‘Poor stupid dog.’ Young Young Miss Lamp gave him a whistle. ‘I’m going to have a scar for certain.’
She glimpsed the dog through the slats of the well-flaked fence, shy a coat of white paint. The dog whimpered to a standstill with a cloud of busy gnats gathering around his chocolate Lab head. His jaw clacked in a snap.
‘It’s simple, dog,’ she continued with a squint. ‘Your masters will never let you catch that squawky magpie. That’s what the hole in the fence is for. Who wants to clean up a dead bird in their backyard? Stupid dog.’ The gnats parted for Young Young Miss Lamp as she rose to her feet.
The breeze was unseasonably warm.
§
Berrylicious.
‘I’m so sad,’ Paper Boy said to the tallest spindle tree. Rick and Serge’s lipstick letters left knuckle-sized bruises on his chest. After he slung the silk-lined suit coat on his bony shoulders, his bluish fingers picked buttons shut. Bits of dirt stuck to the fuzz on the back of his neck. Damp. His angry stomach told his hands to pick as many pink and red spindle berries as the pockets of his new jacket would hold. ‘I should wash these little berries,’ he said.
The river gobbled many little berries. He watched them bob along the silver edge of current and held on to as many of the pink and red berries as he could. Trickles of purple ran down his walking muscles as silk-lined pockets strained with their dripping cargo. Returning to his drinking tin, sharp enough to catch a lip on, Paper Boy spilled the spindle berries on the table. He picked at them like Robin Redbreast. With each berry he chewed and rolled in his mouth from sweet to sour, his tongue grew numb. So did his throat. So did his angry stomach. He missed his good straight tooth.
§
Lost and Flowered.
The phone in Delano’s office never rang. He had ripped the bells out of it years ago. On the elevator outside his office, down the hall, past two doors to the right, hung a sign that read OUT OF SERVICE. Abby read a sign in the lobby that said USE THE STAIRS.
Holding tight to the banister, she began her ascent. Rounding the second floor, she stooped to tie her shoe and then blew on her sweaty palms. Abby had wanted her mom to come inside and up the stairs with her. But her mom chose to scrape her heels on the sidewalk, pointing up to the busy-looking placard and clutching a note from Mr. Tall about Abby’s barn-like behaviour.
‘Your teacher says you’ve been complaining about your teeth all week, Abby. He isn’t sure why. He suggests I take you to the dentist. So get up there and see what’s wrong with your goddamn teeth. Third door on the left, Abby. See the sign? Hurry up.’ Her mom counted on her fingers. ‘One. Two. Three. Do you know which way left is, Abby dear? Get going! Someone has to pay for your teeth.’ She mustered up some spittle. ‘At least you managed to clean up your shoes, but they still smell like piss and vinegar. I want you to scrub them as soon as you get home. The poor dentist is going to have to plug his nose ’cause of those shoes. Now get going, and don’t forget to stand up straight and smile. Be polite!’
With shoes wiped clean and tied tight, Abby tried to smile as she passed the second floor.
Abby was used to doing things by herself. A shoelace around her neck held a house key. It was nice and cool to touch, and Abby wore it every day. She cooked her own dinner too. Jiffy Pop hurt her teeth, though she popped it without burning a single kernel. Peanut butter and lettuce sandwiches would be easier to eat. Her mom grinned for broccoli and mushy peas with vinegar. Beans on toast and poached eggs. Abby knew just how much vinegar to put in the water. ‘More than a teaspoon, less than a tablespoon, makes those eggs swoon,’ Abby said. Abby was hungry.
Up the flight of stairs to the third floor, Abby grabbed the banister with both hands. A large woman in a chartreuse dress flew past her, throwing a pink plastic hair flower to the ground. Mascara ran down her face in streaks. She was oblivious to Abby, who picked up the flower and stretched to her tiptoes, peering over the railing down to the lobby. ‘Lady, lady! You dropped your flower! Lady! Wait!’
The lady and her beautifully flowing dress of yellowish green disappeared. Abby held the flower. A pink gerbera. It smelled of hairspray. Like perfume. It had a green stem, bendy as a pipe cleaner. Abby put it in her hair and found the third floor. She turned left, three doors down. ‘Excuse me, do you know where the dentist’s is?’ asked Abby.
A man was wiping his teeth with the back of his tie. He checked his breath in his hand and smirked. ‘Why, yes I do, young lady.’ He fixed his tie, adjusting the knot flat to his chest.
‘Is it here?’
‘It is here, and the dentist is me.’
‘Oh.’ Abby stood up straight and pursed her lips.
‘Where’s your mother, young lady? You didn’t come up all these stairs by yourself, did you?’ He seemed concerned.
Abby felt for the flower in her hair. ‘Yes. My mom is out getting money for my teeth.’
‘Teeth, eh? Well. You’ve come to the right place, I’m afraid.’ Abby didn’t smile.
‘Delano’s the name. Low Rates. Satisfaction Guaranteed. No Questions Asked. What’s your name then, young lady?’
‘Abby Lamp.’
‘That’s a nice name, isn’t it? Sounds shiny. Nice to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand.
‘I’m not supposed to shake hands with a stranger, sir.’
Delano sauntered back, ruefully aghast. ‘“Sir”? I’m not a stranger. I’m your dentist. A dentist is never a stranger. Ha.’
Abby sniffed at her vinegar shoes.
‘Well, I suppose we should have a gander at your teeth, young lady. Come on in. Right this way. It’s good and sunny in here today.’
Abby stepped into his office with a squint.
‘Step right this way to the big old chair for a million-dollar smile.’
‘A million dollars?’ Abby gulped. ‘My mom sure doesn’t have a million dollars.’
‘Oh no, young lady. Ha! That’s only a figure of speech. It shouldn’t cost all that much. Special rates for you, my young friend.’
Abby hopped in the big old chair.
‘Sure is a nice flower you have in your hair, Abby Lamp. Pink is a wonderful colour for a girl.’
Abby smiled a little.
§
The Pickle.
The Cook rings the kitchen bell, so Room Service Boy gets off his chair. He presses wrinkles from his lap and swings through the kitchen door with his two straight cuffs. Mindful of the wet kitchen floor, he eyes The Cook.
‘Is this it?’
The steam from lightly browned bread and old cheddar cheese whets Room Service Boy’s appetite. The soup suspends flecks of parsley and black peppercorns. Freshly cracked. The pink hue in the blue bowl means the soup contains at least one part milk. Two thin slices of cantaloupe dignify the matching plate. Last week’s honeydew melon balls would certainly have clashed.
‘Where’s the pickle? It needs a pickle. It’s a grilled cheese. The lady in Room 32 wants a pickle with her grilled