Gravity Brings Me Down (11 page)

“I’m going up,” I tell him.

“That’s okay. I like the ride.” He grins.

I may be wrong, but I think the wee man is coming on to me. Whatever.

When we reach the fourteenth floor, he holds the door, waiting a little longer than necessary for me to
disembark. Thankfully, Mabel’s already in the hall. She rushes over.

“Marie! What happened? I haven’t seen you in so long. I was worried.”

“I was here two days ago.”

“It felt like years.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

Pulling the bottle of wine from my purse, I hand it to Mabel.

“I brought this for lunch.”

She throws her arms around me and kisses me on the cheek, then loops her arm through mine and pulls me into her apartment.

“Look at your hands, dear! Have you been cleaning chimneys?”

“Oh, uh, yeah … kind of.” I point to the wine as a diversionary tactic. “This is really good stuff. I think you’ll like it.”

“Wonderful!”

“Do you have a corkscrew?”

Mabel digs through her kitchen drawers. After a while, I think she’s forgotten what she’s looking for, so I open the first drawer to my right and find the corkscrew in plain sight.

“Here it is.”

Mabel pulls two small, etched-glass tumblers from the cupboard. I check to make sure they’re clean, then proceed to open the wine. Using the little knife on the corkscrew, I cut the foil in a neat circle from the top of the bottle, the way I’ve seen Dad do it a million times before. I twist the corkscrew in, fold the handle so that it rests against the lip of the bottle, then extract the cork with a rousing pop.

Mabel claps her hands. “Masterful!”

I fill the little glasses and present one to Mabel with a small bow.

“Cheers!” she says, clinking her tumbler against mine. And then she downs the entire glass in one swig. “Ahhh … a wee spot o’ courage.”

She holds her tumbler out for more. I fill it, watching warily as she raises the glass to her lips. I can just see the headline in the
Sunnyview Review
.

MINOR INTOXICATES SENIOR

To my relief, Mabel doesn’t sailor this wine in one gulp like before. She takes a refined sip then places her glass on the counter.

“Well, now. What shall we have for lunch?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“I have buns and cheese. Is that all right?”

“Sure.”

We eat our sandwiches in front of “telly,” as Mabel calls it, drinking wine and discussing the train-wrecked lives on
Coronation Street
. Mabel is in top form today: bright, articulate, funny. Maybe it’s the wine that’s got her performing so well. If so, I think she should drink every day.

By the time the show is over, we’re both half lit. Mabel turns to me, her cheeks all flushed.

“What I wouldn’t give for a fag about now.”

“What?”

“A cigarette, dear. I still yearn for them, once in a while.”

“I’m just the girl to talk to.” Pulling my Gauloise from my purse, I tap the pack and hold it out for Mabel. She takes the cigarette and I light it, then light one for myself.

Mabel inhales deeply, a look of pure pleasure on her face. I have to hand it to her, she knows how to live. I mean, she could be all bitter and messed up because she’s alone. But she’s not. She still enjoys the simplest things. She holds up her cigarette.

“George never approved,” she says, then taps the ash into the saucer of her teacup.

I’m so surprised, I do the same.

We smoke in silence for a bit, enjoying the moment. I can’t even imagine doing this with my real mother.

After a while, Mabel turns to me thoughtfully.

“Do you remember that song, Marie … the one I used to love so well?”

I play along. “You like lots of songs, don’t you?”

“Yes … but there’s that one I really love. You remember, dear …” She closes her eyes and begins to hum in a faraway voice.

I actually know the song, only because Dad tortures me with such things at home. “‘Alfie’…”

“What?”

“The song … it’s called ‘Alfie,’ I think.”

“Yes! That’s it. ‘Alfie.’ How I love that song. We used to dance to it…”

“You and your husband?”

“Oh, my dear, no,” Mabel says, as though the very idea is outrageous.

I wait for her to explain, but she continues to hum, lost in another time. I wait, smoking my Gauloise and sipping wine until she comes back from whatever sentimental journey she’s on. When she opens her eyes, she looks at me intently.

“You look just like him,” she says. “He wanted me to run away with him, because of the baby.”

“Who … George?”

Mabel shakes her head. But she doesn’t say anything else. This gives me pause. If she didn’t mean George, then who? Another man? Is it possible that Mabel had an affair on her potato-nosed husband? With someone from England maybe? It might explain why the real Marie looks so different from the rest of her family. I can’t bring myself to come right out and ask her for the truth. That would be rude. So I try to ease into the subject by talking about myself.

“I had a funny experience the other day. There’s this boy in my school… a total jock. I never thought much of him, you know, because he’s not my type. But the other day in class, he said something so smart, it totally shocked me. I mean, I never expected it from him at all.”

Mabel nods. “We can’t judge a book by its cover, can we. You never really know anyone unless you take the time.”

It’s hard to believe this is the same woman who can’t find her way home. She takes a drink from her glass.

“This really
is
good stuff,” she says, then pauses, looking at me over the rim of her tumbler. “I’ve kept everything, you know.”

“Everything…?”

“Come. Have a look.”

We butt our cigarettes and move into the bedroom, where Mabel produces a big, long box from under the bed. Removing the top, she reveals hundreds of letters and drawings and poems.

“It’s all here,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Everything you kids have ever done.”

I sit on the floor, poking politely through the papers, reading a few cards and notes. It’s pretty standard stuff: old poems from grade school, Mother’s Day cards from five thousand years ago, handwritten stories. Shuffling through the pile, I notice there’s nothing dated later than the Seventies. It’s as if her kids spontaneously combusted or simply walked away one day.

“It’s nice,” I tell her.

Mabel excuses herself to the bathroom. I take the opportunity to replace the box, sliding it under the bed. It goes so far, then catches on something. Leaning down to take a look, I discover an envelope wedged between the slats of the box spring. I reach in and pull it out.

The letter is dusty and looks old. There are photos inside, about a dozen in the stack, all neatly tied with a frayed green ribbon. I know it’s nosy, but I’m so curious, I can’t resist the temptation. I open the letter slowly, careful not to wreck it. It’s immediately clear that this particular correspondence isn’t from her children.

I whip the letter behind my back as Mabel sways into the room. I’m so stunned by what I’ve read that I do the rudest, most invasive thing I’ve ever done in my life: I steal it, stuffing it up my shirt to read later. As a writer of journals, I’m the first one to defend a person’s right to privacy. But for some reason, I can’t help myself. I
have
to know what this is all about. I mean, you never think of old people as actually having a life, let alone such a secret romantic one. And now that I’ve opened Pandora’s box, so to speak, there’s no turning back. Standing to go, I promise myself I’ll read the letter and return it with the photos as soon as possible.

Mabel grapples with the button on her sleeve.

“Could you help me, dear? I don’t understand these stupid things half the time.”

I reach over, the envelope with the photos nearly sliding from my shirt. Pressing my arms to my sides so the letter won’t escape, I fumble away, trying to fasten the button. As I do this, Mabel places her hand gently on my hair.

“You were always my favourite, Marie.”

She looks at me, a funny kind of glimmer in her eyes. It’s almost as if she knows I’m not really her daughter but she doesn’t want to destroy the illusion we’ve created. The weird thing is, I don’t even mind that we’re playing this game either. I mean, it’s not hurting anyone, is it? I give her a smile, then tell her that I have to go. Mabel looks sad but tries to control it.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

She stands at the door, hands folded in front of her. I don’t know if it’s the wine, or the guilt I feel over taking her personal things, but before I go, I lean over and give her a kiss. It’s nothing big, just a peck on the cheek, but you’d think I’d just given her a million dollars by the way she reacts.

“Oh, my dear girl.”

“See ya,…
Mom
.”

L
eaving Mabel’s, I bump right into Sharon as I step into the street. She looks over at the building, does the math and scowls.

“What were you doing in there?”

“Huh?”

“Why were you coming out of the old lady’s building?”

My brain is all wobbly from the wine. I can feel the forces tugging at me. I rub my forehead, trying to right myself. “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

“Are you drunk?” Sharon leans over and sniffs my breath, the way my mom would. “You are! You’ve been drinking with that old lady.”

“What’re you talking about?”

She grabs my arm. “Don’t lie to me.”

I pull away, the letter falling from my shirt to the sidewalk, the photos fluttering out.

Sharon snatches one up. “What’s this?”

I pluck the photo from her hand, gathering the others before they blow into the street. “None of your business.”

“But it’s
your
business?”

“Get off my back. God. Why do you care?”

“I’ve been trying to call your cell for hours. I had no idea where you were.”

“What are you, my mother?”

Sharon scoffs. “I can’t believe you would rather spend time with some old bag than with me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

I don’t have an answer for her. Placing the envelope in my purse, I zip it shut, then step into the street. When I do this, I’m nearly plowed by a black pickup roaring past. It’s Biff and his posse of simian friends. He screams something incomprehensible from the driver’s side window. The truck careens down the street, screeching a U-turn at the end of the block.

The last thing I need is a showdown with Knuckles. I don’t wait for the truck to return. I cut across to the park behind our school, hoping to give him the slip. But he just rounds the corner so he can head me off on the other side. His pickup rolls to a stop at the corner. Biff hops from the cab.

“Well, well, well …” He walks toward me with that same weird look on his face. “Fancy meeting you here…”

I make to leave but he closes the distance between us. Suddenly, my brain isn’t wobbly any more; it’s on red alert.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

He’s so close, I can smell his breath. It reeks of alcohol—even worse than mine.

“Hey, leave her alone!” someone shouts.

It’s Tod. He rushes over to where we’re standing, his helmet on.

“What are you doing here, Toad?” Biff says.

“Leave her alone,” Tod says, again.

Biff sneers. “What are you gonna do about it?”

He pushes Tod to the ground in a heap. Tod scrabbles up, and I hear myself yell as Biff punches him square on the nose. Tod crumples to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head. Then Biff turns, pressing me against a tree as he plants one on me. I’m so shocked, I shove him in the chest. We grapple with each other and my blouse rips, several buttons popping off in the struggle. This seems to go on forever, until all at once someone jumps from the pickup. It’s Steve Ryan. He charges, hitting Biff like a Mack truck. They roll over the ground, a couple of rabid dogs, fighting savagely. Biff may be a football star, but Steve is a champion wrestler. Until this second, I could have cared less about the difference: a jock was a jock. Period. But Steve has all these mad moves, and he’s fast. I watch as he pins Biff, grinding his head into the dirt. Biff howls, his face as red as a cherry.

“I’m going to kill you, Ryan!”

Steve grinds a little harder. “Had enough?”

“Screw you!”

When Biff finally stops struggling, Steve releases his hold. Biff jumps up, his eyes wild with rage. But he doesn’t threaten Steve. He turns on me.

“I won’t forget this!” He spits, then marches to his truck and squeals off.

I look at Steve. He seems kind of sheepish all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says.

I don’t know why he’s apologizing. I clutch at my ripped blouse. Steve quickly removes his rugby jersey and hands it to me. I hesitate.

“Please, take it,” he says.

I take the shirt and put it on. I can’t help noticing how soft it feels. And it smells good, too. Never in my life did I imagine I’d be caught dead wearing a rugby shirt, let alone Steve Ryan’s. I’m so dazed, I forget all about Tod. He’s still on the ground, groaning. Steve gives him a hand.

“Are you okay?”

Tod attempts to act cool about the whole thing but comes off looking pathetic. When he sees me wearing Steve’s shirt, he insists on giving me his as well, staggering weakly as he tries to pull it over his helmet. Steve grabs him before he falls, holding him upright.

“Hey, take it easy, man.”

I stand awkwardly to one side, not knowing how to feel. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago that I caught Steve with his pants around his ankles.

“I guess I owe you,” I say.

Steve shakes his head. “Just stay away from Biff. He’s got it in for you.”

“Why? I’ve never done anything to him.”

Steve studies his feet. “Oh … uh … well… it’s not you. It’s me. I… uh … made the mistake of… uh … telling him that I like you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s true.”

He looks at me and my face begins to burn. I have no idea what to say. But then Tod interrupts.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks.

“I’m okay Tod. Really.”

“I don’t mind.”

I’m too embarrassed to argue so I just resign myself. Besides, the day couldn’t possibly get any weirder.

“Okay, yeah, sure …”

“I should go too,” Steve says. He gives a shy kind of wave and heads off through the park.

Tod escorts me home, pushing his moped. He takes the opportunity to give me some friendly advice.

“You should be more careful.”

I don’t even bother to answer. There’s just no point. I don’t know how being more careful would have changed anything. Biff is a creep. It’s as simple as that. But it’s not Biff I’m thinking about. It’s Steve. Just yesterday, he was a dumb jock, like every other dumb jock in the school. He wasn’t even on my radar. Now he’s saying smart things in class, and punching out his best friend to rescue me. I just don’t know what to think any more.

I walk up to my house, leaving Tod at the curb. I must be completely out of my head because before I go in, I surprise both of us by saying something to Tod I wouldn’t normally say.

“Thanks.”

Mom is out, I’m happy to see. There’s a note, telling
us she’s teaching and we should grab a snack if we’re hungry because dinner is going to be late. Dad’s out too. I know where he is: down at the local watering hole for deep-fry and beer. As much as he encourages Mom’s independence, he still relies on her for everything. I wonder what Miss B. would say about that.

I drop my purse on the couch and grab a bowl of Gorilla Munch, this time with milk, because I feel I need it after my traumatizing experience. I have a headache from the wine, but I eat two bowls anyway. I wonder how Mabel is faring.

When I’m finished eating my cereal, I place my dishes in the sink, then go upstairs to my room. I’m still totally mystified by what happened with Biff and Steve, so I just perch on the edge of my bed with Little Morta, thinking about things. I can’t believe Steve Ryan risked everything for me. He’s taking a huge chance, because someone like Biff won’t forgive what he did—ever.

I run my hands along the sleeves of Steve’s jersey, trying to imagine us together, as a couple. I tell myself it’s impossible and dangerous and wrong: birds and monkeys don’t mix. Everyone knows that. Such a union would cause a rift in the space-time continuum or worse. But I can’t stop thinking about him. I mean, maybe he’s not a monkey at all. Maybe he just pretends to be one, the way I do. The more I think about him, the more I have to admit, he’s really cute. With a little more hair and some half-decent clothes, he’d even be better looking than Darin’…

Oh my God …
what am I saying?

I roll over on the bed. Morta curls next to me. She’s practically breathing my air as I ponder this disturbing revelation. Could I
possibly
like Steve Ryan?

My head will explode if I don’t stop thinking about it. I need a distraction …

Mabel’s letter!

I go downstairs to get it, taking the opportunity to grab a glass of milk and a couple of cookies from the jar Mom keeps on the fridge. Back upstairs, I place the milk and cookies to one side of my desk and settle in, Morta in my lap. I open the letter and begin to read:

So Mabel
did
have a lover! But obviously they didn’t stay together. I wonder if he was serious when he said that he’d rather die? I mean, men don’t usually say those things lightly, statistically speaking.

I put the letter aside and begin looking through the photos. They’re small and frail, so it’s difficult to see who’s in them, but I’m pretty sure it’s Mabel and another man. I mean, the nose on her husband would be pretty unmistakable, and the guy in the pictures is definitely more handsome, with really dark hair. They’re standing so close to each other, there’s no doubt something was going on. I turn the photo over to check for writing of any kind when I hear the shriek of tires in the street, followed by a huge, glass-shattering crash that sends Morta shrieking from my lap. She scrabbles across the desk and hits the tumbler of milk, spilling it over the photos.

“Morta!”

Lunging for my hamper, I grab a dirty towel. Through my window I can see two men shouting at each other, their cars crushed like tin cans.

“Idiots,” I curse, mopping up the milk.

But it’s no use. Some of the photos are completely soaked and the letter is totally ruined, the ink running like cheap mascara down the page. I salvage the photos as best I can, dabbing them gently with the towel. I’m laying them out to dry when Peggy bursts into my room, shouting at the top of her lungs.

“You cut holes in my cheerleading shorts!”

“Are you completely nuts?”

“You are so dead! … Is that my rugby jersey?”

“Get out of my room!”

“What’s all the racket?” Mom says, appearing next to Peggy. I guess she’s home from class.

“She cut holes in my cheerleading shorts!” Peggy whines, then begins to cry.

“I did not.”

Mom gives me the dirtiest look. She escorts Peggy from my room, closing the door. I wish I
had
cut holes in her stupid cheerleading shorts, but I’m ashamed to say I never thought of it.

After looking at Mabel’s photos, I’m still in the dark as to what really happened in her life. I have so many questions. I want to know all about her. She’s had this incredibly interesting life, yet no one would ever know to look at her. They’d never know she likes Shakespeare and music and wine, or that she loved to dance. They’d never know that she enjoyed romance and intrigue. It’s odd, but suddenly I want to tell Mabel everything. I want to tell her all my thoughts and worries and concerns. I even want to tell her how I really feel about Steve Ryan.

Mom calls up the stairs. Dinner’s ready.

We’re having tofurkey. It’s tofu, disguised as turkey. I don’t see what the purpose of that is. I mean, you don’t want to eat meat, which is why you’re eating tofu, so why pretend it’s meat? Anyway, I’m only at the table for appearances. Peggy is notably absent. I choke down a few mouthfuls of food then ask to be excused and retire to my room again. I just want to be alone with my thoughts.

Lying on my bed, my cellphone rings. I check the caller ID. It’s Sharon. I don’t pick up. The last thing I want is to be interrogated. She wouldn’t understand
about Mabel and I’m not about to tell her about Steve. So it’s best just to avoid her for now.

I know I should work on my reading analysis report for Mr. Farrell but I spend the night thinking and writing in my journal instead. I want to talk to Mabel so badly. I decide to visit her tomorrow so I can see her and return her photos.