Going Down Swinging Part 4

Sure, OK, just, I'm just wondering if you could give me anything that might relax me a bit.

Look, you just-uch, and he storms off to the bathroom, comes back with a bottle of yellow. Here, how many do you need? and he goes to take the cap off. Never mind, here, they're yours, there you go, thanks a lot, maybe we'll see you again sometime.

And out you go with three tens, a five and a bottle of something or other. Can't see the printing, looks all furry, mm, fuzzy. Maybe you should pop one. Keep coming in and out, wanting something else because your brains gone clear. How the h.e.l.l are you supposed to get back to Jarvis?

Sunday afternoon and you're on your way to the bootlegger, walking down the Danforth. Pretty much sober; had the better part of a beer this morning to work through a Nembutal hangover. Maybe take it easier today. Take it any way you can get it. You stop for a red light. Young guy waits alongside you on the curb. Looks Greek or Italian or something. Sort of cute. Looks sideways at you-black dinner plates for eyes, crazy-long lashes like a Shetland pony. Light turns green. You eye each other, lift feet off the curb. You hesitate and pull yours back, he steps off, looks over his shoulder and curls a corner of his mouth up at you. You smile back, look down as your shoes saunter all silky across the road before you look at him again. He c.o.c.ks his head at you. n.o.body's said boo yet, but you follow in the direction he c.o.c.ks. He slows his gait, lets you catch up, puts his hand in the small of your back. Hallo, he says, it's jus up 'ere. Guess he means his place. Wonder if you should tell him now how much. He hasn't asked. Maybe wait till you get up there.

You follow him up the front steps of a rundown house, through the outside door, down a short hall to the inside door. Once in, he just stands there, looks at you, tells you to take off your jacket. You drop it and your purse to the floor, lean back against the wall, wait. He says nothing, burrows those plate-eyes into your chest, undoes his belt, zips down. You start to say something, he says shhhh, takes a dark c.o.c.k out, holds it in his hands a moment, tenderly, as if he's warming it in the light, never takes his eyes off you, and starts to ma.s.sage, slow, then faster, works it to a steady pump. You s.h.i.+ft your balance and he gets frenzied, yanking, jerks himself ferocious. He takes a sharp breath like he hurts, you expect it to tear, fall and stick to the floor. But he drags back a last slow gasp, pulls smooth till white syrup spits and hits floor. A single drop touches down above your knee.

The air comes out of him, punctured, limp.

Puts himself back in, does himself up, hands on his hips, nods at you and opens the door to the hall. Dismissed.

You open your mouth: no sound. Don't even know what noise you'd make if you could. Can't say about money, can't speak, can't think what garbage, what garbage you are. Nothing, just nothing.

It's six days your baby's been gone. And now nights and you're starting your seventh in a Mercedes. Getting so you wonder what a guy in a Mercedes wants with you anyway. Is he slumming it? He's still trying to make conversation, he's telling you about his youngest son at University of Toronto, the eldest is married with a son of his own. He asks if you have kids, how many? You tell him one, she's seven. Bad enough he's got a cheap hooker, may as well spare him thinking he's got an old one. He must be at least sixty, though. Clive. He tells you his name up front. Tells you his wife died of cancer three years ago. Clive finds it very hard to date now because he doesn't know how to talk to women any more who aren't his wife. You nod. I know what you mean. What do you mean you know what he means? Your wife didn't die.

You're easy to talk to, though, he says, the most beautiful eyes you have, gentle and torrid at once. And your bones, cheeks like high rolling hills. Have you ever been to Ireland? Looking at you-you're a little like a place called Connemara-it's wild with deep still waters and one can't help but find a sweet kind of serenity in that. May as well not burst his bubble, tell him you're pilled to the gills, you sweet surrendering thing.

Inside his house, his tone doesn't change. Around the living room are all the nice things his wife probably picked out, the vases and paintings and knick-knacks. Everything looks old and expensive. He offers you a cognac and the two of you sit on his chesterfield, cus.h.i.+ons pushed into the small of your back, you in your new red jumpsuit, him in grey slacks, a white s.h.i.+rt, gracious and chatty. He doesn't notice the run in your pantyhose. Just talking and talking about marriage and books and women's lib-Old Clive's not for it, he won't give up opening their doors, buying their dinner, putting them on pedestals. Isn't that why women were created? As beings to whom we men can cater? True. Should be true. He gazes off every now and then and gives this easy Burl Ives kind of chuckle, then he asks if there's any way you could consider spending the night, what with your child and all. I'd be willing to take care of you for your time. You look up at the carved ceiling, tell him your little girl is staying with a friend tonight.

When you wake up, he's holding your hand, still in his pyjamas, and you're in the s.h.i.+rt he loaned you. G.o.d, you slept, feels like you've been dreaming and dreaming, all kinds of soft toffee stories, and now you've gone and woken up your old ugly self. He won't find you so serene and calm if he gets a gander at you now. Like rolling hills-he'll be talking about your gut. Guess you could b.u.g.g.e.r off, you got your money-that was the best part of the night, seeing him open his wallet and frown, then go to his underwear drawer. Rita never approved of this, he said, silly old man keeping money in his drawers with his drawers, she used to say. Ha ha, my Rita. And then he handed you two fifties, out-of-his-element hesitant. Is this OK? just something to help with your rent and things. Terribly expensive, I'll bet.

You looked at his hundred, kept up the stooge act-the shy leading the dopey-Ah, yes, sure, that would be fine, thank you. Felt like you didn't want to break anything, sully the atmosphere.

Here, maybe you could give this to your little girl. And he lisped another five out of his wallet.

He really is the darndest old thing. Rita must have been something to keep him still so in love. Two of them probably held hands in this bed every night, close, hardly moving, sweet breaths sifting in and out.

Wonder what kind of cancer it was. Wonder if it hurt, dying, hurt so much her husband's still got ghost pains. Poor Rita and her sweet old house and her silly old man.

You are on your way down to the courthouse. Swallowed half a mickey of lemon gin before Danny picked you up, trying to get up the nerve. Man, this is it, if they get you, it'll be on your record; if they throw you in the bucket, what's the likelihood of you ever getting Grace back? Jesus Jesus Jesus. Danny's driving. Humiliating, having to call him and ask, tell him you had to appear for soliciting. Didn't even act surprised, just pushed a breath out his nose as if to say, Figures. Yeah, well, it's none of his business anyway-if he were any kind of man he'd be helping out, he'd be paying child support and you wouldn't have been on the street to begin with. He's not saying anything, just driving and dropping. He offers you a Clorets.

In the elevator with two lawyers on your way up to the courtroom: two lawyers and an old man with a stack of papers. Seems both lawyers are going with you-are you getting two? You open your purse looking for another gum, can't find anything in this mess, seems like everything you own and nothing you need is in there. Take out the mickey, so you can at least see what you're doing. Got it under your arm when one of them starts snickering. The lawyers are giggling and shaking their heads; one leans over. You might wanna get rid of that, or put it away. The old guy glues his eyes to the numbers above the doors. It takes a second to figure what they're talking about, then you feel the gin in your armpit and chuckle too, stuff the bottle back in your purse. The lawyers laugh all the way to the courtroom. Turns out one's prosecuting and one's defending.

Ah, what're they going to do to you; probably nothing probably. Pimps get girls out every day. Never heard about anyone actually doing time that you recall. Used to hear those streetwalker gals saying Ah they got me in on a vag c. Vagrancy. Nothing ever happened. Dragged 'em in and let 'em go.

Just that what if someone finds out?

Most of the time in the courtroom you're not listening, it's too hard to concentrate, just lawyer c.r.a.p, something about no prior convictions, or did you just remember that from cop shows? And a child and social a.s.sistance, think that was in there somewhere. And now the cop, that f(ee-iz)ucking cop is on the stand. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d who got in on the pa.s.senger side while you were in negotiating with the driver, the one who sandwiched you in and said you were under arrest for soliciting. Sitting on Jarvis betwixt two cops. Cops cops everywhere and not a john to f.u.c.k. Actually, this pig on the stand is the first guy, the driver, because he's saying you got in and told him you'd give him anything he wanted for thirty bucks. What a crock of s.h.i.+t, he asked you and you told him what it'd cost. It was only right! Your smarta.s.s lawyer isn't saying a word, so you holler, You're a liar! from your seat.

Doesn't go over well, judge threatens you, tells you to keep quiet, says you display a poor att.i.tude, an att.i.tude common among prost.i.tutes. Fried yourself, idiot. So you stop listening. Let them hash it out amongst themselves, got nothing to do with you anyway, it's like a play about you where you never appear. Don't hear again until the gavel cracks and someone says Guilty with Absolute Discharge. A big finger shaking in your face. Don't make me have to talk to you again, young lady.

HOFFMAN, Anne Eilleen 7.20.73 (L. Barrington) Paid visit to Mrs. Hoffman today. Thanks to a visit from a homemaker and Mrs. Hoffman's own efforts, the home's appearance is vastly improved. Mrs. Hoffman herself appears to be on the road to recovery, her attire and grooming much more tidy. She has been to two AA meetings and feels that she can do this without admitting herself into a treatment facility. Will continue to monitor.

7.22.73 (L. Barrington) Saw Mrs. Hoffman again. She continues to improve. There is a world of difference from the situation I walked into two weeks ago. We discussed Grace's supervision and how things might change when Grace returned home. I recommended that on Grace's return, some sort of routine be implemented in her life, possibly some sort of community centre with scheduled activities, a day care or a summer school.

7.25.73 (L. Barrington) Grace has returned home. The situation is immeasurably improved. I have found a day camp available through a local church where Grace can begin attendance immediately. We have agreed to allow a brief interim for mother and child to have time to themselves. Grace is scheduled to begin day camp 7.28.73.

Although this family seems to have found its bearings once again, I feel this home should be monitored on a regular basis. I will be going on leave beginning 8.8.73 returning 8.22.73.

8.3.73 (L. Barrington) Spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman today. Home situation continues well, Grace attending Saint Paul's Day Camp and enjoying herself, Mrs. Hoffman attending regular AA meetings. Mr. Hoffman sounds very pleased with the family's progress.

I will go on leave 8.8.73. This family should continue to be monitored.

Grace Three.

JULY/AUGUST 1973.

MUM WAS ALL perked up from getting well at the hospital and us being together again snapped her like sheets on a clothesline. The day she came and got me back from Gloria's, we went to Chinatown and wandered through stores, sniffing the baskets and incense, then into Woolworth's and picked around counters full of underwear and knick-knacks and plastic flowers and she bought me all the happies she could afford: a package of new plastic animals-Safari ones, pink nail polish, new jacks, Silly Putty. And she kept singing "I'm Back in Baby's Arms" while we pretended we were stinking rich and filled practically a whole Woolworth's basket.

We were both kind of goofy about being just-us again, but I couldn't help watching her; something about her felt like a big nervous laugh. She finally told me on my fourth day home, like it was just by the way, that the Welfare was nosing around still, asking how I spent my summer. They told her I had too much unsupervised time on my hands. Stupid b.u.g.g.e.rs, she said. My heart started to go. I didn't want anything to spoil her mood, spoil the feeling that I was the only happy she needed-her forever s.h.i.+ny doodad.

We were riding the streetcar home from the Riverdale Zoo when she told me and, actually, I wasn't paying that much attention at first cuz I was still nervous that maybe she knew my secret. All afternoon, I wouldn't let her get near any of the popcorn and balloon sellers in case someone might recognize me and tell her about the stuff I used to buy there before I had to go stay at Gloria's. I was starting to feel like maybe I should just tell.

Whenever there was nothing to do, I'd been taking the streetcar to the zoo. I liked how being by myself let me make up dreams about who I was and I'd sleepwalk all day long doing it. Sometimes I was escaping from kidnappers and had to lose myself in the crowd, or else I'd murdered the man who broke my heart and just needed time to get a plan together. But more and more, I was a rich kid with a mum or dad in one hand and a floaty high balloon-in-a-balloon in the other. I needed the balloon-in-a-balloon, though, for it to feel real, so I started taking change I found on Mum's dresser, or the kitchen table. Sometimes her coat pockets.

But then, when all the lying-around-the-house change was gone, I went into her purse. The money lying around seemed not that big a deal, but the purse was way worse. And now, here we were, clanging home on the streetcar and Mum was explaining the day camp thing and I kept looking away so she couldn't read my mind and hate me forever. Then she said, "I'm sorry, I know you hate this kind of stuff, being herded around by strangers-and I hate the thought of you being gone every day, but let's just do this and get them off our backs, OK? And it might be really fun; you'll probably have a grand old time with all those kids around. And you won't have to be stuck home with nothing to do but look at your boring old mother."

I skipped confessing, cuz this seemed worse all the sudden. "Did you tell them about Pearl?"

Pearl lived next door and we did stuff together. And her mum supervised us lots of times. Whenever I wasn't at the zoo we did stuff together. Some nights we sat on the front porch and watched the streetcars go by, counted red cars and hoped for lightning storms close enough to shake our chests. We wished on thunder the same way we did on railroad tracks when we drove over: crossing fingers, lifting feet, holding breath and closing eyes. On rainy days we organized my green plastic farm fences on Pearl's dining-room floor, and arranged the animals by how big they were. Or their teeth were. We added the safari animals when I got back home, and after that, when we set up the day's farm, we worked hard to keep tigers and stuff separate from the farm animals. Except for once there was a fence break that made a pig and some piglets get murdered and covered in ketchup.

When it was sunny we climbed the tree in my yard or went to Pearl's and made up plays about The Brady Bunch or else The Rifleman cuz it was Pearl's favourite. Or else sometimes we made up this show about two sisters called Julie and Donna. Pearl hardly ever said my name-the whole point was for her to go, "Julie!" and then I could turn and fling imaginary long hair out of my face like Julie in The Mod Squad. But she kept calling me "Sis." I guess cuz she didn't have a real one.

And now Mum was telling how the next day I had to start being at a day camp for my whole rest of the summer. Every single day, except Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, I was going to have to take the streetcar to a church with a bunch of other kids whose mums were probably getting threatened by Welfare.

We were separated into six groups; we got group names and group stuff to do. My group was the second youngest (seven- and eight-year-olds), the Schroeder Shrimps. The younger group was the Sweet Peas, the older one was the Yellow Tigers. I would've gave all my cows to be a Pea or a Tiger.

We had activities every day and it always started out in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the church, then sometimes we took a school bus to some place cheap or free. The Schroeder Shrimps had a kid that was called "troubled." James. He hated the counsellors' guts and waited until we got away from the church to get revenge. Our second swim day got cancelled right in the middle of getting-off-the-bus instructions because James pushed his back against the kid beside him and kicked with all his might into my favourite counsellor. The kid that was beside him got squashed and James kept kicking Wendy's chest and stomach as hard as he could. Wendy tried to be calm and grab hold of his ankle. Then Gavin, the guy-counsellor, grabbed on James's other ankle and got a kick in the mouth. They couldn't stop him, and Wendy and Gavin turned to the rest of us and got us all saying, "Stop it James-Stop it James -Stop it James" all together like the prayer at school. I mouthed the words but no sound would come out. I wished I could rip his legs out for what he was doing to Wendy, but James was red in the face and wasn't listening to anything. It went on until they got him pinned and asked the driver to turn us around. The bus was quiet. The Shrimp beside me started to cry. There was still twenty days left till school started.

When we got back to the church, Wendy and the kids went off the bus and Gavin hung back with James. I lallygagged as long as I could so I could hear what was going to happen. But I only got Gavin's low talking-sense voice and James saying, "Shut up-you're not my dad," before Wendy yelled to me to get a wiggle on.

Down in the church bas.e.m.e.nt, Wendy went over and huddled with the Sweet Peas' counsellors a few minutes before announcing a softball game: Schroeder Shrimps and Sweet Peas all mixed in to make two teams.

Our group, Group Two, was first up. I was supposed to be second at bat; the first kid was Kenny, one of the Peas, and he stood beside the crossed sticks we laid down for home plate and bounced at his knees, his head kept bobbing on his scrawny neck, looking around and up and down, swinging the bat and losing his balance. Gavin brought James back and put him on the other team with Group One. Which I was glad about. Especially seeing him warm up in the puny front-lawn outfield. I watched him throw the ball to first base, where one of the Peas caught it, dropped it and tried to huck it back, but it dropped a couple feet in front of her. James said, "Hey p.i.s.spot, try throwing it here." Wendy clapped her hands. "OK, buddy-boy, enough of that or you'll be so far in the outfield there'll be no more field." Just to know James wouldn't be in line behind me made my chest looser. Instead he stepped up between the two rocks we were using for the pitching mound and winged his arm around, hung his tongue down his chin and yelled "Sucker" at home plate.

Kenny's face drooped a little, but his body never stopped bobbing. Someone called Batter-up and Kenny jiggled up to the crossed sticks, elbows wiggling under the bat.

James barked, "Ready, p.i.s.shead? haa-a, sucker," and hucked the ball at him. Kenny ducked and swung at the same time, and his legs jumped right out from under him. He landed in a pile and the whole yard killed themselves laughing. James laughed so hard he couldn't think of anything to say.

Kenny jumped up off the gra.s.s, still holding his bat, stepped up and started his jiggling again like nothing happened. I imagined Pearl at home sitting in the first big V of my cherry tree, singing "Country Roads," and watched Kenny squeeze the bat. I didn't want to be up there next. I knew I wouldn't be able to take practice swings in front of James like Kenny did, I'd feel too dumb. James pitched the ball. Kenny swung again and just tipped the ball before he started running off to first base. I squinted up in the sun until something smashed my mouth. The ball hit the gra.s.s again and I heard "foul." The bottom half of my face burned. I touched my fingertips inside my lip and looked at the watery blood. James smiled as he wound up his next pitch.

I backed off, glancing around the yard, but all their eyes were on Kenny. I looked for Wendy, but she was laughing and clapping in time to Ken-ny, Ken-ny. I felt my lip to see if it was hard or puffy. It wasn't. Kind of raw inside, but there wasn't even that much blood. Kenny whacked the ball this time and sent it rolling out onto the road. Every Shrimp and Pea but me went crazy, screaming and clapping cuz Wendy'd said that any ball on the street would be an automatic home run and she'd go get it herself. I kept touching my lips, licking my teeth to see if they were chipped, hoping someone would notice. But they were all too busy cheering Kenny's home run.

I was almost to the sidewalk when Wendy called, "Next batter," and some other kid went up. I was supposed to be second. I licked at my lip again and started up the sidewalk. They were going to yell at me to come back; I could feel it on my back. Wendy called, "Strike," and I looked back. n.o.body was even paying attention, just looking at the Shrimp swinging over home plate. I stormed up the sidewalk toward Gerrard Street and caught a streetcar home.

When I got home, the front door was open so the breeze would come through our screen door. Mum had a thing for breezes. Before I opened the screen, I could hear her talking, saying something about a hard decision. I ducked beside the door because I thought maybe she was on the phone with the day camp people and I wanted to hear if they got h.e.l.l or if it was me who was going to get it for taking off and making her worry. It was quiet a second. Then I heard a man-voice, not my dad's though, more crunchy and with an Englishy kind of accent, say "Poor Gentle Eilleen," almost in a mushy way. I crouched down and put my ear against the screen door so I could hear better. Mum said, "Well, I s'pose her father's here ... but he's a good-for-nothing."

A good-for-nothing? I didn't know who she was talking to like that, because usually she never talked about my dad without swearing. She was talking all nicey. Then she said, "I've been in touch with Social a.s.sistance there so we'd be looked after-I can't help thinking it would be a brand new start." My heart started going cuz it sounded like she was telling secrets that she never even told me yet, and then the man-voice said, "You know I hate to lose you, but you don't deserve this sort of squalor ..." He hated to lose her? My neck went hot-she must've had this guy over lots for him to think he could just hang around acting like she was his girlfriend or something and say she had squalor. And all while I was busy getting hit in the face with baseb.a.l.l.s so the Welfare wouldn't have a hairy about me getting supervised any more. And then he mumbled some other probably mushy thing and Mum went, "Clyde, you're such a dear," all goopy, the way she did to me if I did something nice for her, like buy her an ornament with my 'lowance.

I stood up and stomped my feet as if I was just getting there now, and opened the screen door. Mum called, "There she is," from the kitchen, in the voice she used to call me angel. Not worried or mad or anything; this wasn't that voice. This was her voice that sounded like b.u.t.terflies. I came in the kitchen and found her drinking tea at the table with an old man.

"Sweety, this is Clive, Clive this is my baby, this is Grace." I couldn't hear right what his dumb old name was, so I said, "Clyde?" and he said no, that was his brother's name, and Mum laughed like he was hilarious or something. "Clivuhh, Clive," she told me, and he smiled and said how lovely it was to make my acquaintance. I wanted to show her my lip but I didn't want him around.

She threw her arms open, grabbed my face and gave me a big kiss. I hissed and ouched and pulled back, the way I wished I did at day camp. She said, "Ouch? What?"

"My lip! A kid hit me in the face with a baseball and I got a bleeding lip. That's why I'm home early." She grabbed my face again and tilted it back to get a look. "Ow, you're hurting me."

"I thought you said it was your lip, not your neck."

"Yeah but-be careful."

"Oh yeah, I can see a little cut. Ah, poor sweety, let mamma kiss it." And she brushed her mouth across my lip. I rolled my eyes. I was home early on account of a wound. It was a big cut.

Mum threw up her hands and said, "Now what? I kissed it, didn't I? What do you want for a nickel, a bag of dimes?"

The old guy chuckled. I was ignoring him the best I could, but now he'd gone and laughed himself back in the picture.

Mum patted the table. "Come sit with us, poor injured birdie." I sat down opposite from Clive. Mum was in the middle, but closer to him, saying, "We were just-" when I interrupted her.

"I hate it there. I'm home early, you know-they didn't even check to see and they don't care that I'm gone-they're supposed to be supervising me-I could be anywhere! I don't even wanna go back any more."

Mum took a sip from her mug. "OK. So don't go. I miss your s.h.i.+ning countenance around here anyway."

And that was all. I wanted a scene. I wanted someone to get mad about the way I got treated. Or to get hugged without old men in the room. Mum looked at me and grinned. I let my mouth be open a bit in case it might start to bleed again. She asked me, "Are you hungry? Clive brought over a whole truckload of fruit and vegetables and some pork chops and milk, and there's bread if you want a sandwich." She smiled over at him. I said I didn't feel like it, it was too hot, and I leaned back in my chair feeling like I was way at the far end of the table. Clive kept a smile on his face and kept moving his eyes on my mother's face like fingers. She backed her chair out a little and moved a bit closer to me so she was more equal between us and said, "So, sweety, we were just talking about how beautiful the autumn is there, and how warm it stays. There's hardly a winter."

"Where?"

"Vancouver. Didn't I say that?" The b.a.l.l.s of her cheeks were pink and her eyes were glittery like fishes. She already decided, I could tell. That's what they were talking about and that's what I heard in her voice when I came in. I could see it in her hands, the way they flitted; if she was mixed up or scared, they hung in front of her like broken birds. I tasted the cut on my lip again and felt the running b.u.t.terflies start in my belly. Then I remembered Clive and wondered if he knew that, when we ran away, it could only be us two.

"Well, I'm too hot already," I said.

Mum gave me a poke in the arm with her fingernail. "What are you so grinchy about, antface? You'll be crying for the sun in a few months when your hands are falling off because you've lost your mittens again."

Clive and I looked at each other. Clive smiled. He didn't fit in this kitchen. Everything on him was ironed and neat, like someone's TV grandpa, like on Eddies Father. The Courts.h.i.+p of Eddie's Grandfather. I thought Pearl would love him. He looked at me and said to my mum, "Rita's sister had a little girl with eyes just like hers; Rita used to call them guppy eyes. She thought they were shaped just like guppies," and he chuckled some more.

"Who's Rita?" I kind of snapped it at him.

His eyes were watery. "She's an old friend of mine. They're lovely, your eyes, I meant no disrespect."

Mum reached over and pushed my bangs aside. "I always thought Grace had wolf eyes." I liked when she said that. It made me feel prowly and strong, like a snap of my jaws could rip out a man's throat. Her hands fluttered at the chain on her neck.

HOFFMAN, Anne Eilleen 8.24.73 (L. Barrington) After returning to work on August 22nd, I was disappointed to see that no follow-up calls had been made to Hoffman residence. Checked on residence myself today only to find that Mrs. Hoffman had packed up and cleared out. She has been gone nearly a week according to Arlene and John Kensit. They claimed not to know her whereabouts. This sudden lack of knowledge is suspicious given daughter Pearl's closeness to Grace. Can't help but think Eilleen Hoffman manipulated this situation in order to make a smoother escape. The Kensits did say that Mrs. Hoffman was in much better condition though. I cannot stress enough that CPA must continue to monitor this family's situation.

8.27.73 (L. Barrington) After several attempts, was finally able to contact Mr. Hoffman. Mrs. Hoffman, he said, has gone to Vancouver. He is understandably disappointed as Mrs. Hoffman could not be persuaded to stay and he has no means of contacting his daughter.

I hope the breakdown in internal communications has not jeopardized this family. Mr. Hoffman has given me the address and phone numbers of family friends in Vancouver that she will likely contact. I will write and inform CPA Vancouver.

Eilleen Four.

OCTOBER 1973, VANCOUVER.

WALKING IN Chinatown with Grace, pumpkin shopping. It's coming on November. She's got one hand in her pocket, one hand in yours-it's just getting fall-nippy. You look down onto her hair and smooth a hand over, she looks up so you run it down her face, squash her nose and lips along the way. She giggles and hip-b.u.mps your thigh. So you say, Wonder what the poor people are doing right now.

Why?

Cuz us rich peoples is havin' fun.

What do you mean?

I mean, it's a nice day-I wonder what those poor slobs stuck in Toronto are doing.

Grace stops to have a gander at a twisted orange head with what looks like a goiter on its face. She cups the lump in her palm, says, This could be his chin, huh? If he was really fat.

You laugh. Laugh laugh. Everything makes you laugh now. Feels so good just being. Here. Sometimes when she's at school you sit at home in the living room and touch the arm of the couch, the heavy furniture weave, squeeze till it hurts your finger bones a little, just enough to hang a For Sure sign on everything you own: your furniture, your dishes, your self. Your here. Vancouver, baby. Just so relieved to be back, so thankful to be here not there, thankful for the friends who came through-even the ones who are really more Danny's than yours, but they've stuck by you just the same-like Alice and Ray; the same way they put you up two years ago while you were waiting for Danny when he got out of jail, they put this together when you ran from Toronto. You owe them close to three hundred bucks between the first months rent they fronted and the second-hand stuff Ray put together from his furniture store. But you're home again: Grace has her school right across the road, Ray and Alice just four blocks away. OK, it's only one bedroom and you are right on Main Street, but it's a start. It's free air through your chest-don't have to be afraid any more.

The two of you keep walking. Your child wants just the right pumpkin, as if she's picking a puppy. Can't even remember if you had a pumpkin last year. She stops to look at a bin of apples, says, These are considerably cheaper than the supermarket, aren't they? An old woman looks sideways at Grace and you chuckle, say, Yeah, you're right. Well get a load of stuff before we go. And I'm kind of thinking I'd like to pop over to Kripps Drugstore, were almost out of lecithin and C. That's your new language, Vitamins. Right after you got into town, back on the wagon, you picked up two Adelle Davis books: Lets Have Healthy Children and Lets Eat Right to Keep Fit. Saw her on TV, on The Merv Griffin Show, and you thought, that's it, we're going to start this life with a bang-Adelle Davis was going to get the two of you so healthy, you'd be jumping and leaping, shooting off brilliance wherever you went. Mega-vitamins, scoops of powdered vim and vigour were going to make you and yours radiant and robust. No more skinny kid-no more Alice and Ray holding both of Grace's wrists in one hand, comparing them to their own rugrats', telling you yours looked like one of those starving African kids. Every morning you swallow B-complex, kelp and halibut liver oil pills. The powdered vitamins, like the C and the brewers yeast-you stir 'em up with grape juice and Grace downs it. Takes some coaxing, but she does it.

Mind you, maybe I'll just go tomorrow-if we get all these fruits and vegetables, we're not going to wanna drag them over to Kripps Drugs and then all the way home. And don't forget, Pumpkin Queen, not too big or we're not going to be able to carry it. And not too expensive-oh s.h.i.+-shoot-I can't go to Kripps tomorrow, I have to work. Grace rolls a head off the shelf into her arms and cradles it a moment, pulls her chin up trying to free the apartment keys on the string around her neck. You ease them out from between the pumpkin and her chest and drop them down her sweater. She squeals on the cold metal. Oh sweety, sorry, I thought you had a T-s.h.i.+rt on under there. She glares at you ever so slightly, says this is the one, the pumpkin that stole her heart. You ask her how much it is. She frowns, ummm, as if she doesn't know and rotates the thing around till the black scrawled numbers show themselves. You squeal on the price. t.i.t for tat.

It's Monday afternoon and you are standing behind a jewellery counter at Eaton's department store. Christmas help. Bored out of your mind, n.o.body needs help with Christmas yet, no one's even thinking about it. You've got a VIP job here, through the Welfare-the Vancouver Incentive Program: they get you a part-time job and you're allowed to make an extra hundred dollars a month. Any more and it gets taken off your cheque. Seems like you should be getting more for two days a week, like you're being had. But at least you're out here, meeting people. Who knows who you'll meet during the Christmas rush.

Someday when there's a Christmas rush.

You've already started buying little doodads for Grace, stocking stuffers. You're going to really get into it this Christmas, there'll be tinsel all over the b.l.o.o.d.y place. Soon as Halloween's over, you're getting a wreath for the door. Already got Grace drinking eggnog -that's actually nothing to do with Christmas, you just told her that. Really it's to get two eggs' worth of protein down her gullet as quick and painlessly as possible. Adelle Davis says she needs thirty grams a day and by G.o.d she's going to get it. No more white bread, white sugar, white rice. Actually you never did let her eat white bread, but now you're serious.

Oh G.o.d ... can't you just go take an extended lunch break; there's no one here, no one is shopping at eleven o'clock Monday morning. You're in the middle of a square counter, three sides of jewellery, one all drawers and a cash register. Jesus. Wonder if anyone would mind you bursting into a little jazz-skiddley-wa-wa-a-a ... You are staring through your fingerprints into the display case.

There are twenty-eight pairs of earrings under this gla.s.s.

Twenty-eight. Twenny hate. Twenty ate. Twaw twaw-that was one of your favourite ages, that's how many teeth you have, that's how many pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.