Lemon

by Cordelia Strube

  Mrs. Wartowski scrambles toward me. ‘The principal wants to see you.’

  ‘Frankly, we are all shocked and disappointed with your behaviour,’ Brimmers says. She’s wearing purple eyeshadow, looks like she’s been in a fight.

  ‘Mr. Lund in particular feels that you betrayed his trust. He believed in your talent.’

  ‘What exactly are we talking about here?’ I say.

  ‘I think you know very well. You are a disgrace to your mother.’

  ‘Which one?’

  All this pretense that they give a rat’s fart makes me want to throw things.

  ‘I think it’s time to seek professional help. Mrs. Blecher has done everything she can for you.’

  ‘Did she say that?’

  ‘Not in those exact words.’ She rests her hands on her sex-goddess hips.

  ‘What were her exact words?’ For some reason I don’t want Blecher quitting on me. All of a sudden I want to be in her cubbyhole watching her eat cheese triangles.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly what she said.’

  ‘Then don’t quote her.’

  ‘There is a psychologist associated with the school. I think it’s time you saw him.’

  Him? I don’t want to see any hims.

  ‘Have you bumped uglies with Inspector Power yet?’ I demand because I just want one true thing said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Or is he married? Don’t cops marry when they’re twelve or something, then get hoochie on the side? Child prostitutes? School principals?’

  ‘If you were not Drew’s daughter … ’

  ‘You’d suspend me. Now that’s a scary thought. You don’t even know what’s going on in this school. You’ve got your head so far up your ass, you can’t even see the suffering. Kids are dying in this school.’ I shove the African violet off her desk, can’t even get it together to throw it. She stares down at it, her glossed lips glob-globbing. I jet out of there.

  Doyle’s still not talking to me except to give orders. He wants the joint cleaned because Mr. Buzny told him the health inspector is planning a visit. ‘That’s a line,’ I replied. ‘No way does the health inspector give a heads-up.’ Doyle just shrugged and went on giving orders. YangYang’s busy trying to decide which university to grace with her presence so I get down on my hands and knees to clean the fridges. I don’t mind it because I can see I’m having an effect. The water in the pail gets dirty, I change it, it gets dirty again. Maybe I should become a cleaning woman. They make twenty bucks an hour, cash, and you get to snoop in people’s medicine cabinets, steal their drugs. The hitch is you have to clean their toilets.

  Yang Yang’s uncustomarily chatty. Usually she doesn’t have much to say to poor minority white trash like myself but she’s giddy about her future prospects, Masters and PhDs and all that. ‘I worry I’m an Internet addict,’ she admits. ‘In Shanghai, a man played online games for six years. He’s stuck in a sitting position. His back is fused at a ninety-degree angle. Doctors say there’s nothing they can do.’

  I ask her to move so I can clean where she’s standing.

  ‘And a boy played World of Warcraft for thirty-six hours in a row, then jumped off his high-rise. His suicide note said he was off to meet the game’s characters.’

  ‘I don’t think Internet addiction is unique to China,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a serious problem. They’re shutting down Net cafés and have national addiction helplines.’

  Nobody sees it as a disease over here. You’re expected to live in a virtual world, to lose yourself in technology and shut the fuck up.

  Yang Yang clasps her hands under her chin. ‘I have to cut back.’

  I’m thinking about those female elephants in the South African reserve. Humans are drugging them with elephant-size contraceptive pills because there are too many elephants in the park. They consume three hundred kilograms of grass, leaves and twigs a day and they’re messy eaters: 60 percent gets wasted. It’s pissing off other species, especially the black rhinos. The female elephant usually breeds every four years and doesn’t mate while nursing. On the pill she comes into heat every four months but doesn’t get pregnant, so the bulls keep banging her. The bulls can be four times her weight and the stress of the frequent copulation equals abuse. Female elephants are being raped to death. The conservation ‘experts’ say the only alternative is to start culling elephants again. Cull humans, would be my recommendation. If civil war can’t do it, get some suicide bombers in there.

  Waldo the security guard shows up for his swirl softee. ‘This guy,’ he tells me, ‘got in The Guinness Book of Records by making the biggest rubber band ball ever. It took him a year. He had to wear safety goggles at the end.’

  ‘There’s a life purpose for you,’ I say.

  ‘What I want to know is, what was he doing for cash all that time? I mean, he must have been living in his mother’s basement or something. Working people don’t get to be in The Guinness Book of Records, they’re too busy working.’ I can see he thinks he’s being witty. He leans over the counter. ‘Have you seen that homeless guy around?’

  ‘Which one?’ I wouldn’t tell him even if I had because all Waldo does is chase the poor buggers out.

  ‘The one with the plastic bags.’

  ‘They all have plastic bags.’

  ‘The one with the toque. He’s always wearing it.’

  ‘The Hugh Hefner look-alike was digging around in the trash.’ I think it’s swell Hugh got married to another twenty-year-old. He’s only ninety or something.

  ‘You let me know if he bothers you,’ Waldo says, puffing his pecs.

  ‘Roger that.’

  Waldo licks his softee. ‘Some guy tried to shove a cell down his girlfriend’s throat. His excuse was she got drunk and was trying to swallow the cell before he could grab it and find out who she’d been calling.’ Waldo stiffens like a hound spotting a squirrel. The homeless guy in the toque is exiting the can. ‘Hey, buddy,’Waldo says, bounding after him. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  ‘What for?’ the homeless man asks. ‘I’m not doing nothin’.’

  ‘Well, I heard different. A lady tells me you spit on her.’

  ‘I didn’t spit on anybody.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a lady here says you spit on her.’

  ‘What lady?’ He looks around.

  ‘She’s not here at this present moment but her description fits you, buddy, and we can’t have people spitting on customers. So you know what we have to do now, we have to get you out.’ The homeless man doesn’t resist, just clutches his plastic bags.

  The nervous woman in the hat shuffles over to order her smoothie. I have to make it because YangYang’s on break even though she hasn’t lifted a finger since she got here. ‘How are you?’ the nervous woman asks.

  ‘Tootin’. Would that be strawberry or blueberry?’

  ‘Strawberry, please.’ She watches me like she always does, making sure I don’t shortchange her on berries.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ she asks.

  ‘I fell down. Are you the one who said the homeless guy spit on you?’

  ‘What? No, of course not.’

  ‘If he spat on somebody, they were probably asking for it. It’s not like he can plug ’em or anything. I might start spitting on people. You’d have to work up a good glob, though, if it’s going to travel. You can’t be too spontaneous.’

  ‘Limone,’ she says, which startles me because I didn’t think she knew my name. ‘I’m Constance. I’m your mother.’

  I stare at her parched face for what feels like a couple of hours.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this way,’ she says, ‘but it’s been difficult contacting you.’

  I recognize her voice now.

  ‘I’m hoping we can be friends,’ she says. ‘I know this is all very strange and sudden. But I thought we might start a dialogue.’

  ‘You’ve been watching me for months.’

  �
�Yes.’

  ‘Checking me out, making sure I’m not some kind of freak.’

  ‘Not exactly. More just trying to find the right moment.’

  ‘And this is the right moment?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure there is one. All these years I’ve wondered if you would try to find me.’

  ‘Why would I try to find you? Who the fuck are you?’

  Doyle appears in time for the bad word, gives me one of his über-boss glares. ‘Is there a problem here?’

  ‘Not at all,’ the woman in the hat says. ‘Limone is making me a smoothie.’

  ‘Is that what she’s doing?’

  I resume mashing berries, thinking about my useless life and that the only thing that gets me through is Kadylak, holding her, reading to her, building houses with doors. I don’t want anything from this nervous woman in the hat. I want her to go away. I want my dreams of Mutti back. The blender wails. I work the register, take her cash. Her fingers are bony, witchy, but the nails are ridged and flat like mine. I’ve always hated my nails, always wanted the smooth round nails of hand models. This woman left me with her nails. I slap her change on the counter. ‘Have a nice day.’

  26

  Mrs. Barnfield spears a chicken croquette and waves it in front of Rossi who’s on the couch watching a hospital show. The model types in scrubs huddle around a body, trying to jolt its heart into action.

  ‘Please eat something, angel,’ Mrs. Barnfield says. ‘I made them specially for you, they’re your favourite.’

  Rossi pays no attention to her. I can’t understand why she’s tormenting the only person who loves her. Mrs. Barnfield’s even laid the table with placemats and napkins and little swirls of butter. I jab at the croquettes in front of me.

  ‘How ’bout a little salad, sweetheart? I bought low-fat Ranch dressing.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  It’s over for the corpse. The model types in scrubs sigh and shake their heads.

  ‘These croquettes certainly are delicious,’ I say. I can’t remember the last time one of my mothers cooked me a meal. Mrs. Barnfield strokes Rossi’s hair, which hasn’t been brushed in days.

  ‘I’ll just go sit with Lemon,’ Mrs. Barnfield says, ‘and you come join us if you feel like it.’ She swallows some gruel out of a can. She looks worried out of her mind, her eyes flitting back and forth between Ross and me. I get the feeling she’s hoping I’ll make conversation.

  ‘One of my customers,’ I say, ‘is a total Nazi freak. He likes talking about the bunker, and Hitler having strokes and ranting about vegetarianism and all that. Apparently old Adolf had this German shepherd called Blondi he was always talking to. Eva Braun hated the dog, was always kicking it when lover-boy wasn’t looking. The hound would start whining and Adolf would get all concerned, trying to figure out what was wrong with the mutt. He poisoned Blondi before he poisoned himself and Eva.’

  ‘Isn’t that interesting,’ Mrs. Barnfield says, watching Rossi staring at the model types stitching up gunshot wounds.

  I eat more mini carrots. ‘These carrots are delicious,’ I say in Rossi’s direction. ‘There’s nothing like butter swirls on steamed carrots.’

  An ad for a fabric softener comes on. A damsel in a negligee rolls around in sheets like she’s getting off on it.

  ‘I’m not sure I buy that vegetarian stuff,’ I say. ‘I heard that old Adolf had some chef from Vienna cook him Wiener schnitzel.’ I smear a butter swirl on one of the Pillsbury dinner rolls Mrs. Barnfield’s just baked. ‘I’ve never been able to figure out how anybody could eat baby cows. They chain their feet together so the calves can’t walk. It keeps the meat tender.’

  On the wire wave communicator a happy family is chow-ing down at Red Lobster. The Ken-doll dad ruffles his shrimp-eating daughter’s hair.

  ‘Why is your friend so interested in Nazis?’ Mrs. Barnfield asks.

  ‘He’s not my friend, actually, just some weirdo. He told me Mrs. Goebbels killed her children in the bunker. I always thought Mr. Goebbels did it, but apparently the frau drugged them unconscious then shoved cyanide capsules down their throats. Old Joseph wasn’t even in the room, couldn’t handle it, was off diddling some starlet.’

  A couple of the model types start swapping spit in a stairwell.

  ‘If you think about it,’ I say, ‘Mrs. Goebbels was saving them. What with old Adolf dead and the Russkies barking at the door, she knew she’d be separated from her kids and her husband would be executed. She figured a world without National Socialism wouldn’t be exactly friendly to her Aryan spawn. It wasn’t like the Commies would be too thrilled to hear the Nazi anthems she was always getting her kiddies to croon for Uncle Adolf. Offing them was an act of love. She figured she’d meet them in heaven.’

  ‘Did she take a capsule too then?’

  ‘Nah. She made hubby shoot her before he shot himself. She played a game of solitaire first though. I don’t think she was that wild about old Joseph, probably because he was always off banging demoiselles.’

  Mrs. Barnfield swallows more gruel. ‘I don’t know what kind of mother could poison her own children.’

  ‘A courageous one. Or crazy, depending on how you look at it.’

  The girly in scrubs who was swapping spit in the stairwell is being stalked by a former patient who wants her to give him a rectal or something. He charges around Emerg in a New York Yankees cap.

  ‘A lot of bunker Nazis blew their brains out,’ I say. ‘At the end. There they’d been snug as bugs while civilians were being bombed. Old Adolf didn’t give a buzzard’s ass about the German people getting blasted, no way was he going to surrender.’

  Mrs. Barnfield pushes some lettuce around on her plate, pretending she’s going to eat it, and I get the feeling this isn’t the kind of conversation she was hoping for but I can’t think of another topic. ‘“Ze broad mass of a nation,”’ I say, doing my Hitler impression, ‘“vill more easily fall victim to a big lie zan to a small one.” Adolf’s exact words.’

  Mrs. Barnfield fiddles with the tassels on her placemat. A gaggle of orderlies swarm the stalker in the Yankees cap. The girly gasps in a corner while the brawny lad she was swapping spit with comforts her.

  ‘A lot of those Nazis lived into their nineties,’ I say, ‘which makes you wonder about conscience, how you live longer if you don’t have one.’

  ‘Could you shut up for one minute?’ Rossi says, actually facing me for the first time in days. Her eyes look uninhabited.

  ‘She speaks,’ I say.

  ‘Who asked you to talk about that shit? Nobody wants to know about that shit. You think my mother needs to hear that?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Mrs. Barnfield says.

  ‘You do mind, Mother, you’re just too polite to say anything. Lemon’s a fucking psycho. Any sick topic out there, she reads up on it. Don’t even get her started on animal testing.’

  I look down at the melted butter hardening around my carrots.

  ‘You’re sick, Lemon, you should get help and stop hanging around my mother, she’s got enough problems.’

  ‘It’s nice to have company,’ Mrs. Barnfield says.

  ‘You call her company? She wrote a sick play. She made people audition for it by fake-fucking doggy-style on her couch.’

  Mrs. Barnfield looks at me the way she’d have looked at Frau Goebbels.

  ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ Rossi spits at me, ‘that what happened to me might have something to do with what you did?’

  ‘What happened to you, angel?’ Mrs. Barnfield asks.

  ‘You fucked everything up,’ Rossi hisses, getting off the couch and heading unsteadily toward me. ‘They went at me because of what you did, your sick, fucking non-existent play.’ She already looks thinner, weaker. I know she’s planning to starve herself so she’ll die before her mother. ‘Now get out and leave us alone.’ She yanks on the back of my chair. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  ‘You can’t blame me for what happened,’ I
say, knowing she can.

  ‘What happened?’ Mrs. Barnfield pleads. ‘Please, girls, tell me what’s going on.’ She grasps at Rossi’s arm.

  ‘Why won’t you tell her?’ I ask.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘What’s none of her business, please, tell me, angel?’

  Rossi jerks the door open and stands with her hand on her bony hip, waiting for me to exit. Everything in the apartment that I have known since kindergarten, the figurines, the china plates, the kitten paintings, have turned hostile. All those days sitting here drinking Kool-Aid, feeling safe. I am no longer welcome.

  ‘Where’s Bradley?’

  Brenda stares at the monitor. ‘He’s been transferred.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is that your concern, Limone?’

  ‘Where are they taking him?’

  ‘What parents decide to do with patients is none of your business.’

  ‘He can’t travel, he’s too frail.’ I picture him being bounced around in planes, trains and automobiles, with no one to play Nerf ball with.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Brenda says to the monitor and I can’t believe she thinks I’m stupid enough to believe her. This has happened before, when parents with cash don’t like what the doctors are telling them. They outsource their kid to the States or India or somewhere and pay doctors to tell them what they want to hear. I’m used to kids coming and going when I’m not on watch, but it’s worse with Bradley. I stand outside Kadylak’s room waiting for my blood to start moving again, clutching the grapes I bought him, seeing his wise eyes looking at me. He’ll be so lonely. He won’t understand why I’m not there.

  Kadylak refuses the grapes but gets pretty excited when old Clive, the master, hires Tilly to be his housekeeper. Kadylak hasn’t figured out that Clive wants to stuff the young lass, even though he’s in a wheelchair. On the news they showed some sick creep in a wheelchair who gave his three-year-old daughter gonorrhea. Explain that to a teenager. You’re sterile because your father raped you when you were three. You’ve forgotten the incident but fortunately he posted it on YouTube.