The Secret Life of Roberta Greaves

by Ann Birch

  “I’m sorry. There was talent in that group. I’m wondering if they will have enough poems for the slam?”

  “Big Chris tells me some of them have been working on additional poems in the patterns you showed them. He wanted me to ask if you’ll go down on Friday to the Wing-On Chapel and help them rehearse. ‘Get us on the fucking path again’ was how he put it. He’s coming in to The Fig Leaf tomorrow for an answer.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there. Two o’clock as usual.”

  “Done. And I’ll tell him to call in on Friday for some sandwiches.”

  Roberta watches Charlie put the filling into the Oreo base. He adds a few squiggles of melted chocolate, and the pie is done. Then each of them takes a spoon and licks a side of the bowl.

  “Yum.”

  “Yum.”

  While Charlie takes the pie over to Mrs. Schubert, Roberta makes herself a cup of Nescafé and sits in the bright morning light of the breakfast room leafing through The Gazette. She cannot stop herself from reading the bestseller list, and she is not completely surprised to notice that Mira has moved to fourth place. Marianne told her there had been a spike in sales since the real identity of Renee Meadows came out. But it’s served its purpose: The debts are disappearing bit by bit, and the creditors have stopped bothering her since they have seen that she is serious about paying. There will be enough royalties to cover the advance. But the label, pervert, may stick for a while. And her job at Trinity may be forever lost. She is going to have to get a new life. Euripida’s story of Galatea’s rebellion against Pygmalion could be updated into a play. It has universal appeal. She thinks of Ibsen’s success with a similar theme in A Doll’s House. And there’s the modern translation of The Cretan Manuscripts that Paula Piper is still interested in, according to Marianne. A couple of reputable manuscripts will go a long way to reinstating her in the good books of the Trinity hierarchy.

  She hears the squeal of tires in Mrs. Schubert’s driveway. The sound is all too familiar. Looking through the breakfast-room window, she sees Schubert’s big black car in flight. She hadn’t even realized he was at his mother’s place. What has happened? Is Charlie okay?

  There’s a slam of the sunroom door at the back of the house and Charlie comes in. His face is flushed, but he looks happy. Thank God.

  “Success,” he says. “I scared the fool, and I don’t think he’ll try anything more.”

  “I didn’t know he was at his mother’s, Charlie. If I’d known, I would have asked you to wait. I don’t want you involved in his skulduggery.”

  “There you go, Mom, treating me like I was six years old again. Please. I’m grown-up. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Okay, okay, just tell me what happened.”

  They go into the breakfast room. Charlie takes her cup of Nescafé and dumps it into the sink. He puts a filter in the coffee maker and grinds some beans.

  “Please, Charlie, don’t treat me like a six-year-old. Let’s hear the story.”

  “Mrs. Schubert liked the pie and cut herself a piece right away. Then we sat and chatted for a bit. While we were talking in the kitchen, The Skunk arrived. You know how he talks. ‘Mater this, Mater that.’ Anyway, he was there to look over her perennial bed at the back of the house. ‘Those hosta plants, Mater, have got to go.’ Then he was out the back door. I excused myself and went out too.

  “There he was in one of those shirts with the hand-stitching, Brooks Brothers or something, peering at the hostas and clucking away. When he saw me, he says, ‘Oh dear boy, you are kind to Mater, but that pie, devastating. Her arteries, you know, could go splat and I’ll have to deal with it.’ No way, I wanted to say, they’d go thunk, but I didn’t want to engage. Anyway, he blathered on for a few minutes, doing what you’d call the noblesse oblige thing, then I cut him off.”

  “Good for you. But what did you say?”

  “You know how you told Ed and me that he was harassing Granny? Well, I put an end to that. And I’m pretty sure I put an end to him harassing you, too.”

  “My God, Charlie.”

  “I went into Plumtree, Pogson, and Peabody mode, just like Ed does, and here’s what I said.” Charlie clears his throat, and hooks his fingers through the pockets of an imaginary waistcoat. “I understand, Mr. Schubert, that you have physically assaulted a child of sixteen. No, don’t deny it. She has told my mother everything. The victim is now considering steps that may possibly lead to criminal charges against you. She is also seriously considering civil action for battery that would include a claim for punitive damages. To address her loss of self-esteem, she has had to pay for costly psychological treatment—”

  “Hey, where did you get all those fine words, battery and punitive damages, and the like?”

  “From Ed, of course. We talked it over. One of us was going to go and see Schubert in his office, but opportunity knocked and I took it.” Charlie pours two cups of coffee and sets one in front of Roberta.

  “But what did he say?”

  “Well, he pointed out that your ‘dear little book’ shows that young girls can be predators, too, and that he could say in court that he was the victim, that he could make his own claim, blather, blather, blather. I let him go on, and when he’d finally run down, I pointed out that a case of assault — if it hit the media — would not exactly do his public image much good. He totally dried up on that one. So then I did the noblesse oblige thing. I said that you were picking up the girl’s counselling bills at the moment and were prepared to see her through this without a court case, provided he stopped carrying on his ridiculous behaviour, harassing my frail old grandmother, and generally conducting himself with no sense of decency.”

  Roberta laughs. “I can imagine your granny’s face if she heard herself described that way. But my God, Charlie, do you think this bit of verbal blackmail worked?”

  “Undoubtedly. But just for good measure, I added, ‘Govern yourself accordingly.’ Ed said every letter he sends out ends with that sentence. Well, you heard the roar of his car, didn’t you? Those fancy tires of his took a beating.”

  Roberta sips her coffee. “I’ve been wondering. How much of this do you think that sweet old lady knows?”

  “Mrs. Schubert? Not much is my guess. He’s a good son, in his way. He condescends, but he keeps an eye on her. The hostas thing, you know? And though you may find this hard to believe, he’s kind to her. She offered him a piece of pie when he came in, and he said, ‘No thanks’ quite nicely. Didn’t give her the artery alert or anything. My guess is that he doesn’t want her to know anything about the bad stuff he’s into.”

  “My guess is she’d have to know about Mira. It’s been in the papers.”

  “Maybe not, Mom. I don’t think at this stage in her life she’d ever get through a newspaper. She had a huge magnifying glass on her kitchen table when I went in. She’d been trying to read the Lee Valley catalogue. So I read some stuff about gardening tools out loud for her and helped her fill out an order form. Visually challenged, as they say.”

  “I’m conflicted: I don’t want Mrs. Schubert to be hurt, but I would like that son of hers punished in some way for what he did to Hester. Verbal blackmail is all very well, but he should be brought to trial as well. I can’t do anything — I promised Hester — but maybe she will pursue things someday.”

  Charlie carries their cups to the dishwasher. “Know something, Mom?” he says, turning to her. “You’re not as uptight as you used to be. You actually said the dread word blackmail without batting an eye, to use an expression of Granny’s.”

  Roberta remembers her father’s words from long ago: “Sometimes you have to do things that are wrong in order to set the world right again.” Aloud she says, “‘To every thing there is a season.’”

  “When you go on like that, Mom, you sound exactly like Neville.”

  “I’ll let that remark pass as well — without batting
an eye.” She picks up the newspaper again. “But in my own persona, I just want to say this: My two sons are the best of the best.”

  As she reaches for her reading glasses, she sees Charlie’s wide grin.

  36.

  IT’S THE NIGHT OF THE POETRY SLAM, and as Roberta comes into the basement room of the Wing-On Funeral Chapel, she sees that her poets have worked hard for the event. They’ve grouped chairs around small tables and placed lighted candles on each table. There’s even a spotlight and a makeshift stage.

  “The room looks wonderful,” Roberta says, clapping her hands. “A coffee house, no less. And whose idea was it to cover up those windows with coloured paper?”

  “Mine,” Sheena says. She’s a short, skinny girl with a sallow complexion. Usually, she seems mournful, but tonight she’s smiling. “But the spiders in the cracks spooked me. So Bat killed them, and then I stuck up the paper. It’s awesome now, eh?”

  “Sure is,” Roberta says.

  “Me, The Exterminator,” Bat says. “I got the idea from Robert Ginty.”

  Roberta never stops being surprised by these kids. “That’s an old movie, Bat. Where did you see that one?”

  “Found it in the dumpster of a house that was being totalled. And watched it on the Mission’s DVD player when that fucking Annie was gone home for the day.”

  Charlie has sent over trays of biscotti and oatmeal-raisin cookies along with lots of coffee in a large urn. “Will you replay your Robert Ginty role beside the coffee urn, please?” Roberta asks Bat. “Just to make sure no illegal substances get added to the brew.”

  “Hey, no sweat, man,” Bat says. “I’ll kill any prick who tries it.” He places himself beside the urn, a short, tough little guy with an attitude that probably fools everyone who doesn’t know him.

  The audience is arriving now. Roberta looks them over. Mostly young friends of her poets, dressed in clothes that may have come from Goodwill or Value Village. She notes the flair with which they’ve managed to transform the castoffs. One young man has knotted a scarf around the knee of his jeans. A girl has painted her toenails bright orange to match a bright orange hoodie that has a broken zipper.

  There’s also a sprinkling of volunteers, social workers, and parole officers whom she’s seen at the Christian Mission. Thank whatever gods may be that Annie has not shown up. Roberta has asked Carl to come, but he’s not in the crowd. He did say he had a pile of test papers to mark, so maybe he’s giving his night over to homework.

  She turns back to the front of the room where her kids are fidgeting with their papers. “I don’t think I can do this poem, Roberta,” Lori-Lyn says. She’s a tiny waif and her stick-like fingers are trembling. Lori-Lyn, Hester’s pal, who performs fellatio on strange men in parking lots. There are so many kinds of courage.

  “Deep breaths and coffee with lots of sugar will set you up,” Roberta says. “I’ll get the coffee for you while you’re doing the breaths.” As she turns towards the coffee urn, she nods to Big Chris who’s emcee for the evening.

  He’s scraped his face raw for the occasion, and in his black jeans and black turtleneck, he looks like a combo of biker thug and Beat poet. Roberta can see the threads where he’s tried to fix a tear on the shoulder seam of his sweater.

  He goes to the stage area at the front of the room where the kids have set a couple of chairs facing the audience. There’s a podium with a microphone that they must have borrowed from the chapel upstairs.

  Roberta has just given Lori-Lyn her coffee and taken her seat at the back when a tall, solid figure comes through the door. It’s Carl. Of course. When has he ever let her down? He waves and moves to the only vacant seat; oh, no, it’s beside Hester and Scruffy.

  Carl has probably made Hester’s day. Roberta can read her mind. There he is, within spitting range, a fucking trespasser from Martha Stewart Land in grey flannels and a cashmere sweater. And a tie. Oh, please.

  The girl has on what Roberta’s mother would call a “getup.” Platform-soled running shoes, and a two-piece black lace outfit — bra and long skirt — with matching dyed black hair, black lips, and dead-white cheeks. She treats Carl to a black-rimmed snarl in response to his “Good evening,” while he, unperturbed, rubs Scrappy’s ears and receives a wide grin and a wave of his feather-duster tail. Once again, Roberta wishes Heather would take a few PR lessons from Scrappy.

  Each kid performs three poems. At the rehearsal a week before, Roberta gave a basic lesson in presentation skills: “Memorize it! Slow down! Speak out!” She’s happy now with the results. Even Hester has decided to take part. Her haiku, “Condom Breaking,” is a hit with the audience, and she scuttles back to her seat, unsettled by the laughter and applause she receives. Scrappy rubs his head against her leg.

  The social hour afterwards is a success. Charlie’s cookies are excellent, and to Roberta’s surprise, Hester stays long enough to eat one of them. Roberta moves up beside the girl. “Things going better for you now, Hester?”

  “Fucking wages they pay me at Wendy’s. But they let Scrappy stay in the back kitchen, unless the fucking inspector comes, then I gotta get him out into the alley.” She makes a move as if she’s about to bolt out the door, but suddenly she turns, actually smiles at Roberta and says, “Got a lot to thank you for. I know you put shit-faced Annie onto getting me a room. That’s worked out good. And get this, I know a cop now. Comes in all the time for a large double double, and if I’m heading home late at night, he gives me a ride. In his big fat cruiser. Whoa!” She reaches towards Roberta as if to touch her arm, thinks better of it, and heads for the exit.

  Roberta watches her go, feels the tears start behind her eyes, then follows the advice she gave to Lori-Lyn, takes a deep breath and turns back to the crowd. She sees Carl coming towards her.

  “Dear Carl,” she says. “I’m delighted you came. Sorry you got stuck with Hester.”

  “Her companion was pleasant. And I enjoyed the poems. Most of all, I enjoyed their pleasure in what they were doing.”

  “What will happen to these kids, Carl? Will poetry help them get their lives together? Or will they be back on the streets asking for spare change? I worry about them getting busted by the cops.” But as she says this, she thinks of Hester and the good cop who keeps an eye on her. Maybe the girl will summon the courage to tell him about John Schubert, and El Creepo can be brought to justice. Aloud, she continues, “Good middle-class citizens can’t stand the notion of street people. Can’t stand the dirty sleeping bags and filthy clothes. It’s the Pygmalion thing again, I’m afraid.”

  “Never underestimate the influence of a good teacher, Robbie. You’ve introduced them to fine words, and you’ve got them creating good words of their own. I’d say you’ve given them a different view of the world. And they’ve given you a different view of the world too.” He smiles at her. “That word busted just rolled off your lips as if you were ‘to the manner born.’”

  They’re laughing together when Big Chris comes up to them. “Guess you’re Carl,” he says, extending his large hand in salutation.

  “Good fella,” Carl says. “How did you know my name?”

  A flush rises above Big Chris’s black sweater. “Uh…uh…”

  “Come on, tell me. You’re clairvoyant or something? Or has Roberta been talking about me?”

  Suddenly, Roberta remembers: the corner of St. George and Bloor, Valentine’s Day. “I guess you’ll have to tell him, Chris.”

  He clears his throat, makes several passes at creating a sentence, then suddenly the words spill forth. “I was, like, on the street corner, selling these Valentine poems to any sucker who comes along, and all of a sudden Roberta’s there. And I, like, ask her, ‘Wanna buy a poem?’ and I think she was just being nice to me, but she buys one. ‘How do I love thee?’ — stuff like that. You know it? And I’m putting special inscriptions on them, see, so I’m, like, ‘Can I put something o
n the top of this, Roberta?’ And she tells me, ‘To Carl, I love thee freely.’”

  Big Chris’s face is bright red now. “Oh fuck, Roberta, I’ve loused things up. Sorry, sorry.”

  “No, no, Chris,” Carl says. “You’ve given me some good news. Thanks.”

  Big Chris takes out a square of heavy white paper — it looks as if it came from a hotel washroom — and mops his face. “Just so I didn’t louse things up…. I wouldn’t do nothing to hurt Roberta. Fuck, Carl, if I hadn’t of had Roberta’s poetry classes, I’d never of had the good luck that came today. I was picking up the cookies and stuff for the slam, and Charlie says to me, ‘You’re a reliable guy. I have a job for a reliable guy.’ And long story short, I start Monday, cook’s apprentice. How about that?”

  “That’s great,” Carl says.

  “I’m so happy, Chris,” Roberta adds. “You’ve always been my favourite person.”

  She takes his large, rough hand and holds it for a moment, smiling up at him. Bless Charlie’s kind heart. And bless Big Chris. He’s helped her in ways he couldn’t even imagine. Maybe, just maybe, he can put his life together. And maybe, just maybe, she can put hers together too.

  She realizes that Big Chris has moved away and that Carl is staring at her. Smiling at her, really. His blue eyes gleam in the candlelit room. “Got a suggestion, Robbie,” he says. “Why don’t you do what you have to here, say goodbye to the kids and all that, and then we’ll walk up to Bloor Street and grab a glass of wine?”

  37.

  ROBERTA AND CARL STROLL hand in hand along the north side of Bloor Street, past the familiar places where, not so long before, she made her daily morning dash from the subway to Trinity College. They’re headed to the Park Hyatt Hotel, but Carl pulls up short in front of the InterContinental. Two uniformed doormen look at them hopefully.