Lemon (23 page)

The good news is that Tilly gets a job as a governess. The spoiled rich kids misbehave but she shows them tough love and they decide she's fabulous. Kadylak loves this part, especially the descriptions of the finery in the mansion. The hitch is the lady of the house – who hasn't allowed her husband to knock her boots since the last baby – finds out that the master's been getting some on the side with another lady of a manor. She has a hissy fit, orders the servants to pack up a carriage and off she rolls to Mother's, taking the rotten brats with her. Poor old Tilly's out of a job again and has to go down the mine.

‘Why can't she get some other job?' Kadylak asks.

‘There aren't any. Towns lived off the mine in those days. It's kind of like where we're headed with Walmart. Pretty soon the only job in town's going to be in the blue smock.'

I keep reading. Miners cough and spew and pass out. It's dark when Tilly goes down the mine, dark when she comes out. Lunch is a crust of bread and hard cheese sprinkled with coal dust.

‘How could people do that to people?' Kadylak asks.

‘To get rich.'

‘I don't believe that. It's just a story.'

I don't tell her that millions of kids still work in mines, and explosives and arms factories, fattening some ceo's bonus. Mrs. Freeman told us that in some countries it's legal to whip, stone or amputate the limbs of children who fail to do their jobs. You'd like to think the execs on the golf course are ignorant of such practices, but then you figure if Mrs. Freeman knows about it, it ain't top secret. Kirsten said she thought it was awesome that movie stars are adopting African babies. Mrs. Freeman said it would be more helpful if the movie stars drew attention to the fact that pharmaceutical companies perform drug trials on Africans. Whenever there's an outbreak of meningitis or some freaky disease, the drug companies get all excited and test drugs they wouldn't test on their dogs on all these desperate Africans. Mothers line up for days to get their kids treated with White Man's medicine. If the kids die or get crippled from the drug, nobody can prove it. Nobody's keeping count of dead Africans.

I straighten Kadylak's head scarf. ‘Do you want me to keep reading or should we take a grape break?'

‘Grape break,' she says. I wish I could find her a happy novel. The thing is, all this Tilly trauma works on her the way the Nerf ball works on Bradley.

Brenda marches through the doors. ‘Lemon, can I speak to you for a minute?'

This doesn't sound good. I give Kadylak the grapes and follow the mistress out.

They're the same cops who showed up at Dairy Dream. pc Wigglesworth with the 'stache doesn't look too excited about investigating a girl for assaulting five football players. The catfish tells us to conduct our business elsewhere. I suggest Tim Hortons but they don't go for it, act like they've never eaten a doughnut in their lives. They haul me to the station in a patrol car that stinks of criminals. ‘How did you know I was at the hospital?' I ask through the plastic barrier.

‘Your mother.'

‘She's not my mother.' I hate her for ratting on me.

‘What is she?'

‘My stepmother once removed.'

The coppers put me in a little room with a chair and a table bolted to the floor. A tiny window on the door slides open and shut from the outside so they can keep an eye on me. Wigglesworth brings in a chair and sits on it but pc Ramku-mar stands around taking notes.

‘A fella says you broke his nose,' Wigglesworth says, and I get the feeling he's one of those losers who manipulate sex toys via the Net, fingering his mouse in Toronto to make some harlot come in Vegas.

‘Yeah, well, he was grabbing at me,' I say.

‘How so?'

‘I don't know, just grabbing at me.'

‘Where? You see, Limone, my problem is I can't see any defensive wounds. Just looks like you smacked your head into the guy.'

I stare at the bolts on the table legs. No way I'm saying anything that might lead them to Rossi.

‘Larry Bone says you kicked him in the face on another occasion.'

‘You believe a junkie?'

A guy with big glasses slides the door window open and peers in. He slides it shut again and enters.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Weech,' Wigglesworth says, giving him the chair. Weech sits, spreading his legs and resting his Molson tumour on his thighs. Wigglesworth summarizes what I've told him. Detective Sergeant Weech doesn't look too impressed.

‘Now why would a girl like yourself,' he says, ‘with no history of violence, attack a bunch of football players?'

‘I was defending myself.'

‘From what? Did something else happen? Boys can get pretty wild at parties.'

‘I need to pee,' I lie. Ramkumar leads the way. I sit on the toilet lid in a stall. Maybe I'll stay here for a few hours. Women come and go, some hooker talking loudly to herself about how much she hates cops. I unzip my pants. The bruising's spreading like some kind of cancer. Jane Eyre's in my head again, taking all that bull from Rochester. ‘I live to serve you, sir,' she tells him.
She'd
make a good sex slave. I don't get why that book's been in print for almost two hundred years. Maybe because there's a whole bunch of women out there who desire to serve the likes of Rochester. Rossi, for example, she'd bend over for a Rochester in a heartbeat. Why's everybody always feeling sorry for the numbnuts when he's stinking rich and has locked his wife in the attic? He only takes his head out of his ass after he's been blinded, so you have to ask yourself what's a book that's been in print for almost two hundred years telling us? Love a disabled man because a fully functioning one is a self-absorbed asshole? You can only trust him when he's blind? Women can only become equal with the maimed?

Knock knock on the washroom door. I wait for someone to answer. Knock knock again.

‘Who's there?' I ask.

‘pc Ramkumar.'

‘pc Ramkumar who?'

‘Are you alright in there, miss?'

‘Certainly.'

‘Are you coming out?'

‘In a minute.'

And why's Rochester always calling her Janet when her name is Jane? And why doesn't she say, ‘My name's Jane not Janet'? I lift up my shirt and see finger-shaped bruises on my breasts. Bone's fingers. My legs quit again. I slump back on the toilet. Doesn't smell too bad in here. Cop bathrooms are mighty clean. Little Portuguese ladies must give them a good scrub with toxic substances before they rush home to serve their sahibs. Prisons are clean too. In one of Drew's social-consciousness-raising zines they showed photos of prisons and schools. The prisons were pristine with all the latest facilities while the schools looked like delapidated prisons.

Knock knock again.

‘Who's there?'

‘Ramkumar.'

‘Ramkumar who?'

‘It's time to come out, miss.'

‘In a minute.'

When you think about it, old D. H. Lawrence was writing about women who had a desire to serve. And Hardy, and the Georges, and those other Brontës before consumption killed them. Our classical literature is all about women who end up serving some schlep.

Knock knock.

‘Who's there?'

‘Detective Sergeant Weech.'

‘Detective Sergeant Weech who?'

‘This isn't a game, Limone. Come out or we'll have to come and get you.'

‘I'm having bladder problems,' I lie.

Dead quiet for a minute.

‘What kind of bladder problems?'

‘It's personal.'

‘Is this since the party?'

‘I'm not sure.' Maybe if they think I'm traumatized they'll leave me alone.

‘We can get you some medical help.'

‘I'll be alright. Just give me a minute.' I stumble over to
the sinks, see some really messed-up girl with two black eyes staring back at me.

Things get worse when Damian shows up. He starts out friendly,
what's up kid
and all that, but when I won't leave the can he starts ranting and I tell him to fuck off because he's not my father. This gets the cops going, who is her father then? Who's her mother? They can't believe I'm unaffiliated. Orphan sympathy kicks in. I have to admit it's getting stuffy in the can, and I'm scared my legs aren't working properly. ‘Think what this is doing to Drew,' Damian says through the door.

‘Think what
you
did to Drew,' I tell him. All these adults running around messing with each other's heads. The door swings open and Weech smiles at me like I'm a lost kitten he's about to grab and flush down the toilet.

‘Are you thirsty?' he asks. ‘Want a Coke?'

‘Sure,' I say, hoping this'll distract him for a few minutes.

‘You come out,' he says, ‘and we'll set you up with a Coke.'

I hate Coke, it's like drinking cleaning fluid. ‘Can I call somebody?' I ask.

‘Sure,' Weech says.

‘Who are you going to call?' Damian demands. ‘Haven't you upset enough people already? What the hell were you thinking?'

I just ignore him, feel legs moving under me that don't feel like my legs. ‘Where's the phone?' I ask Ramkumar. He leads me to a desk with a phone and hovers. ‘I'd appreciate some privacy,' I tell him. Meanwhile Damian's getting testy with Weech. Accustomed to bossing around illegal immigrants, he lacks people skills. Weech is telling him I'm sixteen and can do what I want. There's no answer at Rossi's, just her mother's bank-teller squeak on the service. I know Rossi's home, just not picking up. I try Doyle again. His Botoxed mother answers and says he's not home, wants to know who's calling and all that. I just hang up. Ramkumar's checking his Black Berry. I consider making a run for it but Weech approaches, Coke in hand, with Damian hot at his heels.

‘Do you want this man here?' Weech asks me.

‘Which man?'

‘Your stepfather or whatever he is.'

‘Negative,' I say.

‘What do you mean “negative”?' Damian demands.

‘She means “no,”' Weech translates, and I have to admit, he's alright.

Back in the little room I sip the cleaning fluid. They're all watching me. Must be a slow day.

‘Why don't you tell me how it all started?' Weech says.

‘What's happened to Doyle?'

‘He's been charged.'

‘He was defending me.'

‘He was swinging a golf club around. Now, if a girl was in trouble and he was trying to defend her, he might have a case. But he didn't say anything about that.'

‘Why not?'

‘You tell me.'

I fidget with the Coke can, feel the toxic fluid eroding my guts. You're supposed to be able to remove rust with this stuff.

A pc peeks in the window and nods at Wigglesworth who exits. Ramkumar keeps taking notes.

‘Limone,' Weech says, ‘you've got to answer to these allegations, otherwise I'm going to have to go with their story. Now I have to tell you, the whole thing smells bad. Doyle seems like a good kid, you don't strike me as an attacker, but what am I supposed to think if you don't tell me anything? If you can show me evidence that you were attacked, I suggest you do so because these boys are filing a complaint and you're going to end up with a criminal record.'

‘Where's Doyle now?'

‘We let him out on his own recognizance.'

‘They're all going to testify against him?'

‘That's the idea. And they'll do the same for you. Five guys with eighty pounds on you are going to tell the judge you hurt them real bad.'

‘What if someone was raped?'

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, displaying the busted capillaries on his nose. ‘Then that someone should come forward.'

‘What if she doesn't want to come forward?'

‘Then that's a problem.'

There's this astronomical silence in which the planet turns a couple of times.

‘Why wouldn't she come forward?' Weech asks.

‘Because girls lose at rape trials.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘It's not news.'

‘Well, I beg to differ. If the girl is innocent, if she wasn't leading anybody on, or drunk out of her wits, or stoned, or high or whatever.'

‘Or has a history.'

‘What's that?'

‘If she's fucked goons before, she has a history. Means she probably asked for it.'

‘Your attitude is not helping you, Limone. We're trying to help you here.'

The planet turns a couple of more times. Weech points to the Coke can. ‘Want another one?'

‘Nein, danke.'

I've served customers like Weech, guys who mow their lawns every twenty seconds and vote Conservative. Guys who, if you were hit by a car, would probably try to help you out.

I yank up my shirt and pull up my sports bra. My nipples harden at the exposure. He takes a look, then gently pulls my shirt down. Ramkumar keeps taking notes.

‘Who did that to you?' Weech asks.

‘The plaintiffs. Doyle scared the shit out of them so they stopped. He didn't hit anybody.'

‘Did they rape you?'

‘Negative.'

He stares at me and I stare back. A blinking contest. I win.

‘Okay,' he says and I know he doesn't believe me. ‘We're going to get a female officer in here to take a look at you.'

‘What do you mean “take a look”?'

‘She's going to measure those bruises. They look defensive to me.' He stands and hikes up his pants, jangling the keys in his pockets.

‘You might want to consider getting microchips implanted in your fingers,' I suggest to delay some butch cop coming at me with a ruler. ‘So you won't have to worry about keys. It's all the rage in Europe and Asia. They're getting their fingers coded so all they have to do is scan their finger to get into their car or house or something. You can even do
ATM
with your finger.'