Bishop's Road (2 page)

On the west side of Bishop's Road things are on a more even keel. The ground is mostly flat and easy to walk. There are a few places where you can get a decent meal of fish if you don't mind going that far, though if you ever want to see a movie or have some brochures printed there's nothing for it but to head on out to a mall. The most interesting places, the ones with any
expression in their eyes, are here, below Bishop's Road.

Ginny Mustard has never been anywhere else in her life and, like most things, that suits her fine. If it doesn't happen within a fifteen minute walk of Bishop's Road, it might as well not happen at all. She goes to the river beyond the park. Stands on one of the little bridges that cross it and looks at the water rushing. She likes the storms and the snow as much as she likes calm and sunshine. And the river is as lovely when trees are falling over and their roots coming out of the banks and the wind so loud you can't hear another thing, as when it is gentle and whispering low and pretty little finches swarm the willows. She goes to the ocean. Watches the ships come and go. Pulls the cold fog and fishy smells deep into her lungs. Holds them there. Closes her eyes and smiles.

Ginny Mustard has a secret. All afternoon she's been walking up and down Water Street looking for someone to tell but no one ever comes along who might have time to listen. She's not good with words. When she does talk at all they fall over them-selves and some are left out so it takes a patient person to know what she is going on about.

The secret is brand new. She ran it around in her head and tried to write it down when she got bits of it clear. Junior Brophy from Harry's Groc. and Conf. gave her a load of paper placemats once to draw her pictures on and at the rate she's going she'll need every last one of them to write her secret because her letters are big and lumpy and backwards and she can't get more than a dozen words on any one sheet.

After cooking and praying, Mrs. Miflin likes cleaning best so Ginny Mustard keeps her papers and coloured pencils between her mattress and box spring, all neat and tidy and hidden. She
wears her pen on a chain around her neck along with a medal of the Holy Blessed Virgin and a penny that Joe Snake put on the railway track just before the train came and flattened it thin.

Ginny Mustard has lived here longer than anyone else except Mrs. Miflin. It used to be a beautiful house but now it's just pretty enough to get by. That's what Mrs. Miflin says; me and the house are the same, she says, just pretty enough to get by. She was married once. She has pictures on the walls and a dried bouquet. Her wedding dress hangs in her closet in two green garbage bags stapled together to be long enough to keep the dust off if any dares land. Ginny Mustard has never seen it but Mrs. Miflin tells her all about it sometimes when they wash the dishes. She likes to talk and goes on and on about back in the day when she was pretty and her husband was so good looking and they were young too young to get married. The pictures show that he had a big nose and glasses and was a lot taller than Mrs. Miflin and his arms looked like they might be really thin under his jacket. And in the pictures Mrs. Miflin was round and smiling as though she'd had a good meal of something tasty and her dress was snug on top, but-toned with pearls that wanted to pop off and scatter. Mr. Miflin must have gone away because no one in the house has ever seen him. Mrs. Miflin sets a place for him every mealtime and even puts food there as if he just went to the store for a newspaper or some-thing and she expects him back any minute now. You might think that wasteful but it's not because when he doesn't show up she eats his share or puts it in tomorrow's soup.

Ruth lives at the very end of the house - third story and beyond the linen closet. Not a lot happens back there so she spends much of her time in a chair at the top of the stairs near a
window just watching. She can see across the street and through the trees and across another street and into the park. If she squints she can just make out the bodies lying around on the grass tanning or rusting - depends on the weather - and the little kids playing on the swings and in the sandbox after their mothers pick out the glass and dog shit. They have to do it every day. It's that kind of park.

Sometimes Ruth wears the same clothes for a week. She dresses like a bruise. Black leggings and a big black shirt. Purple. Other times she doesn't even bother to take off her nightgown or wash her face, what would be the point, though she's very particular about brushing and flossing and her hair is always clean. She has been on the planet for 50 years and is tired of life and so has given up - except for the sitting. Watching.

Maggie has a room just ahead of the linen closet. It's the nicest one in the house with a huge bay window and lacy curtains that move about easily. At night she lies awake and watches them float across the room - soft and narrow - like thin ghosts with a floral pattern. Maggie is still trying to figure out how she got here and watching the curtains puts her mind at rest. She thinks that if she lies here long enough she will know what came before and after leaving home and being here in this room, in this house. She remembers a suitcase and lots of screaming, her mother's face hard before she turned away from Maggie. A big place with little beds. Before that there's nothing. After that there's nothing either - until this room, this house.

At night she puts her pillow at the foot of the bed under the curtains and they wash across her face on their way to and fro. Sometimes the moon is behind them and when they move it shines all over her. Turns her skin a nice pale blue. When it is full she takes off her clothes and looks at her pale blue body. She holds up an arm or a leg to get as much of the light as she can. She likes to see herself that colour and wishes she could show
someone how pretty she looks.

The people whose clothes Maggie wears were old and larger than herself. Her underpants are lumpy bloomers and her skirts have to be held with a belt - pulled very tight and even then her blouses are generally hanging out and in her way. All of the spare fabric gives her the look of a sausage. If you could see her face you might be surprised to find that she is attractive.

There is a shoe box under Maggie's bed containing 118 letters. Sealed. Stamped. Never opened. Maggie brought it with her and goes nowhere without it. She takes it to breakfast, lunch, dinner and the bathroom. Only in her room is it out of sight and even then she often pulls up the bedspread and checks to make sure. She thinks sometimes it isn't true - that nothing is - and so she pulls up the bedspread and checks to make sure.

Eve has been alive since God was a youngster. She lives on the second floor - east side - and can see the ocean from her room but mostly she tends the garden out back, a job she hasn't had since her fall from grace with that fool Adam. She has a knack for growing things but sticks to flowers since the zucchini year when everyone got so fed up with zucchini this and zucchini that every meal for a month because Mrs. Miflin can't bear to waste anything. Eve is big and strong with no softness to her bones at all. She is generally content but for missing Adam - mostly in February when the days are so gray and the seed catalogues haven't arrived yet. She's been six years without him this time - he always seems to go ahead of her - but she enjoys the garden. Every spring when the slugs come crawling, Eve buys a hedgehog and sets it loose. And every spring the newest one munches away for a couple of weeks and wanders off. When Eve is not gardening she wears long black dresses, stiff and silk, with here and there a touch of lace, a cameo, a satin rose. But more often than not she's in overalls and rubber boots, a red kerchief holding her hair away while she works.

Judy arrived this morning. Mrs. Miflin has convinced the powers that be that her house is the ideal place for wayward girls. Being God fearing and all, who better than herself to shape up degenerate youth? Aside from the weekly visits to her probation officer and a counsellor, the bulk of Judy's rehabilitation now rests on the capable, albeit sloped, shoulders of Mrs. Miflin, a position of power that pleases the old doll no end.

Judy is seventeen, a little beyond foster care even if anyone would have her. The last child after three rowdy boys, Judy's only flaw, if you don't count her height of six feet, is that of being too damned smart for her own good. When she dares to dream, her ambition is to become wealthy beyond belief at which time she will go home and burn the place to the ground. If you catch her smiling you can be sure she is imagining the part where they all come running to her for help and she tells them they are shit out of luck, go to hell the lot of you friggers. Judy has been stealing make-up and clothes since she was ten and has a record as long as her wingspan. She has dropped out of school for one reason or another a good seven times already and has the IQ of an Einstein.

Judy owns five pairs of jeans and six tee shirts with things written on them. She has a short black dress and her underwear has seen better days. She has running shoes and hiking boots, socks and a pair of men's pyjamas, never worn, because she sleeps in her day clothes just in case she has to leave in a hurry. On the dresser on a pink plastic doily that Mrs. Miflin bought on sale - five for a dollar - is a black wooden jewelry box that plays a rusty
Fur Elise
when you wind it and a little spring inside goes around and around without the ballerina that used to be there. In the box
is a pair of tiny real gold earrings and a few other odds and ends. And there's the cover of another box wrapped in brown paper, with small shells glued on in a daisy pattern and a red velvet lining with two satin strings that once attached it to a bottom that is somewhere else.

If Judy hadn't suggested that Ginny Mustard take a look in the attic this morning when Mrs. Miflin was out and they couldn't find light bulbs, then Ginny Mustard might not be having a hard time of it now. But she did and Ginny Mustard did and there's a tear in the fabric and time tugging the edge. Someone might want to lay a hand on that girl's yellow hair and smooth it back. Tell her everything will be okay.

Mrs. Miflin has been away for much of the day, signing papers and assuring the probation officer and Judy's counsellor that of course the girl will behave herself and make her appointments on time. Tonight she will formally introduce her latest acquisition to the rest of the household. She has already squeezed another chair into the dining room and if they ever felt tempted to put elbows on the table they can forget about it now. Four might be comfortable here - with six and Mr. Miflin's place it's a stretch. Here they come - right on time. Bladders newly emptied for the duration. Once you're sitting there's room for no other movement but fork to mouth.