Lucy's Launderette (15 page)

“Don't let me go,” I cried.

“I'm with you. I'll always be with you. Don't look back. And don't look for me. It'll just slow you down.”

“But I'm in pain,” I cried, “my world is gone. You died and took my world with you.”

“Connie,” he said, and I could feel my hand slipping out of his.

“No,” I yelled.

His voice became distant. “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…”

I opened my eyes. Looming above me were shining stainless-steel spokes. It was a wheelchair. Sitting in it was a bulky bearded grizzly bear of a middle-aged man.

He was leaning over the edge of his chair and shaking me with one hand, saying my name. “Lucy. Lucy. Chrissake, Lucy, wake up.”

I sat up and stared around me in a daze, unable to get my bearings.

“Bob.”

Bob smiled and said, “I gotta tell you, Lucy. Thought somebody was gonna call the police with all the screamin' you were doin' back here. I could hear you through my apartment wall. What the hell you doin' here anyway? How the hell did you get in?”

“I missed Jeremy. I've still got the keys. When I was a kid, I used to curl up on the washing and go to sleep.”

Bob laughed—it sounded like tires on gravel—then said, “Think we all miss Jeremy, Kiddo. C'mon, get up. Let's go to my place. You look…” He scratched his head. “I was gonna say you don't look so good but it ain't true. You always look good to me, Lucy Madison.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

“Yer welcome. C'mon. You turn sideways, you gonna disappear. Jeez, you're lookin' kinda thin. I mean, you look great. I'm just not used to seein' you lookin' so thin. How much you lost anyway?”

“I don't know.”

Bob wheeled ahead of me out the front door of the launderette, around to the back, and into his entrance. He maneuvered the two steps expertly. I followed him into the apartment.

His living room was a shrine to technology. He had all the latest toys, computer, minicam, stereo, flat-screen television with DVD and quadrophonic sound.

“Siddown. What can I get ya? Coffee? A beer? A joint?” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Bob had his own little cultivation of pot plants flourishing in the spare room under lights. He'd once told me that he needed all that marijuana because it made him sleep. When he went to sleep stoned, he dreamed more, and that was important because in his dreams he was always walking or running on his own legs, just as he was before the accident.

“How about food? Want something to eat? Don't want you to faint on me or anything. You're skin and bones. Got some whole wheat bread and some…” I heard the sounds of rummaging in a fridge “…tuna. Really good. Had it at lunch today. Still fresh. Put in a little onion and celery and mayo…”

“You mean it's after lunch?”

Bob wheeled out of the kitchen and stared at me. “Sure is. Half past three.”

“I've lost more than half a day.”

“You been up to something you can't talk about?”

“No, not really. It's my job. I think I quit. I mean I have quit. I just haven't told my boss.”

“Happens.”

“But I didn't call in sick or anything.”

“Where you been working lately?”

I went into the long saga of Nadine and Rogues' Gallery but I left out Paul Bleeker and the chocolate digits. “Bob. I've gotta go. Can I ask you a favor?”

“Shoot.”

“First, I need to know what's going to happen to the launderette? Now that Jeremy's gone, I mean.”

“Nothin'. Not as long as I'm here. But out of respect for Jeremy, eh, I thought it should stay closed for a bit. And as the revenue goes to Connie, I wanted her to feel the squeeze. Trouble is, she don't feel nothin'. Call me a mean bastard if ya like.”

“Then I really have to ask you this favor.”

“Shoot again.”

“Can I stay here tonight? I don't want to go back to my apartment.”

“You can stay here in my spare room.”

“No. I meant the launderette. I just want to be around the old familiar places and smells a little longer. I can't exactly sniff around his house with Connie living in it.”

“Jeez, it's kinda an uncomfortable way ta hang out.”

“I just want another couple of nights.”

“Whatever. No skin off my nose. Connie's the boss but she hasn't ever been interested in the launderette. Wouldn't set foot inside it right from the start. Figures she's too good for some things.”

“I wanted to ask you about Connie. Have you seen her or talked to her lately?”

“I expected to hear from her after the funeral. Ain't heard nothing. We ain't really been on speakin' terms for over a year. And she only lives two blocks from here. Go figure. The last time we talked, or maybe I should say, snarled at each other, was just before Jeremy started gettin' bad. We agree to disagree. Lemme put it this way. We hate each other's guts so we just stay out of each other's way. All launderette business goes through an estate manager.”

“You know she's pregnant?”

“Hell, what?”

“I figure four or five months, maybe more. It's hard to tell because she hasn't been eating.”

Bob spoke as though he had a bug stuck in his throat. “I just can't picture Connie as a mother. Whose is it?”

“That's a little unfair, Bob. It's Jeremy's.”

“Yeah, I know. Just gotta digest it.”

“What is it about her?” I said, more to myself than to Bob.

“Can't tell you. Just know she gives me the vibes.”

“I better go, Bob. I've got myself in a bit of trouble.”

“You too…” He stared at my stomach.

“Not that kind of trouble.”

“Oh. Good. I mean, I hope it's good. Unless you were planning…”

“No. I'm not planning anything. I'm not even attached.”

“Hey, you wanna get attached?”

“Maybe some day.”

“You could always marry me. If you don't mind marrying a cripple.” Bob looked down at his useless legs.

“If I ever get in the mood to marry, I'll definitely keep you in mind.”

 

Bob sent me off with a tuna sandwich wrapped in foil and the promise to have dinner with him later to put some flesh on my bones. I caught a bus back to Gastown and arrived at the gallery just before five o'clock. All hell had broken loose.

Paul Bleeker was inside Nadine's office, tugging at his hair and puffing furiously on a Sobranie. I could tell he'd been at it for a while. The place was filled with smoke.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” screeched Nadine. Her mouth was open so wide and for so long that if I'd been a dentist, I could have done an estimate.

“DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THIS?” she shrieked, then stomped up to her own chocolate image and pointed at the missing toe.

“Oh heavens.” I put my hand to my mouth in mock horror. “Vandalism. I hope his pieces are insured,” I said.

“You were the last one out of here last night.”

I could feel a blush rising but forced myself to stay calm.

“So?”

“You must have seen something.”

“Didn't see a thing.”

“Well, you can't have been cleaning up because the place was a dump this morning.”

“That's because I quit,” I said.

“YOU WHAT?”

“I quit. Just before the cleaning up. And I want this month's salary for all the days I worked and my separation pay.”

“You can't quit.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, you'll never find another job. Certainly not a gallery job because I'll put the word out and nobody will hire you.”

“All those threats about me being expendable and now you don't want me to quit. Why is that? Is it because nobody else would take the same crap? Like I said, I quit. Write me a cheque. I'm in a hurry.”

Nadine glared at me. The shoulder strap on my purse felt as though it were cutting into my shoulder, getting heavier and bigger by the minute, begging to be searched for evidence of the chocolate crimes.

Nadine scrutinized me. “You did it.”

Paul Bleeker came out of Nadine's office. Nadine said to him, “She did it.” He joined her in glaring at me.

“What did I do, Nadine?” My voice was sugary, angelic.

“You damaged the sculptures.”

“Why would I do an infantile thing like that?” In fact, I
was
wondering myself how I could have been so infantile.

“Jealousy, I shouldn't wonder. His sculpture of you isn't exactly flattering. Perhaps you did it out of spite.”

For once, I had everybody's full attention.

Something in me cracked. I brought up the unmentionable. “I think it's more likely that you did it, Nadine. Who else? You can't resist stuffing anything edible into your mouth. Because you're starving. It doesn't ever really stay in your system, does it? I don't know why you don't just dump all your food directly down the toilet. It's where it all ends up anyway. Regurgitated. You've never fooled me. All that flushing and running water. Those bite marks on your hands. All I can say is, it's a pity that so much food has gone to waste. With all the hungry people in the world and one bulemic old bag hogging it all to herself.”

Nadine had turned ash white and stayed frozen to the spot.

“You can mail me my cheque, Nadine.”

The deadly silence was a great cue for an exit, so I took it.

B
ob made Mexican food for dinner, tortillas, refried beans, guacamole, salsa. It was fantastic. All washed down with a few cervesas.

We got onto the subject of Jeremy pretty quickly. “Tell me everything you remember about him,” I said.

Bob sat back. “Well, lemme see. Whenever there was shit goin' down between band members, if it looked like there was gonna be some bad stuff bustin' out, he was the one everyone called on to settle it. He had a way of makin' people feel stupid for wasting their time over fightin'. He kept telling us life was too short, there was too much good shit out there to be enjoyed. He was always sayin', ‘Don't worry over the small stuff.'”

Bob's voice became almost a whisper. “There was that time a little after my accident when I'd been out of the coma for almost a year. Hell, about fourteen years ago. Can't believe
it's been that long. You know, at first, you're glad to be alive and then it hits you that you ain't got no legs and you ain't never gonna have no legs again. Well, I started drinkin' my lunch, my breakfast, too, while we're at it, and it was Jeremy kept shovelin' me up off the carpet. You knew my lady was killed in the accident, too, eh?”

“Yeah, I knew, Bob.”

“Well, I was feelin' pretty guilty about that as well, I can tell ya. So, yeah, Jeremy kept scrapin' me up and pokin' at my misery. Kinda like a can opener pokin' at a can a worms, eh? Jeremy kept telling me, ‘You can't just go and make up your mind about life. It doesn't work that way. You don't know what the surprises are gonna be.' He had to do a lot of talkin' 'cause I was plannin' on a forty-proof one-way ticket outa here. Anyway, he just kept pokin' an' pokin' until it got to me so bad that I just started to howl and rave at him. Like an animal, man. An' he kept sayin', ‘That the best you can do?' Until I'd howled it all outa me. Then he gave me this place an' management of the launderette. Just to show me surprises could happen. Anyway. He really helped me. I'm a goddam wonder. You know I been in the Olympics with my chair?”

“No, I didn't.” There seemed to be little that Bob couldn't do with his chair and his two strong arms.

“Yeah. Got myself a bronze. Play a little basketball, too. It woulda been shitty of me to let him down. Jeremy gave me this line, it seemed like a line at the time, that he was gettin' too old to be bothered with it all, wanted to think about other things. That was years ago. Maybe he was sicker than we knew. You're his granddaughter. You probably heard all this before.”

“Some of it passed me by, Bob. Jeremy had secrets. There's some stuff we'll never know.”

“Like?”

“Like why he chose Connie.”

“I'm with you on that one.”

 

It was after midnight when Bob offered me an air mattress and a sleeping bag for the utility room. His expression told me he thought I was coloring outside the lines, but then his biker days had made him used to crazy people. People who fell asleep any old place, under bridges, in abandoned warehouses, on top of grand pianos and billiard tables.

“Listen, you change your mind, Lucy, I got this nice comfortable spare room.”

“It's okay, Bob. Really. Not to hurt your feelings, but that would be Bob's smell, not Jeremy's.”

“I get yer point. Uh, listen, Lucy. It's my turn to ask you a favor.”

“Sure. If I can help.”

“Well, I figured since the place was closed, and you were gonna be here anyway…”

“Yeah?”

“I'd really like to go visit my brother in Kelowna. I haven't had a break from this place in years. My brother usually comes here but it's not the same. Know what they say. Change is as good as a rest.”

“Sure, Bob. No problem.”

“Great. I'll go tomorrow morning. You don't mind keeping an eye on the launderette then? My apartment, too?”

“Not at all. How long are you going to be gone?”

“A couple of weeks anyway.”

“Isn't it a long time to keep the launderette closed?”

“Maybe. I just want to get outa here for a bit. Listen, I'll give you my spare keys. The main thing is that my dope plants get a little water. You won't forget, eh?”

 

I set up camp. A few lights were always left on in the launderette and enough light seeped into the utility room that I wasn't in total darkness.

I lay there, taking in the familiar odor of old lost laundry and trying to remember something I'd forgotten. It was so big that I had no business forgetting it but I just couldn't remember what it was. I got up and went out into the main part of the launderette.

It was an immense space, ugly and utilitarian, and much of it wasn't used at all. Up to about nose height, cheap wood paneling lined the walls. The washers and dryers were a cross between a sickly yellow and avocado color. There were hard wooden benches for people to sit on while waiting for their clothes to dry. Some ancient, dog-eared magazines lay in a pile. Anything the customers felt generous enough to leave.

Above the wood paneling were vast expanses of stale off-white wall, badly in need of a paint job.

That's when I remembered.

I was thinking of how the place would look with a new paint job, picturing the painters scrambling up the scaffolding, the rollers and wide brushes slapping paint across the surfaces, bringing the space back to life.

I started to see colors. Why couldn't they paint the walls an interesting color? Cerulean blue. Emerald green. Hot rose. Sunflower yellow. Then in my mind, the painters started using all the colors together. They went wild using bold brush strokes, creating bright abstracts.

Painting.

It was time for me to start painting again. All that running around for Nadine, mooning after Paul Bleeker, had been keeping me from my own work. The walls were there in front of me, bare and inviting, begging to be filled.

I went back into the utility room and lay back down on the air mattress. I started to think about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Diego was the real wall man, the mural man, but it was Frida's art, that colorful surrealism, that fascinated me.

Frida.

How could I be such a fool? I had perfectly good arms and legs and yet I'd found a million ways to sabotage myself, to put off the work. Whereas Frida, who'd been crippled by a bus accident at eighteen, and had a handrail run through her back and uterus, had still managed to paint through her pain.

I lay there for ages, deciding what I would do, until I finally drifted off to sleep. That night was filled with Frida's birds, flowers and vines, her dogs and monkeys.

 

The next day I called my mother from Bob's place. In a moment of simpiness, my unknown future yawning a little too widely before me, I wanted to be a child again. I had to let her know that I couldn't be reached at my apartment. I even toyed with the idea of going back to Cedar Narrows for a few days, but when I heard her voice, I realized it would be self-defeating.

My mother said, “Lucy. Just who I've been looking for. I want you to come to the movies with us tonight. It's in town at the Ridge. My treat. We'll meet you there. It starts at eight but there's bound to be a line-up, so get there as soon as you can.”

“What's the movie?” I asked.

“It's a surprise,” she said. Coming from my mother's mouth, these words were an omen.

 

In the afternoon I went back to my apartment. Anna wasn't there. I left a post-dated cheque for the rent then
packed a sports bag full of clothes. I went into my storage locker and found art supplies, several huge plastic jars of acrylic paint, still not dried out after all these months, and brushes. I put them in another sports bag. Before I set off toward the launderette, I called Sky.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I've been trying to get in touch with you all day.”

I told her.

“Listen,” she said. “Meet me at the Ridge Theatre tonight.”

“I'm meeting my mother there tonight.”

Sky laughed. “Really? She's going, too? That's hilarious.”

“Why? What's playing?”

Sky was on the verge of telling me, then said, “No, I won't give it away. It's a surprise. I'm not going to tell you because you might not come if I do. Be there at seven-thirty. There's sure to be a crowd.”

 

At seven-thirty, I was walking toward the Ridge Theatre. The line-up was quite long and at least half of it was made up of nuns. That had me worried. What were they making me see? The unedited version of
The Song of Bernadette?
I finally got close enough to the cinema's marquee to read the lettering.

Sing-a-long-a Sound of Music.

Whoa!

Before I could sneak away, I heard Sky's voice behind me. I wheeled around, saw her and started to laugh. She was wearing a little girl's white dress with a blue satin sash. Standing next to her was Max, wrapped from head to toe in brown paper and tied up with string, a round cut-out hole framing his face.

“Nobody told me it was fancy dress,” I said. I was wearing my safe sloppy jeans outfit.

“It's a big event,” said Sky. She was excited and doing nothing to hide it.

Max went ahead and got the tickets. While we stood around watching the crowd gather, I gave Sky all my latest news. All except for the chocolate theft. I was feeling slightly ashamed of myself. Sky was thrilled to hear that I'd finally quit working for Nadine.

In the crowd, there were plenty of drunk nuns with heavy five o'clock shadows and bass voices. Quite a few people were dressed in dirndls and kerchiefs clearly made of curtain material. There were also raindrops on roses, represented by a group of men in white leotards well-doused in silver glitter. They left sparkly trails wherever they went.

Max came back with the tickets and three little kits. Each contained a head scarf, a packet of cough drops in case our throats got sore from all the singing, and foam rubber nun finger puppets, which we were supposed to wave in the air in time to the music.

It was then that the Harley Davidson pulled up with my father and mother. My father squeezed the bike into a parking space between two cars and climbed off, my mother following. He was dressed in Tyrolean hiking gear, the outfit of Captain Von Trapp as he, Maria and the little Von Trapps make their escape over the Alps. My mother was the Mother Superior, her habit yanked up around her knees and a motorcycle helmet over her wimple. What could I say? At least my parents were together.

My father looked more robust than usual. “Lucy, how's life?”

“It's okay, Dad. More to the point, how's your life?”

“Great. Just great. Praise the Lord.” Back to his old self. Almost. His ear was still pierced and he'd kept the three-day growth of beard but his chipped tooth had been fixed.

My mother came over and whispered to me, “We're on a date. He hasn't actually come home yet.”

This would have depressed me if the mood hadn't been growing crazier as the movie crowd gathered. A few Nazi officers arrived. People even dressed as schnitzel with noodles, long white strands dragging behind them, bread crumbs rubber-cemented to their bodies.

My father, mother, Sky, Max and I all sat together in one row. The music started up and everybody belted forth the first lines. We sang our way through all of it. I was a bit disturbed at how well I knew the words. But then I had an excuse. When I was a small child, my mother used to park me in front of all her favorite musicals on videotape. When one was over, she'd wind it back and start again. I was a victim of big-time brainwashing. My mother had forced me to endure
Brigadoon, The King and I, The Music Man, Guys and Dolls, South Pacific, My Fair Lady
and
Pajama Game.
These were her favorites but there were many, many others. I was a walking encyclopedia of silly songs.

The atmosphere grew increasingly giddy. By the time we had reached the big party scene there was nothing left for me to do but open my purse.

I held out a bunch of digits and elbowed Sky, “Care for a chocolate?”

She accepted a couple of milk chocolate thumbs, then passed the rest on down the row. My mother clapped her hands together and said, “Oh, goody. Choccies.”

The Heinous Chocolate Crime evidence taken care of, I sat back to enjoy Maria falling to pieces for love of that delicious and slightly diabolical navy captain.

 

I knew what I had to do. If they didn't like it, the damage would be easy to repair. I found a tall aluminum ladder in
the back of the launderette's utility room. On top of its hinges, I placed a large piece of plywood to form a table. Then I brought out my economy-size plastic jars of acrylic paint. I'd closed them tightly and sealed them with tape, but one of the light blues had gone moldy anyway. It didn't matter. I had enough white to create lighter shades. The jar of gel was still fresh, unopened. Gel was indispensable for wall work. It stopped the colors from dribbling.

I started in the far back corner. First I washed the surface from nose-level to ceiling with a sponge and soap to get off any grease. Then I rinsed the area. I decided to work blind, without a plan. The whole thing had been boiling away in me on its own, organizing itself. Certain images were already in place.

I began to work. It took me over. I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd wanted to. I suppose it also had something to do with the fact that I couldn't help looking on the place as partially mine. When we're small children, all places that belong to family members also belong to us. What a horrible shock it is to grow up and learn the truth.

For four days, I worked, only stopping to take naps and squirrel-amount food breaks. I nourished myself on Bob's leftovers, tap water and trail mix from a health-food store down the street. I got cups of terrible coffee from the local 7-Eleven.

I covered the whole back wall of the launderette and began to move into the area where the machines were. It came when I spattered a couple of washers with a shocking fuchsia-pink shade of paint. The big idea. The scary idea. The great idea.