Bishop's Road (14 page)

Maggie comes in then, to say that she wants to go and see her father and Judy has to come with her, right away. “Can't Maggs. These two fools got this tiny little woman all tied up and I want to see what happens next. Fine mess you've got us in now, Ruth.”

“For the love of God shut up Judy. I can't think with your tongue wagging. I guess the best thing is to find out who she is.”
She removes the scarf from Dome's face, telling her to be quiet, that they are not going to hurt her. Dorrie doesn't believe her for a minute, but now there are four of them staring at her and she's smart enough to know she should follow orders. “My name is Dorothy Blake and I came to get the dog for my boss.”

“Well, this is Ginny Mustard and Judy and Maggie and I'm Ruth. We're sorry that we had to tie you up but we've got this problem with the bones. Mrs. Miflin dug up her dead baby and Ginny Mustard has taken a liking to it. Made this room all nice and clean and sits up here rocking and singing. We're afraid that if anyone finds out about it there'll be trouble and the cops will come around and who knows what will happen. Ginny Mustard never had much to do before and now she's happy and we'd just as soon keep her that way. If we thought you wouldn't tell we'd be glad to let you leave but we're going to have to think about that for a while yet. Okay?”

“What the hell difference does she make?” demands Judy. “You're screwin' a friggin' cop. You think he's not going to find out? They've got noses like bloodhounds. You mark my words, Ruth. Any minute now the shit is gonna hit the fan.”

“Shut up Judy. So listen Dorothy, do you have your makeup with you? I'm going out tonight and I sure could use some of that lipstick you're wearing.”

“You people are nuts. Why should I let you wear my lip-stick? Besides it's not really your color. If you put some powder on top of it, it could work.”

Dorrie Blake has had few adventures in her life. Now that she thinks these crazies are not going to rape her or sell her into slavery, or cut her up into little pieces and cook her, she relaxes a little. “You can untie me, you know. It's not like I could get away with you crowd chasing after me. I'm really hungry. Do you think I can have something to eat. I get cranky when my blood sugar drops. If you like I can do something with your hair. A bit of gel
would get that frizz out.”

“Well okay then. Ginny Mustard have you got supper started yet? Judy you stay with Dorothy here while I take a quick shower. Should I dry my hair or leave it wet for the gel? I've never used it before.”

“Wet is best. We can blow it dry after.”

Maggie has her heart set on finding her father this evening. Gets a bit of a whine in her voice when she asks Judy again to please come with her.

“Let's go in the morning. It's been six years already. Another night isn't going to make that much difference. I don't feel much like doing anything right now if it's all the same to you. I'm going to my room.” And Maggie resigns herself to waiting. Sits on the floor. Stares at Dorrie until Ruth comes back to have her hair done.

Mrs. Miflin has been banging on things with her crutches for a good fifteen minutes and no one can be bothered to go see what she wants. Since the doctor checked her out and told her to get moving, that's about all she uses them for, other than the time she threw one through her window, just missing old Father Delaney as he was walking by. She won't even try them out - too many stairs - and Judy has given up lugging her around so she stays in her room and mopes. They had to tape a piece of cardboard over the broken glass because she won't have anyone in to fix it until the weather turns cold and the rain has made a soggy mess all over her carpet.

Usually it's Eve who answers Mrs. Miflin's demands but Eve's bones are cold today and she fell asleep in her chair, watching the ocean churn in the wind, thinking it's almost time to leave. It's not that anything hurts. Her heart beats as beautifully as it ever did. Her breath comes and goes, smoothly, surely as it always has. But the warmth is fading and the big striped afghan pulled to her chin is useless, can't retain what isn't there to begin with.

Judy lies on her bed and lets her anger subside until the sadness underneath can get a grip. Winds the music box over and over again, listens to the tinny sound until she starts to cry, such quiet small tears for one so bold.

Grammy Hagen gave her the music box and it was real pretty until Alfred ripped the ballerina off. And Mike threw it in a bucket of water and she couldn't get it dried properly before the rust set in. Judy never had very many nice things and the box was special. When Grammy Hagen died her mother wouldn't let Judy go to the funeral. Made her stay home by herself and she just cried and listened to the song over and over for about two hours until she went to the corner store and ripped off a few chocolate bars to feel better.

And this is just the kind of day that makes a person remember things they'd rather forget. All rainy and windy, not a break anywhere. Is it summer still or have we stepped backwards into spring? There's a chill but it's early for fall. Whatever. Things have been a little too comfortable around here lately if you don't count Mrs. Miflin's woes. The gods are jealous, or bored perhaps, their palms itching with the urge to smack someone up side the head.

Judy would go out and steal something if the weather weren't so damned lousy. Instead she makes her way to Eve, dear Eve, and sits on the floor by her chair, with her head practically in the old woman's lap, hoping she'll reach out and stroke her hair like she did before. Of course, Eve does but is silent, barely says hello and Judy asks what's wrong. “It's almost time for me to go, sweetheart. I can feel it in my bones. I won't be able to stay much longer.”

“What are you talking about. Eve? Where are you going? It's pissing down rain out there. Not fit for a dog. You can't go out in this. You'll catch your death.”

Eve smiles. “That's where I'm going. I am dying.”

“Don't be so foolish Eve,” says Judy, suddenly afraid. “You're not sick. You got to be sick to die, Eve. Everybody knows that. Don't talk crazy. If you up and die now who's going to look after the garden? I don't know how to grow things. And you were going to help me name the kittens. That's not fair Eve, to say things like that just when we're having such a good time around here.” And she runs to the door. Hollers for Ruth to come quick. Eve is dying.

Ruth's hair is only halfway dry but she and Dorrie hurry to Judy. “What are you talking about? Eve looks fine to me. You're okay, aren't you Eve?”

Eve looks up. “You're so pretty, Ruth. Are you going out with that nice Patrick again?”

Ruth smiles. “Yes. In about an hour. What's the matter?”

“I'm going to die and I was just telling Judy. I hate to go but it's almost time. Who's this, then?” she asks of Dorrie, and Ruth makes introductions.

Judy is crying again but louder than she did earlier. Big tears all over her face and she wipes her nose with the tail of her tee-shirt.

Ruth says, “It's okay Judy. When you gotta go you gotta go. Except in Eve's case she'll be back soon. Right Eve? Tell Judy how many times you've lived already. God. Must be dozens. Eve is the original. Mother of us all. It's called reincarnation, Judy. Mrs. Miflin won't let Eve talk about it anymore, it being ungodly and all, but she used to tell us about her other lives and all those sons she had who kept on killing each other. Tell Judy that you'll be back one of these days, Eve.”

“I hope I will but it's different this time. I'm really tired. Oh I will miss this place. It's so lovely. So many beautiful things I've seen. And the people. I really enjoyed the people.”

Judy screams, “You guys are freaking me out. What is she talking about? You can't come back if you're dead.”

“Sure you can,” says Ruth. “Why not? You just show up as someone else and pick up where you left off. That's what the Buddhists believe.”

“What the fuck is a Buddhist? Do you really think that could happen? Do you think my Grammy could come back? I really liked her a lot. She was nice to me sometimes. Used to come over when Mom was out of it and she'd take me to her place for the night. And that time Mom was in the hospital I stayed with her a full month and she never once let my brothers pound on me. I'd like it if she came back.”

“But she wouldn't be your Grammy. She'd be someone else and you wouldn't know her.”

“Well, that sucks. What's the point of people coming back if they got to be someone else?”

“I don't know. I think I have a book about it somewhere. I'll let you read it if you promise to give it back when you're finished. Eve, do you need to go to the hospital?”

“Oh no. I'll be here for a little while yet. I just wanted to prepare Judy for my passing. She's so young and she hurts so much.”

“I don't friggin' hurt. I just can't stand all this talk about dying, is all. And coming back. You're all crazy. And we sure as hell don't need any more bodies around here. Oops.”

But Dorrie doesn't hear plural. Is wondering how much a room in this house would cost, supposing, of course, that they don't decide to keep her locked up here but if that's the case she probably won't have to pay anything at all. Dorrie has plenty of friends but none of them interesting. Mostly hold-overs from secretarial school where she never wanted to go in the first place but her parents wouldn't pay for anything else. She had her heart set on being a flight attendant but she was too short. Some of the girls she grew up with went off to universities to be teachers and doctors, but on Dorrie's side of the tracks that was considered a
waste of money and you couldn't go wrong with typing. Dorrie hates typing. Even on her fancy computer. She's thirty years old. Has given up hope of ever finding a man, though she's still pretty and keeps her hair as blond as it ever was but she's five foot nothing in two inch heels and most of the fellows she meets treat her like a six-year-old. And she never wanted children first nor last after looking out for brothers and sisters since she could walk. Her life revolves around working for that jerk, Howard James, and saving money for her old age. She visits her parents now and then, listens to them whine about what so and so said to what's his name, goes out with “the girls” every other Wednesday for a couple of drinks. Listens to them go on and on about their homes and husbands and kids until she could scream. Dorrie is sick of listening.

In her spare time she makes clothes for the Barbie dolls she has been collecting since she was seven years old. Her favorite is dressed like Scarlet O'Hara. She wonders if Ruth will let her go to her apartment and get them and the pretty glass cases that she polishes once a week. She wants to live here. These women don't have shoes on, half of them, and she'd like to go barefoot now and then.

By the time Patrick arrives for Ruth dinner is just about over and Dorrie's fate decided. She has called Howard James and left a message saying that she can't find the dog, it's not at Mrs. Miflin's house, and she is never coming back to his office again. Don't bother to call because she doesn't want to talk to him. She told her parents and a few of her friends that she is leaving her apartment tonight. The others are pleased that Dorrie is moving in, but secretly agree that she must never go to the basement, concoct a story about rats so big and hungry they'd eat the face off you in a minute.

It's not like Dorrie to do anything rash and spontaneous. She has always been old reliable, the first one to sell tickets to the
church raffle, or go door to door collecting for the Heart Foundation and Cancer Research. Her friends are burning up the telephone wires all over town wondering what the heck has gotten into her.

Mrs. Miflin is tickled pink when she finds she has a new boarder, almost gushes as she accepts Dome's cheques, tells her she can have any room in the house and hurries Ginny Mustard off to make it up real nice. Says the Joyful Mysteries. Sings a few rounds of Amazing Grace before nodding off.

Dorrie has a car. Judy volunteers to go with her to gather her things. Almost weeps when she sees the pretty clothes, about six sizes too small to borrow. Is fascinated by the Barbie collection. Judy never had a doll of her own that survived more than two days of her brothers' abuse, no matter how clever her hiding places. She and Dorrie dismantle the shelves, wrap the dolls in pink tissue paper and special boxes. Three trips later and it's almost midnight, they are finished, a note on Dorrie's door to tell the landlord he can keep the furniture, she's out of there, after ten years of being his star tenant, the cleanest, quietest he's ever known. He'll be grumpy for days.

Ruth is home at a civil hour tonight. She and Patrick are too tired to do much of anything, fell asleep at the movie, barely spoke, held hands. They arrive as Judy and Dorrie are lugging the last of their loads into the house. Ruth wonders how the hell it's all going to fit, suggests that the dolls be given a room of their own since there are so many vacancies. They enlist the exhausted Patrick to help out and he stumbles back and forth over the stairs until Ruth takes pity and sends him on his way.

“Wait until Ginny Mustard gets a look at these dolls.” says Judy. “There must be a hundred of them. Did you ever see any-thing so pretty in your life, Ruth? And Dorrie's got little tiny dresses and boots and shoes for all of them to change into. Even underwear. And catalogues if she wants to buy more. I never saw
anything so nice before. And she's got dresses for herself to match the little ones exactly. She made them on her sewing machine.”

Ruth agrees that yes they're nice enough and goes to bed. Sleeps through the sounds of construction as Dorrie puts her shelves together, scrubs the Barbie room spotless and arranges the dolls just like they were at the old place, thinks about going out tomorrow for a nice piece of lacy fabric to make new curtains. Maybe some paper for the dingy walls. Perhaps she'll even buy a starter Barbie for Judy so she can begin her own collection. Dorrie has never met anyone who didn't mock her passion, didn't ask if she wasn't just a bit old to be playing with dolls, imply she had shit for brains, wasting good money on toys, what's wrong with you Dorrie?