Hollow Dolls, The (16 page)

Melanie continued to walk past the next few huts and noticed the
men were watching her in a strange way, not moving their heads or eyes. She was
sure they were looking at her. They all had  glassy-eyed expressions like an
old historical photo. Beyond them all stretching out for acres and acres were
the tops of huge banana leaves. Obscured beyond the crops far on the other end
of the fields stood the Dentowne family mansion, home of the Massa. As Melanie
walked along one of the men made a gestures with his eyes. It made her stop as
though something in a photo had suddenly moved.

The man glanced again, gesturing toward the field behind him. The
whites were like a white fire set in his deep black skin. He was urging her to
go in the direction of the Dentowne house, the Massa’s mansion. Melanie hadn’t
seen it yet and only knew that he wanted her to walk into the banana grove
itself. Okay. Today was a day for new things. What was in there?

Melanie continued on walking through the grove for some time and
she began to tremble with cold. Night had fallen. She felt something grip her
heart—a paralysis that had no meaning. A desire for her body to fall and curl up. 
A crack in the silence came. A young girl’s terrified voice screeched out,
“No!!!”

Melanie instinctively lurched toward the scream, lost her footing
and fell down onto the muddy ground. She curled up, it was what her body had
been craving. Alone, with the earth’s mud caressing her face, she went to a
place she’d never been able to. She connected to her fear as a child, to a fear
that had been made dormant from years of abuse and the traumatic aftermath. The
girl’s screams rang out over and over. With each scream Melanie’s own body re-codified,
reconfigured itself back to when she was  Melanie at her mother’s. Before Peter,
back before it had all been taken, wiped away from her.

The shrieks continued and—the sound of a whip crack. Melanie felt
fear flow through her body clear and true with each whip crack and each scream.
Melanie’s body convulsed in response on the mud ground.

Standing over her appeared the Man-Rabbit with his arm around a woman’s
shoulder. It was Ixchel. It calmed Mel out of her convulsions on the muddy
ground.

“Cloe is the spirit enabler of your awakening,” said the Man-Rabbit.

Awakening...” she mumbled.

Mel felt around for the muddy ground to try and stand, to talk to
the Man-Rabbit and Ixchel, but it was Claire’s couch she was curled up on. She
gripped the brocade fibers right where the mud had been. Everything was still
there in her mind. The Man-Rabbit and Ixchel standing over her, arm in arm, in
the dark night in the banana grove. She felt her hair for mud, as she sat up.
Slowly she realized there was no mud, her hair was perfectly dry. She expected
to see the grove. Instead her eyes filled with patch of greyish-blue evening
sky from Claire’s picture window.

“Hey, about time,” said Claire.

“I was there,” she mumbled.

“It’s six or so. You were out for a while, and I’ll tell you—you
sure talk in your sleep girl.”

“What did I say?” Mel mumbled, still feeling her hair for mud.

“Mostly just stop, and a name—Cloe? I got some take out if you
want.”

Mel stood.

“What’s up?” said Claire.

“I have to go.” She slipped on her jacket and headed for the door.

Claire rushed after her, grabbed Mel’s hips at the door. Moved in
closer.

“If you try and kiss me, I’ll punch you,” said Mel.

Claire laughed and smacked her bum.

“I might like it,” said Claire, as Mel was halfway out the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” yelled Claire.

She was gone.

Heading across town by cab, Mel tried to digest what had happened
on the couch. She got home and loaded the software for the tracker. Winnie was down
in the east side. She knew from the map it was The Dodson.  Timmy. That punk in
the memoir. Jesus fuck Win. She snorted an Abby and drank a water, then
switched to Scotch. Then another Abby. Paced and paced until she was too
exhausted and passed out on the couch.

Monday
morning June eighth was a groggy marathon of struggling to get up, then
flopping back down onto the pillow. An elastic force from the netherworld had
attached itself to Mel’s neck.
She ordered breakfast
in. As she ate, the atmosphere in the room looked into the corner of her eye in
disbelief.

She was a facade. Her life. Get a grip! No, it was true. The room.
Everything. Fakes. She hurried eating and it ended in a standoff. She counted
the days until July first. Thirty days hath September... Three weeks from now
Lauren was supposed to be released to the Russian government and Winnie? Would
she be with her? It wasn’t real.

Two Ritalin, a bottled water and into the shower.

The neck bruise from the accident had faded to a yellowish mottled
patch of skin trauma. Hot  rivulets flowed across the  small of her back over
her tattoo of Egon Schiele’s ‘Pair of Women’. Both figures were Rubenesque, one
with a marionette’s face looking slightly away, the other topless, drawn like
she was from the Moulin Rouge. Yes ladies, there is warmth if only from the
outside. Now she was apologizing to her tattoo.

She’d memorized Tifa’s cosplay and her moves. The memories played
in her mind as the hot water streamed along Mel’s bum to her inner thigh. Femoral
artery. Blood flow. There was something in that release of blood like birds on
a wire when a door suddenly opens. It was hornets from a nest looking for what?

Mel towelled her hair. What was left when the body shut down? Did
anything else come gushing out? Maybe whatever it was would come back to haunt
her.

The ringtone took a few to register. It was the police calling
about her cell phone from the accident. It seemed so long ago. Whenever Mel
tried to think of how long she’d been in Vancouver, time became abstract.

Downtown at the station, after signing for her phone, she walked
back out onto Main Street.

People were here and there. This was their concrete living room. A
young one was sleeping, curled up into a ball on the sidewalk by the station
using cardboard for a bed and had crumpled bags of possessions around him. They
looked so thin.

The ‘No.5 Orange’ sign jutted out on the corner at Powell Street.
She walked toward it like she was at the end of someone’s controller. Sensing the
program she was in, she knew her choices were limited by the game. What level
was she on?

The sidewalks were sprinkled with puke patches, the occasional
rubber, a used syringe. Where were the energy bars in this game, the pots of
gold, the weapons? This was post-apocalyptic normal. The scene was flavored
with a dysfunctional pastiche of normalcy. The people players passed by the
extras, walking, driving, heading for the next level. The extras, never really knowing
their part in the game. It was a perfect symbiosis.

When would Winnie pop out again?

The barmaid on shift was lean with short bleach blonde hair that
had a purposeful half inch of black roots. Marilyn doll. Pretty, small featured
model’s face. Mel wanted to guess Aussie, but she’d turn out to be a Kiwi and
all hell would break loose. It was barely noon on a Saturday, and there were
twenty or thirty people in the place. The front row by the stage was lined with
blue collar work shirt guys, scruffy shirted thrity-ish hipsters and a few
suits.

“Any good used car dealers around?”

“Ledbetter’s on Broadway, I got my Mustang there.”

 “Maybe I’ll grab a quick coffee.”

“I saw you handle Jim yesterday,” said the barmaid. “He’s a
regular, not the brightest penny. The girls hate him.”

“Where are you from?”

“Brisbane.”

Mel cracked a big smile.

“You been?”

“Nah, just...it’s nothing. How do you like the ‘No.5 Orange’?”

“Everyone just calls it The No.5. It’s great here though! I had a
gal friend who tipped me to the place. Crap part of town, bloody good coin
though.”

 “Who’s Tifa?”

“She’s a star around here. Kim Li is her name.”

 “Does she fight martial arts or anything?”

“Mixed martial arts gal, started in ballet though,” she said. She
lowered her voice a bit and leaned in. “Don’t tell her I told you, she’ll kick
my ass.”

She smiled and gave off raspberry. It made Mel’s mouth water. Lip
gloss. Shimmery pink. Nice. White vellus hair baby’s breath curly cue welcome
mat beside her ear. Nicer. Ankh tat, third finger of the left hand, taut cupsful
teetering under a sky blue cotton oh so sweet halter. Nicest.

“She’s on at seven today.”  She’d caught Mel eyeing up her lip
gloss.

“I’m Billie by the way, ‘Hard Candy’.”

“Ha! I’ll call you if I need a surgeon. I’m Mel, ‘Bad Bunny.’ ”

“Nice. are you looking for work?”

“Actually I am.”

“Thought you might be. Here. Scott Langdown is the manager.”

Billie slid a business card over. “Check back. He’s usually in
around lunch time.”

Mel finished updating her phone contacts while her cab made its
way over to the south side. The salesman on the lot was named Ed Flanders.

“I know what you’re thinking. Not related!”

Ed had the laugh down, the ‘stash’ and eyes to go with it. Another
wind-up doll. An extra. He must have had some good luck in the game, beating
levels, working his con. Dark grey shirt, pink and grey Calvin Klein tie for
the ladies. In Vancouver for the guys too.

“I was looking at the black Challenger,” said Mel.

The price sticker on the windshield was shaped like a comic ‘kaboom’
cloud in red with a yellow border. In the center was ‘$22,999’ written in black
maker.

Mel pulled the clip out and her hair unfurled as she walked around
the car. She had twenty-five grand in cash on her.

“When he brought it in, the kid popped the hood and showed me how
clean it was,” said Ed. 

Ed eyed the glimmer in Mel’s dirty blonde hair while she walked
around the car. She knew he was watching. Just like Georgy.

“I rubbed my fingers on the block under the valve cover,” he said.
“It was clean as a whistle. I tell you, that kid babied this thing, but he needed
money. He had a pregnant wife and all. Said it was mostly highway miles from
him making runs back and forth to the rigs in Northern Alberta.”

Mel took it for a test drive then sat down in the office with Ed. 

“It’s nice alright.” She fanned out the thousand dollar bills on
the desk in front of Ed. He counted them with his eyes.

“Twenty…” Ed looked up.

“With the tax,” she said.

Ed looked across the desk at Mel and played with his moustache.
The corners of her mouth curved up the tiniest bit. She had bedroom hair from
the windows-down test-drive.

“Deal?” she said.

“I like your style,” said Ed.

 Ed Flanders broke into a full-fledged smile. “Deal.”

She still had four grand to max out her insurance and for pocket
money, plus she had about eighty in her account.

Mel cruised back across the Granville Bridge, the Challenger
growling as it revved down, passing a pod of smokers outside The Cecil Hotel.

“Reeooow!” She growled along with the engine sounds.

Right then s
he
named her ‘Blackie.’

This was one of those rare moments in Claire’s life. It was
summer, and out of the blue a babe just called and invited her for a drink.

“Shit don’t get any better,”
thought Claire as she hurried
getting her boots on.

Mel took a booth. It cost a hundred bucks after six, but it was
better to keep an eye on the crowd and stage at once. When Tifa came on, Mel
watched her movements closely. Kim Li had training all over her, especially
with few or no clothes. The timing, the way the muscles flexed, each nuance
said something.

Claire snuck up on her. “Hey. You’re drooling kiddo.”

Claire slid onto the booth seat across from Mel, and set her chin
on stacked fists. Dark lipstick, blue tinge in her hair. Mel didn’t wear makeup
off stage—it just reminded her of Marlene—red lipstick smeared on her gin
glass. Or a banana. Mel’s eyes glazed for a beach moment, then Claire broke her
away.

“Tell me about this car. Hey. You’re coming to the show tonight
right?”

After Kim Li’s set, Mel and Claire cruised Stanley Park, came out
at the West End, and circled back to Claire’s apartment to get high. Ready for
her gig.

Claire went backstage and Mel sat for a pint which was empty
within minutes, leaving the Guinness foam still fresh at the rim.

The
True Lips
played their Grindcore and it was near the end of the first set, Mel was found
in the smoking room mid-canine high. A
waitress with
an anarchy symbol t-shirt passed from table to table. She was a ‘butts ballerina’,
emptying ashtrays into a tomato juice can in the center of her tray. Mini
school-girl skirt, pink and green plaid, the pleats toying with her white
fishnets. Her movements sculpted everything around her.

Several small ripped flaps of black cotton hung out from around
the ‘A’ inviting one to try and catch a glimpse of heaven. On the back, one
larger flap was held up with a way too big gold kilt pin around red Sharpie jagged
letters on her skin that shouted, ‘help me!’ in counter-intuitive lower case
lettering.  Mel caught herself undressing the ‘help me!’ girl as she got close
to empty the ashtray.

“Another?” said ‘help me!’ girl automatically without making eye
contact. She scanned the smoking room, checking people’s drinks.

“You’re very...” Mel stopped herself and finished with, “Busy
tonight.” Tard.

“In another hour, I’ll be holding my tray over my head just to get
through the crowd.”

She held it up, demonstrated with her hand on her hip.

“Stay and watch.” She tried not to, then broke into a smile at
Mel. Mel smiled back.

At the end of the set, the crowd cheered like a savage horde.

“Thanks everyone! That was from our latest CD, ‘Boys Will Be
Girls.’ We’ll be back after a short break.”

Claire jumped down from the stage and shuffled over to Mel’s
table.

“Hey sexy. That was great!” Crap at compliments.

“Thanks.”

The waitress set down a pint of Guinness for Mel.

“You’re Heineken, right?” she said to Claire.

Claire nodded, then looked around the room.

Leaning to set down Claire’s beer, the waitress’s breast pressed
into Mel’s shoulder. Squished, it did. A cottony marshmallow essence complete
with bulrushes and empty grassy fields squatted naked over Mel’s face.

Claire was buzzed from being on stage.

Mel lit herself a cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke in the
air.

“That’s good, thanks.” Mel dropped a fifty on her tray. The
waitress smiled and didn’t look away.

“I’m Mel.”

“Annabelle.”

They were stuck for a moment.

“I should really get back,” she said and wandered off to the other
tables in the smoking room. Her skirt bouncing against the back of her thighs
again. Okay, enough already. She looked at Claire who didn’t seem to mind. She
was high from her performance. And other things.

“Annabelle,” said Claire, catching the drift.

Mel nodded. Busted, obviously.

“You gotta watch out Mel!” said Claire. “This is Li family
territory and there’s some new gang The Blood Dragons. The paper says things
could escalate. Don’t get caught up in any of that stuff!”

“Will do. Thanks mom.” Claire with the drama again. She was such a
dichotomy. This sort of Goth-punk-tough-act teddy-bear lesbian.

Claire extended two fingers from her fingerless black gloves.

“Be home by midnight or you’re grounded,” she snarled. She scanned
the crowd. “I have to see these guys, then we’re back on.”

“I’m going to go,” said Mel.

“K. Thanks for showing. Call me sometime!”

“For sure,” said Mel. Liar.

Claire squeezed Mel’s hand and ran off into the crowd.

Mel made her way along Commercial Drive through packs of smoking
yakkers. Skinny white bison. Then some fatter Yaks with spiked manes, dark
clothes and silver flashing.

She lusted over Annabelle as she walked toward Blackie. She wasn’t
like that. She didn’t flirt with girls. If she got with a girl, it just
happened. It was her heart. What Georgy had said about being in love. She began
going over it, the physical feelings, different things she’d been experiencing
in her body. The girl had done something to her in minutes. She’d been tripping
over herself infatuated with Annabelle. She
was
hot though.