Island Girl (10 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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There have never been manatees in Toronto, and since my mother never took us to church, I didn’t understand the problem with the altar girls. But as Ruby always said, having a social conscience meant seeing the larger picture, looking beyond our own front door.
“It’s our responsibility, our duty, to act for social change,” she’d say. “To hold those in power accountable. To always question authority.” Unless it was her authority. That was to be honored at all times because who knew what you needed better than your own mother? No one, that’s who.
“Lizzie, you need to listen carefully,” she said when I was five years old. “What we’re learning here is called civil disobedience, and it’s exactly what we need if we want to hold on to our homes. The time for polite conversation is over. Do you understand?”
I was a little kid, for chrissakes. What did I understand about civil disobedience? All I knew was that some man with a beard and hunchy shoulders was going to help us put together an elite group of freedom fighters. And all I saw was my pregnant mother’s hand shoot up in the air, waving and begging
pick me, pick me
, when that same man asked if anyone was willing to go to jail for the cause. “Don’t be silly,” Ruby said when I objected. “Everything will be fine. Now go sit with the other kids. The grown-ups have things to discuss.”
Long after the other kids grew bored and went in search of something more exciting, I was still there, a fixture at every meeting. Sitting on the floor, breathing in the language, the mood, the very pulse of the struggle. I was still too young to grasp much of anything that was going on, but still I wrote
Save Our Homes
on everything I touched. Surrounding the words with flowers and smiley faces while the adults said things like
passive resistance
and
police brutality.
Finally understanding that the baby and I were the reason my mother was there, the reason she wanted to get arrested, because we were the future of the Island.
When they started practice drills with make-believe policemen taking people to make-believe jail, Ruby would put an arm around me and whisper, “Whatever happens, remember that I love you very much,” scaring the shit out of me even as my skin prickled with pride.
That summer, Ruby’s pregnancy and the fight to Save the Island Homes came down to the wire. The Islanders were ready, Ruby was ready, and I knew exactly where I would be the day the sheriff finally came—at the front of the pack with the other kids, blocking the way.
On Monday morning July 29, 1980, as soon as everyone who worked in the city had left for the day, the siren on top of the clubhouse went off, the phone chain started up, and the calls went out all over the Island and across the water into the city.
The sheriff is on his way. Eviction day is here. Come stand with us.
I remember watching the first boats come across the bay. The dinghies and the water taxis, the canoes and the motorboats, and of course the old barge that was the flagship of the Island navy. All of them speeding toward us, bringing the believers, the curious, and more important, the press, to witness the standoff we had promised.
We gathered by the hundreds at the foot of Algonquin bridge that day, our banner pleading SAVE Us BILL DAVIS while television and newspaper cameras stood ready. It had come down to this—the last of the Islanders waiting in the rain for the final showdown. Sure enough, out of the gloom came two cars. Eviction on wheels.
My mother went into labor right there, falling heavily against Mark. He picked her up and started carrying her away. “Keep Liz with you,” she called to Mary Anne. Then she blew me a kiss. “Do me proud, Lizzie. Do me proud.”
Ruby and Mark disappeared from sight, but I stayed behind with Mary Anne. Pushed my way to the front of the pack with the other kids and stood my ground. When a girl younger than me started to cry, I took her hand, told her to stop being a baby and sing, just sing with everyone else. “Like a tree standing by the water, we shall not be moved.”
But inside, just to myself so no one else could hear, I prayed that the real sheriff and the real evictors were coming another way. That they would hammer their notices on our doors and everything would be over before we knew it, and my mother and the baby would not go to jail the way she wanted to so badly.
As it turned out, no one went to jail that day. Mark took my mother to a hospital in the city, the sheriff agreed to delay the evictions, and the Islanders declared a victory. Two days later, we won the right to appeal the city’s decision to get rid of us. At long last, the tide had turned.
When my mother came home with Grace, she put the baby in my arms and Mark took pictures of the three of us. I never told anyone about my secret prayer. I just wanted to forget all about civil disobedience with its threat of police and jail and let everything go back to the way it used to be. I was too young to recognize the change in my mother, to understand the difference between a mere rabble-rouser and an activist, but I’ve always been a quick learner. By the time we hit the streets for the bathhouse protests in 1981, I was six years old and making my mother proud as her own little agent for change.
“Stop those planes!” Ruby yelled.
“We have to make a living,” one of the taxi drivers called.
“And we have to bird,” she yelled, and we both froze. A simple slip of the tongue or had Alzheimer’s dropped by to say hello? She moistened her lips. Tried again. “We have to breathe,” she yelled, and the taxi driver shook his head and rolled up his window.
“Nice save, Mom,” I whispered while she laughed it off with the Diehards. “Nice fucking save.”
It’s funny, but I always thought Ruby was invincible, that she’d live forever just to piss me off. Even now, even knowing the truth, it was hard to imagine her without words or opinions. The shit disturber silenced, no longer rallying the troops and fighting for the underdog. Incapable of doing the one thing she’d always been good at. The one thing I’d liked about her, the one thing we’d had in common until she turned her back on Grace. Refused to join the very fight that should have been instinctive, unquestioned, a natural for any mother whose child is falsely accused. Any mother except our own.
“Save the birds,” she yelled.
“Fuck the birds. And fuck you too,” I muttered, and got to my feet, suddenly hot and itchy, unable to breathe among those goddamn prickly bushes. I snatched up my backpack, pushed through the branches, and went straight to the drinking fountain. Splashed water on my face, my neck, the visible pulse at my wrists. But it wasn’t enough to cool my skin, or slow my heart, or let me catch a breath. What I needed was a drink. And it had to be happy hour somewhere.
On the baseball diamond, the red team was up to bat. A woman with huge boobs swung the bat, hitting a pop fly into the air above the pitcher. But all eyes were on those boobs as she ran to first base, giving me enough time to pull a vodka cooler out of my backpack unseen. I don’t like coolers much, but they were on special—six for six dollars—and I never could resist a sale. It’s a weakness in my character.
The pitcher fumbled the catch and the boobs headed for second. The guys on the blue team had to be giving her this one, which meant all heads were still turned that way, which suited me just fine. With my back to the game, I unscrewed the lid and took a long swallow. Nearly gagged on the sweet, fizzy shit. Should have spat it out then and there. Drank water instead. But who could get happy on water?
So I soldiered on for the cause. Polished off the rest and dropped the empty into my backpack. Pulled out a second and was getting ready to enjoy another refreshing beverage when a muffled voice behind me said, “I told you she was drinking beer.”
I jerked around. Two little boys with matching freckles and Blue Jays hats stood watching me with wide, brown eyes.
“What’s that on her face?” the younger one whispered.
“It think it’s the mark of the devil,” the older one replied.
More the mark of a liar. A scabby half-moon in the middle of my forehead, a reminder of the dangers of canned iced tea and the lie I’d told my sister to save my own ass—to keep her from following up with a handful of macaroni salad.
Ruby has cancer,
I’d said
. Nothing serious. Just a basal cell. Came off with a laser
. Making up the story as I went along. Knowing Grace would believe whatever I told her, wishing I had the courage to tell her the truth.
I’d forgotten about the scab but recognized an opportunity when I saw it. “What nice little boys,” I said, walking slowly toward them. “Would you like some candy?” I held up my backpack. “I have lots and lots of candy.”
The older one grabbed the younger one’s hand and backed him up a step.
I hunched my shoulders and crooked my finger, beckoning them closer. “Don’t be afraid. I like little boys. I like them a lot.”
“Aaron, run!” the older one shouted, and took off in the other direction, hauling the whimpering little one behind him.
“See you later, boys,” I called, and headed back into the trees while the boobs ran for home.
The bottle was empty before I reached my spot, so I opened a third, chugged it, belched twice, and then leaned back against a tree, watching Ruby, red-faced and sweating, still beating that stupid drum. “Stop. Those. Planes.”
“Crazy bitch,” I muttered. “Go ahead and off yourself. Who gives a shit anyway?”
The fourth cooler didn’t go down as well as the other three—chugging will do that sometimes—and I was thinking about taking a break, maybe going for walk, until Mark’s black SUV pulled into the curb across the road and I knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered, dropping the empty into the bag and giving the fifth bottle a pass for the moment.
He stepped out of the van and went around to open the back hatch while a young man moved over into the driver’s seat. “I come bearing gifts for a great cause,” Mark called to the Diehards. “But I’ll need some help getting them out.”
They were on him in seconds, hugging him, slapping his back, welcoming him back into the fold. If they ever found out he’d been catching flights out of that airport for years, there would be nowhere for that man to hide. The only one holding back was Ruby. “Stop. Those. Planes.” Drumbeat.
“What is wrong with you?” I said. “The man has gifts, for chrissakes.”
He called her name, but she only beat that drum louder. She was obviously ignoring him, but why? What had he done to her? Surely she didn’t blame him because I wouldn’t go into Fran’s?
“Stupid cow,” I hollered, then ducked and lowered my voice. “It’s not his fault.”
“What are you doing in there?” a woman demanded.
I turned too quickly. Caught my balance on a tree, belched once, and giggled. Who knew fizzy booze packed such a punch? I held on to the tree and waited for the world to settle. Saw a face I recognized watching me from the path. A strawberry blonde so short she bordered on circus freak, which was probably why she was also hard-nosed and a little twisted and didn’t take shit from anyone. I could tell by the way her brow unfurrowed and her shoulders relaxed that Brenda the Bartender recognized me too.
I smiled and waved. “Hey, Brenda. What brings you here?”
“My kids.” She came toward me through the trees. “They said there’s a witch in here drinking beer.” She smiled at my forehead. “I’ve never seen the mark of the devil before, but it explains a lot.” She took a quick look around. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
I pointed over my shoulder. “Watching the show.”
“You’re spying on the protest? You really need to get cable.”
“I’m not spying, I’m observing.” I parted the branches for her. “See the sweaty redhead ranting at a taxi driver? That’s my dear old mom.”
She leaned closer. “Doesn’t look like she’s ranting. Looks more like she knows the taxi driver. Maybe they’re even flirting.” She glanced up at me. “Your mom’s got a great smile.”
“But she bites.” Most of the protesters were back on the line, wiping their brows and fanning their faces while they marched. But a few were setting up a canopy and a circle of chairs on the grass. Mark had brought the gift of shade. How clever.
“Anybody else think it’s break time?” he called, dragging a cooler out of the back of the SUV and waving the driver away. More protesters broke ranks and went to join him in the shade of the canopy. But Ruby kept banging that drum and poor Mary Anne and Benny kept slogging along behind her. “Save. The. Birds.” Drumbeat.
“Self-righteous bitch,” I yelled. “The world will be better off without you.”
“Liz,” Brenda said softly. “What’s really going on here?”
“My mother has Alzheimer’s,” I said, and instantly regretted it, wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut. As my great-grandma used to say,
You don’t owe a thing to a bugger
, including bartenders, bar buddies, and best friends—not that I had any of those these days. They’d all screwed off after I refused to sit through their ridiculous intervention. As though it was my fault I’d walked into our regular Friday night get-together, expecting dinner and drinks with the girls, only to get hand wringing and coffee instead.
We love you, Liz. We want to help you, Liz
. Who the hell did they think they were anyway?

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