The Rain Barrel Baby (8 page)

1963

The hardest thing about the other kids being so mean to her is the part when she goes home afterwards and her mother gives her that look. The one that says: You’re pathetic. Useless. Can’t you stand up to these bullies? Some of them aren’t much bigger than you for Christ’s sake!

She doesn’t cry anymore. It is the only thing she can fight back with. No tears. The tall bony one doesn’t like that. He pushes her some to get the results that his name calling can’t.

Ivy’s go-ot cooties! Ivy’s go-ot cooties!

Her eyes stay dry and not a sound escapes her throat as she lies face down on the dirt of the baseball diamond.

She knows she can hang on. For what, she’s not sure, but there must be something for her somewhere.

Her knees sting. There are pebbles in her wounds. They pushed her down this time and pulled her hair. Her shorts are ripped. She can’t bear to think about the next time.

Ivy’s dad’s in he-ell! Ivy’s dad’s in he-ell!

Ivy lies with her face in the dirt till darkness enfolds her. No one comes. Her knees hurt but nothing is ruined. The sound of her own breath comforts her.

Why did he say that about her dad? Ivy never knew her dad. He died before she was born.

Ivy’s dad’s in hell, he said. Someone told him to shut up, to leave her dad out of it.

Ivy rises to her knees, then to her feet, and walks slowly across the baseball park. She passes the United Church with its tall pointed steeple. If only there was someone to hang around with, someone to be her friend. Then maybe they would leave her alone. But no one wants to be friends with her. What is it about her?

There is no one to tell. Telling her mother doesn’t work. It just makes it worse. Her mother has her solitaire to play and her gin to drink.

And Wilf doesn’t want to know. He is so old he’s not like a brother at all. She misses Ray so much her whole body aches. She wishes it could have been her that died. Or both of them. That would be the best of all.

She counts the stars that begin to show themselves in the night sky. She thinks she has them all and then discovers another patch winking at her from the south and then from directly over her head. Spinning in circles in the middle of the schoolyard she tries to keep up with the stars. She can’t, of course, and that’s when the tears finally come.

At home she asks her mum why anyone would say that about her dad, that he was in hell.

“He’s not in hell,” says her mum. “That’s a rotten thing to say. Those kids don’t know nothin’. Your dad was sick, was what he was.”

“Sick how?”

“He had spells.”

“What do you mean? What kind of spells?”

“Just spells, okay? Leave me alone, Ivy.”

Ivy soaps up a face cloth and gently washes her knees and applies iodine. She crawls into bed and finds a place at the back of one of Ray’s old scribblers to try and write away her confusion and her hurt — to try and make sense of it.

There was a new boy tonight. He hung back though, didn’t even pretend to want to join in. He was the one who told the bony guy to shut up about her dad. She knows she should be grateful for this, but she isn’t. What difference does it make?

The Present

Ivy walked toward the police station where Frank Foote worked.

The names and faces of the boys were hotly branded into the folds of her memory. She could manage not to think about them sometimes. Whole years had gone by without her giving them a thought.

When she first left home, she poured all her energies into staying alive. She had enlisted Wilf’s help, the brother who wasn’t Ray. The brother who wasn’t dead. He paid two months’ rent for her on a furnished room on Spence Street with a bathroom down the hall. It had seemed like heaven to Ivy — a place of her own. She wasn’t quite sixteen, so she lied about her age. The lie came easily.

She found a waitressing job for the summer at the Salisbury House on West Broadway.

In the fall Wilf paid for a secretarial course at Success Commercial College. He knew it was a good investment. Ivy never let anyone down.

This was a good period in Ivy’s life. She worked part time at the restaurant and learned how to type fifty-five words a minute.

She worked on herself as well: her physical appearance, the way she presented herself, even the way she talked. Her smooth hair, her flawless makeup, a blouse that was never untucked — these things helped her squash down the past, the place she had come from. She worked hard at pushing the images back. Back and back.

She imagined a different background for herself, one that was more acceptable — with a father and even a sister that she confided in. When she pictured the dad he always looked like Robert Young on
Father Knows Best
. Perfect. The sister was Patty Duke.

She didn’t have to be the old Ivy anymore. She could be a brand new one who could do or think anything. And best of all, not think at all about certain things. Like her mother. And the boys.

She thought of the boys now, though, saw them in her mind’s eye: Duane Simkin, black-hearted Duane; Dwight Simkin, his smelly brother; fat Ronnie Fowler; and Wim Winston.

And then, separate from the rest in a little picture frame all his own: Frank Foote.

Detective Sergeant Staples knocked on Frank’s office door and stuck his head in.

“There’s someone here to see you, sir.”

Frank stuffed hanks of wool inside his middle drawer.

“Who is it? I was just thinking of leaving for lunch. Can’t someone else see this person?”

He wanted to tell Fred about the gift his daughter gave him, but didn’t suppose he would.

“She asked for you in particular.”

“Who? Who is it, Fred?” Frank saw him noticing the wool.

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me her name but she seems very nice.”

“Good grief. Okay, tell her to come in, but I’ve only got a minute or two.”

“Right, sir.”

“Fred?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you please try and not call me ‘sir’?”

“I’ll try, Sss. Sorry. It’s hard for me for some reason. I didn’t forget that you asked me before. It’s just that I find it so damn hard. But I’ll try.”

Fred looked troubled and Frank regretted having spoken.

“Don’t worry, Fred. It’s not important. Send in whoever the heck it is wants to see me and only me.”

“You bet, Fffrank.”

“All right, Fred!”

She smelled edible as she breezed into his office. It brought to mind cakes and summer kitchens. And he was glad now that he had taken the time to see this striking woman.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Hello, Frank.” She held out her gloved hand and he took it. Soft gloves, hard grip.

“Ivy. Ivy Grace,” she said.

“How do you do?”

“You don’t remember me, then.” She spoke in a low voice, carefully modulated. It sounded worked on, trained.

Frank didn’t have a clue. He peered at her closely, the thick dark hair, the expressionless face and the length of her, hidden inside a long camel coat. He looked back to her eyes but he had never seen such eyes. No clues there.

“No. I’m sorry.” He had a feeling now that something big was happening. Big and bad. But he had no idea what.

“I used to be Ivy Srutwa.” She laughed, just a heh! in her throat.

“Still am, I guess,” she said, “though I’ve spent a long time trying to forget it.”

Frank’s scalp prickled.

“Ivy. Good God, yes! I remember you. Of course I do. It’s just, well…you look so different. Great, mind you! Different and great.”

Heartiness was all Frank could manage. A sick feeling welled up inside of him at the thought of Ivy Srutwa. At the picture of her lying in the penalty box with the stringy mess of the boys clinging to her face and hair.

“It’s okay, Frank. Don’t look so stricken. I remember, you know. I remember that you were the nice one. It’s not the type of thing you forget.”

“Ivy, I…”

“Frank, don’t talk. Let me tell you why I’m here.”

Frank was raising a stink, literally. He hoped he was far enough away from her that she wouldn’t notice the smell of fear coming from his body and clothes. It happened in a second, along with the perspiration pouring down his face.

He fumbled in his pocket for the cotton handkerchief that had once belonged to his father. His mum had given it to him along with several others during the confusing week following his dad’s death. She had thrown shoes and pipes and other useless things his way, but the handkerchiefs he had kept. They had been stained and crumpled but Denise had spruced them up for him and it usually gave him pleasure to take one from his pocket instead of a Kleenex. But not now.

It’s odd, thought Frank, through the sweat of his panic, this woman must be almost as old as me. But she doesn’t have any of the usual stuff that a face gets after all those years of living. No laugh lines, no frown lines, no worry lines. Like Jane Mallet.

But Frank knew that this was a surgical smoothness. She was beautiful, no doubt about that, but it was an unreal beauty, like those Elizabeth Taylor perfume ads. Frank felt doomed.

“Please sit down, Ivy. Forgive me. Why are you here?”

A feeling nudged at information buried deep in Frank’s brain. An image of the rain barrel baby flashed behind his eyes.

She didn’t sit but walked slowly to the window. Frank circled round the desk, staying as far from her as he could. When she turned back to him anyone looking at the scene would have thought it was her office and he was the nervous visitor. Even with her coat and gloves. And hat. Good God, she was wearing a hat! He hadn’t noticed it at first. Her hair was black and so was the hat, but it was there all right, perched on the back of her head, a small pillbox, of the type women wore in the sixties when they wanted to be Jackie Kennedy.

“I want to ask a favour,” she said.

A chill ran up Frank’s back and mingled with the sweat.

“Okay. Is it a…uh…police matter?” he asked.

And waited for an answer.

He remembered that he had lent one of his dad’s handkerchiefs to Greta Bower and he hoped that she would return it to him without his having to ask.

“Dad, can we get a dog?”

Emma sat at the kitchen table with Frank and Gus. She had invited Gus for lunch as a surprise for her dad’s birthday. Not much of a surprise really; they saw Gus pretty much every day. But it pleased both men and they ate enthusiastically. They had Emma’s specialty: asparagus wrapped in bread, held together with toothpicks, then grilled and covered with hot mushroom soup. It was “Hot-dog Day” at Garth and Sadie’s school and neither of them liked asparagus, so it worked out great.

They were finishing off with cocoa, complete with marshmallows on top.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Emma,” Frank said. “A dog is quite a bit of work, you know.”

“I was thinking of a Labrador puppy. I’ve never met a Lab that wasn’t extra specially nice. I’d train him and take him for walks and give him baths and feed him and do all the stuff that has to be done. I’d take him to the vet and pick up after him and teach him tricks.”

“What about Hugh?” Frank reached over to where the cat lay upside down in Gus’ arms and stroked his soft little belly. “He’s a pretty good pet, isn’t he?”

“Well, yeah. He’s great. I love Hugh. I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a dog too. And it would be company for Hugh when no one’s home.”

“Oh, Emma.” Frank sighed and looked at Gus, who busied himself neutrally with Hugh’s ears.

“I can’t walk Hugh.” Emma began stacking their dirty dishes by the sink. Not a speck of food was left on anyone’s plate.

“Great lunch, Emma. Thank you,” Gus said.

“Yeah, thanks, Em. It was a real treat.” Frank drank the last of his cocoa. “That oughta do me till supper.”

“You’re welcome. It was good, wasn’t it?”

Emma remembered the sinister car from the other morning and thought how much better she would feel if she had a good dog bounding along beside her.

“A dog would be able to go places with me, accompany me,” she said.

“You could try walking Hugh,” Frank suggested. “He might let you.”

Gus laughed. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Not this little rascal.” He winked at Emma.

“I saw that, Gus,” Frank said. “Don’t you two go ganging up on me now.” He pushed out his chair and took his empty mug to the sink. “I mean it.”

“It would be protection for me on my paper route.”

Frank turned to face his daughter. “Has someone been bothering you, Em?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise me, now.”

“There’s nothing, Dad. Really.”

Nothing I wouldn’t feel stupid telling about anyway, Emma thought. There was a car on the street and it moved slowly. Yeah, and? That’s it. End of story.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if anything ever scares you on your route or anywhere else, Emma.”

“I promise! Jeez.”

“Okay. Now this dog business. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying, can we leave it for a bit? Like till things get straightened away with your mum and work settles down a little. I’ve got a couple of kind of troublesome cases on the go right now.”

Emma muttered something.

“Pardon?” Frank asked.

“Things are never gonna be straightened away with Denise.”

“Since when do you call your mother Denise?”

“Since right now, I guess. I don’t know.”

I shouldn’t have asked him on his birthday, Emma thought, on her way back to school. It was tricky of me even though I didn’t plan it and didn’t mean it to be. I wanted lunch to be perfect and I ruined it by giving him another worry.

Denise lay on top of her taut hospital sheets and daydreamed about her young self with Frank. Daydreamed about her own husband. One hot Winnipeg summer she had rented an apartment above a grocery store in the posh part of town. It was her first summer with Frank.

She was waiting tables and Frank was already a cop. They were crazy about each other. Wim had come around at that time and tried to get her to go with him again. Maybe he was even married by then. Denise closed her eyes against the memory of herself pushing Wim so hard out the door that he fell down the first flight of stairs to the second-storey landing.

An hour before, Frank had held her on that same landing. They had always found it so hard to leave each other.

Please don’t give up on me, Frank, she prayed now. Please don’t stop wanting me.

She had lost track of who didn’t want to touch whom.

He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her back then.

“Frank, for goodness’ sake,” she would say when she felt his hand under her dress as they sat drinking outside at the restaurant where she worked. They had giggled like fools there on the patio next to the mock orange blossoms.

He had seemed solid to her and she wanted him to pass some of that along to her.

If only I knew how to love him properly, she thought now. If only I were someone else — a motherly sort of person — baking banana bread with a smile on my face and laughing over the back fence. Oh God. Denise groaned out loud. I’m never going to be up to raising three children, all at once. How did I let this happen?

Wim Winston walked onto the ward and pulled the curtain around her bed. He kissed her on the mouth and she said, “Wim, for Christ’s sake.”

“Let’s go for a walk.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. He didn’t seem to question that she was his for the taking.

Denise elbowed him roughly and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Leave me alone, Wim.”

“Come on, Denise. Let’s go.”

“Are you supposed to even be here?”

“I can be anywhere I want to be.”

He touched her again, this time on the inside of her thigh. Just a quick touch. She slapped him this time.

He laughed.

“If you don’t go away right now, I’m going to start screaming,” she said.

“Okay, okay, take it easy.” He pulled the curtain back and vanished as quickly as he came.

Denise wondered if anything in life was for real. Were all the people that ran things as ridiculous as Wim Winston? In a way she hoped so and in another way it infuriated her because she had missed out on such a giant joke for so long.

Imagine him behaving that way right in the middle of a hospital ward!

She recalled there being something of the exhibitionist in Wim back when they had carried on together. In fact, that was probably part of what had attracted her to him. And there was something coiled and dangerous in Wim.

Once, fully clothed and standing, he had fucked her against the filthy outside wall of a downtown hotel. The Royal Albert Arms. It had been fun. Her feet had climbed the opposite wall till she was wedged between two buildings.

“Does that feel good?” He had gripped her wrists and spread her arms wide against the filthy bricks, like a scrunched up sideways Jesus Christ.

“Does it feel good when I fuck you?” he had asked.

She had known better even then than to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

And she felt a small amount of pride in herself now at the memory.