Not Suitable For Family Viewing Page 6

  I must have been on the road for about half an hour before my brain would let anything in other than No, no, no, no, no.

  Now I’m okay. I’m thinking clearly again. Everything’s not perfect but I can handle it. I don’t need to tell Anita I went to Port Minton. I can say I took off to visit Garlande Haney, this girl from school. Anita will act mad for a while, of course, but I know she’ll be kind of thrilled too. Not only did I get off my “sorry behind,” I actually have a friend!

  What difference does it make if Anita tells Mom I went to Garlande’s? As long as it’s not Port Minton, she won’t know I was in her room. She won’t care. I’ll catch the bus back to the airport tomorrow. In a little while—after some intense psychological counselling—I’ll have completely forgotten about Levi Aren’t-I-Adorable Nauss.

  I cross the little bridge into town. I guess the river—or whatever it is—is kind of pretty. It’s all sparkly and there are red and white boats with names like The Lorna Marie and My Mistake bobbing away on it.

  The rest of Shelton is, I don’t know, just kind of blah. The houses are old but they’re not all Martha Stewarty or anything. Most of them are plain white or grey or brown. Every so often someone’s done something crazy like paint the door pink or put a flowerpot out front, but that seems to be about it for home improvements around here.

  Unless I’m missing something, there’s only one main street. It’s got a bank, a couple of little restaurants, a pharmacy and a few stores. Most of them seem to be of the Buck-or-Two variety. There’s a newspaper office and a doctor’s office and a so-called antique store too. The sign for the bowling alley is so retro it actually looks kind of cool. (Given what the rest of Shelton looks like, I’m presuming that’s an accident.)

  A full-grown lady wearing a pink sweatshirt with a kitten painted on it points me toward the public library. (No way I’m going back to the hostel until what’s-his-face is gone.) She’s not sure if I can get on the Internet there—by the look on her face she’s not sure what the Internet is—but she figures someone can help me with the bus schedule.

  The Enos Hiltz Memorial Library is in a large old blue house just off the main street. Once upon a time, it must have been quite the place. It’s got all that gingerbread stuff around the windows and stained glass above a big wooden door. Someone went to the trouble of making it look nice. The window boxes are full of geraniums or pansies or something. I lean my bike up against the railing and go in.

  They clearly blew all their renovation money on the outside. The library’s got high ceilings and an old fireplace but there are no desks or study cubicles or anything like that. The place looks like the guy who owned it just moved out one day and the next day someone lined up a bunch of book shelves right in the middle of his living room. Posters for church sales and yard sales and babysitters are tacked onto a big bulletin board in the hall. There are a bunch of ratty chairs scattered around, and, over by the window, an old wooden table with a computer on it.

  Score.

  I look around. The place seems empty. Should I just start using it? Should I say something? Go, Yoo-hoo! Anybody here? I don’t know what to do.

  I’m standing there, staring helplessly at the computer, when somebody comes up behind me and says, “Can I help you?”

  I swing around, all jittery and guilty.

  A lady with wild kinky grey hair is smiling at me through her big red glasses.

  “Oh, uh. Sorry,” I say. “Am I allowed to use this?”

  She says, “Why sure you are! That’s what it’s here for.” She’s wearing one of those tie-dyed sundresses you pick up in the same place you buy your incense. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Um, sure. A couple things, I guess. I wanted to look up the bus schedule to the airport.”

  She waves her hand at me. “Oh, I can tell you that off the top of my head! It comes through here every Saturday around 11 p.m.”

  “It only comes once a week?” I sort of reel back from the shock. “How do people get out of here?”

  She looks around, then whispers, “We dig tunnels. When the guards aren’t looking, we make a break for it.”

  I give this weak laugh. I didn’t mean to insult her but jeez. Saturday? I’ll never survive until then. I wonder if I can rent a limo.

  A limo. In Shelton. Right. Dream on.

  The lady says, “What was the other thing you wanted?”

  Nothing. As of right now, the only thing I want is to get out of here.

  The lady smiles at me. “Are you researching something perhaps?”

  She’s really trying. She’s got her hands clasped in front of her and she’s leaning toward me like she’s an undertaker or something.

  I’m here. May as well.

  “Port Minton High,” I say.

  She gives me one of those “go-on” looks.

  “I’m interested in, um, what the school was like…you know, the extracurricular activities. The teams. Stuff like that. Whatever.”

  She makes this little hmm sound and lifts her eyebrows. “The school closed a long time ago. Now why would you be interested in that…?”

  I feel like I kind of disappointed her. As if I’m a lightweight or something. She clearly expected more from me. I’m a good girl. I do my best.

  “Oh, not just that,” I say. “I’m also interested in how the closing of the school affected the students…or how it—I guess—impacted the community…”

  Or what my mother’s doing with somebody’s football ring. You know. That kind of thing.

  She looks happier. She pulls a pencil from somewhere inside that gigantic hairdo of hers and taps it against her chin. “Well…I doubt you’ll find much about that on the Internet—but I might be able to pull together some photographs, newspaper clippings, information of that nature. Enough to get you started, I’d think. Come by Tuesday afternoon and I should have something for you.”

  I go, “Tuesday?”

  The lady shrugs. “We’re a volunteer library, I’m afraid. We’re closed Monday. The rest of the week, we’re only open a few hours a day. In fact”—she looks up at the clock on the wall—“I’m closing in about fifteen minutes. I’d stay longer, dear, but I’m taking my mother to her card group. You’re welcome to stay until then. You could use the computer if you want.”

  I nod in this vague sort of way. What am I going to do all day in Shelton? I can’t go back to the hostel. How long is it going to take that stupid Levi to clean the gutters? (What are gutters anyway? Who even has gutters? I’ve never heard of anyone cleaning gutters. He’s doing it on purpose.)

  My face must have gone funny. The lady’s looking at me, all worried.

  She says, “You don’t need to go just yet. Maybe you’d like to check your e-mail. I know kids your age are always having to check their e-mail. You’re all so popular nowadays! I was never that much in demand.” She smiles like she’s trying to cheer me up.

  Fine. I’ll check my e-mail. Keep her happy. I’m not expecting a whole bunch. (I’m not much in demand either.) I sit down and key in my password. I’ve got ten messages waiting for me.

  Nine are spam.

  The tenth is from Selena.

  From: gumdrop113@airmail.com

  To: birdbrain76@airmail.com

  Subject: The Great Escape

  U r kidding me! Port minton? That’s so wild. How does it compare 2 hong kong? Did u find mimi’s football lover yet?

  Did u join the port minton cheerleading squad? Those were some pretty hot moves u did the other day in mimi’s room. lol

  Keep me posted.

  Selena ☺

  From: birdbrain76@airmail.com

  To: gumdrop113@airmail.com

  Subject: Secret Lover

  No secret lover yet but have been practising cheerleading moves. Did a couple of jumps for a guy here. Dont think he was 2 impressed.

  Hong kong has better moo goo guy pan but u cant beat the cornflakes here.

  Will write more l8r.

 
; Robin

  16

  Sunday, 2 p.m.

  You, You and Mimi—The Makeover Special

  A two-hour look at Mimi’s favourite viewer makeovers of the year.

  The lady says, “Good news?”

  I hit close and say, “Yeah. Good news.” Sometimes I don’t even know when my face is smiling.

  She puts a bunch of papers on the table. “I found these for you. They’re church bulletins from the Port Minton United Baptist Church. I know it’s not the school per se but the church was very active in trying to keep the community alive. There might be some crossover with your research. The church is shut down now too—but I think a lot of the names you’ll see here will come up again in the school closure issue. Something for you to look at anyway.”

  Church bulletins. Thrilling. Who needs People magazine when you’ve got a stack of The Port Minton Semaphore to keep you up-to-date on all the hot gossip? I say, “Thanks!” and flip through a few as if I just can’t wait to dig into them. (I wish I could fake things half as well as Mimi can.)

  The librarian gives me one of those smiley frowns and says, “Well, I hope they’ll be helpful. But now, I’m afraid, I’m going to ask you to wrap things up. Mother doesn’t like to keep the ladies waiting.”

  She looks up at the ceiling as if something just came to her. “You know what? I’ll mention your little project to Mother. One of her friends is a Port Minton girl, very involved, would know the whole story. I’ll try to arrange to get the two of you together sometime for a chat. She loves to chat…”

  “Thanks,” I say again—but that’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking this is turning into way more than I bargained for. I just want to find out about the ring. I don’t want to get stuck “chatting” to some old lady from the Sunset Manor Gin Rummy Club. Especially since my guess is she’s not going to have any juicy stories about the Port Minton football team.

  The librarian finds a plastic grocery bag for the bulletins and we head for the door. Just as I’m about to leave, I see Mom staring at me from a paperback book rack. It’s All About Mimi: My Life Story. When did she write that?

  I grab it without thinking. “May I sign this out?”

  The lady looks at her desk. She looks at the clock. She bites her lip. She looks at me. She whispers, “Can I trust you?”

  I nod.

  “Then take it. I don’t have time to sign it out now. Just promise you’ll bring it back Tuesday. It just came in and Muriel Faulkner is dying to read it.”

  I say goodbye and sort of saunter off down the main street. I don’t even get on my bike. There’s no reason to move any faster than I am. The whole point is to waste time. As Selena was so happy to point out, that’s something I’m usually pretty good at.

  I schlep along, check out the buildings, look in the store windows. Lots of fancy candles for sale. Who even buys candles?

  Tourists, I guess.

  Maybe this is a tourist town. Maybe Mom came here on a vacation when she was a kid. Or maybe she was at camp around here. Was that picture taken at camp?

  Maybe she met a boy there. They had a little fling. He sent her his football ring. A summer romance. Happens all the time.

  No. She was only about ten in the picture. That’s too young to have a boyfriend, even for Mimi.

  Fine. She just met him at camp. They kept in touch. Years later, he sent her the ring.

  It makes perfect sense. Done.

  Now get me out of here.

  I pass a beauty salon. Hair’s Looking at Ya! What a classic. The window’s plastered with these faded photos of models with huge, spiky eyelashes and seriously scary haircuts. (One girl looks like she got her head caught in a panini press.) With that kind of advertising, no wonder the so-called stylist is sitting inside by herself.

  I turn to leave. My reflection pops into focus. Whoa. The model at least had an excuse—it was the eighties. My hair is just bad.

  I stare at myself for a second.

  I think, Why not? It couldn’t get any worse than it is. Besides, it’s like two in the afternoon or something. I can’t go back to the hostel yet.

  I stick my head in the door. I go, “Are you open?”

  The hairdresser looks up from the Harlequin she’s reading and says, “No, sorry. I just needed to get out of the house for a while. The kids were driving me nuts.” She looks like someone who could be selling jewellery on The Shopping Channel but she sounds like she’s from around here. She’s got one of those accents.

  “That’s okay,” I say, and start to back out. “I just wanted a shampoo.”

  She jumps up and waves me back in. “Oh, what the heck. I may as well make some money while I’m here.” She throws her book on the counter. “I know how it’s going to end anyway. They all end the same way.”

  She whips a plastic cape around my neck as if she’s trying to get a bull to charge, then leads me over to the sink. She finds out I’m in town doing research on Port Minton—I figure it’s easiest to stick to one lie—and she’s off and running.

  “Really? I’m from Port Minton myself…Sorry. That too hot?…I couldn’t wait to leave the place. I prefer being in town, but Roy, he misses the quiet. I say if you miss the quiet, why d’you go getting me pregnant all the time? There’s no quiet when you got four kids and a couple of half-crazy German shepherds too. But that’s not the type of quiet he’s talking about, I guess…

  “Your hair’s some thick. Your natural colour? Really? Gorgeous…Anyway, Roy, he’s from a fishing family. He and his dad were out on the water by four every morning. Rain, wind, weather. Didn’t matter. Sounds like hell to me only a whole lot colder—but he loved it. Be there still except the fish dried up. Nothing much he could do then. He had to go where the work was. He come here and got a job at the mill and a nice little bungalow in town.

  “I couldn’t a been happier, but that’s because my dad wasn’t a fisherman. While the cod were still around, the fishermen did okay. At least their kids never went hungry. But folks like us, it wasn’t so good. My mother worked in the fish plant. My dad did too when he was sober. Can’t get rich that way—especially when you got eight mouths to feed.”

  She shakes her head as if she’s talking about some other poor sucker. She’s distracted for a second by her reflection. She fluffs up her eyebrows with her finger, but doesn’t miss a beat with her story.

  “Dirt-poor, hungry and all of us stuffed into that leaky little house way out on the point! Can you imagine?

  “I shouldn’t complain. The Port wasn’t that bad. When we was kids, it was fun. We ran around like wild animals. We swam at the beach all summer—though now I don’t know how we did it. It’s some wretched cold out there. The rest of the year, believe it or not, we all piled into a one-room schoolhouse.

  “The high school was a lot bigger, of course. Kids from all over the county came. That’s where me and Roy started dating. Mind if I use some conditioner? Your ends are some dried out…Too bad I got hooked on Roy so young, because high school was fun. The problem is those boys who start fishing early get them big shoulders from all that hauling and lifting and it’s hard to look at anyone else after you see that. I tell my girls to go for the ones who read. They don’t look so hot with their shirts off but they get better jobs later. Make lots of money, and you can get yourself a gym membership any time—right, eh?

  “You got a boyfriend? Oh, you will! What with those eyes and this hair and that va-va-va-voom figure. Get a little makeup onto you and a tight shirt and the boys will be banging down your door. Me? There was only ever just Roy. I don’t regret it. Much. He doesn’t talk a lot but he works hard. And in high school, like I said, he had them shoulders. He was captain of the hockey team too. That was worth something back then. That practically made me royalty. For a while there, Port Minton was all about its hockey team.”

  I’m still, like, reeling from that “va-va-va-voom figure” comment, but she takes a breath and I leap in anyway. Sounds like she might be more helpful
than those church bulletins.

  “Oh, yeah. And what was its football team like?”

  She towels off my hair as if she’s demonstrating some illegal hold she picked up on the professional wrestling circuit. I’m half expecting her to knee me in the nose and finish the job.

  “Football team? There wasn’t a football team. There’s no field!”

  Note to self: so it must be a hockey ring then. Whatever. I go to ask another question but I don’t have time. The hairdresser’s off and running again.

  “The only reason there was a hockey team was that Mr. Hiltz donated the arena. Coldest jeezly place on earth. I guess he was too cheap to donate a heating system for the stands. I can’t tell you how many weekends I spent freezing my tail off in that place. Which side do you part on?”

  She turns on the blow-dryer and starts hollering over the noise. “I know people are sorry the Port died. But I can’t say I cried many tears. I got my own business today and it does okay. That never would have happened if I was still stuck out there. In the Port, everybody knew who you were and where you belonged. Nobody would have wanted Kirby Wentzell’s daughter doing their hair, that’s for sure. Like I’m going to give them cooties because my dad’s a drunk! In fact, Roy’s mother wouldn’t have anything to do with me for the longest time. She figured I was just something Roy was going to outgrow, like that acne he had on his back. Mrs. Hiltz was the one who made her come around. She gave me the money to take my aesthetician certification. I guess Myrna finally had to admit that if Debbie Wentzell is good enough for Mrs. Enos Hiltz, she’s good enough for her Roy.”

  She gives this hard nod of her head like I sure showed her. I leap in while I have the chance.

  “Who’s this Enos Hiltz guy?” I say. “Same guy from the library? Was he really rich or something?”