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Each morning after gazing into the sleeping faces of her children, Irene would slip back to her couch for a bit more shut-eye. But this morning was different. Mark was gone. His mattress, baseball cards, even the report cards shed mounted in frames on his wall - there was nothing in his bedroom but an extension cord, a long snake of a thing that reminded her of the umbilical cords she wrapped in plastic and stored in a small cedar box at the back of her dresser drawer. When Irene saw that her son was gone she could feel herself plunging into despair. So she hauled out the vacuum. It was time for a vacation with the Lord.
The old vaudevillian clown is seriously pissed at the granny clown - hes almost positive shes hording the last sandwich. And the smell of her decaying teeth is enough to make him bale. What he really needs is a good stretch. His bones are aching. And if only he could dance - yes, that would solve everything. He needs to dance.
He thinks about all the times he nearly danced their way into a really good manifestation. But never were they able to grab the brass ring. Because they were late always late and just before they could materialize, somebody else got to carry away the prize, like Jesus or Mohammed, or some other member of the in-crowd. Then the one time in Russia when they arrive early along comes a hammer!
It should have been a shoe-in, he thinks. There they were - 1899 - right smack in the middle of some serious spiritual transformation and then that Sonya Tolstoy bitch goes and fucks the whole thing up.
Only a week had passed since that fateful knock on the door from the strange gentleman farmer, Simon Debronscoville. The day had begun by Gladys putting on the new shoes that arrived from the mail order catalogue the afternoon before. She watched the perfect patent leather curve of the toes tapping her to the front door to check on her flowerbed of prized lilies, unaware that the retarded niece she kept locked in the cellar was counting her footsteps on the lashes of her small oval eyes. In moments of such happiness Gladys forgot she even had a niece.
Edna tallied the count of her aunts footsteps across her broad smooth forehead - tap tap tap tap - the back of her ribcage swinging into the mattress as she breathed toward the ceiling. Tap - turn - tap. She released her jaw and let her lips fall free. Seven to the bedroom - tap tap tap - her eyelashes counting each beat as they tapped to twelve before coming to a halt in the kitchen. Edna woke up with the same thought she always had in the morning. I love my aunt, she thought, how lucky I am to be living in her basement.
The sound of water rushed through pipes and Edna opened her eyes wide. She got out of bed and walked to a large sink where she filled a kettle. She looked into the mirror above the faucets. My face is so round, she sighed. I love my face.
She returned from the little bathroom her aunt made especially for her and toasted her bread on the twisted clothes hanger over the hotplate as she always did. She poured her cup one-third full of tea and two-thirds full of milk. She spread honey on her toast. Then she walked over to the chair at the front of her basement and sat on three cushions looking up at a small window. She took two nibbles of toast between each sip of tea. By floating her round head above her neck she could just see over the lilies to the summer sky above.
The morning of the day Mr. Debronscoville paid his first visit the sky was clear. When there were clouds, Edna would let them sail across her forehead and gently coax them with the rhythm that guided her through the day. One two three four - over two three four - under two three four - back two three four. Shed steer the clouds to the edges of the sky and beyond the roofs. Edna couldnt remember when she learned how to move clouds but she knew it was a gift.
On the day of that fateful knock, when the strange gentleman caller arrived on her front steps, Agnes Potts had spent the early morning standing in her kitchen looking down at the sheen of her lovely new shoes, the radiant sunshine bouncing along the patterns of her sparkling linoleum floor. She felt so happy she could have danced.
The vaudevillian rehearses a two-step in his mind remembering to leave room in the middle of his routine for applause. Hes sure he has a few high kicks left in him and nothing sells like the sculpted leg of a redemption hoofer. He just hopes they wont land in some mid-eastern country where nobody likes legs.
Tap tap tap turn. Tap tap kick. Must keep an eye-out for any shenanigans from big momma, he thinks. He knows she cant be trusted - shed upstage him in a second. He wonders if shed give him a kiss.
Edna used to stay with Mrs. Potts sister in Cherrywood. When that aunt passed away, she moved to a new town and a new aunt. Two years ago. The very same day she turned twenty-two. Mrs. Potts gave her a box of crayons to celebrate her birthday but shes never used them. She keeps them on a cardboard box by her mattress. She knows shed enjoy smelling the crayons but doesnt take them out of their package because they remind her too much of the children she used to look after in her dead aunts garage. They were horrible children. They called her names and never paid attention. She wanted to teach them arithmetic. She was very good at arithmetic. Particularly sums.
One day in the garage this boy called Bobby MacIntosh put his hand up her skirt and Edna thought it was a very poisonous spider so she accidentally broke his fingers and he had to stop taking piano lessons. Thats when the children quit coming and she spent the rest of her time in the garage alone.
The only thing Edna missed about living with her dead aunt was when she got to go to the country. As well as being able to move clouds and do complicated sums, Edna had a third gift. She knew how to find water. Whenever the locals needed a well or an irrigation ditch, theyd come to town and rent her services. Then shed get to walk the farmland and listen to the numbers that guided her behind the light pull of a willow branch. But that was all she missed. Living with her new aunt was much better than the garage. And every Sunday Mrs. Potts let her go upstairs for supper.
The granny clown finds a nipple on her withered left breast and fondles it with the bony fingers of her right hand. She lets her left hand slip inside her purse to see if the sandwich is still safe. Shes already decided that once the manifestation happens shes going to kill the old hoofer. She killed him before and shell kill him again. Thinking about how she was going to kill him was a good way to pass the time. As usual, the trip was taking forever - forever and forever and forever. If she could see the bugger, she might have asked for a kiss.
Edna loved sitting below the high little window searching for clouds and waiting for the laundry. She looked forward to the smell of detergent and bleach. Shed sit on her three cushions and listen to the beat of footsteps as each customer arrived at the front door. She was eager for the dirty clothes to start plunging onto the floor so she could begin the routine that took her through the day. Shed haul out the tubby wringer washing machine and pick up the dirty clothes; careful to keep the piles separate so when she left them at the top of the stairs theyd be returned to their rightful owners. She relied on the sequence of numbers that counted their patterns into her body to make sure her hands wouldnt get caught in the wringer. One two three, let go. One two three, grab on. One two three, let go. One two three, grab on.
She had to stand on a stepladder to get the laundry onto one of the three clotheslines her aunt's friend made for her over the vegetable garden in the backyard. Shed reach through a back window to one of the three pulleys that carried the load up to one of the three lines. Edna sailed pants, socks, underwear, skirts, dresses and every imaginable article of people's waking or sleeping lives out over the potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, turnips and beets. At night she would do sums.
Granny clown caresses her sandwich with one hand and her nipple with the other. She wants to be ready to suckle the world. She used to have such magnificent breasts. Now theyre withered and dry but figures if she keeps massaging the nipples it might help with circulation. And then of course theres the manifestation. Anything can happen with a good manifestation. Shes eager to love, devour, smother the little darlings in her great granny boobies and take them to paradise. Yes, its her turn to rule, goddamn it.
Irene doted on her four children. She kept souvenirs of their growing up stored in treasure boxes locked away in the nooks and crannies of her small subsidized apartment - their first shoes, pyjama tops, drawings from the fridge, even their umbilical cords. Her three girls were all within four years of age. They were well behaved and responsible, not quite teenagers thank goodness it was their older brother Mark who was the teenager. But he was still a good boy, and it was Irenes greatest dream that hed be the first in her family to graduate from high school.
Irene was prepared to go any length to see that her family stayed together. Shed tried to bring up her younger sisters in Halifax; promised on a bible theyd never be apart. But they were taken away when the police dug up the backyard; taken into foster care. This family would be different, she vowed. They were in it through thick or thin, even if she had to excuse that hubby of hers for sleeping over down the street.
Irenes three girls helped their mother with the meals on wheels when they came home from school at lunch. Part of the deal about living in the complex was that if you were totally subsidized you helped out with the seniors. It wasnt a rule, just an understanding - a Christian understanding.
And every morning the girls tied ribbons in their hair. Irene loved ribbons. She suspected they took them out when they walked around the corner on their way to school but she still appreciated the effort. They looked so terrific walking to the corner. And they were always very considerate. If their mother had a particularly difficult day, theyd wait until she was all tucked up on her couch. Then theyd sing. GOODNIGHT IREEENE - GOODNIGHT IRENE - GOODNIGHT IRENE, GOODNIGHT IRENE - WELL SEE YOU IN OUR DREAMS.
The girls were Irenes pride and joy. But Mark was her hope. It was Mark who made all the effort worth it.
The
man stands looking at his lamp. All over the world people wait. They dont know what theyre waiting for, but they wait.
Surely something will happen. Its well into the millennium for goodness sake. Surely somethings supposed to happen.
The clowns get closer to earth.
Irene believed in the power of goodness. If a neighbour were unpleasant, shed go out of her way to do a kindness. Before the housing committee said it was against the rules, she grew lettuce in a corner of the courtyard and had her girls take little bunches to those she figured had been trespassing against us. Even to that Marilyn woman whod given her the vacuum - first of all so neighbourly, and then such a stinker - and such an attractive name Marilyn - who would have thought?
Irene was also familiar with the power of badness. God had guided her through the shadow of the valley on her journey to salvation, but still life wasnt easy. Money was a constant worry, school lunches, keeping the family on track as they moved toward the Kingdom, her hubby always up to some nonsense, sometimes not home for weeks on end. And then of course there was her health - the bones that had been broken and healed. Broken and healed.
The old vaudevillian clown is cranky. All they ever seem to do is hurl through the universe. Hurl. Hurl. Hurl. Every hundred years another hurl - surely this time theyll get to materialize. Surely it must be their turn.
Irene learned the importance of vacations during the year she spent in a Halifax hospital, after her father murdered her mother and they took her sisters away. Whenever she could no longer stand the despair, she knew exactly what to do. Shed leave; give over to the power that lifted her above her unhappiness. After a while, shed come out the other side, renewed and hopeful, ready for battle. She liked referring to these vacations as her physiotherapy sessions with the Lord.
The night before a vacation, Irene would lay out the shawl her great-great grandmother brought from the United States of America. Irene was proud of her heritage. Her ancestors had traveled the Underground Railroad, escaping by night on their secret route to freedom.
Early the next morning shed call the clinic and tell them her knees were giving out again. It was fib but she knew God would forgive her. There was some kind of an arrangement with welfare and pretty soon a wheelchair would arrive at the front door. Shed climb on board, wake her little sweethearts, and tell them she was taking a vacation. Then she wouldnt utter another word for the rest of the day. The girls would make breakfast. And even if it were a school day, theyd stay home. Except Mark - he had to graduate.
The vaudevillian is ready to scream with boredom. When will they get there? And where will they land? And what language will they speak? This is the big one for Gods sake; its the millennium. Surely theyll get somewhere good on the millennium. Hurl. Hurl. Hurl. Hes so sick of hurling through the universe he thinks hes going to puke.
After breakfast, Irene would put on the pair of enormous sunglasses Mark bought her as a souvenir from a school carnival, wrap herself up in her great-great grandmothers shawl, and have her daughters push her up and down the courtyard. She loved being pushed in the courtyard looking across to the seniors high-rise. It was like riding between her past and her future. She felt large in that place under her heart bone and gave over to a kind of inner power. She reigned; she and the big fellah. She was vacationing with God.
Granny clown is bored with counting the ways she can kill her vaudevillian she decides to sing. One more river
theres one more river
When her sister in Cherrywood died, Gladys Potts was mortified to discover that she was the only family member left to take care of poor Edna. Gladys could barely make ends meet, how was she to provide for a simple girl? She prayed to God for guidance and as always, God came through.
Gladys got Harry Jessop from the hardware store to install a second-hand toilet and large industrial sink in the cellar. Then he moved down an old wringer-washing machine, cut a hole in the kitchen floor, and built a chute so the laundry wouldn't fly helter-skelter when it landed in the basement (she wanted to make it as convenient as possible for her niece). It was Harrys idea to build the heavy hinged-door that covered the hole so Gladys wouldn't be bothered by the constant noise of the swish-swash. Gladys offered him free laundry services for a year in payment for his Christian assistance.
When the renovations were complete Gladys took down a second-hand hot plate, a little icebox, and purchased a deadbolt. She'd heard an alarming story about how Edna turned into a wild animal and broke a little boy's arms one July afternoon in her dead sister's guesthouse in Cherrywood. Apparently the boy couldn't remember the words to "itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout" and Edna was so frustrated she just went crazy. Crazy. So for the safety of the neighbours children, and the poor girl herself, Gladys made sure there was a good lock on the door.
It broke her heart though, the thought of poor Edna alone day in and day out - so every Sunday shed put on a lovely supper and turn the bolt. Theyd sit at the kitchen table and Gladys would talk about the sermon shed heard that morning at church. She told the unfortunate creature that if she listened very hard, she too could become a good God-fearing woman. Gladys was grateful Edna never spoke back. She was grateful she never spoke at all. That would have made it difficult. That would have been the straw that broke the camels back.
Gladys thought about taking her niece to church some Sunday to have her baptized but didnt think it would be worth the risk. At one point she considered the possibility of baptizing the poor dear herself but then blushed at the preposterousness of her own arrogance. Who am I to think I can walk in the shoes of the Lord, she muttered in shame. Im the bride for heavens sake. Im not the host.
Screw Jesus, granny clown thinks. And Buddha. Screw the lot of them. This time its my turn. She rubs hard on her nipple until she feels it stiffen against the gnarled end of her stubby fingertip.
It was mid-afternoon when Gladys Potts heard the knock. Shed been polishing the wrought iron bed she was given by her first husband's mother as a wedding gift. It had survived three deaths but she was convinced the springs still had plenty of life left in them. She treated the heirloom with great care in the event the good Lord should be kind enough to deliver her a fourth husband. When she heard the knock on the front door and peeked out the bedroom curtains she took it as some kind of sign. It was that strange man Simon Debronscoville and he was wearing a suit. Shed met him several years ago in a hotel room above the beer parlour but called a halt to the interview because she liked a bit more beef on a man and didn't think anybody with such extravagant eyelashes could be trustworthy - but shed always suspected her decision might have been a bit hasty so slipped across to her dressing table mirror and powdered her nose.
Simon Debronscoville was a man in his fifties who lived alone on a farm south of town. He took good care of his land and his neighbours treated him with respect. His parents had died a decade earlier.
Simon was extremely thin and had a larger than normal head. Because it sat on top of such a tall skinny body it looked very large indeed. When he came to town, some of the children enjoyed teasing him. Theyd stand on Main Street and yell to people walking close by. "Clear the street! Big Head's gonna tumble ... TIMBER!" Mr. Debronscoville sometimes teetered back and forth pretending he might fall on one of the children until theyd scream and run down the street. He enjoyed the little ragamuffins. Rumour amongst the older kids was that he wore a helmet under his skull because of a wound he got in a war.
The other most distinguishing feature about Simon Debronscoville was the length of his eyelashes. They were thick and black and curled far beyond anything decent. Many women in the town marvelled. Even the painted ladies of the street couldnt rival the length and lushness of Mr. Debronscoville's blinkers.
Simon had wanted very much to marry. For ten years, between seeding and harvest, he came to town and took a room in the hotel across from the railroad station. He'd spend a few weeks trying to find someone who might join him in holy wedlock. He conducted interviews with anyone who cared to talk and always dressed formally. In spite of his odd appearance, occasionally a female was willing to take the plunge. The living arrangements and money were in a pretty good ballpark, and there was no doubt to anyone who chose to look beyond the size of his head that Simon was a kind man.
Unfortunately it never seemed to work out for Simon. In the final stages of the contract, he always asked himself the same question. Could he learn to love this woman? And he always got the same answer. So several years prior to arriving on the doorstep of Mrs. Potts, in the fall of 1951, Mr. Debronscoville hung up his longings and resigned himself to living out the rest of his life as a bachelor.
Simon sat in an over-stuffed armchair and explained the reason for his visit. Gladys wasnt entirely sure she believed him.
He told the good woman that he was thinking of branching out. There was a far-east corner on his land he didnt use for wheat so he thought he might fence it off and try his hand at livestock. Problem was he couldnt find any water out there for a dugout. There was lots of moisture on the west corner of his land even a fishing-hole he and his father used to spend lazy afternoons lying around while the wheat was ripening but nothing on the east side. So anyway, he'd been speaking with this fellah from Cherrywood and they got to talking about Mr. Debronscoville's desire to diversify and his problem about the water. That was how he found out about the girl with the power.
Mr. Debronscoville asked Mrs. Potts if she'd be willing to bring her niece out to the farm, he'd be happy to pay the going price. Gladys was certain she glimpsed a glimmer of fondness penetrating through his deep black eyelashes into her own not unattractive grey-blue eyes. They arranged he would pick them up in his half-ton the following day and agreed that three dollars was more than adequate. But that was three dollars, even if the outcome wasnt moist.
Will we ever get there, wonders the emaciated vaudevillian, trying to pout with his crusty meagre lips. I want my turn in the sun. I want to be in the credits.
Oh stop it, he says to himself. Youre a professional. Pull yourself together. Its not what you want for goodness sake - its making sure you get it.
Gotta dance!
Whenever Irene rolled up and down the complex in her wheelchair on one of her so-call holidays, Marilyn Harrison was mortified just like the novelty act in a freak show, shed seethe, parading around in those ridiculous glasses and the shawl she always bragged about as if she wanted to remind the entire neighbourhood they were sharing a low-income housing complex with a former nigger slave. An inverted sort of arrogance, thats what Marilyn thought. So she got herself on the agenda and had a word with the housing committee.
The committee was sympathetic. A reasonable time up, a reasonable time down a parade was just not in the cards.
Gotta dance. Gotta dance.
Not everyone was pleased with Marilyn for going to the committee. Many were tolerant of Irenes harmless little eccentricities. There was no doubt she was a kind and caring mother after all. And work - the woman never stopped. Her unit was spotless. And it was admirable how she kept her family together. Most single mothers with the kind of arrangement she had with her so-called hubby would have given up long ago. And her children were clean, with the exception of Mark, but at least he wasnt part of the gang who spray-painted down in the laundry room - at least they didnt think he was part of the gang - they were those troubled kids from Block B, probably devil worshippers or some such thing, and dreadful at spelling.
FOR A GOOD TIME FUCK SATIN AT APERTMENT 32.
There goes Jupiter. Here comes Mars. There goes Buddha on some monkey bars.
And Irene did a lot for the complex after all. If she saw any young men peeing in the sandbox by the playground equipment on their way home from the bars, shed shine a flashlight and scare them off. People conceded that her behaviour might be a little odd, but she certainly didnt do anyone harm.
A group of women wanted to go to the housing committee to have the decision reversed, but by then Irene had made alternate arrangements. Whenever she felt the need for a vacation, instead of calling for a wheelchair, shed grab the vacuum cleaner her neighbour Marilyn had donated to her, stand in the middle of her living room, hit the power bar, and sing, figuring people would think she was just getting on with the housework. Sometimes shed stand there an entire afternoon, the sound reverberating so loudly she couldnt hear it anymore. She could only hear God.
The vaudevillian clown starts tapping his feet. Tap tap tap tap.
On the dry prairies of the Midwest in late August of 1953, the day after the fateful knock on Mrs. Potts door, the sun beat down on a tall, aging thin man in a buttoned-up grey suit. He held a black umbrella over the head of a soft round young lady in an off-white dress as she serpentined the grasslands, treading gentle behind the pull of a willow branch into the lush waterfall of her future.
The elegant couple drew through the hot molasses air. The only motion contrary to the single direction of their procession was the fluttering of Mr. Debronscoville's eyelashes as sweat poured in buckets down his towering forehead into the long thick bushes above his eyes. He had to blink at the sweat with such ferociousness his east pasture began to look like a scene from an old silent movie. Flick flick flick. Flick flick flick. Pulsating flashes of light guiding him forward.
It was hypnotic. Timeless. And Simon Debronscoville was entranced by his new vision of the world. The young woman beside him was his high priestess. He could feel the heavy robes of their past dragging through the open field, leaving a trail of dust to billow in the wide sky. He could see a shimmering light guiding them to their future. They walked united in the perfection of the trance.
Who was this woman, Simon thought to himself. Who was his angel of the walk?
Edna gave into the pattern of numbers that were running not only through her body, but through the strange man holding the umbrella as well. She walked, balanced by the power of his surrender. She heard the deep flow waterways inside their bodies, the cloud mass movements of their breath.
Suddenly Edna gasped, the willow branch vibrating with such force it made her scream. Simon felt as if a great arm had bolted from the centre of the earth and grasped the inside of his throat. It slashed his head toward the sky and wrenched him to the ground, the umbrella falling from his hand.
Edna looked down at the prairie giant kneeling in the hard-parched earth. She saw the beads of moisture trapped in the thick spider web of his quiet eyes.
Simon looked up at his angel of the walk. He saw her round face, the open lips and the gentle tapping from the tip of her tongue. He heard the ocean and felt the spray of deep canyon rivers. He adored her.
Edna knelt down. She guided her face towards him. He closed his eyes. Her tongue touched his eyelashes. She licked the moist web and glided beads of wetness into her mouth.
Hurl. Hurl. Hurl. The two clowns hurl toward earth.
Gladys Potts could have kicked herself for being so vain. Shed worn her mail-order shoes; there was no way she could traipse over to the far-east corner of Mr. Debronscovilles pasture. So she waited in his house while the pair of them did their business. She'd insisted her niece take an umbrella for protection from the hot sun, the poor girl hadn't been out in donkey's years.
Staying put did have its advantages, however. It was a pleasure getting to know the dear man's home. Gladys was most impressed with how tidy he kept things. The tea set in the sideboard was lovely - it must have been his mother's - and the Chinese bowl full of dried wheat stocks and cattails? She knew exactly where she'd put it in her living room. But what touched her most was how he kept his socks in a different drawer than his underwear.
When the diviners returned, Gladys was delighted to hear that Mr. Debronscoville had found satisfaction in her niece. Next thing you know itll be oil, she joked, flashing her not unattractive grey-blue eyes. She invited him to supper the following Sunday to celebrate the success and spent the next few days preparing for courtship. She clipped her toenails, shaved her varicosed legs, plastered them with band-aids, painted her fingernails, and had her hair done.
Granny clown bites the inside of her mouth with her few remaining teeth. She enjoys the taste of blood. The vaudevillian is getting crankier yet; he needs to take a shit.
Marilyn Harrison jerks forward in her chair on the balcony. Irene just turned up the speed. There was a distinct difference in the sound. Yes, Marilyn is certain. Not the power bar yet, but medium at least. She feels the rhythm of her pulse increasing and wonders if she should call the Chairman of the Board.
I just know shes got a sandwich, thinks the vaudevillian. Maybe if I can get her underneath me I can dance her to death. She used to be so cute. Hundreds of years ago. Hundreds and hundreds. Oh I am so bored. So bored is the baby. I used to be cute too. I was gorgeous. Gorgie gorgie gorgeous. Gorgie gorgie gorgeous. When will we get there? I am soooooo bored.
Marilyn Harrison lifts her binoculars and looks across the courtyard up to the seventh floor of the seniors building. She can see the senile Crystal Fleuty drawing her curtains and watches her trying to open her window. But the window wont budge. All the windows are locked from the second floor up. Management is probably afraid some poor dear might fall out, thinks Marilyn. Or worse.
Agnes Kennedy, on the third floor, is lying on her bed fully clothed. She is waiting for her son to drive her to the hospital and thinks she can hear a buzzing below her window. Mosquitoes, she decides. Good, let em bite the lot of them. I dont care. Tomorrow Ill be dead.
On the fifth floor old Robert Cranston cuddles a little closer to his wife, the love of his life for fifty-seven years. Its his favourite time of the morning. Elizabeth opens her eyes for a brief second and asks him if he can hear someone singing The Tennessee Waltz? Robert snuggles a little closer yet.
Granny thinks about that Tolstoy woman who screwed up their manifestation a hundred years ago and remembers the pounding. She tries to drown out the memory by remembering how beautiful she used to be in the olden days. And sexy.
I was so sexy, she thinks. Utterly enchanting. Thank goodness I still have charisma. And who knows what a manifestation might bring? Im counting on boobs. Must have boobs. Its all so visual this messenger of God business. Look at Gabriel and all that wing ding stuff. Credibilitys the issue. If theyre going to believe Im granny number one, Id better have the goods. But still she remembers the pounding.
The vacuum hums away. Irene sings. The sun rises a little higher.
Up on the Seventh floor of the senior high-rise, Crystal Fleuty moves her tiny face as close as she can to the windowpane. She pushes her upper lip out and over her bottom lip and holds onto her pretty button nose. She breathes into the lace that decorates the top of her nightie. She doesnt want her breath to cloud up the window. She loves how the early morning sun is peeping from behind the hazy dark sky, little sun rays bouncing off the metal of the vacuum cleaner and back up into the streaky air.
Crystal is grateful for her perfect eyesight. The smog is always more beautiful in a heat wave, she thinks. Comforting. She wonders how many in the building will die this morning. She knows that heat waves are notorious for killing off the old ones. Dehydration, loneliness, boredom...
So bored
so bored
Edna spent the next few days in her cellar waiting patiently for Sunday to arrive. When she wasn't doing laundry, she copied the long lists of numbers she received from the memory of Mr. Debronscoville, multiplying and dividing them over and over again until she attained the absoluteness of perfect symmetry. Only his scent came from the piles of clothes falling from the kitchen, the smell of dark earth and the sap of a willow tree, the hint of prairie sage drifting just a whisper above the tight skin on his glowing moon face.
As she sat looking up at the small window eating her toast and sipping her tea, Edna would navigate the flow of clouds over the roof to the far-east corner of Mr. Debronscoville's land - over two three four - under two three four - feeding them with the moisture from her tongue, steering them full-sailed across the prairie sky to pour her wetness into the hidden stream below his field.
She began to wonder about being out of the basement - about walking great distances without an umbrella and the sun falling into her face. For the first time she had ungrateful thoughts about living in her aunt's cellar.
During the nights she heard whispered warnings that the Moon Man was looking for his Sun Woman. She dreamt of licking giant eyeballs and was fearless as a spider crawled up between her legs.
The vaudevillian wonders if he remembered to pack his lip-gloss. Then he wonders about his cover-up? And his jockstrap? Did he remember to pack his jockstrap? And what about his sparkles? And what are sparkles? And his tap shoes? His leotards and his mouthwash? And did he take any calcium before he left? And when did they leave anyway? And when will they get there? And will they materialize? And as what? And why bother anyway? And who is this ancient old woman he always has to travel with, the sole companion of his long, long life? And how long has his life been anyway? And why cant he see her? And why this craving to give her a kiss when he cant stand the stupid cow. And how many times has he fucked her? Or has he fucked her? And why is life such a mystery? If only he could get there? All he wants to do is dance the big one and take over the world for Christ sake!
He sees a pinpoint of light in the darkness ahead. Theyre getting closer. He knows theyre getting closer.
The early rays of sun sparkle off the Electrolux like fire, ripples of light ricocheting above the playground. The motor purrs like the Mercedes Bens of the Vacuum.
People will be up soon, thinks Marilyn, looking at the black woman with suspicion. Next thing you know shell be putting on that pair of ridiculous sunglasses and mounting the Electrolux. Probably thinks she can ride it like a wheelchair.
Marilyn was fond of the vacuum cleaner. Shed received it as a wedding present when she married. Her husband walked out the door years ago but that vacuum cleaner kept on performing. Shed given it to Irene in a moment of abandoned generosity. That was so often her downfall - generous to a fault. It was a good thing her sister from Calgary had just passed on and left her all of her appliances.
Just then Esther Williamson, Marilyns next-door neighbour, wakes from a terrible dream where shed gone off to her first day of school wearing tap shoes - size twelve and a half mens! She sits up in bed sweating, thinking she can hear something coming from the direction of the courtyard below. It sounds like Lisa Minnelli, she thinks. Or maybe Julie Andrews.
Gotta Dance, thinks the vaudevillian. Gotta dance.
Old Robert Cranston up on the fifth floor pulls himself away from the love of his life and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His toes crawl rapidly forward from the end of his feet searching the floor for his slippers. Yes, he thinks, someone down in the courtyard is singing. And it might very well be The Tennessee Waltz.
Im tired of trying to manifest as a messenger of God, thinks the old granny clown. Why cant I just be God? I mean look what happened to John the Baptist. Or Jonah. Or Mohammed. Even Jesus. Who wants to be the middleman when you can have the whole kit and caboodle? Look at that Joseph Smith fellah. What a wasted opportunity. When I take over the spirituality of the world maybe Ill ditch the big fellah.
Just kidding big guy, she says, pulling her hands from the sunken orbs where her breasts used to be and folding them in prayer. Please, let me be your messenger. I promise to be good.
Late Sunday morning Mrs. Potts spoke to her niece in the cellar. She told Edna it would be inappropriate for her to join them for supper that evening, but asked her to keep her fingers crossed, because if things went well they might be having more suppers with the gentleman farmer than Edna could possibly imagine. Then she gave her a big wink and headed back up the stairs.
On the landing, she turned around. Shed almost forgotten to share the sermon she heard earlier at church, so gave Edna a quick synopsis. It was from the Gospel according to Saint Mark.
A certain woman has a young daughter with an unclean spirit, Mrs. Potts enunciated, careful her niece could understand each word. Very dirty. Dirty thoughts. Dirty body. Dirty mind. Bad. Very bad. So this kind woman takes her to Jesus, and even though Jesus was busy as the dickens, he takes this girl, this very bad girl, and casts out the devil. Just like that he washes away her sins.
Which reminds me dear we really should do something about getting yourself baptized. Gladys bolted the door.
If someone doe starts Armageddon without me, Ill be seriously pissed, thinks granny. All I ever needed was a good manifestation.
Simon Debronscoville sat silently eating his way through the fresh garden peas, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, turnips, beets and roasted chicken. He was terribly worried about the young lady's summer flu, and only hoped that Mrs. Potts assurance that her niece would be well in no time was an accurate diagnosis.
All that doom and gloom - prediction here, prediction there I can hardly wait, thinks the granny, scrapping at a corn between her toes. I love a good millennium.
Edna stood on a stepladder with her hands pressed below the kitchen linoleum. She could feel the rhythm of the gentleman farmers tapping foot sliding down her arms and into her heart. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Whos gonna trust the old guys? Nobody thats who. Its too fucking scary out there. The entire world needs a momma in a millennium. And mommas coming home.
Esther Williamson shakes away the bad dream about her big feet. She wants to go onto her balcony to see what the humming and singing is about below, but spots Marilyn Harrison from next-door sitting on her balcony. The last thing she wants is to have any contact with that busybody. Today is her first day of tap lessons over in the church hall and she doesnt need the grief. So she stands on her coffee table and tries to peek over her balcony railing.
Gotta dance, sings the vaudevillian. Gotta dance. Gotta dance.
Irene was proud of her son Mark. He even worked a part-time job at night to help pay for his school supplies, but was always in his bed when she checked on him in the wee hours of the morning.
His dad would wait for him every night to drive him to work. Hed wait in a big blue car out front. Irene saw it once in the daylight - shaded windows and shiny hubcaps. Shed never been in it, never been asked, very sweet though, that his dad should be there night after night to pick him up.
But last night Irene knew something was going on. Instead of waiting in the car, the hubby came into the unit and spent an hour with Mark in his room while his car waited out front, still running. After a while Irene checked to make sure the car hadnt been stolen and was sure she could see someone behind the shaded windows. She tapped on Marks door twice, the first time to ask if they wanted cupcakes, the second to tell them it was getting onto nine-thirty. Marks part-time job was somewhere in the north end of the city and she was worried he was going to be late.
Early in the morning when she checked Marks room, even his posters and the framed copies of his report cards were off the wall. At first Irene had very unkind thoughts about her hubby. Then she wanted to wake the girls and rip out their hair. She wanted to dirty up the entire apartment. Spray-paint the kitchen. She wanted to hurt somebody.
She looked out Marks open window hoping to see the foam he slept on laying on the parking lot, his body all curled up, plastered with hockey cards, a circle of cupcakes surrounding his belongings, anything, anything to protect him from the power of badness.
She looked back into the empty room and knew he wasnt coming back. She thought about her sisters and her dead mother, about the dirt cellar. She wanted to wake up the girls and tell them to run. She wanted to know who was waiting in the car. What to do, she thought. What to do? She could hear the voice of her father. She could see her sisters crying by the stove.
Thats when Irene shoved her fist in her mouth and went to the closet to take out the Electrolux.
The vaudevillian is so numb with so much sitting he cant even remember where his fingers are supposed to be so he can pinch himself. Nobody can keep on living like this, he moans.
Irene truly appreciated that vacuum. Shed tried to give it back to that Marilyn Harrison after she turned so mean, but she refused to take it. Three times she tried. And three times she refused. Must be that God wanted her to have it, she realized at last.
Some months after acquiring the vacuum, Irene joined a gospel choir that rented the main hall in the church on Sunday nights after Sumo Wrestling. Over weeks of practice a voice started coming out of her body that caught everyone by surprise. Members of the choir were amazed at its power. Irene knew it was because her faith was on the upswing. That and all the practice she was getting in her living room. Still, she knew the majesty developing in her vocal cords was a gift from God.
I have so much to give, thinks granny, squeezing her erect nipples so hard she starts to cry out.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Sinking into the over-stuffed armchair, eating raspberry pudding and drinking his coffee, Simon Debronscoville got on with the business at hand. Hed hoped the angel would be present, but decided he couldn't wait. He put his pudding on the worn-out end table and his coffee down on the floor. After catching Mrs. Potts firmly in her grey-blue eyes, he sat up as formally as he could in his chair and addressed the kind lady.
Simon sputtered out his intentions. He loved Mrs. Potts niece. He adored her. He must, above all else, be married to his angel. "Give us your blessing dear kind Mrs. Potts!"
Gladys pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She tried to catch her breath. Dignity, she told herself. This calls for dignity.
"Get the hell out of my house!" she screamed.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Mr. Debronscoville tried to wrestle his way out of the enveloping armchair, kicking over the coffee and flailing his arms into the raspberry pudding, which landed on Mrs. Potts collection of Ukrainian Easter eggs.
Scrambling for the front door, he stumbled headlong into Mrs. Potts record player, and as he turned to apologize, his belt caught on the sweet little table cloth crocheted by the genuine Methodist dog-breeder and whipped it from right under a stack of Everyone's Favourite Sing-Along Hymns, which Gladys had been receiving from Ohio once a month for five and a half years. Fortunately the collection of records elevated into the air and landed intact back on the table just like the seasoned trick of a magician; unfortunately Mr. Debronscoville's foot went straight through a recording of Mario Lanza, splintering the poor tenor into an ear-splitting myriad of daggers, four of which nearly stuck in Mrs. Potts ceiling.
As he made it down the front steps, Simon was only grateful that none of the sharp little weapons had pierced Mrs. Potts in the heart.
Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, moans the granny. All I ever wanted was a chance to love. It breaks my heart. Just breaks my heart.
I should just slip down and pull out the cord, thinks Marilyn Harrison, adjusting her binoculars. But then what? I couldnt bear it if I had to listen to those slave songs again. Follow the Drinking Gourd - Follow the Drinking Gourd. Something genetic I think. I dont know why Social Services just doesnt come and take those children away. You know, sometimes I look at them and Im sure theyre all different shades. I wonder if that hubby of hers is the father of the lot. Hubby how ridiculous! If I hear her talk once more about her hubby I think Ill say something - the mans got a real wife and kids down the road; got a divorce years ago apparently. Hubby - pathetic! The mans a known felon - part of a gang - takes his son with him every evening - some nigger gang in a big blue Lincoln.
And those long afternoons with the power bar on. Standing in her living room, rippling with pleasure, the vibrations of the machine shaking away her sins, sucking them down the long hard tube, the canister bags all snuggled up in the cool gloss body of the Electrolux. Shes not fooling anyone - that woman doesnt clean - she sings!
Then she hears it. The machine kicks into high gear. Still no power bar, but certainly more audible. And the voice is getting louder. Yes, most definitely the voice is getting louder.
Marilyn watches the curtains in the windows of the senior citizens complex begin to open. Then she hears the balcony doors on the left side of her bachelor unit slide apart and is surprised to see Esther Williamson step out into the morning air, all red-eyed and puffy-faced.
The two women cant think of anything to say to each other. Theyve never gotten along. But this morning something special happens between them. An understanding. As if the shared embarrassment of seeing a black woman with her vacuum cleaner brings them closer together. In a way that only white women can understand.
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Edna was alarmed by the terrible commotion in the living room above. It reminded her of the time she bit into the boy who used to take piano lessons. She ran to the front of her cellar just in time to see Mr. Debronscovilles skinny legs leaping down the steps. For a moment everything was quiet. Then she heard the unbolting of the door.
You get down on your knees right now and pray for forgiveness, the voice commanded from the top landing.
Edna knelt at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her aunts blotchy red face.
You are a bad girl, Edna, she began, her voice shaking and tears welling up in her eyes, a dirty girl.
Mrs. Potts took one step into the cellar. Youd better pray Jesus has the time to cast out the devil and wash away your sins - because just like that girl in Saint Mark, you have an unclean spirit. Youve driven Mr. Debronscoville away with your badness and youve broken my heart. You may be retarded, Edna, but youre still nothing more than a dirty little tart.
Mrs. Potts re-bolted the door and Edna ran to the front window of the cellar to see if there was any remainder of the man going down the steps. She looked back at the empty landing at the top of the stairs and closed her eyes. She longed for the comfort of numbers but all she could hear were her aunts words, her own badness echoing inside her. How could she have broken her kind aunts heart? How could she have driven away the gentleman farmer?
Edna put her hands on her face and traced its roundness with the tips of her fingers. It was the face of an unclean spirit. It was the unclean spirit that drove him away.
The vaudevillian clown finally feels a sensation in his fingertips. His stomach starts to growl.
All over the housing complex people begin to wake up. When they look onto the courtyard they sense a danger emanating from the womans body that suggests it might be prudent to keep ones distance - an electric current that fills the entire complex. Besides, there was something quite beautiful about the quality of the voice.
Most decide just to get on with their preparations for the day, checking every once in a while to see if shed moved and looking up at the morning sky. There was a shimmering lustre to the light that was surreal. The kind of sky you see painted in a religious magazine - too beautiful to be real glorious - as if there is a heaven after all, thinks old Crystal Fleuty on the seventh floor.
Irenes three daughters stand on their patio not knowing how to handle the situation. Only once does their mother make contact. A swift glance as if to say, One step toward me and Im going for the power bar!
Esther Williamson leans across her balcony to Marilyn Harrison and confides, I think shes singing show tunes.
Irene falls further into a purring rattle deep inside her body. She can hear the rustling of her great-great grandmother on her escape to freedom. She can feel the eyes of hatred peering through the dark.
Im sure shes singing show tunes, Esther repeats. No shes not, snarls Marilyn, shes singing one of those goddamn slave songs.
Irene begins to see her life flash in front of her eyes.
Its from Cabaret or the Sound of Music, insists Esther, barely able to hold back a tremendous impulse to weep.
Images of Irenes past rush toward her.
Curtains and doors continue to open.
She can see her father, driving his car into the backyard of their Halifax house.
The homeless gather on the church steps for their early morning sandwiches.
She hears his footsteps on the kitchen floor above, her sisters scurrying into a dark corner of the basement. She feels her mothers breath on the nape of her neck.
The three girls stand outside their patio door and begin to put ribbons in their hair.
Irene hits the power bar.
Oh my goodness - were in for it now! yells Marilyn.
Hooray, whoops the vaudevillian, I know were getting closer. We must be getting closer. I can feel it.
Edna runs across her cellar holding her fingers to the sides of her temples. She can not hear the comfort of her numbers. All she can hear is the badness of her full round face vibrating into the tips of her fingers.
When she reaches the sink she turns on both facets. From one facet water pours into a rubber tube attached to the wringer-washing machine, from the other water gushes into a large aluminium basin. Then she pulls off her blouse, skirt, shoes and underwear and puts them into the tub of the washer. She turns on the machine and adds two boxes of detergent. Finally she hoists her body up onto the washer and holds the clothes deep in the bottom of the tub.
Now she waits. She waits for salvation, her face skimming the surface of the foaming bubbles, her shallow breath panting back and forth to the swish-swash of the propelling vanes. She waits for Jesus to wash away her sins. She waits for him to reach up and pull her into the wetness. She waits, water flowing over the aluminium basin and onto the floor.
bove, Gladys Potts sits on her living room floor and weeps.
Granny clown starts pulling at her nipples with all her might.
On the seventh floor of the senior high-rise Crystal Fleuty presses her tiny ear against the windowpane. She can hear the gliding singular voice of an angel. Holy, holy, holy
Lord God Almighty
Early in the morning, we come to face the Lord
gnes Kennedy, still waiting for her son, hears more mosquitoes than ever gathering outside her window. They sound so busy she wants to get up and make jam for her grandchildren.
The president of the Sumo Wrestling Club barges onto the courtyard and is overcome with joy. He hears a woman singing the blues, the notes strong and twisting, wringing deep into the pit of his enormous belly. It is full of such passion that he gasps.
Irene can see her mother hiding in the cellar. She can smell the damp earth - coal and potatoes - her father opening the cellar door - light pouring down onto her mothers head. Her mother prays. Irene crawls into the corner of the dark. Her father gropes into the blackness.
The strength of Irenes lungs fills the air like thick syrup. Faces line the seven stories of the seniors building. Bodies cram into the courtyard and stand beside neighbours they havent seen since the housing committees annual general meeting.
Maureen McGill hobbles out of the old folks home on her walker. She remembers the tango and how it makes her feel sexy. Mr. and Mrs. Cranston stand hand in hand and smile. Shes playing our song, says Mr. Cranston. Yes, replies his wife, its the Tennessee Waltz. Elizabeth Florendo starts to bawl; she loves La Boheme.
Irene bandages her mothers wounds. She kisses her mothers forehead. She buries her in the backyard.
The sunrise is at its most splendid - the world full of hope. Orange beams of light stream onto the red brick buildings and shine rainbows across the old folks home.
Red sky in the morning - a Sailors Warning, someone hollers. Red sky at night - a Sailors Delight, a response comes from a homeless person over by the church.
The little girls keep adding ribbons to their hair. GOODNIGHT IREEENE...
A blue car with shiny hubcaps, silhouettes of men behind shaded windows, flees into the distance...
GOODNIGHT IREEENE
The clowns hurl closer and closer. Streams of light whiz past as they see the edges of the earth coming toward them.
Edna pulls herself off the washing machine and feeds her wet clothes through the wringer. Then she dumps in four more packages of detergent and puts the clothes into the washing machine for a second time. She turns to look at her room. Her badness is lying everywhere.
She yanks the sheets off her mattress - the clothes from the cardboard boxes at the foot of her mattress - towels, shoes, curtains - the lists of multiplication and division from the walls and the crayons Mrs. Potts gave her for her birthday. She washes and re-washes all her belongings. Suds bubble out of the machine like lava. Water pours over the rim of the sink.
All over the world people are anxious. Unfamiliar impulses rise to the surface, the imminent threat of
change.
Marilyn Harrison starts to hyperventilate; her black neighbour with the vacuum cleaner vibrating so fast she becomes blurry. Marilyn tries to look away but cant remember how. She wants to blink, but her eyelids wont move. So she just stands there and hyperventilates.
Irene can see her dead father behind the smoky windows of a car, her husband and son in the back seat. She can see her great-great grandmother waving at the three girls in all their ribbons, signalling for them to come to her, urging them to hide behind the shawl in their struggle toward freedom.
Irene hangs onto the Electrolux with all her might, her voice rising above the complex. Light begins to shine from her head.
The clowns crash through the earths atmosphere heading toward their manifestation. They see the light - a rainbow of fractured color opening toward their future.
Edna wades through the flowing tide and packs powdered soap into the open pores of her naked body. She calls for her numbers to lift her from her badness. She calls for Jesus to cast out the devil and wash away her sins. But nothing happens.
She climbs back onto the washer and balances herself over the vibrating tub. She lifts her knee and tries to force her leg in beside the quick jerking shaft. She wants to be wrapped in the waters fluttering wings - drawn into the deep swirling pool. Floating. Floating. The slow easy ride of the jellyfish float.
Hurray, thinks the vaudevillian. I think I can see water. Were almost there. Please oh please, let it be anywhere but Russia or the Midwest.
Suddenly Edna hears a noise pounding at her from the other side of the cellar and thinks she sees a huge face at the window, spiders crawling from its eyes. She yanks her hands off the machine and thrashes her arms in the air, the wringer-washer tumbling forward as it thunders her into the debris of the flood.
Edna scrambles to her feet and begins to run. She runs without bending her knees, kicking ribbons of water high in the air. Spiders press onto the pane of glass. It is the face of the devil, numbers scrolling from its mouth as they wrap around her body and pull at her badness. Pound. Pound. Pound.
Oh no, hollers the granny clown when she hears the pounding. Not that again. Stop it with the hammer for Christ sake, you fucked up the last manifestation, you wont fuck up this one.
Edna runs through the water and grabs towels - clothing - facecloths. She hurls them across the waves toward the window. Blankets - sheets - curtains - paper. She rampages through the cellar, plastering her wet belongings onto the walls, barricading herself from the devil.
An arm crashes through glass. The basement glimmers with flying light.
Oh my God, says Esther Williamson. I think shes going up. Shes lifting off the ground, whispers Crystal Fleuty, as the glass falls from her window onto the courtyard below. Up. Up. Like the finale in an Operetta! screams Esther.
The enchanted spectators cheer at the splendour of the ascent. Fractured light glistens in the morning air - a chandelier - dazzling even the housing committee in their disbelief. Seven stories of glass shatter from their casements and fall in an avalanche toward the Electrolux below.
Come back cries Marilyn Harrison, looking high above the seventh floor. Come back.
Edna stops. The night sky pours from the open casement into her cellar. Shadows of trees fall onto the surface of the water. Clouds drift over her face and billow onto the cement walls. A lily floats in the reflection of a pale green moon.
She looks up and sees the glowing moon skull of Mr. Debronscoville in the open frame of the broken window, the perfect river of his veins flowing under the thin layer of his tight skin. The dark sky fills the quiet sadness in his eyes. She feels the gentle beat of numbers run across her forehead and opens her lips. Spiders drop from the ceiling like miniature angels of death.
Edna can feel her badness from the very marrow of her bones. She falls into the water, curling her round face into the wet blanket of her salvation. Make me clean sweet Jesus. Baptize me in the name of the Lord.
The water surges under her, yielding her body to the top of the waves. It lifts her to the roof of the cellar, carrying her like a large jelly fish to the edge of the casement window. For a moment everything is peaceful.
Edna floats on her stomach as if she were gliding on the surface of a cool mountain lake. She opens her eyes and looks beneath the water. She sees sturgeon and speckled trout, perch and ancient catfish. She sees peacocks, gazelles, and moss wet deer. At the bottom of the lake she sees the face of a vast desert and has the vision of a man with long eyelashes clinging to the side of a mountain cliff. She sees a woman with large sunglasses and a clown entangled in the guts of a mutilated car. She sees a mother with a hammer and three angels, their wings caked with blood, their armour cracked open to expose their naked breasts. She sees herself looking for the sun. Then like a great tidal wave, the water delivers her through the casement window and floats her beyond the small Midwestern town, flooding the prairies with a late summer storm.
Through shards of flying glass and splinters of fractured light, through floods of streaming water and ribbons of swirling numbers, the clowns blast their way into the millennium. They see the outline of continents. They see mountain ranges and oceans. But still they hear the pounding in their ears. Please not Sonya, they chant. Not Sonya. Not Sonya. Not Sonya
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Theatre
