Hit & Mrs. Read online

  PRAISE for…

  Ava Comes Home

  She expertly manages a page-turning blend of down-home comedy

  and heart-breaking romance.—Cape Breton Post

  Shoot Me

  … possesses an intelligence and emotional depth that reverberates

  long after you’ve stopped laughing.—Halifax Chronicle Herald

  Relative Happiness

  Her graceful prose…and her ability to turn a familiar story into

  something with such raw dramatic power, are skills that many veteran novelists

  have yet to develop.—Halifax Chronicle Herald

  LESLEY CREWE

  Hit & Mrs.

  Copyright © Lesley Crewe, 2009

  E-book © 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Vagrant Press is an imprint of

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  PO Box 9166

  Halifax, NS B3K 5M8

  (902) 455-4286

  nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Cover design: Heather Bryan

  Author photo: Morrison Powell

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Crewe, Lesley, 1955-

  Hit and Mrs. / Lesley Crewe.

  ISBN 978-1-55109-725-1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-55109-804-3

  I. Title. PS8605.R48H57 2009 C813’.6 C2009-902860-3

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Canada Council, and of the Province of Nova Scotia through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Heritage for our publishing activities.

  This book was printed on

  Ancient-Forest Friendly paper

  For Linda.

  “You’re the best…”

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  The girls grew up together during the sixties in Notre Dame de Grâce, on the outskirts of downtown Montreal. Each of them kept a picture that was taken in the summer of 1965. They were ten years old and looked as if they hadn’t seen a comb in weeks, with missing teeth, knobby knees, and skinny arms protruding from ugly striped t-shirts and dirty high-waisted jeans.

  Their friendship had been sealed forever six months earlier, on February 14, 1965, in Mrs. Glencross’s fifth grade class. They were the only four girls who didn’t get a valentine. The pretty girls called them the Losers. The Losers called the pretty girls every foul name they could think of, but not so horrible that they incurred the wrath of God or The Blessed Virgin.

  Linda was the only one who didn’t get teased about her name. Bette was Better, Better the Bedwetter. Gemma was Aunt Jemima, since the pretty girls were horrible spellers, and Augusta was Augusta Wind. Linda tried to call herself Lin the Pin so she would fit in, but it didn’t last long because it wasn’t very good.

  To grow up in NDG was to be immersed in a veritable melting pot of ethnic cultures. Linda and Augusta went to Sunday school and Girl Guides together at Wesley United Church. Gemma’s Italian relatives grew vegetables on every square inch of the tiny lawns in front of their duplexes and had a jungle of tomato plants in their backyards.

  The Jewish families, Bette’s included, had little shops up and down the business district, while the French, Poles, Greeks, and Irish were scattered around like tossed birdseed.

  Their customs may have been different, but their families were all in the same boat. None of them had much money, so the kids made their own fun. The streets and alleys were their playgrounds. They biked, played dodgeball and Red Rover, skipped rope, and jumped hopscotch on the sidewalks out front.

  All the kids on their street spoke a smattering of everything, but when two of them got in a fight they were instantly reminded of whom they belonged to. It was as if war had been declared between their countries of origin. Threats were made, beatings promised, and nationalistic loyalties defended to the death, or at least until the next day.

  Once the supper dishes were put away their parents and grandparents sat on balconies and front porches calling over to one other. Their mothers gossiped in groups at the end of the gate while their fathers smoked and told dirty jokes or talked about hockey and their adored Montreal Canadiens.

  Finally twilight would fall and streetlights would come on. That was the signal for the Losers, grimy with dirt, spit, and old gum, to come in for their baths; then homework and if they were lucky a half-hour of television, I Love Lucy or Bewitched. They were usually asleep before their heads hit the pillows.

  Forty years later, the Losers were now the Book Bags. They held their regular monthly book club meeting on the second Tuesday of every month, but emergency meetings were called when necessary.

  It was on the first Monday of the month when Linda Keaton’s husband phoned her. “This is my new address if Wes wants to get in touch with me.”

  The pencil in Linda’s hand snapped in two. Why wasn’t it her husband’s neck? “You think our son wants to get in touch with you? You’re screwing someone his age. He thinks you’re pathetic.”

  “Just tell him, please.”

  “Tell him yourself, you bastard. That’s if you can spare five minutes out of that slut’s bed.”

  “Get help, Linda.” Stuart Keaton, MD, hung up.

  Linda looked at the phone. “Don’t worry, you horny creep. I’ll get help. I’m phoning a hit man.”

  She called her friend Bette.

  “Bette?” She burst into tears. “Emergency meeting tonight, okay?” She hung up because she couldn’t talk anymore.

  Bette Weinberg put down the phone. Thanks to the heat from the bakery ovens, her face was as red as her hair. Well, not quite. There was enough grey in her hair to make it a shade duller. All she could think of was that miserable skunk Linda was married to. But before she called the others, she had to serve the customer who waited impatiently in front of her. She stood on tiptoe to see over the glass counter.

  “Mrs. Pink, we’re out of marble rye. I told you that twenty minutes ago.”

  “You call yourself a bakery?”

  “You call yourself a customer? Oy vey.”

  Mrs. Pink grinned as she looked to the heavens. “Sheesh, I come back tomorrow.”

  Bette grinned too. “Yeah, you come back tomorrow. I’ll give you a marble rye so big it’ll kill your husband.”

  Mrs. Pink leaned against the door to open it. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bette.” The bell tinkled its goodbye. Bette grabbed her cell and punched in the numbers.

  “Gemma, we’re having an emergency meeting tonight at Linda’s. The pig must have called her. She’s in a state.”

  Gemma Rossi stirred a pot of tomato sauce as she cradled the phone against her neck. Her oldest kids hollered at each
other in the background.

  “Basta,” Gemma yelled over her shoulder. Quiet reigned just as her husband walked in the kitchen.

  “Why are you yakking on the phone? Where’s dinner?”

  “Look, I can’t talk now, Bette. Pick me up at seven.” She hung up and pointed at the nearest female child. “Get your father a plate.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not you?” Gemma rushed from the kitchen and shut herself in her room. She picked up the phone.

  “Augusta? There’s an emergency meeting tonight. Linda’s in a bad way.”

  Silence.

  “Augusta, put down that stupid paint brush and answer me.”

  “Sorry, I have to…”

  “…paint the Sistine Chapel. I know. Do it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try and get away. I have to check and see what the girls are doing.”

  “You’re the mama. You tell them you’re going and if they don’t like it they can throw themselves off the roof.”

  “You’re a broken record.”

  “We’ll pick you up around seven-thirty.”

  Bette grabbed her car keys off the hall table. It was a dark walnut monstrosity, as was all the furniture in the apartment above her father’s bakery shop. It stood against hideous wallpaper that had once been very nice but had yellowed from years of tobacco smoke.

  One by one her five brothers had married and left the family prison with nary a backward glance. Bette, being a female and an old maid to boot, was automatically elected warden. Her job was to run the family business and remain on bedpan duty until their parents croaked.

  She couldn’t remember being asked if she wanted the job.

  Her mother rolled behind her in her wheelchair. “Where are you going at this time of night?”

  Bette turned and looked at her watch. “Ma, it’s ten to seven.”

  “It’s April. It gets dark in a hurry. You shouldn’t drive after dark. What if your father has a heart attack while you’re out in your precious car?”

  A voice yelled from the living room over the blare of the television news. “Why am I the schlemiel who gets the heart attack? Do me a favor, Ida. You have the heart attack.”

  Mother and daughter ignored him.

  “Look, Ma, Linda’s having problems. I said I’d go see her.”

  Bette’s elderly wrinkled mother, jet-black hair notwithstanding, made a face and dismissed Bette with a wave of her hand. “Problems.

  That woman’s got no problems. She lives in her fancy house, in her fancy neighborhood, married to her fancy doctor husband. What problems does she have?” Her mother pointed a finger at her. “Don’t forget, she grew up in this neighborhood too. She ain’t so fancy schmancy under her expensive suits. Her shit stinks too.”

  “Oy Ma, you’ve got a mouth like a stevedore.”

  “She got a body like one too,” yelled her father. He broke into laughter at his own joke, before he coughed up a lung.

  Her mother rolled herself backwards and parked in the living room doorway. “At least my big mouth works, Izzy, unlike that tiny thing you got between your legs.”

  Bette turned on her heel. “I’m outta here.” She slammed the door, stormed down the stairs, and hopped into her very clean, black 1994 Chev Impala. She bought it as a gift for herself ten years before, to celebrate her fortieth birthday. Well, not so much to celebrate, but to keep from jumping off the Mercier Bridge.

  She was careful to back gingerly out of the narrow stretch of pavement that served as a driveway. It was really the lane between two rundown buildings: Weinberg’s Bakery on the left, Weinberg’s Laundromat on the right. Bette’s life was caught in the middle.

  It took five minutes for her to hop over to Draper Avenue and collect Gemma. Gemma lived in the downstairs flat of her duplex. Her husband, Angelo, a devoted son, installed his sainted mother upstairs. Bette and Gemma had a favorite pastime called “A hundred new and improved ways to kill an elderly relative and make it look like an accident.”

  Gemma was waiting by her front door when Bette pulled up. She reminded Bette of a round tomato, firm and soft all at the same time. Bette once told her if she gained any more weight she was in danger of looking like the original Mrs. Rossi. Gemma went on a diet for a month after that. It was just the motivation she needed. But it wouldn’t matter how much Gemma weighed. Her olive skin, big brown eyes, and dark shiny hair always deserved a second look.

  Her two youngest were with her. She kissed them goodbye and then cuffed the backs of their heads when they clung to her coat. They moped back indoors.

  Gemma hurried down the steps, yanked the door open, and did what she always did—slammed the car door shut with a resounding thunk.

  “Must you do that?”

  “Sorry. I forget this car is alive and has feelings.” Gemma grabbed her seatbelt as Bette looked in the rearview mirror and then over her shoulder. She pulled out and her marvellous car purred down the street.

  Gemma gave a great sigh and sank into the velvet upholstery. “Thank you, God, for getting me out of the house.”

  “Tell me about it. Not that I want Linda to suffer.”

  “I wonder what the schmuck did now?”

  “He’s still breathing.”

  The two old friends laughed as they drove to Westmount to collect Augusta. Westmount was the crème-de-la-crème neighbourhood in Montreal. The mansions built on the mountain were nothing short of spectacular, with iron gates and huge trees that hid the thick stone facades just enough to buffer the families who lived in them from the great unwashed in the streets.

  But Augusta’s address was deceptive. She was perilously close to the edge, in more ways than one. She didn’t live with the rich; she taught their privately schooled children how to paint.

  She and her husband, Tom, had a very nice brick house on a street with other very nice brick houses. Their flower beds and bushes were straight from the garden centre that sprung out of the pavement at their grocery store parking lot every spring, all middle-class hopes and dreams. A solid, forever kind of place.

  Until Tom died of a heart attack on his front yard at the age of forty-seven while mowing his weed-free bluegrass lawn.

  Bette found a parking spot relatively close to Augusta’s house. Unlike Gemma, Augusta wasn’t waiting by her front door.

  “I’ll go,” Gemma said. “She’s probably forgotten, knowing her.”

  “Or those brats are making her life miserable,” Bette yelled after her friend.

  Gemma marched up the walk and grabbed the wrought-iron railing to help her up the front steps. She thought how attractive Augusta’s front door was, with its lovely seasonal greenery arranged in a huge wreath. The soft light that shone from above made it look like a work of art. Gemma wished she could create something like that, but knew it was a lost cause. It would be torn from the door in a matter of minutes, with the hubbub of five children and their many friends galloping in and out all day.

  Or her mother-in-law would set fire to it.

  She rang the doorbell and walked in. “Only me.” Gemma looked at the mess on the floor in the front porch. There were thirty shoes at least, not one of them with a mate. She rolled her eyes and ventured into the kitchen. “Gussie, let’s get a move on.”

  Augusta looked up from the table. Her lovely face looked tired and that glorious mop of butterscotch hair was in its usual mess, held up with whatever comb she picked out of the wicker basket by the phone. Gemma still found it hard to look into Augusta’s big green eyes. The sadness and aching loneliness were still evident, even three years after the day she cradled Tom’s head in her lap for the very last time.

  “Sorry, Gemma. I have to figure out how to get the girls to swim class.”

  Augusta’s teenage daughters sat at the table with their arms folded. They threw resentful glances in Gemma’s direction.

  “If you let me get my driver’s licence, Mother, we wouldn’t have this problem. Everyone I know is driving,” Augusta’s eldes
t cried.

  Gemma heard Bette blow the horn. “We’ll drop them off on the way.”

  “But how will they get back? The mom who usually does it is in Florida this week.”

  Gemma wanted to shake her. “Gee, then I guess they’ll have to miss it.”

  The girls whined immediately. Gemma walked over to her friend, hauled her out of the chair, grabbed her coat, and escorted her like a prisoner to the front door.

  “We’ll be at Linda’s,” Gemma told the girls. “You know the number. Your mama will be home around eleven. Have those dishes done by the time she gets back. And clean the cat’s litter box. I can smell it from here.”

  She shut the door in their astonished, sulky faces.

  Gemma didn’t let go until she pushed Augusta into the car. They were finally on their way.

  They sat in their usual positions around Linda’s gorgeously decorated family room, with its perfect blend of casual, modern, and vintage furniture. Glorious colours in the carpet, sofa pillows, and drapes were purposely made to look as if Linda was so secure in her own style that she could afford to be a little daring. Trouble was, it cost a lot of money to get it that way. But she never bragged about it. She was Lin the Pin, not Lin the Pin Cushion.

  They each held a large glass of wine. Bette only ever had the one when she drove. Gemma and Augusta usually downed four or five glasses between them. It was obvious from Linda’s state when she opened the door that she’d had a whole bottle to herself before they got there.

  Her usual chic blonde bob was dishevelled and the skin on her face was blotchy. She hadn’t even bothered to repair the damage, which meant Linda was in a bad way. She never went anywhere without a perfectly made-up face. When she got up and started to pace, her wine sloshed on the fabulous Indian carpet beneath her feet.

  “Look at me. I’m fifty next month. Fifty. And here I am in my big house in the West Island surrounded by what? My husband and my son? Take a look around. They’re missing in action.”

  She paused to take another huge gulp of wine. “Where are they, you ask? Hubby is now living on Lakeshore Boulevard in a condo with a nurse bimbo named Ryan. That’s right. Ryan. She was the freshest of the new crop that just graduated. She’s so young, she’s got a guy’s name. She belongs to that new generation of females who have stupid boy names like Mackenzie and Dylan and Taylor. No doubt she spells it with an i. Rian. With her perky tits and cement ass.”