Miriam Toews - Summer of My Amazing Luck

Lish’s mom said, “Fine. This whole place stinks like pigs anyway and there’s nothing to do. If your John Deere crap is more important than your own daughter, why don’t you just go out there and … and…and screw it. Goodbye. Mom, I’ll call you later. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye dear. Are you sure you don’t want supper before you go?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” She slammed the door behind her. Lish’s mom was off to find her Massey Ferguson man and start a new life off the farm. On her way down the long driveway to the gravel road she passed a John Deere hauler parked on the side, and she removed her panties and flung them onto the hauler. Then she flipped up her skirt and mooned the whole lot of them, her mother, her father, the pigs, the barn, the flies, the sadness, the boredom, the stink, the John Deere equipment.

“And,” said Lish, finishing the story, “I think that was my mom’s first and last act of rebellion. Isn’t it amazing how men fall head over heels in love with wild women and then turn them into doormats?”

I asked, “Why didn’t she name her first baby Massey Ferguson?”

“Oh well, by then she wasn’t so angry. Too bad really. She hasn’t been angry since. Just sighs at the stove.”

We were approaching the city limits. We passed a sign that read “Congratulations Winnipeg and Welcome Visitors! Bite rate down from 48 bites per minute to two!!! We’ve survived!!!” And there was a bad painting of a family of mosquitoes holding suitcases waiting at an old-fashioned outdoor train platform.

“Oh well, that should draw the tourists,” said Lish.

As we were rounding the corner of Broadway and Main, the sliding door on the van fell off. Luckily the kids didn’t fall out, but a bunch of clothes and diapers and garbage and toys that were leaning up against it did and ended up lying all over the street. We were almost home, so Lish stopped and heaved the door into the van. “MOVE OVER, KIDS,” she yelled. “I’M PUTTING THE DOOR IN HERE.” I picked up all our stuff from the street. Some people honked. Others peeled around us and gave us the finger. Some just looked at us. “OKAY, DON’T FALL OUT OF THE VAN, JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE. LET’S JUST GET THIS PIECE OF CRAP HOME. I’LL DRIVE SLOW. HI EVERYBODY, WE’RE BACK. FRIENDLY MANITOBA. DIDJA MISS US????” Lish yelled at everyone around and waved and smiled. “Fucking impatient sons of bitches,” she muttered under her breath.

“Mom,” said Maya. “You’re supposed to say I’ll drive slow- lee. Mrs. Loopnik says so.”

“Yeah, Mom,” said Hope.

“Yeah , Mom,” said Alba.

“Yeah, Mom,” said Letitia.

“If I had PMS I could slaughter you all and not do a day of time.”

“You always have PMS, Mom,” said Hope.

“Yeah, ha ha, permanent menstrool system,” said Maya.

“Ha ha, good one.”

“Ha ha, yourselves, what do you mean always , I’m always pregnant. You can’t have both. Mrs. Loopy ever tell you that? And you girls call yourselves educated. Hey, hey, look people, it’s Sing Dylan. He’s still scrubbing that old fence! Some things never change, boy oh boy.”

Sing Dylan turned around and waved, And Lish honked the horn MEEP MEEP MEEP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEP as we drove up to the front doors of good old Half-a-Life.

Stuff had definitely happened at Half-a-Life over the very short time we had been away. Mostly it was that the sun had come out, and that had changed everything. Kids were running around the parking lot, and riding tricycles, bikes, roller blades, skateboards. Old rusty barbecues had been chained to light fixtures and other parking signs in the parking lot, and bags of charcoal were sitting underneath them. Some of the older kids were chucking bags of charcoal at each other. Obscene sidewalk chalk drawings were everywhere, kids falling down and howling, mothers standing around and smoking and talking. Other mothers were leaning against their balconies, shouting instructions and being ignored. Terrapin was squatting in a leftover puddle looking at waterbugs with her daughters, pointing at something with a grave expression on her face. Sing Dylan had almost removed all of the FUCK THE RICH THAN EAT THEM graffiti on the North Wall. He should have been happy, but he seemed kind of sad, worried. Then we saw Teresa.

She had cut off her hair and left a couple of long strands in the back. She was wearing a yellow tank top and cut-offs. She was running for our van barefoot over the little pebbles on the parking lot and so she kind of hobbled and grimaced and swore the whole way over. The way she was hunched over and wearing a tank top and rushing so eagerly and everything reminded me of the old lady tourists you see in Vegas. Terrapin called out to her to come and see the beautiful bug and Teresa said, “Get a fucking life Hairpin ouch ouch.” I thought she was very desperate to get her cheap smokes and again I wished that she would play along with this death thing a bit better. But when she finally made it to the van, she didn’t mention the cigarettes or Gotcha’s death or the postcard or the trip or ask how’re the kids or what’s the van door doing in the van. She ran to Lish’s window and heaved her giant yellow breasts onto the door frame and panted for a few seconds and then said in one breath like a big yellow balloon losing all its air, “Hurry up, you gotta hurry Mercy’s in labour! She refuses to go to the hospital. She said the last time she was in the hospital to have Zara they almost killed her. She refuses to lie down and give birth until her stupid apartment is sterile, so a bunch of us are busy trying to get it ready for her to have the baby and it’s early so her midwife, we didn’t even know she was fucking pregnant, isn’t around and she says she can just do it by herself but not until the place is totally clean and so hurry!!!”

“What did you say! Mercy! In labour? Are you serious? This is a joke, right?” Lish was already parking the van in front of Half-a-Life.

I thought to myself, wait, not another set-up. Poor Lish. I thought I was the only one lying to her. Maybe Teresa had really got into all that secrecy and plotting and didn’t want it to end. But how would she see the end of this one? She’s not some kind of Steven Spielberg even if she wants to be a flagger on film sets. You can’t just fake a new baby. At least not in Half-a-Life, where everyone has more than enough experience with real ones. This was getting ridiculous. Mercy hadn’t even looked pregnant. But then again she was always wearing those big longsleeved men’s shirts. And Mercy? Pregnant? When had she ever had the opportunity to get pregnant? She was always so organized, every second of her day planned and what was this about sterile? Her place was always sterile. But Teresa, who was huffing and puffing, trying to jog alongside the van as we pulled in, wasn’t finished. “And Luce, your dad’s here too and whatsisname, that guy you had at your place when Podborczintski showed up. They’re both in Mercy’s apartment trying to help. I think they’re doing the bathroom.”

“What? My dad? Hart? Teresa, are you sure, what are they doing here? Geez, Teresa, are you positive you know what you’re talking about? Geeeez, Teresa.”

I gave her a really nasty look like she had gone too far and could we all please just be normal and truthful again. I couldn’t remember the last time I had given anybody such a nasty look. And I began to feel bad ’cause it was Teresa, after all, who had been my trusty accomplice in the Gotcha affair. I felt I was to blame, giving her a taste of subterfuge, and now she couldn’t get enough. But she didn’t seem to notice. She just started hauling all the girls and Dill out of the van and rushing us all up the stairs to Mercy’s apartment.