Particivision and other stories (selections)

War Heroes

Phan Ling completed the one remaining calculation, neatly printed ‘47.12’ onto the large sheet fixed on her drafting table, then carefully set down her pencil. She stretched, leaned back with her arms crossed behind her head, and looked out the window of her fifth floor office. The usual feeling of triumph—or at least satisfaction—was not forthcoming. She was puzzled: she had been working on this assignment for months.

Well, she realized, she hadn’t been too excited about it in the first place. It was the design of a fission trigger which would initiate the fusion reaction of a thermonuclear weapon. But, she knew she couldn’t pick and choose her assignments—no one in R and D could. No one in any department could. You can’t just accept parts of your job, the stuff you liked, and refuse the rest. A company can’t function if it can’t trust its employees to do what they were asked to do—she knew that. She understood that.

And it wasn’t as if all of her assignments had to do with nuclear weapons. In fact, this was the first. She knew the company itself wasn’t comfortable with this particular contract—but, well, it had saved them from bankruptcy.

No. generally speaking, she liked her job, she liked the challenge of her work. So she wasn’t about to get radical and become an activist over this one assignment. It wasn’t in her nature. It wasn’t in her background. When her parents’ parents became frustrated at the lack of opportunity at home for a university education for their children, they didn’t take to the streets shouting and waving banners, demanding more universities, and condemning the government’s complacency with the rampant under-the-table bribery that went on for the few spaces at the existing universities. They simply sold a family heirloom, withdrew their savings, and sent their youngest and brightest here, to Canada. They simply saw an alternative and quietly took it.

Then when her own parents discovered the persistent disadvantage of their poorly spoken English, they didn’t cry ‘discrimination!’ and call for meetings with the student unions, they just decided to switch majors, from anthropology and psychology to engineering and physics, fields in which the disadvantage would be minimalized. Like them, Phan believed that you could get what you more or less wanted withinthe confines of laws and regulations. with a little intelligence and a lot of hard work.

That’s why the news this morning—ah! There’s the reason! She had heard on the news this morning that the arms talk had failed. That was why she didn’t feel very good about her successfully completed assignment. By themselves, one or the other wouldn’t have upset her. But timing can create such a juxtaposition—

Of course it wasn’t the first arms talk. And it wasn’t the first arms talk that had failed. The U.S. had begun testing in 1945. The Soviet Union, in ’49, and the UK, in ’52, Six years later, thirteen years after the atomic bomb, negotiations began for a ban on testing. The three countries actually agreed then to stop it, for two years. But before those two years were over, the U.S. walked out on further negotiations. France began testing in 1960, the USSR and the U.S. resumed in 1961. By that time, the Intercontinental Bomber, the hydrogen bomb, the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, the man-made satellite in orbit for targeting and surveillance, and the submarine launched ballistic missile had been successfully developed.

Over the next fifteen or sixteen years, a mere four treaties were established. All were limited in scope, all were ‘partial’. Then in 1977, the three countries got together again and talked about a comprehensive test ban treaty; two years later, the U.S. and the USSR signed the Strategic Arms Limitation Agreement, the one known as Salt II, but the U.S. Senate didn’t ratify it, and in 1980 the U.S. refused to continue negotiations. In 1985, the USSR declared a unilateral moratorium on nuclear testing; they even extended it four times, until 1987. But no one else joined in; and they started testing again. In the meantime, the multiple warhead, the Antiballistic Missile, the Multiple Independent Targeted Warhead, and long range cruise missiles had been developed. And testing was taking place in China and India as well.

She began to lose track then as every talk became enmeshed in a complex web of ifs, ands, and buts. How many SS-20s equal how many Pershing IIs? Then denials and declarations began that put even ‘the facts’ in question. Maybe the U.S. didn’t discontinue negotiations, maybe the USSR didn’t maintain a moratorium. Were the warheads withdrawn as promised? Did the freeze occur at the level agreed to?

Who would ever know what had happened in the past—certainly the present state of affairs was muddy. And the future was—well, invisible. Were egos blocking the vision? Was it that too much was invested to turn back now? She didn’t know why the talks had failed.

She knew only that negotiations weren’t working. She thought for a moment, then she picked up her pencil, erased ‘47.12’, and printed ‘47.22’. Now the triggers wouldn’t work either. She stretched and leaned back in her chair again—smiling with pride at a job well done.

Karl Nyovsky worked in a place that looked like an old military base, except that it had shiny barn-like buildings. It was in fact an industrial facility, a metalworking factory. The metal used was plutonium. The plutonium was melted, then poured through a tantalm funnel in to a graphite mold. The resulting ingots came down the line to Karl, to be machined into the proper shape. He was a tool-and-die maker by trade. Here he made nuclear triggers.

Almost every factory worker knew someone who had lost a finger somehow somewhere, and Karl was no exception. Yes, he was very aware of accidents; in fact if he had another skill, he’d find another job. However, from behind a stainless steel enclosure, with lead glass windows, lead shielding, and lead oxide in the rubber gloves he wore, Karl wasn’t thinking of losing a finger.

He was thinking of accidents he’d read about. Three-Mile Island and Chernobyl. (In fact, if the money weren’t so good, he’d find another job.) But Karl didn’t read just the Sunor the Star or the Globe. He also read the other newspapers, the small alternative, almost underground, newsletters and pamphlets that came his way, sometimes by subscription, sometimes by random outreach. It was a habit he had brought with him from home.

So as he worked, Karl was also thinking of the B-52 carrying four nuclear bombs that crashed in Greenland in 1968, spreading 16 kg of plutonium over acres and acres of tundra. More than 230,000 cubic feet of ice and debris were scraped up and disposed. Where, Karl wondered, as he lined up the next ingot, where was it disposed to? He also thought of the Russian airplane carrying a nuclear weapon that crashed in the Sea of Japan. He thought of the U.S. subs carrying nuclear missiles that have collided with Russian ships, the George Washington that ran right into a Japanese ship back in ’81, and the Scorpion and the Thresher, two nuclear attack submarines that just sank into the ocean and no one knows why. He checked the setting readouts above the four knobs, ‘1.18’, ‘47.22’, ‘15.6’, and ‘7.64’, and thought of the nuclear weapon that fell out of a strategic bomber in the late ’70s and landed in Carolina in a swamp. He thought of the failure in 1979 of a 46¢ computer part that produced a false signal showing Russian missiles on the way to the U.S., and of the missile that was accidentally fired from Arkansas in ’81 because a mechanic dropped a wrench. Oh yes, he knew, accidents happen, people make mistakes.

The chance of a nuclear war starting by accident was, to his mind, phenomenal. He thought of the four plutonium bombs dropped on Spain by mistake—fortunately they didn’t explode. He thought of the crash in ’61 of a plane carrying a 24 megaton bomb over North Carolina—on impact, five of the six interlocking mechanisms on the bomb failed, so that only one switch prevented an explosion equivalent to 1,000 Nagasakis. One switch had made the difference. Chances are, he thought, adjusting the precision controls, this one will also be fired by mistake. He turned one of the knobs just a few more degrees. But chances are, he smiled, it won’t go off.

Claude Tremblay was lying awake in bed at 5:00 a.m. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling. He was trying to decide whether or not to call in sick.

He was scheduled for what the guys called a ‘nuke run’. Transporting something or other—they never knew just what—in those canisters marked with that radioactive symbol, always to or from some military base. The runs paid sometimes five times a regular run—which is why a lot of guys put in special requests for them. But for exactly the same reason they paid so much, a lot of guys didn’t like them—the personal risk. What happened if your rig got in an accident? Well, no one really knew for sure—they said it was safe enough and talked a lot about the construction of the canisters—but well, Claude didn’t always believe what he was told.

However, that wasn’t what was really bothering him. Every time he saw one of those symbols, he saw people running, on fire, their skin hanging in strips. He saw schools, hospitals, buildings of all kinds, blasted to bits, the steel, concrete, and glass shards flying into people’s bodies. He saw people lying everywhere injured, dying. He saw others walk by, unable to help, but with nowhere to go.

He saw people with radiation sickness, throwing up, their hair falling out, just waiting to die. He saw hundreds of dull and empty eyes, suffering acute stress, bereavement, and depression. He saw people living in a cold and barren wasteland, desperate with survival instinct, looting and killing for a bottle of water, a can of beans. He saw the survivors sprouting cancers, gradually malfunctioning.

When he told the guys once, they looked at him like he was some kind of wimp. It was okay to consider the risk to yourself, but it wasn’t cool to think about others. He didn’t understand. Then some new guy got on his high horse and refused all nuke runs, saying it was our duty to our children to resist, etc., etc. Claude tried to figure it—duty was okay but care wasn’t? It was okay to care about others only if the others were your kids? Well, if your kids are merely extensions of your self, he saw their logic in that—he noticed that a lot of people suddenly became concerned citizens when they became parents. The new guy was suspended—they were trying to decide if they could fire him.

Claude didn’t want to be suspended too—or fired. He liked—well, yeah, he liked his job: he liked being in the driver’s seat, he was his own boss more or less, he made his own decisions—didn’t have to ask no floor super if he could go to the can. The bed creaked as he shifted his position. Well then be your own boss, makeyour own decisions.

Still—what’s one trip? He stared at the ceiling. and saw that damn symbol. And then saw again all the people— what he saw made him sick. He picked up the phone.

Alabua Achebe was pacing outside the assembly building at the base, waiting anxiously for the truck. She looked again toward the gate. It was an hour and a half late. Where was the damn thing? She had to have the trigger installed by five o’clock today.

Tons of money poured into this whole business and still it’s a mess! (It was income tax time and money was uppermost in her mind.) Fifteen percent of my taxes go to the Department of Defence, she thought, fifteen percent! She had been thinking about withholding that fifteen percent. Redirecting it to the Peace Tax Fund. Well half of it anyway. She wasn’t one of the naive who were totallyanti-military. She wouldn’t be here if she were. No. Alabua admired much of what the military did. She had joined mainly for the educational opportunities and for the peace-keeping and rescue aspects of the job. But then she was transferred. And transferred again. As Junior personnel it was hard to say no because who knew then if you’d ever see a raise or a promotion again. But it was hard as senior personnel too because the expectations of loyalty were so great. And of course the transfers were always temporary. Yet with each transfer, she became a little more disillusioned. But what was she to do. Just say no? Quit? Walk away from a job that had given her a university degree, not to mention a great dental/medical plan, life and disability insurance, and a fantastic pension to boot? It had occurred to her. It had become harder and harder to defend against the ‘little boys with big toys’ accusation of her non-military friends. And the money, the expense, was certainly one part of it. She discovered that the old joke about $20 for a manually-operable torque device—a screwdriver—was true. She always wondered where the difference between $20 and $4.99 went. Not into herpocket. (Though she had no complaints.) In the States, the profits made by arms manufacturers exceed those made in civilian industry by twenty to thirty percent. It was something to think about. At the edge of the building she turned with impatience and walked the other way.

So was fifteen percent. And she realized that that didn’t include things like the $13 million subsidy the federal government had given to Litton to manufacture the guidance system for the cruise missile. That $13 million came out of the other 85% of my taxes, she figured. How many more such subsidies were there?

No one had been charged or sent to jail for redirecting taxes, as long as the test case, the one with Dr. Prior, was unsettled. But as soon as she lost, people were being hauled in left, right, and center, to pay for their conscientious objection. More and more every year.

It was no wonder, Alabua thought, as she turned and walked back again. The military industry produces fewer jobs per dollar than any other sector, everyone knew that by now. It created 75 jobs where construction created 100, health care 138, and education 187. And what had she read the other day? That the global arms race was costing the world $2 million a minute? (It was expensive to go nuclear—especially when you buy 25,000 warheads where 200 would do—she knew the requirements for deterrence.) And that to provide adequate food, clean water, education, health care, and housing for everyone on the planet would cost $17 billion a year—that’s, she turned again as she did the arithmetic, that’s a little over six days: less than one week, one week’s military spending out of fifty-two, would take care of the world’s basic needs. She stopped. It was incredible. What are we, she wondered, crazy? She turned slowly and started walking again, toward the gate. and through it.

Bill Lancaster set his pencil and management textbook onto the bare table in front of him—he was half-way through chapter nine. He looked at the clock—lots of time yet. He yawned and glanced around. This was why he liked this assignment, why he had volunteered for missile duty. Twenty-four hours in a capsule with virtually dick-all to do. At the rate he was going, he’d have his MBA by winter, fall maybe. He stood up to stretch and walked around checking the many indicator meters. A lot of guys brought correspondence coursework with them. Except Fisco—she moonlighted as an accountant and brought her clients’ books to work on. And Dubb—he didn’t bring anything—and usually fell asleep after eight or ten hours. He finished his check, everything was as it should be. He turned back to chapter nine, fiddling absently with the ‘combat’ pin on the lapel of his neatly pressed uniform.

After a few hours, he took another break before launching into the chapter’s questions. It was six o’clock, the controls would be switched to missile two now, the one with the newly installed trigger. He poured himself a cup of coffee, offered one to his partner in the adjoining capsule, then sat down to go through his mail—one could not live on coursework alone.

A few bills he tucked inside his wallet. A letter from his foster-child in Peru he read with some delight and put into his pocket—it would get taped to his fridge. Some junk mail—a record club offer he could refuse, a plea from the cancer society, and something from an anti-nuclear group. He flung that last one onto the table. He was sure they had a separate mailing list, some kind of hit list, of all DND employees.

Yes he knew that between the soot and dust from the explosion that would darken the planet and absorb the heat, causing the surface temperature to decrease, and the radioactive fallout that would contaminate soil and water wherever it drifted—yes one thing leads to another, the face of the earth would be changed: it would no longer sustain life as we know it. Yes he knew that. It was so well-publicized, you’d have to be an idiot not to know. Or a psychopath—was that the name for people who blocked out certain aspects of reality?

But that would never happen, didn’t they know that? This was all a charade, a scare tactic. That’s what this country’s military strategy was based on: threat, the potentialfor devastating attack or retaliation. And even though it was the mere threat that was important, it couldn’t be an empty threat, they had to actually have all the missiles they said they did. Granted, it wasn’t the best military strategy in the world, but a battlefield of nuclear weapons wasn’t your best military scenario either. You had to deal with the facts, and the fact was nuclear weapons existed, but it would never happen.

And if it did—well—he’d do as he’d been trained, he’d follow orders, he’d act— No, he’d react. He was like a rat: the light goes on, you do a little trick, and you get a pellet. He glanced at the envelope from the nuclear group. No, you get killed. It wasn’t the best military strategy in the world.

Suddenly the alarm in the capsule went off. Bill jumped to the control panel, seeing the red light flashing. He began to go through his routine: one—off, yes; two—on, yes; three—over ten, yes; four—switch up, yes; five—key turn five—key turn —no.

***

Going Shopping

Adelaide carried the pot of tea from the counter to the little kitchen table. The table was already set from the night before: a cup and saucer on either side, next to a bread plate and knife. The butter dish was in the center, beside the empty spot where she now put the teapot. It was good china, a wedding gift, forty years old. It had lasted longer than Albert.

Greta came out of the second bedroom and entered the kitchen of their small apartment.

“Good morning, Adelaide!” she said brightly, opening the fridge. She always got the little jars of jam out, and added the cream to the cream-and-sugar beside the teapot.

“Good morning. Sleep well?” Adelaide asked.

“Oh, you know for me it’s not the sleeping that’s a problem, it’s the getting up out of bed that bothers me.”

Adelaide did know that. And today was Saturday. Shopping day.

“Is it too bad to go shopping today? We can always—”

“Oh no! I can certainly go shopping! The day these old bones can’t go shopping Adelaide, why that’s the day I’ll just roll over and die.”

They both smiled. Greta got the loaf of bread out of the breadbox, and put two slices into the toaster. She then sat across from Adelaide.

“I wonder what Woolworth’s has on sale today,” Adelaide said with devilish glee in her eyes.

“Now, Adelaide, don’t you start. We’ll just have to wait and see.” Greta followed the script. She peeked into the teapot. “It’s fine for you, I think,” she said to Adelaide, who liked her tea a little less strong than Greta.

Adelaide peeked too and then poured herself a cup. The toast popped up and Greta started to get out of her chair.

“I’ll get it, dear, you stay put.” Adelaide flitted from her chair to the kitchen counter. She was the smaller of the two and had an air of fragility whereas Greta appeared solid. But Greta’s body seemed to have lost its shock absorbers, whereas Adelaide’s was still springy. And so, in fact, Greta was the one more liable to break. And she was heavier. But then again, she was also stronger— So it was hard to say, really.

Adelaide put a plate with two pieces of toast on it in the center of the table, then sat down. Each took a piece onto her bread plate then paused, deciding.

They looked at each other as if this was some sort of paper-rock-and-scissors game. Then Greta quickly reached out for the raspberry jam, and Adelaide snatched the apricot marmalade. They laughed at their own silliness. The grape jelly and the pear-pineapple stood unchosen.

“It looks like it’s going to be a sunny day,” Adelaide commented.

“Yes, though it’s still early morning. It’s got time to change its mind.”

“Do you think that new store—that new ice cream store—what’s its name? One of those silly hyphenated—Baskin-Rubens?”

“Baskin-Robbins,” Greta knew it.

“Yes that’s it, Baskin-Robbins. Do you think it will be open today?”

“I don’t know. Maybe—”

“Can you imagine?” Adelaide said. “Thirty-one flavours!”

They finished their toast and tea after a few moments, then Adelaide announced with excitement. “All right, time to get down to business. Shall I get the paper or will you?” Greta didn’t answer. She was staring out of the window, lost. “Greta?”

Greta looked at Adelaide then, “Why don’t we both go?”

“Both?” Adelaide was surprised. “Why?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Greta looked out the window again. “You know that new young lady who’s just moved in two doors down?”

“Yes …”

“Well, she lives alone as far as I can tell,” she looked at Adelaide’s generous blue eyes, “and I don’t think anyone’s said so much as hello to her.” She stopped, cautiously. “Why don’t we invite her along with us today?” She wasn’t sure how Adelaide would take this. Going shopping had always been a ‘just the two of them’ thing.

“Why Greta, that’s a splendid idea!”

Greta smiled with relief.

Adelaide thought about it further, then said, “But we can’t go knocking on doors in our pyjamas!”

“I’m sure she’s seen women in housecoats before.”

She considered that, then asked, “Do you think she’s home?”

“It’s Saturday morning …”

“Well, I’m sure she’d love to go shopping,” Adelaide decided. “She probably hasn’t even been downtown yet, poor dear.” She was delighted with the idea of playing tour guide on shopping day.

They quickly cleared the table of the plates, knives, and jams, took the teabag out of the pot, and covered it with a cozy. Adelaide tied her baby blue brushed nylon robe around her a little tighter. She was wearing fancy slippers with puffs of white furry stuff on the toes. She joined Greta at the hall mirror.

“Do we look all right?” she worried, patting her hair and making sure she had no jam at the corners of her mouth.

“I think so,” Greta answered nervously. She wore a burgundy coloured terry cloth robe over her nightgown, and it made her gray hair look quite handsome. Suddenly she remembered her feet, and went into her bedroom to change from her worn slippers with the holes where her bunions were into a pair of Happy Hoppers.

“Does one of us have her glasses?” she asked Adelaide, coming back into the hallway.

Adelaide checked the pocket of her robe. “I have kleenex,” she stated.

“I’ll take mine,” Greta offered and went back into her bedroom. She returned patting the case in her pocket. “All set?”

“All set,” Adelaide responded. Greta opened the door, but on her way out she stopped suddenly. Adelaide bumped into her.

“Do you have the key?” Greta turned to whisper in the hush of the hallway.

“Oh— No! Good thinking, Greta!” Adelaide went back to the hall mirror. There was a door key lying on the little telephone table under the mirror. She put it into her pocket.

“Okay, got it,” she returned to the door. Greta smiled grimly, and they entered the hall then, making sure their door was locked behind them.

It was a long hallway, with four or five apartments on each side. But it was well lit and the carpet was even.

“Should we ask her on our way down or on the way back?” Adelaide almost pranced in her excitement.

“Well, if we do it on our way back, we’ll have the paper, so if she says no, it won’t look like we came by just to ask her,” Greta said.

“That way too, she might feel freer to say no if she really doesn’t want to come with us.”

Adelaide considered this for a minute or two. “Where did you learn to think like that?” she finally asked.

So they went down to the lobby first, at the end of the hall. Greta’s back was loosening up, and she tried not to dodder. They were lucky enough to have an apartment on the first floor. The laundry room however was in the basement. They approached the rows of boxes on the wall, while Greta fiddled in her robe to get out her glasses. She took them out of the case and put them on. She leaned close to the bottom right corner, carefully reading the names on the small typed labels. She found theirs, McCall and Luxley, and pulled out the rolled-up paper. She counted and knew again that their box was two rows up and three rows over, but every time she forgot her glasses, she also forgot if it was two over and three up or three over and two up. And Mr. Chase (three over and two up) was an angry young man in a wheelchair—a motorcycle accident, someone said—and when once they took his paper by mistake, he ranted and raved and hit the boxes with the fist so loudly the whole building heard him.

“Are you sure that’s ours?” Adelaide asked.

Greta peered at the name labels again, for good measure. “Yes,” she said, slowly straightening. “Let’s go.”

They walked back through the lobby and down the hall. They stopped at #105.

Suddenly Greta was shy. “You knock, Adelaide,” she said. “You’re much better at this than I am.”

So Adelaide stepped forward and knocked on the door.

A youngish woman, who looked like she should be a trail guide as well as the women’s center researcher that she was, answered the door. She had short brown hair, and was wearing a paint-spattered sweatshirt, jeans, and track shoes.

“Hello,” Adelaide began, “my name is Adelaide and this is Greta.” Greta smiled as she nodded a ‘Hello’. “We live just two doors down from you. And, well, we’d like to know if you’d like to go shopping with us today.” There, nicely put.

“Go shopping?” the woman asked doubtfully. This is awful, she thought. My mother and sister have come in disguise to haunt me.

“Well, yes. Today is Saturday,” Adelaide said, as if that explained it.

Greta came to the rescue, “Adelaide and I always go shopping on Saturday and we just wondered if you’d like to come with us. Consider it sort of a ‘Welcome Wagon’ gesture. You’re new here and maybe you don’t know anyone or don’t know downtown and we just thought— Well, we thought we’d ask you.” She began to feel ridiculous.

“But I don’t need to buy anything,” the woman answered simply. She looked at the two old ladies in their dusters or bathrobes or whatever you called those things—you could get them at every department store, she knew that—and their cute little slippers. This is priceless, she thought.

“Well,” Adelaide faltered, “neither do we.” She looked at the woman. She sure was a strange one.

“Then why— What are you going to buy at the stores?”

“Well, we don’t really know until we go,” Adelaide was getting confused. ‘Going shopping’ had always been a legitimate activity, something every woman intrinsically understood, like ‘doing the wash’ or even ‘watching tv’. Now suddenly it was suspect, bereft of substance.

“There must be somethingon your shopping list—” Greta tried.

“My what?”

It was like two cultures clashing. An awkward moment passed. Then suddenly the young woman accepted their invitation.

“I’m sorry,” she extended her hand. “My name is Sue. And I’d love to come. I guess I could pick up a few things.”

Puzzled by her change of heart, but also pleased by it, Adelaide and Greta shook her hand. “All right then, we’re just going back to look at who’s got sales on today,” Adelaide said and Greta held up the newspaper, “and to change.” She looked at her robe with a smile of embarrassment.

“Perhaps we’ll meet you back here in an hour?” Greta suggested.

“That’ll be fine,” Sue said, and closed her door as they left.

Adelaide and Greta didn’t say a word until they were back in their apartment.

“Isn’t she an odd one?” Adelaide laughed.

“Look who’s calling the kettle black!” Greta laughed too.

“Hm,” Adelaide agreed.

They spread the newspaper on the kitchen table and poured their second cups of tea. Adelaide turned to the section with the sales advertisements.

“Oh look at the Woolworth’s ad. Is stationery on our list?”

Greta checked the little pad she’d gotten from the telephone table drawer. “Yes it is, why?”

“Well, look—typing paper, envelopes, and that white-out stuff is two for one. And spring scarves, oh and lots of kitchen things—”

“Okay, I’ve got Woolworth’s written down. Where else?”

“Let me see … Sam’s. They’re a record store. And Zacks. Oh—even their sale prices are high. But put them down, they have gloves on.”

Adelaide turned the page. “The I.D.A. … lots there … shampoo, soap, toilet paper— But Kresge’s has those things on sale too. Let me see … 88¢ and 89¢, three for .99 and four for $1.39 … Kresge’s, I think, will be cheaper.”

“Okay. Where else?” Greta tried to look upside down as Adelaide turned the pages. “Anyone have sweaters on?”

“Goudies! They have all their cottons on sale and some polyester prints too!” She scanned the page. “Their whole notions department is featured! And a few things in other departments too, it looks like.” They continued to go through the sales section, page by page.

“Oh goodness, it’s a quarter to!” Greta had looked at her watch. “We’d better get dressed!” She finished her cup of tea, then rose from the table.

“Yes,” Adelaide agreed, and shuffled the paper back together.

It didn’t take them long to get ready. They each had two sets of ‘shopping clothes’ and it was just a matter of putting on the outfit they didn’t wear the Saturday before. Low-heeled shoes were important. And their big purses, with all sorts of emergency things—you never knew what would happen on a day’s trek downtown. And of course their shopping bags. Adelaide had two of the large blue and white paper shopping bags you could buy for a dime out of the boxes at Goudies. Greta liked the brightly coloured string bags that could accommodate all sorts of packages and never rip, never need reorganizing. In a few minutes, they were standing by their door, ready.

“Glasses?”

“Yes. Kleenex?”

“Yes. Shopping bags, shopping list?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Bus fare!” They opened their purses. Each had a special little change purse into which they always put the correct change for two trips before they left. Better that than to rummage while standing unsteadily on a bus, people lined up behind you.

“Do you have a nickel? I’m short—only dimes, quarters, and pennies in my wallet this week.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you!”

They snapped their wallets shut then, and closed their purses.

“Okay. All set?”

“All set.”

“Shall we go?”

When they knocked on Sue’s door, she answered immediately. She looked exactly as she had before, with the exception of a small green knapsack on her back.

“Ready!” she said cheerily and stepped into the hall to join Adelaide and Greta.

They didn’t say much on the ride down. The bus came almost as soon as they got to the stop, which was just one block away from their apartment. And it was crowded. Greta and Adelaide had to sit apart, and Sue had to stand, shuffling forward and backward as people got on and off.

After about ten minutes, Adelaide reached up to ring the bell as soon as they pulled away from the stop just before Kresge’s. They always got off at Kresge’s, then walked down the one side and back up the other. They caught the bus home in front of Kresge’s too.

She excused herself, stood up, then began the agonizing, always anxious, process of working her way to the exit door by the time it got to the stop. She tried to see Greta, but it was too crowded. She hoped she wouldn’t fall. They had told Sue ahead of time that they got off at Kresge’s, but she might not be able to see when they got there—or she might see it too late. Two more seats to go. She stood by the exit door, hanging on tightly to the pole, as the bus lumbered on, peering about. Then with relief she saw Greta approaching from the rear, Sue behind her. The bus stopped, they stepped off, and gathered themselves in front of Kresge’s.

“Well, Sue, welcome to downtown Kitchener,” Adelaide said expansively, gesturing at the length of King Street ahead of them. She beamed. Shopping always filled her with an exhilaration she couldn’t contain.

Sue did indeed look down the street. She resisted the impulse to also look down at her watch. “Shall we begin?” she said, aiming for cheer.

Adelaide’s eyes glittered at Greta as she led the way into Kresge’s.

She headed for the ‘health and beauty aids’. There they were, soap bars in a package, three for .99. She put three bundles into the shopping basket she’d picked up at the front door. It was a square thing made of red patterned vinyl, and it always reminded her of a picnic basket. And then shampoo, 900 ml for 88¢. She looked at the selection: herbal, wheat germ oil and honey, balsam and protein, egg and lemon, aloe vera, and beer. Beer?

She turned to Sue, hoping to involve her, “Which ones do you think I should buy?”

“I don’t know,” Sue replied. This was not fun. The store was crowded. She did not now nor ever would care about what kind of shampoo Adelaide used. “Take one of each,” she muttered as she turned away to look at something else. The door. When she turned back, she saw that Adelaide had indeed put one of each into her shopping basket. Her mouth dropped open.

They moved on, Adelaide in the lead, Greta second, and Sue tagging along behind. Things were tossed into the basket, seemingly at random—boxes of kleenex, packages of toilet paper, a cuticle scissors, a pair of nail clippers. They couldn’t possibly need all of this. She smirked at their consumer addiction. “Look,” she said with cruelty, “pony tail ties are on sale, six packages for 49¢!”

“What a wonderful idea!” Adelaide said and grabbed a handful. Sue thought about fabricating a forgotten appointment.

Eventually they got out of Kresge’s. They passed by the I.D.A., having gotten everything more cheaply at Kresge’s, then Greta stopped Adelaide in front of a hardware store.

“Look,” she said, pointing to the display sign in the window, “hammers—for only $4.99.”

Adelaide looked at Greta in wonder. “Magnificent!” she exclaimed.

“What do you need a hammer for?” Sue asked. “I have one you can borrow any time.”

“That’s kind of you,” Adelaide answered. “Thank you, dear.”

They entered the store and bought two. “I’m sure there’s lots of things a hammer is needed for,” Greta said with satisfaction, as she paid for them at the counter.

Sue thought about taking notes—surely this day could fit into the research project. It had to fit somewhere in reality.

A clothing store was next to the hardware store. Robinsons? Sue didn’t notice. She was trailing by now, so passers-by wouldn’t immediately know she was with them. She came upon them trying on sweaters out of a bin near the center of the store.

“What do you think about pink?” Adelaide asked, turning around to model.

“Pink’s a good choice. A bright cheerful choice,” Greta answered, rummaging through the piles. “And how about this yellow one too?”

“What size is it?”

Greta checked the tag, “Medium”.

“Okay—this one’s a Large. Shall we take a Small too?”

“Yes, let’s,” Greta concurred. They turned to Sue.

“You choose the third one.”

Sue found herself actually looking at the sweaters, deciding what colour to choose.

“I like this one,” she held up a blue and green striped sweater.

“Oh yes,” Adelaide approved, “that is nice.”

“And they feel good and warm, don’t they?” Greta bunched the sweaters in her hands.

More stores. More purchases. Shoes that didn’t fit, but Greta “liked” them. A couple dresses. Some socks. An extension cord. Books. Two records—Mel Torme and Michael Jackson. Both for 99¢. With that, and the multicoloured shoelaces, Sue began to wonder. When the three pairs of baby booties went into the string bag, she was sure they were both senile.

They came to Goudies. It was an old store, a classic. Grand gold lettering on the building’s front. The only store in Kitchener with revolving doors, the old kind made of heavy wood, a bit of glass, and lots of burnished brass trim. It had elevators too—with elevator attendants.

“Shall we have lunch before or after we do our shopping here?”

Sue knew it was a weekly decision.

“Oh, I could use the rest now, how about you Sue?”

“Now’s fine.”

They passed through the revolving doors then turned left to go downstairs to the dining room. Sue looked around in disbelief. It was straight out of the 40s or 50s. A real dining room, not a cafeteria, not a food emporium.

The hostess smiled at Adelaide and Greta—they were clearly regulars—and led them to a good table. Sue followed, noting the swivel stools at the counter, stuffed and covered with red leather. The tables and chairs were wood—good, worn, wood. The room was about three-quarters full now, with shoppers. Ladies with purses and shopping bags tucked under their table, some with coats thrown over extra chairs, many with hats still on. Probably with hat pins.

“There’s Magdalena,” Adelaide leaned forward to say to Sue and nodded to a sweating hefty woman standing in the kitchen behind the divider behind the counter. “Best short-order cook there ever was.” She waved at Magdalena who waved a floury hand back.

A waitress came and handed each a menu.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Greta asked.

“Yes, I am,” the waitress replied.

“I’m Greta, this is Adelaide, and this is Sue.” She introduced them all.

Sue measured the clearance under the table.

“And what’s your name?”

“Ginger,” the waitress replied, a little surprised.

“What a lovely name!” Adelaide said, as she opened her menu.

“Thank you,” Ginger replied. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide,” she smiled and left the table.

“Their club sandwiches are very nice,” Adelaide offered to Sue.

“And their toasted westerns.”

“And their french toast—and waffles.”

“Oh—” Adelaide just remembered, “I wonder if their butterscotch rolls are ready!” She looked at Sue and put her hand on her arm, “They have the best butterscotch rolls here!”

“Served with real butter, of course.”

“And sometimes we time it just right and get them warm out of the oven!”

They ordered. While they waited, Greta got out their shopping list and began to stroke off items.

She peered into their bags. “Did we get the envelopes yet?”

“No. They’re wherever the stationery is on sale.”

Greta nodded and continued updating their list.

When their food arrived, Sue dutifully joined in the comparisons and then listened to how this week’s choices measured up against last week’s. After they had eaten, and finished their tea, they felt refreshed and ready to carry on. The next stop was the ladies’ room. It too was classic—large, with marble and mirrors. It used to have an attendant, she wasn’t surprised to be told. Then they passed through a short hall that served as a small art gallery—Robert Woods oil paintings in cinnamon, nutmeg, and tangerine tones. And then they took the elevator up one flight to the notions department.

They purchased a couple yards—not metres—of this and that, several bundles from the ‘ends’ box, tiny sewing kits, and an umbrella from the neighbouring department. A black and white one with zebras all over it. They thought of going to look in the other departments on the second and third floors, but it was getting late, and they had the other side of King Street to do yet.

“Next time,” Adelaide promised to Sue as they walked on to the exit.

Sue didn’t answer.

From Goudies, they headed straight for Woolworths. The ‘end’ of downtown.

Greta stopped at the candy counter at the front of the store.

“Some macaroons?” she asked Adelaide.

“You know they’re not very healthy.”

“If I buy vitamins too?” she bargained.

“Okay,” Adelaide agreed.

They waited while Greta purchased a pound of macaroons. Then they headed to the pharmacy section. Flintstones chewables were on sale. Then to the stationery section: envelopes, typing paper, white-out, and a box of pens. Oh and don’t forget the scarves on sale. They had to search a bit until they found the rack, marked down in price. They chose a silver and turquoise one, a loud paisley one, and a peach polka-dot one.

“And the kitchen gadgets—they’re downstairs,” Greta reminded. They headed to the back of the store to the staircase, bags bulging and wire shopping baskets bumping against each other.

“Let me put some of your stuff into my knapsack,” Sue offered.

She had offered earlier to carry a bag, but they refused, rightly pointing out that it was easier to carry two than one.

“That’s right, you haven’t bought a thing,” Greta noticed.

“Oh, but you must!” Adelaide encouraged.

They picked out some wooden spoons, bowls, and melmac mugs.

Sue picked up a can opener.

“That’s a good one,” Greta complimented.

They accidentally wandered from kitchen to hardware, so they added a few screwdrivers and some fuses to one of their baskets. They climbed the stairs and checked out at the front of the store.

“Oh my goodness,” Adelaide surveyed their bags once outside. “Look at all we have already!”

“Well remember though, this side doesn’t have quite as many good stores.”

“That’s true.”

They walked past a cigar store, another record store, and Somers’ men’s wear. Then the Walper Hotel. Or maybe it was the other way around. Sue wasn’t paying much attention. They stopped in front of Zacks.

“Let’s leave the gloves,” Greta suggested with some fatigue.

“All right,” Adelaide agreed. “Oh look,” she noticed the store next to it, “Here’s that Baskin-Rubens!”

“Baskin-Robbins,” Greta corrected.

“And it’s open!”

“Good,” Greta said, “I could use another sit down before we head home.”

“Why don’t you two go on ahead,” Sue said. “I’ll zip into Zacks and get a pair of gloves, if you like, and I’ll meet you in Baskin-Robbins.”

“That’s a splendid idea,” Adelaide responded. “Would you dear?”

So Adelaide and Greta went ahead to Baskin-Robbins while Sue went into Zacks. She found the gloves that were on sale and picked out a pair of light green ones. She also bought two pairs of men’s suspenders and a ladies’ belt. Because what the hell. When she entered Baskin-Robbins, she saw that Adelaide and Greta had set their belongings at a table by the door and were up at the counter, walking ever so slowly along the ice cream freezers. Greta had her glasses on and was reading the flavours out loud.

When they got to the end, Greta nudged Adelaide. “Thirty-one flavours and they haven’t got Neapolitan!” she whispered.

“Thirty-one flavours and you were going to pick Neapolitan?”

Sue saw the high school kid behind the counter laugh. Sue laughed too. Greta was right. So was Adelaide.

“I’ll have the Caramel Coconut Swirl,” Adelaide said then to the student.

Greta wandered along the counter again while Adelaide’s cone was being prepared. Sue stepped up to order, seeing that Greta hadn’t yet made up her mind.

“Chocolate and Cranberries, please.”

“And I’ll have the Blueberry Pecan Cheesecake—ice cream,” Greta added.

They sat down, licking their cones. Greta felt tired and happy. Adelaide felt happy and tired. Sue had alternated between distaste and disbelief all day; she didn’t know what she felt now.

Greta reached over with a napkin to wipe a dribble from Adelaide’s chin.

“Thank you, dear. How’s your Blueberry Pecan Cheesecake?”

“Very good. How’s yours?”

“Excellent. I think I’ll try the Strawberry Mint Sherbet next time.”

“And how’s yours?” they asked Sue together.

“Just fine, thanks.”

When they had finished, they gathered up their parcels and purses and left the store.

“What’s left?” Greta asked, trying to ignore the pain that had returned to her legs as soon as she had stood up.

“Want to cross and catch the bus here instead?” Adelaide suggested.

“Well …”

“Yes, let’s,” she decided.

So they crossed, waited for a few minutes at the bus stop, almost got on the wrong one—“Greta, no, that’s the Westmount—” and waited a few more minutes for the right one. It wasn’t quite four o’clock so all three of them got seats. They sat through the trip in silence, rang the bell for their stop, got off the bus, then walked the block to their apartment.

Sue reached in her pocket for her keys, and let them all in.

At her door she turned to them, “Well, thanks for asking me along—”

“Oh no, we’re not through yet!” Adelaide was horrified.

Sue groaned.

“You must come back to our apartment! We’ll have tea and sort through what we’ve bought!”

Sue hesitated. She couldn’t stand much more, really, but this was clearly very important to them. She could see it on their faces.

“Well, all right, but just for a bit.”

Once inside, they walked first into their living room and set the bags on the floor by the couch.

“You sit, Greta, I’ll put the tea on,” Adelaide offered.

Gratefully, Greta sat down. After a sigh of sheer relief, she started to unpack everything. Sue helped her put their purchases onto the couch beside her. Adelaide plugged the kettle in and prepared the tea service with a plate of shortbread cookies. She went to the telephone table and brought out some sort of list, several pages hand-written and stapled together. She got her glasses from her bedroom, then joined Greta and Sue in the living room.

“Oh,” she sank into an upholstered chair, “this does feel good.” She looked about at all their purchases. “My, my, just look at what we have!”

“Yes, it’s a lot, isn’t it!” Greta agreed.

So did Sue. She had added her can opener, and the gloves, belt, and suspenders to the pile. It had seemed the thing to do. Then she resigned herself to a chair in the corner, to the edge of a chair in the corner. Adelaide got up and was back in a minute with the tea service on a large, beautiful silver tray. She set the tray on an ivory doily in the middle of the coffee table.

“Shall we begin?”

Greta nodded.

Adelaide put on her glasses and scanned the list. “The transition house didn’t get their operating grant this year, the stationery stuff—the envelopes, white-out, paper, and pens—those things were for them?”

“That’s right.” Greta moved those items from the couch to the floor.

“We forgot stamps and a typewriter ribbon—”

“Let’s put it on next week’s list,” Greta reached into her purse for the little pad of paper that had this week’s list on it. She tore off the page and wrote down the items, starting a new list.

“All right, the hammers—they weren’t on our list, were they? Who shall we give them to?”

“How about that fellow in Nicaragua—remember?”

“Perfect! And the screwdrivers too.” Greta set the hammers and screwdrivers onto the floor.

“And the baby booties are for Selema, of course,” she added them to the pile on the floor.

“Selema just had a baby,” Adelaide explained to Sue.

“She’s on our Third World list,” Greta elaborated.

“The shoelaces—for Nikki?” Adelaide asked.

“She’s our foster child in Peru,” Greta explained this time. “And the macaroons and the vitamins.”

“You spoil that child!” Adelaide reprimanded. Then she added, with mischief in her eyes, “And the pony tail ties, of course, for her lovely long black hair.” Greta moved the named items to the floor as Adelaide made notes and checks on her list. Then Adelaide pointed to the candy and the vitamins, “Let’s tell her she must share them with all of her classmates.”

“Agreed. The umbrella?”

“The mission,” Sue suggested, to her surprise. “Most of those who show up for a bed don’t have an umbrella. When you live and sleep on the street, you need something to keep dry …” her voice trailed off, as Greta put the umbrella onto the floor without question.

“Those suspenders!” Adelaide just noticed them. “They’d be perfect for Mr. Worton! You remember that gentleman in the home, Greta? Did you buy them?” she asked Sue. Sue nodded.

“They’re perfect! His pants are always so loose and baggy, he’s losing so much weight now, and no one has bought him new trousers—Greta …” Greta was already adding trousers to next week’s list.

“He can have the brown ones. And the red ones?”

“There’s a guy I know,” Sue offered, “he’s also losing a lot of weight —AIDS—he was always a spiffy dresser—before …”

“A dandy, eh? That’s perfect then, they’re for him,” Greta put both pairs onto the floor.

The book went to a CUSO school they knew about. One of the boxes of kleenex went to a woman whose husband was a journalist; he’d been imprisoned and subjected to torture for a year now, they knew about it from Amnesty International.

“It means we cry with her,” Adelaide said.

The other boxes, the soap, the toilet paper, and all the multi-flavoured shampoo went to various families in various countries from their Third World list.

Greta pointed to the clothes and kitchen things. “What about that earthquake we sent stuff to last week—do they have enough now?”

“It was a hurricane,” Adelaide checked her list, “and I suppose they can always use more.”

“We should’ve gotten another blanket …” Greta added it to their list for next week.

They looked at what was left.

“I’m going to take that paisley scarf to that woman upstairs. The one with those screaming kids?” Greta clicked her tongue, “I don’t know how she does it!”

“That extension cord— Didn’t we just read about some electricity generating project—Was that an Oxfam thing? Interpares?”

“Interpares, I think,” Greta set it on the floor. “Good idea. The fuses too.”

Sue looked at what was left. “Michael Jackson. Children’s ward at the hospital?” she asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Adelaide wrote it on her list.

“Agreed,” Greta set it onto the floor.

“Mel Tormé, a belt, a pair of gloves, and two scarves,” Adelaide took inventory aloud. “Oh, and the fabric and sewing notions.”

“Let’s tuck them away for now. We’ll know soon who to give them to.”

“Okay. Done!” Adelaide put down her list and poured the tea.

“Tomorrow we can wrap them, and then on Monday the post office will be open,” Greta passed a cup of tea from Adelaide to Sue. “Have some cookies, too.”

“Yes, go ahead, dear.”

Sue was just sitting there, silent, stunned. She looked at Adelaide and Greta, at these two crazy ladies, these two magnificent women.

She smiled then and accepted their offering. “Thank you,” she said to both of them. Then lifted her cup in a sort of toast. “To next Saturday?”

***

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