The Checkout Girl (10 page)

Martin took her to a room with a bed that actually had sheets and blankets. Not mine, he said, but one they could share. If she wanted to, he added, and he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Later he woke Kathy and drew patterns on her naked back with his finger. He kissed her neck, her shoulder blades, her buttocks and told her he had to go out. He had to find his brother. His brother was to have shown up that night and he hadn't. Martin was worried. He told her that if the police came to get the hell out. If they didn't get out in time, to tell the police nothing. No names, no numbers of people, not what anyone looked like, or how they came to be sleeping there. Nothing. Make something up. Make up names.

He whispered that he and his brother belonged to the organization that rented the apartment; he said that they didn't hate the English. They were nationalists, just like Trudeau. Except their nation was French, not English. They needed to protect all things French. Then he was gone. None of this worried Kathy. She kissed Martin and fell back to sleep.

There were no police. The apartment was empty when they got up. Kathy told Donny about Martin's brother while they drank black tea and ate Chinese oranges, the only food in they could find in the kitchen.

“Far out,” Donny said, “terrorists.”

They left that day and hitchhiked up to the Gaspé, then down to Fredericton where they pooled the last of their money for two stand-by tickets to Toronto. They hitchhiked home from there.

End of story.

She'd almost forgotten the trip. Donny's made it real again and when he finishes his version, the room is too quiet.

“Time to roll,” Kathy says, and she hoists herself out of her chair and heads for the door. Donny gets up and follows her.

“Where are you going?” Doug asks him.

Donny says, “With you.”

“I invited him,” Kathy says as she leaves the room.

“Kathy,” Doug begins, but she's gone. They can hear her going down the stairs, Donny following.

“See ya, Kathy's friend,” Pete says without opening his eyes. Teach watches Doug walk out of the room.

“Bad, bad Kathy,” he says.

Doug's driving Blanche's car, so they ride with him to the auditorium. They stand behind the arena in the cold and smoke another joint. Inside it's hot and packed and dark, except for one huge electric candelabra that illuminates the stage. Liberace's sitting at a Baldwin piano wearing a dazzling jacket of cascading colour; he makes Kathy look like a nun. A Burt Bacharach tune ushers them to their seats.

“Well, look me over. I didn't dress like this to go unnoticed,” Liberace coos to the audience when the song is over. “I make the NBC peacock look like a plucked chicken.”

He plays “Roll Out the Barrel.” For all the Germans, he says, and for all the people of German descent, which is most of the audience, most of Varnum, for that matter. He plays “Lara's Theme” from
Dr. Zhivago
, “Georgy Girl,” some Liszt. His outfits become gaudier and gaudier: a black sequined tuxedo, a crimson suit. He plays his theme song, “I'll Be Seeing You.”

They clap, Kathy and Doug and Donny and all the people around them. They stand and cheer and whistle; they sway back and forth; some hum, others sing along. For the finale the lights go down, the candelabra is turned off, and Liberace emerges onto the darkened stage flashing and twinkling, his jacket wired with tiny lights. The audience rises, screams a delight that only dies down when the Trinidad-Tripoli Steel Band, all twenty-seven pieces, fills the auditorium with sound. The last tune begins. Kathy cries laughing tears. She's in love with Liberace. She's in love with the world. And then it's over. The lights come on. They are a milling mass of bland coats and plain toques, schlepping along in black and brown galoshes through a cavern of cement, metal and industrial-green paint.

Kathy and Donny and Doug are squished in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, a press to the doors, when they bump into Darlyn and Al. Darlyn is Betty Anderson on
Father Knows Best
: wide skirt, matching sweater, swishy ponytail. Only her nose is un-Betty.

“Nice jacket,” Al shouts above the noise. He's trying not to look at Kathy's nipples under her sheer turtleneck.

“We tried to get your mother to come,” Darlyn shouts into Kathy's ear, “but she wouldn't take the night off work. Mary even said she'd babysit Shelly.”

“Darlyn. Al,” Kathy shouts back, pointing her thumb, “you remember Doug. He's here from Vancouver to visit his parents, and he invited me and Donny to the concert.” Kathy raises her eyebrows at Darlyn, who rolls her eyes. Darlyn knows all about Doug's invitation. When Kathy called to tell her she was taking Donny along — for protection — Darlyn told her she was going with her father and they'd probably see each other. “And you remember Donny, don't you?”

“Oh, I remember Darlyn,” Donny says. “How could I forget? But this Darlyn has no George, and she's all grown up.”

Donny takes Darlyn's hand and holds it. He won't let go. The crowd tries to move around them. Darlyn turns red and lifts her hand in Donny's into the air. She nods toward their hands locked together. Donny lowers their hands, cups hers, then opens the palm and kisses it. He winks at her, theatrical. Then he lets her hand fall.

“Al,” Donny says, and he turns toward Al and bows. “Nice to see you again.”

Kathy and Darlyn look at each other and laugh.

Donny turns back to Darlyn. Watches her, transfixed and smiling. “Darlyn,” he says, shaking his head. “Far out. Darlyn.”

People mill around them. Kathy takes Donny by the elbow and steers him toward the doors. Doug follows. Donny strains backward on Kathy's arm, trying to see Darlyn and Al in the crowd.

“Oh my Darlyn, oh my Darlyn,” Donny sings over his shoulder. “Oh my Darlyn-Clementine.”

Donny pulls away from Kathy and turns. He throws out his arms and spreads his feet. Darlyn and Al have disappeared.

“You are lost and gone forever,” he sings, “dreadful sorry, Clementine.”

After the Liberace show she says goodbye. She tells Doug she's taking a taxi home.

“Don't be stupid,” he says. “She's being stupid, isn't she, Donny?” It isn't a question. “I'll drop Donny off and drive you right home.”

When they drop Donny off, she opens her door.

“I can walk from here,” she says.

He takes her hand and pulls her back in.

“I told you I'd drive you home and I will,” he says.

He gets out of the car and she tells him she's going straight to bed. She says she'd rather he didn't come in. He pushes past her and watches as she hangs up Penny's coat. She tells him to leave.

She sits at the kitchen table to smoke a cigarette. He sits across from her. He taps his fingers, ta-tum, ta-tum. She finishes the cigarette, butts it out on a plate littered with breadcrumbs and peanut butter smears. Using the cigarette butt, she makes patterns in the crumbs, then makes a pile of them in the centre of the plate. She sets the butt beside the pile. She puts her head down on her arms. She sniffs her fingers, the tarry smell of cigarette with a hint of patchouli. She closes her eyes and watches Doug through her eyelashes. Doug jiggles his leg.

“I'm going to bed,” she says, and she gets up.

He gets up too.

“Alone,” she says. “Goodbye, Doug.”

That's what she wanted to say to him, just goodbye, but for the life of her she can't think why. It's not like he's listening, or would have listened had she said it before she left Vancouver. She walks to the stairs. He walks behind her to the landing and down the stairs into the basement. He follows her into her room.

“What are these?” He sits down on her bed and tips over a blue Mexican pottery bowl filled with spare change, a few pairs of earrings and two condoms. They spill onto the night table; some change falls to the floor. Kathy picks it up.

“My life savings,” she says, jingling the coins in her hand.

“Let me rephrase,
who
are these for?” Doug asks, and he sets the condoms on the bed. He takes Kathy's wrist and pulls her, not hard but insistent, down beside him.

Kathy stands right back up and walks to the door. The condoms are in case, but in case of what is none of his business. She wishes Barry wasn't out with Rachel.

Doug slides the condoms into his pants pocket.

“I want you to go,” she says.

She's leaning against the wall next to the cage where Freddy lies coiled, glossy muscle wound tightly. His eyes are open and he's testing the air with his tongue. He begins to unwind, coil by coil, and slides slowly toward Kathy, stretches his head up, flicks his tongue along the edges of the metal lattice of his breathing grille.

Doug notices Freddy. Kathy watches Doug watch Freddy.

“I asked you to go,” she says again. Freddy bobs his head and flicks his tongue along the grate.

“We haven't had our talk yet,” Doug says, still watching Freddy. He turns his attention to Kathy and says, “Did we?”

Doug's questions never sound like questions.

“You don't listen.”

“You should have told me you were going.”

“I was sorry about that but now I'm not.”

“Why'd you come tonight?”

“Stupid, I guess,” Kathy says. She can't stop herself.

Doug turns from her to watch Freddy again.

“Look at me,” Kathy says. “I.” She points to herself. “Want you.” She points at Doug. “To go,” she says, and points her thumb to the door.

“OK, OK,” Doug says. He holds his hands up, surrendering. When he passes Kathy near the door, he grabs her forearms, and he kisses her. He presses her arms down at her sides and sticks his tongue in her mouth. Kathy bites down. She tastes blood.

“Mother-fucking-cock-sucking-cunt,” he says. He holds her arms tighter. Flecks of blood hit her when he swears. He jerks her around and pushes her face down onto the bed. He flips her over roughly, crawls on top and pins her arms to the mattress. Kathy squirms. Doug spits on her. Blood.

“Bitch,” he says.

She tries to pull her hands free. She wants to scratch him. She calls for Barry even though he isn't there. She wants to scare Doug. He hits her in the chest. It hurts enough to take her breath away. She lies still. He pulls the pillow from under her head and puts it over her face. He grabs her wrists and jerks her arms over her head. He pushes her hands into the wall. Her knuckles scrape against it. She lifts her body and turns. He wrenches her arms up harder, holds them at her wrists with one hand. He inches upward on the bed until he can hold the pillow in place with his knees.

She tries to breathe and can't. She kicks her legs. Kathy hears his fly unzip, can feel his hard penis hit the pillow. She wrenches her arms, not free, but the pillow loosens. She turns her head to the air.

Doug moves down her. One hand pulls her panties down, the other still holds her wrists. He rams himself into her, two-three-four-five times. He grunts. He gets up.

“This shouldn't have happened.” His words come from above her. “I didn't mean it to.”

She wills herself still, silent.

“I'm leaving now,” he says.

She hears him go, hears him walk down the hall.

And now that it's quiet, she hears Freddy, realizes she's been hearing him all along. TAT. TAT. TAT. The pillow is loose now, hot and moist with her breath. TAT. TAT. TAT. Freddy's nose strikes the glass.

She doesn't want to see herself, so she reaches down, lifts her bum and pulls her panties up. Only then does she slip the pillow from her face and tuck it under her head. Her belly's cold. Her crotch is wet, semen leaking through her pink panties. She pulls the blanket up. “Shush, Freddy,” she says. “Shush-shush.”

Kathy stands up and strips off her clothes. She strips the bed, takes the bottom sheet and wipes between her legs. She throws the bedding in the corner, throws her Liberace clothes on top. She pulls on long johns, the fat, woolen tube socks Connie knit for her for skating. Pulls on jeans, an undershirt, a T-shirt and her warmest sweater. She picks up her skates, grabs her stick and her bag of pucks.

Freddy's still tapping his snake S-O-S. Kathy puts her face near the grille and whispers, “He's gone. It's OK, Freddy.”

Freddy strikes TAT-TAT, and stops. His head bobs and weaves like a boxer's, then swiftly he rolls backwards, undulates into a thick coil and rests.

A thin layer of snow swirls and skids over the ice. Kathy laces up and leaves her stick and puck bag in the middle of the rink. Crouched like a speed skater, one arm pumping, leg over leg, she slices the ice until she's sweating and her thighs ache.

She grabs her stick and dumps her bag of pucks at centre ice. She slaps them one at a time against the boards, each shot a little higher. An ankle. A kneecap. His groin. His neck. His head. Another invisible opponent.

Out and around, she finds a puck, stickhandles it to centre ice, leaves it twirling and skates for the next. The pucks cleave to the blade of her stick, no shims, no shams, just goddamn perfection. She thinks there could be blood on them. She wishes there was blood on them.

She leaves the pucks, and she skates to the end of the rink, twirls there, holding her stick in front of her. It weaves it up and down, like Shelly's legs did when they twirled. When she lets it go, it flies forward, smashes onto the ice with a clap and skids into the boards. Without the balancing weight of it, she falls. Up in a second, she skates, propels herself into the boards. She turns and skates to the other end of the rink and slams into the boards again. Her shoulder hurts, the side of her face stings, her nose is wet with blood and snot.

“Fucker,” she screams. “Fuck-er.”

She plops on her bum, legs splayed forward, elbows behind her on the ice. Thin dry snowflakes fall on her face, melt, fall into her open mouth and onto her closed eyelids. They gather in her hair. Snow sifts past her on the wind; it covers her tracks.

Goddamn, she won't cry. If she keeps her eyes closed, she won't cry. But the tears want to come. She gets up; she will skate them away. Goddamn, goddamn, soon it will be spring.