single native female

“Okay, fine,” I say, slapping the table. “If I listen, will you stop pestering me?”

“Pestering? More like saving you from yourself.” My sister Gloria has been at this since she arrived this morning to drink my coffee and eat Froot Loops from the box by the handful.

“Just read before I leave,” I say. But I can’t leave; it’s my own damn house.

“Okay, okay. Jeez. Ahem.” She rattles the loose-leaf paper, covered in pencil scratches, in front of her face as though preparing to give a speech. “SNF with good sense of humour...”

“Wait a minute. SNF? You make me sound like a bad cheque.”

“Nooo. Silly, that’s NSF.” Gloria laughs and waves a hand at me to say go on. “You’re not non-sufficient funds.”

“I know what it means, Gloria. I’m just saying...”

“Everybody who reads these ads knows that SNF means ‘Single Native Female’. At least the SNMs will, and that’s what counts.” Gloria cocks her head as though an idea has just occurred to her. She shakes her finger and looks annoyed. “You know, speaking of NSF, that reminds me – that damned Gilbert wrote me a bad cheque back in May, and now my bank put ‘restrictions’ on my account.”

I ignore her. “There are no SNMs out there, anyway,” I mutter half-heartedly, cupping my over-sized coffee mug in my hands and gazing out the window at the ragged carpet of chickweed that’s taken over my front lawn. With the sun shining like it is, if I squint my eyes just so, my lawn becomes lush and green – the envy of the hood.

“I’m gonna hafta go over there and kick his ass. I can’t believe I forgot about that cheque.” Gloria taps her forehead with her middle finger, like this might be the magic touch that makes things stick in that head of hers.

Still thinking of the SNMs I say, “They’re all married or hooked up, and anyone who answers this ad is just out being a dog.”

“There you go again. How’d you expect me to be able to convince anyone you got ‘a good sense of humour’ when you keep that up?”

But I’m on a roll now. “And if they are single, there’s a damned good reason for it,” I say.

“Hey, you got any peanut butter?” Gloria asks, distracted. She heads for my cupboards.

“Men are like a box of chocolates,” I say, trying to sound philosophical.

“Okay, Forest Gump,” she shoots over her shoulder, her head buried in the cupboard.

“All the good ones are gone.”

“Here we go again,” I hear her mutter.

“And what’s left turns out to be fruits or nuts.”

“Chocolate. That’d go nice with the peanut butter. Where’d you say you keep it?” That Gloria, always with the food.

“I thought you said you were on a diet.”

“I am. But I read somewhere that chocolate is good for you,” she says.

“So is drinking your own piss, according to some people. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Gloria ignores me. “And peanut butter has protein. Gotta keep up my strength.”

“All that sugar’s not bad for your diabetes?” I ask.

Gloria plops into her chair, peanut butter and a small spoon in hand, her eyes on the paper in front of her. “So you wanna hear the rest of it or what?”

“Not really.” And then I say, trying not to look like I’m trying too hard to be casual, “Hey, speaking of Gilbert, where’s he at these days?”

“You know he’s shacked up with that Juicy what’s-her-face,” Gloria says, her voice taking on an accusatory tone, as if this were somehow my fault.

“You heard she won ten grand in the slots, hey?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. I know Gloria’s heard – everybody’s heard.

“Yeah. Gilbert heard it too,” she says.

“I thought you two were going to work things out?”

“He says we are, but that doesn’t stop him from spending all day wallowing around in her big old smelly bed like a pig. You know she’s got a king-size? Probably needs the space for all her acrobatics.”

“King-size what?” I ask.

“Oh, you,” Gloria says, waving her hand. She’s smiling.

“See? I told you, men are dogs.”

“Hey,” Gloria changes the topic, “since we’re catching up on missing people, have you heard from your boy lately?”

“Jeremy? I thought you didn’t want to hear about that any more?”

“Well, I’m asking now, aren’t I?” Gloria’s voice takes on a pouty tone.

“Had a postcard from Jakarta a couple weeks ago,” I say.

“Ja – what?” She doesn’t let me answer. “I still don’t know how you could just let him go off that way.”

“How could I stop him? He’s almost twenty years old, for heaven’s sake. Besides, somebody’s got to get out of this place.”

“But it’s all so unsafe,” she says.

“An adventure. That’s how he describes it,” I say. “But it’s keeping him clean. That’s got to count for something.”

“He’ll need therapy,” Gloria says, ignoring me. “Haven’t you heard of PTSD?”

“Yeah, I think I feel it coming on right now,” I say, holding my head. “Gloria, you’ve been watching too much TV.”

“He’ll have issues,” she insists.

“Besides, therapy’s overrated.”

“Have you been? To therapy?” Gloria’s question surprises me. What does she know, or think she knows? I wonder if Gilbert’s been pillow-talking.

“Once,” I quip. “It’s all our mother’s fault.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Gloria says, and we laugh.

“What’s he doing in Ja – whatever, anyway?”

“Sandbagging. Peace work. Terrible flooding. I heard it on the news.”

“That’s not so bad. No fighting, at least.”

“He told me they met up with a troop from the Foreign Legion. And those soldiers, they bite the heads off live chickens – a sort of initiation ritual.”

“And you think he won’t need therapy after that?”

“Could you do it?” I ask her.

“What? Bite the head off a chicken?” she asks, making a face.

“A live chicken,” I say.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“To save your child’s life,” I press.

“That would be an unfair choice.”

“Who said life was fair?” I don’t know why I’m goading her. Except she’s so aggravating, so blind. So uncritical.

“Okay. Enough. Listen to this – SNF with good sense of humour loves fine dining...”

“Mmm, chicken,” I say.

“...is honest...”

“Meaning I’m not a convicted felon,” I interject.

“...and comes with no baggage.”

“Am I suddenly going to develop long-term memory loss?”

“Willing to meet and take it from there.”

“Should we add Bring your own bus fare, just in case?” I ask.

“I think we should put in a hobby,” Gloria says, ignoring me. “Tell me one of your hobbies.”

“You mean besides the macroindianophilia?”

“I hate it when you use big words,” she whines.

“I hate it when you write personal ads for me.”

“Okay. Whatever. Just spell it for me.”

“M-a-c...”

“Wait a minute. Are you pulling my leg?”

“I don’t know. Does it seem longer than the other one?”

“Carmellll,” Gloria says in a familiar whine.

“Sorry, sweetie. I’m just having some fun.”

“I need to hurry up and get this done. I gotta pick up Junior from school.” Gloria makes a face, clearly annoyed.

“Junior’s in school?”

“Yeah, I finally convinced him to go.”

“And it’s your job to drive him there and pick him up?”

“How else is he going to get there? Hey can I borrow your car?”

“Gloria, Junior’s twenty-three. You gotta make him grow up sometime.”

“You know he’s my baby.”

“He’s a baby, alright,” I mutter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you forget about last time he stole your bank card and cleaned out your account?”

“He can’t help it. He’s got addictions. He caught it from his father.”

“Enough about his father. What about his mother? Did you ever hear of being an enabler?”

“I am not! How can you say that?”

“And why do you need my car? Where’s yours?”

“Gilbert had an appointment today. I lent him.”

“What’s the matter, Juicy’s got a big old king size, but no car for him?” I tease.

“Guess not,” Gloria says quietly. She sniffs.

“Don’t be getting all emotional, you. I’m just looking out for you. You’re such a damn pushover.”

Gloria sniffs again.

“Come on, sis. I’ll let you have my car.”

“You will?” She brightens.

“On one account.”

“What’s that?”

“You stop harassing me about this damned ad.”

“But you didn’t even finish hearing it.”

I stand up and walk to the coffee pot, my back to Gloria, pretend I need a warm up. “Hey, Gloria, what would you do if you won ten grand like Juicy?”

“I dunno.” She’s still re-reading her ad.

“I know what I wouldn’t do,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“I wouldn’t let some man get his hands on it.”

“All men aren’t bad, you know,” she says.

“Oh yeah. You mean like Gilbert.” I bite my tongue before I say too much.

“That’s not fair,” Gloria whines. “Gilbert’s the father of my children. I have an obligation to work things out.”

“Gloria, your kids are grown. Cut the strings.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Gloria looks away as if she realizes what she’s just said. On the record, Jeremy’s an official case of father unknown.

When he was a toddler, Jeremy loved when Gilbert would come to the house. As soon as Gilbert walked in the door, Jeremy would waddle up to him and hold out his arms to be picked up. It was clear to me – Jeremy wanted a man in his life. Then Jeremy started to talk. He couldn’t say Gilbert. Instead, he’d run around the house shouting “Guilt! Guilt!” Ironic and funny, until Gloria heard him one day.

“What’s he saying?” she asked, squinting her eyes at Jeremy. “What?”

I couldn’t look at Gloria that time. Shortly after that, Gilbert stopped coming over.

“Winning that money around here would be a curse,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like stink-bait. Guys like old Gilbert would come sniffing around looking for their meal ticket,” I say.

“Oh, Carmel.” Gloria sounds disappointed. “So cynical.”

“Not cynical,” I correct her. “Practical.”

Gloria gets a dreamy look in her eye. “Well, if I won that money I’d do something that would make us all get along. I’d start by sending Junior on one of them ministries to get him healed.”

I laugh. “Gloria. I don’t think being gay’s a disease.”

“Junior is not gay,” Gloria says forcefully. “I told you that already.” Then more softly, “He’s confused.”

“Does the booze help him get un-confused?”

She ignores me. “Then I’d buy me a big old bedroom set.”

“Oh Lord,” I roll my eyes.

“And Gilbert would come back to me.”

“Hallelujah,” I say, waving my hands in the air.

“And we’d spend all day in that king-size bed, like rich people, with fancy feather pillows and duvets and other French-sounding stuff that you can get for beds.”

“Well, you know what they say?”

“And we’d eat bonbons from a red satin box shaped like a heart,” she goes on.

“A woman without a man...”

“Bonbons are French too.”

“Is like a fish without a bicycle.”

“Oooh. I can just picture it. Can’t you, Carmel?”

“I can, and it’s making me nauseous.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gloria says, snapping out of her daydream.

“You know what I’d do? For real?” I ask.

“Hmmm.” I can tell Gloria doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to hear me say it.

“I’d pack up all my stuff into my rusty old Civic and drive as far as that money took me.”

“That’s what I’ll put!” Gloria exclaims, picking up her pencil.

“I wouldn’t stop until I was broke.”

“Loves to travel,” she says as she writes.

“I’d only stop if the wheels fell off my car.” I squint my eyes and talk dreamily, looking out the window at my lush green grass, at the Civic sitting in the gravel driveway. But no amount of squinting can make that car look better.

“Although interested in travel would cover Jeremy off in Ja – wherever.”

“And then I’d buy more wheels,” I persist with my story.

“We can’t really say interested in live chickens,” Gloria ponders, chewing on the pencil.

“I’d drive to the edge of the earth and look over.”

“That would make you sound like a nut...” she trails off.

“I’d go until my car fell apart and I was so broke that I didn’t have a hope of ever getting back.”

I feel Gloria staring at me. “I guess I can’t really say sensitive, can I?” she asks.

“Hopefully I’d be lost too. Just to be sure.”

“Not if I’m going to maintain honest.”

“That’s how damned bad I want to get away from here.”

My kitchen is silent. I keep my eyes on the window.

Finally, Gloria says, “You’re always so sure.” Her voice is soft.

“Hmmm?” I pretend I don’t hear.

“Don’t you ever have doubts?” she asks, picking at her fingernail.

A large cloud rolls quietly over the sun, casting a dim shadow on my front yard, making my “grass” look a little less lush.

I stand up and toss Gloria my keys.

“Don’t smoke in the car.”