Going Down Swinging (3 page)

Just have to get out of godforsaken Toronto; just have to get the cash together, that’s all. You can do that—got bus fare together for this trip, didn’t you?

The bus is pulling into a depot. Six-thirty in the morning. It’s supposed to be Montreal but it looks like nowhere. A gravel lot just off the highway. Christ. You wake Grace, her face is winced but she’s still pliable; lead her off the bus and into the station.

Place is deserted. Now, sit her down with the suitcase on a bench, go to the ticket guy and ask about the next bus to Saint John.

Newfoundland?
he asks.
Saint John not St. Johns
, you bark. He says not till
10:07 A.M. 10:07?
You say you were told
7:15
.
He looks at you, his French is better than his English and he’s disgusted with both of yours. He says he
don know who gived dat time at you, uh? but it not de true one—dix heures sept
. Screw dix heures sept—how ’bout sept heures quinze? You flop down beside your kid, tell her the story.
Now what
, she wants to know,
can we sleep here for a while?
Forget it. Liable to have some thief grab your bag or your kid—terrible things happen in bus stations. You stomp back to the ticket wicket, ask which way’s east. He raises his lids, just enough to get you in his pupils, then points.

The two of you start out, up the gravel hill to the road, you dragging the suitcase, Grace hobbling barefoot over the rocks carrying an overnighter.
Where’re your shoes?
She doesn’t know.
What do you mean you don’t know?
She thought you brought them.
You thought I brought them?
What kind of cockamamie excuse is that? You can’t keep track of everything, can’t even handle travel arrangements let alone someone else’s footwear.
You thought
, you say,
you thought. Well, you know what Thought did
… It’s the family retort to all assumptions made, and the family reply when an answer is requested: He planted an egg and thought he’d grow a chicken. Grace asks,
What?

He shit his pants
, you tell her and she nearly busts a gut. Ah, dirty jokes, they make it all a little brighter. She’s giggling and hopping and wincing over sharp rocks, and you kneel down and offer her a piggyback; her and her bag and your suitcase all dragging off your sickly pack-mule self as you lumber up the hill. Nearly twist your ankle again in those asinine boots. You’ll have to change before you get to your parents’. No point walking in looking like the Jezebel who ate New Brunswick.

At the highway, you drop your bag, let her slide down your back and off your bum. She wants to know,
What’re we doing?

We’re going to hitch ourselves a ride and blow this joint, than what
. She gets a sly smile on her face. She likes doing bad stuff sometimes, no telling when. You’ve got her missing school for this trip: today, Monday and Tuesday. And that was OK with her. Maybe because her teacher’s got her in with a little batch of geniuses, reading ahead of the others into grade 3—maybe she’s getting a swelled head, thinks a few days away from the dumbos won’t set her back much. You tell her not to tell her dad when she sees him.

Now stand there like this, hip out—provocative but not too sexy, or maybe the other way around; and hold your wee child’s hand. Who could say no? Thumb out … Whoosh, a single car careens on by, not even a glance—what was he, a child-hating queer?

Don’t despair, look pleasant but with a touch of ennui … Not another car in sight, not going in this direction. Grace’s smile is fading, she looks blue again.
Sing me a song, old thing
, you tell her. She says she doesn’t know what to sing. May as well go for the cheap laugh again.
I know one. Wanna hear a dirty one? Us kids used to sing this when we were about your age
. You tap your toe and take up with a Southern twang:

Once knew a lady lived out west,
she had mountains on her chest,
she had a bird’s nest ’tween her legs,
where a cowboy laid his eggs
.

She giggles, then
What eggs?
she says. An-n-n-d presto! Shhh-oo, crunch, car slows onto the gravel a little ways down, a male silhouette glances over his shoulder. There now, this is travelling.

This first guy says, in bare English, that he’s going to Levis then over to Quebec City, and he sits with a hand on his gearshift, gripping with gusto while he fixes on your thighs. Well, that’s the French for you, no harm in looking. Thank god for your baby, though, she puts her head up over the back seat every few minutes, every time a French version of a familiar song comes on, and now and then an English one, like now, that one she likes,
“I got a brand new pair of roller skates;”
she’s half-crawled over the seat, trying to get closer to that wiggly girlish voice on the radio. The driver is frowning at her, guess she’s making him nervous hanging over his shoulder like that. You mimic the shudder in Melanies voice: “I ride my bike, I roller skate, don’t drive no car, don’t go too fast but I go pretty far. For somebody who don’t drive I bin all around the world; some people say I done all right for a girl. Ba ba ba ba yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah-h-h-h.” He smiles out of the corner of his eye.

By nine in the morning you’re driving toward St. Léonard with an older man. He finds Grace’s bare feet quite charming and striking to the funny bone. His English is good. He offers to stop in Edmundston and fix her up with some shoes. Now that’s charming.

He waits in the car outside the shoe store; you were hoping he’d offer to pay. He does at breakfast, though, takes the two of you to some family dining place and picks up the check. Just outside St. Léonard, he invites you to stay with him for the day, before travelling on. Or come back with him to St-Jean-Port-Joli, where he lives—you’d like it there, he says, lots of artists, says he’ll buy you a woodcarving and laughs softly. He’s got heavy gentle hands and his hair is silver fluttering into black just at the nape. Part of you wonders if he takes you seriously. Or if he just wants to fuck you. Maybe either way would be OK, though, feel loved for a few years or a few hours. Feel like someone wants you bad, what does it matter why? But you stand with him outside his car and say goodbye. Seems wrong leaving a woman on the highway like this, he says. And you laugh and shrug and he does too and there’s a long silence before he kisses either cheek and touches at the outer corner of your eye, the curve of bone before your temple. Looks in deep as if he’s soul-hunting; feel like telling him it’s at the shop. He smiles at the pavement, puts a card with his number and address in your palm, folds your fingers and kisses them shut. Gives your hand a final squeeze for punctuation.

The next guy is young. Good-looking and he knows it. Tries to be even louder and more jocular into the back seat at your cowlicked girl. Tries to show he’s fun for the whole family. She’s not buying it, though; her laugh’s a little phony. She takes her hands off the front seat and relaxes into the back, closes her eyes. He’s English, anglophone, he says, says he speaks French but not that great.
I hate trying to practise in Quebec, these guys can be such assholes
. He’s in sporting goods, the rep for about half of Southern Ontario. Says something about being young and how it’s a positive thing in this business, given the market. He’s not working now, just sort of a vacation to see some buddies in Fredericton. You went to teachers’ college in Fredericton, you tell him. He thinks that’s interesting. Seems to think your boobs are pretty interesting too.

You’ve been in the car about forty-five minutes when he says,
You look tired. I was thinking I wouldn’t mind stopping at a motel and resting for a couple hours
. You smile and look out the window. Feels nice, all this good old-fashioned lust. He lets loose a grin and asks what you do for a living, anyway. You tell him this and that. He asks if you’re strapped for cash right now. Huh, that was pretty bold. You could use the money, to get back or put toward getting out of Toronto for good—rather swallow your teeth than ask your father for money. I
mean, we could just sleep, I could just stretch out along the bottom of the bed
. How cute—your pause for thought nearly scared his preppy little pants back on.

Grace’s head and shoulders come hurtling over the front seat.
OK, no funny business!
What does she mean? Well, you know what she meant, but how could she know what she meant?

The guy looks startled. You both giggle. You pat her cheek and smooth fingers over her forehead, say,
Out of the mouths of babes
… and the subject is dropped.

Some family-man sort drove you the last jaunt from Fredericton to Saint John. Wanted to take you right to the door; you had him let you out down the road. No point leaving yourself open to a lot of questions. It’s almost dark and you’ve got Grace by the hand, hopefully by the ear.
We took the bus here and then a taxi from the bus station, OK? Don’t forget that. I’m serious, sweety, don’t slip up
.

But aren’t they gonna see us walking? There’s not gonna be a taxi car, they’re gonna know
.

They won’t even ask. It would never even occur to them
.

Yes they will, they’ll think it’s weird, they’re gonna know. They’re older than you
.

Oh, pipe down, Grace, you’re making me nervous
. You let go your daughter’s sweaty little mitt and bring the back of your hand to your lips, dab at them for an overabundance of red, glance down your blouse, do up another button, avoid another stumble, this time over grass growing out of the sidewalk, say out loud,
Step on a crack, break your mothers back
.

What do you mean?

Nothing. Haven’t you ever heard that expression?

No. It’s kind of mean
.

Not if you don’t step on any cracks, it’s not
.

She begins making wide strides across all pavement connections before your parents’ house. Your eyes coast from her feet to their door and see a face, see Grace’s woolly eyebrows on an old face. Oh shit—shoot—heart’s going love and terror; a smile splits your face.
Mumma!

The screen door opens and she rushes down three steps to the sidewalk. The space she leaves makes room for Dad. Drop your suitcase and run to the ohs and my goodnesses and
How was your trip, did you take a taxi from the station? We could’ve come and picked you up. How did you get here?
Grace checks her shoes for crack evidence, then smiles politely at an old lady, an even older man. God they’re old—how did they get so old, everything’s white and lined like school paper.

Your father moves with prepared stiff strides toward you. Greets you with that firm pat of his, his gaze eased with a nod that you try to make pass for
Baby girl, let me look at you, is this my granddaughter—she’s adorable!
or something like that, something human and loving as opposed to the stoic face of an old British schoolteacher. As opposed to a mouth that you can’t recall ever saying you were so much as interesting. Oh Christ, run, just run before you get in that house and every cruddy, insensitive, stingy remark he ever made hits brick-deep in the back of your head. He takes your suitcase—What! What is wrong with the way you look? Didn’t say anything but he looked you up and down, and you’re not imagining it. Oh god, it’s like falling down a hole. Down some muddy fucking rabbit hole. You can’t go home again.

You’re sitting up straight, trying to be well-mannered by memory: the prodigal daughter. Haven’t seen them in seven years, not since after Grace was born, and you don’t remember how to do this, be with them. It’s suppertime and the four of you are at the kitchen table, just you, Grace and them. Tomorrow night’ll be the big family dinner in the dining room.

Scooping a dollop of mashed potatoes onto your plate, you look over at Grace’s. Mum’s just put a kid-size portion from every serving dish on the table in front of your child—House Rule Number 1:
At mealtimes, you must try a little bit of everything
. Grace is gawking down at the mashed potatoes, fiddleheads and broccoli beside her roast beef. She’s already announced she doesn’t like the first three and her grandfather refers her to House Rule Number 1. Her jaws start working and she twirls a lock of hair round and round.

You feel like telling them your kid’s got the taste buds of a cat and you’ve just never had the energy to force-feed her. Besides, you did it with her sister and look where that got you. But they’re too busy wondering where they went wrong with you to handle that information, and your rambling thoughts are interrupted when Grace grabs the slab of beef off her plate and starts salting it in her hand. Dad raises his penguin eyebrows.

Quick, be motherly, show some authority.
Here, honey, let’s try putting this down and eating like a good girl instead of a chimp-girl
, and she giggles and fidgets. You take up her fork and your knife and commence cutting her beef into bite-size pieces as if you do this all the time, before you hand her back the proper grandparent-friendly eating utensil.

How come? You’re the one that’s always saying fingers were invented before forks
, she yaps at you, because god forbid she should just go along with you on this one.

Dad smiles at her and swallows a fiddlehead.
Better learn to eat with a fork and knife, young lady, or your boyfriends won’t want to take you to any fancy restaurants when you grow up
.

Good
, your kid says, through a mouthful,
we can eat pizza all the time then
.

Dad’s eyebrows rise again and Mum chuckles and says,
She’s got you on that one, Wilfred!

Ha, they’re laughing. See, it’s not so bad.

It’s quiet a minute, except for some cutlery against plates. Grace is staring across the table at your father and finally says,
You sure got long eyebrows
.