s just say I have a sixth sense about these things,” Vera said.

  “I guess everyone at the club knows.”

  “All they know is that he’s missed four tee times and nobody’s seen the two of you in a month. They think you’ve gone bankrupt. It’s their explanation for everything. Those people have the imagination of a golf club. You are all right that way, aren’t you? Jim might be a lot of things, but he wouldn’t do that.”

  Mom didn’t say anything. I thought of the Lucky’s notice, all that rotting meat on the other side of the wall. I could almost smell it.

  “No,” Vera said. “You’re right. Don’t tell me. It’s none of my business. How about I tell you something. Gwen Ryan got one of those Pomeranians. She dresses it up and calls it Baby. It’s too cute to be one of her kids, but it does shit on everything, so I suppose there is some family resemblance.”

  “Vera!” Mom said, a smile in her voice.

  I heard the scratch of her silver lighter opening, teaspoons tinkling against porcelain. The sounds of women in a kitchen. Relaxing a little, I leaned back against the warm siding and closed my eyes.

  “You know Kathy Armstrong moved back with her parents in Anaheim,” Vera said. “Tom will have to drive all that way if he wants to see those kids, I guess. Serves him right. Where are your people from? Somewhere in Ontario? Wouldn’t that put a knot in Jim’s shorts.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Mom said.

  “Good for you. Why should you?”

  “I might redecorate the den. Maybe I’ll turn it into an arts and crafts room.”

  “That’s right. Keep busy. My cousin Becky sat around crying and watching game shows for three months. She sees a therapist in the city now. Pops Seconal like antacids. Redecorate. Get your hair done. Buy new clothes. You’ll feel like your old self before you know it—better. When Jim comes back, he won’t remember why he left.”

  Mom didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, don’t you worry. They always come back. They’re like dogs. They see a cat and they chase, but eventually they come home.”

  “Jim’s not like that.”

  “They’re all like that, honey. I loved all my husbands to bits, I did, but I still fantasized that they’d choke to death on a plate of ribs. Even the new one.”

  “Then why do you marry them?”

  “What else am I going to do? Take up macramé? They keep things interesting. My point is, I’m on your side, Elaine. You don’t deserve it. And your girl, what they’re saying—” Vera’s voice dropped. I had to stand up and flatten myself against the siding to hear. “Well, that’s all on Jim.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mom said.

  “Don’t you—Oh, well, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  I heard chair legs scraping, heels clicking. “You know, I’ve got a lot to do today, Vera. But thanks for stopping by.”

  “All right, I’m going. You don’t have to shove.”

  The front door opened and Vera Miller stumbled backwards onto the step, one white pump sinking into her hamburger surprise. The door slammed shut. “Don’t be a stranger!” Mom shouted through the mail slot.

  Vera lifted her foot out of the dish. Her pump stayed put. She bent over to examine the damage. The white leather was coated in thick beige sludge. My mom always said the two key ingredients to any casserole were cream of mushroom soup and pity. Two things made to stick to your ribs like glue.

  “Do you really think my dad’s coming back?” I said.

  If I’d startled Vera, she didn’t show it. “Moody says he hasn’t seen you in school much,” she said. I was about to point out that Moody Mille
r probably hadn’t seen the inside of school much either, but I didn’t want to push it. Vera set the pump on the concrete, pointed her toes like a dancer, and slid her foot inside.

  “If he comes back it’s only because he has to,” I said. “Not because he wants to.”

  “Oh, honey. That’s women you’re thinking of. Men don’t have to do anything they don’t want to.”

  I surveyed the driveway. The oil stain spread out in four directions, like a cross or compass rose, depending on how you looked at it.

  “But don’t listen to me,” Vera said, holding my gaze. “In fact, don’t listen to anybody except yourself.”

  “You’re all a bunch of liars,” I said.

  Vera grinned. “I think you girls are going to be just fine.” She picked up the casserole dish, balanced it on an open palm like a tray, and strutted down the stone walk like it was a red carpet.

  I went back inside. Mom was smoking at the kitchen sink, watching Vera scrape her pump on the grass beside her car.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she said.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” I said.

  Mom turned slowly. The colour had returned to her face. We heard Vera’s station wagon start up and drive away. “Forget it,” Mom said, which was exactly what I was trying to do. Unlike me, she would have to say the words sooner or later. Later was fine by me.

  —

  Mom was up early the next day, slamming cupboards and drawers, looking for things—the chequebook, her car keys, a sleeve of Saltines to eat in the car. She didn’t say where she was going, but she had changed out of her nightgown into the work shirt and another shapeless skirt. She came back two hours later and dropped a brown folder onto the dining table. Jim had been crossed out on the tab and Elaine written over top. FISHER remained in faded black capitals.

  “Go ahead,” she said, nodding at the folder as she dug her cigarettes out of her purse. “Maybe you can make sense of it, because I sure can’t.”

  I opened the folder shyly and scanned the contents. There were deeds and bank statements, mortgage papers and car leases, receipts, invoices, bills, bills, bills.

  “What does it mean?” I said.

  “It means I have to get a job.”

  Dad’s accountant had told her there was enough in the joint account for us to eat or pay the mortgage for about six months, but not both. It was either get a job or sell the house, which was not, technically, hers to sell.

  “But you can’t work,” I said. “Can you?”

  “I’m not completely hopeless. I had a job once.” She flicked the lighter, but it wouldn’t catch. She tried again and again until her thumb was red. “Goddamn it.” She slammed the lighter down on the glossy oak.

  I took the lighter and got it going for her. She lifted the cigarette, trembling, to her lips, breathed in and out. With her other hand she rubbed the groove she’d made in the wood. “I’ll have to sand the whole thing,” she said. A tear cut a path through her rouge. My hand closed around the lighter, making a fist.

  “You hate this table,” I reminded her.

  “I do?” She studied it for a minute, then sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’re right, I do. I really do.”

  5

  Mom said she was sorry, but I had to go to school tomorrow. Dad’s accountant had a client who needed a secretary and he’d recommended her for the job. Starting next week she’d be getting coffee for lawyers. “It only seems fair that we’re both miserable,” she said.

  “But you don’t have to go until Monday.”

  “No point putting off the inevitable,” she said and burst into tears.

  She’d been like that all week—crying when contestants overbid their showcase, or we ran out of milk—but that didn’t make me feel any better about going back to school. I lay awake that night wishing for another earthquake. Better that the ground open up and swallow me whole. But when dawn broke, the house was still, the sky through my window clear and blue. Birds swooped between the budding lemon trees. A neighbour’s cat stalked them from a fence. It felt like we’d been holed up for months, but it had only been a few weeks. The seasons hadn’t even changed. It was by all accounts a beautiful spring day. But nature is deceptive that way. The Grand Canyon looks glorious until you realize it’s really just the world’s biggest hole.

  I declined Mom’s offer of pancakes. “They’re only burnt on one side,” she said. I couldn’t have kept them down anyway. I swung my book bag over my shoulder, took a breath, and went to school.

  I was barely in my seat when the whispers began. They buzzed around the room like horseflies you couldn’t swat. Notes sailed from hand to hand. The teacher had to hit the board with his pointer to get their attention. “What’s so exciting?” he said. “No, really. I’d love to know.” I put my head on my desk and shut my eyes. I didn’t realize this would be the easy part.

  As I walked to my next class, boys’ taunts trailed me. Hot stuff. Hot to trot. Too hot to handle. Oh man, my burning loins. Girls whispered and coiled away, built fortresses with their bodies. The only one who left me alone was Troy Gainer. When he saw me, he stuck his tongue under his lip like he was trying to wedge something out of his teeth. I ducked into a bathroom and waited for the bell.

  Girls came in and I pulled up my feet. They left and I put them down again. Except for the accompanying smells, it wasn’t so bad. I figured I could stay there until the end of the day or maybe graduation. But my legs cramped after a while and my stomach wasn’t much better. When the lunch bell rang, I stood up and unlatched the door. If I didn’t go now, there was a good chance I never would.

  Melanie sat with Joyce Peyton and Amanda Clemens in the middle of the lunch yard, bright sun on their smiling faces. They were laughing and dipping french fries into a puddle of ketchup. They were having a wonderful time. Watching them from the other side of the lunch yard, I saw it clear as glass, how difficult I’d made things for myself, how easy it all could be. I would go to pep rallies and prom. I would pad my bra and learn how to feather my hair. I’d do whatever they wanted me to. My eyes welled with relief as I walked toward them. That’s how stupid I was.

  When Joyce saw me coming, she stood up and crossed her arms. “You can’t sit with us.”

  “Melanie?” I said.

  Melanie stared hard at her lunch. She wouldn’t even look at me.

  “You can sit here, Robin.” Carol Closter was at the next table. She moved her books over to make room for me, as if the table wasn’t empty around her. Everyone ignored her, including me.

  “Troy told everyone,” Joyce said.

  “What? That you’re a bitch?”

  Amanda Clemens chuckled. Joyce shut her up with a glance.

  Melanie mumbled something into her mashed potatoes.

  “You know she did,” Joyce answered.

  “Did what?”

  Melanie looked up at last, her eyes crinkled with worry. “Did you really burn down that house?” she said.

  I wiped roughly at my eyes, sniffed back a trickle of snot. “So what if I did?”

  Melanie’s eyes widened. Her hand went to the cross at her neck. Joyce laughed, delighted. “Oh my God, Fisher. You’re as big a freak as Cloister.”

  Carol dropped her head, put her elbows on her tray, and folded her hands. It was infuriating.

  “What is your problem?” I snapped. “Why are you even sitting here? Take a hint, would you? Get a clue. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

  Carol didn’t so much as flinch. But her eyes were squeezed tight, so it’s possible she didn’t know she was the one I was shouting at. Maybe she wasn’t.

  I could feel the tears coming, that and the end of the world. I scanned the yard for the fastest way out and met dozens of gaping stares. A few tables over, Jamie Finley stood up, holding his empty tray. When our eyes met, he froze, then spun around so fast he sent fries flying over the heads of several squealing cheerleaders. A bunch of guys stood up to applaud the move. “Smoot
h move, ex-lax. Looking good!” Jamie chucked the tray to the ground and pushed through the clapping crowd.

  Carol, oblivious, kept her eyes closed, her lips moving quickly over her Wonder Bread.

  “What’s she doing?” Amanda said, nose wrinkled like she smelled something bad.

  “She’s praying,” Melanie said to her plate.

  “Yeah, for Robin’s cherry!” Joyce shouted as I bolted across the yard. “Too late, freak.”

  —

  There are several options for dealing with graffiti on a locker. You can repaint, obviously, but not without some expense. A chemical remover can be applied to affected surfaces, but the smell is noxious and not recommended in high-traffic areas. If these options are not readily available, scrub at it with steel wool pilfered from the home ec cleaning closet, making it worse, scratching the metal, adding insult to injury that only the kind janitor with his callused hands and weary smile can fix. When he promises that it will be erased, take him at his word. A school janitor is someone who knows about dirt.

  Kids gathered as he worked, scrubbing small circles with his rag, the hall filling with the sharp smell of gasoline. It lifted the marker with surprising ease.

  “Pyro lut?” someone read.

  “Slut, bonehead,” someone else said. “Pyro Slut.”

  Missy Carter, president of the Civil Liberties Club, stood beside me with her arms crossed. “This is a defamation of character,” she said. “They’ve created a hostile learning environment. They’ve violated your right to freedom from oppression.” Someone joked that she could violate him anytime.

  “You could sue,” Missy said, ignoring him.

  “I don’t want to sue,” I said. “I just want my book bag.”

  “That can wait.” When I turned around, Mr. Boyd, the freshman counsellor, was frowning at me beneath his toupee. He curled his finger at me like a worm. “The vice-principal would like to see you. Now.”

  I followed him to Mr. Galpin’s office, where he knocked twice on the rippled glass door and left me to wait outside. There were chairs lined up against the wall. Moody Miller slouched in one of them, carving something into the arm with a thumbtack. He glanced up from his artwork. “Troy Gainer’s a real shit. You want me to key his car for you?”