Going Down Swinging

by Billie Livingston

  Down in the church basement, Wendy went over and huddled with the Sweet Peas’ counsellors a few minutes before announcing a softball game: Schroeder Shrimps and Sweet Peas all mixed in to make two teams.

  Our group, Group Two, was first up. I was supposed to be second at bat; the first kid was Kenny, one of the Peas, and he stood beside the crossed sticks we laid down for home plate and bounced at his knees, his head kept bobbing on his scrawny neck, looking around and up and down, swinging the bat and losing his balance. Gavin brought James back and put him on the other team with Group One. Which I was glad about. Especially seeing him warm up in the puny front-lawn outfield. I watched him throw the ball to first base, where one of the Peas caught it, dropped it and tried to huck it back, but it dropped a couple feet in front of her. James said, “Hey Pisspot, try throwing it here.” Wendy clapped her hands. “OK, buddy-boy, enough of that or you’ll be so far in the outfield there’ll be no more field.” Just to know James wouldn’t be in line behind me made my chest looser. Instead he stepped up between the two rocks we were using for the pitching mound and winged his arm around, hung his tongue down his chin and yelled “Sucker” at home plate.

  Kenny’s face drooped a little, but his body never stopped bobbing. Someone called Batter-up and Kenny jiggled up to the crossed sticks, elbows wiggling under the bat.

  James barked, “Ready, Pisshead? haa-a, sucker,” and hucked the ball at him. Kenny ducked and swung at the same time, and his legs jumped right out from under him. He landed in a pile and the whole yard killed themselves laughing. James laughed so hard he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Kenny jumped up off the grass, still holding his bat, stepped up and started his jiggling again like nothing happened. I imagined Pearl at home sitting in the first big V of my cherry tree, singing “Country Roads,” and watched Kenny squeeze the bat. I didn’t want to be up there next. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take practice swings in front of James like Kenny did, I’d feel too dumb. James pitched the ball. Kenny swung again and just tipped the ball before he started running off to first base. I squinted up in the sun until something smashed my mouth. The ball hit the grass again and I heard “foul.” The bottom half of my face burned. I touched my fingertips inside my lip and looked at the watery blood. James smiled as he wound up his next pitch.

  I backed off, glancing around the yard, but all their eyes were on Kenny. I looked for Wendy, but she was laughing and clapping in time to Ken-ny, Ken-ny. I felt my lip to see if it was hard or puffy. It wasn’t. Kind of raw inside, but there wasn’t even that much blood. Kenny whacked the ball this time and sent it rolling out onto the road. Every Shrimp and Pea but me went crazy, screaming and clapping cuz Wendy’d said that any ball on the street would be an automatic home run and she’d go get it herself. I kept touching my lips, licking my teeth to see if they were chipped, hoping someone would notice. But they were all too busy cheering Kenny’s home run.

  I was almost to the sidewalk when Wendy called, “Next batter,” and some other kid went up. I was supposed to be second. I licked at my lip again and started up the sidewalk. They were going to yell at me to come back; I could feel it on my back. Wendy called, “Strike,” and I looked back. Nobody was even paying attention, just looking at the Shrimp swinging over home plate. I stormed up the sidewalk toward Gerrard Street and caught a streetcar home.

  When I got home, the front door was open so the breeze would come through our screen door. Mum had a thing for breezes. Before I opened the screen, I could hear her talking, saying something about a hard decision. I ducked beside the door because I thought maybe she was on the phone with the day camp people and I wanted to hear if they got hell or if it was me who was going to get it for taking off and making her worry. It was quiet a second. Then I heard a man-voice, not my dad’s though, more crunchy and with an Englishy kind of accent, say “Poor Gentle Eilleen,” almost in a mushy way. I crouched down and put my ear against the screen door so I could hear better. Mum said, “Well, I s’pose her father’s here … but he’s a good-for-nothing.”

  A good-for-nothing? I didn’t know who she was talking to like that, because usually she never talked about my dad without swearing. She was talking all nicey. Then she said, “I’ve been in touch with Social Assistance there so we’d be looked after—I can’t help thinking it would be a brand new start.” My heart started going cuz it sounded like she was telling secrets that she never even told me yet, and then the man-voice said, “You know I hate to lose you, but you don’t deserve this sort of squalor …” He hated to lose her? My neck went hot—she must’ve had this guy over lots for him to think he could just hang around acting like she was his girlfriend or something and say she had squalor. And all while I was busy getting hit in the face with baseballs so the Welfare wouldn’t have a hairy about me getting supervised any more. And then he mumbled some other probably mushy thing and Mum went, “Clyde, you’re such a dear,” all goopy, the way she did to me if I did something nice for her, like buy her an ornament with my ’lowance.

  I stood up and stomped my feet as if I was just getting there now, and opened the screen door. Mum called, “There she is,” from the kitchen, in the voice she used to call me angel. Not worried or mad or anything; this wasn’t that voice. This was her voice that sounded like butterflies. I came in the kitchen and found her drinking tea at the table with an old man.

  “Sweety, this is Clive, Clive this is my baby, this is Grace.” I couldn’t hear right what his dumb old name was, so I said, “Clyde?” and he said no, that was his brother’s name, and Mum laughed like he was hilarious or something. “Clivuhh, Clive,” she told me, and he smiled and said how lovely it was to make my acquaintance. I wanted to show her my lip but I didn’t want him around.

  She threw her arms open, grabbed my face and gave me a big kiss. I hissed and ouched and pulled back, the way I wished I did at day camp. She said, “Ouch? What?”

  “My lip! A kid hit me in the face with a baseball and I got a bleeding lip. That’s why I’m home early.” She grabbed my face again and tilted it back to get a look. “Ow, you’re hurting me.”

  “I thought you said it was your lip, not your neck.”

  “Yeah but—be careful.”

  “Oh yeah, I can see a little cut. Ah, poor sweety, let mamma kiss it.” And she brushed her mouth across my lip. I rolled my eyes. I was home early on account of a wound. It was a big cut.

  Mum threw up her hands and said, “Now what? I kissed it, didn’t I? What do you want for a nickel, a bag of dimes?”

  The old guy chuckled. I was ignoring him the best I could, but now he’d gone and laughed himself back in the picture.

  Mum patted the table. “Come sit with us, poor injured birdie.” I sat down opposite from Clive. Mum was in the middle, but closer to him, saying, “We were just—” when I interrupted her.

  “I hate it there. I’m home early, you know—they didn’t even check to see and they don’t care that I’m gone—they’re supposed to be supervising me—I could be anywhere! I don’t even wanna go back any more.”

  Mum took a sip from her mug. “OK. So don’t go. I miss your shining countenance around here anyway.”

  And that was all. I wanted a scene. I wanted someone to get mad about the way I got treated. Or to get hugged without old men in the room. Mum looked at me and grinned. I let my mouth be open a bit in case it might start to bleed again. She asked me, “Are you hungry? Clive brought over a whole truckload of fruit and vegetables and some pork chops and milk, and there’s bread if you want a sandwich.” She smiled over at him. I said I didn’t feel like it, it was too hot, and I leaned back in my chair feeling like I was way at the far end of the table. Clive kept a smile on his face and kept moving his eyes on my mother’s face like fingers. She backed her chair out a little and moved a bit closer to me so she was more equal between us and said, “So, sweety, we were just talking about how beautiful the autumn is there, and how warm it stays. There’s hardly a winter.”
/>   “Where?”

  “Vancouver. Didn’t I say that?” The balls of her cheeks were pink and her eyes were glittery like fishes. She already decided, I could tell. That’s what they were talking about and that’s what I heard in her voice when I came in. I could see it in her hands, the way they flitted; if she was mixed up or scared, they hung in front of her like broken birds. I tasted the cut on my lip again and felt the running butterflies start in my belly. Then I remembered Clive and wondered if he knew that, when we ran away, it could only be us two.

  “Well, I’m too hot already,” I said.

  Mum gave me a poke in the arm with her fingernail. “What are you so grinchy about, antface? You’ll be crying for the sun in a few months when your hands are falling off because you’ve lost your mittens again.”

  Clive and I looked at each other. Clive smiled. He didn’t fit in this kitchen. Everything on him was ironed and neat, like someone’s TV grandpa, like on Eddies Father. The Courtship of Eddie’s Grandfather. I thought Pearl would love him. He looked at me and said to my mum, “Rita’s sister had a little girl with eyes just like hers; Rita used to call them guppy eyes. She thought they were shaped just like guppies,” and he chuckled some more.

  “Who’s Rita?” I kind of snapped it at him.

  His eyes were watery. “She’s an old friend of mine. They’re lovely, your eyes, I meant no disrespect.”

  Mum reached over and pushed my bangs aside. “I always thought Grace had wolf eyes.” I liked when she said that. It made me feel prowly and strong, like a snap of my jaws could rip out a man’s throat. Her hands fluttered at the chain on her neck.

  HOFFMAN, Anne Eilleen

  8.24.73 (L. Barrington) After returning to work on August 22nd, I was disappointed to see that no follow-up calls had been made to Hoffman residence. Checked on residence myself today only to find that Mrs. Hoffman had packed up and cleared out. She has been gone nearly a week according to Arlene and John Kensit. They claimed not to know her whereabouts. This sudden lack of knowledge is suspicious given daughter Pearl’s closeness to Grace. Can’t help but think Eilleen Hoffman manipulated this situation in order to make a smoother escape. The Kensits did say that Mrs. Hoffman was in much better condition though. I cannot stress enough that CPA must continue to monitor this family’s situation.

  8.27.73 (L. Barrington) After several attempts, was finally able to contact Mr. Hoffman. Mrs. Hoffman, he said, has gone to Vancouver. He is understandably disappointed as Mrs. Hoffman could not be persuaded to stay and he has no means of contacting his daughter.

  I hope the breakdown in internal communications has not jeopardized this family. Mr. Hoffman has given me the address and phone numbers of family friends in Vancouver that she will likely contact. I will write and inform CPA Vancouver.

  Eilleen Four

  OCTOBER 1973, VANCOUVER

  WALKING IN Chinatown with Grace, pumpkin shopping. It’s coming on November. She’s got one hand in her pocket, one hand in yours—it’s just getting fall-nippy. You look down onto her hair and smooth a hand over, she looks up so you run it down her face, squash her nose and lips along the way. She giggles and hip-bumps your thigh. So you say, Wonder what the poor people are doing right now.

  Why?

  Cuz us rich peoples is havin’ fun.

  What do you mean?

  I mean, it’s a nice day—I wonder what those poor slobs stuck in Toronto are doing.

  Grace stops to have a gander at a twisted orange head with what looks like a goiter on its face. She cups the lump in her palm, says, This could be his chin, huh? If he was really fat.

  You laugh. Laugh laugh. Everything makes you laugh now. Feels so good just being. Here. Sometimes when she’s at school you sit at home in the living room and touch the arm of the couch, the heavy furniture weave, squeeze till it hurts your finger bones a little, just enough to hang a For Sure sign on everything you own: your furniture, your dishes, your self. Your here. Vancouver, baby. Just so relieved to be back, so thankful to be here not there, thankful for the friends who came through—even the ones who are really more Danny’s than yours, but they’ve stuck by you just the same—like Alice and Ray; the same way they put you up two years ago while you were waiting for Danny when he got out of jail, they put this together when you ran from Toronto. You owe them close to three hundred bucks between the first months rent they fronted and the second-hand stuff Ray put together from his furniture store. But you’re home again: Grace has her school right across the road, Ray and Alice just four blocks away. OK, it’s only one bedroom and you are right on Main Street, but it’s a start. It’s free air through your chest—don’t have to be afraid any more.

  The two of you keep walking. Your child wants just the right pumpkin, as if she’s picking a puppy. Can’t even remember if you had a pumpkin last year. She stops to look at a bin of apples, says, These are considerably cheaper than the supermarket, aren’t they? An old woman looks sideways at Grace and you chuckle, say, Yeah, you’re right. Well get a load of stuff before we go. And I’m kind of thinking I’d like to pop over to Kripps Drugstore, were almost out of lecithin and C. That’s your new language, Vitamins. Right after you got into town, back on the wagon, you picked up two Adelle Davis books: Lets Have Healthy Children and Lets Eat Right to Keep Fit. Saw her on TV, on The Merv Griffin Show, and you thought, that’s it, we’re going to start this life with a bang—Adelle Davis was going to get the two of you so healthy, you’d be jumping and leaping, shooting off brilliance wherever you went. Mega-vitamins, scoops of powdered vim and vigour were going to make you and yours radiant and robust. No more skinny kid—no more Alice and Ray holding both of Grace’s wrists in one hand, comparing them to their own rugrats’, telling you yours looked like one of those starving African kids. Every morning you swallow B-complex, kelp and halibut liver oil pills. The powdered vitamins, like the C and the brewers yeast—you stir ’em up with grape juice and Grace downs it. Takes some coaxing, but she does it.

  Mind you, maybe I’ll just go tomorrow—if we get all these fruits and vegetables, we’re not going to wanna drag them over to Kripps Drugs and then all the way home. And don’t forget, Pumpkin Queen, not too big or we’re not going to be able to carry it. And not too expensive—oh shi—shoot—I can’t go to Kripps tomorrow, I have to work. Grace rolls a head off the shelf into her arms and cradles it a moment, pulls her chin up trying to free the apartment keys on the string around her neck. You ease them out from between the pumpkin and her chest and drop them down her sweater. She squeals on the cold metal. Oh sweety, sorry, I thought you had a T-shirt on under there. She glares at you ever so slightly, says this is the one, the pumpkin that stole her heart. You ask her how much it is. She frowns, ummm, as if she doesn’t know and rotates the thing around till the black scrawled numbers show themselves. You squeal on the price. Tit for tat.

  It’s Monday afternoon and you are standing behind a jewellery counter at Eaton’s department store. Christmas help. Bored out of your mind, nobody needs help with Christmas yet, no one’s even thinking about it. You’ve got a VIP job here, through the Welfare—the Vancouver Incentive Program: they get you a part-time job and you’re allowed to make an extra hundred dollars a month. Any more and it gets taken off your cheque. Seems like you should be getting more for two days a week, like you’re being had. But at least you’re out here, meeting people. Who knows who you’ll meet during the Christmas rush.

  Someday when there’s a Christmas rush.

  You’ve already started buying little doodads for Grace, stocking stuffers. You’re going to really get into it this Christmas, there’ll be tinsel all over the bloody place. Soon as Halloween’s over, you’re getting a wreath for the door. Already got Grace drinking eggnog —that’s actually nothing to do with Christmas, you just told her that. Really it’s to get two eggs’ worth of protein down her gullet as quick and painlessly as possible. Adelle Davis says she needs thirty grams a day and by God she’s going to get it. No more white bread, wh
ite sugar, white rice. Actually you never did let her eat white bread, but now you’re serious.

  Oh God … can’t you just go take an extended lunch break; there’s no one here, no one is shopping at eleven o’clock Monday morning. You’re in the middle of a square counter, three sides of jewellery, one all drawers and a cash register. Jesus. Wonder if anyone would mind you bursting into a little jazz—skiddley-wa-wa-a-a … You are staring through your fingerprints into the display case.

  There are twenty-eight pairs of earrings under this glass.

  Twenty-eight. Twenny hate. Twenty ate. Twaw twaw—that was one of your favourite ages, that’s how many teeth you have, that’s how many pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.

  Time check: Eleven O Two. And a half. Christ. This cannot be. You call over to the girl at the watch counter, ask her if she has the time. She says it’s about five to eleven.

  That’s it, the universe is turning backwards, it’s folding in on itself. Your eyes and teeth are going to leap out to escape the boredom of sitting in your head.

  Now and then, Margo, the supervisor, minces over to see how you’re doing. Any sales? You might want to stand up rather than lean on the counter, it’s more professional. Old Margo’s got to know you’re a welfare case, the way she treats you, all phony smiles and impatient sighs. Yesterday you asked her where the keys to the next counter over were, the watch counter; someone wanted help and the salesgirl was gone. Margo flipped her hand over her shoulder. They’re in the drawer. And you looked to a wall of thirty little drawers—started to ask her which one and then she exhaled, Who is it that needs the help, Eilleen? as if she’d better just do it herself. The one with wrists, you wanted to spit.

  Ah screw the old bitch, don’t think about it. Maybe they’ll really like you by the end of this and you’ll get put on full-time and you can move to another department. Not that working in a department store is your ultimate goal, but you’ll start teaching again when you’re strong enough. This is an interim. Gives you time to catch your breath, meet people. And gets you an extra hundred bucks to do with what you’d like. You’d like to have a nice Christmas. Maybe you’ll buy a little two-person-size turkey. Or maybe a chicken and you could stuff it and make wild rice and baked potatoes and carrots or whatever Grace feels like.