late adopter; now, Google has her in its thrall. She could search his name, try out that Boolean wizardry they told her about at the Apple store. Jean-Christophe + Christmas Eve + late. Which he’s not, not really, how can he be late when there’s no appointed time of arrival, when there’s only decency as the gatekeeper? When did he get here last year? Just after eight. What time is it now? 8:15 according to the clock on the stove, so 7:15, in fact.
Rosellen hates that bloody clock, a Satanic timepiece that can’t be persuaded to jettison Daylight Savings. She’s wiggled this knob, waggled that button, begged, sworn, importuned. Pointless. The clock won’t budge. She’s managed only to vex awake the automated oven timer, which, once stirred, couldn’t be deterred. Night after night, at 10:47 – now masquerading as 11:47 – it springs to life, starts galloping, hard, in the direction of Fahrenheit 350. Rosellen does a lot of midnight roasting. She tells herself this enforced act of subtraction-by-one, for six months of the year, will keep her sharp. Arithmetic is another brick in the barricade against dementia; it can be, at least, or so she’s read, when properly stacked and mortared alongside Sudoku, crosswords, jigsaws. So far, so good. There’s the odd grasping after a word but, on balance, she’s fine. Competent. No kettles in the freezer, no ice-cube trays under the broiler. Holding steady, with only minor tremors.
She’ll do whatever it takes to ensure she doesn’t end up like her mother, known to one and all, long before the advent of Lady Gaga, as Lady Gaga; her mother, dead + burned + scattered, but still celebrated by some of the long-term housekeeping staff at her care facility for her gift of gin acquisition and concealment. Tonic? She didn’t care for it. Rosellen intends, come the unlikely day she can afford such an indulgence, to shell out for one of those “in memorial” benches that line the seawall. She’ll have the brass plaque inscribed with her mother’s name, along with the epitaph:
This much cannot be disputed:
She liked liquor undiluted.
It’s pointless to try but she’ll give the clock another whirl, this being the season of miracles. The nail of her right index finger whitens with the pressure. She leans into the reset button, channelling all her inquisitorial will: submit, repent. No change. What does it matter? You choose your battles. Soon, this will all be over. Soon, the range, the clock will be toast. The Santa Maria will be toast.
“Think I’ll make some toast,” she says.
On Christmas Eve –
Wham, wham, wham.
“Rosie?”
Wham, whammity, wham.
“You there?”
Had it been anyone other than Bonnie, Rosellen would have feigned absence, maybe hollered, “Go away, I’ve gone to mass!” She’s accustomed to being on call 24-7, that goes with the territory, but there are limits. Christmas Eve. J.C. due. Her bagel, compliantly crisping, now on the smoking cusp of ejaculation. Sometimes, you have to put your foot down. Had it been anyone but Bonnie, she wouldn’t answer. Or she would. Bend the ear of whoever the petitioner. Let out the dogs of angry contradiction. Let ’em howl.
No, you didn’t see a goddamn mouse, ’tis the night before Christmas, none is stirring, haven’t you been paying attention?
No, dumbass, I don’t happen to have a baster or a tool that would also work as a baster.
What do you mean you have movers coming tomorrow, it’s Christmas day, who the hell moves on Christmas day? Two Dumb Elves with Stupid Hearts?
Wham.
Had it been anyone but Bonnie, whom she’s known all these years.
Wham.
Bonnie, whose brimming, appalling toilet she’s plunged, whose hair-clogged drain she’s snaked.
Wham.
But it is Bonnie.
“Rosie, I’m so sorry to bug you. I just need a minute.”
So much for peace on earth.
Rosellen (b. 1949) comes from a generation raised to believe in the power of a good credential. When it became clear that her marriage was running on fumes, that the time for the digging of foxholes was upon her, she signed up for a correspondence course in property management. Her husband – ex-husband … could be late husband, for all she knows – Bryan, excelled at infidelity, porn-watching, returning empties, air guitar. What else? Nothing else. It fell to Rosellen to tend to the changing of washers, the hanging of fixtures, the plastering of fissures. She didn’t feel put upon; she appreciated this evidence of susceptibility to repair, the demonstration that not everything around her was immune to mending. When the world was too much with her, she’d take the bus to Canadian Tire, just for the pleasure of smelling the vulcanized air.
The correspondence course wasn’t cheap, but the fee included all instructional materials, plus a tool belt of unimpeachable quality. The manuals – there were eight – contained only one typo. Rosellen considered sending a note but decided against it; whoever was stupid enough to mix ammonia with beach had it coming. She passed with distinction in half as long as it took most other candidates. She was motivated.
The same day she received her exam results and accreditation in the mail, she answered an ad in the paper – where once such postings were published, O Best Beloved – for a caretaker/manager at the Santa Maria, a small residential building on Harwood Street, in the West End. “Must start immediately.” The imperative appealed. It was late November. Daylight was in short supply, likewise cheer. She didn’t have the wherewithal to endure another pretending-to-be-merry Christmas in Ladysmith with Bryan’s family of redneck rye drinkers, everyone waxing nostalgic about the killing cold of Saskatchewan, his adenoidal brother, a retired rancher, forever illuminating the darker side of binder twine, his pathetic sister-in-law with her crafts addiction and illustrated dictionaries of symptoms and their petulant, entitled, clamorous children. Jesus. No. Never again. The salary wasn’t anything to write home about, but there was the compensating perk of a fully furnished studio apartment. “Small but bright,” the ad said, which proved half-true. She jumped without leaving a note.
Rosellen arrived at the Santa Maria with a yellow plastic dairy crate into which she’d folded some hastily culled clothes. One bulky sweater was wrapped protectively around a Royal Doulton shepherdess that had been her mother’s, the delicate crook long ago broken, badly glued. She brought the tool belt, too, as well as a calligraphed faux-vellum certificate attesting to her expertise as a Property Manager; the course administrator described it as “suitable for farming,” which provoked a welcome spike in Rosellen’s serotonin. Early in the morning of December 1, 1984, she moved into the caretaker’s suite on the main floor of the Santa Maria, apartment 101, its view of the street obscured by a holly hedge. A few hours later, demonstrating a more marked devotion to material accumulation, Bonnie arrived. It took four movers three hours to haul her sundries and notions up the stairs, into the little penthouse atop the building’s third floor.
Bonnie’s apartment, with its commanding alley outlook and jangly soundtrack provided by the city-employed trash collectors and the volunteer Guild of Binners, is innocent of whatever glamour “penthouse”
