The Empty Room (13 page)
She was already in her coat and just about out the door when she thought she might like a little nip to keep her warm on the walk to Eglinton. Her lips left a red imprint on the bottle, which she wiped off. Perhaps she’d take a little something with her, just in case she got nervous. That seemed prudent. What to take it in? A salad dressing bottle would do nicely. Just the right size. She dumped the contents (past their sell-by date anyway) into the sink and with a fine, almost surgical steadiness she poured vodka into the bottle. Not
all the way—she would leave room for something else, something that looked dressing-y. She opened the fridge. What would look like dressing? Well, nothing, since she wasn’t going to put milk in it. Just a splash of cranberry juice, for colour. Not that it mattered, she couldn’t imagine drinking out of it, but it was comforting to have it within reach.
At the last minute it occurred to her she should change her purse to a larger one. How embarrassing it would be to reach into her purse to get a pen, say, or her social insurance card, and have the young man with whom she’d spoken see the salad dressing bottle. She rummaged around on the shelf in the coat closet and found her black hobo bag. A little large for a truly professional look, but that couldn’t be helped. She switched the contents of her bag, nestling the salad dressing bottle in the bottom. She checked that the lid was on tight, and felt moisture. Oh dear. What if it leaked? What if she left a trail of cranberry-coloured vodka after her as she walked? She took the bottle out and wrapped it in a plastic bag before resettling it carefully in her bag.
She walked along Mount Pleasant, past the Bread and Butter, George’s Trains, the Longest Yard Sports Bar and the Regent Theatre. The sky had cleared, which she took to be a good omen. She smiled at the woman in the green coat walking her pug, wearing a similar green coat. The woman smiled back.
“Turned quite nice, hasn’t it?” the woman said.
“Oh, yes, a great day,” said Colleen.
It was a great day. She breathed deeply. Wasn’t autumn her favourite season? While others said it was depressing, with the bleak mid-winter right around the corner, to Colleen it was the time of going within, of bracing, clean weather after the filthy humidity and lung-clogging heat of summer. The first days of school and crisp, clean, as-yet-unmarred new notebooks came to mind. Good things could happen at this time of year. They would happen. A gust of wind swirled round her, so that she clutched the collar of her coat and took a little two-step. Blow, winds and crack your cheeks! She laughed. She imagined Nanabush, the trickster spirit, dashing round her life, stirring things up. The Holy Ghost by any other name. The spiritual hurricane. Just when one’s life seemed all set and staid and boring beyond bearing, there was that big whoosh, and who knew where one might land? Losing her job might all be part of some great plan after all.
That was something Father Paul had said about the Holy Spirit—it was the essence of change, that Big Wind that comes in and blows everything in our lives topsy-turvy. She chuckled. She could think of poor Father Paul with some affection now. She Googled him now and again. There was no evidence he was still teaching. In fact, he might not even be a priest any longer. There was a Paul McIntyre who popped up on Facebook, but the only public photos were of the Irish countryside, not a single picture of his face—then again, that would be just like him. She hadn’t sent a “friend” request yet, but she might. Why not? All was forgiven, and loneliness
came in so many forms. She could understand, now, how it might have led him to his own follies.
She walked past the Chick ‘n’ Deli. A
LWAYS IN
G
OOD
T
ASTE
, the sign read.
A
large white rooster perched on the roof, looking ready to crow. Yes, well. There had been some marvellous nights there, and one spectacularly bad one. She wouldn’t think about that right now, not with all this tingle of good luck in the air. She wouldn’t. One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking.
L
ori and Colleen had gone to see a band called Bitter Grounds. Colleen had become totally infatuated with Craig, the bass player, and was sure they would take things to the next level soon. They hung out a few nights after the gig, getting coffee and a greasy late-night breakfast at People’s Foods, talking about Céline and Bukowski and Coltrane and Miles. Not only was Craig as beautiful as a Nubian king, he was smart and, just as important, between girlfriends. Lori had just broken up with Mike, the junkie drummer from Book of Days, and wanted diversion and, she said, “a very large gin.”
The Chick ‘n’ Deli was packed, as it always was on Friday nights. Overhead the drop-ceiling lighting of faux-Tiffany stained glass cast blue and green shadows on the oak-style bar and black café tables. Girls with big teased-up hair and young men with pastel jackets, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, flirted and ate the chicken wings for which, along with the music, the Deli was rightly famous.
Bitter Grounds played funk—sexy, Prince-style funk with Craig’s slap-style of bass front and centre. You couldn’t not dance, and Colleen loved to dance. She was out on the floor with Lori, who could do some mean neck rolls and moon walks herself. Colleen wore
fingerless lace gloves and ripped jeans with an off-the-shoulder torn sweatshirt. A little Roger Rabbit, a little
Running Man
, some Jamaican hip-slides. She knew people watched her, knew she looked good. She caught Craig’s eye and he winked.
Someone bumped her, hard. She was knocked off balance and looked around, ready to laugh and apologize. Staring daggers at her was a black girl in a leather jacket with a wild halo of hair tied back with a big white bow.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said the girl.
Lori stopped dancing and came to Colleen’s side, taking her arm. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go sit down.”
“Why the hell should we sit down? What’s her problem?”
There were three black girls now, not dancing, in front of Lori and Colleen.
“You want to know what my problem is, bitch, do you?” said the girl.
Lori, ever the sensible one, pulled Colleen away. “I don’t care what her problem is,” she said. “I just want to sit down.”
Colleen allowed herself to be led to their table near the railing that rimmed the dance floor. She felt shaky and humiliated, although she hadn’t done anything wrong. “What was that about? I just don’t get it,” she said. “I don’t even know that girl. Do you know her?”
“No, but I think Craig might,” said Lori.
Two of the girls now danced right in front of Craig. One had her back turned to the other, grinding into the other girl’s pelvis.
The third girl, the one with the bow, rolled her sinuous body in a wave, letting her palms outline the movements of breasts and belly and hips.
“Fucking bitch,” said Colleen. She slurped the last of her Long Island iced tea through the straw.
A waitress passed and Colleen said, “Bring me another and a couple of tequila shots.”
“Is that a good idea?” asked Lori.
“It’s an excellent idea.”
“You want anything?” the waitress asked Lori.
“I’m good.” Lori nursed her gin and tonic. She shrugged when Colleen made a face. “I have to drive home.”
“You can stay at my place.”
“I’m good.”
The drinks came and when Lori refused the shot, Colleen knocked back both of them. She watched Craig, who wasn’t meeting her eye anymore, so fixed was he on the trio dancing in front of him.
“Forget it, Colleen,” said Lori. She used her hands to scrunch some volume into her blond hair. “It’s probably a racial thing.”
“Oh, come on.”
Lori rolled her eyes. “You mean that hasn’t occurred to you? Black girls don’t like their men going out with white girls.”
“Their men?” The injustice of this flared in Colleen’s stomach. Either that or it was the tequila. “That’s completely unfair. What about Jake? There’s not a racist bone in my body.”
“Hardly the point.”
The music got louder. Craig and the guitar player riffed off each other, leaning first toward the crowd and then away from it. The three girls did the same, connecting themselves to the band in a way Colleen didn’t like at all. She drank some more. The liquid was silken and full of flame. She wanted to get back out there and dance. She said so.
“Why should I be up here and them down there? They don’t own the goddamn floor.”
The girl with the bow turned and looked at Colleen. She smiled in a smug, proprietary way that made Colleen want to rip the bow off her head and half her weave with it. She thought of all the lovely talks Craig and she had had; how he ran his long fingers, the pads callused but his touch still so soft, up the inside of her wrist. How he’d kissed the spot where her neck reached her shoulder and said he wanted to see more of her, lots more.
Lori said something, but Colleen couldn’t make it out over the music and she cupped her ear. Lori leaned in and repeated it. “Keep your voice down and, you know, you might want to slow down. You’re slurring.”
“I’m not.”
Colleen drank some more, watching the girls dance and trying to will Craig with the power of her mind, with the power of her allure, to look at her, but he didn’t. And then, just below the tumour of umbrage taking up so much space beneath her breastbone, her stomach began to feel queasy. She thought she might like to stand up, but wasn’t quite sure she could. Maybe Lori was right. How
many drinks had she had, apart from the shots? Three? Was this her third or her fourth? She felt quite hot. Sticky. Her stomach gurgled. She stared at the mound of chicken bones and sauce in the middle of the table and it looked less like the remains of her dinner than of something hit by a car. She looked away. Someone passing behind her jarred her chair, and the action seemed both violent and yet at the same time to happen in slow motion.
“Are you okay?” asked Lori. “You don’t look so good.”
The band was saying they were going to take a break and be back, so don’t go anywhere.
“I think I’ll go splash some water on my face,” said Colleen.
“What?” said Lori.
She stood up and the room did a fancy dip and roll and she grabbed the back of her chair.
“Uh-oh,” said Lori. “I better come with you.”
“I’m fine,” Colleen tried to say. If she could just hold onto the railing as she walked, she was quite sure she’d manage, although she did feel a slight panic. There were three stairs down. The bar had turned into an obstacle course. It was important to concentrate on such things as mechanics. Stairs could be so mischievous. Lift the leg, bend the knee, place the foot. Repeat.
A lot of people were coming off the dance floor, and she imagined herself as a salmon fighting its way upstream. “’Scuse me. Sorry.” There was Craig and the band’s singer—what was his name? They descended the stairs by the stage and made their way to the bar. Colleen didn’t want to talk to Craig right now. She just wanted
to get to the bathroom. It was
imperative
she get to the bathroom. “Excuse me,” she said again.
She stumbled, just a little, but reached out and with enormous gratitude felt the solid back of another person, which blocked what might very well have been an embarrassing tumble. “Sorry,” she muttered. There was quite a dreadful taste in her mouth.
“You stupid bitch,” a voice said.
Colleen found herself looking into the face of the girl with the white bow. At almost any other time, Colleen would have been open to a discussion about the intricacies of interracial dating and the tragedy of
any
sort of racism, but at this moment, she really, really had to get to the bathroom.
She put her hand up not only in the hope that doing so would stop the room from wobbling and gliding as it was doing, but also to indicate to the girl with the bow that Colleen wanted only to pass, to get by, to move forward without incident.
The girl did not take it that way. She slapped Colleen’s hand.
“You fucking raise your hand to me? You’re crazy!”
She stepped so close, with her nose practically between Colleen’s eyes, that Colleen couldn’t see anything at all. She could only smell the beer and cigarettes on the girl’s breath.
Her stomach lurched and sour matter rushed into her mouth. Her cheeks popped out and she jammed her palms against her lips, hoping,
praying
it might be enough to avert catastrophe. The girl with the bow, at last grasping the severity of the situation, jumped back. She was not, alas, quick enough. Colleen doubled over, craning
her neck forward quite involuntarily, and when a torrent of vomit exploded from Colleen’s mouth, the girl with the white bow got covered in a good deal of it.
Colleen’s eyes were closed by then, but she felt an impact on her shoulder and understood that she had been kicked or punched and that she was falling and was on her knees. It was all sensation then—burning in Colleen’s nose and mouth, watering eyes, convulsions in her stomach, and worse, urine escaping; she could feel it escaping and was powerless, in the violence of her spasms, to stop it. There was a good deal of yelling. The voices were male and female. Someone’s hands were on her then, lifting her by the shoulders.
“Colleen! Walk. Just walk. I’ve got her. Let me get her to the bathroom. I’m so sorry.”
“Get her cleaned up and get her the fuck out of here,” a man’s voice said. “Take the other one into the men’s room.”
There was some laughter.
In the bathroom Colleen vomited again, twice, but at least now it was in relative privacy and in, as her mother used to say, the proper place. Lori, best of all possible friends, held her hair and said it could have happened to anyone and not to worry and it would be all right.
After Colleen returned, more or less, to herself, she began to cry. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth and cleaned up her clothes—she had to take her jeans off, wet them down in the sink and dry them using the hand-blower, which took quite a bit of time.
“I can’t go back out there,” she said. “I can’t.”
