The only effective antidote to the poison of such thoughts was to fling herself into work and, if nothing else, The Bluebird provided an unlimited supply of that. Vera asked herself whether the cafe had ever had a thorough cleaning since the days she had sat in its booths, drinking Coke and gossiping with her old chums Mabel Tierney and Phyllis Knouch. Now these girls she had believed she had left trapped in Connaught were long departed, married to men in the city who had freed them from a short servitude as secretaries, while she, adventurous Vera, was back home standing in the midst of the mouse dirt and cobwebs of the past.
But cobwebs could be brushed away. For a week, commencing a little after seven each morning and continuing until midnight, Vera scrubbed away years of neglect. Layer after layer of wax rolled up under the blade of her putty knife, saharas of dust and the haphazard sprinklings of mouse and rat shit scattered before her diligent broom, twenty years of smoke and grease caking the walls dissolved in pail upon pail of hot water, turning it the colour of strong tea. An entire afternoon was spent attacking the old yellow pee tracks in the toilet bowl in the men’s washroom, bleaching and brushing, brushing and bleaching, until the stains had subsided into acceptable pale ivory water marks. Vera had not slaved like this in years. It was for her, for Daniel. Her arms and shoulders ached and trembled, her eyes smarted and her nose ran in the fumes of powerful disinfectant as she winced, lowering knuckles (that had been scraped scouring corner grime) into a bucket of Lysol and scalding water. Muscle spasms in her lower back caused her to limp and list but not to cease her war on filth. She ate standing because she had difficulty raising herself from a chair if she sat for any length of time.
Daniel helped after school. He polished windows with newspaper, buffed the paste wax his mother laid down on the floors, mended tears in the upholstery of the counter stools with electrician’s tape, removed rodents from traps and disposed of the bodies.
When Vera collapsed on her bed some time after one o’clock in the morning, after she had thrown together Daniel’s school lunch for the next day, she seldom slept more than an hour or two before snapping awake. Did she lock the front door of the cafe? Did she turn the grill off after frying up supper for herself and Daniel? On a number of occasions she went so far as to steal out of the house and hurry across town in the cold and dark to lay her palm on the top of the grill and rattle the lock on the front door one last time.
She left it to Mr. Stutz to order whatever she would need from a restaurant supplier in Regina. He knew what was necessary because for years he had performed that service for her father’s restaurant in the hotel. Still, Mr. Stutz did not really presume. He made a list and went over it with her, item by item, explaining. The shipments soon began to arrive. Vera unpacked plates and cups, gigantic roasting pans and pots, cutlery. It was all vaguely familiar from the Army kitchens she had known. There were serviette dispensers, a coffee-maker, a milkshake mixer, banana-split boats, and sundae dishes that resembled vases. One day she became the owner of an ice cream freezer and an electric cash register.
According to Vera’s calculations, Mr. Stutz had dispersed the two-thousand-dollar loan and still he continued buying, ignoring her protests. He ordered a meat saw, arguing that if they bought whole carcasses of beef and pork and he cut them up into steaks and roasts, ribs and chops, the savings would be enormous. One more thing. Vera ought to have an electric meat grinder to grind her own hamburger on the premises, fresh. Whenever Vera pointed out the mounting cost Mr. Stutz said, “You have to spend money to make money,” and wrote another cheque. Vera wasn’t exactly convinced by his reasoning. All she could think of was the money flying away, disappearing. It was like standing in a whirlwind, money torn out of her fingers and scurried off to the four points of the compass.
On the eve of her opening the food was delivered. Butter stacked like bars of gold in a sturdy wooden box, sacks of sugar and flour, burlap bags of potatoes and carrots, string bags of onions, cans of coffee and tea, gallon jars of pickles, crates of eggs, salt and pepper, herbs and spices, slabs of bacon, a pink carcass of beef stamped with the government inspector’s blue ink, fryers, cardboard cartons of canned goods, drums of ice cream surrounded her in raw profusion.
Her father’s watchful eye had been trained on all this. It was no coincidence that he had taken to hanging around the hotel across the way more frequently than had been his habit. And whenever a delivery truck drew up in front of The Bluebird Cafe he just happened to step out onto the front steps of the hotel lobby to salute a passerby and delay him with his observations about sports, or politics, or the weather, all the while throwing glances over the man’s head to the goods being hauled through his daughter’s doors. At other times when he did not realize he was being watched himself his nosiness was rude and undisguised. Then he would roost on the top step of the hotel like a cock on its favourite fence post, thrusting out his neck, a rooster preparing to crow, eyes darting an angry bird-like stare at the windows of the cafe. When Vera saw him like this, naked in his disquiet, feathers ruffled up and bristling, she had an inkling of how deeply she had gotten under his skin.
The day the poster went up in her window announcing the Grand Opening, free coffee and doughnuts, he telephoned. His abruptness spoke of a long struggle to suppress emotion. “Vera, this is your father,” he announced in a rush. His voice sounded thick, hoarse. “What’s this I hear about you borrowing money from Stutz. Is it true?”
“You know it’s true – since you heard it from Stutz,” Vera answered.
“I don’t like it. You’re in no position to borrow money. You’ve got no collateral. Who do you expect to bail you out if you go belly up? Me?”
“Expect a call when hell freezes over.”
“You might as well have come to me in the first place. I know who’s going to get stuck with paying up. I’d feel it was my responsibility to Stutz. He works for his money, you know. What he has didn’t grow on trees.”
“Ever think you might have jumped the gun with this mean-minded speculation about Vera’s impending failure? The money isn’t lost yet.”
“It will be. You’ll find out just how easy it is. Soon enough you’ll find out.” He paused. “Anyway, what business did you have going to him for money? Why didn’t you come to me? What’s the matter with my money?”
“Nothing. Aside from the fact it’s yours.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“The best answer because it’s the most obvious.”
“Let me give you some advice, girl. You’d do well to forget your high and mighty style if you intend to serve the public. The public isn’t looking to have their coffee poured by the Queen of Sheba – which you sometimes seem to mistake yourself for.”
“No,” said Vera, “the public would rather have its coffee poured and its eggs fried by a woman who doesn’t wash her hands after she’s been to the washroom to pee – which is the case with that jewel you’ve employed across the way.”
That took the wind out of his sails. The best reply he could manage was, “Rita is a good worker and loyal.”
Vera refused to miss an opportunity. “Loyal like Stutz?” she asked.
Her father went silent. She could hear him breathing into the mouthpiece of the receiver. “You think you’re so clever,” he said at last. “But did you ever stop to ask yourself what Stutz is up to?”
As a matter of fact she hadn’t, not really. But one thing she could be sure of – if Stutz was up to anything it wouldn’t be crooked. Vera’s voice was confident and cocky. “So tell me, what do you think he’s up to?”