Knucklehead & Other Stories (6 page)

So they sold or gave away most of the things that they had acquired over the years as cast-offs or in garage sales, and moved in. The few good pieces of furniture were packed into Gaddie's garage. Colm insisted on keeping his boxes of engineering textbooks. Beverly wouldn't part with her bolts of fabric and rolling racks of clothes she had made. They kept a steamer trunk full of vinyl records because they didn't have the time to sort through and separate Peter Frampton from Bob Dylan, then argue over what to keep and what to trash. Colm's 1969 BSA Lightning motorcycle was scattered in several pieces. Gaddie had tut-tutted: “Where will you park my car?”

“There's room outside on the apron,” Colm replied.

Before she boarded her plane to Washington, D.C., where the Christians were assembling for the assault on the dark continent, the three of them had spent two days in the townhouse. Gaddie had fussed non-stop.

By the phone in the kitchen she assembled a thick three-ring binder with a green cover, sectioned with stiff-tabbed dividers. She compiled phone lists of neighbours, missionary contacts, emergency numbers for fire, flood, pestilence and war. An itinerary of her African trip, complete with brochures about the places she would visit. Operations and maintenance instructions for the washer and dryer, fridge and stove, convection oven, microwave, freezer, televisions, stereos, the furnace. Insurance policies. Lots of insurance policies—the widow of the owner of an insurance agency believed in good coverage.

Gaddie talked her way through those two days. “That's Mr. Gilford,” she would say as a car pulled into the little lane that wound through the units in her part of the complex. “He's chair of the Risk Management Committee. You'll need to call him if the roof leaks or a tree falls against the house.” “There's Betty Peel, Snow Removal Task Force,” she said, pointing out an elderly woman power-walking in the early morning. “Don't hesitate to call her in a blizzard.” (To offer assistance or demand service? Gaddie didn't say.) About a silver-haired man who walked his poodle through the green commons twice a day: “Wife left two years ago.” Three women in saris, pushing a shopping cart from the supermarket down the road: “Never so much as a hello to us, just nattering away to themselves in their own gibberish.” Two clean-cut men riding matching bicycles, one with a white helmet, the other yellow: “Those two are gay! I know because they told me themselves, they tell everybody.” A young mother limping after her two boys as they kick a soccer ball through the parking lot: “Recovering from hip replacement.” A man who drove a panel van with the logo of a painting and decorating company: “Jewish.” A woman with her hair in curlers: “Alcoholic.” Beverly remembered Mary and Frank: “Daughter joined a cult.”

Beverly looked at the man again. His shoulders seemed hunched a little more, his shivering intensified, the look in his eyes now plainly miserable. She noticed a clump of wet clay on the blade of the spade. In her own little patio at the back, Gaddie had taken up all the annuals before she left, deadheaded the perennials, pruned and mulched the planters, and generally made the little garden fallow. She said she wouldn't dream of foisting her chores on them, especially with Beverly in her condition. The meaning was clear—she didn't trust them to do it to her standards. Beverly couldn't remember if Gaddie had mentioned the gardener for the common areas of the complex.

It seemed Gaddie had exhausted in detail all the routines of the complex: trash collection on Tuesdays now, but the schedule slips a day after every statutory holiday, so by the time she gets back, it'll be back to Tuesdays. Put the cans
by
the lane, not
in
the lane. Separate the paper and metal and glass. No visitor parking except in the designated lot, absolutely no stopping in fire lanes, use of the picnic pagoda by appointment only, 10:30 outside noise curfew.

A drop of water clung to the tip of the man's nose. Beverly suddenly thought, This man is cold and wet and hungry. “What the hell,” she said, “Come on in.”

In the tiny vestibule, the man struggled with the laces on his boots. A toe showed through one sock. He slipped off his jacket, and held it in one hand slightly away from himself, reached for a hanger in the open front closet, and swept his eyes over the contents—Colm's leather bomber, Beverly's raw silk quilted jacket, Gaddie's lambswool overcoat zipped in a plastic garment bag. Colm's ancient golf clubs that had belonged to his father. He turned and hung the jacket on the doorknob, where it dripped onto the ceramic tiles.

Beverly led the man through the hall and up the half-flight of stairs to the kitchen. The townhouse was tall and narrow, the third unit in a building of four; that building in turn one of twenty-five or so arrayed on the condominium property. Each unit was a five-level split, the levels staggered front to back to maximize the use of space. The single-car garage occupied most of the main level, with the front entrance and matchbook lawn. On the second level, the kitchen and family room opened through a sliding glass door onto the compact patio.

Beverly had set up a long folding table in the middle of the family room, and piled it high with fabric, half-finished garments, and her sewing machine. She kept the long vertical blinds closed over the glass door, to shut out the patio and its orderliness. Interlocking colour-coordinated paving stones, scrubbed and swept. The rigid planters terraced in every nook and cranny. The barbecue with its insulated cover, covered again by a plastic sheet.
Une place pour chaque chose et chaque chose à sa place.
She had detested high school French.

The man plunked his sodden paper sack on the counter between the two rooms. “Nice place,” he said. He walked over and looked out between the slats of the blinds. “Neat yard,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”

Beverly stood by the stairs, watching as he moved through the space. His shivering seemed to have subsided. He ran a hand through the strands of his hair, then looked at his palm slick with the rain. “I'll get a towel,” Beverly said. When she returned, the man was standing by the sound system console next to the fireplace. She watched as he ran a finger over the stacks of
CD
s. He pushed the Eject button and checked the disc that was cued.

“Here's a towel,” Beverly said.

“Hmm,” the man said. He stayed by the stereo, pushed the
CD
platter closed, then punched Play. The first couple of bars played, then the voice. Tom Jones. “It's not unusual to be …” The man cocked his head like the
RCA
Victor dog, and adjusted the volume up a couple of notches.

“Please,” Beverly said. She moved across the room to pick up the remote control from the worktable and turned off the music. The man shrugged and turned towards her. She flicked her wrist and tossed him the towel. Carefully, he dried his hands, the palms, the backs, between the fingers, wiped his face and brow, then drew it over his hair. He examined the items on the table. “Making clothes?” he said.

“Yes,” Beverly replied. “No, not exactly. Costumes.” It was an important distinction to her. Gaddie was always calling her a seamstress. “For a children's theatre.” She moved so the table was between them. “That's what I do. I sew costumes for theatre. Actually, I design and sew costumes. I'm making a mermaid costume.”

“Very admirable,” he replied. The man looked at her sewing machine. “Pfaff. Beautiful,” he said. He kept his eyes on the machine as he handed the used towel to Beverly. She snatched it.

“What about your lunch,” she said. She folded the towel in her hands. “The micro wave's by the sink.”

He smiled, showing teeth brilliantly white and even. “Right,” he said. “To lunch.” He went to the kitchen, rummaged in his paper sack and pulled out an old margarine container.

Beverly sat at the worktable. She realized she was still kneading the towel, and let it drop to the carpet. She picked up the piece of cloth she had been working with. The play's director had asked for flesh-coloured spandex. Whose flesh, she wondered. Not this man's chalky flesh. Not the coffee-brown of the clerk at the fabric store where she had purchased it. She had tried to describe what she was looking for, tried not to describe it in terms of skin; finally the clerk had exclaimed, Oh by all means, we have lots of flesh-tone. Like flesh-coloured crayons, or the colour of dolls, not really the true colour of anyone's flesh, but a colour that suggested a certain kind of flesh. She wished she hadn't told him what she was doing. Very admirable, what was that supposed to mean?

Beverly made a few practice seams, working with scraps of fabric before she started to cut the pattern. A bodysuit for a mermaid's costume. She had finally settled for a blend of cotton-poly reinforced with Lycra. She needed it ready for a fitting tomorrow. She fingered the shiny remnant, stretched it between her hands, and watched the man.

He put the food in the microwave, then stood, examining the panel. “How does this —” he said. She cut in on his question: “Hit Reheat, then enter a time, then hit Start.”

The appliance beeped, then whirred to life as he operated the controls. “These things are all a little different,” he said. He kept his back turned to her, staring through the little window as his food rotated on the platter. The aroma of canned beef stew filled the room. Beverly thought she could smell the salt, the fat, imagined the congealed gravy turning soft and corn-starch slippery. Her gorge rose. She bolted from her chair and ran up the three flights of stairs to the master bathroom. She dry-heaved. When she thought it was over, a vision of the worn plastic tub of stew popped into her head, and she had another round of spasms. Her throat was raw and constricted, as if she had swallowed hot stones.

Beverly sponged her face, then almost lost it again as she scooped a handful of water from the faucet to rinse her mouth. Her stomach muscles and diaphragm were cramping from the days upon days of morning sickness. In the mirror, she saw not exactly a stranger, but a different self. She spoke out loud and watched her mouth as it moved, as if she were reading her own lips: “What the hell is that man doing in my kitchen?” She grabbed the cordless phone from the bedroom and started down. Stopping on the stairs a couple of steps above the kitchen level, she crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. “You have to leave,” she said.

The man stood at the counter, shoveling stew into his mouth with one hand; with the other he poked around in her cupboard. He looked at Beverly, the phone. “Can I take the spoon? I found it in a drawer,” he said.

“Take the spoon, I don't care. You have to go. Now.” The man licked the spoon, stuck it in his shirt pocket. He popped the lid onto the container, opened his mouth like he was going to speak, then closed it. She didn't follow him to the door, only listened to the rustle as he donned his boots and jacket.

“I'll leave it in the mailbox,” he called up to her.

“Just go,” she said. “Get out.” She wasn't sure her voice was loud enough to be heard.

“The spoon,” he said. She heard the door open and close, waited for the sound of the screen door latching. She peeked around the corner, then hurried to the door and shot the bolt. She put her eye to the peephole. He was just a few steps from her, exactly where he had been standing when he rang the doorbell. He held the container under his chin, and spooned food into his mouth. He was looking at the door, at her. Beverly's hand trembled as she slid the burglar chain into place, careful not to make a noise.

A rush of blood throbbed in her temples. She panted in short breaths, too fast and too shallow, until she started to feel faint. Hyperventilating. She knew the remedy: breathe into a bag. She tiptoed back to the kitchen, ignored the crumpled paper sack the man had left on the counter, and found another in a drawer. She cupped it around her face and concentrated on each inhalation and exhalation. She twitched when the phone began to howl with an off-the-hook alarm. She found it on the couch in the family room and pressed the Talk button to disconnect. She slid to the floor and buried herself in the bag. The crinkle of kraft paper marked the rhythm of her breathing.

When she looked through the peephole again, the man was gone. The spade and clippers still lay on the grass. She didn't open the door to check the mailbox.

That evening, Colm made a sandwich for his supper. Ham and cheese, a bagel from the freezer. He zapped it in the microwave to thaw, halved it, then toasted and buttered it, careful to spread the butter evenly to the edges. He peeled the outer layers from a head of iceberg lettuce, tossing out those that were the least bit spotted with brown. “You're sure you don't want one?” he asked. “You have to eat something.”

“Oh god, don't even mention food.” Beverly spoke around a mouthful of pins pressed between her lips. She had sketched a pattern for the mermaid suit on onionskin paper and laid it on the floor. She knelt down and pinned the fabric in place. Quiet jazz drifted from a Toots Thielman
CD
, turned low.