The rattling rectangular bus window is the ultimate frame for the view. Fort Erie Public Transit has a fleet of two blue school buses that travel in tandem along a single route from the Peace Bridge (bordering Buffalo, N.Y.) to Crystal Beach between the hours of 6:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. No surprise, Barbara has refused to let me borrow the car. “You think I have forgiveness coverage on my insurance? You know how much the deductible is if you get into an accident? No, you don’t know. You’ve never had to know about these things,” she lectured me.
Where would I drive anyway? On the bus, I don’t have to know. I can simply board and ride, all day if I want, for only a dollar.
The bus is a hideout. An escape of sorts. Each time we roll past the demolished amusement park, I mouth, “I’m so sorry.” Passing the library I vehemently think, “Don’t call me.” Every so often I see a goldfinch flash by and can’t help but sigh out a tiny appreciation. I’m still able to name all the local beauties: killdeer, kinglet, cardinal, mourning dove, rock wren, robin, swallow, sapsucker, lark. Maybe I carried a pocket-sized birding book as a kid.
This morning, a girl no more than four years old stands alone at the bus stop in front of the Avondale corner store eating a blue jumbo Mr. Freezie. What kind of parent gives their kid a Mr. Freezie at nine in the morning? Fifty feet away, I spot the dad with a rainbow kids’ backpack slung over his shoulder, passing a joint back and forth with another man. The marijuana smoke doesn’t rise, but sinks under the humid air, swirling around the men’s feet.
“What’s your name?” I ask the girl.
She pops the Mr. Freezie out of her mouth long enough to shrug at me. Her tongue is blue. Smart kid. She doesn’t talk to strangers.
“Do you want to see a magic trick?” I take a loonie out of my pocket and her blue upper lip curls. This disappearing coin trick calls for sweaty hands. I coat the coin in perspiration from my palm through a series of showy gestures. Sweat then sticks the loonie to the back of my hand as I wave my empty palm in the air.
“How you do it?” she asks.
I refrain from telling her that you hang out at the bar kitty-corner to your apartment with drunks who have nothing better to do than to teach their tricks to anyone who will listen. She’ll learn her own fool’s magic soon enough. Her wake-n-bake father dry hacks as he strides up beside her. He steals a bite of her Mr. Freezie and she silently hands the whole thing to him, as if he’s contaminated it. I stare off in the direction of the oncoming bus.
The driver is a woman in jean shorts and pink high-top running shoes. A sweat-shaped “v” marks her Glass Tiger T-shirt. A few similarly glistening passengers dot the vinyl seats. I’ve already gotten used to the rank and sweet smell of the bus.
I grab today’s copy of The Fort Erie Times from the messy pile of newspapers scattered on the first seat. “Zebra Mussel Infestation Could Cost Millions” the front-page headline warns. A previous passenger has drawn a pair of devil’s horns over each of the mussels, shown clustered along the bottom of a tugboat. The same passenger, presumably, also scribbled a series of lightning bolts over the text of a shorter article—“Fort Erie Native Friendship Centre Spearheads Alternative School Program.” Why is the media so dismally predictable? Out of all the synonyms of “to start,” the paper had to pick “spearhead” for a headline about the Native Friendship Centre. Karla Moses. I remember my high school friend Karla Moses had a baby before I left for Toronto. That baby would be kindergarten age now. Or first grade. Do I call her to tell her I’m back? Or call the Hill twins? And say what—that I’ve turned into a wannabe nouveau riche college flunky who doesn’t have kids or a boyfriend? That once I did cocaine with some of the cast members of Three Men and a Baby after they finished shooting in the Royal Alexandra Theatre location on King Street West? That I took an Aboriginal Studies course in university, and it was taught by a woman who appeared to be whiter than I am, who boasted her curriculum was “groundbreaking”? Would Karla or the Hill twins still consider me a friend? Years ago, we were simply kids with single moms and without lunch money, joining forces.
I flip through the paper with finer interest. I might recognize the name of one of my old friends-not-really-friends. Someone from my homeroom must have formed a Rush Tribute Band that plays shows at the Palmwood Hotel. On the half-page sports section, an enormous erect penis has been drawn on Dance Smartly, a local racehorse and the first filly in line to capture the Canadian Triple.
“You draw that?” A lanky boy of maybe sixteen years slides himself next to me.
“No. I cannot take credit for this masterpiece,” I say, tapping the cartoonish penis with my finger to show that I will not be embarrassed by him.
He blushes at this, recovers, and says, “I can show you a big dick.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I chuff. “Getting rejected by girls your own age?” Out the window there are cattails growing in the ditches, some already beginning to seed into cottony tuffs.
“I’m going to get a job,” says Sweet Sixteen. He pushes his blond skateboarder haircut out of his face for a moment, looking confident, then lets it sweep back over his eyes.
“Oh yeah, what job?”
He pulls The Fort Erie Times help wanted section from his back pocket. Below a half-dozen ads for seasonal fruit pickers there is one that reads “Graveyard Shift” circled twice in red pen. I flip to the back of my own paper and find the ad:
THE POINT! Campground and RV Park. Seeking to fill a Overnight Manager position to facilitate the nightly operations of a 60-space RV and tent camping park. This is an immediate hire for an on-site motivated person. Light grounds keeping and maintenance. A patient demeanor is essential. Weekly salary is dependent on level of experience.
“After I land this job, I’ll take you out for a drink,” he tries again. “I got love for older ladies.”
“As a matter of fact,” I say, “I think I’ll apply for this job too.” I’m already sleeping poorly at nights anyway. I’ve already emptied one-third of Barbara’s Sonata from the bottle, which she’ll soon discover and be pissed about. A graveyard shift would put me on a different clock from Barbara. From everyone.
“A girl? The only ladies who work nights are nurses and strippers,” he tells me.
“We’ll see.” I turn away from him again. The stink of the algae blooms that dot the lakeshore wafts through the window. Smells no worse than Toronto’s smog.
“So, nah, what,” stammers Sweet Sixteen. “You’re going to The Point right now to apply for the same job as me? You can’t do that.”
I will do exactly that if only to taunt him. I pull the compact from my purse and powder the perspiration from my nose and forehead. The boy watches me put on lip gloss and smooth out my hair. Both his attraction and his annoyance are palpable. This is the first time since I’ve been home that I’ve felt powerful. I’m sick, I think, to let this adolescent fluff my ego, but I unbutton the top button of my polka-dot baby-doll dress to bait him closer.
When we get off the bus, he sprints forward as if I’m going to race him, then slows to a march a few paces in front of me. His oversized Levis hide how skinny he is through the hips. Even walking behind him, I can see youthful uncertainty in his lurching gait. It’s contagious. I anxiously shake the fabric of my dress away from my hot skin as we reach the driveway. I’ve never been to The Point before. Although most local kids have recklessly trampled this campground and the adjacent nature reserve—Marcy’s Woods, home to the last old-growth black maple in North America. Both are local drinking and bottle-smashing spots.
The scenery behind The Point’s perimeter of sumac and poplars is exactly what I expected—an absurdly blue spring-fed quarry rimmed with yellow paddle boats. A loose pool noodle hugs the rocky shoreline. Picnic tables with termite holes tucked under shady tress. No tents yet, though a few early campers have set up their aluminum-sided holiday RVs. A couple of permanent residents have custom mobile homes, each marked by its own small lawn punctured with excessive pinwheels and pink flamingos. I expected more mobile homes, actually, since even though the Park’s shut down, there are still miles upon miles of working farms. Once upon a time, every guy around could get summer work berry picking. Not to mention the many who work corn and hay. It was something local boys looked forward too, seasonal farm labour followed by months of collecting unemployment insurance. But it seems that even trailer parks—home to farm workers—have turned into ghost towns.
Still, the residents who have stayed have a nice spread. We pass a trailer with a satellite dish mounted on its roof. Another is strung with patio lanterns and wind chimes and Canadian flags. Briefly, I imagine that I could live a simple life here, before a pair of middle-aged men in swim trunks catcalls me from their lawn chairs. One raises his beer bottle in the air and hollers a second time.
“New boyfriends?” Sweet Sixteen teases.
“What?” I say. “You’re telling me those are your new boyfriends? Good going on accepting your homosexuality. Come out of that closet! Boy George and Elton John did it, you can too.”
“What the fuck?” The boy punches my arm. I trip him. We tussle like siblings, stirring up the dusty path to the manager’s house. A “Help Wanted” sign is taped above the doorbell. The door is propped open by a frog-shaped ceramic doorstop. To the left of the welcome mat, three pairs of flip-flops are lined up in a perfect row. Farther inside, talk radio chatters. I ring the doorbell. The boy hikes his jeans back up around his waist. I re-button the top button of my dress.
“Come on in. Take a seat at the kitchen table. I’ll be a minute,” a woman’s voice calls.
Sweet Sixteen rushes to beat me to the Formica table and snaps up a chair. He doesn’t know the lady of the house is peeking in at us. This is a set-up Barbara taught me, to watch guests who don’t know you’re looking, see how they interact with your living space. Do they admire the photos hung on the wall or stare at their feet? Do their hands stray in between the sofa cushions? Barbara tested her new dates in this manner. Another test was to eagle-eye the latest fellow’s interactions with her peculiar daughter. If my mom was unsure about a guy, she’d sit me in the living room with them for about ten minutes and watch how they fared. “Ask him questions,” she’d urge me. “Any question you can think of.”
I remove my sandals and place them neatly beside the row of flip-flops. Sweet Sixteen shuffles his sneakers under his chair. I choose the chair with its back facing the door, guessing that the lady of the house never turns her back to the door. Hers must be the chair closest to the refrigerator.
A perfect pear-shaped matriarch enters the kitchen wearing a country-rose-print cotton housedress that I bet she made herself. Somewhere there’s got to be a granddaughter wearing a tiny version of the same dress. She sinks herself into in the chair nearest the refrigerator. Her fingernails are rough and thick, but she wears multiple gold rings. A coral rose. A cameo. A pink pearl. No diamonds. Che lei classica! “I haven’t got an application to fill out,” she says dryly. “Never needed an application because I’ve never hired nobody before. Even our lawn boy is family, my nephew Vincent.”
“I can mow,” offers Sweet Sixteen. “Clip hedges, trim trees, mend fences.” He enthusiastically mimes operating an electric hedge clipper, then glances at me as if I’m going to try to one-up him. The women’s knuckles are swollen on her slightly trembling hands. She holds an almost empty tumbler; one last sip of watery brown liquid remains.
“Starla Mia Martin,” I rise slowly. “Before I make someone a drink, I like them to know my name.” Gently, I take the glass from her hand. As I expected, I smell coffee and amaretto. The glass is dewy, so I guess she’s drinking her hair of the dog on ice.
“Rose Esposito.”
“Esposito,” I repeat. Half-and-half is in the fridge, and ice is in the freezer; those ingredients are easy to find. I move quickly, not wanting her to think I’m scrutinizing her boxes of Lean Cuisine.
“Italian name,” she says.
“We used to be Martinis, but my Nonno wanted to change it to something more American sounding. He was also Nino, but became Nick. Nick Martin. You know, dopoguerra, lots of name changes,” I venture, knowing I could get myself into trouble here. I risk insulting her if she doesn’t speak la lingua, and on the other hand, I risk shaming myself. My broken Italian isn’t anything worth showing off.
“My Pops had a heck of a time too. He was a World War II vet, you know, probably the same age as your grandpop. Not a good time to be a Guido,” says Rose. The Moka Pot on her stovetop is still slightly warm. I empty the espresso into the glass of ice. Where she keeps the amaretto is the real test. One cupboard, I tell myself. I must find the booze right away or else she’ll shoo me out of her kitchen.
“Mrs Esposito,” I say. “You don’t really need someone to mow the lawn in the middle of the night.” My hand reaches for the cupboard handle with the gummy fingerprints. Inside there is a row of bottles, set tidily like the flip-flops at the door. Limoncello, Zucca, Frangelico, Amaretto, and an unopened bottle of Canadian Crown.
“What you need is someone who knows that if a campfire is burning green it only means some fool is tossing tin cans into the fire.” I set her fresh drink down in front of her. “You need someone who knows that the hose alone won’t wash away vomit from a concrete walkway. You have to use baking soda if you don’t want a stain. That’s what this job is about, right? Making sure the festa stays calma? I will do this for you. I may look like a piccolina, but I can be a boss when I need to be.”
Sweet Sixteen audibly kicks the chrome table leg. He knows he’s been beat. Rose reaches her weary hand toward me, places her palm over mine. Her smile is cautious as she says “Please don’t make me drink alone.”