The Clay Girl Page 8

  “How come I—she didn’t stay?”

  “Did for a time. When Vincent came to take Theresa home, Mary gave him five thousand dollars for expenses and they both went off no trouble. A year later they returned. Said God had told them they weren’t to leave a child in moral corruption.” Grandma salts her tea with fat tears. “Mary and Nia loved her so.”

  Jasper, I want to unknow this.

  But, Ari, we found our “J” name.

  NINETEEN

  Egging an Appleton can never come to any good. Sharon and the SS (Sharon Supporters) attempt an ambush. Sharon gets a head-butt in the gut and a yolky dollop scraped off my coat and shoved into her mouth. The rest yelp as my backpack thwacks them good.

  I figure they’ve squealed on me when Miss Standish tells me to report after school. She chins to Nick. “Mr. Potter, close the door on your way out.” She opens her calendar book, taking out the “Unholy Night” poem. Last time I saw it, it was with Mr. West. “Ari, is everything okay at home?”

  “Pardon?”

  “With your stepdad?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Ari, women don’t have to accept the atrocities anymore.”

  “Maybe women don’t, but a kid has as much leverage as mashed potatoes.”

  “Maybe I should talk to your mother.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. The only one messing with me is her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Please, can I go? I’m going to be late for work.”

  “All right, but I am someone you can talk to. About anything.”

  Heart kicks can be hidden but not eye mist.

  She tucks my poem in a gilt-edged leather journal and hands it to me. “Writing this good merits a special book. You have a good holiday.”

  Mr. West has Nick cornered by the front doors. I take the rear exit.

  Nick catches me a block from the store. “Hey, what gives? You in trouble?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Standish hauled you in. West was acting all paternal with me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Blathered you were special and I’d better treat you with respect.”

  “Just what we need, more friggin’ parents.”

  In the storeroom, Nick kisses me too hard and fumbles under my shirt in response to his gift: an iridescent silver-blue dragon painted on a black T-shirt. My new charm bracelet jingles as I say thank you to the rise under his jeans.

  “Wish you could come to Florida with us.”

  Appletons are not the kind of fruit that go south in new RVs to visit grandparents with winter prefabs. “Bring me a shell with the sound of the ocean in it?”

  Shelves at Aquarius empty as fast as we fill them. Len lets Mr. West into the storeroom to see me.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t you have your own family to bother?”

  Len scolds, “Ari, show respect.”

  “Sorry, sirs.”

  Len excuses himself to the rush in the store and I continue to block and fold T-shirts.

  “I came to say sorry for sharing your poem with Miss Standish. I should’ve asked your permission. I just didn’t know what to make of it.”

  He’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket and I still love him more than Nick. “Didn’t know teachers needed to ask permission.”

  “I’d say we have a special obligation to. You didn’t write about holly and bells like the other twenty-nine submissions.”

  “I was in church. It always makes me pissy.”

  He laughs like a regular person, and he teases Babcia when she brings coffee. “I was hoping for more of your cabbage rolls.”

  I rummage through my pack and hand him a brown-paper-wrapped gift.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your reading of Papa Panov’s Special Christmas sucked me into the merriment.” It’d taken maybe a dozen tries before getting the T-shirt the way I imagined: tawny geckos climbing over his shoulder, down his back, disappearing in the rocks and crevices under his jeans.

  He carefully unwraps it. “Wow, this is so much better than the fruitcake and cologne. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” I really want him to take off his shirt and try it on. “I’m heading to Winnipeg for Christmas. Can you pick out two for my sisters?”

  “How old are they?”

  “Sixteen and eighteen.”

  I throw off my apron, strictly because my T-shirt shows my latest creation. Liar, liar.

  Shut it, Jasper. “I perfected a butterfly. As fast as I put them out, they’re gone.”

  “They’re gone?”

  “Give me ten minutes. I’ll press up two and stitch on the beads. Go pick out belts and fringed bags and you’ll be the coolest brother ever.”

  To keep him longer, I wrap each in butcher paper, fastened with a gift from Aunties M&N, a giant sun-seal with the words, Aquarius Boutique, Designed by Ari. I add raffia bows with little star beads on the ends. His thirty dollars slides into my pocket, not the till.

  “You really are an astonishing young woman, Ari. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

  When I was six, Christmas snuck up without Mummy even noticing. Daddy came home from working in Calgary. As he cooked up the last of the Red River Cereal he told us about a wartime Christmas. December 23, 1943, he’d watched his two best buddies blown to smithereens. Wet cold had seeped into his joints and he no longer picked crawlies out of his provisions, just wolfed them down, bugs and all. On Christmas Eve families all over Europe opened their doors to soldiers. He just had to close his eyes and he could still feel the warmth of the fire, taste the savory stew and sweet cakes, and hear carols sung low and soft. He slept on a dry floor with a pillow under his head and a blanket tucked under his chin and woke to a whole day filled with the absence of war.

  On this 1967 Christmas, Jillianne’s present is a trip to Montreal for time away from her nothing-but-trouble boyfriend and time with I’ll-straighten-her-out Auntie Dolores. Jory phones from San Francisco, says, “Life’s a blast” and “Let’s give peace a chance.” The apartment above the store shimmers with candles, cedar garlands, and sugary angel-wing cookies. Mummy says, “Isn’t the tree the prettiest you’ve ever seen?” She sparkles in a sweater Len bought her from Holt Renfrew. Grandma knows it’s Christmas and that I’m the littlest Apple. Jennah and Wilf come with Christmas-happy kids and Jennah drinks to joyful not messy. Zodiac helps himself to the space behind my legs as Jacquie tucks me in on the sofa. In my hand is an ocean-smoothed stone, shaped like a heart, sent from Jake. I have strep throat and Babcia spoons broth into my mouth.

  Best of all, Len plays his guitar like a gypsy by a fire. He and Uncle Iggy sing the kind of songs that make gold-bangled, peasant-skirted ladies twirl under stars. Mummy’s eyes glitter and she doesn’t pull away when I feather-scratch her arm. “This is the best Christmas ever.”

  Day after Christmas, Private Appleton returned to war. Day after New Year’s Auntie Dolores brings Jillianne home and Grandma’s life becomes a terrible battle.

  TWENTY

  Grandma’s mind re-enters at the worst times. She knows her things are being sorted and pitched and the Rooms for Rent sign now says For Sale.

  I plead for mercy. Len offers to take her into the blue house. But Auntie Dolores says Sunny Crest is best.

  Watching Grandma have her life eviscerated is how I imagine Daddy felt seeing his buddy’s guts hanging from a mulberry tree. I put my temporary brain-blip down to the stress of it all. How else could I be so careless as to leave my treasure box of letters behind the sofa?

  Nick comes home with me after school to help move the heavier stuff. When we walk through the door, Mum has Nana Appleton’s ring pinched between her fingers. “Where? Where—did you get this?”

  “Nana gave it to me.”

 
The backhand my mother delivers doesn’t hurt near as much as Nick witnessing I’m the spawn of a stark raving Froot Loop. Theresa Appleton has never been much of a hitting mom. She’s more a turn-the-back, I’m-so-disgusted-I-can’t-stand-to-look-at-you sort. Not so today.

  “Your father gave it to Mary. It was always Mary.”

  “No, I went to see Nana at the hospital before she died.”

  “How could you do this to me?” Her hand claws up a wad of letters. She pitches them into the fireplace.

  “No, Mummy, don’t!”

  She whacks, whacks, whacks at my head with the metal dustpan, caterwauling like a demented hyena, then abandons the pummeling for my three years of everything-is-going-to-be-okay letters from M&N and dumps them into the fire. My treasure box follows them into the hungry flames. I go after it. The metal bits stick to my hands and my singed hair smells like a three-day-dead gopher poked with a stick.

  “Ari!” Nick pulls me outside, plunging my hands into the snow. Blood drops falling from my head bloom like poppies on a new canvas. I turn shivery. I want to sleep.

  Our neighbour Mr. Hawthorne appears. “Go get Mr. Zajac,” he says to Nick. “Tell him to meet us at the East General.” He has strong hands and his car seats are made of soft leather like Mr. West’s jacket, and sometimes Auntie Dolores is soft.

  “Let me see, honey.” She turns my hands as Mr. Hawthorne drives. “You’ll be okay.”

  Mum stays in the waiting room reading a 1963 Woman’s Day while Auntie Dolores takes me in to the exam room. Dr. Paulin stitches a gash over my eyebrow. “What happened here?”

  “We were cleaning out my mother’s house, burning old papers. Hariet came home from school and tried to rescue some old letters we didn’t know she wanted.”

  “Her face?”

  “She . . . she hit the andiron or something in the scramble.”

  “Or something?” He looks at me. I shrug.

  “Hmmm . . . well, elevating the hands will lessen the pain. Keep ice on her face and keep the dressings clean and dry. Here’s a prescription for pain and antibiotics. Have her see her doctor in two days.”

  I get queen treatment, plumped on Babcia’s bed. Even Zodiac is allowed up. Jacquie pokes her head ’round the door. “Nick is downstairs. Can he come up?”

  “Tell him I moved to Bucharest.”

  “He has red carnations.”

  “Tell him I died and he can release them to my ashes drifting in the lake.”

  “He has your box.”

  I hoist up my thirteen-and-three-quarter years of charred flesh. “Brush my hair?”

  Nick saved my box and maybe I love him more than Mr. West, but never more than Jake.

  “Ari, you okay?”

  I bite back my lip-quiver.

  “I was saving these for Valentine’s but thought you might like the ocean right now.” He opens the treasure box to two small conch shells, side by side. He kisses my forehead like I’m dying of consumption. “I’ll bring your homework after practice.” He opens the door and stops. “Your mom’s out here. You want me to stay?”

  Save me. Get me out of here. “No.”

  Why the bloody hell did I get put in the room without a window to jump out of? I burrow into Zodiac’s fur as the volume cranks up. Jacquie says, “Just go and leave us the hell alone.”

  Len says, “Just give her a couple of days, Theresa.”

  “If I have to call the police, I will.” Mum’s voice has that teetery shrill where I’m never sure if she’s going to break something or down pills.

  Officer Irwin hoisting me over his shoulder and parading me through the store flashes before my eyes. I make for the chair in the living room, snap up my legs, and hug a cushion in front.

  Maybe Mum pictures that, too, since she sits almost calm on the coffee table. “Hariet, please understand, the shock of discovering Mary has been pursuing you behind my back was devastating. She’s always taken everything from me. She’s an evil, evil person. She corrupted your father.”

  I hold back the bullshit. “My name is Ari.”

  She dabs a dry tear. “Breaks my heart to hear you say that. I gave you your name.”

  “All you gave me was a misspelled atrocity.”

  Her fake whimper makes puke pool in my throat.

  “I want my ring. Nana gave it to me.”

  “Mary has hurt me so much, it tore my heart out just looking at it. I threw it away.”

  Liar, liar.

  “Auntie Mary could never hurt anyone. The only one hurting you, is you! You’re a . . . a . . . deceiving jellyfish.” I never bother much with crying but sometimes the forty-days-and-nights flood explodes.

  Auntie Dolores snatches up the ringing phone like she owns the place. “Hello? Who is this? Mary? How’d you get this number?”

  Mummy spits her words. “Len, you’ve deceived me, too?”

  Jacquie nabs the phone. “I gave it to her. You’ve nothing to say about me talking to her. Hi, Auntie. A mess. The bitch had a tantrum, gave Ari a shiner, and in the tussle Ari’s hands got burned.”

  Mum grabs the extension in the kitchen. “Mary Catherine, if you ever contact Hariet again I’ll have you arrested for corrupting a minor. No letters, no phone calls, no visits. Have I made myself clear? If I catch wind of you going behind my back I’ll send her where no one will ever find her.” She slams the receiver down, picks it up, slamming it again and again—and again. “Len, you have her home by the time Dolores and I get back from Sunny Crest.” World-done-me-wrong blather follows her down the steps and out the door.

  Len takes the phone from Jacquie, talking in the deep mumble that makes it hard for a blubbering person to get the scoop. He hands me the phone.

  “But Mummy said she’d have her arrested.”

  “She said nothing about you talking to Nia, besides no one here is going to tell.”

  I muck up my bandages with snot. “Auntie?”

  “How’s our girl?”

  “I’m good.”

  “We’re coming for March break, though right about now I want to march in and break that woman.”

  “Jacquie would if her belly wasn’t so big.”

  “Just think, there will be a new baby. I’m sending you a book. I’ll send it to the store.”

  “No. Better not risk it. Love you. Bye.”

  Len takes a cool cloth to my face. “Feel better, corka?” I nod. “Uncle Iggy will help you with your studies. Don’t want you falling behind.”

  Iggy knows when to fill my head with numbers and when to stuff my heart with hope. He writes a note for my empty box. What has gone before and what is to come is a small thing compared to what is inside you.

  “This is the first note M&N sent with me. I found it in the pocket of my PJs.”

  “See what you remember, corka? See what is inside. You are the holder of the treasure. When I came to this country I came without my Katarina, my sons, or my legs, my pockets were empty, just like you, not even gotchies under my trousers. But no matter what was stolen from my past or my future, never could anyone take the love between us.”

  Many times, Iggy shared the horror in learning that his family had been taken to Belzec and the sorrow of never finding a trace of them. Uncles with no legs and broken hearts never get enough hugs, and whenever I give them, I always feel better.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mr. West crouches by my desk, bewildered and über-sympathetic. “Are you sure you’re up to being at school, Ari?”

  I hide the stitches that make me look like a half-surprised meerkat under my gauzed hand. “I’m fine.”

  “How’s your grandmother?”

  “Great, if hell is your idea of a good time.”

  “Don’t worry about keeping notes. Nick can use the Xerox and copy his.”

  Next day, I almost make it out the
door before Miss Standish snags me. “Miss Appleton, come in and close the door.”

  I stare at the shit-brown tiles. “I’ll be late for English.”

  “Mr. West will cut you some slack.”

  “Really, really don’t want any slack right now.”

  “Fair enough. I just want you to know I’m here if you need help with anything.”

  I raise my eyes but not my messy cheek. “Could I use your address for someone to send me letters?”

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be passing letters to a student.”

  “Then I guess you can’t help me.”

  “Who?”

  I paw at the door to get it open. “Why do you care?”

  “Because it must be pretty important for you to have asked.”

  “My aunts. They took me in when . . . after . . . forget it.”

  “Ari, how did your hands get burned?”

  “I . . . just wanted my letters from them.”

  “Your aunts are a help to you?”

  I nod and bite my cheek, hard.

  “Go to the post office and set up a box.”

  “A kid can?”

  Miss Standish walks over and opens the door. “If you have a social insurance number and can afford a couple of dollars a month.”

  It feels like the kind of plan that might get Mr. West thinking about asking me to the theatre. After all, mature women have their own post office boxes. I decide twenty bucks should cover all contingencies and leave enough to treat Nick to fries. I pass the teller my bank book and withdrawal slip. The machine schleep-schleep-schleep-schleeps. Maybe Nick beats me in math but I have enough number-smarts to know that four thousand seven hundred and eighty dollars minus twenty doesn’t equal insufficient funds. “I’m sorry, this is a mistake. I haven’t made any withdrawals since last summer and I made a three hundred dollar deposit just after Christmas.”