Just Pretending

by Lisa Bird-Wilson

  “I waited for you,” Beate whispers, close to his ear.

  She’s close enough to see the individual black hairs pop out of his scalp as if they’ve been tidily sewn in. She remembers the dolls she owned when she was a girl and how one by one she cut their hair down to the scalp with the kitchen scissors, made them all ugly, the same as she felt. Their root-hole riddled heads were like an accusation until she stuffed them under her bed, out of sight. When Momma found them, Beate blamed Ivy, but even so, she got the belt, Ivy reduced to a silent accomplice. Beate sees a crust of dried brown blood inside the rim of his ear as if he’s a pie that’s overflowed its dish.

  She can’t think of anything else to say, so she repeats, “I waited for you, Mister X.”

  Another Mister X, also known as Avenger X, is a first-rate thief – suave, daring and a master of disguise. In a classic B movie from the ‘60s, Mister X becomes Avenger X to clear his own name after he’s set up for a murder he didn’t commit. Avenger X takes on several disguises, uses lots of clever gadgets and encounters more than his share of action. Avenger X is in love with a beautiful woman, his sidekick in crime. Beate will force Momma to let her put on the tape tonight and watch it again. But Momma can be prickly about her TV.

  Beate can see Rick is relieved when she returns to her post on the stool behind the glass counter at the pawn shop. He’s uncomfortable dealing with what he calls “the riffraff” – the scammer who sells his girlfriend’s stuff, the druggie who pawns grandma’s wedding rings, the single mom whose kids scrap in the car while she pawns their TV for McDonalds and says she’ll be back for it on “cheque day.”

  TV sets line up like rag-tag soldiers on the grey metal shelving, where they wait to be either retrieved or forsaken. One small television sits at Rick’s end of the counter bleating out game show music, news and soap opera drama day after day.

  Beate’s not like Rick; she sees people differently, sees through the thick layer of crappy life chances and bad luck to the cores of the people they might have been once. She’d be the first to admit she has to scrape pretty hard to find even a glimmer of a long-forgotten innocence in some of them, but usually, eventually, she does.

  She saw it right away in Mister X.

  Each of his organs works inside his body. One by one, he enumerates them: lungs, heart, kidneys, spleen, stomach, brain. His organs work together as a whole in neat tandem with one another to contribute to the rhythm of the earth under his chest. Heart skips a beat to tell brain, There’s something about this girl, the soft one with the baby powder smell. Brain’s too busy now to listen. His breath slows to keep time, and the faint tune from the shadows is subsumed in the operation of his lungs and the deep inhale – exhale of Mother Earth. In his attempt to get closer to her, he stuffs his mouth with dirt.

  The day after Beate’s visit to the hospital, a young woman, no more than twenty, comes into the shop with a jangle of the door. The woman approaches Beate and slips a man’s watch from her wrist and lets it clatter to the scarred counter. Of course, Beate recognizes it right away. It’s a decent watch. Beate remembers selling it to Mister X – part of his careful dance around her. He wanted her to notice him, didn’t want to scare her off. The woman handles the watch confidently, carelessly. Beate turns it over to make sure it’s the same one. It’s warm from the woman’s skin. Iron brown specks like rust mark the stainless plate on the back. She scrapes one away with her nail. She avoids the girl’s eyes. Ivy chides, Stupid, and Beate wonders if this girl heard Mister X’s last words and, if so, what they were.

  “Sell or pawn?” Beate asks.

  “Sell.”

  “Got ID?”

  The girl tosses a battered card onto the counter. Beate examines the picture, fills out a form.

  Her least favourite Mister X: Vortex Comics’ human quasi-hero. Gaunt, mysterious and trench-coated, he makes his “living,” such as it is, working as a private eye. He takes sleep-restrictive drugs to stay awake twenty-four hours a day so he can stalk the streets of dystopia looking for answers. Beate gives him credit for trying.

  When Beate finally agreed to go out with him, it was the end of summer. He took her to the fair, the exhibition. They rode the merry-go-round and he jumped from horse to horse; he rode backwards and looked into her face, trying to make her laugh while his eyes danced like shiny black coals. After, when he walked her home, all the way over the bridge and through the dark streets, he held her hand like it was the most natural thing to do, as though they did this every day. Beate wouldn’t let Ivy say a thing.

  They passed a group of boys, who called out “Chink,” unprovoked, then, “Indian,” as if they were guessing.

  He laughed and said to Beate, “Yeah, I’m the missing link in the Bering Strait theory.” Beate laughed too, partly because it was funny, what he said about the Bering Strait theory, and partly because it was true, he did look kind of ambiguous.

  After that he swung her arm with his between them, still holding her hand, as though the encounter had put him in a good mood. His step was light.

  Outside her house, she could tell he wanted her to invite him in. That’s when Ivy finally piped up, alarmed. You can’t take him in there. Are you crazy? Of course Ivy was right. He kissed her on the lips before she ran inside.

  Misdirects. The word comes to him on a sweet platform of baby powder scent that makes him calm and happy inside, reminding him of a girl, his girl. Frustrated that he can’t crack the code, the whispered word that comes to him through the sucking, humming, heartbeating noise, he reaches deeper into the reliable pocket of earth to bring her close in an extended bear hug. He puts out his hand to stop the noise, turn it down, but he has no effect. It’s broken, he sobs inside his chest and knows he’ll never escape the din. Misdirects comes the secret word again to remind him how his mother whispered comfort in his ear when all else raged around them, underneath the poplar tree, a sanctuary.

  Beate’s marked her calendar – it’s been almost two weeks. They only ever did it the one time, out back, between the falling-down shed and the falling-down fence, where the overgrown autumn olive looked as if it would, any minute, push the fence clean over with a spindly finger. It was cold, February-cold, but the structures that surrounded them gave shelter from the wind and made it bearable. When he came close and kissed her, Beate held her breath.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered in her ear.

  She pressed her body into his and welcomed his warm hand, sliding up her back. His fingers left a trail of fire up her spine, over her ribs, across her belly and down her hip. She helped him undo her clothes, then his. With her back against the shed, he pushed inside her, still with his mouth on hers.

  “It’s okay,” he breathed into her mouth.

  “Okay,” she repeated and bit his lip. The whole time she half expected to hear Momma’s gravelly voice demand to know just what she thought she was doing. But Momma could never leave the house, could never haul herself over the doorstop, down the back porch steps and across the patchy weeds covered in snow. Momma couldn’t even lug herself to the bathroom anymore. These were the things Beate thought about that one time.

  Later, Ivy couldn’t stop laughing at her.

  He leaves the vortex behind to move closer to the earth. He sees through to the centre: a place within the musical hiss and click. No longer afraid of the rhythm, he instead seeks it out, the swirl and hum, the beat of life, the sound that’s now a part of his existence here, in the dark, his cheek next to Mother Earth. He longs, to the point of tears, to fill himself with the sound and feel of the fluid heartbeat from the centre of the womb.

  After that one time, Beate waited for him to come back. She waited at the pawnshop. She looked more often out the window at home. Momma’s breathless voice scalded the back of her neck. “What the hell’s (breathe) gotten into you (wheeze), girl? Didn’t you hear (breathe) me say (wheeze) to bring the bucket?”

  Ivy called her a retard and ran away.

  The television is M
omma’s only friend in the same way Ivy is Beate’s. One night, after ten days of waiting, the continuous background noise of the television broke into Beate’s thoughts. Local newscast. The police – asking for public help to identify a man. Found. Unconscious but alive. Possibly Asian, said the reporter.

  Chink. Indian, Ivy chided.

  Missing link. Beate knew he was a halfbreed. Métis.

  Day after day, the news reported on the search for someone who could identify him, and Mister X took on a certain curious infamy. That was when she went to see him.

  Mister X: In the Uniform Case Naming Guidelines, Mister X is a legal term used to refer to an unknown or anonymous person. The guidelines exist so that cases can be referred to and looked up with relative ease. A fictitious name or set of initials may be used, such as Jane Doe or Mister X. Mister X can also be referred to as Personne anonyme. Unnamed person. To her, he’s not unnamed. To her, he is Mister X.

  Earth runs through his fingers like fine beads, jewels, treasure. He’s a little boy again discovering the rich black earth beneath the poplar tree where his mother looked into his eyes and shared the gift of sight. She is the precious dirt he caresses in his hands. His mother is earth. She speaks to him without words, and he listens without mortal ears. Her message soothes and humbles him. He takes her hand and steps into the circle.

  As Beate fills out the form for the young woman to sell the watch, the local newscast from Rick’s TV cuts through her thoughts.

  “The man, known only as Mister X, has died.” Beate’s pen stops moving; she listens intently to the newscaster’s thick voice. His slight pause just before saying “has died” make his words sound at once both dramatic and sad. “Police continue to appeal to the public for clues to his identity. The coroner is expected to call an inquiry.”

  Beate doesn’t look up, either at the girl or the TV. Time stands still as Beate pauses over the form. Her hand shakes. She wonders who this woman is in relation to Mister X, what she knows. Still, she can’t bring herself to look into the woman’s eyes and see.

  What now? Ivy sneers. You’re not gonna cry, are you? Beate’s pen moves again.

  “I’ll give you fifty,” Beate says without looking up. She feels the woman’s posture brighten.

  “Sixty,” the woman demands. Beate knows the woman would be lucky to get thirty, max, at any other shop on the street. Beate sold it to Mister X for fifty. Reaching into her pocket for her own money, Beate steals a glance at the woman, who taps her fingers impatiently on the glass and checks on her ride parked by the curb.

  Say something, Ivy hisses.

  Beate hands over the money, watches through the window as the woman gets in the waiting car, a young man in a ballcap at the wheel.

  Beate slips the watch into the front pocket of her jeans, where its heft spoons into the cleft under her hipbone. A transparent tadpole listens with a keen inner ear for a reliable tick-tock that comforts like a third heartbeat.

  Now you’ve done it, Ivy says.

  single native female

  “Okay, fine,” I say, slapping the table. “If I listen, will you stop pestering me?”

  “Pestering? More like saving you from yourself.” My sister Gloria has been at this since she arrived this morning to drink my coffee and eat Froot Loops from the box by the handful.

  “Just read before I leave,” I say. But I can’t leave; it’s my own damn house.

  “Okay, okay. Jeez. Ahem.” She rattles the loose-leaf paper, covered in pencil scratches, in front of her face as though preparing to give a speech. “SNF with good sense of humour…”

  “Wait a minute. SNF? You make me sound like a bad cheque.”

  “Nooo. Silly, that’s NSF.” Gloria laughs and waves a hand at me to say go on. “You’re not non-sufficient funds.”

  “I know what it means, Gloria. I’m just saying…”

  “Everybody who reads these ads knows that SNF means ‘Single Native Female’. At least the SNMs will, and that’s what counts.” Gloria cocks her head as though an idea has just occurred to her. She shakes her finger and looks annoyed. “You know, speaking of NSF, that reminds me – that damned Gilbert wrote me a bad cheque back in May, and now my bank put ‘restrictions’ on my account.”

  I ignore her. “There are no SNMs out there, anyway,” I mutter half-heartedly, cupping my oversized coffee mug in my hands and gazing out the window at the ragged carpet of chickweed that’s taken over my front lawn. With the sun shining like it is, if I squint my eyes just so, my lawn becomes lush and green – the envy of the hood.

  “I’m gonna hafta go over there and kick his ass. I can’t believe I forgot about that cheque.” Gloria taps her forehead with her middle finger, like this might be the magic touch that makes things stick in that head of hers.

  Still thinking of the SNMs I say, “They’re all married or hooked up, and anyone who answers this ad is just out being a dog.”

  “There you go again. How’d you expect me to be able to convince anyone you got ‘a good sense of humour’ when you keep that up?”

  But I’m on a roll now. “And if they are single, there’s a damned good reason for it,” I say.

  “Hey, you got any peanut butter?” Gloria asks, distracted. She heads for my cupboards.

  “Men are like a box of chocolates,” I say, trying to sound philosophical.

  “Okay, Forest Gump,” she shoots over her shoulder, her head buried in the cupboard.

  “All the good ones are gone.”

  “Here we go again,” I hear her mutter.

  “And what’s left turns out to be fruits or nuts.”

  “Chocolate. That’d go nice with the peanut butter. Where’d you say you keep it?” That Gloria, always with the food.

  “I thought you said you were on a diet.”

  “I am. But I read somewhere that chocolate is good for you,” she says.

  “So is drinking your own piss, according to some people. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  Gloria ignores me. “And peanut butter has protein. Gotta keep up my strength.”

  “All that sugar’s not bad for your diabetes?” I ask.

  Gloria plops into her chair, peanut butter and a small spoon in hand, her eyes on the paper in front of her. “So you wanna hear the rest of it or what?”

  “Not really.” And then I say, trying not to look like I’m trying too hard to be casual, “Hey, speaking of Gilbert, where’s he at these days?”

  “You know he’s shacked up with that Juicy what’s-her-face,” Gloria says, her voice taking on an accusatory tone, as if this were somehow my fault.

  “You heard she won ten grand in the slots, hey?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. I know Gloria’s heard – everybody’s heard.

  “Yeah. Gilbert heard it too,” she says.

  “I thought you two were going to work things out?”

  “He says we are, but that doesn’t stop him from spending all day wallowing around in her big old smelly bed like a pig. You know she’s got a king-size? Probably needs the space for all her acrobatics.”

  “King-size what?” I ask.

  “Oh, you,” Gloria says, waving her hand. She’s smiling.

  “See? I told you, men are dogs.”

  “Hey,” Gloria changes the topic, “since we’re catching up on missing people, have you heard from your boy lately?”

  “Jeremy? I thought you didn’t want to hear about that any more?”

  “Well, I’m asking now, aren’t I?” Gloria’s voice takes on a pouty tone.

  “Had a postcard from Jakarta a couple weeks ago,” I say.

  “Ja – what?” She doesn’t let me answer. “I still don’t know how you could just let him go off that way.”

  “How could I stop him? He’s almost twenty years old, for heaven’s sake. Besides, somebody’s got to get out of this place.”

  “But it’s all so unsafe,” she says.

  “An adventure. That’s how he describes it,” I say. “But it’s keeping
him clean. That’s got to count for something.”

  “He’ll need therapy,” Gloria says, ignoring me. “Haven’t you heard of PTSD?”

  “Yeah, I think I feel it coming on right now,” I say, holding my head. “Gloria, you’ve been watching too much TV.”

  “He’ll have issues,” she insists.

  “Besides, therapy’s overrated.”

  “Have you been? To therapy?” Gloria’s question surprises me. What does she know, or think she knows? I wonder if Gilbert’s been pillow-talking.

  “Once,” I quip. “It’s all our mother’s fault.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Gloria says, and we laugh.

  “What’s he doing in Ja – whatever, anyway?”

  “Sandbagging. Peace work. Terrible flooding. I heard it on the news.”

  “That’s not so bad. No fighting, at least.”

  “He told me they met up with a troop from the Foreign Legion. And those soldiers, they bite the heads off live chickens – a sort of initiation ritual.”

  “And you think he won’t need therapy after that?”

  “Could you do it?” I ask her.

  “What? Bite the head off a chicken?” she asks, making a face.

  “A live chicken,” I say.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “To save your child’s life,” I press.

  “That would be an unfair choice.”

  “Who said life was fair?” I don’t know why I’m goading her. Except she’s so aggravating, so blind. So uncritical.

  “Okay. Enough. Listen to this – SNF with good sense of humour loves fine dining…”

  “Mmm, chicken,” I say.

  “…is honest…”

  “Meaning I’m not a convicted felon,” I interject.

  “…and comes with no baggage.”

  “Am I suddenly going to develop long-term memory loss?”

  “Willing to meet and take it from there.”

  “Should we add Bring your own bus fare, just in case?” I ask.

  “I think we should put in a hobby,” Gloria says, ignoring me. “Tell me one of your hobbies.”

  “You mean besides the macroindianophilia?”