inquiry as to our identity or an admonition to wait patiently, so we would just sit there in silence and in a few minutes the elevator doors would open in the lobby and out would step Rainie.
One time, I remember, I buzzed and there came a curious clicking sound, repetitive and insistent. (I was calling on Rainie alone, which was rare but not unprecedented. Jay was sometimes elsewhere, and no one knew where that “elsewhere” might be.) I understood that someone upstairs was releasing the lock on the big glass door that separated the vestibule from the lobby, and without thinking I pulled it open and entered. The elevator waited and I stepped inside and pressed the button numbered “14.” Rainie and her mother actually lived on the thirteenth floor, but the designers and architects were unwilling to acknowledge that fact. I rode up—I recall that a very thin man dressed in pyjamas got on at the fourth floor and ascended to the fifth—and then I wandered the hallway until I came to 1412. I knocked lightly at the door and almost instantly it was opened, but not all the way. The security chain was still attached, allowing a crack of perhaps five inches. That afforded me my only impression of Rainie’s apartment, namely: it was very dark inside, full of shadows, and what light there was flickered, as though produced by candles. There was a painting on the wall opposite the door, and I could see some of it, an aggressively geometric abstract. And then Mrs. van der Glick’s face filled the opening, gaunt and heavily made up. She wore only a nightdress. “What do
you
want?” she demanded.
“Is Rainie in?”
“Leave her alone,” said Mrs. van der Glick, closing the door and throwing a deadbolt.
But what usually happened was that Jay and I would wait in the lobby, Rainie would appear and the three of us would head toward the Galaxy Odeon Theatre for the Saturday matinee. We would pay our fifty cents, regardless of the fare, and the fare was wide-ranging. There were war movies, although they were occasional, as they tended to overexcite the children. There were films about pirates and knights, and these were Rainie’s favourites, although she complainedconstantly about historical inaccuracies. She also disliked the overtly romantic moments—the kisses and tearful farewells—which caused her to squirm in her seat. Having typed these last sentences, I realize it’s hard to credit that period dramas were Rainie’s favourites, but they were. As soon as she saw a foreign land—a Saharan desert or a tempest-tossed coastline—she would smile and, for a while, cease to be the tightly twisted little ranker she was.
Yes, Rainie was a ranker, and I can call her that because I was a ranker, too. The term may be particular to the Norman Ingram Memorial Grammar School, but the concept is universal. As any sociologist will tell you, there is a definite pecking order in any system—this is especially true of grade schools—and when we use the term “ranker,” we are speaking of those at the very bottom.
I was included in the number largely because of my spectacles. They were massive and cumbersome, so much so that the temples ended in wire hooks to prevent gravity from hauling the things from my face, which gravity was always threatening to do. I had to wander around with my hand plastered across my brow, as though thinking great thoughts or wanting to vomit. Either activity was bound to garner ranker points.
Mind you, I shouldn’t attribute my status solely to my spectacles. I earned a lot of points from the fact that I was related to the very bizarre Jay McQuigge. Jay’s strange behaviour was well-known throughout the school. On his first day of kindergarten he refused, tearfully, to nap during naptime. He called his teacher “Mommy” (and continued to do so for months). I had done this myself once or twice—it is a fairly common gaffe for a little kid to make—but in Jay’s case it created a problem because his
Nicolai Lilin
Robert Swindells
Casey Wyatt
Suzanne Williams
Laura Levine
Kris Kennedy
P C Hodgell
David Lynn Golemon
Ambrielle Kirk, Den of Sin Collection
Gail Jones