Edgy People

  Edgy People

  stories

  Barb Nobel

  Blue Denim Press

  Copyright © 2018: Barb Nobel

  Published by Blue Denim Press Inc.

  First Edition

  Cover design: Joanne Kasunic

  Published in Canada

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher and the authors, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters bear no relation to real people, living or dead, with the exception of the three stories in “Hunger” which fictitiously chronicle the life of the author’s mother.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Nobel, Barb, 1948-, author

  Edgy people : stories / Barb Nobel. -- First edition.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927882-34-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-927882-35-1 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-927882-36-8 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8627.O185E34 2018 C813'.6 C2018-904477-2

  C2018-904478-0

  For Iain

  Table of Contents

  Tree Hugger

  The Paper Mache Project

  Travel Bonus

  Tips for DIY’ers

  Rescue

  The Cliché

  Up on the Roof

  Gumdrop Tree

  How I Became a High School Drop-out

  Unravelling

  The Fridge and the Calendar

  No Fighting

  The Strap

  Dreaming

  Nothing Else to Say

  I Was Warned

  Party Story

  Persevere

  Dear Diary

  The Writing Workshop

  Daddy

  The Beginning of the End

  Dream Wedding

  Conversations from the Rubble

  You Can Never Be Too Rich Or Too Thin

  Oh, That’s Why

  Home Invasion

  Gone

  Conversation For One

  Josh

  The Visit

  The Drive

  Growth

  Fearless

  Dianne’s Gift

  If Ever You Need a Poltergeist

  Flash Fiction

  Introduction to Hunger:

  Hunger One

  Hunger Two

  Hunger Three

  Tree Hugger

  BILLY IS A BIG MAN, six-two at least. He stands under the red maple and looks at me. I’m up on the ladder, painting the house. I know I shouldn’t have worn these shorts, but the day promised to be a scorcher. So far, the radio says, it’s the hottest summer in eight years, and I’ll be dammed if I’m going to sweat to death at work. I already sweat to death in that little shitbox trailer I live in. Billy makes no secret that he’s looking at my ass, gazing with his mouth half open like an idiot.

  Billy’s a contractor, he builds houses. The houses are all finished in gorgeous velvet wallpapers, which cover a lot of faults, and fancy fixtures in the bathrooms, which somehow fool people into thinking they are getting a good deal. Then he pays me slave wages to paint the outside. Seaside blue is what I’m painting this place, with white trim, and I got to admit it doesn’t look bad. I wouldn’t mind living in one of Billy’s houses. Even with all their faults, they beat what I’m living in now.

  “Hey Terri, how’s that painting coming?” Billy yells up.

  Idiot. “You’re looking at it, you tell me,” I yell down.

  “Come down for lunch,” Billy yells up.

  I do.

  I park my butt under the maple tree, which provides a surprising amount of shade, and pull out my lunch, a peanut butter sandwich and an apple.

  “Hey Billy,” I say, “I gotta leave early today. I got a parent-teacher meeting at the school.”

  “Kevin in trouble again?”

  I kick myself that I ever let him know how much trouble that kid was giving me. Last time I had trouble with Kevin, Billy offered to act as a father figure to the kid, seeing as how my old man left when the kid was three. I wanted to suggest to him that he act as a father figure to his own kids, but my friends always tell me I’ve got a big mouth, so instead I just told him my brother was acting as the father figure, and it didn’t make any sense to get the kid more confused.

  Billy pushes his cap back, exposing the white skin on his forehead.

  “Wanna ask you something, Terri,” he says.

  “Sure Billy,” I say all innocent, although I have a pretty good idea what’s coming.

  “You’re an attractive woman, Terri. I been watching you for a while. Like you to share my pillow.”

  It isn’t that Billy isn’t a good looking man, and he’s no drinker, but he is married with two kids.

  “Can’t do that, Billy. You’re a married man,” I say.

  Billy takes off his cap and scratches his crew-cut.

  “Well now, don’t worry about that. I’ll handle that part of it,” he says.

  “No Billy.”

  I gaze up through the branches of that maple tree. I do adore that tree. Living in a trailer park you get kind of sentimental about stuff like flowers and trees—things you never notice when you have them around.

  “Beautiful tree,” I say, because I got to say something to break the silence and lead the conversation away, and help the man forget that his ego’s just been hurt.

  “Yeah”, Billy says. “I don’t understand what the problem is, Terri. Everyone cheats on his wife. Jimmy cheated on you.”

  I know Jimmy cheated on me, but it’s a done thing now, and I don’t appreciate the reminder. This conversation isn’t going the way I want it to.

  “Sure could use a tree like this where I live,” I say. “Would really provide some shade over the trailer. Gets up to ninety in there some days. Tree like this would make a big difference.”

  “Sure, Terri,” says Billy.

  He opens a new package of Players, offers me one, and studies me.

  “Yup, sure could use a tree like this one,” I babble.

  Billy mumbles something about getting back to work, replaces his cap, and strolls over to his truck. I sigh, climb the ladder again. Stupid move. I should have waited. I can feel Billy looking at me through the truck windshield. If I didn’t need the money, I would dump this job in a minute, but the support cheques don’t stretch far these days. I know I’ll finish this job, and take on the next one if he asks me to.

  On Friday, the job is finished, and on Monday, while I’m getting Kevin ready for school, I hear this rumbling. Something’s always happening in this trailer park, so I don’t even bother looking out the window. But when I shoo Kevin out the door – there it is. The tree, I mean. The maple tree from the new house. Roots and all. It’s on top of a huge truck-like vehicle, and one man is directing this vehicle through the maze of trailers with their temporary laundry lines, and the plastic ride-on toys that seem to belong to any kid who gets on them. I feel like someone pushed all the air out of my lungs, and I know I’m catching flies.

  “You Terri?” hollers the man directing the truck.

  He comes over and shows me where he’s putting the tree. I’m still catching flies. I didn’t know they could transplant full grown trees. I think there must be a mistake, but this man has a work order signed by Billy. I can’t even imagine what it costs to move a whole tree, and when I ask, the man shakes his head like he doesn’t believe it himself, and tells me I don’t want to know. He also tells me to water it well for the first couple of
months, because it’s gonna be under stress, and don’t be alarmed if it’s leaves turn red earlier than usual in the fall, because that’s how trees react to stress. He tells me all this twice to make sure I got it. By this time old Mr. McCracken is peering through his curtains. Then the machine starts pounding out a hole, and it’s like when my parents had the well dug. I go into the trailer and think about what’s happening. I know Billy isn’t doing this for free. I know what he’s going to ask next. First I decide to run out there and stop the work, but I don’t know if the men would listen to me. They got a work order from Billy. I could order them off my property, threaten to call the police. Wouldn’t the neighbours love that scene! They’ve already got me branded a slut because I’m a single parent. What would happen to the tree if I make them get it off my land? The thing might die waiting for Billy to tell the men what to do next. I decide that getting that tree doesn’t oblige me to anything, no matter what Billy thinks. Then I decide that maybe I could, just once. Then I go against that. Billy is still a married man, and he shouldn’t think he can buy me with a tree, no matter how expensive it is. I get up and look out the front window and see the hole is getting bigger and bigger. If I’m going to do anything, I’d better do it now. So I call Fay and tell her what’s going on. Fay laughs and laughs. At first I’m upset, but then I see the funny side of it, and start to laugh too.

  “Listen,” Fay says on the phone, this doesn’t oblige you to anything.”

  And we laugh some more.

  We decide to meet at The Lonely Texan on Saturday and discuss it over a beer.

  I look out the window again. The hole is gigantic. I call my mum if she can stay with Kevin Saturday night. She’s okay with that.

  When I get to The Lonely Texan I can see Fay’s been there a while. She’s wearing her tightest blue jeans and her red heels, and a fake cowboy is buying her beers. By the way she hollers “T-resa” across the room I know she hasn’t been refusing the cowboy’s offerings. I settle down with Fay and the cowboy, who is none too happy about me appearing on the scene. We’re there about an hour when Billy walks in. He grabs a Blue, pulls a chair up to the table, and says hi. He asks me how I like the tree and I tell him just fine. When the lights go up Billy digs in his pocket for his keys and waggles his eyebrows at me, but I got my mind made up.

  “No,” I tell him. “You can’t follow me home, you can’t come in for a coffee, you can’t stay the night.”

  Fay isn’t helping. She’s practically falling off her chair laughing. “Should’ve bought her beers instead of a tree,” she shrieks.

  “Come on Fay,” I say, “I’m taking you home. I’ll bring you back for your car in the morning. If it’s hot we’ll have a few beers under my tree first.”

  For once, she doesn’t argue. The fake cowboy watches us leave. He knows he’s wasted his money. Billy watches us, too. He knows he’s wasted his money.

  In the car Fay and I giggle all the way to her place, and then I giggle all the way to my place.

  Wednesday morning, all hell breaks loose. I’ve just sent Kevin off to school when Billy pulls up in his truck. He gets out and reaches into the flatbed and hauls out a chain saw. I hightail it back outside and plant myself in front of the tree. Billy yanks the cord on the chain saw and it roars to life.

  “Move,” he says.

  “I’m not moving,” I say. From the corner of my eye I can see old Mr. McCracken’s curtain flutter.

  “Move,” says Billy.

  “No.”

  Mr. McCracken comes out on his trailer steps. “It’s on her land,” he says. He holds the phone receiver in his hand, the cord stretched out behind him into the trailer.

  “Move.”

  Mr. McCracken hollers over that he’s calling the police. Billy hesitates. Police reports wouldn’t be good for business. Billy makes a decision, tosses the chain saw back into the flatbed, yells “You haven’t heard the last of me” threats over his shoulder, throws himself into the cab, and roars off. It’s the first time I’ve heard Billy gun that motor.

  “Care for some coffee, Mr. McCracken?” I say, unfolding two lawn chairs and putting them under the tree.

  “I’ll bring the biscuits,” Mr. McCracken says.

  After this I don’t get any more jobs from Billy, but that’s okay because I got on the production line at Alcan, and I’m making decent money now.

  The leaves are off the tree when I hear that Billy’s moved out to the yukon, and a few weeks later I get a letter from him. It sounds like he’s still pretty mad because his whole letter is about what an ignorant bitch I am, only he spells ‘ignorant’ wrong.

  It’s summer again and that tree is thriving. Those men certainly did a great transplant job. Fay and I, and sometimes Mr. McCracken if we’re only drinking coffee, sit out there. And Fay says, “Terri, this is the first time that big mouth of yours got you somewhere, but this one time should last a lifetime.”

  And Fay and I and Mr. McCracken laugh like fools.

  The Paper Mache Project

  I’VE BEEN DOING PAPER MACHE for more than 50 years now. I took it up when I was a teenager, and lonely on a Saturday night. I was kind of a gawky teen, and spent most Saturday evenings sitting at home with my parents. I met Ed when I was about 26, and he was the first man to show an interest in me, so of course I married him when he asked. Like they said then, any man is better than no man. All the same, he turned out better than most.

  Paper Mache is fairly simple, and cheap too. All you need is a form and lots of newspapers. I frequently use a balloon for the form, and then you pop the balloon and remove it when the paper is dry and hard. A large balloon, a small balloon, a couple Dixie cups for the legs, and you’ve got a pig in the making. Sometimes I built a form out of wire, twist ties, something like that.

  I’ve done a lot of Paper Mache projects, but this is certainly the most ambitious one I’ve tackled. I’m going to need all those newspapers I’ve saved. But at least I’ve got a readymade form.

  Ed always nagged at me about the newspapers, saying they were a fire hazard, but after a while I found that if I put them in the basement Ed didn’t bother.

  When we first got married Ed made fun of me for my craft, and I felt bad, but I told him that it was no worse than watching grown men chase a puck around the ice. All in all though, we got on fairly well. I miss him most at dinner, when we always had a civilized conversation about a new book, or about what was happening in the world.

  Right now I’m busy ripping the strips off the newspapers. The strips are really long, which is what I need. Newspapers are dirty, and my hands are black when the Meals on Wheels lady knocks on the door. She remarks on the colour of my hands, and I tell her why I look so dirty. Lillian is her name. She asks after Ed, and I tell her that Ed is resting; he doesn’t feel so well today. Lillian asks if Ed needs to go to the clinic, and can she call a volunteer driver. I assure her that it’s just a cold, and take the two meals from her. I know I should probably tell her she only needs to bring one meal now, but instead I put the second meal in the fridge for dinner. I don’t mind leftovers, and it saves me from having to eat jam sandwiches with tea for dinner.

  This evening I’ll get everything ready to make the adhesive that holds the strips of paper on the form. Ed use to claim it smelled bad. I never smelled anything, but to keep the peace I would do the preparation in the basement. Now I don’t need to worry. I can do the prep work in the kitchen.

  Of course when Beatrice and David were young I couldn’t work at my art, I didn’t have the time, but when they were both in school I took it up again.

  Once, I sat Ed down and explained that Paper Mache was an art practiced in ancient Egypt and was used to make death masks. And that it was used later on in Europe to make ornamental trays, and other decorations. Then I made him a small box for his cufflinks. Ed was a real fan of maps, and I papered the box with maps. It turned out really nice, and Ed quite liked it. He gave it a place of honour o
n our dresser, and when cufflinks went out of fashion, he used it for small change. I miss seeing him drop his quarters and dimes into that old box, the last thing he did before changing for bed.

  I measure the flour and water for the adhesive, and then Beatrice calls at 8 p.m. She used to call later but I let her know that I retire about 8:30 now, so she calls promptly at eight every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. We talk about the weather, and what I’m having for dinner (I lie a bit here) and then she asks to speak to her Dad, and I tell her Ed is sleeping.

  On Friday morning after breakfast I make the adhesive, and start on my project. I admit that this is an art that can be messy, and you should lay plastic down to protect any surfaces.

  I use to make piñatas for the kids birthday parties, till they got to be about 11 or 12. The piñatas were a real hit at the parties, and I made a variety of shapes. Some of them were quite large, but of course none of them as big as the project I’m currently working on.

  By 10 a.m. Friday morning I’m working in the bedroom, and the bed is getting really messy. This is a more complex project than I thought it would be. It’s hard to get the newspaper strips to go on smooth. I want it to look good of course, but there are more lumps and bumps than I’m used to. I’ll probably have to sleep in one of the kid’s bedrooms tonight.

  Lillian comes about 11:30, and when I open the door she steps back a bit. Then she asks me what that awful smell is. I tell her that it’s the paste for my Paper Mache, but I can see she doesn’t believe me. She says she thought the paste was just made from flour and water, and insists that it smells more like something died, maybe a rat or a racoon in the attic. I insist it’s the paste that smells so bad. Lillian asks after Ed, and I tell her his cold is getting better, but he’s still resting. Then she asks if she can talk to him, give him get well wishes, and I’m starting to get annoyed. Finally Lillian gets the message, hands me the two meals, and leaves. I know I won’t have to worry about her till Monday. They don’t deliver on the weekends, so I won’t be interrupted.