Jed’s left and Gran’s asleep on the couch with the TV blaring. Harriet turns it down slightly before rifling through Gran’s recyclables. Gran forgets to take the bags stuffed with newspapers, ice cream containers, toilet and paper towel rolls, milk cartons, Kleenex boxes and soda bottles downstairs. These materials thrill Harriet because they are the building blocks for papier mâché sculpture. Gennedy won’t let her make papier mâché at home because it’s too messy. She digs around in Gran’s cabinets for flour, cornstarch and the big mixing bowl. She pulls out Archie’s toolbox from the broom closet and finds wire cutters, wire and duct tape. After stirring three teaspoons of sugar into a cup of Sanka, and eating six Peek Freans with red centres, she starts to work on The Leopard Who Changed Her Spots, cutting the recyclables into shapes and wiring or taping them together. “Hot diggity dog,” she says.
It takes hours to construct the body, and she can’t get the tail right. It’s four in the morning before she mixes the flour and water. The ticking of Gran’s smiley face clock keeps distracting her. She climbs onto the counter, takes the clock down and removes the battery. Time stands still and she senses Mrs. Rivera. In science class, Mrs. Elrind showed a video explaining that matter never really goes anywhere, just moves around and changes shape. Which means people, even when they’re dead, never really go anywhere. So feeling Mrs. Rivera in the kitchen doesn’t frighten Harriet. She attempts to sing what words she can remember from “Billie Jean” to please Mrs. Rivera. She moonwalks and does the chicken dance. If only Harriet had discovered Michael Jackson before Mrs. Rivera died, she could have demonstrated her new moves and made Mrs. Rivera laugh. She stopped laughing at the end, and the morphine flattened her eyes. She wasn’t really seeing Harriet anymore. Before she got really sick, Mrs. Rivera made Harriet feel whole. She realized only after Mrs. Rivera was dead that she never felt whole anymore.
But now in the kitchen she can hear Mrs. Rivera saying, “You are special, anak,” and nodding and smiling at The Leopard Who Changed Her Spots.
When the cancer treatment didn’t work and they cut out Mrs. Rivera’s colon, Harriet began to despise healthy people walking around free of pain and suffering, clueless as to how incredibly lucky they were to be able to walk, shit and complain about dumb stuff like phone bills and bad movies. The doctors pulled a piece of intestine through the skin of Mrs. Rivera’s abdomen for shit to come out. Mrs. Rivera had to regularly measure, cut and glue a ring of plastic to her skin around the piece of intestine, then attach a plastic pouch to the ring to collect her feces, and fasten a clip to secure the plastic pouch’s opening. It was a complicated procedure and often shit spilled from the intestine before she was able to get the ring glued properly, or the pouch attached with the clip. The shit would spurt all over Mrs. Rivera’s surgical wound, the bed, the plastic ring and the pouch. If Harriet was there, she’d try to stop the stream of green and slimy feces with a towel. At first she thought it would be embarrassing for Mrs. Rivera to accept help from a child, but soon it became obvious that all Mrs. Rivera cared about in those distressing moments was containing the shit leaking out of her. Harriet became adept at cutting out the ring and gluing it over the stoma, as well as re-dressing the wound because she’d watched her mother clean and dress Irwin’s surgical wounds countless times. Another stoma on the other side of Mrs. Rivera’s abdomen drained post-surgical fluids. This stoma required a pouch and changing too, but didn’t leak with the same urgency. A few months after the surgery the fluid-draining stoma closed up, leaving another scar on Mrs. Rivera’s abdomen. She had as many scars from surgeries as Irwin. Harriet did a painting called The Tree of Death. The trunk combined Mrs. Rivera’s and Irwin’s scarred torsos. The tree burst into blossom above their mutilated bodies and reached into a Prussian blue sky dotted with silver stars. The painting upset Lynne. She asked Harriet to put it in her closet.
Harriet also hated healthy people because they were able to spend money on fun things whereas Mr. Rivera’s earnings paid for medical supplies. Harriet would see surgical supply store boxes stacked on the table, with receipts for hundreds of dollars taped to them. The Riveras still had karaoke parties, ate pork intestines and played pequa, bingo and Texas hold ’em. They’d bet up to $20, and the winner would laugh at the losers then toss his or her winnings at the children, who’d scramble to collect the loonies, toonies and quarters. Rice was always cooking in the cooker. It came out white and fluffy, not dry and yellow like Gennedy’s. When Harriet works at the bank and has her own house, she will buy a rice cooker.
She knows her time is running out, that Gennedy will charge in with his key and drag her back to the apartment to entertain Irwin. For this reason she must finish The Leopard Who Changed Her Spots before morning. She eats more red-centred Peek Freans and shreds more newspaper to mix with flour and water. Without the clock ticking she is able to focus and, with the help of a wire hanger, get the tail right.
When Mrs. Rivera could still get out of bed, she and some old aunts prayed together in the living room, always inviting Harriet to join them. They knelt in a circle, fingering their rosary beads, while Mrs. Rivera led them in a prayer for whomever she felt needed one. She’d say, “Together we pray now today for our sister, Vivette, may God grant her health and a long life and make sure she’s okay and her family is happy.” Then they’d meditate on sorrowful mysteries like the agony in the garden before saying the Lord’s Prayer. Next Mrs. Rivera would say, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” The other old ladies would chime in, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen.” They’d repeat this ten times then move on to the next sorrowful mystery. None of this made any sense to Harriet but she felt calm kneeling with the old ladies, and they always offered her pan de sal and Fita crackers afterwards. Mrs. Rivera worried that Harriet was too thin and made her drink Ovaltine. Harriet liked the malty flavour, especially with SkyFlakes. She loved the contrast of the salty crackers with the sweetness of the Ovaltine.
While smoothing papier mâché on the leopard, she hears Mrs. Rivera saying a novena to her patron saint, Saint Joseph, and blessed Mother Mary, and the sacred heart of Jesus. When Harriet asked what a novena was, Mrs. Rivera explained it was a petition for a cause, direct to God through his son, Jesus Christ, or Mother Mary or any saint.
With all that petitioning going on, it didn’t seem possible that Mrs. Rivera would die. She tried to stay ambulatory and would occasionally go to Mr. Hung’s with Harriet. But after her pouch burst at Mr. Hung’s, she was ashamed to be seen by him. “It wasn’t your fault,” Harriet insisted.
“No, anak, I should have emptied it before we left.”
As Mrs. Rivera got sicker, the old ladies started praying at five in the morning—to three or more saints at a time—especially Saint Jude and Saint Peregrine. None of this made any difference and confirmed Harriet’s suspicions that there is no God.
Mrs. Rivera gave her a small crucifix to put in her bedroom. It’s in the closet, glued to the back of The Tree of Death.
She wakens to the screech of the fire alarm. “Gran?” She grabs the fire extinguisher from the wall but can’t see any flames, just the electric frying pan smoking. She unplugs it, runs cold water in it and turns on the stove fan. “Gran?” She’s not in the living room. Harriet slides open the balcony doors to enable smoke to escape. She finds Gran in the bedroom banging the phone against her bedside table. “Phone’s not working.”
“Gran, you left the frying pan on. Didn’t you hear the alarm?”
“Is that what that was?” She shakes the receiver and holds it against her ear. “That damn phone company.”
“I’ll fix it.” While Gran’s fluffing her bedhead in the mirror, Harriet plugs in the phone then hurries to the kitchen to plug in the one there. “Is it working now?”
“How’d you do that, mugsy? You are so smart. Don’t know where those brains came from. Not from your father’s side of the family, I’ll tell you that. How ’bout I make us some pancakes? Just let me call my hairdresser.”
“The pan’s got to cool off first. You can’t leave the kitchen when it’s on. When you put the frying pan on, stay in the kitchen.”
“I always do. I just had to call Barb to get my hair done. Big night tonight at the Legion. Got to look my best—you never know when an eligible might turn up.”
Harriet writes with felt marker on a piece of cardboard DO NOT LEAVE KITCHEN WHEN FRYING PAN IS ON!!!!!! and tapes it to the wall behind the counter. She pulls Eggo waffles from the freezer and slides them into the toaster.
Gran, patting her hair, looks around at the mess. “What you been up to?”
“Mum and Gennedy will put you in a home if you keep forgetting to turn the frying pan off.”
“I’d like to see those numbskulls try.” She spots the leopard. “Aha, a sculpture.” She steps back and squints at the leopard, closing one eye, then the other. “Is it an earthquake? Wait, don’t tell me, it’s after an earthquake, when all the roads are lumpy and twisted up.”
This is what Harriet loves about art; it can be anything to anybody. “It does look like after an earthquake.”
“What happened to Mr. Happy Face?”
“The ticking was bugging me.” Harriet fits the battery back in the clock and climbs on the counter to hang it on the wall. “What’s the clock on the stove say?”
“Ten twenty.”
Harriet resets Mr. Happy Face.
“Don’t know how a clock ticking can bug you, mugsy. High strung is what you are, just like your grandpa. You want some Sanka?”
“Please.”
“You didn’t sleep at all did you? There’ll be hell to pay with your mother.”
“Don’t tell her.”
The Eggos pop and, while Gran pulls the syrup and butter from the fridge, Harriet sneaks a heart pill into her waffle.
“You must’ve scared the ants.” Gran squints at the counter. “I don’t see any of the little critters.”
“Just don’t drip any syrup.”
The phone rings and Harriet grabs it, suspecting it’s her mother.
“Where have you guys been?” Lynne asks. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
“We’ve been busy.”
“Well, Gennedy’s on his way over.”
“What about my glue gun?”
“What about his digital clock?”
“I’m not coming home unless I get my gun.”
“I told him to give you back the gun.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Oh for god’s sake, Harriet. There are more important things in this world than your glue gun.”
Gran grabs the phone. “Quit doing what that lazy-assed boyfriend of yours tells you to do. You’re a grown woman and she’s your daughter. Give her back her gun or I’ll buy her another one.” Gran picks up her waffle, dripping syrup on the floor. While she listens to Lynne she winks at Harriet. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know you know what’s best for everybody. That’s why your daughter comes running here every chance she gets . . . No need to shout.” She holds the receiver away from her ear while munching waffle. Harriet starts on her second Eggo and pours herself orange juice. Gran, still holding the phone away from her ear, yawns. Lynne sounds distraught and Harriet considers taking the receiver and consoling her, but she’s angry about the glue gun. Gran says loudly into the phone, “Mark my words, that good for nothing loser will be the end of your daughter. One morning you’ll wake up and she’ll be gone and it won’t be to my place. Find yourself a decent man, for goodness’ sake—enough of this half-wit.” She hangs up then lifts the receiver off the hook and drops it on the table. “Beats me why she wastes her time with no-goodniks. She’s still got the gams, she could have anybody she wants if she put on a skirt and some decent pumps.”
“Why does she have to have a man at all?”
“Everybody has to have a man.”
“No they don’t. Lots of women don’t have men and do just fine.”
“It gets mighty cold between the sheets, mugsy. You’ll find that out.” The phone beeps, indicating it’s off the hook. Gran stuffs it in her tea cozy. “What a fug.” She starts stomping on the ants crawling in the dripped syrup. “Uckety puckety.”
The apartment door swings open and Gennedy booms, “What the hell’s going on here? I smell smoke.”
“It’s the neighbours’ barbecue,” Harriet says.
“Like hell it is. Mads, did you leave something on the stove again?” He puts his hands on his hips the way he does when he scolds Harriet.
Gran eyeballs him. “Who pissed in your Sugar Puffs this morning?”
“You’re a threat to yourself and everyone in this building.”
“Then get out of it.” Gran stomps on more ants. Harriet wets paper towel and starts mopping up the syrup.
“Enough of that, Harriet, we’re leaving.”
“Says who?” Gran demands. “She’s doing fine here.”
“You can set yourself on fire, Madeleine, but I won’t let you kill our daughter.”
“Your daughter? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Come on, Harriet. Your brother and mother need you.”
“Where’s my glue gun?”
“On your bed.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“You don’t.” He stares at the leopard. “What the hell is that?”
“A sculpture. I’m taking it with me.”
“Not a chance. It’ll mess up the car.”
“I’m not leaving without it.”
Gennedy sighs, gripping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger to indicate that nobody suffers like he does. Harriet picks up Gran’s phone and calls Lynne. “Is my glue gun on my bed?”
“If he said it’s there, it’s there.”
“I want you to check.”
“Oh for god’s sake.”
“I’m not going with him unless it’s on my bed.”
“Fine, give me a second.” As her mother walks to her bedroom Harriet hears Irwin singing his ABCs. “Yeah, it’s here. Please come home, bunny. I’ll make grilled cheese for lunch.”
Irwin squeals, “Haarree! Pleeeeze come home! I miss you soooo much!”
“I’m not leaving without my sculpture. He says it will mess up the car. I’ll wrap it in a garbage bag and it won’t mess up anything.”
Gennedy grabs the phone. “For once can you not undermine my authority by giving in to her?” He turns his back on Harriet as he listens to Lynne. Harriet sticks out her tongue. “I just don’t think it’s right,” Gennedy says then listens again, periodically saying, “I understand, darlin’,” and “I know he does,” and finally, “All right. Whatever you say. You know best.” He hangs up and turns to Harriet who is already fitting the leopard into a garbage bag.
“What’s it supposed to be anyway?” he asks.
“Whatever you want it to be.”
“I want it to be gone. History. I’m sick of your messy garbage that nobody gives a shit about.”
“And I’m sick of you that nobody gives a shit about.” Harriet watches his face redden and his shoulders edge towards his ears. She knows he wants to thwack her. “Why don’t you get your own wife and your own family and leave mine alone?”
“Hear, hear,” Gran says.
He looks at her as though he wants her eaten by manananggals. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”
They don’t exchange a word until he drops Harriet in front of the Shangrila and says, “Go straight up and see Irwin. And take that catastrophe with you.” She carefully lifts the leopard from the back seat and heads for the lobby. The seniors mob her. “Where in heck have you been?” Mr. Shotlander demands. “My computer’s on the blink again. I can’t turn the dang thing off or on. I checked all the wires. Nothing doing.”
“I am no longer in your employment. I don’t work for snitches.”
“Snitches?” Mr. Shotlander smooths his tufted hair. “What are you on about?”
“You tell my mother’s boyfriend everything. You’re a no-good spy, and I’m not going to help you anymore.”
“I’m no spy. He asked if I’d seen you. What am I supposed to say?”
“You say nothing. You shut your big yob.”
Mr. Chubak, in his Che Guevara T-shirt, feels around for change in his corduroys. “Harry, some bad news this end. Wouldn’t you know it, I’ve been rooked by Bell again. If I give you a toonie, could you call those nice folks in India for me?”
“Maybe later.”
Mr. Hoogstra tips his grubby captain’s hat. “What you got there, Harry?”
“A sculpture.”
“No kiddin’. I’m crazy about sculpture. Henry Moore, have you seen that guy’s stuff down at the AGO? Terrific, all those big women. You got to love that guy.” He lifts one end of the garbage bag. “Can I take a peek?”
Because no one ever asks to see her art, Harriet pulls the garbage bag off the leopard.
Mr. Hoogstra stands back to admire it. “Now that’s a Kodak moment.”
“For the love of Mike,” Mr. Shotlander says. “What is that?”
“It’s abstract art, Shotlander.” Mr. Zilberschmuck slides a pack of Dunhills into his suit pocket. Mrs. Pungartnik, her orange hair frizzing out of control, tromps towards him, clutching a crumpled Kleenex.
“Was it you who gave my husband cigarettes?”
“I did not, Ava, I assure you.”
“God will punish you.” She points to the ceiling. “He sees everything.” She stops in front of the leopard, staring at it and away at the same time.
Mr. Chubak, gripping his red suspenders, approaches the sculpture. “Is it a sign of the zodiac?”
“It’s abstract,” Mr. Zilberschmuck repeats. Harriet presses the elevator button.
“I’ll bet you money it’s Libra,” Mr. Chubak says.
Mr. Hoogstra jabs a toothpick into his gums. “Looks like it’s got a tail.”
“Could be a hose,” Mr. Tumicelli wheezes, pulling his black overcoat around him.
Mrs. Chipchase, knitting quietly in the corner, says, “It’s a leopard.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Shotlander pokes his finger in his ear.
“Are you going to give her spots, Harriet?” Mrs. Chipchase asks.
“It’s the leopard who changed her spots,” Harriet clarifies.
“Of course,” Mrs. Chipchase says.
“A leopard, eh?” Mr. Hoogstra circles the sculpture, observing it closely. “I can see that. A leopard. Terrific.”
Harriet steps into the elevator.
When she lets herself into the apartment, she smells scrambled eggs and suspects her mother and Gennedy have been force-feeding Irwin. She makes a beeline for her room, but then sees her brother on the couch, thinner than ever, struggling to do up his belt. His helplessness weakens her, forcing her to set the leopard on the coffee table. Irwin stands and reaches for her, causing his pants to drop. She pulls them back up, cinching his belt to the last hole. “We’ve got to put a new hole in your belt, buddy.” He wraps his arms around her waist, holding tight. He smells of hospital and she tries not to think about what he’s been through. He grips her hand and guides her to the couch. “Look,” he points at some stick figures made from pipe cleaners. “A nice lady gave them to me. She said all her grandkids make pipe cleaner people.” Irwin’s pipe cleaner people are lopsided, with disproportionate arms and legs and big, sloping heads. “Want to make one, Harry?”
“Sure. Maybe I’ll make an animal.”
“That would be sooo coooool!” Irwin sits so close she can feel the bone of his thigh. “What kind of animal, Harry?”
“What kind do you want?”
“A rabbit?” Irwin’s favourite story is The Velveteen Rabbit because, as harrowing as it is, the boy gets better in the end. Harriet has read him this story many times. She begins to twist rabbit ears out of the pipe cleaners. Irwin’s laboured breathing suggests his lungs might be filling with fluid and he could die within the week. Lynne and Gennedy start arguing in the kitchen, probably about Harriet. She can tell they’re trying to keep their voices down so as not to upset Irwin. “Just a sec,” she tells him. He tries to grab her as she slips off the couch. “Be right back.”
The glue gun is on her bed. “Hallelujah,” she says, immediately hiding it on the windowsill between the drawn blind and the pane. She reaches under her dresser for Gennedy’s clock, grabs it, dashes down the hall and sets it on his bedside table.
“Haarreee?”
“Coming.”
As per Irwin’s requests, she makes a pipe cleaner rabbit, a dog and a lion. While twisting the lion’s mane she notices her brother’s head listing more than usual to one side. He leans heavily against her. “Are you okay, bud?”
“They’re fighting.”
“I know.”
“Will you snuggle with me?”
“It’s morning. You can’t go to sleep yet.”
“I’m really pooped. Please, can we snuggle?”
Harriet doesn’t want to do this. She wants to work on the leopard and make escape money off the seniors to get away from Lynne and Gennedy. “Okay.” She lies back, making room for him on the couch, adjusting cushions around his bony frame.
“They never fight at the hospital,” he says. “How come they fight here?”
“They’ll stop soon. Go to sleep.”
He rests his head on her chest and immediately she feels his speedy heart beating into her ribs. Her knotted heart loosens slightly. His breathing slows and it occurs to her that he might be dying right this second, and what a gentle way this would be to go, not shaken by a seizure, with eyes rolling, foaming at the mouth—shitting himself—but gently coasting into another form of matter.