Blasted (26 page)

Years ago, at the end of one of my infrequent visits, I went in to say goodbye to Gramma. She was watching television, and to my surprise she wiped tears from her eyes. I pretended not to notice. “What were you watching?

” “A special on Newfoundland.”

“Yeah.”

“About how we've been taken for all we have, ever since Confederation.”

I murmured in an agreeing sort of way.

“They takes our resources,” she went on, not looking at me, spitting the words. “They calls us stupid, give handouts and despise us. I hates them, I hates Canadians.”

“Who was on the show?” I asked hastily.

She named a few of our political and artistic
glitterati
.

“Well, I'd better get to the airport, Gramma.” I was about to kiss her cheek when she went on, savagely.

“I don't know how you can stand to live there!”

“It's not always easy…”

“Ah, you're not a Newfoundlander anyway.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

“You're not a Newfoundlander.”

“How could you say such a thing?”

“You left too young, you left too long ago. Too long ago.” She got up and felt her way out of the room like a blind woman. I stood there wounded to the quick, as if disowned, as if everything I'd thought about myself had just been stripped away.

“What the hell makes
you
arbiter of who belongs?” I shouted, retreating into rage. It was over a year before I visited home again.

I know she just couldn't stand saying goodbye any more. She felt like we all kept leaving her: first and foremost her son, but also her daughter-in-law, and now me, over and over. But I never forgot the feeling her words left in me.

Arrival. I stood before the front steps of the old house. The paint was peeling worse than ever, and one of the battered Olympian columns that the architect had grafted onto the front porch in a frenzy of nostalgia for the Old Country sported a faded “For Rent” sign. Probably one of the basement apartments – people never stayed in them for long.

It was hot here. I felt the Island fading from me, like a dream; I wished I'd stayed in touch with my Toronto friends, maybe hinted around that I wouldn't be offended if, oh, say,
someone came to meet me at the airport
. Would Blue or Brendan remember the return date on the ticket? I began to trudge up the steps. Izzie's planters spilled over with lush vegetation; in their shade crouched a family of wretched ceramic gnomes with red-and-white toadstools. I wondered how Izzie was doing. Would she even remember I had left, and why? I opened the door to the staircase leading to the top two units, and a stench of profound unwashedness assailed me. Trying not to breathe too deeply I took the steps two at a time and fumbled for my keys.

A violent rattle followed by an air-lock
whoosh
heralded the opening of Earl's door.

“Jesus Murphy!” I dropped my keys.

Earl's head shot into the hall. “You're back.”

I put my bag down and leaned against the wall, clutching my heart.

“Couldn't you warn me gently of your arrival? You know,
cough
or something?” “Izzie's put up a sign advertising your apartment for rent. She let herself into your place and snooped around.” His eyes gleamed.

“
What
?”

“I wouldn't put it past her to steal things from you – you know, little things. She's like that.”

“She put my apartment up for
rent
?”

“I think someone's due to see it tomorrow. Or is it the next day?”

I stooped to pick up my keys. “Nice to see you too, Earl. How's your murderous feline?”

“Huh?”

“Your cat,” I clarified.

“Can't afford to feed her. Got put on workfare and can't find a job. They laid me off at the ice rink ‘cause it's summer. And my epilepsy medicine isn't covered under the new medicare system. I might have to move in with my sister. But her boyfriend doesn't like me. He threatened me once. He beats her up, too. I'll stay here as long as I can. Frank owes me. I've been here for five years; that's longer than anyone other than Izzie. I don't know why he doesn't kick her out and make me superintendent.
I
don't drink.”

I kicked my bag inside my apartment and sidled after it. “Look, great talking to you, thanks for the tip about Izzie, I'll see you later.” I closed the door.

The stench wasn't all Earl's fault. I'd shut the windows before leaving, and the air was thick. I tore open the windows in the front room, then stepped onto my mattress to open the bedroom window too, coughing at the blooming dust. I proceeded to the bathroom; sink, toilet and tub were coated with dirt. I didn't remember it being
that
bad.

The apartment was built like a small train, stringing one narrow room after another. I'd taken it because of the windows, because the south wall was lined with them, old rattling things that refused to open more than two inches, but at least gave an impression of light and air and space – the things I missed most about home.

The stench was worst in the caboose – the kitchen. Gagging a little, I wrenched open the back door which led to the wooden “fire escape.” Hot, heavy, polluted air and the noise of traffic and dogs filled the apartment.

I sat on the edge of a chair and tried not to wonder what the hell I was going to do next.

I don't know how long I sat there, uncomfortable, numb, and breathing through my mouth, but at last I became aware that the smell had infiltrated my throat, coating it with an acrid taste. In desperation I rummaged around in my dresser until I found some cheap incense, the kind you get on Spadina for a buck. I took a bundle of the sticks into the kitchen and lit them on the gas burner, then walked through the apartment, trailing too-sweet smoke like a small and disconsolate dragon. I wandered up and down until the incense burned itself out, ashes joining the dust on the floor.

What was the source of the smell? My eyes roamed around the kitchen. Jesus, I thought, I hope it's not Earl's cat. It would be typical of the creature to fucking die, and with its last gasp of breath crawl into the walls of my apartment with the sole purpose of malevolently rotting there until I was driven out. I stared at the ceiling, looking for ooze; I checked in the cupboards, under the sink, in the oven.

The fridge. Memories surfaced – half-rotting vegetables and a very old, very greasy steak – leftovers that had frightened me even before I'd left the city. Cautiously, I approached the fridge. I put my hand on the side; it was warm, like a living creature. Had primeval forces of evolution – doubtless occurring within – defeated the refrigerant gasses with the sheer heat of creation? I withdrew my hand and sat down on one of my two kitchen chairs. My mind shied away from the despair fraying its edges in the awful quiet. Even the fridge was silent; it hadn't switched on, I reflected, not once since I'd gotten home. Because I'd know if it had – that thing was as loud as a clock radio alarm, buzzing nasally with a surge of power that temporarily dimmed all light; when I'd first moved in I'd awoken repeatedly in the night thinking my bedside clock was going off, when all the time it was the fridge. I got to my feet and went around to where the back of the fridge met the wall. The bloody thing was unplugged.

Izzie!
I thought. Damn that woman! I grabbed the plug and stuck it back in the wall, and the appliance roared into life. Then I opened the door.

Blackish webs crept out of an indistinguishable lump, and funereal green fuzz coated another barrow nearer the front. Some nameless liquefied substance bubbled in a defeated Ziploc bag. As I stared, it collapsed to one side. I heard a faint
pop
as whitish spores were released on contact with the rush of air.

Holding my breath, I slammed the door shut and backed out of the room onto the back deck.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of vague horror and despair. The sun moved slowly across the sky, and I dragged a chair out onto the deck and raised my face to the heat and light until the sun began to sink behind the house. At one point I went back into the apartment, blinking in the dimness, some slow, lizard-like, deeply buried instinct calling me to try and, oh, I don't know, clean? I looked under the sink and found a grimy plastic bucket and an old can of Comet; I shook it – nothing left inside.

Defeated, I put it back. There was a brief surge of triumph when I discovered some toilet paper; I put that in the bathroom. Then I went back outside to the deck. I felt very tired.

As the sky grew darker the city came aglow with electricity. It felt like bedtime; my internal clock was all shagged up, what with traveling and my sleepless night. The city gradually gave off a little of its mugginess, and I crossed my arms across my chest. My breasts felt cold under my palms, and I hugged myself tighter, feeling my ribs between my fingers. My head ached; did I have any painkillers? It couldn't be later than nine; I didn't want to sleep too early. Not to mention my
morbid fear of sleep
; let's be honest, Ruby, you're afraid you'll get sucked back into a strange dream, that you'll go wandering.

What, I wondered, would be the urban Toronto equivalent of sleepwalking naked up on the Hill and coming to covered in mud and scratches? Would I awaken headfirst in some Rosedale garbage can, wrapped in stereo wires? Or curled up and filthy on a subway grate near the Queen Street Mental? Maybe some yuppie's matched pair of black and golden Labs would find me beaten and raped in High Park, floating face down in the pond.
They're wanting you back
, Grandpa had said in the dream.
All your life, they've been wanting you back.

In the alley below I heard a bunch of kids approaching with a blaster, chattering and hollering and shoving each other. Dogs barked consecutively as they passed, one yappy little one working itself into a fever pitch until a man emerged out his back door, illuminated by yellow light, beer gut hairy over his underwear, and bellowed at it. The kids passed out of my hearing, and a lone cyclist rode by. I could see the glowing cigarette ends of a couple of middle-aged women, reclining on deck chairs, drinking beer and talking low. One threw her head back and laughed raucously. A car passed on the street, music so loud it buzzed even from where I was sitting. A yellow crescent moon hung over us all.

I had no booze, so I retreated into the bathroom and rummaged through my medicine cabinet. It was a pill bonanza in there. I had no idea what half the stuff was; Tylenol rubbed shoulders with old prescriptions of antibiotics (which I
never
take, except once when I had the grey tongue disease, and got the worst yeast infection of my life) and cold medications and Neo Citran. H'm. Neo Citran. I took out a pouch and waved it around; the crystals had solidified into one hard lump. Don't use if pregnant, or breastfeeding, or diabetic, or boozing, or if you have chronic lung disease, or high blood pressure, or if you're old, and for God's sake keep out of reach of children. Maybe if I drugged myself up good I'd stay put for the night.

I waited for the kettle to boil, standing in the open doorway to avoid the stench of the fridge. The cramped filth of the apartment leered behind me, dark and empty. I couldn't bear the thought of staying here, alone (except for the fridge). There was a sports bar just down the street in which I had yet to disgrace myself; the owner – a truly scary little guy with heavy black eyebrows, high-heeled boots and a bad rug – chewed out any man who swore when a “lady” was around. There was a big-screen TV there, and always at least one lonely guy who'd introduce himself as “a producer”… I shivered.

What if it wasn't the same city at all to which I had returned, but one subtly, inalterably different? The only person I'd had any contact with was Earl, and what did
that
prove? I remembered the Cree story Blue had told me, how its familiarity had made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
There are many stories,
he'd said,
you hear people talking about Mimikwisowak: that's what we call them, the Little People.
If they had stories like that in Saskatchewan, and we had them back in Newfoundland, and they had them in Ireland and England and who knew? Iceland and the Philippines, all over, then maybe they were true? I hadn't been able to take Queenie's tales, though; no, it was ludicrous. The kettle rattled and I poured water into my mug. I should call Grandpa. Let him know I've arrived alive and all that. Maybe then I'd feel like I was here.

I got my cell out of my jacket and flipped it open; I still had some time on my phone card. It'd be about ten-thirty at home; I hoped that wasn't too late to call. It rang five times. I was about to hang up when Grandpa answered.

“Hell-
lo
.” No upward inflection.

“Hi, it's me. Just wanted to let you know I arrived safe and all that.”

He grunted. I waited, then continued, “So, how's being on your own?”

Right on cue, a percussive high-pitched bark. “How's Lily?”

“Fine, just fine.” He warmed to the subject. “I set up some newspaper in the corner for her to pee on, and she's…”

“I don't need details,” I cut in.

“…and she has quite an appetite. I'm feeding her some steak as a treat, aren't I, girl?” He had a warm note in his voice that I'd never heard before. A woman's voice called out in the background.

“And who's
that
?” I asked.

“Who? Oh, Queenie.”

“Aunt Queenie?”

“Of course it's your Aunt Queenie, what do you think, I got myself a girlfriend or something?”

A great shout of women's laughter went up in the background. “Jesus, how many of ‘em you got over there?”

“All of them,” he said sourly, appending as an afterthought, “Language.”

“Auntie T. can't be there; she's in the Home.”