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Miss Lamp
Ewart, Chris
copyright © Chris Ewart, 2006
first edition
This epub edition published in 2010. Electronic ISBN 978 1 77056 154 0.
Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the
Ontario Arts Council. Coach House Books also appreciates the financial
support of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book
Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government of Canada through
the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Ewart, Chris, 1970-
Miss Lamp / Chris Ewart. -- 1st ed.
ISBN-13: 978-1-55245-166-3
ISBN-10: 1-55245-166-6
I. Title.
PS8609.W37M58 2006 C813′.6 C2006-901978-9
for Mama
‘It’s okay to talk to yourself,
just don’t answer your own questions.’
Stan Ewart, 1910–1992
§
Miss Lamp.
Miss Lamp shines.
A half-smile from Miss Lamp lights her hotel room like a yellow party dress. She left her sky-blue knee-high skirt at home, home where she strums songs on Saturdays, songs about chameleons, raccoons or not eating dill pickles. The stoop hits thirty degrees on a good June morning. She sings with shiny lips on a good June morning. Peach lip balm.
That skirt gets hot enough to melt. But it just shines bluer.
She lies in her hotel bed in the evening, sun still up, wiggling her toes free of the sheets. Dribbling a sip of juice on her flannel Mountie pyjamas, she caresses her neck and says, ‘I miss my water pillow.’ After reading the ‘Major Major Major Major’ chapter from Catch-22 aloud, she thinks about insurance.
Her travel bag sits snugly beside the door of Room 32. Miss Lamp travels light. She flies a lot when that dental-insurance company retains her counsel, so she’s well-read in dentistry. Her attaché case contains the latest news on the practice of malpractice, plastic-composite teeth, the benefits of freezing gum tissue before drilling and transcripts about her gentle, ailing mother, Abby.
Miss Lamp’s belly grumbles in Room 32, barely halfway across town from her gentle, ailing crybaby of a mother.
‘One more mission,’ sighs Miss Lamp. ‘At least the peaches are in season.’
§
The Cheque’s in the Mail.
Ever since the dentist, Abby’s finger is a real whack of volts.
Chewing gum makes her jaw ache. Her red lips quiver at the thought of the drill – she’s pursed to sing like a raven with a mouth full of Q-tips. Cotton batting packs a statute of limitations, nerve damage and overmedication. The needle for her tooth fixed her left index finger just fine. Now it twitches during meetings where people look at watches, ask for phone numbers, go for drinks and grin with teeth picked clean of grief.
Abby’s daughter picks at whatever’s not nailed down. A real nattering magpie.
Abby’s mailbox rattles in the wind. Sits on a post as straight as a sunflower stalk and turns up empty each day.
No payment for the pills she pops to keep her nerves in check. No new music box from her lawyer of a daughter either. ‘I shouldn’t have wound the crank so tight,’ says Abby. ‘She sings a different tune now.’
§
Service with a Smile.
For the seventh time since 6:42 a.m., Miss Lamp reminds herself that she loves the law and that grilled cheese goes quite well with warm tomato soup. She grins and picks at the fat manila envelope marked DELANO.
A crisp knock at the door brings a push of manila out of sight. ‘Yes?’
‘Room service, ma’am. Um, I’m really sorry, but we don’t have any Campbell’s Tomato Soup. But there’s a Safeway down the street and I’d be happy to get some for you – it’ll be five minutes or so. I’m really sorry because I know you asked for Campbell’s Tomato Soup specifically and, well, we’re all out, ma’am.’
Miss Lamp nibbles at a hangnail. His voice sounds young. Fresh. ‘Oh. I’m not sure then.’
Room Service Boy knocks again, less crisply.
‘Room service, ma’am … Um … do you still want the grilled cheese? Golden brown, wasn’t it? I can go to Safeway, ma’am, I don’t mind. It’s my job.’ Room Service Boy prides himself on customer satisfaction.
Miss Lamp clenches the nail between her teeth and pulls. Halfway to a crescent moon. ‘Ow! Jesus!’ The flesh underneath turns purple and red in a hurry.
‘Ma’am? Are you okay?’ He shuffles his feet closer to the door. The hallway smells of mothballs and tea. ‘Ma’am, do you still want the grilled cheese? Golden brown, cut to corners.’ Room Service Boy counts to himself. ‘In four, with a pickle on the side?’
Miss Lamp removes a throbbing finger from her mouth. It tastes like a pretty penny. ‘No. Not now. Maybe later when you have the right soup.’
Miss Lamp requires the right kind of soup.
The envelope returns to its place while Room Service Boy responds with a humble ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Her voice gives him goosebumps. As he scuffs back down the hall, he sniffs at the armpits of his purple uniform.
§
Squeak Goes the Wagon.
Delano always hit Paper Boy with a pewter-tipped walking stick. It never occurred to Paper Boy to run away. He didn’t run, scream or argue when he saw the heavy walking stick. Sparks flew when that walking stick hit the sidewalk.
‘Stand still! I’m talking to you, boy! Stop leafing about!’ Delano said, poking him with the cold tip of the walking stick. ‘Do you understand the importance of time, boy? Do you know what it means to be on time? Oh, I’m not finished here yet.’
Delano coughed and spat feebly to the ground. A string of milky spittle joined his chin to the lapel of his loose-fitting mauve satin housecoat. Another jab bruised the pulp behind Paper Boy’s sternum. The spit swung like a chain. ‘We people rely on you for the facts of the day, boy. What would happen if everyone’s facts of the day were late? Huh? I’ll bet you never minded the global implications there, did you, boy? So don’t start it now and don’t start it here.’
He pushed hard on ‘now’ and ‘here.’
‘There would be chaos. Lots and lots of chaos, boy. Do you know what chaos is?’
Paper Boy uncrinkled his shirt.
‘That’s why I got a peephole in my door. And I use it too, so people like you don’t start making chaos for people like me.’
Delano coughed again, swinging a hand into the calm, damp air as if to balance himself. ‘Now give me my damn paper, you imbecile, and