Miriam Toews - Summer of My Amazing Luck

“Hello, Mr. Podborczintski?”

“Case number please.”

That was charming. Welfare language meaning Hello. “Uh, 5040388920.”

“One moment while I punch you in.” On hold again with “Honesty.” “Yes, Lucy Van Alstyne. How may I help you.”

“Uh, yeah, I have an appointment with you for June 21st and I’m going to have to change it, like move it up, because I have a funeral to go to on that day.”

“Whose funeral is it?” I guess he wanted a case number and a computer printout in front of him.

“Well, it’s my mother’s funeral.”

“I see. Unfortunately, I’ll need a death certificate to prove she’s dead and a letter from the person officiating at the funeral to prove that her funeral is indeed on June 21st. What time is the funeral?”

“Oh, it’s in the afternoon. Two o’clock.”

“Well, your appointment is for 10:15 in the morning. Technically you’d be able to make it for your appointment and still get to the funeral for the afternoon. I realize you’re distraught; however, my hands are tied with regards to policy.”

If I had been Lish I would have reacted differently. I would have started to cry or been outraged. I would have demanded to speak to his superior, threatened to contact my MP, take it to the press, insisted on proof that this was indeed policy. I would have made a scene.

“Oh, well fine then, see you June 21st.”

“Very well, June 21st it is, and uh … I’m sorry about your mother. I lost my mother to cancer only six months ago, so I know what you’re going through.”

Interesting. I should have asked to see old Mrs. Podborczintski’s death certificate. Well, so much for that. I’d have to go for my appointment now and call from somewhere on the road with an elaborate story about why I couldn’t make it for my next one. Lish would be with me. She could help with the details. I could picture it in my mind. Some phone booth in Wyoming, maybe, all five kids running around squawking, Lish trying not to laugh, saying, “Tell him that … Tell him oooh … ha ha ha.”

Mercy had a job working for the Disaster Board. She had been transferred over there temporarily from her other government job because she was so good at organizing files and receipts and complaints, separating the genuine from the bogus. Lish and I watched her leave one morning, mosquito netting and bike helmets on both her and her daughter’s heads, reflectors on the bike and on their rain jackets and on Zara’s backpack and Mercy’s briefcase. We marvelled at her routine. The truth was, most of us in Half-a-Life were afraid of jobs, so our feelings for Mercy were a combination of jealousy and disgust. We’d all had jobs at one time or another. Most didn’t last long. We had a problem with authority. Maybe we were lazy. A lot of people figured we were stupid. But even being on the dole was better than working. We didn’t want to leave our kids at a daycare or with a sitter. Some of us wouldn’t have been able to maintain the schedule, up at dawn, home at dusk, bed by 9:30, do it again the next day. I think a lot of us lacked confidence, too, in ourselves and in our ability to stick with a job and do it well. Having children was easy. There was no choice: we were stuck with them and this worked out for us, more or less. And besides, being on the dole and having children at the same time was a job. Who says we didn’t earn our money?

But to get back to Mercy: at precisely 5:10 she and Zara would be back at Half-a-Life. She might visit with one of us briefly before making supper for Zara and herself. Zara would be in bed by seven o’clock sharp, otherwise she’d have a fit, according to Mercy. Zara had to get up at six every morning to make it to daycare on time for Mercy to make it to work on time, so it made sense. Mercy would then clean up from supper, re-arrange her tiny apartment, do laundry, maybe some paperwork. By 9:30 she was in bed. The next day they’d do it again.

During one of her brief visits, Mercy told us Bunnie Hutchison, the Minister in charge of Welfare, had applied for flood disaster relief money from the province. On her form she had said she didn’t have insurance and needed money for damaged carpets, lifting tiles, shifting foundation, loss of clothing (including numerous fur coats left in a cedar closet in the basement), loss of television, VCR, CD player, stained cedar wood from her sauna, fridge (from mini-bar), ruined leather from the mini-bar, pool table, bathroom cabinet, washer, dryer, motors, tools (belonging to her husband), and a two-thousand-dollar aquarium which housed eight exotic South American piranhas who died when the aquarium’s climate control was altered by the cold rain water splashing up against it.

Mercy told us she had done a routine check of Bunnie Hutchison’s city tax bill and found out that she did indeed have insurance that covered flood, sewage and any other type of natural disaster. How odd. Must have been an oversight on Bunnie’s part, thought Mercy. When she showed the file to her supervisor, he took it and said, “Oh, that’s fine, I’ll handle this.”

I realized later that Mercy was trying to tell me something about Bunnie Hutchison, but at that point I guessed that Mercy was merely talking about her day at work, and pointing out that even provincial government ministers make mistakes. That evening I lay down with Dill. I sang to him and he fell asleep with his arm around my neck. From my bedroom window I could see more rain clouds puffing up, getting ready to dump their load. I thought of the clothes I’d pack for Dill and me, I thought of the games and food we could bring for the kids and the tapes we’d bring to listen to. I didn’t think about the real reason why we were going. For Lish this adventure had a purpose, an end. For me, it was just an adventure.

That evening I watched Joe deliberately smash his 1976 Dodge Dart into a pole in the Half-a-Life parking lot. The next day he’d report it as a hit-and-run accident and claim the insurance money for it. He and Pillar would be able to buy another week’s worth of groceries and when they were flush they’d buy another beater for a hundred or two hundred dollars.

The next day was my appointment with Podborczintski. This time Lish had agreed to look after Dill, which was a big relief. It was almost exciting, like going out. Going out on my own, even to the dole. In the lobby I passed Terrapin hauling a small dead tree through the side door. She was building a shrine out of papier-mâché and chicken wire. She needed the space in the lobby because her apartment was too tiny. The shrine was supposed to be a tree with a kind of shelf around the bottom. It was her contribution to the Homebirth Network’s march at the legislative grounds. The tree was the tree of life, and the shelf was there for gifts. Her kids were playing cat’s cradle and arguing about something. Terrapin was frowning at them. The chicken wire wasn’t doing what it was supposed to.

“No Dill?” she asked.

“No Dill,” I replied.

When I got to the welfare office, I walked through the doors with ease, no stroller to manoeuvre, and I marched up to the desk of the first officer like an old hand and said, “Case number 5040388920, ten-fifteen appointment with F. Podborczintski, sir.” I clicked my shoe against the other one and brought my hand to my head in a salute.

“Cute.” The woman behind the desk was not amused. “What time did you say your appointment was?”

Without having to worry about Dill squirming in my arms or crawling off on the wrong coloured line I was able to stand perfectly still and stare into this woman’s eyes.

But I felt kind of stupid. I had made what I thought was a bold move, but I didn’t know exactly what to do next. “Ten-fifteen” I said.