Algoma (20 page)

“Next up is an antique baby scale, hospital grade. Maybe your grandmother or mother were weighed on it,” said the auctioneer in his gravely voice.

Josie sat forward in one of the metal folding chairs that had been set out for people attending the auction. The flimsy chair creaked every time she moved. It punctuated each breath with a squeak.

“It can weigh babies. It can weigh fruit. It can weigh that ten-pound pickerel you landed and tell you it’s only seven pounds. Bidding starts at ten dollars. Ten dollars.”

The crowd laughed. Josie raised her blank recipe card.

“We have ten dollars. Do we have twenty? Twenty dollars for this white enamel baby scale that weighed your grandmother. Maybe your grandmother’s grandmother.”

An elderly woman who could very well have been weighed on the scale herself shakily raised her card. Josie found herself in a bidding war with one of the oldest people in town. She was sure that at least half the people in Le Pin were related to the woman in some way.

“Twenty dollars. Do we have thirty? Thirty? Know the weight of everything in your home, including your wife. Well, at least her foot.”

A spattering of laughter from the men.

Josie raised her card again. She pictured the baby scale in Algoma’s newly painted nursery. Something old, something new. Josie had never attended a wedding, but was sure the adage was appropriate for babies. It would be the perfect gift, something Algoma might keep forever.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

The bidding for the scale topped out at fifty dollars. Josie tucked the recipe card into her back pocket. She only had a twenty dollar bill on her, but she wasn’t worried. Billy, the sixty-something auctioneer, had just complained to a mutual friend that his apartment was so damp the covers of his books were starting to curl. He worried that there was mould in the walls and under his carpet, a toxic black bloom beneath his mattress. Josie would trade Billy the extra dehumidifier she had at the store for the scale. A more than fair trade. At first she’d felt bad about taking the scale from the old woman, but it became apparent that the woman was bidding indiscriminately on everything, but not high enough to actually win anything, pulling out at the final moments. It was the thrill of raising her card, making other people sweat with no risk. She probably went home to dinners of canned vegetables and powdered milk. Maybe she could use the recliner that came into the shop last week, Josie thought guiltily. The woman’s hands looked like gnarled driftwood.

Josie shook her head and focused on the bidding. Billy’s auctions were her favourite because they were by invitation only. Someone had to die or move away before a new person was invited in. She’d never asked who she’d replaced. After the owner of PlasiTech cut work down to only the day shift, Billy had approached him to use the space one night a month. The owner had agreed and in turn he received the pick of the lot from every third auction held. While a plastics factory was not the ideal space for the task—there was little room to set up chairs and it always smelled like burnt chemicals—people enjoyed the novelty, being so close to the sometimes dangerous machinery. Newcomers were always shown the press where David Ypres had lost two fingers on his left hand. People who knew him argued whether he played his guitar better or worse since the accident. It was an even split.

“Next up is a case of top-shelf red wine. The previous owner was waiting for the perfect occasion to drink it and now he’s dead,” Billy hollered. “Twenty-four bottles of Merlot for your special occasion. Bidding will start at one hundred dollars.”

Josie looked at the floor around her. It was covered in hardened white dollops of plastic that looked like melted ice cream. Her forehead was beaded in sweat. Even when the machines were turned off, the place was unbearably hot, which meant the bidding was fast, reckless. She was sure that Billy turned up the heat before each auction for that very reason.

“We have one hundred dollars. Do I have one fifty?”

There were more than fifty people at this month’s auction, lured by the promise of “fresh” goods from a newly acquired estate, everything from boxes of personal family photos to a drawer full of mixed cutlery, silver, and stainless steel. Old televisions and an ammunition box. A quilt. Six coolers. A war medal. A brand new fridge.

“Two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. Do I have two hundred and fifty dollars for the most special moment of your life? Just don’t die first.”

Josie wondered if she should leave to retrieve the dehumidifier while the auction was still going on. Maybe drop off the recliner at the old woman’s house. She could be back in thirty minutes flat. Maybe Algoma was still at The Shop. She was working longer and longer hours lately now that Simon was around to watch Ferd every day.

“Three hundred dollars to the man with the great palate in the blue sneakers at the front.”

The man pumped his arms in the air and woofed, his face red and bobbing like a buoy in rough seas. “Drinks at my place afterward,” he yelled. “It’s my good-goddamned birthday!” People cheered.

Billy allowed his assistant, the eldest of his sixteen grandchildren, to remove the crate of wine from the display table.

“And the final item of the evening folks will solve all of your problems,” he said in a low, serious voice befitting a church.

Billy’s grandson Scott, a reedy twenty-something with prematurely grey hair, had a difficult time lifting the item up onto the table even though it didn’t look heavy. The metal detector looked homemade—part computer, part vacuum. Josie’s stomach lurched. She lifted her card.

“Hold your horses, Jo. I haven’t even started the bidding yet,” Billy chuckled, then leaned over and gave into a coughing fit.

Josie continued to hold her recipe card in the air. “Fifty bucks,” she said.

Billy wiped his mouth and waved his hands over top of the metal detector like he was a magician. “We have fifty beans for this contraption. What have you lost lately? How much is it worth to you to get it back? Better yet, what are you going to lose next?”

“It’s beautiful, Josie. Where did you get it?” Algoma traced the white porcelain-coated edge of the baby scale. The scale face was so large she first mistook it for a clock. The time: high noon. Or midnight.

Josie crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back against the counter. “A guy,” she said noncommittally.

Algoma grinned. “Who died and what do I owe you?”

“You pay me back every day by staying,” Josie said. “In all this time, you’re the only one who hasn’t quit. See that girl over there?” Josie pointed at the stout girl who stood behind the cash register.

Algoma nodded.

“I don’t even know her last name. When did she start? Did you hire her?”

“Nora. Her name is Nora Heriot. You hired her a week ago. She’s your neighbour’s kid. Nice try.”

“You stop trying to keep track when they keep leaving,” Josie said. “Can’t we just give them all the same name? The illusion of consistency?”

Algoma held the scale in front of her and pressed it up against the bottom of her belly. “What does it say?”

Josie leaned down to read the needle.

“Well, what does it say? Are you going blind or something?”

“Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.”

Algoma pushed Josie’s head away. “Liar,” she said, laughing.

Josie stood up, but her face had gone from relaxed to troubled. “What are you going to do, Al?”

“Today? I’m going to sort the bags and wash and tag the stuff that came in on the weekend. Maybe clean the kitchen, too. I—”

“I mean when the baby comes. How are you going to do it? Two kids.”

“I’ve had two kids before, if you haven’t forgotten,” Algoma said, more caustically than she’d meant to. “You mean how am I going to do it alone, right?” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Josie muttered. She lifted her head slowly, but only high enough that Algoma could see her eyes. “I’m just saying that if there comes a time that you need more—more help, more space—I could help. The farm, it’s big. Ferd would have all the space in the world. And you. The baby. And I could help. I’m just saying.”

Algoma paused, then embraced her boss as she would Cen or Port, tightly and with utter abandon. She held on to Josie like the last piece of wood in a sinking boat, releasing her at the last moment.

______________

6:52 a.m. 19°C. Wind SE, light.
Open tool box on the kitchen table.

“You don’t have to do that, Simon,” Algoma said.

Simon stood at the sink, washing the dishes from the night before. “Just eat your breakfast and be thankful,” he laughed. “I don’t do this for everyone.”

“Just people who are housing and feeding you?” Algoma joked.

“Exactly, so never.”

“Then carry on, kind sir.”

Since his arrival, Simon had been cleaning non-stop. The other day, Algoma had returned home from work to find him scrubbing the baseboards. “You really need to get out more,” she’d said. And it was true: he spent all his waking hours indoors either cleaning, watching television, or watching Ferd while she was at work. She was glad, at least for the time being, to relieve her sisters of their babysitting duties. The only time that Simon left the house was before dinner; he walked two blocks to the corner store to buy a pack of cigarettes and returned immediately. While he cooked most meals, he refused to go to the grocery store. “Bad back,” he’d said. “Those bags would do me in.”

“How’s your breakfast?” Simon asked, looking over his shoulder.

Algoma forked the last piece of French toast onto her plate. “Great.” She enjoyed having someone help with the daily cooking and cleaning. Gaetan had been diligent with all matters outside the house—the roof, the lawn, trimming the trees—but she’d never seen him wash a dish or put in a load of laundry. With Simon around, her work was halved and she even found some time for herself. She also benefited from the adult conversation in the evenings that she’d been missing since Gaetan had left. For the first time in months, she felt some control over her life, even if it was by giving someone else part of it.

“Coming home after work?” Simon asked.

Algoma nodded. “But I’m having lunch with my sisters today—Bay and Port.”

Simon grunted. A dish he’d been drying slipped and clattered onto the counter, but didn’t break.

“What’s your problem with Bay? You’ve never liked her, not even in the beginning.” Algoma thought back to several particularly bad arguments Simon and Bay had had early on.

Simon mumbled something.

“Sorry, what was that?” Algoma said.

“I said her motives are flawed. Always have been.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly that.”

Algoma picked up her empty plate, walked over, and put it on the counter. “Any luck looking for work?”

“Your pipes are leaking,” he said, pointing to a thin stream of water dripping from the cupboards beneath the sink. “That’s my job today.”

______________

11:43 a.m. 21°C. Wind SE, light.
Pink soap dripping out of the soap dispenser.

The design of the bathroom did not make sense. It only had three walls; the sink and toilet were installed at the wide base of the triangle, the door at the narrow end of the room. The door barely opened enough to let someone through, let alone someone who was pregnant. Algoma didn’t know how the new shop had passed code. It seemed everyone in town—at every level—had owed Josie a favour that she’d collected upon.

Another month, Algoma thought, looking at her belly, and she would not be able to use the bathroom at all. She dug into her purse and pulled out an old tube of lipstick. Coral. Weddings, funerals, and meeting up with Bay were the only times she ever wore lipstick. She dragged the oily stick across her lips and pressed them together. She felt like a teenager trying on her mother’s make-up. Someone knocked on the door.

“In a minute,” she yelled over her shoulder.

She could barely turn around in the washroom and managed to knock her elbow on the hand dryer when she tried.

“Shit,” she said and held her elbow protectively.

Algoma prayed silently for a small baby. Five pounds would be good. She pictured a small rump roast on a raised bed of halved onions, sliced carrots, and whole mushrooms. She was hungry. Bay had better not be late. She ran her hands through her hair, dragging her fingers through the tangle. After another several minutes of primping and two more knocks at the door, she surrendered her looks. There was nothing else that could be done.

Waiting in the back room for her sister to show up, Algoma noticed the hem on her skirt had let out in the back. The skirt hung significantly lower in the back than in the front. That wouldn’t do, not with her sister. She dug into her purse for a safety pin, dragging her fingers along the worn leather for the small tongue of metal.

“Lose something?”

Startled, Algoma accidentally pierced her finger on the safety pin she had been looking for. “You’re early,” she said, sucking on her finger and tasting blood.

“Work was slow,” Bay said. “Thought I’d drop by—you know, see if you were ready.”

Algoma tried to pin the back of her skirt, but she couldn’t pull it around to the front far enough.

“Here, let me get that so we can get going,” Bay offered in a way that wasn’t a choice. “We need to pick up Port along the way.” She gracefully crouched down in her tight pencil skirt and deftly pinned the hem. She pulled a second safety pin out of her own purse and preemptively pinned the front of Algoma’s skirt. “There. That’ll stay for the afternoon, but you need a seamstress.”

“Should we get going?” Algoma said. The skirt was pinned much shorter than she would have liked, but she didn’t say anything to Bay. Algoma looked down at the forest above her knees. She’d forgotten to shave.

The day was bright, sunlit in a way that sharpened the edges of everything. Algoma struggled to get out of the car with a modicum of grace, Bay watching her every move. When it became apparent that she needed a little help, Bay held out her hand and Algoma grabbed it.

“You’re huge. Bet you’re ready to be done with all this.”