Neighbourhood Watch Rhonda Mullins (my reading book TXT) 📖

her hands, a pulp of sealed envelopes, bits of paper damp with dried tears.

The stork is beside her, smoking.

‘I wanted to give them to you anyway.’

‘I don’t want to read them anymore, Jesus, it’s too much!’

Her voice is trembling.

She wipes her mouth.

‘So stop reading them. Save them for later.’

‘Later when?’

‘Just later.’

‘When things get better?’ in a quiet voice.

‘Exactly. When things get better.’

Silence.

* * *

‘It’s for my concert. It’s important.’

‘Well go practise downstairs. I have a headache.’

‘Downstairs?’

In pyjamas, feet in yellow plastic boots, violin in one hand, bow in the other, Roxane goes down the apartment block stairs. A life behind every door, she tells herself. Which one.

It’s cold. Opens the door to the basement. Dark. Goes down.

Frozen concrete, piles of stuff, spiderwebs, her old Big Wheel under a mildewed tarp, Roxane pulls it out, sits on it. Puts the score on the floor.

Okay.

Shivers. Sits up straight. Breathes.

Do-do-la-mi-ti …

And plays.

Sitting on her Big Wheel, in pyjamas, yellow boots on her feet, she plays the violin.

In the dark of the cold foundation of an old decaying apartment block, Roxane plays Vivaldi.

She’s happy.

• • •

At the end of an alley, smoothed-out notes:

‘Mom, I borrowed your lipstick.’

‘Mom, it’s my birthday in eight days.’

‘Mom, the apartment stinks.’

‘Mom, a lady from Youth Protection called. I did like you told me.’

‘Mom, do you remember the time I told you to shut up? I’m sorry.’

‘Mom, Francis has started wetting the bed again.’

‘Mom, I got eight out of ten in math, and I got a good grade in dictation too.’

‘Mom, I’m sick. I think I’m going to die.’

* * *

The door to Kevin’s bedroom opens slowly. Kevin steps out. The red cape around his shoulders drags on the ground. The apartment is silent. Steve has fallen asleep in the living room. Kevin goes over to him. Looks at his dad. Kevin tentatively moves even closer.

Slowly, he puts his arms around Steve’s shoulders, gets on top of him. Then curls up in a little ball against his torso, where he lays his head. He pulls the red cape like a blanket over the two tired bodies. And after making sure his father is properly covered, Kevin falls asleep at his side.

A moment.

Steve gently puts his big arm around his sleeping son’s delicate body.

* * *

Midnight. Kicks the Big Wheel back under the tarp. Goes up the cold basement stairs. It was a good practice. She’ll be ready for the concert. She walks by the building door. The moon is up. Not many people on the sidewalks. A few prostitutes on the corner.

The wind kicks up the snow. The prostitutes are in their short skirts behind a curtain of snowflakes. They look like they’re inside those glass globes you shake, like little elves under fake snow. The neighbour’s mother is there. She still recognizes her over her bones.

Roxane would play a concert just for them. A prostitute concert, a concert for lost women by a lost girl. The music would be just for them and would warm everyone up. Even when the music was finished, it would stay in their stomachs, or somewhere close. Like a fire that reminds you that you exist and gets you through the night.

Roxane goes up to bed.

десять

10

The boys knock on the bathroom door, but Mélissa doesn’t answer. They’re hungry. They’re hot. They smell. They need her so she stays locked in there. She has nothing left to give today. They keep knocking, but Mélissa stays frozen in front of the mirror.

A space suspended in time. As if everything stopped.

Two red fingers. Index and middle finger.

Blood on her fingers.

Small in the large bathroom. The knocking on the door farther and farther away. Blows, muffled cries.

Mélissa is all alone and puts her fingers between her legs.

Red fingers.

Mélissa in the mirror. She pushes back her long hair and finally looks at herself.

Eyes looking into eyes. Fingers at her mouth. Slowly. Paints one lip. Then the other.

Red lips.

Today Mélissa is a woman.

* * *

People are hurrying along Rue Ontario. Arms filled with packages. Eye level with the bags, Kelly tries to guess what’s inside them. Pyjamas. A plant. A book. Chocolate. Sparkly jewellery. A red dress. A bottle of wine. Champagne. Warm sauerkraut. A Christmas tree with lights. A fireplace. Music. Kathy.

A gun.

* * *

In the schoolyard, Roxane is talking to Anastasia. She’s getting to know everything about her. She sees her more and more often. She feels good when she’s with her.

Roxane gets hit on the back of the head.

Doesn’t matter. She continues the conversation.

* * *

In violin class, the students are listening to instructions. The concert is coming up, and the teacher in his white shirt passes around a sheet on which students write the name of their guests. It’s Roxane’s turn. Mom, Dad … Anastasia.

She has guests, like everyone else. She is like everyone else.

* * *

Her head is pounding. Even though she didn’t drink today.

Louise is sitting at the table, chopping onions. Today she is cooking for her daughter. It’s been a while. She can’t even remember the last time. Roxane is in her bedroom playing the violin. It sounds like the same note over and over.

Shepherd’s pie.

Ouch … It’s like cramps in her head; it starts from the middle and goes all the way around. Have to remember how to make it – onions – are there onions? She chops them into small pieces. Her head is pounding. The knife falls, she picks it up, bangs her knee – fuck – everything is so hard – the onions make her cry, she can’t see anything, the can of corn, the can opener, what order?

The meat in the freezer – have to take it out – shooting pain in her head – the violin – Christ, that’s loud – she doesn’t want to shout – she doesn’t shout she won’t shout – the meat the meat the corn okay the corn – drops the can, it all scatters, yellow all over the