Blasted (27 page)

“Yes, well, the other six are, and Theresa might as well be.”

“I wish I was there, it sounds like fun,” I said before I could stop myself. I took a hasty glug of my Neo Citran and scalded about three layers of skin off the top of my tongue. “Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm here safe and everything,” I said through the pain.

“Glad to hear it,” said Grandpa.

“I felt kind of odd as the plane took off, actually,” I heard myself saying brightly, and glugged more liquid drug to shut myself up. “Goddamn!”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, just burned my mouth.”

“We went for a walk today, all the way down to Fort Amherst, didn't we? And Lily did very well.”

He hadn't heard me. “You walked all the way to the fort?” I tried to picture Lily's little legs making it that far, and back again. “What, did you fasten a little rocket to her arse? Is she a rocket-powered doggie?”

“No, I carried her in my jacket.”

“Ah.” I pictured the creature next to my grandfather's body, his hand cradling her, that smile on his face as he looked down at her. Goddamned stupid smelly little dog. “So it's not really a
walk
, then,
is
it?”

“What are you on about?”

“You can't really call it a
walk
, if you carry her all the way.”

“If you wants to get technical about it, girl.” I heard the puppy bark again. “Lily barks whenever anyone comes to the door,” said Grandpa. “She's one smart girl, aren't you, Lily?”

“Lily. Huh.” I pictured her barking and leaping for my throat the next time I went home. “What kind of name is that, anyway? Sounds like a whore from the Yukon.”

“Ruby…” he said.

“I know, I know. ‘Whore' isn't technically a swear word, Grandpa.” He didn't respond, and silence draped itself over us both. “Well, you sound good. Good. Just wanted to make sure, you know.”

“I know.”

“Well, I'm here, now. Give my love to the Aunts.”

“I will.”

“I love you, Grandpa.”

Grunt. Then, “Me, too.”

I drank the rest of the contents of my mug, more carefully this time. I had almost finished it when the drug hit and my eyes grew heavy. I trailed to bed and lay down. Just close my eyes, just for a minute, just a little snooze, that's all.

I woke up shouting blue murder from a sleep I remembered only as devoid of dreams. Daylight, and only the stench was real. I lay there in the sickly sun, hot and unhappy, until a vague curiosity compelled me to check my clock radio for the time. It was flashing “1:11” – obviously the power had gone off some time during my trip. I stared at the flashing green numbers as they changed – “1:12,” “1:13.” By “1:22” I made myself get up. Going into the kitchen I automatically took down my tea tin from its shelf over the sink, and yes, triumph! tea bags. And then realized I had no milk – or rather, what milk I may have had was doubtless sporting intelligent life right now in the fridge. Fine. Alright. I'd buy some. I pulled on clothes and boots, found my wallet, and then, unwilling to face Earl, tiptoed out the back door and navigated the wooden fire escape. This was no easy matter, for Izzie's attributes included, improbably, a green thumb; the stairs were blockaded with potted plants of every variety: flowers, shrubs bearing bright peppers, tomatoes like something out of “Day of the Triffids,” vines festooning the rails and creeping treacherously across the steps, and at the bottom a vicious tangle of raspberry canes.

I fought my way down, peering in as I passed Izzie's window. The cheap glitter of the fairy figurines on her windowsill winked in the sunlight even through the grimy glass. Had she really been showing my place to prospective tenants? She knew why I was gone, for Christ's sake – the woman had wept on my neck in deep sorrow for my loss. Would she forget even that, my good buddy Izzie? I emerged triumphant from the raspberries and sprinted through the back alley, a shortcut to the corner store, reveling in the freedom of being able to shop on the fly – at Grandpa's house buying groceries required the planning capabilities of a trip to the Antarctic.

I burst through the door of the Maple Mini Mart almost happy, and went to the back where the milk was. The tins were dusty, and almost two bucks each. I scooped up two, bringing them to the front. Behind the counter sat the owner, staring at a small TV. I stood there and waited for him to register my presence. And waited. And waited. After a moment, I coughed. His lower lip quivered. I rearranged my tins, and looked beseechingly at the side of his head. His eyes watered a little.

It was always like this at the Maple Mini Mart. It seemed to me the owner suffered every time an item walked out his door. He was probably chronically constipated, and I was amazed he had any kids (I knew he did, because sometimes they'd work the store – teenagers who spent all their time on the phone, rolling their eyes when you tried to buy anything, saying, “I gotta go; I gotta serve this
woman
,”) – yes, I didn't see how he could reproduce, because the release of orgasm must cause him unspeakable suffering. I'd seen his wife, and she was not a happy woman. I stared at his head for a zillion years, then turned and with elaborate nonchalance began to peruse a magazine on the rack – Cosmo or something, I didn't care – until he heaved a great sigh from his seat behind the counter, and his hand crept out and, ever so slowly, he began to caress the tins. I gave him a moment alone with them, then put the magazine back and sidled cautiously to the cash register.

“Nine-twenty-eight.”

“For two tins of milk?” I squeaked.

“And magazine. You read, you buy.” His tired eyes challenged me.

“The hell with that,” I said without heat. “I've been shopping at this crappy store for two years now, and you're getting a dollar ninety-nine times two plus tax, and not a penny more.”

A ghost of a smile glimmered in his hang-dog eyes, and he laboriously and happily re-rang the total. I gave him his money, smiled, and resisted the impulse to wring his hand. Just another human being in the big city, facing and conquering his fears in his own small way.

Inspired by his example I bravely took the front way home, risking Earl. On the sidewalk outside the house I heard a strange, piercing, high-pitched whistle, and realized I'd gone out and left the kettle on the stove. They should get me off the streets now, as a danger to myself and humanity, I thought, as I took the stairs two at a time. Earl dove out at me, and I realized too late that I hadn't brought my keys.

“I was talking to Izzie this morning – if you can call it talking, she's been drinking already of course – ”

“Sorry, gotta go to the back, forgot my keys and left a kettle on the stove,” I said over my shoulder, catapulting back down the dingy stairs.

“ – and I think you should know that–”

I slammed the door on his words. I had to scoot sideways down the incredibly narrow space between our house and the one next door, and fought my way up the fire escape to my screaming back door. I even remembered to wrap my hand in something before grabbing the kettle off the stove. It was going to be a grand day, I could feel it.

I opened the tin of milk and made myself a great cup of tea, then realized that I'd be unable to open the fridge to store the milk. How long would evaporated milk last in the Toronto summer heat? I had a feeling I was going to be buying a lot of tins of milk. I'd probably force the Maple Mini Mart guy to the brink of a nervous breakdown, buying up his supply of ten-year-old tins of Carnation. Sitting on the sill of my back door and sipping my tea, I pondered life in the modern age without refrigeration. My mind was turning to the problem of breakfast when I heard a halfhearted knock at my front door. I walked to answer it, but a key was scraping in the lock and the door swung open as I approached.

“Hey…” I said, outrage blossoming. Then Izzie appeared, followed by a young couple with two big-eyed black-haired children in tow.

“This is the place… this is the place… two bedroom… hang a curtain here for the children is what I'd do,” she slurred, gesturing at my front room. The couple stopped dead when they saw me and the children disappeared behind their mother's legs.

“Izzie, what do you think you're doing?” I demanded.

“You're back,” she creaked, peering wetly up at me.

“Yes, I'm back and what the hell is this? Excuse me,” I said to the couple. They murmured something apologetic in Spanish and backed into the hallway. A rush and hiss signaled Earl's emergence on the scene.

“Told you she was showing the place,” he grumbled with deep satisfaction. The couple jumped when he spoke. One of the kids gave a little scream and started to cry. The mother picked her up and tried to soothe her. “Told you she'd been snooping around,” Earl continued, glaring at Izzie. The child began sobbing in earnest.

“She never paid this month's… Or last monthsss… Sssss…” Izzie sagged to one side and looked as if she was going to trail off into a stupor.

I opened my mouth to protest or explain, I wasn't sure which. Abruptly her head whipped up like a hunting dog scenting a partridge in the brush, and her pale eyes bulged at Earl as her voice rose and rose like an air-raid siren. “This month's rent, I can't be expected to wait around forever and
what would I tell Frank?!? Huh?
” The other kid started crying too.

“Huh. Don't yell at
me
. I'm not the one who didn't pay rent,” Earl said.

“Et tu, Brute,” I said.

“Huh?”

I started babbling at Izzie. “Look, I'm only a bit late on it, come on, Izzie. And you know why I went home, my
grandmother died
, come on, woman, I'll get the money to you as soon as… well, soon,” I finished lamely. “If
I
were superintendent none of this would have happened,” Earl said.

“I work so hard every day I've got my garden and
you people never do anything you leave your garbage everywhere…
”

“Get a grip, Izzie!” I shouted.

“…
and you never recycle your intoxicated cans!
”

“Intoxicated cans?”

“
Where are you going?!
” Izzie screeched, ignoring me and addressing the family, who were retreating down the stairs. “But sssss a two bedroom, great deal!” Izzie lowered her shriek to a piercing whine. “Jesus sent you to me, I know, I prayed today!”

“There's no
way
this place is a two bedroom!” I shouted angrily and somewhat irrelevantly, as the family vanished out the door. “And why the hell did you unplug my goddamn fridge?” I rounded on Izzie.

“To
save power
,” she shrieked.

“Don't you yell at me…”

“
I'm not yelling I'll yell whenever I goddamn please…
”

“I'll call the cops,” threatened Earl.

“
You shut up!
” Izzie and I shouted simultaneously.

“Huh,” said Earl, making as if to go back into his lair in a huff, but of course this show was the best thing that had happened to him in years, and he only maneuvered his body behind the door and left his wretched little head out, eyes gleaming.

“I can't believe you're kicking me out,” I said to Izzie, my voice cracking. Her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “You need the cool friend colour, take care of you,” she said. “I gotta take care of business.”

“You're doing a great job,” I tried to soothe her.
Cool friend colour
– what the hell did that mean? “Just give me a week, and I'll have the money to you, I swear.” I tried to remember if I had in fact paid last month's rent. I couldn't remember paying it, but then, I couldn't remember
not
paying it either. “Hey, where are you going?” Izzie had turned and shuffled down the stairs with surprising speed. She didn't look back at me, just waved a hand in a lordly manner and slammed the door behind her.

“What are
you
looking at?” I snapped at Earl.

“You better pay up or I bet you're outta here,” he said. I curbed an impulse to smash his face, and closed my door.

CHAPTER 19

I walked along College, east to Spadina. I had, I estimated, maybe fifty bucks. Maybe less. I'd glanced at my mailbox in the porch as I'd left the house; it was bursting with envelopes that looked suspiciously like bills. And there was the rent. Even if I found a job today I wouldn't get a paycheque for a while, and if Izzie was clear about one goal in her life right now it was to get rent from me, blood from a stone. I was strangely shaken by her defection. I had fallen from honourary daughter to problem tenant in one fell swoop; no more stories over beer on the porch, no more attempts to get me to date her son, what was his name, Gulliver? – oh, Izzie, Izzie, even you?

I half-heartedly kept my eyes open for “Help Wanted” signs as I walked; this wasn't my kind of neighbourhood. You needed a manicure to work a College Street establishment, and good clothes. And good hair. And at least one other job to be able to afford all the personal upkeep necessary for your College Street employment. Everyone on the street was tanned, happy, and on the arm of someone else; I was the one and only single person anywhere on College that day. It was with relief that I turned down Spadina; it enveloped me, the smells of vegetables, spices and garbage, sweet wicker and an acrid scent reminiscent of tomatoes, and the crowds of people shopping and talking, arguing and walking.