Bone Dance (27 page)

She howled and arched back, scrambling toward the end of the alley. She never made it. Her feet tangled in the straps of my purse, and she went down with a bone-rattling crash. The alley filled with flashing lights and blue uniforms poured in.

Questions came from every direction.

When the furor died down, I picked up the phone and dialled Sophie.

“Oh, my God!” she screamed into my ear. “Are you all right?”

“Thanks for calling the cops.”

“I didn't know whether to hang up and call them or keep listening.”

“You made the right choice.”

“I guess we're even now?” she asked.

I hung up without commenting.

I was hot and dirty, and my ribs ached. I needed a change of scenery. At least until the heat wave was over.

I headed into the club. Dawn Rapture owed me some money, and I wanted to collect before leaving town.

Bev Panasky
,
thanks to repressed criminal tendencies, placed second in the 2001 Capital Crime Writers Mystery Short Story Contest. Unable to afford therapy, she spends her free time cruising the airwaves and plotting nasty ends for old enemies. “The Night Chicago Died” is her first published short story
.

Now that Pops wasn't there to keep an eye on things, it was all up to Suze. Someone had to make sure Mike Jr. learned his times tables and saved his paper route money for a winter jacket. Someone had to check Mom didn't fall asleep with her cigarette still burning and get them booted out of another apartment. Suze didn't mind. She taught Mike Jr. her best arithmetic tricks and showed him how to tie knots and read maps so he could get his Cub badges. She was a light sleeper, so it wasn't so hard to get up and check the sofa for smouldering butts. Pops always said you do what you have to.

She kept the calendar with the due dates for the rent and the electricity and picked up the money from the trust account at the bank and delivered the envelopes with the exact amount in them to the right places at the right time. Every two weeks she paid the bills for their grocery orders at Morrison's.

Suze made sure she led her Grade Five class (average 98.2%) because, like Pops used to say, you don't ever give the nuns one more thing to look down their long noses at you over.

She'd had her troubles with the nuns, especially Mother St. Basil, who used to say rotten things to her in front of the class and make mean hints about Mom and her boyfriends. Especially after the time Officer Collins came to the school to
ask Suze and Mike Jr. about Arvie. Mother St. Basil was always making a big show of sending Suze to wash her hands and saying things like “dirt attracts dirt.” Suze knew what she meant, and so did everyone else in the class.

But now she had Miss deLorentis for Grade Six. Miss deLorentis never said a whisper about how Suze was dressed or what was in her lunch pail. She only cared about what kind of person you were, and not who your mother was. Suze hoped Miss deLorentis never found out that she signed all her own report cards. Miss deLorentis was perfect, with her shiny black hair, huge dark eyes, plaid skirts, tiny ankles and polished leather pumps. She wished Pops could have met Miss deLorentis.

But Pops was pushing up the daisies, as Arvie had just reminded her. “You can't go snivelling to your grandfather now that he's six feet under,” Arvie would say with a smirk. Suze bit her tongue so she wouldn't tell Arvie that if Pops was alive, there'd be no way a bum like you could have moved in with Mom. Mom would have slapped her right across the face if Suze talked to Arvie like that. Mom thought Arvie was fun and full of surprises. Suze didn't like those surprises.

Like now, Arvie sneaking up on her while she was frying up baloney and heating a can of peas for supper.

“You're sitting on a fortune, Suze? Know what that means?”

Suze didn't have to know what it meant. If it came out of Arvie's mouth, there was something dirty about it. “That's disgusting. I hope Mom hears you.”

But Mom couldn't hear anything. She was playing her three new forty-fives, and she just kept dancing in the front room while Arvie supposedly got her a Captain Morgan's Dark with Coke. She loved the Everly Brothers and so had Suze, until Arvie had started singing “Wake Up Little Suzie” in that creepy way and ruined it for her.

Mom called out from the front room. “Get in here, Arvie, I'm putting on ‘Little Darlin'.” It would have felt good to hear Mom laugh, except Arvie was getting too close again. Buckingham cigarettes and beer on his breath, and the smell of grease to keep his hair in the duck's ass. Sweat from his open shirt. Suze was stuck by the stove, with him pressing in, stuck feeling his belly on her back. One of these days, she was going to throw up.

“Hey, Mike Jr.,” she said, whipping the frying pan off the burner, “what are you doing back so soon?” Arvie whirled just long enough for Suze to duck by him and park herself in the front room. “Mom, I got two really big tests coming up, and I'll be studying tonight, so don't anybody bother me. Okay? Fathers of Confederation. Middle names and everything. And provincial capitals, including the Northwest Territories and the Yukon. So I won't open my door, even if you knock on it. Anyway, I'll have the Hit Parade on, I won't even hear you.”

Mom kept dancing all by herself. “Get that stinking baloney out of here. And make sure Mike Jr. goes to bed all right.”

Suze tried to lean close and whisper so Arvie couldn't hear. It wasn't such a great idea for Arvie to know everything. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been through Mike's stuff when Mom got past her third dark and dirty. Suze was pretty sure that's when Pop's war medals went missing. “He's at the Cub sleep-out tonight. You know that. I'm doing his paper route for him tomorrow.”

Mom gave her a small shove. “Watch your feet, Suze.”

Pops always said that Mom used to be fine. It was only after Mike Sr. passed away she went a bit foolish. He could hardly blame her, no husband and two kids. What would Pops say if he saw Mom the way she was now, with her hair bleached nearly white and her red lipstick, wearing tight Capris and her
banlon sweater opened to the third button? She used to have mouse-coloured hair like Suze, and she used to be just as skinny. They both had freckles, but now Mom's were buried in pancake makeup.

Suze ate her supper at the dinette set with her back to the wall and her eye on the door in case Arvie came back. That was the reason Suze didn't have much stomach for the fried baloney and peas, even with tons of Heinz.

She ducked into Mike Jr.'s bedroom, which was really a storage closet, and felt around under the lumpy mattress, but no luck. It took a while for her to find the purple Crown Royal bag full of quarters, dimes and nickels stuffed into Mike Jr.'s Davy Crockett hat. She shoved the bag under her blouse. It wasn't fair that Mike Jr. got stuck without a window and had to do his homework at the kitchen table when Suze had a desk. Pops had built it himself. It had gotten a bit beat up in the last three moves, but it was still good once she put a pile of books where the leg had broken off.

Outside Mike Jr.'s room, she spotted Arvie leaning against the wall in the dark end of the hallway. “You going out tonight, Suze? You got someplace special in mind?”

Her heart jumped. She didn't see how he could know anything, but he did have that slippery grin on his lips, and she often caught him following her. Of course, she always gave him the slip, but it wasn't that easy. Pops used to say, keep your head up and don't let them see you sweat. She made sure she didn't run, just moved normally, until she closed her own door behind her and clicked the lock. She could still smell Arvie, even though he wasn't there. That was bad, having his smell in her head.

She listened, just in case Arvie was going to pull something tricky. After three dark and dirties, Mom could be passed out any minute. But it was quiet. And she had a Yale lock, bought
with her summer baby walking money. She turned on the radio, Top 100, nice and loud. She slipped on her Mary Maxim sweater and hooked the rope on the radiator and opened the window. She hung on tight and shinnied down to the shed roof below. The rope always burnt her hands. She grabbed the rainspout on the side of the back porch and made it to the ground in two jumps, just missing Mike Jr.'s Red Rider wagon ready for the papers in the morning. Carrying all of Mike Jr.'s paper route money unbalanced her a bit. Maybe someday they'd move to a first floor apartment where you didn't have to practically break your neck to sneak out.

Suze loved this kind of night. The wind whipped the trees. The leaves whispered. The ones that had fallen crunched underfoot. Someone had been burning leaves in their yard. A couple of times she thought she heard something scurrying in the bushes. Just in case, she picked up a brick from the side of the Thompsons' house, where they were building a garage. They could afford to build a garage, but they never gave Mike Jr. so much as a nickel tip for the paper, and they cheated Suze when she walked the baby.

Sometimes it was good to have a brick on you. She kept away from the streetlights as she headed down the street. She stepped out of the way of the sandwich board sign on the sidewalk outside Viger's Variety Store. Mr. Viger was always yelling at kids when they bumped into it. She didn't mind being in the shadows. It was only a half moon, but she knew the way, could have found where she was headed in the pitch dark. Even though it was October, a bunch of Protestant kids were still slamming balls around as she passed the Tennis Club. In spite of the bright lights on the court, no one turned to watch her hurry by on the path behind. She checked twice over her shoulder then slid down the ravine and got herself
over the brook and up the hill. You had to watch out on that path. If you weren't careful, you could bump into a rubbydub or find your way blocked by some older boys with that look in their eyes. Just in case, Suze kept the brick in her hand. And she could disappear through the trees like a puff of fog if she had to. Tonight the path was clear. She scrambled over the rocks, jumped the five-foot wrought iron fence and landed on the soft lawn.

The cemetery. It made a lot of people nervous, but Suze had always liked it, even more so now that Pops was there. Normally Suze would have stopped to check out the freshly dug grave in the next plot. But tonight she needed to get to Pops first. She cleared a few crunchy oak leaves from the front of Pop's gravestone. She checked that the little chrysanthemum she'd planted was still alive. They were supposed to bloom right through until November. Suze didn't have a lot of luck with the plants she brought to Pops, but she was working hard to get the hang of taking care of them. Next maybe she'd try to find some holly or something nice for Christmas. She didn't think the gardener at St. Francis of Assisi would miss one more plant.

She plunked herself down and leaned back onto the smooth slab of the monument and closed her eyes. It felt good, and no wonder. One hundred percent imported Italian granite. Soft grey with peach streaks running through it. Pops had told her all about the granite when they buried Mike Sr. The details made the difference. Dimensions. Shape. Choice of stone. Lettering. Pops favoured Gothic.

Cost more than his Desoto, he used to say, but his boy was worth it. The plot too cost a bomb, but Pops said you can't take it with you, but you sure can lie in it. Gramma's name was there first. Greta Mabel Hagan, beloved wife of Joseph, 1906-1950. Suze didn't really remember much about Gramma.
Then, of course, Michael Gerard Hagan, 1932-1955. Every time Pops took them to visit, he'd make her and Mike Jr. swear on that grave they were never going to park their sorry butts within fifteen feet of a motorcycle. And last there was Pops himself, Joseph Alexander Hagan 1902-1957. Suze was saving up to have “beloved grandfather” added, in Gothic.

The week after they buried Pops, Suze had spent a lot of time checking out the surfaces of every headstone in the cemetery, running her hands along their satin surfaces, comparing their thickness, design, tracing the different kind of lettering, admiring the sculptures on the fancy ones. This was the best by far. Pops had done a good job. He had classy neighbours too. The McCurdys on the left and the Hetheringtons on the right, even though Pops never had much use for the Hetheringtons. Still, they were important people.

Pop had always kept up with the news, and Suze made sure he got it. And she asked for advice too. Pops loved giving advice.

“Half moon tonight, Pops. You can see the big dipper. Nice weather, a bit cool. Things are good at school, and Mike Jr. got a ninety on his spelling test. But I got a problem with Arvie. He took Mom's cigarette money twice this month, and she's drinking a lot more with him around, and I caught him snooping through Mike Jr.'s room so many times already. He even follows me when I've got the rent. I had to duck through Chapman's lumberyard to get away from him. So I figured you wouldn't mind if I stashed Mike Jr.'s jacket money here under your chrysanthemum so that Arvie doesn't get his mitts on it.”

Of course, Pops wouldn't mind something like that. She didn't mention Arvie rubbing up against her all the time and barging into the bathroom when she was in the tub. There wasn't anything Pops could do about it, and there was no point in worrying him.

Learn to pick your battles, Pops always said.

“Good news, Pops. You're going to have more company next door. Mrs. Hetherington from down Parker Street. You know her, she always went to the seven o'clock mass with that black hat on with the feather. You always said she thought she was Mrs. God. Her funeral's tomorrow at eleven. I heard the Monsignor saying the Mass. I imagine it will be a big deal, not as big as yours, of course.” The Bishop himself had said Pop's funeral mass, since Pops had been big in the Knights of Columbus, so he wouldn't begrudge Mrs. Hetherington her Monsignor, even if he never could stand her when she was alive.