Black Rabbit and Other Stories (18 page)

“You are very honest people,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“People in Niagara Falls are very honest.”

She almost warned him not to be too trusting of the locals, but maybe he was right after all. Most people she knew were decent. Maybe no saints and angels among them, but she hadn't met many compulsive liars or evil people in the Falls. A few rotten apples, of course. One day while she was visiting her mother in the cancer ward, a group of neighbourhood boys broke into her house. They stole her television, some jewelry, and ripped up the place. When she found out they lived around the corner—one of the sisters ratted them out— she felt sad, sad that these kids she thought she knew could be so malicious, so destructive. What if she or her mother had been home?

It smelled stale inside the booth. Irene opened a drawer and removed an aerosol can of air freshener. She pressed the nozzle and filled the space with a sickening reek of lavender. Now the booth smelled like a funeral home. As it was, dark clouds mounted in the western sky and the forecasted thunderstorm started banging its war drums. She hoped it would hold off until the deaf children completed their trip. She wondered if the man in the red blazer would stand near the rails and get soaked. Would the red of his jacket run? How awful that would be. The flimsy raincoats provided by the operators barely kept out the mist, let alone a real downpour.

A crack of lightning branching blue and electric from the sky sent a bunch of Italian tourists scurrying from the wicket back to their bus. The ensuing clap of thunder gave Irene such a start she almost fainted. She took a few deep breaths and unclenched her tight white hands. She suffered from high blood pressure, among other things, but refused to take medication for it. Another clap of thunder shook the booth. No one had been zapped on the Maid of the Mist, or so the operators claimed, citing a perfect safety record. The locals knew better. But why wreck the myth? It kept everyone eating and that was more important than getting a few facts straight. Lightning, not water, had been the culprit on more than one occasion, and those who knew that kept it to themselves.

The sky darkened. Raindrops spat down. Irene emptied the cash register and locked the money in a canvas security bag. She raised the CLOSED sign and exited the booth as the rain started pouring. Last time she tried to run she almost broke her hip. When she got to the staff room she was so drenched even her shoes squelched. Everyone had a little giggle about it, but they never went too far mocking Irene. They had seen her in pain over the years and would do nothing to hurt her. She laughed along with them, admitting that she moved like a turtle. No one there had anything to say about her weight; most of the gals were hefty, Irene not the biggest among them. Blame salt and sugar, twin balms for tedium: pizza, fried chicken, submarine sandwiches, burgers, fries, donuts, and chocolates someone was always selling for their kids. Right now they worked over bags of potato chips, crushing them with gusto. Fat Louie held a bag under Irene's nose but she craved a sweet. Fat Louie was the skinniest staff member. He loved the nickname. Joanna had given it to him. Joanna watched Irene dry her hair with paper towels.

“I've got a proper towel in my locker if you want to use it,” Joanna offered.

“That's okay, I'm almost dry.”

“You look like a drowned rat. Let me get the towel.”

“Okay, Joanna. Sure.”

Joanna had stolen her lunch from the staff refrigerator a couple of
times. At least, Irene suspected her. All she had to do was ask and she could have probably had what she wanted. But it wasn't about asking or not asking; it thrilled Joanna to get away with stuff like that, small potatoes, nothings. Now with the towel, she must have been up to something. Irene wondered if Joanna was going to ask a favour, maybe a shift switch. When Joanna returned she tossed Irene a hunter green towel that smelled of the dryer. Irene rubbed her hair with it and dried her face and hands. The towel felt lovely, its smell, its softness.

A clap of thunder provoked a few yelps.

“You think the boat's back yet?” Fat Louie asked.

“Will be soon.”

“It's really coming down.”

“Where's Connie?”

Connie, the shift supervisor, was probably scolding the kids in the supply shed for something or other. Irene didn't know why they kept hiring summer students. They saved on their wages but what a pain in the ass they could be. Connie, a decent person, had been pushed to the breaking point and the season was just hitting stride. Everyone wondered if she'd make it through the summer.

“So, Irene,” Joanna said, “anything exciting at the wicket today?”

Irene caught herself thinking about the man in the red blazer— was he wet now?—and Joanna sensed that something had happened.

“Come on, Irene, spill the beans.”

The others paused what they were doing and listened.

“Well,” Irene said, “just before the storm—and they're on the boat now—this man came in with some deaf kids. He was wearing a red blazer, really nice. Handsome, you know, tall.”

“He's with Toronto Tours?”

They were known for crimson gear and the company logo of
TT
. Irene shook her head. “He wasn't wearing a uniform. Just the jacket and regular black slacks. He didn't have a crest or a logo, or even a tour guide pass. Nothing. Just this tall guy and seven deaf children.”

“How do you know they were deaf?” Fat Louie asked.

“I saw them signing, dimwit. Anyway, just before the gates, the guy lights up a smoke.”

Joanna furled her dark brow and turned her lower lip out. Irene's story dissatisfied her, bent as she was on gorier details. But Irene could not summon words to express the discomfort she had felt, the disquiet, as she observed the man. The others were patient. Irene often took time to spit something out, but she was no trifler.

“I mean, it was strange, him smoking around those kids, that's all. And he didn't seem that interested in them. I didn't see him signing. He reminded me of this crooked man who used to work for my father.”

“How old were you back then?” Joanna asked Irene.

“He started for Daddy when I was twelve, and he stayed on for three years.” Irene blushed and covered her mouth.

“Did you have a crush on that crooked man?” Joanna asked.

“What are you talking about? I was a young girl.”

“You weren't that young, sister.” Joanna leaned closer. “So you didn't have a crush on him?”

Irene stared at Joanna for a moment, then burst out laughing. Smiling like a giant Cheshire cat, Joanna slowly turned to the other women and they all started laughing.

An hour later the rain abated. Irene finished off the shift feeling strange. Memories of Jacob Tate flooded back. Maybe she was too young for him at fourteen. But her body insisted otherwise and she listened to it. Back then sexual relations with a person under the age of sixteen constituted statutory rape, a charge Jacob dreaded. That's why he swore her to secrecy. Some nights he'd creep into her room or they'd sneak off to the barn or the stables for quickies. Irene's mother never suspected, but she was too boozed up on gin to notice anything. Her father had an inkling, but jealous and paranoid by nature, he would have been suspicious even if nothing was going on.

Before she met Jacob, Irene had never done anything remotely sexual. And he had not instigated the relationship. She had targeted him the minute she saw his broad shoulders. Indeed he expressed
surprise and, initially, reluctance to go ahead. But in the end, she won out. That was the way she saw it then. Maybe his reluctance had been a ruse and he had duped her, like he later duped her father. But what did that matter? She loved him and she loved it. She loved the sex and felt no shame about it then or now. He taught her things, how to touch him, how to touch herself, how to move in rhythm and breathe and open herself to the experience. More than anything she remembered his smell. She recalled the tobacco on his breath and his fingers, and how he stank of sweat sometimes—she never minded that. She cried for days when he departed without saying goodbye. She cried so much her father caught on and then he wanted to hunt Jacob down and kill him. But all that passed, the sadness, the fury. Memories of Jacob receded, her father died, life continued. Yet here she was reliving them again. She let herself drift into daydream. It was him. It was Jacob. He had returned for her . . .

But no. He would have laughed at her, if it was him. My God, Irene, you're a fat horse! And look how handsome I've remained after all these years! But what if it
had
been him with those children? She would have said, Nice to see you, Jacob. At least time has been kind to one of us. The booth smelled musky. She looked forward to getting home and soaking in a hot bath with a Pepsi and a magazine. She locked up and carried her money bag to the staff room where Connie took it.

“Slow day, eh?” Connie said. Darkness circled her eyes and her hair cried for fresh bleach.

“The storm scared everybody off.”

“Fired two of those brats today, Jody and that little creep Kyle. Caught them stealing candy from the snack bar. Hey, Joanna told me about some weirdo in a red blazer.”

“Joanna should mind her own business.”

“Well, at least let me in on it.”

Irene blushed. “Oh, it's nothing, Connie. That guy reminded me of someone.”

“The guy in the red blazer.”

“The guy in the red blazer. He was with a group of deaf children. It
seemed, I don't know, odd. He reminded me of this guy I used to know, but also something about him being with those kids didn't feel right.”

“Did you think of calling security?”

“No. I had no grounds for that. It was just . . . Connie, it's a long story, and I'll tell it to you tomorrow, promise. But right now I'm dead tired and I'm going home.”

Connie didn't press the issue. She squeezed Irene's shoulder and moved on to other business. Irene punched out and departed. When she got to her car in the staff lot by the old powerhouse her legs ached so badly she didn't think she could drive. She sat in the car for a few minutes until the pain subsided. She drove home, pit-stopping at a KFC for take-out.

Irene ate the chicken while she ran a bath. She couldn't believe how good it tasted, this food that was so bad for her. Then she eased into the tub with a bottle of Pepsi and a Soap Opera Digest. In the water her legs looked like the trunks of soft white trees. Her breasts ballooned above her thick waist and pushed out on her arms. Her nipples appeared darker than usual, almost purple. She had been with a man the week before, something she had put in a back drawer of her mind. She wasn't exactly proud of herself but didn't feel terrible either. The man, Tony, worked as a gardener for Niagara Parks. He was married with three children, a loser in every way, except that Irene turned him on. Flattered by his lust, she invited him over one day after work and they hit the sheets. She smiled as she recalled his wiry body, his horniness. She flipped through the magazine, unable to focus. The warm water eased her leg pains for the moment. She twitched her broad toes and thought she'd better get a pedicure.

Next day, before Irene opened the wicket, busloads of Japanese waited to board the first run. It was a beautiful morning; a massive rainbow arched over the Falls and the mist rose like a giant white genie into the blue sky. The Japanese tourists milled about in yellow Maid of the Mist raincoats. Irene printed out ticket after ticket until
Joanna arrived at ten to relieve her. A red silk kerchief adorned her hair. She was always a little out of uniform, and somehow got away with it. But Connie dreaded a showdown with the woman, and who could blame her?

“So Irene,” Joanna said, chewing a wad of cherry gum.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joanna frowned and stopped chewing. “Look, I'm sorry if I centred you out yesterday. My curiosity got the better of me. Anyway, accept my apology.”

Surprised by her contrition, Irene let a hand rest on her shoulder. “You know, Joanna—it doesn't matter. The guy reminded me of my first. Are you surprised I had a first?”

“Of course not, Irene. I think you're a handsome woman.”

“Handsome?”

After an awkward silence the two roared with laughter. Irene left the booth holding her stomach. She hadn't laughed like that for a while. In the crowded Table Rock food court, she purchased two cans of Pepsi and sat down at a table near the exit. She drank her first Pepsi in one go, and belched into her hand. Her sinuses rang. The food court buzzed with tourists and Parks employees but Irene recognized no one. Most of her colleagues took their breaks in the staff room. They loved to sit around gossiping and munching donuts or whatever else was around. Irene could only stomach so many of those conversations, their pettiness, their emptiness. She sipped her Pepsi and glanced at her watch. She had a few minutes left. She didn't want to be late or any good feelings Joanna had for her would be dashed. She was about to finish her Pepsi when a man in a red blazer asked if he could join her. She failed to respond for a moment, but snapped out of it in time to nod.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling with very white but black-traced teeth, the veneers failing to mask the dark. “Place is crowded.” He sat down and placed before him a lidded Styrofoam cup.

Heart pounding, Irene shrugged and almost giggled. What was this? She couldn't believe he was sitting right across from her. What were the odds?

He looked at her. “Forgive me, but have we met before?”

Irene smiled. “Yesterday. You were with the kids.”

He locked eyes with her and pointed his finger. “Of course. You sold us tickets for the Maid of the Mist. Quite a thrill that was.”

“Did you get caught in the storm?”

“Only the tail end. The lightning was brilliant. The children were delighted.”