CHAPTER SIX
The next day the whole thing replayed in my mind.
The Pillsbury Doughboy giggles when he’s poked in his wibbly-wobbly belly.
Look familiar, Poppy?
Have a google of those letters on his arm.
I pictured it—the four letters above the motorcycle tattoo.
I opened my laptop.
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come as a surprise. Nothing did anymore.
I typed them in.
S.O.A.R.
Results included a village in Wales, an aviation unit in the U.S. army, and a song by Christina Aguilera.
I added motorcycle to my search. The first result was a biker club.
Sons of Aryan Resistance.
I liked Thumper. He’d rewritten the Bible. He made it nicer.
Mission: to patrol the streets and cleanse them of undesirables
Undesirables: racial minorities, immigrants, and sexual degenerates
I felt sick.
Maybe he was part of that aviation unit. Or was Christina Aguilera’s number one fan.
I watched footage of them in action. Boots on heads and red, red blood.
Maybe that’s why he’s called Thumper.
I got dressed. I had to go out but I didn’t know where.
I walked down Churchill wishing for that thirty-second loop of Miracle and me walking hand in hand down James Street. Clip-clop, flash, flash, repeat.
Ralph was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house. He waved me over.
“A young couple just moved into number thirty-two,” he said. “They’re putting on an addition. It’s going to ruin the look of the whole street.”
Normally, I’d have cared. Normally, I’d have stood with him and ranted and raved. I’d have said that renovations compromise the integrity of historic homes, that modernization strips wartime houses of their quaintness and charm. But suddenly, I didn’t care. “Oh well,” I said. “C’est la vie.”
I walked to Victoria Road and knocked on the door of Plan 47-11.
“Want to go for a walk?”
Lewis nodded. “Give me a sec.”
I heard a woman’s voice. “You go. Don’t worry. Have fun.”
We walked along the tracks, just as we had the night before.
“Did you know,” I said, “that the royal train carried King George and Queen Elizabeth down these very tracks in 1939?”
He smiled. “And you know this because…”
“I googled steam trains in the forties and saw a photo.”
“Wow,” he said. “You really are obsessed.”
I smiled. “It was a great era.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Really? How so?”
“Well, first of all,” I said, “there was no internet.”
He looked thoughtful. “Fair enough. What else?”
“Things were just…I don’t know…simpler.”
“Really?” he said. “There was a war going on. How is that simple?”
I sighed. “Because right was right and wrong was wrong. I mean, nobody questioned whether Hitler was breaking any harassment guidelines or debated hate speech versus free speech.”
He stopped walking. “Whoa. Are you serious?”
“I’m just saying. Back then, there was no ambiguity. Things were pretty clear-cut.”
“So let me get this right. You would rather live during World War II when millions and millions of people died because living in the world today puts you at risk of cyberbullying?”
“Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.”
“That’s because it is stupid.”
I sighed. “The war was terrible. I know that. But people came together over it, you know? It was all for one and one for all. It was a very empowering time for women too.”
“Until the war ended and they were barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen again.”
“Geez, Lewis. Why are you being so difficult? This is supposed to be easier with you.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Buck’s an arsehole. But you…you’re a good guy.”
“Which means what?” he said. “Everything I do should be perfect?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“Maybe I should put on an army uniform and march off to war or say, Golly gee willikers, Poppy, you sure are swell to everything you say.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Life is a mixture of good and bad, Poppy. It was then, it is now, and it always will be.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry. I’m frustrated. Your thinking is really warped.”
The gravel next to the tracks crunched under our feet.
“The thing is,” I said, “my issues wouldn’t have existed if I lived in the forties.”
“And mine would have been shameful,” he said. “I’d have been unhappy my whole life.”
My heart quivered.
We heard the ding-ding-ding of the commuter train in the distance. We moved well away from the tracks. When the train passed I could see Chen Chicken between two buildings that backed onto the railway line. Mr. Chen was outside his shop chatting enthusiastically with the other shop owners. Lewis bumped his shoulder into mine. “Just think, if this was the forties you probably wouldn’t have a job as a giant chicken.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Bummer.”
When the train was gone we turned back toward home. We veered off the tracks and onto Richmond Street. Lewis went into a corner store and came out with a Popsicle. He broke it in half.
“Pineapple,” I said. “My favorite.”
Back on the tracks I said, “I’m sorry about how your life would be in the forties.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t plan on taking a trip back in time.”
The icy cold felt nice on my lips. “Did you know that the word Popsicle is a word blend? The inventor’s kids came up with it. Pop’s icicles. Popsicles!”
He tapped the end of my nose with his ice pop. “Have I told you you’re adorkable?”
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and wondered if it was unbecoming.
At the bottom of Churchill we said goodbye.
“Will I see you again?” he asked. “Under the bridge?”
I shook my head. “Not while Buck’s around.”
“Maybe we can go for a walk again?”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
When I got home Mom was hanging a sign in our kitchen that said Homemade with love. In other words, I licked the spoon and kept using it.
She looked down at me from the stepstool. “Hilarious, huh?”
I didn’t get it. Was she trying to say that spit equaled love? If so, my pfsshes were basically saliva hugs.
“How’s the boyfriend?” she said.
“Nonexistent right now.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, hon.”
She passed me a package of Oreos the way she’d pass me a Band-Aid for a cut.
“Here. This’ll help.”
I took one out and twisted it in half.
Mom sat beside me. “Eve called today.”
I scraped the icing off with my teeth. “She did?”
Mom nodded. “I thought you’d be back on the team, now that it’s summer.”
I’d told her I left because I was falling behind on my studies.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Luckily, Cam burst in with an announcement.
“I’ve been promoted!”
“To what?” I asked. “Senior hair sweeper?”
He shot me a look. “Head of guest services.”
Mom was impressed. “Good for you, Cam!”
“I still sweep,” he said. “But Fabe says I’ll be mostly on cash, dealing with customers.”
Fabe.
I stood up. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Have fun sweating your ass off in your chicken costume,” said Cam.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”
I hated it when there was tension between us. I went upstairs and texted an apology for the senior sweeper comment. He texted back: No prob. Love you, Popsicle. He signed off with six x’s and six o’s.
I sat on the barbershop bench with Miracle. Her little body was pressed up close to mine. I didn’t feel sad but I didn’t feel happy either. The sun was shining and she’d just placed a random kiss on my feathery elbow. It wasn’t bad and it wasn’t good, it just was.
“Guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“I went to James Street today. MaJonna taught me to twerk.”
“I told you to stay away from that neighborhood.”
“He sang ‘Like a Virgin’ and now I know all the words.”
I sighed. “Great.”
“MaJonna taught me some cool moves,” she said. “Want me to teach them to you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
She showed me how to do the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man. A couple of drunks joined in. Someone yelled, “Go Chicken, it’s your birthday” from a passing car. Another mascot, Willie the Wiener from Hawt Dawgs, challenged me to a dance-off. A crowd formed. The wiener won. The shift went by fast. When it was over I asked Mr. Chen if he wanted me to stay longer.
He was suspicious. “Why?”
Because if I went home I’d watch videos of S.O.A.R.
“Because I’m broke and need to earn a few bucks.”
He looked me up and down. “You always did strike me as a spendthrift.”
“Maybe I can help in the kitchen,” I said.
“You? In the kitchen? I want satisfied customers, Poppy Flower! Not dead ones!”
All of a sudden I felt drained.
“I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Chen.”
I picked up my head and walked to the door.
“Poppy,” he said. “Wait.”
I turned around. “Yeah?”
He nodded at the till. “You can work the cash.”
I let myself smile. “Really?”
“Why not?” he said. “You’re probably good with money—seeing how you spend it like it’s going out of style.”
We worked well together, him cooking the chicken and me selling it.
“See?” I said, during a quiet moment. “Isn’t this better than you doing it all yourself?”
He was about to answer when the phone rang. I picked it up quickly. “Chen Chicken. Poppy speaking. How may I be of service?”
He rolled his eyes but I could tell he was impressed with my professionalism.
It was a great night and it only got better. When we closed up shop I walked outside to see not just Chen Chicken but the whole of Elgin Street lit up in white fairy lights.
It was all for one and one for all.
Just like the good old days.
A couple of weeks went by. I worked extra shifts to keep busy. Miracle asked if I’d ever forgive Buck and I said no, third chances were for suckers.
Lewis and I went on occasional walks. We talked about everything: his dad, who was getting weaker by the day, and my Cam, whose new job had me worried.
We talked about Miracle too. “If she’s twerking at age six,” I said, “imagine how provocative she’ll be when she’s older.” Lewis said, “Your Rosie the Riveter was pretty sexy. And what about those pinup girls?” I explained that pinup girls owned their sexuality at a time when they were expected to act demure. “In my opinion,” I said, “they are symbols of feminism.” He said, “Maybe Miracle will be a symbol of feminism too.”
These were the deep conversations I had with Lewis.
I didn’t miss Buck very much.
But Thumper? Lewis said he was doing fine but my heart still pained to think of him.
One day, early in August, Buck showed up at Chen Chicken. I put up an ice shield in all directions.
“Take your head off, Poppy.”
He had an expensive bouquet of flowers in his hand. I shook my head.
“Come on. Please?”
“You made fun of me.”
“I was plastered.”
“You were nasty.”
“I’m a twonk. I don’t know why I said the things that I said.”
“Go away. I’m working.”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Come with you where?”
“I want you to see the streets. Through my eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because maybe then you’d understand me.”
“You’re going to blame the streets now, are you?” I said. “For being an asshole?”
“Just give me a chance. Please?”
“I’m working.”
“After work.”
“No.”
“Come on, Pidge. You can help me deliver these flowers to Miracle’s mom.”
“They’re for Miracle’s mom?”
“I want to thank her for the home cooking she sends under the bridge.”
He brought the flowers to his nose. “I also wanted to show her that not all men are tossers.”
I thawed a bit beneath my costume.
“So,” he said. “Will you come?”
It was like Lewis said, life is a mixture of good and bad. I couldn’t expect him to be perfect.
“I’m off in an hour.”
Miracle’s mom was skin and bones. The forget-me-nots matched the veins in her arms.
“Thanks, Buck. They’re lovely.”
She was lovely too—despite her pale and haggard appearance.
Miracle’s house was the same as Ralph’s—Plan 47-4. We sat in the living room, which faced the street. Portraits filled the wall, mostly of Miracle, but of a man in uniform too. Miracle followed my gaze. “That’s Papa.”
She pointed to the words on a plaque underneath. Corporal Mateo Melendez. Royal Canadian Regiment.
Miracle’s mom made a whimper. Buck left me on the loveseat and moved to the couch. He put an arm around her. He was the nicest asshole I’d ever met.
There were upholstery buttons on the arm of the loveseat. Miracle straddled it and held one in each hand. She was twisting them—counterclockwise with her left hand, clockwise with her right. She turned them until they had no give. I waited for them to pop. “A social worker came today,” she said. “They might take me away.”
Buck patted the space next to him. “Come here, love.” She wiggled in close and stuck her thumb in her mouth. I stayed where I was, useless as always.
Miracle’s mom wiped her eyes. “I’d clean toilets all day long if I could. But no one wants an ex-addict in their house, around their valuables.”
She looked at the portrait on the wall. “I’ve made a mess of things. He’d be so disappointed.”
I was worried for Miracle. Who would buy her clothes that clatched?
“No one is going anywhere,” said Buck. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I wasn’t sure why he was saying these things. Miracle could get taken away. Stuff like that happened all the time.
“Now,” said Buck, “as we say in England, a nice cup of tea solves everything.”
Miracle’s mom smiled. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Buck caught my eye. He made Gilbert the rabbit dance on his knee. A smile formed around Miracle’s thumb. I was no longer a block of ice, I was a puddle.
Buck steadied the lens. “Give us a smile, Tommy.”
The man with the syringe in his arm glanced up. He pushed the plunger with his eyes on the camera, a euphoric look on his face.
He threw the needle on the ground. Buck took a picture of that too.
We walked down an alley. Buck took close-ups of brick.
More shots: rugged faces, strewn garbage, a dandelion growing from a sidewalk crack.
We ended up on an old railway bridge, deserted and covered in grass. We sat on the wall, our legs dangling over the edge. Buck zoomed in on the syringe in the man’s arm. “I see a lot of nasty things, out here on the streets. I’m drawn to document them. I don’t know why. Mad, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you do it,” I said, “because it makes you feel more alive.”
He smiled. “See? I knew you’d understand me if you saw the streets through my eyes.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re still a mystery.”
“Me? Nah. I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”
“Why do you live under the bridge?”
“My mom turfed me out.”
“Why?”
“She caught me with weed and now she thinks I’m a crazy drug addict.”
He took my hand. “Anything else?”
“How come sometimes you’re incredibly nice and other times you’re a complete asshole?”
“Because drinking turns me into a nasty plonker.”
“What about when you’re sober?”
He shrugged. “I guess I have a natural inclination for assholeness.”
I laughed. “I guess you do.”
I linked my arm through his and laid my head on his shoulder. “Buck? Do you think Miracle will get taken away?”
His brow furrowed. “Not if I can help it.”
“You really care about them, don’t you?”
“Her mom and me, we have this weird connection.”
I was surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re both screwups.”
They were an unlikely pair, the fresh-faced Brit and the ex-druggie prostitute.
“She told me she was an addict when she met Mateo,” he said. “He changed her life, took her away from it all. But when he died, she threw it all away. She blew their savings on drugs, then prostituted herself to support her habit. Now she does it to support Miracle.”
“That’s sad,” I said.
And it was.
But Miracle.
Sweet, mischievous Miracle.
How was she not enough to turn things around?
Buck stood up, took a key out of his pocket. “Come with me?”
“Where?”
“I’m watching a friend’s flat while he’s away.”
We walked hand in hand, far from the James Street area to the trendier side of the downtown core. Above a bistro was a loft-style apartment filled with sleek furniture and stunning artwork.
“This place is amazing.”
“Isaac’s an art collector. He’s shown interest in my photos. You never know, I might make it big someday.”
One of the kitchen walls was brick, and the other was filled with a floor-to-ceiling painting of a naked woman. A center island was surrounded by chrome barstools. Shiny pots and pans hung above it from a wooden rack.
He took a bottle of wine out of the fridge. “Care to join me?”
“I thought alcohol turned you into a nasty plonker?”
“I’ll only have one,” he said. He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
He grabbed two glasses from a cupboard. We went up a swirly iron staircase. At the top was a bedroom loft. Buck poured two glasses of wine and patted the bed.
“What if your friend comes back?”
“He’s in New York.”
“You should ask him if you could stay here with him,” I said. “So you won’t have to sleep under the bridge.”
Buck fluffed the pillows against the headboard. “Nah. It’s a gorgeous place but Isaac’s a bit of a wanker. He’s one of these blokes who’s totally full of himself, you know?”
I sat on top of the covers. The wine tasted bad but I drank it anyway, half the bottle. The ceiling was bordered with fancy trim and the light that hung from it was wrought iron with six arms and candle-like bulbs.
I pointed to it. “Is that a candelabra or a chandelier?”
Buck took a joint out of the bedside table. “How would I know? I’m as common as muck.”
“Maybe it’s a candelier,” I said. “Or a chandelabra.”
He lit up. “Or maybe it’s just a light hanging from a ceiling.”
He passed me the joint.
“Did you know you can inhale and exhale at the same time?” I said. “It’s called circular breathing.”
“You mean it’s not called inexhaling? Or exinhaling?”
I copied his accent. “Are you taking the mick?”
He laughed and pulled me in close.
“I like creating new words,” I said. “It gives them the potential to be more than they are, to be something new. You know what I mean?”
“What else do you do for fun?” he said. “Watch paint dry?”
I gave him a playful slap. He caught my hand and held it against his chest. It was awkward in the most awesome way. It was awksome. He smiled and held the joint to my lips. I took a draw and let it out slow.
I slipped a finger inside his button-down shirt. He put out the joint and slid down the bed. I climbed on top of him. He put his hands on my hips and we kissed. I peeled off my shirt. He said my full-coverage forties bra was the height of sexiness. I peeled that off too. Soon we were naked. Every part of me pressed into every part of him.
I was no longer a puddle. I was vapor. I was lighter than air.
We dozed until the bistro below filled with live music. It was ten p.m. I had a headache.
“We can stay the night,” said Buck. “Isaac won’t mind.”
“I’d better get home.”
I was just as naked as I had been hours before but suddenly felt more so. I pulled my clothes under the covers and tried to wriggle into them.
Buck laughed. “You’re funny, Poppy.”
He leaned over and kissed my back.
I said, “You used a condom, right?”
He said, “You don’t remember?”
He’d been fiddling with something, but it felt rude to look and besides that I was too busy thinking, Oh my God, I’m about to have sex.
“It was a bit of a blur.”
He reached out. “Of course I did. You can always trust me.”
I sat up. I wished he wasn’t watching me put my bra on. Normally I’d snap it up in front and spin it around but that felt unsophisticated now. I put it on frontwards and reached my hands behind, hoping to hook it together in one seamless movement. On the third attempt Buck did it for me.
“Thanks.”
He held me by the shoulders and turned me toward him.
“Come here, darlin’.”
I laid my head on his shoulder.
“Was it tender enough?” he whispered.
My heart melted. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
I tilted my head and kissed his chin. “I’m sure.”
I woke up early the next morning. It was weird how badly I wanted Cam to know. I imagined saying, Hey, Cam, guess what I lost? and he’d say, Your keys? and I’d say, No, my virginity.
I poured him a bowl of Cheerios and practiced as I walked up the stairs.
Hey, Cam. Guess what I lost?
Good morning, Cameron. Guess what I lost?
Yo. Dude. Guess what I lost?
He opened his door.
“Guess what I found?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. God?”
“That’s a weird guess,” I said. “How could I lose God?”
“You didn’t say lose. You said found.”
“I did?”
“Yep.”
“Shit.”
“Well,” he said, taking the cereal bowl. “Goodbye.”
I stuck my foot in the door.
“Wait. Do I look different?”
He looked me up and down. “Maybe slightly more deranged than usual.”
I straightened up in an attempt to look sophisticated. “Deranged as in more mature?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. Deranged as in psycho. Can I go back to bed now?”
“Speaking of bed…”
“Poppy, did you want something?”
“I shagged the Englishman.”
His eyes widened. “You what?”
I grinned. “Shagged. You know, as in had sex?”
He pulled me into his room. “But he called you the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“He apologized.”
“And you had sex with him?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
His jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
He cast his Cheerios aside and sat me down beside him. “He used a condom, right?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t do it under that disgusting bridge, did you?”
“No.”
He looked me up and down again. “It was okay, though, right? I mean, you liked it and everything?”
I smiled. “Afterwards he asked if it was tender enough.”
Cam’s heart melted too. I could tell.
“I wanted to tell you,” I said. “I don’t know why.”
He looked me up and down for the third time that morning.
“You know how you asked if you looked different?”
“Yeah.”
“You do. You look happier.”
He reached up, wiped his eyes.
“Are you crying?”
“It’s just—I’ve been waiting so long.”
“Waiting?” I said. “For what?”
He wrapped his pinkie around mine. “For you to come back.”
That afternoon I went to the bridge. I didn’t realize until I was standing there how much I’d missed being below. Now that things were good again with Buck, it was where I wanted to be.
But then there was Thumper.
There was good and bad in everyone but in some people there was just plain evil.
I crept down the embankment. I wanted to know how I’d feel seeing him at a distance.
He wasn’t there.
I sat on his folded blankets.
Miracle’s sleeping bag was nearby, tied up in bright-purple string.
I wondered what he’d have thought of her once—of her less-than-pure-white complexion.
And what about Lewis? What would Thumper have made of him?
The river trickled as it always did, easily and free.
Before I left, I opened the snub tub. I read them all, every last one.
I took out a piece of paper and the tiny pencil they kept in the tub. I thought of Cam and wrote, Hedgehogs, eh? Why can’t they just share the hedge?