In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  “You’ve got to reach at the bottom.” Dean’s returned with a slice of breakfast pizza. “But they never do. We’ve started giving out a minimum of twenty-five tickets just so they don’t get disappointed.”

  “What do you think, honey?”

  Starr squinches her nose at the machine. “It’s like a hive of bees.”

  The boy’s time is up. He hasn’t won much, but he’s smiling a lot.

  This is when the animated show would usually start, but, instead, the walk-around Frankie and Franny jump out from behind a curtain accompanied by a censored Rihanna song. It’s clear why they needed so much stretching – these kids could be on So You Think You Can Dance. They start off with a mock dance battle. Franny drops down into full front splits, then slides right back up like a puppeteer is pulling her. Frankie balances himself up on one arm, kicking his legs out the back, then drops into a spin. No one else in the store moves. The kids are totally agog.

  Franny and Frankie stand side by side and start shaking their legs in and out.

  “No way,” Darren says. “They’re doing the stanky leg.”

  “Is that what it’s called?” Dean says. “Sometimes I have to get them to tone it down when it gets over the top. Like that.”

  Franny Feathers is now doing something that Darren tells me is bubbling. The kids are joining in now, earnestly shaking their bums in imitation.

  “All I do is the Roger Rabbit and Soulja Boy.”

  “I pay the kids extra.”

  The performance ends and the animatronics switch on. Frankie’s jaw flaps open a few seconds before his cue. “Havarti, Cheddar, Mozza-lots-a-rella.” Only the littlest kids are paying attention. The two screens in the background may as well be off.

  My first time at a Frankie’s was a birthday party for Starr’s classmate. When your kid is the only one in the grade with special needs, those invitations are gold. Starr hadn’t done well at restaurants before then – Williams syndrome made her wary of their unexpected noises. If I’d known it was an arcade, I wouldn’t have gone, but Kath needed some time to herself. When we got in the door, I saw Starr tense up. The whole place was jangling, beeping. Tickets were spitting out of machines, everything was painted neon and there were enough whirring sirens and lights to fill a fire hall. Kids swarmed every surface. I started pointing out the sources of each noise, hoping it would keep my daughter calm. Then she saw her classmates. The birthday girl waved Starr over and gave her a hug. That’s the other thing about Williams, Starr’s got an incredible social drive. If it means getting to spend time with people she likes, who make her feel good, Starr can rally against a lot of fears.

  Half an hour into the party, the kids were herded to a separate section of the restaurant. They got served pizza, one of the few foods Starr would reliably eat, and then the lights dimmed. I was by the back wall with one of the other parents and, again, I feared that my girl wouldn’t be able to handle it. I thought I could hear her start to whimper, protesting the darkness. But then the spotlights snapped on and a curtain spread open, revealing a band of stuffed animals. The tune that month was a “Hound Dog” parody. The animals nodded, jerked and gyrated to the beat. I looked back and forth between this weird spectacle and my daughter. Starr had already figured out the words to the chorus and was singing along, her face bright orange with reflected light.

  I knew I didn’t want to wait for another birthday to see her that happy again. I knew I wanted to work someplace like this, where a good time lurked around every corner.

  For a few years, I’d been commuting to Oshawa, fixing machines on an auto assembly line. When something broke down, the company counted loss by the minute. There was pressure to be faster than a Grand Prix pit crew. Great salary, good benefits, but with Starr’s medical issues, the shift work was rough on Kathleen. She couldn’t rely on me to help with appointments or to be around if there was a problem overnight. When the technical director position came up at Frankie’s, it was worth the pay cut.

  It was just the one location then, up at Victoria Park. The owner, Greyson, let employees bring their kids to work sometimes and play the games for free. I’d bring Starr and she’d spend the day talking to parents and watching the shows repeat. A lot of the games required too much hand-eye coordination, but every now and then she’d play Ms. Pac-Man or roll a Skee-Ball. We used to load in a new show every month and Starr and I would come home humming the tune. It drove Kathleen crazy – she’d think we were singing one of her favourites, something like “Uptown Girl” and she’d cringe when we’d sing the show lyrics. “Small-town girl, it’s time to give this big city a whirl.” “Oh, it’s one of those,” she’d say, her face closing like the roll door over the garage.

  STARR

  AS SOON AS DARREN MENTIONS MAGNIFICENT MILE, I want to go there. He’s checking out things for us to see on his cellphone.

  “Is there a Macy’s?” I ask.

  He types around. Yes, there’s one right in the middle.

  “It’s not the same as the one you’re thinking of,” Dad says. “The one from the movie is in New York.”

  I don’t care. It’s a Macy’s and I’ve always wanted to see one.

  Everywhere around us there are stores and stores. People push in and out of all the doors carrying giant bags of stuff. It’s like going to a Boxing Day sale. Della’s parents took her to Buffalo last year for Black Friday and she said she thought she was going to be trampled to death. Her mother took her back to the hotel to watch pay-per-view and they went shopping the next day. I hold onto Dad’s hand as we walk because I don’t want to get bumped off my feet.

  Macy’s is in a building that is a mall, even though it doesn’t look that way from the street. The first floor is all girlie stuff and Darren leaves us because he doesn’t like the smell of perfume. Dad and I walk up and down the aisles collecting samples.

  We pass a mother and her baby. The mother is trying to pick out nylons but the baby keeps reaching up and pulling on her shirt.

  I bend down near the stroller and clack my tongue like a horsie trot. The baby laughs and claps his hands. His dimples are bigger than pencil erasers.

  “He likes you,” the mother says.

  I am good with babies.

  “This baby has a lot of hair!” I squeeze the baby’s foot and he giggles some more.

  “Yes, it was a surprise.”

  The baby looks like it’s wearing a wig, except for a thin patch near his forehead, which is shaved. The mother tells me he had an operation a month ago and that’s where they put the IV. She keeps petting his head.

  “Ow!” I say. “Are you all better now?”

  “Yes.” The woman still looks sad.

  Dad asks if we can keep walking.

  “You’re so cute!” I say and wave bye-bye. One day I’d like to have a baby of my own. A boy or a girl, it doesn’t matter.

  I was supposed to be an aunt this year but Melanie’s baby died inside her. Aunts get to spoil babies. “All of the fun and none of the diapers,” my friend Alicia says. I was looking forward to cuddling my niece or nephew – it’s like holding a big bag of soup on your lap. Melanie said that if she had a girl, its middle names would be Emily, for me, and Kathleen, for mom. That made me really happy. At the mall, I’d seen a booth full of teddy bears wearing sweaters with names on them. It was going to be my Christmas present, one for the baby and a matching one for me.

  After Melanie’s baby died, I googled miscarriage. But it was too sad and the pictures gave me nightmares. Poor Melanie! When I think about my sister and her baby, my heart still feels very broken.

  The front of the store is like a movie set with director’s chairs along the windows. A beautiful Asian woman with red streaks in her hair is rearranging boxes of eyeshadow. She has a belt on with all different makeup brushes. Her nails are painted like sports cars, red with black flames. Dad reminds me not to stare.

  Her hair is curled on top of her head in two rolls with a bandana behind them. I walk up to
her and ask if I can touch it.

  “Sorry?” she says.

  Dad holds my hand. “My daughter was just admiring your hair.”

  She runs a finger between the fabric and her curls. I wonder if it’s soft or crunchy from hairspray.

  “How do you get it to stay like that?”

  “Backcombing, backcombing, backcombing.”

  “Do you do your own makeup too?”

  “I do.” When she blinks, her eyelashes reach almost to her cheeks, black with pink at the tip.

  “You must be very accomplished.” Eye makeup is very difficult.

  “Do you want a consultation?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Dad doesn’t let go of my hand. “How much does it cost?”

  “Oh, it’s free,” she says and he lets go. “We’ll give you a list of the cosmetics we used in case you want to buy any. My name is Amy.”

  Usually I don’t like my face touched, but it’s different when it’s makeup for a special occasion. Amy holds each product up for me to look at before she applies it. The foundation smells a bit funny, but I like the way it makes my skin look. Amy’s hands are very soft as they wipe the beige across my face. She shows me how to apply concealer under my eyes. It’s relaxing sitting in the chair and having someone else make me beautiful.

  The eyeshadow Amy chooses is called lilac and you can barely see it. “This is a good option for a day look,” she says. “Nice and subtle.” She has me lower my eyelids and the brush tickles into all the creases. She holds up an eyeliner pencil but it’s too hard for me to sit still and let her get so close to my eyeballs.

  Finally, Amy puts on some pink lip gloss. It’s shiny like nail polish and tastes like cupcake frosting. She wiggles the mirror over so I can see the whole effect. “Thank you,” I say.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  Dad answers first. “She looks gorgeous. Don’t you think so, honey?”

  “Yes.” But I’m not sure. I thought it would look different. Not so plain, more like Amy.

  Dad asks me to pose for about a million pictures so I have to keep smiling.

  “Your mom and Melly will want to see this.” He sends them a message right away. “We should go out for a special dinner to show you off.”

  “That sounds nice,” I say.

  Amy hands us a list of the items that we used and Dad starts looking over the prices. “Do you think you’d like the eyeshadow more or the lipstick?”

  “Neither.”

  “We can splurge on one. Which do you like better?”

  I point to Amy’s glossy pink smile. “Can I get the lipstick you’re wearing instead?”

  “You don’t like what you have on?”

  I don’t want to hurt her feelings. There is another person in the store, a man with eyeshadow like a peacock’s tail. “I just thought it would look more like him.”

  Amy’s brow scrunches down. “You’d like something more glam then?”

  “Yes!” Exactly. “More glam.”

  I feel Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “You look so lovely and natural right now. Sophisticated Starr.”

  “More glam would be better.”

  Dad has his ready-to-leave face on.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Amy promises. “Now that I know what you’re looking for.”

  When she’s finished, I look like a butterfly. My eyes are shimmery with three kinds of bright purple and a streak of white under the eyebrow. A tail of black curls up where my lashes end because Amy found a special liquid liner that didn’t bother me. On my lips she used a colour called Ms. Fuchsia to You and that’s how I feel, like a movie star.

  “Wow, wow, wow.” I can’t stop staring at myself in the mirror. “Dad, can you take a picture?” I want to print it off and give it to everyone I know.

  This time, when Amy hands us the makeup diagram and list of items, I tell her we want them all.

  “That will be over four hundred dollars,” Dad says.

  “I don’t care. It’s so beautiful. We can use my money.”

  “You only have a couple hundred in your account.”

  “We can put it on debit.”

  “There’s not enough.”

  Now I’m starting to get upset because Dad doesn’t understand how important this is to me. And I’m embarrassed that he’s telling people that I have a hard time with numbers. Not everyone in the store needs to know.

  “Why don’t you see if your sister has anything like it?”

  “Melanie likes natural makeup, not glam.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to put it on yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t even think your mother could reproduce that.”

  “I’m not lying.” Dad’s starting to make me feel really bad. It’s okay that I don’t know how to put on eyeshadow by myself. Melanie can do it for me. Or someone at day program. Or Cynthia. “Can you lend me enough until my next paycheque?”

  Amy hands us a business card with a website circled. “We have stores across North America. You don’t have to get everything today.”

  Dad insists on paying. We buy the Ms. Fuchsia lipstick, the lighter one from earlier and the lilac shadow. “Thank you,” I say and try to get in a good mood again but I feel anxious that I can’t buy the products today. Sometimes things get discontinued and I want to be able to look like this again.

  Melanie texts me back. You look amazing! Va-va-voom.

  Can you get any samples like this? I ask.

  Let me check.

  It doesn’t matter. As soon as we get home, Della and I are going to look for a store. It’s my own money. No one’s allowed to stop me.

  HENRY

  THE BUILDINGS ARE SO BIG HERE, THEY MUSCLE THE sidewalks for room. In the bustle, the only clear path to the bus stop is past a family of evangelists. I’m careful to keep Starr from noticing their Turn or Burn signs. Knowing Starr, she’ll want to ask what they’re doing. With her drag queen makeup she’s already looking conspicuous. I catch Darren hanging back, fixated on the crude warning signs and bloody lettering on the crosses. He picks up a brochure from the youngest kid’s hand. They’re preaching about having time for email but no time for God and I just wish they could keep it inside, within the walls of their church. Starr heard a real fire-and-brimstone lecture when she was a kid and had nightmares for a long time. When she was eight, we tried Sunday school as a way for her to make friends, but didn’t find it much more inclusive than the regular school. And the priest kept using her as an example of how much Jesus loved the disabled. At the time, it felt like another reminder that we couldn’t predict the real threats to her happiness, to her safety.

  We always did stranger danger practice with her, a bulked-up version of what other kids get. Songs, pamphlets, role play. All through elementary school. It wasn’t until high school, long after we thought she was prepared, that she let a stranger drive her home.

  The school wasn’t very far away – eight blocks exactly – and we’d spent the summer before grade nine planning the route. Every day we walked back and forth so that she would feel confident in her navigation. We introduced ourselves to the regulars we passed, seniors mostly. Starr would have spoken to them sooner or later, and I wanted to have the chance to size each person up. We drilled in the importance of walking straight home – waving, saying hello, but no long discussions on a neighbour’s porch. “Otherwise we’ll worry,” Kathleen reminded her. Starr didn’t want us to worry.

  Those first few weeks, I found some excuse to nip out of work and follow behind her, making sure she was on course. I’d have rather picked her up myself instead of skulking after her, but I knew how Kath felt about it. It was something that would be important later, for our daughter’s independence. And Starr wanted to walk home alone because all the other kids had been doing it for years.

  The weather report hadn’t called for rain, but a downpour whipped out of nowhere at quarter to four. Starr had frozen at the corner, halfwa
y home. She couldn’t see the road below the curb because of the overflow from the storm drain. She was too nervous to step down. The man had driven up, rolled down the window, just like on all the practice videos we’d watched. Where do you live? Do you need a ride? And then she was sitting in his car and they were talking about crustaceans because he had a crab on his key chain and she’d watched a Jacques Cousteau film on the weekend and thought it would be neat to go down under the sea and see that for yourself. He told Kath he’d barely been able to get a word in edgewise.

  Kath had panicked when she’d seen him. One of the few times she’s ever allowed herself to scream in front of our daughter. She demanded to know who he was, where he’d picked Starr up. Was he in the habit of picking up young women?

  “He’s my friend,” Starr protested. “He’s my friend.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Starr didn’t know. How could she? It was only a six-block cruise.

  The man had apologized, a bit battered. Said he’d just wanted to help, he had an uncle with special needs. He was a kind man after all. Kathleen had started to cry, didn’t bother to explain about Williams. “We just want to keep her safe.”

  “She was soaked,” the man said. “She didn’t seem to know what to do.” Afterward, Starr said the rain had felt like a hundred soldiers attacking her with a hundred swords.

  When the man left, with some cookies and flustered thanks, Kath didn’t even protest when Starr gave him a hug. That was what depressed my wife the most – the worry Starr might never know the difference between love and acquaintance.

  We find a budget hotel close to the convention centre and check in. The early morning tired Starr out and she’s ready for a nap. Darren and I wait it out on the balcony, sitting on distressed plastic chairs that do an unconvincing job of mimicking wrought iron. I don’t know if the kid is getting nervous about seeing Luz or what, but he’s been constantly checking his phone.