In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  “Robinson, when are you going to buy the store from me?” Greyson asks the same question every time I see him.

  When I first started here, there were two full-time tech directors to cover the seven-day-a-week business. There are fewer shows loaded in now – only about four a year, plus the birthday song – and most Funhouses are gutting the robotics and installing video screens. There’s still work repairing the arcade games, the kitchen appliances, but I feel like there’s a race pitted between the store’s longevity and the twelve years left until I can retire.

  “We’re getting a new paddling machine next week. Liquidator special. There’s no manual, but I figured you could work your magic on it.”

  “Does it run?”

  “The oars jam, but other than that.”

  Other than that. Greyson’s like family at this point though. Not like at Mississauga where the new shift supervisor is the manager’s nephew and only employable by someone with the same last name. Twenty years younger, but he slaps me on the shoulder and calls me Buddy.

  Thing is, I think Brandon genuinely likes me. He stands, arms limp at either side of his barrel belly and actually smiles when I come in. It’s the others he’s an asshole to, the kids getting minimum wage to sling pizza and hand out prizes. Most of the staff aren’t white and he treats them like children who it’s his duty to mould. When he’s kind it’s only to the attractive girls. I’m not saying he’s touched them, but I’ve noticed him at the counter staring at Aisha’s ass as she sweeps up.

  Starr’s ring trills through the cell – the opening bars to “Rock Me Amadeus,” a song she finds endlessly funny. She’s sobbing into the mouthpiece.

  “The sheets. My sheets are all gone.”

  “What sheets? Your papers? Are you at home?”

  “Riley ruined – Riley took my guide sheets and threw them out.”

  “Can you get one of the managers to look in the garbage for you?”

  It’s not a good idea to ask her to do it herself. Having to touch discarded food, litter, will only fuel her anxiety.

  “They’re busy. Martha said I could take the day off. I need you to come pick me up.”

  “See if they can find them and then call me back.”

  “I already took my pill.”

  Kath won’t be happy about that. Lorazepam is for occasional use only because it’s highly addictive. The doctor’s prescribed it on the strict condition that we keep a log. If Starr’s using them regularly, he’ll put her on selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors to deal with her anxiety, something Kathleen would rather avoid. She’s heard about adverse reactions to SSRIs from other parents. Decreased inhibition, manic states.

  Anxiety works like sound levels; the higher the gain, the greater risk of clipping. Lately, our earlier line of defence – progressive relaxation CDs, talking her through her breathing – hasn’t been working as reliably. We’ve been told to expect this as she ages, a ramping up of her ambient nervousness, more frequent panic spikes.

  “Do you want me to call you a taxi?” It’s quarter to twelve and I have another hour here, then a break before my afternoon shift at Mississauga.

  “Come now. Please. It’s been a really bad day.”

  The Ticket Gobbler is still inflating its count, but Greyson tells me to leave early. There’s enough of a markup on prizes that patrons could be getting double, triple tickets and the store would stay in the black. He walks me to the door. “I always said I’d hire her as a greeter.”

  If the distance wasn’t so far I’d take him up on it.

  “Is the income making a difference?”

  They’re paying slightly more than minimum wage. Four days a week, four hours at a time. Between that and her disability support, half goes toward the condo expenses and the rest goes on her personal debit card. She’s almost thirty – it’s a modified financial independence.

  “If it was up to me,” I say, “she could spend her time doing whatever she wants.”

  “Maybe when you retire?”

  “That’d be us.” I point to the grandmother and boy who’ve moved to the five-pin bowling lane.

  “We can double date. I’ll bring the grandson in.”

  If I had enough money, I’d set her up in her own cookie shop. I could be her sous-chef and Kath could be in charge of overseeing the kitchen and the marketing. Starr could do all the front of house: sell cookies to kids all day; get to talk to a million people.

  It’s because of the baking that she got placed with the caterer. They tried her on reception, taking down orders. She was great with customer service, but the boxes on the order chits were too small, were laid out funny. Starr also couldn’t handle cash – she’s good at understanding numbers that are greater than one another, but can’t do the mental math to give change. It’s why she always pays with whole bills. It’s easier to give a ten for something that costs $6.75 than to add a loonie and three quarters to a five. When Fresh Us shifted Starr to prep work I had reservations, worried it smacked too much of the Four Fs. Food, folding, filth and flowers.

  By the time that I arrive, Starr is dozing on a sofa at the insurance broker’s next door. Both businesses occupy the lower floors of a Victorian duplex and one of the insurance admins has always been nice to Starr. Once or twice a month the two of them go out for lunch at the Thai place down the road.

  Now that she’s sedated, it’s better to leave her here while I sort out things with her manager.

  Martha’s office is in an alcove, once a butler’s pantry. She’s on the phone, her straw-blonde hair ruffled under the headset. An old Weimaraner is asleep under her desk. I don’t know how it’s legal, considering the proximity to the kitchen.

  Between scribbling down food items, Martha jabs her pen in the direction of the seat across from her. It’s a kind of 1960s family-room chair. Pre-ergonomic with a flat bum, absent back support and skinny-tie armrests. It’s hard to know where to lean.

  “A rough day.” Martha bends forward to shake my hand. “Riley and Starr are having an adjustment period.”

  “I don’t have many details. There was a change in work stations?”

  “A minor switch,” Martha says, pleasant and clueless. She clearly only leafed through the thirty-six pages of Williams Syndrome: A Guide for Employers and Supervisors. “We were wondering if you might be able to work with Starr to make some new instruction sheets. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”

  She makes it sound like a reasonable request, her smile inoffensive as pudding.

  “I’m juggling two jobs as it is.”

  “How about one of her support workers?”

  Starr’s using up all her allotted support hours.

  “She can take some time off in the meantime if she wants.”

  “Sorry, would that be paid?” I ask, then soften it. “I’m just trying to understand.” When someone else on staff needs retraining, does Fresh Us ask their parents to come in too?

  Martha peers at me from under her asymmetrical bangs. It looks like the comb of a rooster that narrowly escaped the axe. “As you know, we’ve been accommodating.” She gathers up the papers she was working on and clips them to a file folder. She doesn’t remove her hand from the clip, worrying it between her thumb and middle finger. Starr’s fine-tuned our ability to look for tics.

  “My daughter works hard here.”

  “We’re happy she’s part of the team.”

  Yes, because then you can stick an Inclusive Employer sign on the door, get a profile in the community newspaper. My daughter, the feel-good marketing campaign.

  “You can’t just slide all the people with special needs off to the same room, you know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The phone rings. Martha suggests that I call later, once Starr’s settled and I know about the support worker. I stay planted.

  “It’s a busy season and we’re down one hand.” Martha answers the phone. “Fresh Us.”

  Another
order, complicated by the sound of it. The longer I wait, the tenser Martha gets and I can hear her making up for it by laying on the charm. “We’d be delighted,” she says. She repeats it a few sentences later.

  When she hangs up, she grabs the paperwork. “Rush order. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  “You act like you’re doing her a favour.”

  “We’re a small business. No one else on staff has such flexible hours. If you, or your wife, or one of Starr’s support workers can come in and help her get set back up, or if she can wait a few weeks until we have more time, maybe come in on a weekend.”

  Martha’s much taller than I am, but she cringes like I’m going to hit her. I sink back so that she can walk past the desk with a wide berth between me and the door. “We’re not out to get anyone,” she says. “My niece has autism, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, some of my best friends are black.”

  Now she does look like I’ve slapped her but she keeps her voice calm. “If you’d prefer, we can send her record of employment out next week.”

  “Where can I get her things?”

  “Can I talk to Starr?”

  “She doesn’t like conflict. She’s already had to take one anti-anxiety pill today.”

  Martha gestures down the hall to Starr’s station, its stainless steel food prep table and the bins of vegetables, just like Subway. Riley is working steadfastly on wrapping club sandwiches and labelling them for the coffee shops. I know it’s not his fault, they’re just not a good match. I wave to him and say hello. He mutters hello, low so it’s hard to hear and gets back to ripping saran. I grab Starr’s iPod dock, her sweater and the pictures she’s tacked up on the shelf: one of the two of us at Christmas, one of her baking with Kath, one of Chester and Melly’s wedding and a publicity still of Michael J. Fox.

  I glance into the garbage near Riley on my way out and there, under some saran wrap and misprinted labels, are Starr’s instructions. There’s something oily and sticky on them but I pull them out anyway. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few hours for someone else to copy them. Martha is gone by the time I get back to the office area. The chef pops in – he’s a young guy, friendly. He asks if Starr’s feeling better and says he’ll see her tomorrow. I leave the guides, mess and all, on Martha’s desk.

  Next door, Starr has fallen asleep again. I let her put most of her weight on me as we walk to the car. “Did it get sorted out?” she asks.

  “They’ve decided it would be nice for you to have some time off. You know what’s wonderful about that?”

  “What?”

  “I have some vacation time too. I was thinking we could drive down to Chicago together and pick up that Franny Feathers I showed you.”

  “That does sound wonderful.”

  Kath is ticking through her packing list when I get home. Even if it’s a short trip, even if Starr’s not going, an inventory gets packed in every bag, copies of each in her purse. It’s a habit she developed when Starr was about five and we had several meltdowns after leaving favourite items at the grandparents’ cottage.

  “We’ll have to sort out something with Community Living once I get back.” She makes a note to call on Tuesday. I want company with my indignation but Kath seems more tired than angry.

  “I agree, it’s ridiculous.” She holds her hand out for her toiletries kit, wet items bagged in separate Ziplocs in case of spills. “But this is the best placement she’s had so far. The work’s somewhat related to her interests. She’s learned the bus route. How many weeks of practice trips was that? A direct route, frequent service.” I half expect her to sit me down and start picture-diagramming the problem.

  “Well, Riley wasn’t a good fit.”

  “How angry did you get?”

  “The plans were there, in the garbage, but they couldn’t be bothered to look.”

  Kath nods as she closes her garment bag. She’s calculating how serious Martha’s threat was, how firm my own resolve. She smiles when she looks up. “Starr might as well have a long weekend.”

  “I was thinking of taking her for a drive. I’ve got those days lined up.”

  “The convention’s open from eight to seven, so I’ll be working six a.m. to nine p.m. But I could meet you two for a coffee or lunch. You wouldn’t have to come for the full four days.”

  “I was thinking of the States.”

  “That’s a big expedition to do on your own.”

  “A kid at work told me there’s a sci-fi convention in Chicago.”

  “Chicago is more than a drive.”

  “I checked out the website and there’s a DeLorean.”

  “There’s nothing closer to home?”

  “Marty McFly.”

  Over the years, I’ve probably taken Starr out for more solo excursions than Kath, but they’ve almost always been to the Funhouse. The only overnight I’ve done was when Starr was in high school and I chaperoned the class trip to Niagara Falls so that she would feel comfortable. Long trips we’ve always gone on as a family.

  “If she gets antsy in the car, what are you going to do?”

  “It’s eight hours. We can get a motel on the way – something with a pool she can splash around in. Worst comes to worst, we’ll turn around.” I’m not anticipating trouble. Starr had a great time on the day program’s bus tour to the outlet malls last year.

  Kath rechecks her luggage. She unzips her backpack, pulls her itinerary out and flips through it, recounting her downtime. “There’s not much phone reception in the convention centre.”

  “If you don’t want me to take her.”

  She lays the sheets on her lap and rolls her eyes at me. “Oh, she always has a good time with you. Send me some texts to let me know how it’s going.”

  I kiss the top of her forehead. “Want me to carry these to the front?”

  “If you don’t want to take the whole travel binder, you can go into My Documents, under Starr’s Forms. Print off the file called Packing Essentials, her updated contact sheet, the list of people we have to notify for away trips and her hospital emergency sheet.” Kath slips her backpack over the pull bar on her roll-case, tests to see if her purse will fit too.

  “Honey, it’s a weekend, not a two-week cruise.”

  Kath softens, rests her head on my shoulder as if we’re slow dancing. Ever since she saw the ads between Married with Children and Murphy Brown, my wife has dreamt of going to Club Med. Lying in bed, the synthetic teal slip her mother gave her for Christmas riding up her thighs, Kath used to say that she wanted to go somewhere with pineapple slices and every kind of rum cocktail. “If only you’d gone into slot machines,” she’d say.

  “I can pick up a pineapple on the way home.”

  “It’s not the same. By the time you get it all cored and peeled.”

  “If I’d gone into slot machines, we wouldn’t be able to set foot in a casino.”

  She’d give a small, punctured whine, like the end music in a video game. Then she’d shift to her side and I’d see the line where her bum and thighs meet, the half-moon creases of her ass. I’d want to reach over and trace it, but instead I’d just spoon her, embarrassed at how far away her dream seemed. We could take that trip now, with Starr in the condo and Melly able to look in on her – both the girls grown and gone from immediate supervision. Still, it’s hard to feel that we can just leave our eldest. It always weighs on us, thoughts of not being able to look after her.

  “I got another call today from Karalee and Cecil.” Della’s parents share landlord duties at the condo. Our girls were inseparable in the day program, which is why they moved in together. “Their doctor’s put Della on a diet and she’s been getting upset when Starr eats dessert.”

  “Starr almost never eats dessert.”

  “But she can when she wants.”

  As with any roommates, spats aren’t uncommon. Disputes tend to snuff out on their own. The last time it was about wine. We don’t encourage it, especially since the Jenkins are teetotallers, b
ut our position is that it’s up to Starr if she wants alcohol or not.

  “Cecil was nice about it, but he wondered about a cooling-off time. If we could work the schedule so they have less time together at home until it all blows over.”

  “Starr will think she’s being punished.”

  “I’ve got the feeling he’s tense – Della’s been upset a lot lately.” Kath stares at me, waiting for reassurance that I won’t do anything rash. Starr staying in the unit is the cornerstone of Kathleen’s plan for life without us. Pay off the mortgage then take in a nursing student or developmental services worker. Free rent in exchange for personal support hours. It’s a tidy plan, but scratching toward it is the worry our daughter’s needs will increase, exceeding casual live-in support.

  We wait at the foot of the stairs for Kath’s colleague to collect her. They’ll get into Ottawa at five in the morning, ready to load in the booth canopies. Back when the ads used to run, my nickname for Kath was the Energizer Bunny. That was when she was heaviest into advocacy, all of her early ambition channelled into mothering and furthering awareness of Williams. Out nights after the kids had gone to bed, off to a support group or presentation. The gears under her skin always cranking forward. Drum perpetually thumping.

  Kathleen’s just better at taking the helm. I bring in two cheques, keep on top of house repairs, yard maintenance. Load and unload the dishwasher. Stand at the ready with encouragement, affection. But most of the time, the best thing I can do for my wife is to get out of her way. She’s the spinning top; I’m the smooth floor.

  “When I get home,” Kath says, “I’ll see if we can patch things up at Fresh Us.” I can’t understand why she’s not more riled up by the injustice. “First they got that subsidy to take her on. And now they can’t be bothered to keep the right supports in place.”