Going Down Swinging (38 page)

Mummy?

Oh! Grace! For goodness’ sake, didn’t even occur to me it might be you. Hello, angel, where are you?

Sadie and Eddy’s
.

Oh, because I’m just doing my roots. Can I call you back? Asia
there’s a pause while your child hums like she hasn’t heard a word.
Sweety, what’s going on? anything wrong? And
she pauses from the not-tuneful melody and says Huh?

I said, what’s wrong, you sound funny
.

Yeah. Mm
.

Grace?

And she’s humming again.

Grace, what the heck’s going on? Alice said you were over there the other night and you didn’t know whether you were coming or going, you could hardly put a sentence together. What’s wrong?

Pause.
Yeah. um. I think I have to go?

What?

I think Mrs. Hood is going to tell Todd I have to go cuz, um, she doesn’t want me there any more
. And then she starts something close to singing, can’t figure out what. Sounds like the radio is on in the background.

What do you mean, she doesn’t want you there? What’s going on, what did she say?

She said, um, I asked if I didn’t go with them to Harrison, could I have the money that the Welfare was giving for it, and she said that I was nosy and money-grubbing and how could you have ever put up with me for nine years
. And more singing—sounded like she said “They’re searching for us everywhere, but we will never be found, na-na-na …”

Grace! Stop it—what are you singing?

Just this song—and she said she couldn’t stomach me any more
. And then your child sings, “Band on the run, na-na-na, band on the run …”

Grace! Listen to me, stop singing! Stop it
.

And it’s quiet, just music in the background and one of Alice’s brats screaming its smelly head off in the distance. Then small and gravelly, I’m
scared to go home
.

Miss Clairol
Flame
is dripping down your neck, which has heated up to your ears.

Bullshit! Your kid is your kid, and that’s the bottom line—goddamn bitch. Swallow hard and say up-your-ass to the system:
So don’t go
.

What?
The voice is bug-sized with tiny paper wings.

Don’t go. Come home. To me
.

Grace Fourteen
DECEMBER 1974

T
HE CLOSEST BUS STOP
was three blocks away, on Main Street. I sat on the bench breathing into my mittens, watching all the cars for Mrs. Hood or Todd Baker. They knew for sure I wasn’t just late. I stomped my feet on the ice and pulled my scarf higher up my face and walked back and forth in front of the bench.

Every time I pushed my mitt down to check my watch, my stomach crittered up my ribs. It was after four o’clock and getting darker. Someone pulled on my coat and whispered “Grace”—I spun around, and smashed down on the ice. No one was there, just one of those big rusty bench screws caught on the hem of my coat. I looked around again to make double sure they weren’t there and, before I could get up, the bus splashed up to the curb and slushed me all over. The doors opened and the driver chuckled, watching me stomp up the steps. “Sorry, kid—what the heck were you doing on the ground?” and his neck jiggled like his belly. I was crabbed and thought of mean fat stuff, but I was too scared to look at him in case he recognized me. Maybe the police were looking for me. I dumped my money in the box, then went and found a window seat so I could see them before they saw me.

When Mum opened the door, we stood there a second with our eyes sticking on each other. She grabbed me and pulled me to her stomach. “Quick, get inside,” and she slammed the door closed behind me, “it’s cold.” She straightened up and put her hands on my shoulders, then put one hand on her hip and the other one on her forehead, then dropped both by her sides. She pulled my toque off and patted my head cuz of it being sweaty. “Well, actually, no. Here,” and she pushed the toque back on, looked over her shoulder to the living room. “I’m packing the couple things you left here and I called Stewart. Remember Stewart? I thought maybe we better get out of here, and stay the night there. I don’t think it’s a good idea if we’re here tonight—OK? Are you OK, sweety, you look a little peaked?”

I nodded. “Did they call here? They’re probably gonna come. Should I phone and make something up or something? Or—did Todd Baker call?”

“No, but I’m sure we’ll hear from him. I should threaten to turn the bugger in if he doesn’t mind his own goddamn business. I s’pose he’s got some kind of asylum here, though. Come on, come in the bedroom while I get our things together—oh shit, I suppose I should call a cab.”

I followed along behind her. “Did you say he’s in an asylum?”

Mum giggled a scared laugh. “You’re a dandy, MaryAnne. It—I’ll tell you later. Now … there’s a bag on the bed with underpants and pyjamas and a pair of slacks, and that crummy yellow dress that Mrs. Hood got you—don’t worry, I’ll call her myself later and let her know where you are, and I’ll call Baker too—don’t worry, angel,” she did her accent like Carol Burnett being The Queen. “Darling, don’t let’s get in a tizzy, it’ll all come out in the wash.”

“I’m just scared they’ll come.”

“No one’s coming—they’ll just think you’re late. You’re a kid, kids do that. OK, OK, hmm, OK, I think that’s it, go call six-six-nine, seven-triple-seven and ask for a taxi. You know the address?”

We took the elevator up to floor seventeen in Stewart’s building. When the door opened, he had a drink in his free hand. “Wellll! …” His voice was so low and big, it rumbled. “Look at you! look at you, Gracey! Jesus Christ, you’re big. Last time I saw you, you were like this—” he brought his hand way down as if the last time he saw me I was as big as a cat, “and now look atcha! Growin’ like a weed!” He chuckled and nodded, and he was really bald. I noticed cuz he took his hand off the door to scratch some hair still at the back.

Mum and I stood in the hall; I looked at Stewart’s belly and she patted it, then pulled me past him inside. “Oh, Stewart, you silly old thing. Have you got anything in the fridge, I’d like to make Grace something for dinner. We’ve been rushing around so much, we haven’t really had time to eat.”

Stewart hung on to the door, smiling still, after Mum dropped our tote bag on the floor and started looking through the cupboards in his kitchen. “Oh,” he swung it closed, “uh, hmm uh yeah, well something, yeah, there must be something. Maybe Kraft Dinner or something.”

Mum stared into a cupboard. “Hey kiddo, you want some Kraft Dinner for a treat, or what? Or-r-r, here, hey, here’s some corned beef—I could make you a corned beef sandwich. Stewart? Bread? Have you got any bread? and mustard?”

Stewart closed the door and went and leaned on the counter-top that was between the puny kitchen and the living room. He squished his fingertips in his forehead and looked at Mum’s bum.

She turned around. “Stew? You OK? You look like you’ve been into the hootch pretty good tonight.”

He burped like he meant to and smacked his hand over his mouth when he looked at me. “Excuse me, Miss,” and smiled. “Yeah, I got bread. I think I got rye! Make her a corned beef on rye—hey, that’s a damn good idea,” and he slapped his burp hand onto the counter. “Yeah, make me one too. A corned beef … on rye. I’d like that.” He looked at me again and clapped his hands together. “Yessirreee!”

Mum winked at me. “OK, you two kids go sit in the living room and I’ll make sandwiches. Stewart, leave your drink here and I’ll freshen it.”

Stewart and I sat on the couch in front of a hockey game. He looked from me to the TV. “Y’ like hockey?—naw, you don’t like hockey; this is no fun for you, geez. Let’s take a look-see in the old boob-tube guide here, and see. See, see, see … hmm … hey, there’s a
Get Smart
rerun on. D’ya like that? I like that guy.” He held his thumb and finger close and said,
“Missed it by
that
much.”

I laughed even though it wasn’t that good an imitation and looked at the TV. Mum brought in sandwiches and tea a few minutes later. Stewart looked in the teacup she gave him and said, “Tea? Tea. Where’s my—” and he looked over at me.

Mum said to him, like he was my little sister or something, “Oh, sorry, honey, did I forget milk and sugar?”

Stewart looked all pouty in his cup and then tried to act natural just like as if another kid punched him and he didn’t want to go crying in front of everybody. He was super-like-that—like a big dumb kid, especially with his slow goofy voice—he said, “Huh, ohh, no, I’m—I like it black. Yeah, this is nice.” As if.

Then we started eating our sandwiches. They were pretty good for scrounging-in-the-cupboard sandwiches—corned beef tastes way better than it sounds. It sounds like it’d have sloppy corn all over it and taste sick. Sometimes the worst thing about stuff is its name. I started thinking that about Stewart while I was eating—
stew
and then
wart
. Then I felt sorry for him, sort of, even though I still didn’t want to hang around with him or anything; he kept sighing between bites of sandwich and wiping mustard off his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he noticed the big smeary glob of mustard on him and starting looking around the room like he got punched again. Mum grabbed a paper towel and put spit on it and wiped his hand. He smiled with his stuffed mouth closed, and sighed through his nose. You’d think it was the hardest thing he ever had to do, eat a corned beef sandwich. He took a sip of his tea and winced-up his face like he was sucking lemon. Then he said, “This is good, Eilleen, I think, though—I’m, uh—I’m just going to have a nap. And have this rest later. Okey-doke?”

I must have had
ESP
for a second cuz I was right then thinking he needed a nap time. He got up and bumped into the wall on his way to the bedroom. It wasn’t even that funny, really. It was how Mum was a lot of times when she used to come home from being out with him. And then I felt sick cuz of suddenly remembering Mrs. Hood hating my guts and probably sending the police out looking for me. And Todd Baker would hate me too, and they’d be looking for me in police cars and stuff and we couldn’t go to any of our normal places or they’d find us. Stewart’s was our only secret place.

I think Mum got
ESP
then too—she picked up the phone and put it in her lap. Mrs. Hood—she was reading my mind and she wanted to call Mrs. Hood and I’d have to tell her the number or she’d hate my guts too. I looked at my last hunk of sandwich and ate it. Chew each bite twenty times—I kept thinking that in my head, over and over—chew each bite twenty times, twenty times, twenty times. Mrs. Hood told me that once after I got another stomach ache.

Mum reached over and flipped my hair behind my ear. Her hands smelled all clean and like bread. “I think I better call and let Mrs. Hood know you’re all right.”

Fifteen chews, sixteen, seventeen—my mouthful was like goo, so I just swallowed before twenty. Except my teeth kept clacking together looking for stuff and biting inside on my cheeks. What if Mum went like a tornado and yelled and screamed at Mrs. Hood, and screamed and yelled and swore, and then they traced the call? And stupid Wendy would say I told you so—and the lion will lay down with the lamb. You can’t have a tiger for a pet.

I squeezed everything tight, my toes and teeth and armpits and bum, until it hurt as much as possible, and then I let go. Mum said, “Would you feel better if I let you dial?” No. Nope. And the lion will lie down with the lamb. “OK, how about if you tell me the number, and I’ll dial.” No. No way. You can’t have a tiger for a pet. Mum touched my cheek again and I jumped. Her hand jumped back a little and she came in close and put her arm around me. “It’s OK, honey, I just want to let her know you’re OK, that’s all. She’s probably worried.”

“No, she won’t care. Let’s just go.”

“Go where? Sweety, listen, we have to call and come clean so they don’t think you’ve been kidnapped or something.”

“Yeah. Yah. ’K.”

“Do you know the number?” She was talking to me like I was even younger than Stewart.

“Yeah.” Just say it, and the lion will lay down with the lamb. And Jesus will take back the keys to the world. “OK. It’s eight-seven-six.” Their numbers—
You cannot give out this number!
Numbers, Deuteronomy and Matthew and Joshua. I missed Josh. Why couldn’t we’ve just stayed with Josh? “I can’t re—I’m not allowed,” and my plate has to go in the sink. I got up and went in the kitchen and sat on the floor behind the counter. I forgot my plate. Just rest for a while. Like nap time when you’re little. What will happen to little children at Armageddon?

Mum came in the kitchen with the phone and a long snake-cord dragging behind. She sat down on the floor beside me, then she put the phone beside her and held my hand and kissed it. She said, “I just don’t want her to worry.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“I know. But you’re with me now, you’re safe.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell, ’K? OK. Eight-seven-six. Um—” Mum looked at me like I was the best thing in the whole world. “Eight-seven-six, five-three-seven-four.”

She started dialling. I watched the circle of the dial float back around after each number. Then, “Hello!” Loud, too loud. “Is that Mrs. Hood? … Hi, this is Eilleen Hoffman.” And quiet. Then, “Oh yes. I, well, Grace dialled the number so I could let you know that she’s here with me and you wouldn’t worry.” My chest went tight when she said my name. I turned my back away and put my forehead on my knees, squished my eyeballs hard. Then Mum said, “Pardon? No, I’m not—she’s fine, she was just a little homesick and wanted to stay with her mum for a while and I wanted you to know.” Then there was a big pause and Mum took a breath like she got punched too, and she stuttered all flabbergasted and went, “Wha—just a second here, a child like what?—Grace is not a child like anything—she’s terrific, she’s here because I want her here, because I love her, and as a matter of fact, I told her to come home … No, listen, I don’t appreciate your tone or what you’re saying or, furthermore, what you’ve put my child through. Grace is what keeps me alive. You may believe in death, but I happen to believe in life!” And then she said “Merry Christmas” and slammed the phone down. Quiet.