Ugly, she was ugly, thought Shir. No question about it. Glumly, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Born ugly in a way that was never going to change. No Cinderella slipper here, no Sleeping Beauty to wake with a kiss, even for a toonie. No, hers was the kind of face that fairy tales reserved for dwarfs and goblins, a face without a single redeeming feature. Even the eyes were ugly—small, squinty, and of a queer, pale blue that never seemed to hold any expression. It was almost as if they were made of glass.
Maybe the eyebrows were okay, she thought, running a fingertip over the right one. Not too bushy and not too thin, they covered the area they were supposed to in your basic parallel arches. And her body was normal, neither fat nor rail-thin. But after that, it was all downhill. The worst aspect of her appearance was obviously her nose. It wasn’t just that it was so enormous the rest of her had no choice but to skulk along in its shadow, there was also the size of her nostrils to consider. They were huge, cavernous. In grade five, it had been the favorite lunch-hour pastime to stick various objects inside them. Sometimes Shir had been the one to stick in something; sometimes a group of boys had held her down and done it. Stones, shoelaces, dill pickles—the inspiration had been endless. One boy had even brought his pet guppies to school and inserted them live.
They had died in her nose. Occasionally Shir still woke in the middle of the night, sweat pouring off her as she relived the sensation of those desperately wriggling guppies. It had been her choice; she had agreed in advance to having them stuck in there, but not to being held down or having her nose plugged after the guppies had been shoved in. Even now, years later, she could feel the exact moment the guppies’ little fishy souls had left their bodies—two brilliant bursts of energy that had swum straight up her nose and into her brain. They were still there, those guppy souls, swimming the inside of her head. Telling her things: Don’t believe anything you hear. There’s an enemy lurking behind every smile. Never let yourself get so small, they can do to you what they did to us.
The thing about those guppies was that they had been pretty, Shir thought bleakly. Silvery fins, quick twisting bodies. Lines of light flashing in their fishbowl water. And still, hands had reached for them and squished out their tiny guppy breaths.
Quickly, she turned from the mirror. Shakes, she was getting the shakes. Well, it served her right—getting herself worked up over a couple of dumb guppies that had died five years ago. God, was she dumb, thought Shir. Drunk as a stone, like Mom said. Gently, she thunked her drunk stone forehead against the bathroom wall. Knock some sense into herself, yeah—bang, bang, bang. There, that was better. Now the shakes were gone and she could no longer remember what she had been thinking about. Which was fine with her, because as far as she could tell, it hadn’t been too pleasant.
A long sigh shuddered through her. Glancing at her watch, Shir saw it was 1:54. The day was yet young; the floor had stopped its bleary wobble; and her headache was on the mend. What should she do? she wondered. Homework? Nah, homework was a disease. Reaching for the window-latch, she opened it, stuck out her head, and breathed deeply. That’s better, she thought, fingering a nearby poplar branch. Already the first buds were beginning to show, the last of the snow long gone.
“Shirley,” called a voice from down the hall, sharp and with a bit of an edge.
Mom, thought Shir, stiffening slightly. “Yeah?” she called back, keeping her voice neutral, in the nothing zone.
“The phone’s for you,” continued her mother, her tone still edgy, as if put out about it. “It’s Mr. Anderson. He wants you to come in and do some deliveries.”
Instantly, Shir straightened. Slamming the window shut, she erupted out of the bathroom and took the entire length of the hall in one expert slide. “Hello, Mr. Anderson!” she sang into the phone, as she grabbed it from her mother’s outstretched hand. Mr. Anderson ran Bill’s Grocer, a neighborhood corner store over on 12th Street. Six months ago, he had hired Shir part-time to stock shelves and do deliveries. Sunday-afternoon deliveries came about once a month, and they usually meant good tips.
“Hi, Shirley,” said Mr. Anderson, his voice booming into her ear, slightly nasal because of the phone. “Can you make it here by three? I’ve got four deliveries for you.”
“Sure thing, sir,” Shir said immediately. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No need to rush,” said Mr. Anderson, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Three o’clock is fine.”
“Great, sir,” said Shir. “I’ll be there right away, sir.” Hanging up the phone, she headed for the door.
“Shirley Rutz, you put on a clean sweatshirt before going out,” called her mother from the couch. “And brush your goddam hair, for Chrissake!”
Briefly, Shir considered ignoring the order, then remembered she hadn’t brushed her hair since yesterday afternoon. “Gotcha!” she called, snapping a military salute as she passed the couch, then taking off in another long slide down the hall. A few swipes with her hairbrush, a clean Toronto Maple Leafs sweatshirt, and two Tylenol capsules to take care of the tail end of her headache, and she was once again making tracks for the door.
“Take your jacket!” hollered Mom, her butt still glued to the couch and her eyes fixed on the TV. “And remember to be respectful. None of that filthy mouth you show around here.”
With a quick slam of the door, Shir cut off her mother mid-sentence. No sense in listening to that any longer than necessary, she told herself. Pulling on her jacket, she ran down the apartment block’s back stairwell two steps at a time, then took the bottom five in one fell swoop. A few seconds to allow her legs to absorb the shock upon landing and she was out the door, unlocking the communal storage shed behind the building and dragging out her bike. “The Black Stallion” was what she called it, just a cheap Dunlop, and blue to boot, but who cared—nobody knew its soul name but her. Swinging a leg over the seat, she took off down the alley, and then it was just her and the Black, riding out the long sheer gusts of an early April wind.
Twelfth Street was three blocks south, and Bill’s Grocer five blocks east. Zooming along a series of back alleys, Shir called out to every barking dog, taunting as the animals leapt furiously against fences, their teeth snapping her tailwind. Too quick coming out onto 14th Street, she had to swerve to miss a car, then took off again, ignoring the driver’s shouts. Good thing Mr. Anderson couldn’t see her now, she thought with a grin, or he would think twice about letting her drive the delivery van. Before hiring her, he had taken her for a test drive, watching as she had maneuvered corners and changed lanes. She had been sweating but she had done okay, at least, well enough to be hired. Fortunately, her mother had insisted Shir get her license as soon as she turned sixteen, mostly so she could send Shir out for groceries on weekends when she was too plastered to do anything but lie splayed on the couch and grunt.
The thing Shir hadn’t been able to figure out yet was why Mr. Anderson had even thought of hiring her. After all, he had plenty of nephews, and there were always lots of neighborhood kids hanging around the store. But one day last September, when she had come in for a pop, he had looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and asked how old she was. Then he had asked if she wanted a job. “You bet!” she had said right off, then quickly added, “sir.” Every week since, she had come into work expecting the situation to have somehow backfired and Mr. Anderson to sorrowfully tell her the whole thing had been a mistake; he had never intended to actually hire her, and she now had to pay back all the wages she had earned. But instead, here she was, six months later, still showing up three days a week, after school and on weekends, and walking out at the end of a shift with money in her pocket. Today’s four deliveries could take as long as two hours if Mr. Anderson had her pack the boxes first. With tips, she should make enough to keep herself in beer for most of the week.
A swing out of the alley brought her onto 12th Street, with a view of Bill’s Grocer at the next corner. As she caught sight of it, Shir slowed her pace, bringing the Black down to a gentle canter. No matter what her mother said, Shir thought proudly, she knew how to handle herself at work. She was a professional, always speaking respectfully to customers and never giving any back talk. Coasting into the curb, she dismounted and locked the Black to a stop sign, then headed into the store. As she entered, she was hit with the usual combination of aromas—lemons and apples, celery and Spic’n Span. To her left, a few customers were lined up at a till; Cathy, Mr. Anderson’s niece, gave her a quick wave from the cash register. Ducking her head, Shir waved back. Bill’s Grocer was a good place to work, she thought fiercely. Yeah, it was a friendly place—there must be hundreds of kids in this city who would like to work here—but Mr. Anderson had picked her; out of them all, he had chosen dog-faced, shit-ugly Shirley Jane Rutz.
With a sigh, Shir stooped to pick up an orange that had fallen off a nearby stack, and set it on top of the pile. Then she walked to the back of the store, pushed open the door marked Employees Only, and entered the main storage area. Shelves packed with boxes lined the walls, and three meters to her right was Mr. Anderson, standing with his back to her while he spoke into his cell phone. Coming to a halt, Shir waited quietly. Her boss was talking in a low voice, pacing back and forth, and it was a minute before he saw her. When he did, he seemed to start, then lifted a hand, waved, and walked out of the store’s back entrance into the alley.
Instant alarm shot through Shir—had she done something wrong; should she have made more noise coming in; was she about to be fired? Then common sense took over, and she stood, letting her breathing slow. The boss was just having a private conversation, that was all, she told herself shakily. Maybe he had a mistress and was running a hot secret affair. Whatever, it wasn’t her concern.
On a nearby counter, she noted four boxes packed to go, their delivery addresses written in black marker across the top. Crossing the room, Shir scanned them intently. Joe’s Pizza, Mrs. Duran, and the Pleasant View Seniors’ Home—she had made deliveries to each of these places before and they tipped okay. The last address, however, was new—the Sunnyville Rec Center on 9th Avenue. Oh yeah, she thought with a flash of recognition. She knew the place, having attended a day camp at the center the summer she turned eight. But that was twenty blocks west, she thought, a frown crossing her face. Why in the world would a rec center twenty blocks west phone in a Sunday afternoon delivery to, of all places, Bill’s Grocer?
Briefly she pondered the question, then ditched it with a shrug. Whatever, she thought. A customer’s reasons were his own private business. She just made the delivery. Picking up the nearest box, she hefted it experimentally. Heavy enough, she thought, grunting softly. From the sound of it, the box was full of cans. For this one she would put on an extra-sweaty, worn-out look when she carried it to the door. That should bring in an extra buck on the tip.
“Early and raring to go as usual, I see,” said a voice behind her.
Startled, Shir turned to see Mr. Anderson coming through the back entrance. As usual, he was smiling, his upper lip hidden under a dark, bushy mustache, his plump face wreathed in congenial lines. Just looking at that smile, Shir thought, smiling back instinctively, you don’t notice what a porker he is. Or how bald.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Lucky I did most of my homework last night so I was free today.”
A flicker passed through Mr. Anderson’s eyes the way it always did when she lied about schoolwork. As if he didn’t quite believe her, thought Shir. But why wouldn’t he? she wondered, giving him an uneasy glance. What would Mr. Anderson know, one way or another, about what she did when she was off work?
“Great,” he said heartily, coming toward her. “Just what we need—a scholar on staff. Now, like I told you on the phone, I’ve got four deliveries for you. You’ve done three of them before, but one is new. It’s a rec center—”
“Yes, sir,” Shir said immediately. “I know it.”
“You do?” asked Mr. Anderson. Inexplicably, his eyes narrowed, and he shot her a sharp glance. Panic hit Shir, jagged heartbeats there and gone.
“Just went to summer camp there, sir,” she blurted, cursing herself angrily in her head. Damn it all, what was the matter with her? She should know better than to interrupt the boss. So what if she already knew the way to the rec center? If Mr. Anderson wanted to explain every millimeter of the route, she could just goddam stand there and listen.
“Great, just great!” Mr. Anderson exclaimed heartily, the brief sharpness gone from his face. Reaching out a hand, he touched Shir lightly on the shoulder, and she was released from the frightened, angry yelling in her head. “You’re sure you know the way there?” he asked gently.
“Yes, sir,” said Shir. Flooded with relief at the change in her boss’s tone, she stared fixedly at the floor. So, she wasn’t going to be fired, she thought wearily. At least, not yet. Not yet, not yet…
“Great, just great,” repeated Mr. Anderson, and handed her the keys to the delivery van. “When you get to the rec center, ask for a Mr. Dubya. The order is to go directly to him and no one else.”
“Yes, sir,” Shir assured him.
“And keep to the speed limit,” he added with a wink. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“No, sir,” Shir grinned back. “I definitely won’t, sir.”
Grabbing the box that contained the rec center’s order, she headed out to the van, a nondescript gray vehicle parked in the alley behind the store. Since the rec center was her furthest delivery, she placed the box on the back passenger seat, then returned to the storage room for another one. Mrs. Duran’s was the closest address, only a few blocks away, and then there was the seniors’ home. If she drove slowly, she should be able to stretch the four deliveries into an hour, maybe an hour and a half.
With a satisfied grin, she unlocked the van’s front door and settled in behind the wheel. As usual, the raised front seat, with the van’s mass of horsepower revving under her feet, made her feel as if she was sitting on a mobile throne. After a careful shoulder check, she backed out of the parking space and headed down the alley. At 12th Street, she scanned for traffic, but the thoroughfare was empty. A small sigh escaped her. Nothing ahead but sunshine and the faint lacy green of newly budding trees; the world was her oyster.
Giving it some gas, Shir started off slowly. Over the past six months, she had come to realize that two things were of the utmost importance when making deliveries—driving carefully, and using up as much time as possible so she could bump up her earnings and spend the rest of the week swimming in beer. At the first four-way stop, she turned on the radio to find it tuned to a couple of talking heads, the usual CBC stuff Mr. Anderson listened to. With a snort, she adjusted it to CJSR, and the world was rocking. Both hands firmly on the wheel and a wide grin plastered across her face, Shir continued rolling down the street.
At 34th Avenue, she turned right and parked. Mrs. Duran’s house was the second from the corner—a small yellow bungalow with a garden to one side. This early in the year, there was nothing but a few green shoots poking out of the ground, but still she could see the tiny elderly woman pottering around, working the earth loose with a large gardening fork.
“There you are, Shirley!” she exclaimed as Shir opened the van door. Getting laboriously to her feet, Mrs. Duran started across the lawn in her ancient wobbly way. Hastily, Shir snatched a clipboard that lay on the passenger seat, and booted it to the back of the van. If she didn’t watch it, the old lady would try to grab the box that contained her order and lug it into the house herself. Didn’t come up to Shir’s shoulder, but still thought she was Wonder Woman or something.
“Where would you like this, Mrs. Duran?” asked Shir, hefting the box securely into her own arms and giving the elderly woman her best smile.
“This way, dear,” Mrs. Duran beamed back. “Follow me.”
Slowly, she started off along the side of the house, creaky step by creaky step. Not bothering to hide her grin, Shir followed. She got a real kick out of this old lady, the way she was always doing something—painting her porch, raking the lawn, or gardening. One time, she had actually caught Mrs. Duran halfway up a stepladder, trying to knock a dead squirrel out of the eavestrough. Shir had helped her down off the ladder, then done the job for her. It had gotten her an extra toonie, but she had turned it down. A tip for deliveries was one thing, but helping little old ladies knock dead rodents out of eavestroughs—well, you couldn’t take money for that.
As she turned the back corner and mounted the porch steps, Shir could smell cinnamon and nutmeg. Baking again, she smiled to herself. Mrs. Duran had about a million grandchildren, and was always mixing up another batch of cookies.
“Just set it over there, Shirley,” said the elderly woman as they entered the back hallway. “On that chair there. Now, let me see if I can’t find you a lovely loonie for helping out an old geezer like me.” Fishing around in a jewelry box of loose change she kept by the phone, she placed a toonie firmly in Shir’s hand. “Now, don’t you think you need a cookie and a glass of iced tea after all that hard work?” she asked, peering up at her.
“I sure do, Mrs. Duran,” grinned Shir, knowing this was the way Mr. Anderson would want her to respond—polite and friendly, treating the customers like real human beings. Hefting the delivery box higher in her arms, she carried it into the kitchen and set it on the table where it would be easier for Mrs. Duran to unpack it. Then she sat down and munched her way through several cookies while the elderly woman sat opposite, warbling on about her zillion children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and what it had been like during the war years. And that wasn’t the Iraq war, or Afghanistan, or even Vietnam, thought Shir, studying the wrinkled face opposite. It was World War II, which put Mrs. Duran well into her eighties. And she wasn’t anywhere near dying yet. Just sitting there, Shir could practically hear the little old lady’s heartbeat, steady and sure, filling the walls of this pretty yellow house.
A feeling of softness crept over Shir and she let herself sink back into her chair, breathing in the room’s quiet, nutmeg-scented air. It was nice here, her favorite place to make a delivery, and with Mrs. Duran’s quavery storytelling, they managed to knock off twenty minutes before the elderly woman signed the clipboard, acknowledging delivery, and Shir was back in the van, waving goodbye and heading down the street.
The seniors’ center was more businesslike. Shir didn’t know anyone personally, and the old people didn’t seem to do much more than sit around, staring out the windows. Still, the kitchen staff were friendly, and Shir left with a loonie tip in her pocket and a smile on her face. Next was Joe’s Pizza, which was packed with customers, waitresses hollering back and forth, and kitchen staff madly shredding cheese and slapping on anchovies. So it was just a quick stop—in and out, with a wave to Lucille, Joe’s wife, and another toonie in her pocket.
Back in the van, she mentally rehearsed her route to the Sunnyville Rec Center and started off. It would take at least fifteen minutes to get there—the place was halfway across town. You would think, thought Shir, there would be a grocer in the Riverdale area that did deliveries, but maybe not on Sundays. Tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in time to an old AC/DC song, Shir made good time down Madden Road, a four-lane route, then slowed as she entered the city’s west end. Sunnyville was on 9th Avenue, just past St. John’s high school. Yup, she thought, as she caught sight of the familiar building. There it is. Carefully, she swung into the parking lot and parked the van.
Glancing out the side window, Shir saw that the grounds were empty except for a single guy, who was leaning against the rec center’s closest wall and smoking a cigarette. Beside him, the door to the gym stood open, releasing the sounds of shouts, squeaking runners, and a bouncing basketball. Obviously, a game was in process. Getting out of the van, Shir opened the back door and slid out the last box. Then she hefted it into her arms and walked toward the guy.
He was in his twenties, tattooed, and wearing a muscle shirt despite the coolish weather. As Shir approached, his eyes flicked casually across her face and she ducked her head, wanting to avoid the inevitable expression of shock that hit strangers the first time they saw her. “Delivery for the Sunnyville Rec Center,” she said, studying the tear in the tip of her left runner. She was back to wearing her old pair again—her new ones were probably still lying somewhere in Dana Lowe’s rear hallway. “Do you know where I can find a Mr. Dubya?”
“In there,” said the guy, jerking his chin at the open doorway. “He’s reffing the game.”
“Thanks,” said Shir. Hefting the box, she stepped through the doorway and stood, letting her eyes adjust to the indoor light. As she had thought, a basketball game was in progress, two teams of teenage boys sprinting around the court. A few meters to her left stood the only adult in the room, a man in his fifties, wearing a whistle around his neck.
“Mr. Dubya?” asked Shir, approaching him.
“From Bill’s Grocer?” responded the man, and she nodded. “Okay, put it over there,” he said, pointing to a bench along the wall.
Setting down the box, Shir held out her clipboard. “Could you sign here, sir?” she asked, the way she always had to with a new customer. “Just to say you received your order?”
Mr. Dubya’s eyes flicked across her face, then came back to linger with casual curiosity. Sucking her lower lip, Shir fought the urge to look away. She could just imagine the thoughts running through his head: How’d you get to be so ugly, kid? Someone drop you when you were a baby? Onto a freeway? A busy one?
But instead of signing, the man simply said, “Just tell Anderson that Dubya got the goods. He’ll be okay with that.” Then he turned back to the game.
“But I’m supposed to get a signature,” protested Shir, riding a small wave of panic. “To prove that you got it, I mean.”
Mr. Dubya glanced at her, his eyes suddenly so cold, she felt a shiver run up her spine. “You tell him Dubya got the goods,” he repeated tonelessly, as if reciting something, then turned once again to watch the game.
Bewildered, Shir blinked at him but Mr. Dubya ignored her, his eyes fixed on the rapidly shifting players. Abruptly, he grabbed the whistle around his neck, blew it and shouted, “Foul!” A collective groan rose from the boys on the court and he strode toward them. Mouth open, Shir stood staring after him, then jammed the clipboard under her arm and headed for the door. No point in hanging around—she had obviously been dismissed.
Back in the parking lot, she stood beside the van, breathing in the sun and the late afternoon air. That was odd, she thought guardedly. Kind of creepy, actually, as if weird little ghosties were hanging around, sending out bad vibes. And no tip. With a sigh, she climbed into the van and wrote Mr. Dubya wouldn’t sign onto the clipboard. Then, turning on the ignition, she backed cautiously out of her parking space. Over by the gym door, the wall was now empty, the guy in the muscle shirt no longer leaning against it. For a moment, Shir idled the van at the curb and stared thoughtfully at the place he had been standing. Why had a guy like that been hanging around here? she wondered. He was too old to be part of the game going on inside, and too tough to listen to anyone’s goddam whistle.
Frowning, she sat a moment longer, trying to work it out. But no answer came to her, so she made her usual careful shoulder check and started off down 9th Avenue. A quick glance at her watch showed that it was 4:25. If she drove at a reasonable pace, she would make it back to the store around 4:45, which Mr. Anderson would be sure to bump up to 5:00. That meant she would be paid for a full two hours’ work. With the five bucks she had made in tips, that was more than enough for an eight-pack, which would keep her going until Tuesday, her next shift. Yeah! Shir thought, exhilarated. She was doing fine; she was laughing.
With a broad grin, she turned up the volume on the radio and settled in for the drive back to Bill’s Grocer.