The Checkout Girl (23 page)

Teach walked him to the door. He said he knew Barry had been sleeping with Kathy. Pete told him. Pete wasn't angry about it or anything. He loved Kathy. Hell, they all loved Kathy, Teach said. But Barry had been the lucky one.

He asked Barry how Kathy was doing. Did she have a new boyfriend? Would it be a good idea for Teach to call her? He said Pete would have wanted him to look after Kathy, just the way he was looking after Penny. Barry told him, no, don't call. That's when Teach told Barry that Penny had asked him to kill Freddy, so he'd crated him — no easy task — and taken him to the university and euthanized him. He said Penny was grateful; she said she always hated that fucking snake.

Kathy can hear a marching band. She tosses the newspaper to the floor. She's been reading about British Trade Commissioner James Cross's captivity. He was finally released by the FLQ on Thursday after being held for sixty days. A long time, she thinks, but better than being executed like Pierre Laporte was back in October. His body was found stuffed into the trunk of a car that had been abandoned in the bush near the Saint-Hubert airport a few miles from Montreal.

Her window overlooks Main Street, one of the few things she'll miss when she moves from the hotel the first week in January. She's renting a bed-sit on Church Street, in a big old Victorian house that's been converted to apartments. Kathy checks to see where the parade is. It's been inching along Main Street since 10:00 a.m. when it left Sand Hills Square. The paper said it would be three miles long, culminating in a float with Santa, who would then proceed to greet children at City Hall. Right now the music drifting up the street is martial — bagpipes and drums. Earlier she could make out a giddy “Must Be Santa” played at a quick-march tempo.

Bobby Gimby'll be leading school kids singing endless repetitions of
Ca-na-da (one little, two little, three Canadians), we love you.
It might have been cute during Expo '67, but it's tiresome now. There'll be bears in cages, a plethora of politicians in fur coats sitting on the back ledges of convertibles with scantily clad girls, Miss This and Miss That. Darlyn's twirling, of course, one of many twirling, but she's leading the whole shebang. Darlyn Smola, #1 in North America. Her swan song, she told Kathy, so she's going out on a high note.

She and Donny are renting a tiny house with a tiny turret on the Sand Hills part of Main Street, not far from the Rue. Kathy meets them for a beer sometimes. Sometimes they go to The Black Swan to hear Perth County Conspiracy and sometimes to the Ground Inn where Paul Woolner plays with his little band, Kit Carson, or sometimes Joe Hall wails sad-funny songs. Sometimes Kathy stays over with them, but usually she goes home. She's getting used to her own company.

It's cloudy, 40°, a decent enough day for a parade. Afterwards, Kathy's meeting Darlyn and Donny. They'll pick up Shelly and they're all going to Pioneer Village, which is hosting a parade day celebration of carolling with demonstrations of old-time holiday activities. And after that, they're heading over to Connie's for her famous warm potato salad and sausages cooked in sauerkraut. The fart supper, Connie calls it, the big blow-out.

Roy and Sally are coming. Al will be there, of course. Margaret's been invited and may or may not come. There's a weekend-long feminist conference with a lesbian folk singer coming up from the States. Margaret doesn't think she'll have the energy to make polite conversation and dinner-time small talk, or to be nice to men, meaning Al and Donny. Men still come in for it from Margaret, particularly after she's been to a conference or a consciousness-raising session, though she remains kind enough to Al.

The music's louder and it's familiar. Darlyn did say she was working on a new routine and the music was presenting a challenge. She'd found a band, she said. They were going to play from a small float just behind her. It won't be Christmasy, she'd warned, and she'd fought with the parade coordinators to get her way. The only reason they're letting her perform her new routine is because it's her last.

Kathy can see her now, and she can hear the band. They sing, fast time, words like bullets propelled by drum beats, horns and guitars.

When Darlyn reaches the hotel, she stops. Music bounces off the buildings, angry and alive. She marches in place. Her baton flies into the air and she spins twice and catches it, her red tights blur, the double row of fringe on her white bolero jacket shakes and shimmies. She struts and the red tassels on her marching boots bounce. Her tiny green skirt flares and her ponytails flies.

Kathy opens her window.

“Darlyn,” she calls, “you're the best!” She whistles and whoops.

“Kathy,” she hears below her. When she looks down, Donny shouts, “I'm coming up.”

Darlyn twirls, front to back and front again; twirls hand to hand, tosses the baton and spins, catches it one-handed behind her back. She brings it under one leg, then the other, back and forth, faster and faster, until it's in front again and she throws the baton high into the air, kneels, and while she's kneeling, arms wide, waiting for her baton, she looks up at Kathy and grins.

The music hammers. She catches the baton, jumps up and spins in a circle, twirling the baton in front of her as she turns. When she's facing forward again, she rests the baton in the crook of her arm, marches in place, arms pumping, back straight, knees high, up-down-up. The band plays behind her; she turns to them and bows. She marches backwards, then spins around, leads them, and the parade is moving again.

Kathy claps. The crowd claps. They all cheer. As Darlyn marches out of sight, Donny comes in the door.

“Kathy,” he says. “Grab your coat. We're meeting Darlyn at the City Hall parking lot. We'll take off from there.”

Pioneer Village is one of Shelly's favourite places; when they drive up, she's rocking from foot to foot holding the door handle, back and forth like a wind-up toy. She's wearing her favourite winter parka, shiny red nylon, the hood tied so tight her face looks like a cabbage, crinkled eyes, lumpy cheeks, doubled chin.

“Is your hood too tight, sweetie?” Kathy asks. She pulls the door open.

“Ha-ha-ha,” Shelly laughs and runs past Kathy to the car. She opens the back door, gets in and pulls the door shut. She sits back against the seat and puts her hands behind her head. Darlyn, who is in the back seat, turns to speak to her, but Shelly looks straight ahead and doesn't answer.

“She's been dressed to go and waiting at the door for twenty minutes,” Connie says as she joins Kathy. They look out at the car. They begin to speak together.

“I'm not late, am…”

“Supper at 5:30…”

“No, you're not late,” Connie says, “and supper's at 5:30. There's no holding Shelly back when she wants something. She did up the hood herself. She learned to tie a bow the other day. She might forget how tomorrow, but for now everything with two dangling ends gets turned into a bow.”

“I'll see if I can loosen it,” Kathy says. “We'll be back by 5:30 at the latest.”

Al walks from his house across the driveway and opens Shelly's door. He leans in to talk to Darlyn. Shelly doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge him.

“You'd better get going,” Connie says.

“Hey, Mr. Smola,” Kathy says as she nears the car.

“Al. Call me Al,” he says.

“I don't think I can,” Kathy tells him.

When Kathy starts the car, Shelly leans forward, puts her hands on the seat in front of her and laughs, ha-ha-ha, just a sound, over and over. Once they're out of the driveway, she quiets, leans back, hands behind her head again, and doesn't move until the car stops at the Village.

It's very overcast now, still not too cold. Kathy tries to convince Shelly to take her hood off but she runs to the admission booth and waits there. A woman in period dress hands them a list of events and demonstration times. The place is busy, families moving in packs. Kathy wishes she had some way of hanging on to Shelly, who can't abide holding hands.

Shelly doesn't seem to notice the crowds. She heads straight for the harness shop, always her first stop. People make way for her as if they know she's special. Kathy can't keep up and is glad Shelly's in red so she can see her at least.

“You guys do what you want and I'll meet you at the gift shop at four,” she tells Darlyn and Donny, and she's off, following the red hood.

In front of the harness shop, a pair of enormous Clydesdales, manes braided with bells on red and green ribbons, stand yoked together. Their tails and the blond feathers over their hooves are brushed so that every hair is distinct and downy. Their keeper, Clarence, explains that each one of their shoes is the size of a dinner plate. That each horse weighs nearly two thousand pounds — almost a ton — and that Clydesdales were originally bred by the Flemish for use as war horses.

During World War II, he tells those gathered, they replaced tractors in many places due to restrictions on fuel. And though they are mostly used for show now, they are still strong and able work horses, and can be seen in fields and forests where they are used in logging operations. These are mares, he tells them. Genevieve on the left, the bigger of the two, is the mother of Deborah on the right. They're a good work team and they enjoy each other's company.

As he speaks, Genevieve and Deborah nod and snort and sway. Their bells tinkle softly. Sometimes they shudder, a ripple of muscled flesh. Deborah lifts her tail and turds the size of bread loaves fall from her bottom. There are giggles and groans, but Deborah just swishes her tail and lifts one foot for a moment, then the other, and is quiet again. A rich sweet scent of fresh dung, like earth and warm fermenting grain, fills the air.

Shelly is standing as close to Clarence and his horses as he'll let her. She doesn't flinch when Deborah shits, doesn't take her eyes from Clarence while he speaks. When he stops, her eyes shift to the horses, and as they sway, so does she. When one lifts a foot, Shelly does too. Kathy pushes through the crowd and leans down to her.

“How about we go into the shop, Shelly?” she says.

Shelly, without acknowledging Kathy, turns from Clarence and the horses and moves to the entrance of the harness shop.

“Clydesdale,” she whispers. “Clydes. Dale. Almost-a-ton. Almost-a-ton. Almost-a-ton.”

Kathy stands back while Shelly looks at pitchforks and hay bales and bits and saddles. It's peaceful watching her, she's so entirely engrossed. What's in Shelly's eyes when she looks at a pitchfork or a hay bale is the same as what's in them when she looks at Connie or Kathy or Al. There might be curiosity, though it would be hard to tell; Shelly has never asked a question. She seems to run on trust, so what she sees is only exactly what's there. A horse. A sister. A saddle.

Kathy wonders what really goes on in her head. And in her heart. What does she think? What does she feel? How is it she can tolerate being in crowds who brush against her and jostle, but can't bear to hold hands, to be touched in any way — without permission — even by those who love her the most?

Darlyn and Donny poke their heads into the harness shop and smile. Kathy nods in Shelly's direction, and they wave and head out again. Kathy would love to go with them. They're busy these days, Darlyn substitute teaching, and Donny on a contract in Fergus, drywalling an entire new subdivision. He works late and spends too much time driving, but the money is good, he says.

Kathy's dying for a cigarette, but smoking isn't allowed in the buildings. Shelly isn't going anywhere fast, hasn't moved in ten minutes. Kathy slips around the corner of the door and lights up. She has three puffs then grinds the butt into the ground and heads back into the harness shop to see if Shelly is ready to go to the Seibert House, the next stop on her favourite places itinerary.

As Kathy enters, a round-faced woman with red lipstick and teased-up hair leans toward Shelly and says, “Little girl, doesn't your hood hurt your face?”

When she reaches down to loosen it, Shelly screams as only Shelly can: loud, toneless and excruciating. The woman lets go of the hood.

“I didn't do anything,” she says to the air. “I didn't hurt her.”

Kathy's there in an instant. Shelly is screaming even louder.

“Yes, you did,” she says, shoving her face into the woman's, staring at her. The woman stares back. There's terror in her eyes and her red lips are quivering. Kathy's furious, she wants to hit her, even though she knows it isn't her fault.

“She doesn't like to be touched,” Kathy says. “It's just the way she is.”

By the time she says this she realizes Shelly isn't screaming any more. She turns away from the woman to lean down to Shelly, but Shelly isn't there.

“She ran out,” a man says.

Kathy runs out too, sees a red hood dart around the corner of the building, but by the time Kathy gets to where the hood disappeared, there is nothing to see. She runs around the building and still can't see Shelly. She stops. Looks around the crowd, turns and turns and turns. No red hood. No Shelly.

Kathy goes to Clarence and asks if he's seen the little girl in the red parka. No, he says. Kathy shouts, “Has anyone seen a little girl in a red parka?” She shouts it as loud as she can. No one answers, but Darlyn is there and so is Donny.

“Shelly ran away,” Kathy tells them. “Did you see her?”

“No,” Darlyn says.

Donny runs toward the gift shop. “I'm going to get help.”

In no time that is an eternity, groups of people are setting off to look for Shelly. Kathy wants to tell them not to touch her when they find her. Wants to tell them Shelly will hide. She won't talk to them or come when called. But everything is happening too fast. People seem to know that this is an emergency, no ordinary lost child. But they don't know how extraordinary Shelly is.

When an hour has passed, when it's close to five, and the Village is supposed to close, Kathy knows she has to call her mother. Not only to let her know that Shelly is lost, but to have her here in case Shelly's found. Connie is the only one Shelly might respond to, the only voice she will ever answer to now. Kathy knows she should have called her right away, but she wanted to make everything right. Find Shelly, go home, tell the story as if it was nothing. Shelly got lost for a few minutes and we found her again.

When Kathy calls, it takes forever for Connie to answer.

“Mom,” Kathy says.

“I was checking the sauerkraut,” Connie says.

“Mom,” Kathy says again.