calls for repair service. The way it worked, Manitoba Motors sent her out a list of completed repairs once a week, and her job was to phone the clients and ask if they were satisfied with the work. A public relations kind of thing, making the customer feel valued and looked after. She got paid so much a call, and she was able to squeeze in maybe fifteen or so calls while Ryan napped in the afternoon. Even so, the pay was peanuts, and half the time no one was at home or else they chewed her out for disturbing them in the middle of the day.
She decided to go back to work full-time. Russell LaFleur, the head honcho, surprised her by asking if she’d ever thought of going on the sales floor. Times had changed. Women were out there buying their own vehicles now, single women with careers and money to spend on extras. Women valued the judgment of other women. They appreciated a woman’s point of view. When Dorrie pulls out the literature showing the cross-sections of engines, they stand at attention, taking in every word. Type of transmission, power brakes, cruise control – she ticks these items off on the tips of her nicely manicured fingers. She is deeply sympathetic when it comes to color and upholstery combinations, and she’s able to give complete concentration to seat comfort, leg room, the convenience of the glove compartment with its own little overhead light. “We all have to live within a budget,” she says, prefacing her pitch on fuel consumption, and giving a resigned shrug and a wrinkling of her small nose, signaling complicity. Hey, we’re in this together, we can work this out, these are the figures, trust me.
Right away she bought herself two perky little suits from a designer’s outlet she knows, a soft gray wool flannel and a brisk blue houndstooth check. Professional apparel, she calls it. An investment. Women working for other dealers in town go in for pant suits, but Dorrie sticks to skirts and coordinated pantyhose. After all, there are men customers out there too, and with them, as well as with women, she has an enviable sales completion record. At the end of every three-month sales period, Mr. LaFleur takes the whole gang out for a steak and beans dinner at The Loft. The high-commission sales staff get served steak, and those on the bottom of the chart get a plate of beans. It’s a riot, Dorrie tells Larry, but then she’s always on the steak-eating end of things. Twice she’s been salesperson of the month, and once, last April, she was tops in the city. For that she got a plaque with her name engraved on it and a weekend for two at the Hecla Island resort hotel. And she went straight out and bought a third suit, a raspberry linen blend, nice for summer, and a pair of high-heeled sandals.
She’d like another baby; she’d like to be a lady of leisure, so she says anyway, and she tells Larry she’s going to quit Manitoba Motors and give her aching feet a rest as soon as they’ve got enough money in the bank. But how much is enough, that’s the question. She can’t wait to move off Lipton Street with its rinkydink houses and busy traffic. She’s got her eye on the Linden Woods subdivision west of town, a double garage, en-suite bathrooms, a family room with fireplace and wet bar. And what she’d really like, even though it sounds crazy, is a spiral staircase with a wrought-iron railing. She and Larry saw one last Sunday at a real estate open house they attended, and she said afterwards that walking down that staircase with her hand on the rail felt exactly like being a movie star. “If we could live in a house like this,” she told Larry, “I’d never work another day in my life.”
Larry doesn’t want to move out of his house. He admits it’s no palace, but he’s just finished insulating the basement and he’s thinking about doing the roof. He’s installed a new garbage disposal unit too. He points this out to Dorrie, what he’s invested in terms of money and work.
“You just don’t want to leave your crazy yard,” she charges.
Sighing, shrugging, he acknowledges the truth of what she says.
He’s worked hard on the yard. It’s a small lot, thirty-foot frontage and ninety in depth, that’s all, but there’s nothing else like it in the city of Winnipeg, and probably not even in the province of Manitoba. Every inch of it is filled with hedges, and these hedges are planted in the intricate pattern of a maze. There’s a direct access route for the mailman, of course, but there’s also a sinuous alternate path that winds twice around the house with half a dozen false turning points.
Larry’s maze craze (as Dorrie calls it) started three and a half years ago when they got married and went to England for their honeymoon. The highlight of the trip was a tour through the famous Hampton Court maze outside London, and ever since then Larry’s been reading library books about mazes. And adapting his classic maze design so that it’s tailored to the size of the Lipton Street lot. He’s acquired nursery stock from a cut-rate greenhouse and learned just what shrubs work best in this climate and how to keep them alive during a long winter by burying the young shoots under heaps of leaves. Right now the hedges are thinly distributed and so short they can be easily overstepped; it’ll be another four or five years before the hedge walls get high enough for his liking, but meanwhile he’s nursing them along. The last thing he wants is to move to Linden Woods,where he’d have to start over and where the by-laws probably prohibit eccentric gardening.
Whereas anything goes in this neighborhood. The people around here are a mixed bag. His friend Bill Herschel, who lives two streets over, works full-time for the Manitoba Endangered Species Alert and sometimes gives Larry a hand on the weekend. The Gilshammers across the lane (he’s in cut-rate electronics; she works at a unisex hair salon) have just donated the raked leaves from their property. So have the two guys down the street. (Larry can’t remember their names offhand, but he knows they do stage carpentry for a theatre downtown, which he figures must be a pretty interesting line of work.) Lucy Warkenten, who’s got the upstairs apartment next door, doesn’t have any leaves to offer, but she takes a keen interest in Larry’s maze, and has walked through it half a dozen times, stepping along in her purple leather boots. (She’s a self-employed bookbinder working out of her apartment.) Beneath Lucy live the Lees with their three little kids. Ken Lee delivers pizzas for Bella Vista and gives Larry all his leaves and grass clippings, and plenty of advice on the subject of propagating shrubs, which must be planted in a shallow but wide trench so that the roots can spread out sideways and help anchor the branches against prevailing winds. The Grangers, Gord and Moira, live on the other side of Larry’s house. Moira’s a housewife, a semi-invalid, with an interest in spelling reform (she’d like to see the letter X eliminated), and Gord designs ergonomic work gloves, his most recent breakthrough featuring reduced padding at the finger joints so that the gloved hand can grasp objects more readily in cold weather. The good-hearted Grangers, too, have contributed their fall rakings to the survival of Larry Weller’s baby hedges, and now, with winter about to crash down, Larry’s and Dorrie’s yard looks like a series of Indian burial mounds with their mushroom of a house poking through.
In the dark November evenings people in this neighborhood tend to stay home with their families, enjoying their hamburger suppers and favorite TV shows. Generally speaking, the house lights go out along the street somewhere between ten o’clock and eleven-thirty. There are, Larry assumes, starbursts of sex or of hospitality or late-night comings and goings and probably even acts of violence, but nights in the neighborhood are quiet for the most part, and heavy with sleep. Under a depthless navy-blue sky, beneath a cold bone of a moon, this small segment of the world is renewing itself, restoring its emptied-out substance, getting ready for tomorrow. Ready to go back to work.
Working for Flowercity and married to Dorrie and living on Lipton Street, Larry had no idea that technology was about to bulldoze the job market. In the early eighties, that enchanted, stupid time, almost everyone had a job, or if they didn’t they expected they’d find one any minute. No one dreamed of the redundancies and dehirings and downsizings the end of the century would bring, where in a mean, lean, bottom-line world, a day’s work would become as rare and as exotic as the prized orchids Larry keeps swaddled in insulation at the back of the cool unit.
Larry, himself, was slow to wake up to the idea of work. At twelve he took over another kid’s paper route and lasted a week. During his final year of high school, hungry for money, longing for name-brand jeans and a leather jacket, he
