Waves, Vol.8, No.3

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

Friends of a Friend

In her shabby living room; sitting, the four of them. Annette not meeting her eyes, refusing to answer her first whispered questions.

"Yeah, Mary - nice place you got here."

He looks like a cretin. Anything might look good to him. Who the hell is he? Just "This is Jack ... I've told you about him, and this is Armand". That's all Annette said; like that was all there was.

Grinning at her, this Armand. And ugly as a troglodyte. "Where's the kid? You got a kid, Annette said, where's he?"

Mutely, Mary pointed down the hallway.

Don't talk much, do ya? Okay, where's his father, the kid's father."

"I'm not married."

A sneer pasted itself on his face. "Yer not married! Just like that, eh? Imakulid konsepsion eh? Don't you got no morality?"

She flushed, shifted on the sofa. The idiotic grin remained plastered across his face.

"Got a good job, eh? She says, Annette, you got a good job, Parliament Hill. Big shot eh? You make good money?"

Forced herself to smile, answer civilly. "No. I'm just a steno. They don't pay us any more than they have to."

"Sure now? You sure ya don't get paid for anythin' else but typing and stuff? I bet you broads is all the same. All them big shots in politics're the same. Everyone's on the take! I heard about them chicks in the States - they don't get paid for typing. They shack up an' get on a candy payroll. You don't get any of that?"

He had to be kidding. She creased her face in the semblance of a wry smile at his little joke.

"Where ya from? Like I mean, not from Oddawa, eh?"

"Arnprior, I'm from Arnprior. My mother lives there, my whole family's there."

"Oh yeah? Hick town! Liddel girrul goes to the big town? Well, le'me tell ya, Oddawa's a hick town too, under all the federal crap. How 'bout comin' to Montreal, have a look around, eh?"

What appeared to be a normal conversation was going on between Annette and Jack. Beside her, the man with head bent toward her, waiting for a reply. Mary stood up, began to walk toward the hall.

"Where's she going?" Jack jerked his head sharply in her direction, asking Annette.

"Ask her" Annette said.

"I ... I'm going to see what my little boy is doing. He's playing in his room. He's quiet ... when they're quiet they're usually getting into trouble."

"The kid's quiet, leave him alone. We don't want any kid in here, making noise, yelling. I can't stand kids yelling. G'wan sit back down with Armand, he likes your company. Armand likes virgins. Talk to him, Virgin Mary."

"I left the washing machine going. I really should go see about that" she said, fumbling her fingers in her skirt. Jack looked at her again "don't be a bloody nuisance". His voice tight.

Nuisance? In her own house? Could she just say she'd had enough; Annette and her friends would have to leave. Would they?

Armand got up to pull the curtains aside. He stood back, looking out. "It's okay, Yves's back". Was that a gun, was that what she saw when his arm lifted?

Annette's brother; he had never been in in her house before, but now he opened the front door without knocking, strode into the room, a parcel under one arm, a liquor bag in the other hand. Jack took the parcel, unwrapped it. He slipped the handgun into his waistband, slapped Yves on the back. "Now I feel better. More ... dressed, you know?

Yves sat down, ran fingers through his hair. The three men laughing, almost rolling on the floor. The bottle half empty.

"Did'ja see that guy, the bald one, when I picked up the shotgun? See him run? that son-of-a-bitch! All them months him bugging my ass!"

"Yeah, all of them buggers ran like hell ... guards, Christ! I couldda did a better job! They just about crapped their pants and here we was worried it might not work!"

Turned to her. "How about something to eat? Hey, Virgin Mary, we're starved, what've you got?" Jack rose, stretched.

"Whatsa matter your friend, Annette? She sure don't say much" Armand observed.

"How about you girls go on in the kitchen and get us something to eat, hey?"

Stevie's voice, whining. He came down the hallway, his blanket held by the satin binding against his cheek, trailing on the floor. Right thumb stuck in his mouth, face flushed with sleep. Sleep and fever.

Eyes wide, he stood in the doorway. Looking not at her, but at the men. She stepped toward him, bent and picked him up, wiped the sleep from his eyes with the edge of the blanket.

"Stevie" she murmured, "had a good sleep? Feel better, Stevie?"

He ignored her, kept staring at the men; shifted his eyes to Annette, then back to the men. The men sat still for a moment, watching her and Stevie.

"I'm going to dress the baby" she said. "I'll be right back."

In Stevie's room, she pulled on his dressing gown, put his feet in his slippers. He kicked them off, hated to wear them.

"Who are they, Mummy?"

"Men, just men. Friends of Auntie Annette. And Stevie, you be a good boy, not to bother them. They're very busy and they don't have time for a little boy, all right?"

He wanted to flush the toilet himself. She made to pick him up again, but he insisted on walking.

Later, in the kitchen, she watched the men sitting on her old wooden chairs at the table, waiting for her to serve them their sausages and eggs. Almost out of coffee and milk. She watched, fascinated, repelled, as Armand lifted mounds of food to his mouth, spitting it out as he talked. When he caught her eye, she quickly looked away.

"What we need's some beer, eh?" Armand nudged Jack. "Y'got any beer?" he asked her.

"No."

"Zatso? Well, we gotta do something about that."

She walked up to Rideau Street, passing Mrs. Bronson. The old woman nodded, arms heavy with packages, trying to hold an umbrella. Another time, Mary would have helped her, walked back to the house next door to see the old woman home.

She had tried to sound casual. "Okay if I take Stevie with? He hasn't had a breath of fresh air all day." Annette had looked at her, disgusted.

Jack ignored her, but Armand snorted "Jus' like that, hah? You and the kid and then you'll come back with the beer and we'll all have a party, eh? Have some fun, eh?" He leered at her. "Some mother ya are! Ya said the kid's sick and here ya wanna take 'im out inna rain! Dincha know it's raining? 'Course we can't letcha take 'im out. It's raining! Even if yer a lousy mom, we'll look after the kid fer ya."

How could she walk so normally, she wondered, as though nothing was wrong? East on Rideau, toward the beer store. The pavement glittering, black, wet. Traffic heavy, windshield wipers clicking a steady staccato.

Across the street, a Green Hornet circling a car. Meter run out. If only .... What if someone was watching - Yves maybe? What if they were testing her? the parking control officer was young, looked like a kid. Dark glasses, he was intent on writing a ticket. A green Chevrolet.

She walked on, stopping before the store. Looked for a moment into its neat interior. A nightmare - she would soon wake up.

Mary going into the store. Mary carrying home a case for her friends.

c. 1978 Rita Rosenfeld
published in Waves, Fall Edition