Mrs. Perkins awoke to the double tap of cat feet on her duvet. Without opening her eyes, she reached out her hand and ruffled the fur along Sadie’s arched back, earning a contented purr.
Hello, old girl. You want your saucer of milk, don’t you? Well, be patient. I can’t get out of bed as quickly as I used.
The cat leaped indignantly to the floor as Mrs. Perkins drew her knees to her chest, pushed aside the duvet and levered herself upright. She pulled on her housecoat, slid her feet into her slippers and slowly got to her feet, her lower back cracking audibly. She made her way slowly toward the kitchen, tying the belt of her housecoat into a bow.
It seemed her joints, especially her feet, were stiffer with every passing day. Look at the way I walk, rocking side to side on club feet like a decrepit old hag, she thought. They’ll be after me to use a cane next. Oh well, my back is still straight. I can still hold my head up.
The kitchen was bright with morning sunshine. Mrs. Perkins plugged in the kettle, removed the milk jug from the refrigerator, and poured some into Sadie’s saucer before placing the jug on the table. The tea things had been laid out the night before, as usual: the Spode pot and sugar bowl with the sterling silver spoon, the single cup and plate, the crystal butter dish. She’d have to start keeping the butter in the refrigerator overnight. Summer was on its way.
Mrs. Perkins put two slices of bread in the toaster, then padded into the living room to draw the drapes. The rising sun lit the garish white bricks of the apartment building at the bottom of the street, the garbage pails in front of the houses, the cars parked bumper to bumper along the curb.
That seedy-looking man in the triplex, the one who seemed never to wear a shirt, had left the mattress on his lawn again, with the sign on it: $25. Heavens, as if anyone would buy it. Turning the whole street into a yard sale. The entire nest of them in that building didn’t care a whit about how the neighbourhood looked. Mrs. Perkins made a mental note to phone the city again and complain.
She remembered the way it used to be, the street canopied by elms, the clip-clop of the horses that drew milk wagon and bread wagon, every car in its own driveway. Course, in those days no one had two cars. Some people didn’t even have a car at all. And you knew your neighbours then. You could send the boys three blocks away to the park to skate or play baseball without worrying. You could see the lake from here, and Mrs. Bunn’s house and crabapple trees. When the boys were children they climbed those trees. But they had torn down Mrs. Bunn’s lovely bungalow and chain-sawed the fruit trees to make room for that monstrous white apartment building.
The boys. Grown now. Men. Simon in Vancouver and Andrew somewhere or other in the Caribbean.
Her reverie was broken when she heard the toaster pop. She returned to the kitchen, made the tea, sat down with her toast and butter. Today she would work in the potting shed for a while, repotting her houseplants, then make a start on the garden. The frost was long out of the ground. Summer already—well, not quite. The beginning of June, then. The years pass so quickly, she mused, spreading butter on her toast, and yet each day seems to drag.
June, she said out loud. Her birthday, in fact. She thought about the boys again, hoping that Simon would call. Andrew wouldn’t, she was sure. How different they were. Simon a successful stockbroker, a good head for business like his father, and far more successful than poor Gerald ever was. Still, Gerald’s insurance business had provided well for them over the years. This house, education for the boys, the occasional holiday. If he fell short of the hopes she had had when she married him, at least it wasn’t for want of hard work. But Andrew, well, she didn’t know what to think. Marrying that black girl and teaching English in the Caribbean village where she grew up. What a waste. A master’s degree from a good university and look where he ended up. Not that Mrs. Perkins had anything against the blacks. But what could Andrew and that girl have been thinking? What about children, neither fish nor fowl, belonging to neither group? Mrs. Perkins had seen it before. That friend of Gerald’s who married that Jewish girl years ago. Nothing but trouble there.
Mrs. Perkins looked at the clock. Goodness, she’d been sitting and thinking and lost track of the time! She got up and washed her dishes and rinsed out the teapot, then went to her bedroom to change.
The sun on her back was comforting as she toiled in the potting shed. She was pleasantly warm in her cardigan and smock. Repotting her houseplants was an almost daunting task, but she enjoyed it. It was as if she were giving each plant a new home. On his last visit Simon had counted them—the ivies, the hibiscus, African violets, every one of them—and had announced that she cared for thirty-one plants. Why do you need so many? he had asked, sipping his scotch in the living room, his legs crossed, one arm resting languidly on the arm of the sofa. They must be a lot of work. They keep me company, she had replied pointedly. But the remark had been lost on him.
I wonder if he’ll remember to call and wish me happy birthday, she reflected once again. She couldn’t remember if he had telephoned last year. These days, bits of her memory were breaking off, crumbling away like loose dirt.
A child’s shout drew her attention from the spider plant she was dividing. She tamped down the soil impatiently and walked across the grass to look. The two boys were in her driveway again, bouncing a tennis ball off the side of her house, their shouts echoing in the space between her home and her neighbour’s. She had told the boys a dozen times not to play there.
Go away! she demanded. You’re damaging the bricks. Go and play in your own driveway.
We’re not hurtin’ nothin’, the older of the two said.
My heavens, Mrs. Perkins muttered, angered by his atrocious grammar as much as his impertinence. When was it that children his age ceased respecting their elders? Not to mention their betters. Look at him. His hands and face are dirty, his hair unkempt, the mud on his arm smeared over that fading bruise.
Why do you insist on coming here? she asked. Play in your own yard.
Mom says we can’t, the younger one sniffled, so quietly she could barely hear him.
The two urchins, brothers, belonged to a single mother who lived in the triplex. Mrs. Perkins knew for a fact that she left them alone sometimes, taking off with men who swept into the driveway in flashy cars and honked their horns impatiently. Just yesterday afternoon the woman, in her late twenties—probably had the brats when she was still a teenager, and a good chance it was with two different fathers—was sunning herself in the front yard, lolling on a chaise longue, smoking and sipping from a plastic glass. Drinking up her welfare cheque, no doubt. Flipping through magazines, pausing only to holler at her two boys. A hard-looking character, to be sure.
Still, it wasn’t their fault, Mrs. Perkins supposed. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so hard on them. She addressed the older boy, who stood holding the ball.
Well, I’d rather you didn’t play here. You’ll mark the brick with that ball, she repeated. When he didn’t reply she added, What happened to your arm? Did you fall?
None of your business, he said in a low voice. His brother giggled.
Mrs. Perkins felt the flush of anger on her neck. Go on, then! she ordered. At once!
The older boy defiantly bounced the tennis ball a few times to make his point, then turned and sauntered off, his brother, wiping a smear of mucus from his upper lip, trailing behind. Mrs. Perkins kept her eye on them until they had crossed the street.
I told you to go play someplace else! she heard behind her back as she returned to her task. The mother, howling like a shrew so the entire neighbourhood knew her business. Honestly!
After she had worked a while longer, Mrs. Perkins sat down on the steps of her back stoop and pulled off her work gloves. Mrs. Perkins cast her eye over her yard, where, within a month, her garden would begin to flourish. Her pride. Still, she never saw the blooms without wishing this place was more like the England of her youth. There, the coming of spring was gentle, like a soft breeze that grew slightly warmer each day. There, you could watch the trees and hedges bud and green, swelling with life. Flowers emerged delicately, their hues gradually changing the appearance of the garden every day.
Here, there was no spring, really. One day snow covered the ground, another it had melted off and the first blush of red on the maples appeared. The new season charged in like a bully into an elevator. The leaves in this country had no subtlety; they burst out overnight, brash and impatient.
Sighing, Mrs. Perkins got slowly to her feet and went inside to prepare lunch.
As she ate her soup and tuna sandwich, her eyes repeatedly rose to the clock on the wall above the sink. One o’clock and still no telephone call from Simon. Her mail lay on the table before her—flyers and bills, not a birthday card in the lot. How inconvenient would it be, she thought, to pick up a card, sign it and drop it in the post?
She put her dishes in the sink and donned her gardening smock, intending to spend the afternoon putting in a few beds of annuals. Some of her perennials were already peeking above the soil. She went outside to find the two boys in her driveway again, this time chalking the outline of a hopscotch game on the asphalt.
Here! You! Stop that! I told you to stay out of my drive. Now go home or I’ll call the police!
The boys gathered up their coloured chalk and raced across the street, then turned to stare. The little one stuck out his tongue.
She returned to the yard, grumbling to herself, and knelt at the edge of the grass. To calm herself, she savoured the rich aroma of the damp earth as she turned it with a trowel. After a few minutes, she got up off her knees, walked to the house and propped the kitchen door open. If the telephone rang, she wanted to hear it.
The bedside alarm rang shrilly at five o’clock. Mrs. Perkins always set it when she took her afternoon nap. If she slept too long she would be awake all night. Even as it was, she often had periods of wakefulness. She would read until she felt sleepy again. Part of getting old, she told herself.
She went to the front door, picked up the newspaper from the verandah and carried it through to the kitchen. She tuned the radio to an afternoon phone-in talk show. Today’s topic was free daycare. The moderator, an articulate young man who remained refreshingly objective during the show, was explaining how a cabinet minister had floated the idea of subsidized daycare, including no-cost service for the poor.
More handouts, Mrs. Perkins grumbled to herself as she sliced the excess fat from two small pork chops. Everybody has their hand out to the government nowadays. What help did Gerald and I ever get? What’s the point of working hard if you get everything for free? Like that woman across the road. Two kids, probably never worked a day in her life. Mrs. Cowan at church last week had opined that some of these young women have kids so they can get the baby bonus or mother’s allowance—whatever it’s called—and not have to get a job.
Mrs. Perkins glanced at the clock, then poured a tin of mushroom soup over the chops and placed the pan in the oven. She emptied a can of peas into a small pot and put it on the stove, ready to be turned on at the right moment, and began to peel two potatoes. She hoped Simon would call before dinner was ready; it would make her meal so much more pleasant.
But she ate her dinner in front of the television, watching a British drama on the public television network. The British are so much
more civilized, she thought. You always say that, Andrew used to taunt her. Ever heard of soccer riots? he would add. Still, she knew she was right.
The movie ended at seven. Mrs. Perkins got wearily to her feet, went into the kitchen and began to wash the supper dishes. I was hungry today, she thought to herself. Two chops and two potatoes! Well, I’m stiff in the mornings and my memory quits on me sometimes, but I still have a healthy appetite. She glanced at the telephone on the wall.
He’s not going to call. He’s forgotten.
She hung up the tea towel and returned to the living room. She sat in her rocking chair by the window where she would often knit for a while before the nine o’clock news. I’ll give him until the news comes on, she decided. Perhaps he’s late getting home from work. And yet he always calls as soon as he gets home, she reminded herself, clamping her lips together to stop the quivering of her chin.
Gerald never forgot my birthday, she said out loud as she took up her knitting—a cashmere scarf to match her new spring coat. A bit late, she had told herself when she began it a week ago. Oh well, it will do when autumn comes. No, Gerald always remembered their anniversary, the boys’ birthdays, hers. It wasn’t too much to ask, surely.
In the corner of her eye she saw the two urchins burst from the side door of the triplex. They scampered up the street in the gathering dusk, slowed to a walk, crossed and ambled along the sidewalk toward her house. They turned into Mrs. Perkins’s driveway and out of her line of sight.
That does it, she muttered, dumping her knitting and struggling out of her chair. She threw on her cardigan and pulled open the front door. The boys were sitting close beside one another in the driveway, their backs against her house.
You there! she said. You come with me. We’ll solve this once and for all.
The boys reluctantly got to their feet.
What are you gonna do? the older one asked.
Come with me, she repeated.
She marched them across the road and up the driveway to the side door of the triplex. She knocked firmly. No one appeared. Mrs. Perkins rapped again, harder. Behind her, she heard snivelling. The little one, she thought. Presently the door opened.
She was dressed in a tattered flannel housecoat, her hair a tangle, a cigarette dangling from her lip. Mrs. Perkins was almost bowled over by the stench of whisky.
What? the woman demanded. Then, seeing the boys behind Mrs. Perkins, What did they do now? What did you do? she shouted.
Mrs. Perkins drew herself up, aware that the younger boy had tucked in behind her. Such people, she reminded herself, must be dealt with firmly. I’ve told them several times, she began, to stay out of my driveway. Three times they were there today. Now, I demand that you discipline them or I shall have no choice but to bring in the authorities. Do I make myself clear?
The young woman cursed, reached behind Mrs. Perkins and snatched hold of the younger boy’s T-shirt. The two of you get in here! she shrilled. You’re nothin’ but trouble, both of you. She pushed them ahead of her into the hallway and slammed the door behind her.
My gracious! Mrs. Perkins exclaimed, clutching her cardigan closed as she made her way across the street and onto her verandah to her door. She went inside, locked the door, and resumed her chair and took up her knitting. But she found it hard to concentrate on her work, and her eyes kept rising to the triplex across the way. The neighbours I’m blessed with! she thought. What’s happened to people? They used to be so civil, so polite. She sighed, looked at the clock. It was nine. Time for the news.
I’ll wait until nine thirty, Simon, she said out loud. Until the news is over. But no longer.
In her bedroom, moving slowly as if overcome by a lethargy she couldn’t explain, she pulled on her nightgown over her head. Sadie, she called. Here, Puss-puss-puss. The cat padded into the bedroom and curled up in her basket. Mrs. Perkins turned on her reading lamp at the side of the bed, set the alarm and pulled back the covers.
The telephone rang.
Happy birthday, Mother!
Simon! Hello, dear! I’m so glad you called.
Of course I called. It’s your birthday. Have I ever missed it? How was your day?
No, you’ve never missed, she thought. How could I have doubted you?
Oh, all right, I suppose, she replied.
You sound a bit tired, Mother. I bet you’ve overdone the gardening again.
Well, perhaps, just a little. A sudden, unexplained flash of anger. Simon, why did you call so late? I’ve been waiting—
But it’s only seven o’clock, Mother. I got home a bit late today. End of the quarter, lots of accounts to clear up. You know how it is. Mother? Are you there?
Seven o’clock, Mrs. Perkins thought. Of course! I forgot about the time zones! It’s only seven o’clock in Vancouver.
Mrs. Perkins plumped her pillow, humming to herself, going over her plans for tomorrow’s gardening, looking forward to the day’s work. The weather report was promising—mild, with clear skies. She sat down on the bed and kicked off her slippers.
A racing engine and the screech of tires startled her. Another screech, then the slamming of doors. Someone shouted. Such sounds, late at night, terrified her, alone in the house.
She stood and pulled on her housecoat. Furtively, she crept to the living-room window and moved the drape aside, just enough to see out. Two police cars were parked askew on the street, one with its front wheels on the sidewalk, roof lights flashing. An approaching siren wailed, further shattering her nerves. An ambulance swept into the triplex driveway. The doors flew open and two paramedics jumped out, pulled a stretcher from the rear and rushed through the triplex door.
Mrs. Perkins stood rigid, one hand holding her dressing gown closed, the other clenching the drape.
Presently, the paramedics returned. Mrs. Perkins caught sight of a small shape on the stretcher before they hoisted it into the ambulance. The siren whooped again as the vehicle pulled away, its lights blipping against the houses as it roared up the street.
Then two policemen came out of the triplex, holding a third person between them. It was the boys’ mother, still in her housecoat. Her head was down, her hands behind her back. The police pushed her into the back seat of the cruiser, slammed the door and drove off.
Moments later, a female officer came out, clutching the younger boy by the wrist, followed by a male officer. The urchin struggled and broke free and dashed down the street. Holding her breath, Mrs. Perkins watched as the male officer gave chase and caught the boy and dragged him kicking back to the remaining cruiser. She saw his profile in the rear window as the car pulled away.
Mrs. Perkins unlocked her front door and stepped outside. She crossed the street. A man emerged from the front door of the triplex, stood in the driveway as if lost. It was the mattress man, in wrinkled trousers, sleeveless undershirt, broken-down bedroom slippers.
I never seen anything like it, he said, his voice quavering, as Mrs. Perkins approached.
What’s happened? she asked.
I heard her screamin’ all night. You know, on and off, like, he said, lighting a cigarette. His hand trembled as he lowered the cigarette from his mouth. But I never, he went on, I never thought she’d—He shook his head. She threw him down the stairs, he cried. Her own kid. She beat him up and—
Oh my Lord! Mrs. Perkins exclaimed. What an awful thing to do. Is he … is he badly hurt?
The man brought his cigarette to his lips again, exhaled the smoke in a thin stream. You hear about these things, he said, as if he hadn’t heard her, but you never think—
Well, they won’t be hers much longer, Mrs. Perkins pronounced. She’ll lose the two of them to Children’s Aid. And a good thing—
What do you mean, the two of them? the man said. The kid’s dead.