Descant, Volume 19, Numbers 3-4, 1979

Herewith, the latest selection from dusted-off published poetry and short fiction, circa 1970s vintage and beyond....

Chrysalid

The girl was the only bright object there, behind the infants' wear shop on College Street. A small plot of fenced city yard, grass struggling in an hostile soil. The fence, never painted, appeared skeletal, was ringed with discarded household effects; rusting relics that once had a use and no one had bothered putting out to the trash. And tires, hubcaps, a jack, broken. They might have been holding up the fence.

She lay on a suncot, bikinied, sunglassed, absorbing the sun. Movie and fashion magazines on the ground beside her flapped open in the light breeze. It was hot. She turned to bake on her back for a while, lay with her head cradled in her arms, thinking, thinking of nothing. Her hair, long and slightly curled, curtained her face. It was a pretty, petulant face, framed with filaments of honey. The onlooker, had there been one, would see her face again as she turned over once more, adjusted the cot to a semi-reclining position, tugged at the stubborn ratchet, then sat up.

She lifted her hair away from her perspiring neck and felt immediate cooling relief, then was hot again as she let her hair fall again around her shoulders. Reaching under the cot, she pulled up a bag, took out a bottle of nail polish, let the bag fall. Her teeth pulled in her bottom lip as she concentrated on drawing the brush evenly over her nails. A garish purple that appealed to her, looked good, she thought, with her tan. She paused in the act of turning another nail into a perfectly oval grape. What would she wear tonight? If it was cool enough she could wear her white turtleneck; look good with her darkened skin.

A fly buzzed annoyingly, big and black; kept landing on her. She slapped at it, kept missing. Goddamn! The nail polish was dropped back into the bag, she wafted her hands around, drying the nails. Tentatively touched one; it was dry. Withdrew a bottle of sun-tan lotion out of the bag, began to grease it over herself again, being careful not to get any of it in her hair. Wouldn't have time to wash it tonight. Wish she could have a cigarette. They were there, in the bag, but if her Ma saw, she'd have a bloody fit.

Think of the old bag and there she is, leaning out the upstairs window, shouting 'Sheila!'. Sheila didn't bother to lift her head, made as though she'd heard nothing. Without looking, she knew how her mother would look. Face red, angry. Mouth open in a loud black whine. 'SHEILA!' The girl settled, squirmed back down on the cot, lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed.

"SHEILA! You get up here right now! You heard me!"

Sheila grimaced, lifted delicate fingers to her sunglasses, pushed them up slightly, innocently looked to her mother. "You want me? You calling me?"

"Get up here!"

Bitch! Stupid old bitch she is, the girl thought, looking now at the empty window, the blind grey with dirt, hanging crookedly.

The cot was hers, she'd bought it with her own money; damned if she'd let it sit there so Eddie or Mona could use it. Folded it, took it into the back room behind the store, then went outside again to climb the back stairs to the apartment.

The hall stank with stale cooking odours. The walls, an indeterminate non-colour, frosted with years of handprints, closed in on her. Better not touch them; she could feel herself shrink, repelled; and to think she had, years ago. Filthy mess, like the rest of the place.

It was cool going up the stairs, her bare skin pimpled.

The door opened into the kitchen; the linoleum greasy with spilled suds from the wringer-washer. Her mother, hair-bunned and grim, feeding a sodden mess through the wringer, dripping on the floor.

"Who do you think you are anyway? Laying out there like that! You'd never think to help me, eh?"

"I did the dishes this morning, didn't I?" What the hell!

"I did the dishes this morning", her mother mimicked.

Ugly old bitch, Boobs hanging, stomach sagging. Could even see it through that old rag she's wearing. You'd think she'd be smart enough to colour her hair, not leave it like that.

"There's other things ... there's always other things", her mother raged now, angry with her daughter's face. Deliberately blank. Her mother called her arrogant. Well, maybe she was - tough shit!

"I never sat around like that - when I was a girl I helped my mother!"

You never were a girl, old bag. And no one, no one could help you! Biting her tongue, wanting to say it.

"Yeah, well, what'd you want me to to do? I'll go change now."

"I'll change now - the lady! Sure you'll change! You're going to serve in the store like that? Looking like a tramp?" Fuck you, ma.

"Where's Mona?"

"Never mind where's Mona! She does plenty - more than you. You get going now!"

Down the hall to her room. Hers and Mona's. Her mother's voice following all the way. Who the hell gives a damn what she says? STIFLE! Yelling about her friends. Says who, she can't go out tonight?

One side of the room neat, the other like the rest of the apartment. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate neatness, cleanliness - she did. But why bother in this dump? Her kid sister could go on dreaming, thinking that by keeping her things neat it would make a difference. Well, it didn't, nothing did.

Suddenly her sister's attempts to cope infuriated her. She walked over to the unpainted chest, pulled the top drawer open, looked at the neat piles of faded clothing, pulled them half out, rumpled them. Left them hanging half out of the drawers. The slippers and extra pair of shoes timidly pointing their toes under her sister's half of the bed struck her as assertive. She kicked them under. Pulled the spread cunningly tucked under the pillows to hide the most worn portion, half off the bed.

Why the hell her go downstairs? Always her!

Sheila pulled off her bathing suit, let the pieces drop to the floor and kicked them aside. For a few minutes, she stood naked, admiring herself in the mirror, craning to see all of herself. A big contrast between her natural skin tone and the tan. Too bad she had to wear anything at all. She turned, admired her rear, wiggled, tossed her hair. That's what she looked like. She'd kill herself before she'd look like Ma.

Footsteps coming down the hall - she pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a tee shirt.

"What's taking you?" Standing there, hands on hips. "You don't think you're going to wear that outfit downstairs ... get some decent clothes on you."

"Ma ... I need a few dollars ... for when school starts. I need to get some stuff."

"What stuff? I just gave you ten dollars. Didn't I? Her mother raised a suds-lathered arm to push the straggling hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah you did, but that was last week. I had to get bus tickets, went to a movie. There was a few things I needed - it's gone."

"Gone! Go to work for more if you want it!"

"Okay! Okay, I'll quit school then. I don't mind going to work!"

"You don't, eh? You're only fifteen. Think you're so damn big, don't you? But I don't care, it's your father wants you to finish secretarial."

"Ma, I NEED the money!"

"How much? Never mind, I don't care how much. Five dollars is all you're getting. Hear?"

Back down the hall, footsteps shaking the wall. The smell of the wash, sour and grey, made her feel like throwing up. Good thing she didn't notice the mess on Mona's side. The kid'll go whining to her later, though, when she finds out.

Into the living room. Her mother's purse on the couch. She picked it up, flicked on the television set, the sound turned off. She stood absently for a moment, fascinated by the interior of a palatial home, its inhabitants acting out some peculiar sequence, a man and a woman, gesticulating, soundless, funny. Clicked open the purse, pulling out the small change purse. Fifteen dollars and sixty-five cents. She took fifty cents and a five-dollar bill. Changed her mind, thought a minute, and took a ten, put the five back.

Out through the room, then turned back to shut off the TV. Passing her mother's commitment to gentility, the lovingly polished surfaces of the dearly acquired dining room suite, where no one had ever eaten. Cherry stain. Not bad. She dug into her back pocket for her key and experimented. Running it over lightly, raised a skinny ribbon of wax. Didn't the old lady ever hear of wax buildup ... it was on TV all the time? Digging it in, she drew her breath. A scratch, white. Ruining the surface of the table. She quickly drew several others, a pattern of X's. Listened to hear if her mother was coming.

In the kitchen, moving sideways to pass her mother carrying a basin of steaming clothes to the porch to hang on the line. "Hurry up!" Grunting with the weight of the wet clothes.

"And if you think", her mother's voice shrilled down the stairs after her "that you're going to see that motorcycle bum again, forget it!"

In the store, her father, skinny and drawn-looking, glanced up from a customer. When the store was empty he called her over to him.

"About time!"

"Yeah. Ma only just told me."

"I told you yesterday I had an appointment at the hospital. Said be down by two. What were you doing, so busy?"

She stared at him, the deep ditches in his cheeks, hanging. Voice querulous. She recalled vaguely how, long ago, he'd laughed sometimes.

"Oh yeah, well I thought maybe Eddie would come in."

"Don't think, Sheila! Do like you're told, eh? Learn to do what you're told! Now c'mere."

"Yeah?"

"Christ! Don't you learn how to speak proper English at that school? You forget over the summer? Yes! It's yes, not yeah!"

"Yeah, sure."

"Look, unwrap this new shipment of layettes. Put them out on the shelf. Neat, eh? Don't make a mess of it. I'm going to the bank when I get back, then you can go."

"Okay."

"That's all you got to say to me?"

"?"

"I'm going to the hospital for tests - it's serious. I might have cancer - don't you care?"

"Well yeah, sure! Sure I do."

"How's about a kiss for your poor old Dad?"

A kiss. Yeah, sure.

"Can you spare a few bucks for me? I mean, I have some expenses to cover, what with school and all ..."

"Speak to your mother."

"But ... I ..."

"You know you're not supposed to come to me for money, Sheila. Speak to Ma, she looks after things like that."

She watched him count the money in the till, slip the bundle under the coin container, slam the cash register shut. He looked around the store, mentally ticking things off; satisfied. Outside, she watched his head bob up and down, walking past the window, out of sight.

She began unpacking, stopped to help a customer. Disposable diapers. Then a lady came in to buy some bibs, a diaper set. "Do you wrap?"

"Huh?"

"Do you gift-wrap; this is a gift for my niece," the woman explained, the sharp-nosed face scrutinizing her. She made Sheila feel stupid. Sheila assumed what she felt was a superior air and loftily said, "No, we don't bother. Usually too busy to do that kind of thing." Snappily too, she said it. No time to do 'that kind of thing'; beneath her. Wrap your own crap, lady.

She thought the woman would leave the stuff, walk out, but she paid for everything and didn't even notice she'd been short-changed fifty cents; too busy looking at Sheila.

Let her look, I could be in the movies; probably wishes her daughter looked as good. Let her look, she'll recognize me when she sees me on TV some day.

The store empty, Sheila began rummaging around, looking for tissue paper. She assembled a fair bundle, was satisfied with her efforts, glanced at the disarray on the shelves, outfits haphazardly lying one atop the other, the carefully interleaved tissue paper, smooth and opaque, no longer separating them.

A woman huge with her pregnancy wobbled in, interrupting the speculative thrust of her mind. Sheila turned a warm smile on the woman. Wow! Any day now. She should stay at home so no one'd have to look at her grossness.

"How much is the christening gown?"

"Christening gown?"

"In the window." Sheila turned to look in the direction of the pointing finger. No price on it, not for sale. Her mother's showpiece window dressing.

"Ten bu ... dollars."

"I'll take it!" The woman, her face padded with a triumphant flush, beaming. A real bargain. If she only knew. And Sheila almost told her, wanting to share the joke with someone, anyone; suppressed a giggle.

When the woman walked out clutching the box, Sheila locked the door, pulled the blind. Emptied the till into her bag. A lousy forty-five dollars. Sixty with the sales she'd made. Seventy counting the money she'd taken from her mother.

Going out to the back room hanging over the yard, she locked that door, crumpled tissue paper around the wooden floor, led a trail into the store. The paper caught well, a busy crackling sound, spreading nicely, caressing the cardboard boxes piled in neat rows along the back wall.

She walked back into the store, her feet tingling, feeling as though she were stepping on pins; yet pleasurable, the sensation. She stood there, watching the flames reach, following her it almost seemed, like an obedient pet, reaching tentatively at first into the store, then bolder, seeing her maternal, her prideful look of approval; pet fire ventured closer, finally made its crackling progression into the store.

Sheila jammed a chair against the knob of the door at the back-stairs, leading up to the apartment. Time for Ma's afternoon nap. Beauty sleep. She felt light-headed, giggly, like the first time she'd been humped.

She stood for another moment, mesmerized by the flames; beautiful, hungry pet; nicer colours than a kitten, a canary. The flames, red, blue and hungry, spread to the cartons flanking the walls, licked the counters. Slow to catch, the wood, but getting started, getting into the swing of things; like her at first, slow to like it, but learning fast.

Sheila let herself out the front door, locked it with the key from the till. LOVELY day! The sun still bright, washing the sidewalk with a golden glow. Heat inside, heat outside. College Street looks fine on a day like this. And there's the whole day ahead of her.

c. 1979 Rita Rosenfeld
published in Descant, XXV - XVI