Cardinal Divide

by Nina Newington

  I look up. They’re both eyeing me.

  “It’s not that bad,” Heather says.

  “What?”

  “The macaroni.”

  I look at Jay. “Your mother, she got saved, right? Why, do you think?”

  “What need did it answer in her?” Jay shunts the last couple of peas around her plate. “That’s probably why I’m studying psychology. She went from being this vibrant, sexy, funny woman to, to being a joyless stick. It was like she aged ten years. She cut off her body, Desire. Sexuality. I mean okay, her personal life was kind of a mess. She was always dating men who turned out to be married. But she laughed. She was pretty and alive and warm. She wore bright colours.” Jay shrugs. “In case you haven’t figured it out, it was the worst trauma of my life. Her conversion. I was eleven, just starting puberty. That was part of it, I think. She felt she had to set me a better example. It was like she didn’t know how to manage her own sexuality so she found somebody else to do it for her. A bunch of fucking men who hated women. She was their shadow, you know? Everything they rejected in themselves. But they didn’t make her join their cult. She chose them. At first I kept hoping it was a phase she was going through.”

  Jay tries for a smile. “Poor Mum. When I came out to her ... She really believes I’ll burn in hell for all eternity. They pray with her for me. Makes me puke, thinking about it. Sanctimonious arseholes.”

  Heather’s nodding. “Catholic church’s no different. They’re all afraid of pussy, eh?”

  Startled I look at her, the well-cut silver hair and pale blue turtleneck. But then there’s the lipstick and the full breasts, the glint of laughter in her eyes. “I think I shocked Meg. But seriously, how many of those arseholes are fucking their kids? Or, in the case of the priests, someone else’s kids? Some pure, pre-pubescent body they can possess.”

  Standing in the doorway to the kitchen I spot Jeanette. It must be her, stringy, jaundiced, standing off to one side, listening to the clatter and splash of silverware being rinsed, the joking and joshing.

  Something grey and wet flicks past my feet. “Sorry.” I step aside. Joey grins and swabs where I was standing.

  “Is this good?” Edward, face earnest. Hair’s growing back on his shaved head like the curly pelt of a newborn lamb. He’s in charge of clean-up tonight.

  We walk around the central bank of stove and counters, check the empty sinks with their clean strainers. “Excellent,” I tell him.

  He ducks his head, pleased. He travelled to Canada by himself from Somalia when he was eleven. Cathy told me his story. His family was in a refugee camp. Forces on one side or another would raid the camp, snatch kids, make them into soldiers. His mother sent him to Edmonton to live with an aunt but the aunt had her own troubles. A gang became his family. I haven’t heard the details of the stuff he did. I don’t really want to know. He looks younger now than when he came in but his forty nine days is almost up, and what’s he going back to? Even if they don’t manage to deport him, which is the government’s plan for him.

  “Really good job,” I say. “Well done.”

  “Meg,” he says, “you okay? You looking sad.”

  Heather and I sit in the glassed-in room watching the lifeguard usher out the parents and kiddies. There’s a moment when the pool is empty then our mob swarms in. The whistle’s blowing moments later but whoever’s pushing who into the water has already done it.

  “Have you talked to Tanya?” I ask.

  “Jay has. Her mother’s holding on longer than anyone expected. Tanya’s still spending most of her time at the hospital.”

  “Has there been any fallout from her not coming into work on Sunday?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Are they really going to fire her?”

  “Jay thinks so. They’re just holding off until her mother actually dies. We’ve been talking about it. If they do, we’re both going to quit. I’ve got my pension. I don’t need this job. The income’s nice but if they’re going to be arseholes ... It’s not just Tanya. Ever since they axed the aftercare program ... You never met George but he was excellent. A junkie from Glasgow. He knew what it was like to come from nothing, have nothing, eh? And he was good at talking to people. Not just clients, bureaucrats, social workers, politicians. He made them want to help. ‘My junkie charm,’ he’d say in this thick Glaswegian accent. He built up a network of people at all the agencies, people he could call on to iron out problems. Landlords who were willing to rent to our clients. Then Brenda got her knees under the exec desk and he was out of a job faster than he could say ‘Fock me,’ which he said a lot.”

  “Why?”

  “Word was he looked like a threat to her. They’d never have hired Lily White George—that’s what he called himself sometimes—to run this place but he wasn’t afraid to stand up to her. Brenda doesn’t care for that. Same thing with Tanya. They were a hell of a team actually, Tanya and George. I always thought he was a little sweet on her.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Nanaimo. Running aftercare for a big rehab there.” She shrugs. “I saw it in the civil service. You get a boss who gets rid of the people who stand up to him, pretty soon all you’ve got is mush like Cathy.”

  “Would Doug quit too?” My voice isn’t casual enough but Heather doesn’t seem to notice.

  “He’s not going to stand by and watch them fire Tanya. What about you?”

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the same without all of you. I’d miss the clients too.”

  “It gets into your blood, doesn’t it? Plus, after all the years working in offices, I like that you never know what’s going to happen. And evening shift, we’re really our own bosses. Brenda never sticks around past five. None of them do.”

  “Except Cathy.”

  “Who doesn’t count.”

  “I don’t think she’s so bad.”

  “The counsellors told her to back off on the touchy-feely groups. I guess the clients were showing up all triggered on a Monday morning. Too much work, eh?”

  “If most of the evening staff are ready to quit, couldn’t we try to use that?”

  “To do what?”

  “Stop them firing Tanya? Reinstate the aftercare program.”

  Heather considers me. I never noticed she had violet rings around her irises. “Why not?” she says finally. “It won’t work. Brenda would never lose face like that. But if we’re going to quit anyway, what do we have to lose?”

  Chapter Seventy One

  TWO YOUNG WOMEN on horseback smile at the camera, one riding side-saddle, the other astride. The Mazey girls set out to round the cattle home. A Roedean girl stooks grain in a white shirt and tie, a calf length duster half hiding the britches underneath. The last photograph in the book is of six aboriginal people in front of a brick wall, the bottom corner of a high window just visible. They gaze unsmiling at the camera, two girls and a boy in the back row; in the front a round-faced young woman sits next to an ancient looking couple. The young woman wears a European style dress with a belt, the toes of her boots just visible. The children wear western clothes too. Dresses for the girls, a jacket and cap for the boy. Meanwhile the old woman huddles in a blanket, her hands wrapped inside it, holding it close. On her feet are moccasins. The old man wears them too. His hair is long and grey. He’s wearing a fringed jacket, holding a slender stick. The young look well-fed, the old have hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The caption reads, The present phase of development in Father Hugenard’s work for the mother country.

  Ah yes, The children of the darker race receiving the consolation of religion.

  That must be Hiawatha’s starving granny.

  What if I am Theresa Laboucan, status Indian, daughter of Daniel Laboucan and Lisa Holinski, half-sister to Danielle and some, perhaps all, of her lovely siblings? ‘Hello, my name is Theresa and I am an alcoholic.’ That, still, always. Sober Theresa pitching in to help Judy and Danielle. Taking part in the sweat lodge. Learning the ways of my people. I’ll kn
ow where I began. And maybe I’ll find out what happened. How my blood mother lost me. And never tried to find me. I picture myself back before I remember. One of a gang of dark-haired kids and skinny dogs.

  No memory stirs.

  Make yourself some hot milk.

  Which Mum used to do when I woke up from a nightmare. Somehow she’d know I was up even though they slept upstairs.

  She’d stand over the range in her flannel nightgown, dipping the tip of her little finger in the pan of milk. She’d pour the milk into her cup with the yellow roses on it. We’d sit side by side and she’d hum a hymn tune while I drank it.

  Chapter Seventy Two

  HEATHER’S SITTING UP front with Deborah and Don. I’ve got the door. My eyes find Danielle by the curve of her skull, the tilt of her cheek. Doug’s at the end of a row next to Jeanette. He’s leaning forward, listening to the speaker, brown hair half hiding his face. Then, as if he felt my look, he turns and smiles. My groin clenches.

  Great. That’s going to make it easy to love him like a brother. I force my mind back to the meeting. Two rows ahead of me two girls are chatting in an undertone. Geoffrey flicks irritated glances their way. Gordon, sitting between Geoffrey and the girls, is still as a rock, his braid hanging straight down. My eyes roam the rows of seats, the backs of so many heads. The few who’ve stayed sober. The many who are trying. More who’ve given up. We’ve had our apocalypse.

  It’s the planet’s turn now.

  I could say this to Doug.

  In the office, once the clients are all in ceremony, Jay says, “Tanya called while you were at the meeting. Her mother passed away a couple of hours ago. Tanya and her sisters were there. Do you need to go, Doug?”

  “No. We already worked it out. The girls will stay at their other grandmother’s until after the funeral. I’m going to walk the perimeter.”

  I try to see his face but his hair covers it as he walks past me.

  “How’s Tanya doing?” Heather asks Jay when the gate has clicked behind him.

  “Pretty good, considering. I mean it’s kind of a relief but that’s when it really hits you, eh? I don’t know what I’ll do when my mother dies.”

  My eyes prickle. Shit.

  “It hasn’t been long for you.” Heather’s looking at me, her voice gentle.

  I shake my head.

  “Takes a couple of years,” she says. Double shit.

  “Excuse me.” Mona’s voice.

  “Yes,” Jay’s on her feet.

  “I need to use the phone. My counsellor gave me a letter from my daughter. She’s got a new boyfriend and he doesn’t want me ...”

  Instead of making Mona stay on the bench until the end of ceremony, Jay puts a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we go over there and talk?” They head for the alcove on the far side of the dome.

  Heather shakes her head. “Where’s she going to go? They released her right from jail to here. George would have been on the phone ...” The gate clicks.

  “George?” Doug says from the doorway. “I was thinking about him on the bus. Geoffrey’s all set. He owns his condo. Warren and Shannon are going to his sister’s. But Janice ...”

  “Mona too.”

  “I told her I’d make some calls but I wish George ...”

  “Was here.” Jay swings into the office. “I’m so frigging sick of this place. They fire Tanya ...”

  Heather nods. “I’m ready,” she says.

  “Me too,” Doug says.

  They all look at me. “And me,” I say.

  “Tell Doug and Jay your idea,” Heather says.

  “I like it,” Jay says. “It won’t work but I like it.”

  “What about Laura?” Doug asks. My gut twists.

  “Laura is John Wilson’s plant here,” Jay says.

  “We don’t know that,” Doug says.

  “Tell you what.” Heather looks back and forth between them. “Why don’t we wait to tell Laura until they’ve actually fired Tanya.”

  “That’s when we tell them we’re quitting?” Jay asks.

  “Then it won’t matter if she tells Brenda or Don what we’re planning to do.”

  “But if we’re going to try to make a difference,” I say, “shouldn’t we do something sooner? Once Tanya’s actually been fired, isn’t it going to be harder to get them to reverse course?”

  “Too much loss of face,” Heather says, nodding.

  “Bearing in mind that none of this is going to work,” Jay says, “you have a point. So what should we do?”

  “In an ordinary organization,” Heather says, “we would bring our concerns to our supervisor.”

  “I can see it now,” Jay says. “Cathy sprouts a spine, goes and confronts Brenda.”

  “Even if it won’t do any good,” I say, “maybe we should follow the proper procedures.”

  I glance at Doug. He nods.

  “It might help us get Employment Insurance anyway,” Jay says.

  “Not if we quit,” Heather says.

  “They’ve approved EI for people who quit Dreamcatcher before. They’ve seen so many workers come and go from here ...”

  “What are the proper procedures?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an employees handbook.”

  “There’s one in the safe, vintage nineteen eighty something.”

  “Somebody was going to revise it a couple of years ago,” Jay says.

  Heather looks around. “So which lucky person is going to talk to Cathy?”

  Post-it notes rest like bright butterflies on wall-charts and calendars and piles of paper. At the edge of the desk, a tray of art supplies tilts off a heap of folders. Plastic glitter beads pool along the bottom lip.

  “Cathy, could I speak with you?”

  “Of course Meg, come on in.” She clears an inbox tray from the spare chair. “Have a seat. How are you doing?” She gazes at me with brown, concerned eyes. “I wanted to tell you how well you handled the ... situation the other night. The fight. And Danielle. Although,”—her chin comes up—“you and Jay should have called me when you knew Tanya wasn’t going to make it in.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “We should have. You just brought up one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you.”

  “Oh.” I don’t think people tell Cathy she’s right very often.

  “We, meaning Jay, Doug, Heather and I are concerned about rumours that Tanya is going to be fired. Is there any truth to them?”

  “Oh. Well.” Consternation crumples her broad face. “I’m afraid ... well, I can’t speak to rumours. Tanya did commit a serious breach of procedure.”

  “Have you given her a warning?”

  “I can’t comment on personnel issues.” She clamps her lips shut. She wants to chew one of them. Instead her left hand strays up to the ends of her hair. She looks about seven years old. I can see exactly how the other kids must have tormented her.

  “The other issue ...” I pause, letting the silence stretch. She twists a lock of hair around her forefinger. “The other issue we wanted to bring up is the need for an aftercare worker. What’s the use of getting people sober if we send them back into the same bad situations?”

  Cathy’s nodding, relieved. “I couldn’t agree with you more. I made some suggestions myself. The matter is under discussion. At the highest level.”

  I look at her to see if she’s joking but her face is utterly sincere.

  “Between us, I’ve been pushing hard to create the position.”

  “Re-create it,” I say.

  “Actually, this will be a different job description. But”—she puts a finger to the side of her nose and taps it—“I think I can promise it will be more helpful than what we had before.” She leans back, smiling.

  “Well. We’ll look forward to hearing the details,” I say. “Thanks, Cathy.”

  “At the highest level,” Heather says. “My Jesus, it’s a good thing it was you in there not me. Brenda and Johnny boy discussing at the highest level. Christ but that w
oman’s thick.”

  Usually I defend Cathy but it’s too easy to picture how Brenda controls her: here a little pat on the ego, there a sharp flick of her blood red fingernails. They aren’t literally blood red. She paints them a pinkish beige that blends in with the rest of her beige look. She’s not the sort of snake that advertises its venom.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Heather says.

  “Sorry. I was thinking about Brenda.”

  “Scary, eh?”

  “Mm. I think we should write her a letter, all sign it. Have it ready.”

  “I bet they’ll fire Tanya on Monday.”

  “So on Sunday night whoever’s on puts the letter in Brenda’s box. That way she’ll find it first thing.”

  Jay walks over to the schedule. “That would be the three of us and Laura.”

  “And for Monday night, Brenda, Cathy and Laura,” Heather says. “Maybe Brenda will think twice.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who’s going to write this letter?” Jay asks.

  “Excuse me?” A hoarse smoker’s voice. Jeanette. “Could I get my meds.”

  When I go back into the office Heather’s the only one there. She says, “What do you say to the two of us getting together to write the letter this weekend?”

  “If the others agree,” I say, surprised and yes, flattered. Cathy’s not the only weak ego around. “How’s Sunday morning?”

  “What time?”

  “Eleven. Want to come to my place? I’ll make you lunch.”

  “That would be nice.” Heather looks pleased.

  “Nothing fancy, just a sandwich.”

  “All the years I cooked for my kids, husband too when I had one,” she says, “I can’t be bothered to cook for just me.”

  “I never had kids so I don’t know what my excuse is. My last relationship, he liked to barbeque. Didn’t matter how cold it was. So that’s what we ate.”