Red Girl Rat Boy by Cynthia Flood Page B

brother dies.
    “Louisa,” he sobbed, “darling Louisa.”
    Sadie emerged to stand by Ronald. She sniffed at his crotch and then his ear, licked his wet cheek. He gave her the glove.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
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    Care
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    On Thursday evening
    The Boss Lady in her tailored suit knelt before Bed 2’s assigned closet and scuffed things off its floor as a dog scuffs up dirt, backwards. Out shot gauze rolls, bottles of body wash, packs of Depends, the Rec Director’s clicker for locked wards, sunglasses, a pashmina, jigsaw bits.
    Bed 2’s occupant, The Wanderer, wasn’t around.
    In Bed 1 lay silent Teevee-gal, unpicking her sheet’s hem while staring at a dark screen. Her remote was out of reach.
    The Boss Lady tossed Tim Hortons cups, lipsticks, grumpy-baby photos, tiny flags, a driver’s license, Tylenol, lumps of hard porridge, a blue folder, shampoo.
    Grabbing that folder, she rose, and did not stop to wipe the angry tears but strode towards the door of 17-B where small brown care aides and LPNs clustered.
    â€œYou idiots didn’t notice this garbage? Clean it up. That woman must go.”
    Stilettos carried the Boss Lady away.
    The Wanderer just then was at work on a cash machine in the care home’s basement. Once she’d jammed it. Not tonight, but the deposit envelopes went into her wheelchair’s basket, and in the caf she scored a Danish and a banana before Hey you! sounded. Quickly she whir-whirred to the hall by the service elevator used to excrete corpses, dirty dishes, waste. She ate, waiting till she figured the care aides had finished with all the others and would be too tired to fuss.
    She tossed the peel onto the floor.
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    How Friday began for Sally, Lorraine, Annabel
    All night the summer air had wafted into 17-A, sweet air, for the dumpsters below the window held only a day’s load, yet unable fully to refresh the room. By the big containers a coyote sidled, sniffing, while raccoons waddled across the parking lot towards their tree-homes. Birds conversed.
    The old white women lay quiet.
    One was having a bowel movement.
    One thought again, The aides could just heave me out that window when I die.
    The third dreamed of a boy in a photo album.
    Soon crows began to curse. Phones rang, trolleys clunked, and old Mr. Chang traversed the floor at a rate of six round trips per hour.
    Pushing a trolley bearing sanitizer, tissues, lotions, wipes, Lily arrived in 17-A. Snapped on fluorescents, clashed curtain-rings, poked the nearest resident.
    â€œTurn over, Sally.”
    â€œMrs. Knox to you, fucking clumsy! Watch my jigsaw.”
    Sally’s bloated body didn’t resist, though, and her shit (the workday’s first stink) was neatly formed. In a fresh diaper, the resident snoozed again.
    Lorraine assessed Lily’s steps for irritability.
    â€œGood morning!”
    â€œEverything late already.” The aide jabbed a button. Lorraine’s bed angled up, pinching her spine. “No fun for you today. Transfusion.”
    â€œPlease, save my menus?”
    Lily yanked Lorraine’s bedside drawer open, flapped at the sheets of Creamy Veg Potage, Garden Pasta, Vanilla Delight. “Too many already.”
    â€œPlease?”
    â€œYou, you wait for Transfer.” She crossed to the third resident’s bed. “No games today, Annabel. Behave! Or Boss Lady throw you out too.”
    â€œWho too ?”
    â€œWanderer.”
    Annabel gaped.
    Lorraine managed, “Where on earth could she go?”
    Annabel kicked the aide, whose cry woke Sally.
    Then Lily wrangled the flailing Annabel into her wheelchair. The resident scooted to the toilet, pulling herself by banging her heels, scooted back. Next her nightie got dragged off, underpants and camisole on, while she struggled, giggling. Resisted arms into blouse. Undid her skirt’s Velcro.
    â€œScore!”
    Lily bent close, whispered. “Your