Colours in Her Hands, page 20
When Iris placed the square, framed in linen, on the stack she’d already stitched, she saw how the layered rectangles resembled the pages of a large book. What if she stitched them together along one side like a binding? A person could leaf through the pages one by one, appreciating each embroidery on its own — as Jenny had suggested. Iris could call it an art book. Not a book about art but made with art. She liked that idea. She liked it a lot.
She’d scoured the internet for everything on Judith Scott she could find. Over and over she watched the videos of Judith creating a textile sculpture. Iris would do the same with Mina: film her enthroned on her sofa, surrounded by her tchotchkes, and embroidering. There would be close-ups of her hand stitching and the expectant stillness that came over her face when she chose a new colour. Maybe they could even film a re-enactment of how she and Mina had met. Iris walking through the park and from a distance seeing a woman who was sewing, getting closer and realizing the woman held an embroidery hoop, and then even closer and seeing what she was creating. Although for that video she would have Mina stitching one of her abstracts, not a boyfriend’s name. The many decals embroidered with her ex-boyfriends’ names were a good story, but they weren’t art.
Or . . . maybe they were. There seemed to be a lot included under the umbrella of outsider art once a person was recognized as an artist. The Down Syndrome angle couldn’t be more timely. Get ready, world, Iris thought, for Philomena Corneau!
* * *
Mina glared at the phone. Bruno never agreed to anything when she asked him on the phone, but he hadn’t come to see her yesterday or the day before. He wasn’t coming every day like he used to. Mama had said he would always, always, always be there for her. Mama should have told him too!
She punched in his numbers, saying each one out loud so it stayed where it was supposed to. That was another thing she wanted, a phone she could take with her everywhere. She tried it with this phone, putting it in her bag and going to the dollar store, but it didn’t work when she tried to call Bruno from there. It needed to be a flat phone like Gabriela and Iris had.
When Bruno answered, she said what you were supposed to say to start talking. “S-s-something to tell you.”
“Why else would you call?”
She didn’t like when he used that voice. “I need blinds.”
“Need isn’t the same as want. We’ve had this discussion before. You don’t need blinds because you have curtains.”
“Blinds are b-b-better.”
“Blinds are easier to break, so it’s actually better for you to have curtains. We got you brand new curtains just last year. Have you forgotten?”
“Don’t like them.”
“You liked them when you picked them. We went to the store together and you chose the fabric. Besides, you don’t have the money to buy curtains one year and blinds the next.”
She couldn’t say anything because Bruno wasn’t supposed to know, but she did have money. Lots and lots of it now that Iris was giving her $35 every Tuesday and Friday. But that was her money, not Bruno’s. He was supposed to buy what she needed for her apartment.
She started again. “Blinds —”
“No blinds.”
“My windows —”
“Your windows are fine. You have curtains. There’s nothing wrong with them. I have to go now, okay?”
It wasn’t d’okay but he still hung up. She sat staring at her windows where she wanted to have blinds. The tops of the curtains were very high up. If she got on a chair, she might fall. She kept staring until she knew what to do.
Mouth set, she walked across to the windows. Grabbed a big handful of curtains and tugged. When she tugged again, even harder, things on the windowsill got knocked and fell to the floor. Something broke. Too bad. Tit for tat. It was Bruno’s fault. She bunched her fists in the fabric and yanked as hard as she could.
* * *
Bruno lifted the lid of the pot. The rice was almost ready. Iris was sitting cross-legged on the chair she’d brought into the kitchen from the dining room. She had a glass of wine and he was telling her about the meeting with Val that afternoon. They would be taking the show to Quebec City and Sherbrooke in early June, but Val had gotten a booking in Ottawa next week, so they had to discuss furniture and props more quickly than planned. The dolls were obviously coming with them, but what about the table? They couldn’t count on the venue having one the correct height and length for Tandi to roll across. He was quickly building one with folding legs and hinges that locked. Everything, as well as the four of them, had to fit in a van.
“I thought it would be fun for you to come too,” he said, “but there won’t be room.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got a few commissions with deadlines. It always happens like this. One client hears that another is having a dress made for a dinner and so she wants one too. I’ve got this other client who’s just discovered gaucho pants and wants five pairs, but each with a variation.”
“You mean those divided skirts? What can you do with that?”
“Slash pockets, knife pleats, flat front, basque waist, box pleats . . . Is that five?” She flourished her wine glass.
The way Iris talked about her clients, he could understand why she wanted to take her talents elsewhere, but did she understand that dancers, actors, and performers would be even more entitled and demanding? The britches and little apron she’d made for them were great, but she was lucky that everyone approved of them. Val might have declared the strips of fur were too fussy or Mathieu might have decided the britches impossible to dance in.
“You’re pretty busy then,” he said.
“Why, what’s up?”
He slid the turbot fillets under the broiler. “I wondered if you could look in on Mina while I’m gone.”
“I see her every couple of days. You know that.”
“This would be a little more involved. I need someone available if she thinks she’s got an emergency — which doesn’t mean that it will be an emergency, but she’ll panic if she doesn’t have someone to call.”
“That’s fine, Bruno. It’s not a problem.”
“Thanks. I really mean it. I’ll only be gone for a couple of nights. I’ll have to give your number to the social worker too — as a contact. She might call you but it won’t be anything. She comes up with wacky stuff, wackier even than Mina sometimes. Her latest thing . . .” He took a big swallow of wine as if needing to brace himself.
“Yeah?”
“Mina has started wearing two watches. I don’t know if you noticed. I didn’t. But the social worker is turning it into a crisis. She wants her to stop.”
“But that’s not her business.”
“She says she wants Mina to look normal.”
Iris guffawed. “Whatever that is.”
“Exactly.” He appreciated that Iris understood about Mina — understood, too, how others often didn’t understand. He liked that he could talk to her. Not just about Mina, but about work as well. She was curious about the production aspect of dance and wanted to be more involved.
There were other gratifying surprises that he hadn’t expected. Her small, lean body that looked boyish when clothed was compellingly seductive when naked. She was the most energetic lover he’d ever had, not just with her body. She used the whole bed — or wherever it was they happened to be. He’d obviously had sex in the shower before but never as with Iris. Yesterday he found her rifling through his closet. A belt, she muttered, a tie, something . . . That too was new for him.
Thinking about Iris and sex made him want to shuck his jeans on the spot. Fish under the broiler, be damned. But when she saw how he was looking at her, she wagged a finger. “Supper first. No dessert till you’ve eaten your vegetables.”
“No bending the rules?”
“Nope. You’re too good a cook. If you were just heating up a can of ravioli, I wouldn’t care.” And in another tone, “So you haven’t told me yet, did Val say anything about the next dance you’ll be doing?”
“She hasn’t decided yet, but do you know Pied Gauche up on St. Laurent? They’re hosting an evening of short pieces, max five minutes. We might do one. The thing is that short doesn’t mean easy.”
“Is it worth it then, for only five minutes?”
“Depends on who else they’ve got lined up. It could be a really interesting evening to be involved in. Val might not choreograph a new piece either. She could chop something from the repertoire.”
“But you’ll still need costumes, right?”
“Depends on what we do.”
“Because when I said I was busy, I didn’t mean I was too busy to design costumes. I’ll always make time for that. For you or someone else — in case someone asks.”
“Noted,” he promised.
He opened the oven door to check the fish under the broiler. “Just about ready. How about you take our glasses to the table?”
* * *
Mina dragged the pink and green feathers along the railing. This was a stupid job. Wood that got dusty. Statues with dead eyes. One of her hands itched inside the glove. She’d shown the pharmacist who gave her a tube of what he called unguent to make the itching feel better, but she’d finished the tube and she couldn’t see him behind the counter anymore. She told another pharmacist, saying the word as well as she could, but nobody knew what rongan was. She asked Bruno to get her rongan but he didn’t know either. He asked what it was for but she didn’t want to show him her hand. Rongan! she said. Why did no one understand?
Her hand itched too much. Her feet hurt. It was too hard standing up. Why was Bruno always making her work? Whenever a job ended, he found another one. Mama never made her work. Mama would have got her blinds. Mama loved her. She moaned out loud. She was too full of feeling upset. She hitched herself onto a pew and jutted out her bottom lip.
There were steps and Sister slid onto the pew and put her arm around her. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, ma chérie?” Sister held her so close that she could smell the soap in her clothes. “What’s got you upset, my dear?”
“Feet hurt,” she blurted. “My hand.”
Sister stroked her head and brushed the hair from her face. Cupped her cheek and cuddled her close. “There, there. Don’t be upset.”
Close like this was nice. The squish of Sister’s titties against her face. A small giggle rising in her throat.
“If the work is too much for you, my dear, you don’t have to keep dusting. We’ll get one of the parishioners. You don’t have to come here to work, you can just visit the church. Any time, my dear. You know you can always come in here to tell God your thoughts.”
Mina breathed in Sister’s good smell. It was lovely sitting with her like this.
“You’re such a sweet child. You know you belong to God, don’t you?”
Sister’s hand on her neck and down her back was giving her a shiver of pleasure. She would have climbed onto Sister’s lap if she could, but she was too big! That made another giggle in her throat.
“God loves you. Don’t ever forget that, my dear.”
Mina put a hand on Sister’s titty. It was soft like her own. She squeezed gently.
Sister yanked herself away. “What are you doing?”
“Titty.”
“Ti —” Sister gaped. “You can’t touch people like that, did no one ever tell you? It’s a sin!” She was standing now, tugging her skirt straight, mouth a stern line.
Why was she angry? It had been so nice sitting together and being hugged.
“I’ll call your social worker and tell her this work is too hard for you. I’m sure she’ll be able to find something else for you to do. I have to get back to the vestry now. If you’re finished, you can go. There won’t be a muffin today. That probably wasn’t such a good idea. Thank you for all you’ve done for the church. Goodbye, Philomena.”
Not getting a muffin wasn’t nice, but Mina was glad she didn’t have to come to the church again. A big, boring, empty place that kept getting dusty.
* * *
The budding greenery on the trees was so fresh, the sky so blue, that Bruno took the longer route to Mina’s place, walking past the community garden where he could see the winter garlic like rows of rabbit’s ears pushing up through the soil. A woman in a turquoise sari was raking her plot. On a day like this his mother would have been in her boots in the garden, deciding what she would plant where.
Iris had wanted to come along. Why couldn’t Bruno say that she was his friend the way she was Mina’s? But Bruno knew Mina might sense something and get upset — and could he please not have a scene on his birthday. He told Iris that they would celebrate when he got home. This, taking Mina out for supper, was how they did birthdays since their mother was gone. He took Mina out for her birthday and he took her out for his. It wouldn’t be a late night. He would be home before eight.
Mina was waiting on the sidewalk, her red fleece snug around her beach ball girth, her too-long sleeves rolled into bulky hems. Today she wore a pink polka-dot sunhat. As soon as she saw him, she began singing. “Bonne fête à Bruno! Bonne fête à Bruno! Bonne fête, bonne fête! Bonne fête à Bruno!” And taking another huge breath, she launched into English. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to Bruno! Happy birthday to you!” Interesting, he thought, how she didn’t stammer when she sang.
He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Thanks, Mina.”
She handed him the plastic bag she was holding. “Your cadeau.”
Inside the bag was a soft rectangle wrapped in Christmas paper. And though he knew the answer, he still asked, because it was part of the birthday routine. “Can I open it now?”
“No! The restaurant!”
Mina never used to give him presents, but after their mother died, she started. It was never more than a gewgaw she’d bought at the dollar store, but he was touched that she’d taken on what she seemed to think a maternal duty.
“How old now?” she asked. Another ritual question. She wasn’t asking because she didn’t know, but to check if he did.
“Let me see. I was forty-six last year, so now I must be . . .”
“Forty-seven!”
“Getting old, aren’t I?”
“In June I’m thirty-nine!”
“You’re catching up to me.” Every year she triumphed when she was a number closer, except then he had another birthday and she fell behind again.
“What do you think,” he asked, “should we take a cab to the restaurant?”
She grinned up at him from under her brim. Today’s button was the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.
“Give me your keys and I’ll run into your apartment to call a cab.”
She started to unzip her purse and then stopped. “I locked the d-d-door.”
“I hope you did. You’re supposed to when you go out. That’s why I’m asking for your keys.”
She gripped her purse closer.
“What’s in your apartment?”
“Nothing.”
Obviously there was and it was something he wasn’t going to like. He knew he should look, but it was his birthday.
They walked at a slow pace to Wellington where he flagged a cab. He held the back door open for her and sat in front with the cabby. “St. Henri,” he said.
“You take care of her?” The man had a Caribbean accent.
“She’s my sister.”
“I see her all over the Pointe and in Verdun.”
People often told Bruno that they’d seen her. She was hard to miss — the short, round fact of her, the bright clothes she wore, her unwavering conviction that she was important.
“We had one like that back home.”
Bruno didn’t ask like what. The man seemed to mean it kindly.
“Her, that one back home, she did okay.” The cabby glanced in his rear-view mirror at Mina. More quietly he added, “But she didn’t live long, maybe thirty.”
“My sister’s almost forty.” His mother had told him the doctors said she wasn’t likely to live past forty, but look at her, still healthy and making mischief.
“Bruno,” she called from the back seat.
“Yeah?”
“What are you saying about me?”
“How old you are.”
She gave a contented sniff.
The cabby smacked his palm on the steering wheel. “Nothing gets past her, does it?”
“The problem is what she tries to get past me.”
Bruno had wondered if returning to the diner where he’d told her about Gabriela might upset her all over again. Maybe, maybe not. He chose a diner farther down the block. The same Arborite tables, the same greasy smells, the same lights bright enough to perform surgery. As they made their way to a booth, he saw a signed and framed poster of Céline Dion. Here? He doubted it, but he said, “Look who ate here.” Mina wanted to sit facing it.
The menu was standard, and as always she would have a club sandwich with frîtes, but she still pored over the photos of spaghetti and hot chicken.
When the waitress came, she looked to him for Mina’s order. “Ask her,” he said. “How should I know what she wants?”
As they waited for their food, Mina recounted her goings-on. What she’d eaten lately that she liked. That cigarettes had gone up in price. That margarine was too hard to open. And as if challenging him to object, she said that Gabriela called her every Monday and Thursday at ten o’clock.
