The Checkout Girl (22 page)

No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

— Samuel Beckett

Kathy sits cross-legged on her bed wearing dead-man's clothes, the blue silk I'm-going-to sleep-with-Pete-tonight underwear that now bags at the bum and an oversized men's undershirt worn so thin it takes on the pink of her skin. It was her father's, rescued from a brown paper bag of his clothes she found in the basement after he died. Clothes too old and worn, or too personal to give to the Salvation Army, that Connie meant to throw in the garbage. Kathy used to keep the undershirt in her dresser drawer, taking it out when she chanced on it, sniffing it, searching for her father's scent. Now she wears it all the time and it smells like her.

Kathy wonders whether, if Charlie had lived — Pete, too, for that matter — she would have noticed similarities between them. If there had been something of her father in Pete that attracted her to him. Perhaps she'd noticed how comfortable Pete seemed inside his body, so like her father's laid-back physicality and the way he did things with complete self-assurance. Doug had a bit of it too, she could see that now, at least when he was skating. And Bobby. Bobby Orr
is
Mr. Self-Assured.

Or maybe she had some distant memory of how her father and mother had been together, feisty and passionate, a little edgy, that was echoed in Pete and Penny's marriage, and that she wanted, too. It's all speculation now, a bit of a spin she tries not to indulge, though the thoughts sneak up on her now and then. That's when she tries to find a rink open to skate them away.

She's going skating in an hour, but right now she's reading her horoscope:
Whatever in your life that you dream of changing — and there must be something — now is the time to stop dreaming and start doing.

She laughs out loud. Connie must have paid the paper to place it, a public service announcement directed at her daughter. It sounds so much like her that Kathy cuts it out and tapes it to the wall above her bed, next to articles about Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. “Jimi Hendrix Dies of Drug Overdose” one says, and “Stars Pay Tribute: Hendrix Was Rock Innovator” says another, in which Janis Joplin tells the reporter that Jimi's a good friend of hers, and she'll miss him. Then Janis cries, the article says. Should have been crying for herself, Kathy thinks, because the article next to it announces Janis's death,
heroin and drug overdose
, it says.

So Kathy's is a wall of infamy and woe, for, accompanying the items about dead rock stars, she posts the weekly drug bust list, published every Friday in
The Recorder
, a Who's Who of Varnum youth. The lucky ones have charges withdrawn, the unlucky wait to be sentenced. Some get fines, on average about $300 for possessing a bit of marijuana or hashish or a tab or two of LSD for personal use, and some are put on probation, usually a year. But all of the convicted will have criminal records.

She doesn't save the articles about Pete. Lunch Box Man has disappeared, and there are no new leads and no other suspects, so there isn't much coverage anymore. There's a reward for information that appears in the classifieds every Monday, $1000 posted by Pete's family and co-workers at the university, some of whom should be worried their own names will show up in the investigation. Kathy still cries though, for Pete and Penny and Rhettbutler. For herself. She cries for Jimi, who played guitar like fury, and for Janis, whose big voice, so full of cigarettes and bourbon and grief, is silent.

Every day she cries for some reason: when the guy at the Smoke Shop gives her a free newspaper, when Darlyn brings her groceries and
Sports Illustrated
with an article about Bobby Orr, and when Shelly gives her a drawing, all in purple crayon, her favourite colour these days. She cried last week when she heard on the radio that some crazy FLQ guys had taken another hostage, first the Liberation Cell had kidnapped James Cross, and now the Chénier Cell has kidnapped Pierre Laporte.

Kathy pulls on her jeans, raggedy bellbottoms filthy from dragging on the ground. She's skinny these days and her jeans hang off her. There on the floor is the tie-dyed T-shirt she wears over her undershirt. She finds her skating socks in her hockey bag, and pulls her Kodiaks over them. She leaves the boots untied; she'll be taking them off at the rink soon. She hauls on a navy-blue wool sweater, tucks her hair under a Greek fisherman's cap and wraps a scarf around her neck. She grabs her puck bag and the stick leaning against the wall, and she's off.

“You look like shit,” Connie says. She gets up from her reading chair and the newspaper slips from her lap. “You're skin and bones.”

She hugs Kathy and when she pulls away says, “And you smell like shit, too.”

“Good clean sweat,” Kathy says. “I'll take a shower after skating. When I get home.”

“That room you live in is not a home, and don't you dare call it that. This is a home,” she says, throwing her arm out.

“Mom,” Kathy warns.

“I certainly hope you take a shower,” Connie says, giving in.

“Where's Shelly?” Kathy asks. “I thought I'd take her skating.”

“Al took her to the library. They have an evening puppet program for kids on Tuesdays. Al found out about it and decided to give it a whirl. Turns out she likes puppets. Al says she sits all by herself at the edge of the group and doesn't move a muscle during the entire show. Hardly even blinks. The best part is she doesn't mind going with Al, so it gives me a break.”

“Far out,” Kathy says. “I'll head out then.”

“Do you want a coffee? Water's hot.”

“I'll miss the skate if I do,” Kathy says. “Sorry.”

When she kisses her mother goodbye, Connie says, “Shower.”

As she backs out of Connie's driveway, Kathy turns up the heat and clicks on the radio. The heater cranks out dust on a blast of cold air, and the radio an interview with Pierre Trudeau.

“Sir, what is it with all these men and guns around us?” the reporter asks.

Kathy puts the car in gear and listens while she drives. The reporter presses Trudeau about his reasons for calling in the troops. Why can't the police deal with the situation, he wants to know.

“I still go back to the choice that you have to make in the kind of society that you live in,” the reporter says.

“Yes, well, there's a lot of bleeding hearts around who don't like to see people with helmets and guns. All I can say is, go ahead and bleed, but it's more important to keep law and order in this society than to be worried about weak-kneed people who don't like the looks of…”

The reporter is insistent, “At any cost? How far would you go with that? How far would you extend that?”

“Well, just watch me,” Trudeau says.

Of course Kathy cries, but the kidnappings and Trudeau's threat seem to her no more and no less senseless than rock stars living so hard and fast they kill themselves, or getting fired for wanting to be in a union, or a friend's murder. Or Shelly being born the way she is, for that matter, and their father dying. The only thing Kathy understands right now is skating. When she skates, uncertainty and sadness evaporate. There are no tears on the ice, only movement, only this foot and this foot and this.

So every chance she gets, she skates. For as long as she's allowed, one hour, two hours, occasionally a whole glorious morning or afternoon or evening. She skates with school kids, with mothers and toddlers, with retirees. If she's lucky, she's almost alone on the ice, though it hardly matters. People are nothing more than markers placed on the ice to test her skill. She doesn't hear the music over the loudspeakers, only the booming of her heart, the blood pulsing to her muscles.

Today she's skating at Sand Hills Arena, but it never matters where. She laces up and strides onto the ice with her stick, holding it comfortably, loosely, knees bent, weight well forward. She circles with the recreational skaters, then she skates to the middle of the ice and sets down her stick. She does stops and starts, back and forth in the confined space. She maps small circles, making fast tight turns, round and round clockwise. Reverse. Round and round counterclockwise. Reverse.

When she's sweating, she slows, grabs her stick and widens the turns until she joins the other skaters again. She skates backwards to their forwards, looking over her shoulder, weaving in and out and around them, always aware but hardly noting their presence. She waggles her hips, fluid and sweet, keeps her seat over the ice, keeps her legs flexible. Just like Bobby.

The Recorder
says he's a natural, says he works hard, and follows his instincts and that's why he's a winner, a record breaker and a trophy holder. On skates he's exceptional in every way, reporters say, and he owns every inch of the ice. When he speaks to the press, he doesn't say
me
or
I,
he says
we,
and we means the Boston Bruins. You don't win the Stanley Cup alone, he said.

Kathy bought a ticket to a pre-season game at the Aud, Boston and New York. The place was packed, boys mostly, and some girls who came to watch the boys. The kids blocked the entrances when the players arrived. They shouted and jostled and held out sticks and hats and hockey shirts and programs, anything for their favourite players to sign. Kathy watched and waited for Bobby.

But he didn't show. An injured wrist, the announcer said. Phil Esposito wasn't there either, and Johnny Bucyk was recovering from a boating accident. Don Awrey was a no-show, and Derek Sanderson and Ed Westfall were both unsigned for the 1970-71 season, so they couldn't play. If it hadn't been for Johnny McKenzie of the Rangers bowling over a few Bruins to let Ken Hodge score the tying goal making it 2-2, the game would have been a colossal bore.

Kathy doesn't hold it against Bobby and hopes his wrist heals in time for the season opener. But just once she wishes she could see all of the Boston Bruins play. And while she's wishing, she wishes she could see them play on home ice so she could watch Bobby Orr perform his magic in the Garden to a home-town crowd.

Meanwhile, she skates. When she's not skating, she looks for work — checkout girl, meat wrapper, nurse's aide, janitor's assistant at her old high school, anything that shows up in the Help Wanted (Female) ads. She fills out applications and occasionally gets an interview. She waits for the call, and while she waits, she skates some more.

“Larry wants to talk to you.”

The speaker is a woman, youngish and round, in too-tight ski pants and an orange sweater that reaches her knees. She minces on dyed-orange figure skates that look too small for her size and plunks herself down on the bench beside Kathy, who is unlacing her skates.

“I'm Bev and I'm gonna die if I don't get outta these.” She stretches her legs out and lifts her orange skates in the air. They bob near Kathy's head.

“The doctor told me to lose weight,” she tells Kathy. “I used to compete, trained for figures here. I've still got the moves, but it just about kills me.

“Don't ever have a baby,” she groans. “I was your size and now look at me.”

“It is good exercise,” Kathy says. She sits up and looks at Bev, whose dimples are the size of dimes. Kathy wipes the blades of her skates with the end of her scarf. She bends to tie her boots.

“Who wants to talk to me?” She turns her face up to Bev to ask.

“Larry, my old compulsory figures instructor,” Bev says. Her dimples wink as she speaks. “I'd better warn you, he swears.” She laughs and adds, “A lot. But he's harmless.

“He says you're a pretty good skater. That's a compliment, because he doesn't say much about skaters, just tells them what to do.”

“What's he want?”

Bev shrugs. “Just told me to say he'll be waiting outside the door.”

Kathy ties her skates together and grabs her puck bag and stick. As she walks to the door the woman calls, “You
are
good. We all watch you out there.”

Larry's all hard angles and bones. He buttons his jean jacket up to his neck so that it squeezes his Adam's apple, and his jean legs look empty. He sucks on a cigarette, coughs, spits to the side, takes one more drag, drops the cigarette and mashes it with his foot.

“Larry Wilkins,” he says on the exhale.

“Yes?” Kathy says.

“You are?” he asks.

“Kathy Rausch.”

“Want a job, Kathy Rausch?”

“Wouldn't say no, but you better tell me what you have in mind,” Kathy says, and as the words come out of her mouth, she can't believe she's saying them, when all she should be saying is, yes. Perhaps it's because she's trying so hard not to cry.

“Let's get a coffee and go to my office,” Larry says. He's shivering, his entire body shuddering in spasms. “Fucking freezing out here.”

The sign on the door says
CUSTODIAN
. Either Larry's the janitor or he shares the space with him. Inside are scrub buckets and mops, cleaning fluids and folded rags. There's an industrial sink, and a drain in the middle of the floor.

“Earn more if I did that,” Larry says, pointing his thumb at the pails and brooms. “This is my side. Have a seat.”

Larry's side is spartan: an ancient table-cum-desk and two rusty metal chairs. An orderly pile of tattered hockey programs sits on one corner of the table, a dirty mug and a clean ashtray on the other.

“This here antique was made in Canada,” Larry says, tapping the table. “Top made of Arborite developed in Cornwall, Ontario. Now don't go thinking I'm smart; I only know that because my son is smart. He's an engineer and he's helping set up a new Arborite plant in Vaughan. Told me this table is worth something these days. I found it at the dump. I like to salvage things; don't really care what, so long as it's useful.”

A pair of skates, laces tied together, hangs on an otherwise empty hall tree beside the door. The room is at least 100 degrees. Kathy strips off her hat, scarf and sweater and takes off her boots. She fans herself with an old Junior B game program, one from the pile sitting on the table.

“Be careful with that,” Larry says. “It's antique too, from Wally Tkaczuk's first game.”

Larry visibly relaxes in the heat, like Freddy when he's content.

“I spend most of my time in cold arenas and on the ice,” he tells Kathy when she remarks on the heat. “I'm such a skinny fucker I'm always chilled to the bone, so I come in here to get warm. Really warm. When I retire I'm moving to Florida with all those fat Quebecers. That'll be me, baking on the fucking beach, saying
excusez moi
, don't block my sun.”

They talk then. Larry says he's offering Kathy a job assisting with his compulsory figures classes — Larry was once a competitive figure skater. Says he'd rather have played hockey, but he was on the small side back then. Unlike now, he says, and laughs. He figured what would be the point of getting killed, so he switched to figure skating. Damn near gave his father a heart attack when he told him. Called him a faggot. But he got over it.

Now he teaches and does some coaching, has a summer camp like Howie Meeker. Only he wishes he was half as smart as Howie. He asks Kathy if she knew Howie retired from playing hockey just last year, but didn't wait for Kathy to answer, told her Howie was forty-fucking-five. They were born the same year.

Kathy will also help teach girls how to skate like boys, that's how Larry puts it, while he teaches boys how to skate like girls.

“The girls come in here wanting to be Barbara fucking Ann Scott. I want them to be better than that. I want them to know all about skating, not just fucking figure skating. I want them to know how to stop without picks, not to rely on them. Boys who learn figures, and there are too fucking few, let me tell you, know how to skate on hockey skates because that's how they learned to skate. Girls never get the same fucking chance.”

Kathy has never heard so many fucks said at one time. They flow like a river and seem just as natural. She isn't too appalled, really, but it's hard not to laugh, partly from embarrassment, but mostly in delight at the dazzle of Larry's linguistic repertoire. Not to mention that this man is offering her a job.

“But you'd better fucking believe,” he continues, “that compulsory figures are going the way of the fucking dodo. I can see that dance is taking over and soon guys like me won't have fucking jobs. It will be about choreography, so fucking dancers will teach skaters, instead of skaters like us teaching them. But for now I teach fucking figures, and I need help, and I'd like you to fucking well help me.

“Excuse my fucking French,” he says. “I get emotional.”

Kathy can start in the new year, he tells her. He's got to set up the classes, get the newspaper ads ready and let the city recreation department know so they can budget for the classes and set up their schedules and announcements. Their paycheques come from the city, and they're union employees. He hopes she doesn't mind a union, some people do, he says.

They'll also teach lessons contracted by local skating clubs. For that he rents ice time and charges clubs accordingly. He does some private lessons, but he'll continue those on his own for now. If Kathy's still around when he wants to retire, he'll turn them over to her. Or she can go out and get her own students. Why not? No skin off his fucking nose.

If everything goes as planned, and the courses and lessons are well received, and Kathy does a good job — Larry says sometimes the ones who can really skate can't teach — then Kathy will have a permanent job. Or as permanent as jobs are these days. He tells her he's been watching her warm up and do her routines for weeks now. He says she's pretty fucking good.

He says he'll get the boys he coaches at his summer camp to accept a girl, leastways a girl as good as Kathy. It's the parents who might object. But he'll fix that. He'll just fucking well tell them. It's the kids who count anyway.

There are two kinds of kids who give up their summer to hockey, he tells her. The ones whose parents — the father usually — want their kid to play. Make a man of him or become a big star. Shit like that. And there are the kids who are keeners, the kind who beg their parents to let them come to camp. The ones like Kathy, who love to skate and love the game. The naturals. They're the ones he enjoys coaching most. They listen and they work hard, and he can see them improve dramatically over the summer.

They talk a little hockey, the Leafs not being up to the Bruins, the Bruins' win this year, the trades, what expansion is doing to the game. What might happen next season. He asks Kathy who her favourite player is and she tells him Bobby Orr. She tells him she liked him before Boston won the cup, before he became famous. He says good choice; he can see now where her technique comes from.

He wonders if Bobby'll last. Those knees, he says. He's gotta take care of those knees. He says he likes Boston, likes some of the quieter players, less flash and dance, the solid ones like Don Awrey, who he'd want on defence if he was playing for the team. Solid body checker, Larry says. Excellent puck blocker.

By the time Larry's finished, Kathy's damp socks are piled with her sweater and scarf on top of her boots, and she's rolled up the legs of her jeans. Larry still has his jacket done up to the neck. While she puts on her sweaty clothes, she gives him her phone number at the hotel. (He tells her he's had a few beers in the bar there, and in fact they've probably crossed paths once or twice, but that was then and this is now and they'll fucking well recognize each other next time.) And when he opens the door and the cool arena air rushes in, he shivers, and says fuck.

Once in her car, Kathy closes her eyes and leans her head back on the seat. The sweat's drying and she's chilly, but she doesn't mind. She knows she should tell Connie about the job, but she's not ready. Soon, but not right now. She wants to savour the happiness first. Doesn't want to hear out loud what's in the back of her mind: That it might not work out. That she might not be a good teacher. As Larry said, being a good skater doesn't always mean you can teach.

In the end, Kathy drives to Connie's, who's pretty happy. Not as happy as Kathy, but happy enough to cry. Blubber really, and say, oh, Al, oh, Kathy, oh, Al, oh, Kathy, until Shelly runs around flapping her arms, yelling oh-oh-oh-oh.

“Stop that,” Connie shouts at her.

Shelly doesn't, so Kathy tells Al to pour Connie a big rye and take it and her mother to the rec room to watch a little TV. Then she catches Shelly as she runs by and pulls her arms down to her sides and holds her against her body.

“Oh-oh-oh,” Shelly yells into Kathy's shoulder.

Kathy lifts her as gently as she can and carries her to her bedroom. She sits on the bed, Shelly rigid in her arms and her feet on the floor, and sh-shushes until Shelly relaxes and her oh-ing becomes a hum. Kathy pulls Shelly up onto the bed and reads to her.

“The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind or another,”
Kathy reads,
“his mother called him wild thing.”

Shelly listens. Kathy reads the story once, twice and is part way through the third time when she whispers, “Shelly, I got a job. Skating.”

Shelly doesn't look at Kathy, doesn't blink even. She waits, so Kathy resumes the story and by the time she's finished, Shelly's asleep. Kathy slips out of Shelly's room and goes into the kitchen and calls Sally and Roy.

“Oh my dear, my dear,” Sally says, “that's the finest kind.” She shouts to Roy, “Roy, love. Kathy got a job out at Sand Hills Arena. She's going to be a hockey skating instructor.”

Kathy talks to Roy, who tells her he always had faith in her. And she knows that's true, knows he always did. She thanks him for all of his help and kindness and asks if he would like to come and watch her first class, to give her some pointers. He says he'd be delighted, but he'll wait until she's over the first-day jitters. When she hangs up, Kathy sits a minute, listens to the muffled sound of the TV coming up the stairs from the basement, listens to the sigh of wind outside the kitchen window. Then she heads down to Connie and Al.

“Thanks for putting Shelly to bed, honey,” Connie says when Kathy joins them in the rec room.

“Congratulations, Kathy,” Al says, and he comes over and gives a little bow and shakes her hand. His formality makes her laugh.

“Yes, congratulations, Kathy,” Connie says and she gets up and does the same thing. They bow and shake hands and laugh until they're tired of the joke and Connie turns up the TV. News of course, sports, Toronto beat Detroit 3-2.

“Guess I better figure this game out,” Connie says, “if I'm going to offer a critique of your work.”

Kathy looks at her mother.

“Just kidding,” Connie says. “Really. I'm very happy you got a job with the city. I'm surprised it's teaching skating, that's all.

“But proud,” she adds quickly. “In fact, I'm so happy I think we should have a party. No barbequing this time,” she says looking over at Al and winking. “A nice party with a few friends.”

They set a date — the day of the Santa Claus Parade, because it's the last time Darlyn's going to twirl. She's hanging up her baton. Too old, she's decided. They'll have a double celebration, a new job and a retirement.

When Kathy leaves, Connie hugs her and says, “You may have a job, but you still need a shower.”

And that's exactly what she's going to do, go home, have a shower and crawl into bed. Al will tell Darlyn and Donny the news, and she'll call Barry tomorrow. He and Rachel had moved into an apartment together, and without telling her parents, got married at City Hall. The wedding's still on, though. Too far along to stop, and too much money spent already, her parents say. At least married, Rachel isn't living in sin.

Kathy misses Barry, misses talking to him. The last time she called, he said he'd visited Penny and Rhettbutler. Penny was still in pretty bad shape. Angry at Pete, and more angry at his so-called friends and drug buddies. Except Teach. Teach hangs around and helps the grieving widow. He was there when Barry visited. Mr. Altruistic. Barry thinks Teach has the hots for Penny, thinks the elusive Mrs. Markham with an ‘h' had better watch out. Barry said he figured he was on the outs with Penny when she asked him to leave five minutes after he got there.