Watch How We Walk (12 page)

— What on earth for? Don't you have any homework to do? Don't you want to play outside or something? We'll be going out in service all afternoon tomorrow — you should have some fun while you can.

Emily shrugs. She was having fun. She likes making little
Watchtower
and
Awake!
magazines for Zig Zag and the others, and she likes to conduct meetings for them.

— Come here and let me untie that before your father sees you.

Her mom grins at her and pulls her toward her, ruffling her hair, for the first time in what feels like forever.

18

TWO GUYS AND A YOUNG
woman were hunched over a table in the corner. At regular intervals, one of them would look over their shoulder when they thought I couldn't see them, then say something to the others. They seemed to take turns looking at me. I didn't want to serve them but I was the only waitress working that afternoon. Like most days, I hadn't slept much the night before and it was hard to focus. Worse, the customers never seemed to stay in one spot after they ordered their drinks, and so I had to try to remember who wanted which beers and then figure out where they were.

I wove through the clusters of students and faculty members to deliver three pints to the table that was watching me.

— It's about time.

One of the guys, in a baseball hat and a t-shirt that was a little too tight, shook his head and paid. I gave him his change and he didn't tip. I stood next to the table and said nothing. I looked at him and he looked at me.

— Aren't you even going to apologize? We're dying of thirst over here.

I bit the insides of my cheeks and ignored him, while I cleared an empty glass from their table.

— Hey, didn't you hear me? Are you deaf?

— Easy, Rob. Calm down. The girl looked at me and cringed.

— It's okay. It's no big deal, really. I know it's busy.

— Sure it's a big deal. Beer is always a big deal! The one called Rob laughed, then stared at my hands. My grip tightened on the empty glass. If she were in my place, Lenora wouldn't stand for this. She would look him right in the eye, and smash the glass over his head.

— Oh my God! Are you okay? The blond girl stood up and leaned toward me.

The glass had shattered in my hand. I looked at it, then at her, then back at the shards. My tray was covered in sharp sparkles of glass.

— It must have already been cracked. Are you sure you're all right?

I nodded to them and made sure there was no glass left on their table, then strode across the dirty carpet and cleaned the tray off behind the bar.

— You get all the glass cleaned up over there?

— What?

It was the bartender, Grant. I wished he hadn't noticed.

— The pint glass you just broke. His slow voice was thick with sarcasm.

— Did you clean it up?

— Yeah. The glass was just on my tray. It was cracked. Be careful how you put them through the dishwasher.

— Whatever.

After that, my hands started shaking.

When I delivered their next round, the guys ducked under the table, cowering from my approach. I distributed their drinks with exaggerated care.

— Look out! She's dangerous!

I tried to smile, but I could feel my face contorting into something grotesque. My nostrils flared. I concentrated on collecting their empty glasses, careful not to clench them too hard. And to touch each one at its base, nowhere near where their germ-filled mouths had been.

The girl wasn't laughing at me. In fact, she looked a little embarrassed by her friends. Her head was lowered and she looked up at me from under long blond bangs.

— Don't worry about it, okay? It's totally fine. Not your fault.

— Thanks. She leaned toward me across the damp, sticky table.

— By the way, don't think this is weird or anything, but I think you have terrific posture.

— What?

— Your posture. It's unusually good. I notice things like that.

— Okay. Um, thanks.

— Are you a dancer? A gymnast? Do a lot of yoga?

— None of the above. I turned back toward the bar. Some people were even stranger than me.

Twenty-seven paces back to the waitresses' station where I returned the empty glasses. Kameela, my supervisor, was glaring at me. Her name meant “almost perfect” in Hindi, a fact she never hesitated to point out, to anyone.

— Emily, I thought we discussed this. What are you doing?

She had her hands on her hips, leaning against the bar. As far as I knew, I hadn't screwed up any other drink orders.

— Nothing. Working. What?

— The gloves. I said no. They look ridiculous. Take them off.

— You did? When?

— Yesterday, Emily. It was during your shift yesterday, remember? Don't try to pretend you forget. I'm not stupid.

— No. I faltered, unsure what I was saying no to.

— Now. You look like a freak. You're embarrassing the pub.

— But—

— I don't need another monologue featuring bacteria and viruses and tiny centipedes crawling through your skin. Are you stoned or something? Just serve the beer and count your tips. It's not that hard.

I told her that if I got sick it would be the pub's fault, but she didn't care. Kameela didn't take me seriously. It's a mistake not to worry about things you can't see. Every shift, I could feel microscopic insects crawl around in my stomach, laying eggs, excreting toxins, and I just couldn't bear it; I'd sneak off to the bathroom, gagging, and wash my hands again. One night, I had washed my hands twenty-seven times during my shift.

I peeled off my left glove and stuffed it into my pocket. I fingered the soft bracelet I always wore on my left wrist. Somehow, it made me feel better.

— Oh my God! What's wrong with your hand?

I still didn't answer. I put the other latex glove in my pocket too.

— Do you have leprosy or something? Grant laughed at Kameela's question.

— I told you she was a freak.

I tried to roll my eyes at them, cool and aloof, but my eyes narrowed and I was furious. My hands didn't look that bad. It was just dry skin. Pink in places. A bit raw from all the washing.

— You know what, Emily? Kameela used her high, fake-nice voice that I only ever heard her use with me.

— It's really not that busy. Why don't you take the rest of today off? Hopefully whatever happened to your hands will be healed up by your next shift.

I put my gloves back on and settled up with my tables. The table in the corner didn't order another round. The blond who liked my posture gave me her card.

— Seriously, you should come by and check it out. I think you'd be ideal. First lesson's free. She waved over her shoulder as they swayed between tables and out the door.

I WOKE UP ANGRY. AN AMORPHOUS
rage zipped through my entire body. It darted up my arms then down my legs, careened through my stomach, inflated my chest, then curled my hands into fists. I squirmed between my sheets, kicked away my blankets, and dug my fingernails into my palms. The clock radio said
5
:
14
a.m. I lay on my back panting, seething at the ceiling, tingling and electrified. I couldn't get back to sleep.

It wasn't the first time that this singeing fury had jolted me awake. It happened more and more often, and not because of dreams or nightmares, but more that feelings I'd denied or suppressed for so many years were now determined to seep out. After so long, it was unavoidable. They'd shoot out my pores or fingertips like tiny lightning bolts. I felt unpredictable, out of control, as though if I left my apartment I might start screaming at someone shovelling their walkway or buying a newspaper, or I might suddenly hit the mailman as hard as I could. I was constantly on edge, always too aware of my own emotions. I had to talk myself into going outside, and hope I wouldn't lose control if I left the apartment.

I was paranoid again, like I had been back home, as though someone was scrutinizing and judging me. Although I was alone, it reminded me of being at the Kingdom Hall. While the elders preached peace and empathy from the podium, everyone sat and speculated as to who would be the next to be disfellowshipped. Glances darted from behind folded
Watchtower
s, and every nudge implied knowledge of someone's wrongdoing. A cupped hand at an elder's ear was a conspiracy. Rumours and traitors were rampant. The whispers were ceaseless. There was always bloodlust.

Were you next?

Yes.

Were you scared?

There was a long pause and I thought she'd gone away.

I need you to do me a favour.

I didn't respond. I didn't even want to know what the favour was. I shook my head and got out of bed. I paced from one end of the apartment to the other. I opened windows. I closed them. I scratched at my forearms. Saying no could push her away and I didn't want that, but I was afraid of what she might ask me to do. I was afraid of not being able to do it.

I don't know. What is it?

Find him.

Find who?

You know who. He's here. Find him.

Then she was gone. I tore the sweaty sheets from my bed, balled them up, and tossed them into my laundry basket. Night was fading to a lighter purple, and the sun would soon make this less real.

What was I supposed to say to him? Was I supposed to make myself known, or just figure out where he was, then wait for her to tell me what to do? Did she want me to get revenge? If so, how?

I paced for a while, then shrugged. At that point, I had nothing much to lose. Starting at the beginning seemed to make the most sense.

I called Information and got the numbers for the Hansens back home. There were three. I tried not to remember the last time I'd called Theo's house, so many years before, the night that felt like a giant boulder had slid across the sky and covered the sun forever.

The first one rang and rang and no one picked up the phone. As I dialled the second number, I tried not to think about what I was doing lest I panic and hang up. On the tenth ring, a groggy voice answered and I told her I was trying to reach Theo Hansen. My hands were hot and damp and my voice quavered.

— Who's calling?

I coughed to gain some time.

— Pardon me?

— Who is this? And why are you calling at the crack of dawn?

— I'm an old high school friend of Theo's. I'm . . . uh . . . I'm organizing a reunion, and I wanted to invite Theo, but I've lost touch with him.

— Pretty weird time to call about a party. What did you say your name was? She sounded more alert now.

— Mary. I cringed. It even sounded like a fake name.

— Well, Mary, sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have his current number. Last I heard, he was working in some record store in the city, but he doesn't call home anymore.

Here. He was here.

— Hello? You still there?

— Sorry. I tried not to choke.

— I'm still here. Thanks. And sorry for calling so early. I work weird hours.

— Yeah. If you find him, tell him it's okay to phone his old mother once in a while.

Mrs. Hansen hung up and I lay back down on the cool, bare mattress, the currents of anger replaced with the hot buzz of adrenaline. Whatever she wanted me to do with him, I would do it. I would stalk the streets of the city until I found him.

19

— YOU HAVE TO HOLD
STILL
. Lenora yanks a strand of Emily's brown hair for emphasis.

— I am! Just quit pulling so hard!

— Do you want me to finish this, or do you want to go to the meeting with only one braid done?

— Okay. Emily pouts, her eyebrows furrowed and face scrunched up, insistent.

— I'll stop squirming. Emily doesn't know anyone else who knows how to do French braids, not even their mother. All the most stylish and best-looking kids at school and at the district assemblies have French braids, and Emily has wanted them all year, and Lenora has finally agreed to do them for the Thursday night meeting. She just didn't know that it would take this long or be this painful.

— Good, because I have to start over. The first one's no good.

Emily howls and stands up, shakes her arms and legs, then sits back down in front of Lenora.

— So has a worldly guy ever called you on the phone?

Emily watches Lenora grin in the mirror and pull up her black bra strap.

— Maybe, maybe not.

— I won't tell anyone! I bet they have. What boys?

— Shut up! Don't be so loud.

— Sorry. I won't say anything, I promise.

— I don't know if you can keep a secret.

— I can!

— Swear? To God, even?

— Lenora! You can't say that!

— Fine. Promise forever or else?

— I promise. Forever. Or else.

Still holding Emily's half-braided hair, Lenora leans in toward her ear. Her breath tickles the hairs on Emily's earlobe and she gets goosebumps.

— Yes. Worldly guys have called me.

— Really? Who?

Lenora laughs.

— I'm not telling you that! One guy in particular, at the moment.

— Does he like you? Lenora shrugs, then smiles again.

— Probably.

— Is it Theo? What are you going to do? Does he know you can't go out with him?

Lenora laughs again but this time it's a stabbing, mean laugh.

— Whatever.

She parts Emily's hair with a sharp comb, and divides it into sections using the pointed end.

— Ow! You don't have to stab me in the skull!

— I do if you want this to look good. Or would you rather look like Carli and Sally?

Emily is both repulsed and fascinated by the twins next door. A chain link fence separates their backyard from Emily's, and the two yards could be different planets. The Morrows' yard is mowed and tidy, with a swing set and a garden shed. In the twins' yard, an old refrigerator with no door leans against a tree, with thick weeds surrounding it, while rusted bicycles — or parts of bicycles — lie in wait to trip and scrape the careless. There are mounds of garbage bags that no one takes to the curb, and rusted barrels that Emily is afraid to look into, as well as two broken slides, deflated pool toys, and lawnmowers that no longer function, or so she assumes, since the weeds and grass are well past Emily's knees. Occasionally Carli and Sally invite Emily over to their side of the fence for a game of hide and seek, and she usually goes, given the abundance of hiding places, but only if her mom isn't looking, and not without fear.

— Okay, I think I've got this now. Lenora tugs another chunk of Emily's hair into the braid. Emily cringes but stays quiet, feeling bad about Carli and Sally, and confused about Lenora and worldly boys, but getting used to the yanks and pokes and the throbbing of her scalp.

Lenora stops working on Emily's hair and paces around her red and black room flexing her fingers and cracking her knuckles.

— You owe me for this. It's painful work, you know.

— It hurts me too. But it'll look really good, right? Emily stretches halfway out of the chair, trying to see her hair in Lenora's full-length mirror on the back of her door.

— Sure. Just hold still.

— If you can do it without pulling so much, I'll stay out of your chair. From now on.

— You better stay out of my chair. Or I'll never do your hair again.

— I promise!

— For real?

— Yes!

EVER SINCE EMILY WAS A
toddler Lenora had her own chair, a big brown vinyl recliner in the living room, which she'd claimed as her own. Their parents thought it was strange and inappropriate that a child could command her own chair, the way fathers or grandfathers do, but Lenora always got her way if she howled loud enough. She would sit in that recliner, legs outstretched, reading her Bible study books for hours. Their father reasoned that if claiming the chair would get Lenora to read
Watchtower
publications regularly, then so be it. She would also do her homework there, watch television, and, eventually, gossip on the phone. Only recently has the teenage Lenora spent more time locked in her bedroom than sprawled in the recliner.

— Want to see something?

— What?

Lenora pulls at the collar of her shirt, stretching it to expose a purple blotch on her collar bone.

— I have a hickey.

She leans back on her hands, smug. She winks at Emily, who wrinkles her nose and turns away.

Emily doesn't exactly know what a hickey is, though she knows it is something you get on your skin, like a birthmark, but it's from immorality
.
Their next-door neighbours, the Pattons, have hickeys.

— See this? Carli had once asked, pushing up her left sleeve. Emily had tried not to look at the birthmark on her arm, on the inside of her elbow. It looked like a fist-sized lump of raw hamburger. Emily didn't know how she got that, if she was born with it or if it grew after a long sleep filled with nightmares. She was afraid to ask; the answer might be horrible, that a dog had chewed her arm up, or a machine, or she might tell her it was a disease, a contagious one. The birthmark, however, was not what Carli was telling her to look at.

— See what?

— This. Carli pointed to a bruise on her shoulder.

— It's a hickey. Cool, huh? Derek gave it to me. She pulled her sleeve back down.

— Want one?

Derek was the oldest Patton brother, and still lived at home. His hair was long and stringy and he had tattoos all over his arms and even his neck, and he sat for hours on the front porch, smoking and swearing at the dogs, heavy metal screeching from his tape player. Her mom said that Emily should stay away from him — don't stop and talk if he asks a question, just keep walking.

— No thanks.

Emily cringes. She feels weird, guilty, as though she's done something wrong.

Lenora pauses and sighs. She just stands there smiling, not even doing her hair anymore.

— Let me see the back.

Lenora angles another mirror in front of Emily so that she can see the back of her head in the mirror on the door. She reaches up, amazed at the shininess and intricacy and perfection of her very first set of French braids.

— Don't touch! You'll wreck it. Hold on. Lenora gets a bottle of hairspray from her dresser and sprays it all over Emily's head.

— Yuck. Emily coughs.

— Stop! The aerosol is thick and sticky, and smells like bug spray. She spits some into a tissue.

— Okay, you're done. Go away.

Emily stands in front of the mirror and turns from side to side, admiring her hair. She looks at Lenora.

— I don't think you should be getting hickeys. You're going to get in trouble.

— Whatever.

— It's immoral.

— I don't care what you think. You don't even know what ‘immoral' means.

— Yes, I do.

— So what does it mean?

Emily doesn't answer. She knows it's wrong,
sins of the flesh
,
fornication
, she's heard it all at the meetings before, but she can't explain exactly what it means. She decides she will look up “fornication” in the big dictionary during her next library shift.

— See? You don't know.

Lenora doesn't look at her as she studiously applies blue eyeliner beneath her green eyes.

— I mean it. You're going to get in trouble.

— Oh yeah? For what?

— Saying stuff like that.

— No, I'm not. Because you promised to Jehovah that you wouldn't tell. And you aren't going to break a promise to God, are you? And risk being destroyed at Armageddon? I don't think so. Now go away.

Confused, Emily goes to her bedroom. Lenora has been baptized for two years now, and until now, has never talked about immoral stuff. It could be a trick, something to get Emily in trouble. She decides not to tell, in case that's exactly what Lenora wants, but she's still angry and frustrated.

She gets dressed and is ready for the meeting early. After twisting around in front of the mirror to admire her hair a while longer, Emily decides to get back at Lenora for the story.

She sits in Lenora's recliner for ten minutes before anyone notices. Her mom, sipping from her usual lidded coffee cup, shakes her head.

— You're asking for it. Lenora's not going to be happy, and I don't have time to break up fights. I have to finish getting ready for the Hall. We're leaving soon.

Emily doesn't care, there's nothing Lenora can do. She sits with her arms folded in front of her chest and her legs straight out, barely reaching the footrest.

With a rush of air, Lenora flounces into the living room.

— What do you think you're doing?

She taps her blue painted nails on the armrest. Emily says nothing, just hums to herself, and looks straight ahead like no one is there.

— Get out of my chair.

— No. It's my chair too. It's everybody's chair.

— No, it's not; it's mine. Now get up. Lenora leans into Emily's face. Emily can feel the wet air from her mouth.

— Now! Lenora's face reddens and her eyes narrow.

— Gross. Emily turns her head away.

— Say it, don't spray it.

Lenora clears her throat.

— This is your last chance. She counts to three.

As Emily sits rigid and stares at the window across the room, a warm gob of slime hits her cheek and slides toward her chin. She wipes it on her sleeve and looks at Lenora.

— Pig. She doesn't get up.

Lenora stomps out of the living room, and the bathroom door slams shut. Emily squirms and grins in the chair, trying not to laugh out loud. Victorious, she folds her arms behind her head and closes her eyes. While Lenora sulks in the bathroom, Emily pretends she is at the beach, lying on a towel under the warm sun, the waves quiet behind her.

As she stretches, languid, taking up as much space as possible, there is a sudden tug, hard, on the side of her head. Lenora pulls her right braid.

— This is your last chance, for real this time. Get out of my chair!

Emily doesn't budge. There is a flash of silver near the corner of her eye, and something cold against her ear. Then the swish and clang of steel jaws, the unmistakable snap of the scissors.

Emily laughs.

— I'm not scared of you. She pushes her chin out further.

— This is my chair too.

— You asked for it. Lenora yanks her hair again.

Emily hears one quick snip, and something lands in her lap. She looks down and there, lying motionless across her knees, is her limp, amputated braid.