Part 2 (2/2)

Marion sometimes sits with her. Quiet talk. A hug round the shoulders.

Back up!

Women like the old one don't mean harm. They're just big. Breathing normally, they suck out all the oxygen. Beloveds can suffocate.

Enough.

Cleaner, that's the job here at the hall. And handyman.

Why can't the TU comrades-revolutionary electricians, carpenters, fishermen, longsh.o.r.emen-s.h.i.+m the filing cabinet, rewire the ceiling light, put a new ribbon in the Remington when the old one's fingers won't? Because they work. Or, in this period of intensifying struggle, they're on strike. Locked out. A demo, flying picket, union meeting. Weekdays, they're not here.

The men on staff, different. Before, they were students. Can't put a handle on a pencil sharpener, let alone finesse the old Gestetner. Once the present Organizer took twenty minutes by the clock fussing over whether to phone Toronto Centre long-distance. (No.) The O swivels his chair about, reads, wouldn't notice a ma.s.s uprising at the front door.

Last week the old one reamed him out when a still-meaty chicken carca.s.s vanished from the fridge.

”There's petty cash in this hall, too,” shouting. ”Typewriters, easy to p.a.w.n. Open your eyes and ears, a.s.shole!”

Back up back up back up.

Girl-hunters, strong women-these are types. Learned to identify, over two decades of cleaning here. Others too.

The too-enthusiastic contact who toils at the hall night and day for months, then ceases. No word. ”Here on a visit,” the coms state.

The misfits, so-called, those with a serious lack, a family it may be, looks, social ease, fluency in English, even a job. They want compensation.

So do those mourning a religion or a love. Mourning a baby, once, but after two years dying of grief she revived and left.

As for the nutcases, no one anywhere knows what to do about them. If forcibly removed in ambulances, such coms may return to throw furniture and rant.

Back up!

Roy too lives in the old low-rise near English Bay. The Sandringham. Good construction, not like now. Solid wood doors, bra.s.s carpet-rods on the stairs (tricky to clean), small delivery cupboards next to each apartment door. For milk, long ago. Horse-drawn cart no doubt. Roy's on the top floor. Says h.e.l.lo. Chats at the mailboxes, or in the laundry near the little bas.e.m.e.nt suite. In exchange for interior maintenance, reduced rent. A deal. Ideal. Once Roy wisecracked about old mole Revolution, underground. Nothing to say occurred. The place in fact is bright.

Most tenants are elderly, female, alone. Some dodder.

Not Mrs. Wolfe. That Sat.u.r.day she came to me. She'd been away a day or two on Bowen, lovely weather, and now feared for Miss Nugent above her, who did not answer door or phone.

”But I heard a tap on my ceiling.”

To the second floor. In Mrs. W's bare spare kitchen, listening upwards to silence.

Then to the manager's apartment. What a jeezly mess. Russell's always sozzled since his wife died, couldn't locate a key. Mrs. W's eyebrows up to the hairline.

The stairs again, third floor, seeking Roy's skill and strength. Rap rap.

Mrs. W pointing, ”That milk cupboard. Could someone get through?”

Broad male shoulders the problem, not only Roy's.

He said, ”I'll phone Marion. Jennifer might.”

Not long after, the two arrived. The girl slender as celery.

Roy broke open Miss N's milk-door.

Mrs. Wolfe's trill. ”Emily! Emily?”

Nothing.

The girl's arms, head, shoulders into the aperture, Marion lifting legs to help. Jennifer's b.u.m, compressed, wiggling through. Roy's gaze. Savouring. A tumble, a scramble. The latch clicking open.

What was expected. Not dead but cold, one hip wrongly angled. Ugly breathing. The kitchen floor puddled. Been there two days anyway, the ambulance guessed.

Miss N taken, feet first as the saying goes, return unlikely. Siren fading. Mrs. W weepy, Roy and Jennifer slipping out, useless Russell barging in.

Marion. ”A cup of tea, Mrs. Wolfe? Your place? Best to take your friend's keys.” Poking through the shabby purse, more tears.

Left alone to clean up, also as expected. Floor soon clear, but Roy to be all rethought. Marion too. The girl didn't arrive alone. Not allowed? Those separate apartments. How did they live in Calgary?

N.

EACH MONDAY, THE QUALITY OF THE PREVIOUS evening's branch meeting is palpable in the hall.

Attacking the bathrooms, even a humble contact-a man who's never joined, never paid dues, invented a party-name, raised a hand, spoken his word, taken to the streets, held a banner, waved a leaflet, a man who only cleans for statutory hours as he cleans all the rental s.p.a.ces in this building, offices, storage rooms, cubbies for solo notaries accountants psychics-even that man can sense last night's doings. Fear sometimes. Anger, agitation. The tang of power.

To sense.

Long long ago, a so-called friend of the mum whispered she hadn't wanted this baby. Tried to have it out, failed. Illegal then, still. This heard at thirteen, approx. Why that whisper? Mean. A child's word, and correct. Rancid with meanness. Much thought given to that. Life alone with the mum, scanty hard rough, tempers lost voices raised but never an unwanted feel, not even with the school troubles, abc and xyz and all between. She wasn't a big person, either. Plenty of air. Though large when gone.

Years later, recognition: that tale-teller's envy of the mum who had her failure by her side. Warmth ran all the way back through the shared time.

N.

BACK UP BACK UP.

The hall, one morning. Like sniffing leftovers, when the nose dictates On the turn. Irrevocable. Trouble.

At big tables the coms fold, staple, lick stamps, smoke, say little. No printing sounds from the back room, the monster's on the fritz. This week's forum leaflet, a purplish ditto. n.o.body's pleased. Papers all over the O's office, wastebasket slopping. His plaid s.h.i.+rt stiff with sweat. What a reek. The worker daily handling dirt grime sc.u.m c.u.m dust rot grit mould ooze s.h.i.+t pee grease slime puke scuzz-fresh overalls contain his clean body.

On such a day, routine sustains. Ammonia. Baking soda. Wet-mop snaking over lino. The power of bleach. New rubber gloves. The chrome, where not pitted, s.h.i.+nes.

Tired.

The old one, not talking, sternly brings Jake's coffee.

Not enough sugar. After twenty years she should know.

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