Gravity Brings Me Down (9 page)

“But aren’t there seniors’ groups and things that can help? There must be someone who could take you shopping—at least once a week.”

Mabel waves me off. “Oh, they’re horrible. I don’t want anything to do with them. They’re a bunch of old fuddy-duddies, sticking their noses in your business and gossiping afterward. I don’t want them coming anywhere near my house.”

“But you can’t starve.”

Mabel turns her back to me. “I get along fine, Marie.”

“I can help you,” I say. “We can go get some stuff now before I have to go back to school.” I take a couple hundred dollars from the envelope, put it in Mabel’s purse then return the rest of the money to its hiding spot between the books.

“Are you in school again?”

“Yes … kind of. Come on. I only have half an hour so we have to hurry.”

Mabel seems suddenly happy at the prospect of shopping. She grabs her purse and opens the door.

“You’d better bring a sweater,” I tell her. “It’s kind of cool out.”

Mabel pulls a white cardigan from the closet by the door and puts it on. “Satisfied?” she says.

“Yes.”

Once we’re outside, I start to walk toward the A&P, but Mabel stops me with her hand on my arm.

“Not there, please. I can’t go back there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s rather embarrassing.”

I wait for her to explain.

“My pants were down last time I was there.”

“What?”

“My pants. I don’t know how it happened but they were undone and nearly to my knees before I noticed.”

“How long were you walking around like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure nobody noticed.”

“Please, dear. I just can’t do it.”

I want to tell her to just pretend that nothing happened, the way she told me, but I’m sure she won’t appreciate the advice. Besides, if anyone knows how she feels, it’s me. I don’t blame her one bit for not wanting to return to the scene of the crime. As it is, I have to force myself just to walk through the school doors since losing my underwear.

I look at my watch. We have twenty minutes left to pull this off.

“Okay, fine … where would you like to go?”

Mabel points across the street to the health food store. “I go there, now.”

“Well, that’s one good reason to eat better food.” I push the button for the light and wait for the signal.

“Why aren’t we crossing?” Mabel asks.

“We have to wait for the light.”

“What light?”

“The one that lets us cross in safety.”

“I usually just go.”

“Yes, I know. But you can’t just cross whenever you feel like it. It isn’t safe.”

“Please don’t be impertinent, dear.”

The red hand turns to the green stick-man. “Okay, now it’s safe to go.”

Mabel latches onto me as we begin to cross the street. I never noticed before but she has a funny gait to her walk and it makes my gait funny as well. Her steps are erratic and drunken. By the time we reach the health food store, I’m feeling totally seasick. I open the door and help her down the ramp, grabbing a shopping cart.

“What do you usually get?”

“Well … I usually just look around and see what inspires me.”

Normally, I’m all for that, but we really don’t have time for inspiration right now. We have ten minutes and counting. If I’m late for school today, I’m going to be in
big trouble. I look at my watch again, but this gesture is lost on Mabel. She begins perusing the items in the aisle, taking her time and reading all the labels, including the fine print on the boxes and cans. In a vain attempt to expedite the process, I snatch up a box of organic, wheat-free, ancient caveman cereal and hold it up.

“What about this stuff?”

Mabel crinkles her nose. “It’s too much. I can never finish the package before it goes stale.”

She begins leisurely scanning the labels again. I sigh, replacing the cereal on the shelf. It’s no use. I’m going to be totally late.

I resign myself to my fate, trolling alongside Mabel as she inspects and comments on every single thing in the store. Once in a while she actually puts something in the cart, but it’s anybody’s guess as to why.

At the cash, the woman is nice, smiling at me because she thinks I’m Mabel’s grandkid or something.

“Sixty-five dollars and forty-three cents,” she says.

Mabel produces the entire wad of cash and hands it to the woman.

“You don’t need that much,” I say, taking back the money and counting out the correct amount.

“This is my daughter, Marie,” Mabel tells the woman. “She’s the baby.”

The woman beams at me like I’m some kind of saviour or something. I want to tell her the truth because I kind of feel like a fraud, but what’s the point? I hand the change to Mabel but she insists that I keep it.

“Take it, dear. I have lots.”

“I can’t take your money. There’s over a hundred dollars here.”

I turn to the woman, giving her a tight-lipped smile. I can tell she’s enjoying this little exchange far too much. There’s no way to win this battle with Mabel so I stuff the money in my pocket and make a mental note to give it back to her when we return to her apartment. Gathering up the bags, I take Mabel’s arm, hoping to hurry this process along. We work our way out of the store, across the street and over to her building. Mabel begins digging in her purse.

“What’d you do with your keys?” I ask.

“I ate it.”

“What?”

“It was delicious.”

She must think I said cheese …

“Here are the keys,” she says, holding them up.

Inside the building, there’s actually an elevator waiting. I’m hoping it’s empty so we can ride in peace. But it isn’t empty. There’s a tiny man dressed like a leprechaun standing to one side near the buttons. He’s wearing leather shorts and a green hat with a feather perched on top. What day is it?

The man smiles, asking what floor we’d like. I tell him, and off we go. He escorts us to the fourteenth, wishes us a cheerful good day, then descends. I have no idea why he’s dressed like a leprechaun, riding up and down on the elevator, but I decide not to think about it.

At Mabel’s, I put the change from shopping with the rest of her money, then take the time to put the groceries away. She seems to have chosen some good things, like little pre-made vegetable pies, macaroni-and-cheese dinners, rice milk (chocolate and strawberry), yogourt, a few buns, some organic butter, strawberry jelly (the kind with the whole fruit that looks like brains that Peggy and I refuse to eat), peanut butter and a fancy bottle of grape juice complete with gold foil over the cap. Mabel picks up the juice.

“Would you like a drink, dear? I like to have a little spot once in a while.” She says this like it’s some kind of big secret. Then she gets all thoughtful. “It doesn’t affect me the way it used to, though. It used to make me feel so happy.”

It dawns on me that Mabel thinks the juice is wine. I have to laugh at this.

“Yeah, sure, let’s have a sip.”

Mabel produces two newly washed glasses from the cupboard while I open the bottle. Pouring two respectable servings of grape juice, we clink glasses together in a toast.

“To the good old days,” Mabel says.

I down my “wine” then continue to put the groceries away. “Do you know what to do with these?” I ask, holding up one of the vegetable pies.

“Yes. You open the box and eat them.”

“You have to cook them first.”

“But they’re already cooked. It says so on the box.”

“Yeah, but they’re frozen. You have to heat them up.”

Mabel blinks back at me.

“How did you eat them before?”

“I’ve never had them before. I used to buy fresh ones at the bakery. But I don’t go there any more. I think it closed down or something.”

“Sampson’s Bakery? It’s still there …”

“Oh … I don’t know,” Mabel says. “Maybe that’s not the place I’m thinking of.”

“Well, you have to heat these in the oven. But I can do it for you if you like. I’ll cook it now and you can eat it for dinner. Do you want me to do that?”

“That’s sounds grand.”

I turn on the oven and wait for it to heat, then pop the pie onto the rack. It only takes about twenty-five minutes because I’ve cranked the dial to 450 degrees. When the pie is nice and golden, I use hot mitts to extract it from the oven and place it on a saucer to cool.

“Wonderful,” Mabel says.

“I’ll try to come back tomorrow for lunch, okay?”

Mabel pats my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re such a good girl, Marie.”

I
’m so late for school, I go directly to the office and ask to speak to the nurse. I make up a story that she’ll swallow, telling her I got my period and had to run home to deal with it. She goes to speak with the principal and comes out with a note for my teacher. Easy.

Chocko’s not so nice, though. He gives me a searing look from behind his shades as I hand him the note. He doesn’t even bother to read it, tossing it aside and glaring at me in front of the whole class. He’s trying to make me squirm. But I’m on to him. I don’t pretend to be nice, the way I would with Miss B. Summoning my best poker face, I stare blankly back. If he wants a challenge, he’s come to the right place. After an excruciating amount of time, he averts his eyes and I win this particular little battle of wills. I take my seat next to Sharon.

She writes
Creep
on the edge of her
Great Thinkers
text, then scribbles

I roll my eyes. But I have to confess, she might be right. I wouldn’t put it past Chocko to take someone’s underwear. I start to write a reply on the corner of my text when I notice him glaring at me again.

“What is it with you?” he says.

“What?”

“You come in late, disrupt everyone and give me all this attitude. I’m sorry if I bore you so much.”

The whole class turns to look at me, including Biff, who sneers from his seat. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being singled out. I can feel my face start to burn. I’m sure it’s as red as a tomato, which totally pisses me off because I put a lot of effort into keeping my skin as pale as possible. I should have known Chocko wouldn’t let me off so easily, but I never expected this. He strolls over to my desk and leans on one side.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the other students for approval. “Why don’t
you
tell
me
what you’d like to learn? Or better yet… why don’t you just teach the class?”

A grenade blasts in my head as everybody bursts out laughing. He holds up a piece of chalk, posing long enough for full impact. Then he saunters back to the front of the room and continues to drone. From time to time he’ll ask a question, looking pointedly at me, but I just stare back, blowing him up with my mind. I’m so furious, I spend the rest of the class plotting my revenge.
This means full-out war
.

Sharon clings to me like a chimp as we leave the class. “What was that about?”

“He’s going to get it.”

“What do you mean? What are you going to do?”

I tell her where to meet me and what time. But I don’t give her any details yet. All I say is this: “Chocko’s going to pay.”

Back home, I tell Mom I’m tired and going to bed early.

“Are you sick?” she asks.

“No, I just need to sleep.”

“Did you take your multivitamin today?”

“Yes,” I say, climbing the stairs to my room.

Placing my “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, I find my little flashlight and two extra-fat indelible black Magic Markers, then wait the necessary amount of time before climbing out my window to effect my plan. From the porch roof, I can easily jump to the ground. It’s pretty dark out already, so I don’t have to worry too much about being seen. But I do crawl past Dad’s office window because I know he’s in there reading.

Once I’m safely past the house, I stand upright, check to make sure Tod isn’t around, and make my way to the rendezvous point. Sharon is already there, smoking, a white tank top under her jacket.

“I told you to wear black.”

“I forgot. What are we doing, anyway?”

“Zip up your jacket and hide your shirt.”

She obediently zips up, then lights another Gauloise and hands it to me.

“Where are we going and why is it such a big secret?”

“We’re going to Chocko’s to exact a little old-time justice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Sharon frowns. “I don’t know …”

“Come on. This is our chance to really get back at him.”

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”

“You don’t even know what the idea is, yet.” I produce the markers from my pockets like duelling pistols. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

“What?”

“You know …” I make a scrubbing motion with the markers. Sharon raises her eyebrows. She still doesn’t understand

“His pictures …”

“The ones in his room?”

“Yes!”

“Oh! Uhh … okay … do you think that’s a good idea…?”

“Yes, I do. Are you crapping out on me?”

“No.”

“Come on, he so deserves this. We’re helping to right the wrongs in the world.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

“I’m not a chicken!”

“Okay, let’s go, then.”

“Fine.”

We follow the road to Chocko’s, Sharon nattering nervously about Gus, her favourite topic. I guess they’ve been getting pretty comfortable with each other. I’d rather not hear about Gus because it just reminds me how pathetic my own love life is. But I don’t feel like talking so I let Sharon go on until we reach our destination.

Chocko’s house is dark except for the porch light and a room upstairs. There’s no car in the driveway so I’m pretty sure he’s out. I press my face against the kitchen window.

“Looks like the coast is clear.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“Chocko doesn’t sleep; he’s an incubus. Besides, he’d never go to bed this early. He stays up late, cutting dirty pictures from magazines.”

“I don’t know, Sioux… what if he comes back?”

I ignore her and sneak around to the back door, testing the handle. The door creaks open.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sharon says.

“Yeah, I heard you the first ten times you said it.” I can tell she’s thinking of ditching so I decide to change my tack. I hold up the markers. “Divine retribution, remember?”

She looks over her shoulder, as if she expects Chocko to pop out of the bushes any second. “What if he’s inside?”

“He’s not here. The place is empty. You won’t forgive yourself if you miss out on this. Besides, it’ll give you ideas for your CPP.”

Sharon finally concedes, following me into the house. I have to admit, it’s creepy being in someone else’s place, especially when that someone else is Chocko.

“It’s upstairs,” I whisper, clicking on my little flashlight. We slowly ascend, every horror movie I’ve ever seen reeling through my head. Sharon tugs on my shirt.

“Remember that scene from
Blair Witch
with all the little handprints on the wall?”

“Yeah.”

At the top of the stairs, I distribute the markers.

“Prepare to be totally freaked out.”

We step into the room and I close the door. Sharon gasps as I snap on the light.

“Oh my God!”

“See!”

Sharon gapes at the hundreds of pictures, then glances at her marker in dismay.

“Just the nipples and nether parts,” I tell her.

“It’ll take all night.”

“Let’s get to work, then, shall we?”

There’s a wooden chair in one corner of the room so I pull it over to stand on, uncap my marker and start drawing black boxes over the exposed parts of the ladies. Sharon follows my lead, working on the lower half of the room so we’ll meet in the middle. At first, I black out the eyes of the women too, like those censored photos you see, to protect the innocent. But it takes too long, and I’m worried Chocko will come home and find us. After awhile, though, I get into the rhythm of things, forgetting about Chocko altogether.

The whole time we’re working, I can’t help thinking Miss B. would be proud of us for helping to make the world a better place. I wish I could tell her about it, but I know I can’t. She has such a strong conscience, she might feel obligated to turn us in. Personally, I don’t know why any woman would agree to pose nude, but I make up stories as I go, imagining they do it for the money, because they’re single moms with kids to feed, or because their mothers need special operations that can only be had in Mexico. When I’m done thinking about this, I let my mind drift to Mabel. I wonder what she would say about Chocko. I’d like to tell Sharon about her, but decide not to. I don’t think she’ll understand.

We’ve been working for hours and we’re nearly finished three whole walls when Sharon suddenly doubles over, covering her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing out loud. She’s totally drunk on marker fumes, barely able to speak the words she’s trying to say. “Maybe
(snicker, snicker, snicker)
we should
(snicker, snicker)
check
(snicker)
to see if
(snicker, snicker, snicker,
snicker, snicker)
your
(snicker)
underwear
(snicker, snicker)
is in
(snicker)
the freezer.”

Now I’m laughing too, until we hear the crunch of tires on gravel.

Sharon grabs me. “What’s that?”

“Dracula’s home to roost. Come on!”

We thunder down the stairs. Sharon jumps for the door but I grab her by the jacket.

“Wait! He might come through the front.”

We listen carefully, barely able to hear over our own breathing.

The door swings open in the kitchen. “He’s coming through the back. Go!” I push Sharon ahead of me.

She fumbles with the lock on the door, panicking. “I can’t get it open!”

I shove her aside and unlock the door. We burst outside, just as Chocko comes in.

Sharon bulldozes past, nearly knocking me down the stairs. Flying from the house, I clear the steps in one leap, beating furiously down the laneway. When we reach the road, Sharon and I collapse in each other’s arms.

“Oh my God, I thought he was going to catch us!” she squeals.

“That was so close!”

“He’s going to freak when he sees his room!”

We’re so hopped up, we practically skip on the way home.

Back in town, we part ways at the corner near the park. The sun is reaching over the horizon and I’m sure Dad will be up by now, drinking coffee and reading
the newspaper in his office. He’s such an early bird I’ll have to sneak past his window again to get into the house undetected.

I’m slinking along the side of the house when I see the silhouette of the paper boy coming toward me. Then I realize it’s not the paper boy: it’s Tod. He rides up to meet me on the front walk, handing me a copy of the
Sunnyview Review
. I stare at him in disbelief.

“Why are you delivering our paper?”

“It’s my job.”

“What happened to our old paper boy?”

Tod shrugs.

I sigh, too high on my recent victory to care all that much. Taking the paper, I climb the steps to the house. At the top, the door opens and Dad appears.

“You’re up early.”

“Just getting the paper.” I hand him the
Review
as though everything is perfectly normal.

There’s no point going to bed so I jump into the shower. I’m not in for more than two minutes when Peggy bangs furiously on the door.

“I need the bathroom!”

I let the water run over my shoulders. It’s amazing how sore I am after a night of censorship. I envision Chocko’s face when he walks in the room, his ladies sporting their new, black-strip bikinis. He’s going to flip out. I imagine he’ll mention it in class. I also imagine he’ll suspect me. I’ll have to play it extra cool to avoid suspicion. I take the nail brush and scrub my hands in a futile attempt to remove the streaks of black Magic Marker.

Peggy’s really pounding on the door now. Who does she think she is? I stay in a few minutes longer, enjoying the water. Peggy storms down the hall, calling for Mom, the baby. I let her whine and yell, taking the time to comb out my hair. She’s screaming blue murder by the time I open the door.

She stamps her foot like a spoiled circus horse. “Finally!”

“It’s all yours.”

“I’m going to be late for practice.
I hope you’re satisfied!”

I go to my room, get dressed, then saunter downstairs with my purse, walking through the kitchen to the cellar so I can scope out my parents’ wine collection. I want to surprise Mabel with a real bottle of vino. My parents have so much of the stuff, they won’t miss one bottle. Half the basement is filled with racks from floor to ceiling. I think my Dad’s a frustrated sommelier or something.