A Handbook for Beautiful People

by Jennifer Spruit

  “Spit my shit? I don’t think so.”

  “Just keep your hands off him. Gavin’s nineteen.”

  Dani flares her nostrils. “You think I would take your baby brother to bed?”

  “Just promise you won’t start anything.”

  “Fuck off, Marla. Don’t order me around.” She’s already jaywalking across Bowness Road.

  The high school boys in front of the Sev are hyenas who feast on Dani. They lean with bravado, trying to set her off while she ties up the puppy.

  “Hey, lady, you got some crack?”

  “Maybe we can smoke a fatty together.”

  “Yeah, and then you can smoke this.”

  Dani fingers them, unfazed, but Marla lingers with her hand on the door, trying to think of the mom response to punks like that. And the guys in the basement.

  Once inside, Dani abandons Marla immediately and straightens her back for the cashier. “Hey, sugar,” she says to him. He looks fifteen. A kid. Dani opens a pack of gum under his nose and takes care to show her mouth as she puts it in to chew. She licks her lips.

  “Uh,” he says, looking alarmed. His voice is horrible, anxious and afraid. He’s responsible for the gum. For Dani in the store.

  “We’ll pay for it,” Marla says, putting her hand on the counter. “It’s okay.” Only it’s not.

  Dani does her usual move and manipulates the fear she creates into something else, something she can work with. Marla’s seen it before. Walking around the counter behind him, Dani says, “You know, your Slurpee machine trays are just disgusting.” She draws the word out, her mouth lolling over it as if it were candy. She fills a big mug with pop, his eyes on her.

  The kid stammers, and Marla pulls Dani away. “Babe, stop it.”

  Dani winks at the kid, lifting her hips up and down and all around as she walks past, away from Marla.

  Marla counts out candies, Coke bottles, and sour soothers, listening. Some of the boys from outside have come in. They’re at the magazine rack, stuffing skateboarding magazines in their pants every time the cashier turns around to stock the cigarettes, talking about Dani. They see her sunken eyes and her braless cleavage hanging out of her tube top. Marla tells herself that Dani’s a good person, that she deserves respect. She’s lived in the bowels of this city her entire adult life, working nights with the most desperate people in the most dangerous job. Yes, what’s left is hardened, unsocialized. Of course it is. It’s Marla’s fault for thinking Dani was like a real friend.

  Dani’s busy taking the hot dogs out of the grill and lining them up on the dirty counter, the boys eyeing her from the magazine rack. She didn’t even put a napkin down first. Marla counts the hot dogs: eleven.

  “What is wrong with you?” Marla pinches Dani on the arm and apologizes to the cashier with her eyes, but Dani pushes Marla away and puts a single hotdog in a bun, leaving the kid to throw the rest in the garbage. “Dani, you’re going to get in shit.”

  “C’est la vie. Let’s go.” While Dani pays, she chats up the cashier. “I could give you my number, you know.”

  The kid scrunches his nose, and the boys holler, which makes a door bang open somewhere in the back. A man with a pinched nose and a huge body joins the kid behind the till, his eyes on Dani. The manager.

  “I told you not to be here,” he says. He looks at the kid. “Did she take the hotdogs out again?”

  He nods miserably.

  The manager points to the door. “Get out.”

  Dani stands a little taller, and Marla feels a bunch of pressure in her ears like the room is shrinking. “Am I a problem for you?” Dani pours her pop on the floor, real slow. It would be funny except that it’s awful.

  Marla grabs the cup out of Dani’s hand but it’s empty. “Don’t do this.”

  Dani laughs. “Look who’s telling me what to do again.”

  “I’m calling the police,” the manager says, his face a red bubble of anger. The boys slink outside.

  “We’re just leaving,” Marla says.

  “But I’m so clumsy.” Dani kicks a promotional endcap of beef jerky right over and makes like she’s going to sweep the counter clear. The kid is gripping the lotto display case, white-knuckled.

  The manager reaches across the counter and then thinks better of it. He points at Dani, his finger an arrow. “Go.”

  Marla grabs the bag and pushes Dani to the door, waving away the receipt. She can see the boys outside looking in under cupped hands. They’ll be talking about this for days. She knows how they feel.

  “Au revoir, mon chéri,” Dani calls to the cashier, blowing a kiss.

  Marla reaches for Dani’s hand, her humid skin, and tries to pull her out the door, but Dani yanks her hand away and slaps Marla with an awkward backhand that lands on Marla’s ear. It rings, and the door dingles as Dani kicks her way outside.

  Marla stands there, shaking for a second, feeling her ear throb. The kid behind the counter looks intentional, like he wants to say something. Marla waits for him, gives him the space. “Have a good day,” he says slowly. They must teach that in training. The door makes its chirpy little ding-dong when Marla opens it.

  The boys outside fan away from the door and flatten to the glass. They have a heavy air of feigned nonchalance going on while Dani bends over to untie the puppy.

  “Have a nice fucking day, hey?” one calls out, a brave one. “And give me your number!”

  Dani turns around and smiles like she’s naked. “You couldn’t handle me,” she says, cupping her breasts and biting her lower lip. The boys hoot, asking for her panties. She flips them the double bird. Marla stomps past her, refusing to make eye contact.

  Dani keeps up easily. “I probably fucked at least one of their dads,” she says, all confidential. “Little dipshits.”

  Marla doesn’t laugh. “Dani, you sucked in there.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I smacked you.”

  Marla throws the bag of candy at her and keeps walking. “I don’t want you in my house anymore.”

  Dani stops to pick the candy out of the snow and put some in her mouth. “Oh, Marla, come on. It’s not like you’re perfect.”

  A piece of cardboard blows down the street, getting run over by cars and sucked back into the air in their wake. “You always have to fuck up the nice shit.”

  Dani gives a theatrical bow. “Fine. I’ll be docile and chaste and quiet so you can pretend. Sound good?”

  “Do whatever you want. I’m done.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. No one does it on their own.” Dani links arms with Marla and skips. Their breath puffs out in little clouds.

  “What are you doing?” Marla yanks her arm, trying to get free.

  “You’re so concerned with how everything looks that you don’t know what’s important.”

  “The people in the store, they don’t matter?”

  Dani faces her, holds Marla’s belly with her red, chapped hands. “Nope. Not really. You’re who I care about. You and your baby.”

  Marla feels like she always does around Dani—like she’s being sucked up by some giant vacuum cleaner. “What about your kid?”

  Dani hugs her and Marla can smell Dani’s unwashed smell. “That’s what the money’s for. I almost have enough for my own place.”

  It sounds good. So good that Marla doesn’t think to say it takes more than money. Dani would be so happy living with Kamon in their own apartment, probably across the street from a park, or maybe a school. Besides, something about the dingy late-afternoon light makes Marla feel tired of this battle. Traffic rumbles by them, exhaust hanging in the air, and Marla decides to stop acting like she knows everything, because she certainly never has. “I didn’t like those guys downstairs.”

  “Easy. They won’t be back. Regulars only.”

  Marla holds Dani at arm’s length. “Promise me.
”

  “I promise.”

  “And we’re going to keep looking out for each other.”

  “Always.”

  4. CHRISTMAS ORANGE

  Picking up my brother!

  That’s wonderful, honey. Maybe you can bring him to dinner. We’d love to meet him. How long is he staying?

  don’t know. he’s kinda shy.

  Tell him he’s welcome here anytime.

  GAVIN GETS OFF the Greyhound after two days, seven hours, and forty-five minutes of driving across the wind-blasted prairies to the mountains. Now, foothills in the distance, he disembarks in a place he hasn’t been since before he could read. Calgary, December 23.

  He’s been thinking about this city: its dry air, its shape like rolled out dough, growing each year, its coulees and jackrabbits, and the two rivers that anchor it. It’s a meeting place, where the rivers join, and people have been coming together here for centuries to share and build and make a living. He’s just one of hundreds of thousands to arrive here: First Nations, farmers, steelworkers, recent newcomers, and Maritimers, and in that moment, he feels the enormity of everyone’s desire to succeed. And the vastness of the space all around. He wants his hometown to be a hopeful place, and it will be once he gets to know it. He can do this.

  Marla is standing alone under fluorescent lights, buying tea from a window in the wall, and he sees her first. He taps her on the shoulder, waving.“… glad … see you!” She makes their sign for love, both hands clasped over her heart, tears in her eyes. “How … bus?”

  She speaks so quickly he wants to turn back, stop this experiment. He’s not used to thinking in English. Gavin holds his notepad out with GOOD TO SEE YOU pre-written on it. He holds his hands to say long, then hugs her, picks her up. He feels her bones, holds on tight.

  She pulls back to say, “Just love … your hair so long … face … haven’t seen …” She’s crying.

  He struggles to keep up, reminds himself to be strong. He can fake it if he has to. LOVE YOU. MISSED YOU BAD. Gavin takes in her woman body. She’s right. He can’t tell she’s pregnant.

  She stares at his notepad. “Why … you talking?”

  He knew this would happen. EASIER THIS. He doesn’t want to tell her he doesn’t know what to do with the way people look at him, that it’s unrealistic to expect everyone around him to learn to sign. That what he would hate most of all is being a burden.

  Nothing bothers Marla. She smiles and puts on her coat, brown wool that is cut to fit, her movements long and slow. When she gets the tea, even the way she holds her cup is sort of agonizing, wrapping her hands around and stroking it, bringing it to her mouth to softly blow the steam away, then tucking it against her chest, finally raising it to drink.

  She holds herself tall, though she can’t be more than five and a half feet without the shoes. She has stunning features, with her oval face and black hair, but if Gavin didn’t know better he would think she was much younger than twenty-two. It’s her easy smile and thrift store clothes, the way she’s not carrying a bag or in a hurry. Because he worries, he looks more carefully, the way he looks at himself, and finds more. The stitching is coming undone under the right arm of her coat, and the part in her hair isn’t straight. She twirls with the teacup, noticing him staring. “… what … you think …?”

  Gavin gives her two thumbs up.

  Marla kisses his cheek. “… get bag … car’s running.”

  Gavin nods to his toolbox, the sack on his back. THIS IT.

  “Gavin … you mean? I didn’t … return ticket.”

  NO? He’s only booked a week off. Does she want him to stay past Christmas? He’s making a mental list of the steps he’ll need to take because that’s what he’s supposed to do when he’s feeling worked up—clarify dates with Marla, call work, use some savings to buy a plane ticket—and feeling proud of himself when he remembers something more important. NEPHEW-FATHER OUTSIDE?

  Marla’s face crinkles. “Who?” Then she gets it. She says a name Gavin can’t understand.

  He has to tell her to slow down. SPELL HIM.

  Marla writes: L I A M.

  NOT HERE? WHERE? WANT MEET.

  Marla’s expression is wilting. Gavin sees sadness in her eye corners. “No, he’s not … maybe we can …”

  YOU TELL? He holds her hand.

  “Not yet.” She pulls his arm. “Come.”

  The car is idling smoky, blue oil burning. No one would steal it. Inside, he sits in the back, because there’s no passenger seat. GOT DEAL THIS?

  She leans over to face him. “Did I. Listen … roommate … Danny.”

  Gavin nods okay—wait. GUY?

  Marla takes his notepad and writes, DANI. GIRL. She crunches her eyebrows. “… takes getting used to.”

  Gavin knows all about that. As they drive, he reviews the rules for meeting hearing people.

  •Don’t sign with mouth open: people think that’s gross.

  •Ignore stares.

  •Use eye contact when writing.

  •Listen without ears for other people’s needs—soothe their fear of you.

  •Write in complete sentences for people who don’t know you, even though it takes much longer.

  •Touch carefully for attention, because it scares most people.

  •Don’t try to speak, because the sound is all wrong. If you speak, people think you’re retarded.

  •Show the card or people will think you’re a bum. “Hello. My name is Gavin and I am deaf-mute. I write and read lips to communicate. Please speak slowly without covering your mouth.” Hate that phrase deaf-mute.

  At a long light, Marla turns around. “Almost there … have fun … promise.” She’s pleading.

  Does she think he’s nervous? He hastens to reassure her. COURSE. MUCH CATCH UP. She reads while she drives, nods. Gavin sits back, imagining Marla’s roommate. Probably a sweet girl who will pity him or try too hard. Hate that.

  They drive for half an hour, and Gavin concludes that the entire city is made of single family dwellings with garage faces and fenced yards, put up in succession so the houses get larger the further from downtown they go. Marla’s neighbourhood is older, tucked in against the river and anchored by a main street with a variety of businesses targeting all income levels. It’s full of people: men in work boots, older ladies with wheeled carts, and kids without hats on a playground, tearing around. There is division here: million dollar homes along the river and the fancy organic eateries they come with—and two blocks away, a sagging school and dilapidated cookie cutter houses from the sixties. Bowness has a good feeling to it, like everyone might be allowed to fit in here. Marla’s house is number 111. “Please come in,” she says. Formal. Nervous.

  The house smells yeasty, like bread. Gavin steps out of his boots and, not seeing a mat, sets them on a newspaper to avoid getting the hardwood wet. When he looks up he notices the blonde woman on the couch, her long legs bare under her skirt.

  She turns off the TV and comes right up, surprisingly tall and really close. Her body is firm but thick, like that of someone who swims in open water. Shapely. She holds him by the shoulders, her breasts rising and falling with her breath. She smiles as she sees him noticing, baring her teeth, then puts her hand over her mouth and blinks like a fawny little girl. He can’t tell whether she’s threatening or sweet. Her posture projects an aura of strength, an unflinching steadiness that makes him think of a jungle cat, and yet she waits with a soft jaw, her lips barely touching.

  When he doesn’t say anything, Dani talks over his shoulder to Marla. “… brother … yummy …” Then she’s yawning, and he can’t figure out what she’s saying.

  Gavin waves and reaches out a card. He studies her face as she reads. Did Marla not tell her?

  “What … you mean deaf?” Her nostrils flare. Marla is shaking her head and saying something.
>
  Gavin’s feeling crowded. He writes, CAN’T HEAR.

  Dani laughs and laughs. She wraps her arms around him, her hair on his cheek soft, tickly. She’s saying something, but he’s not watching her mouth. He’s looking her in the eye.

  SAY AGAIN?

  “You’re hilarious!” She talks slow for Gavin. “I like you already.”

  Gavin reminds himself to write about this moment, check it off on a list. Add it to his list, even. LIKEWISE.

  Dani holds his arm, clearly enunciating. “Tell me if you don’t understand. I’ll work on it.”

  Gavin allows the tension in his shoulders to smooth out, a feeling he’d like to savour. K.

  Marla takes his arm. “Come … show … room.”

  Marla’s walls are blood red, and the baseboards are stained walnut. They pass a room with a broken door—inside is an armchair and a toilet. Is that the bathroom? How’s he going to pee there?

  “This way,” Marla says, pulling him along. The bedroom is full of odds and ends: a coffee table, stacks of papers, extra bowls, and flippers. It has a big closet with steps up.

  Gavin puts his toolbox in there and clears some clothes off the bed to set his bag down. WHEN GO HOME?

  Marla gets campy, full of false cheer. “Why … you … leave already?”

  HAVE JOB.

  She’s confused, her mouth too still. “You don’t … stay?”

  He immediately feels bad. He didn’t want her to be upset. COUPLE WEEKS? Gavin looks at her face. MORE?

  She is small, her elbows tucked like folded wings. “I … love you … stay as long … want. I’m sorry … ticket. I’ll get … just can’t … now.”

  This is the Marla he knows, the girl who can’t manage details. It’s an old story. WHERE YOU GET $$?

  “Borrowed.” She folds her lips under her teeth.

  FROM?

  “My car …”

  HOW?

  “I’m supposed … new car … Dave and Elise … putting money.”

  Not good. The relationship there is tenuous at best. NEPHEW NEED NEW CAR. I BUY TICKET LATER + PAY YOU BACK.