Chapter Nine

Jackie has reached the invisible border line which all girls experience. As a child, she plays with boys as friends but then, eventually, the boys drop the friendship and see her as a sex object. Jackie is comforted by her dog, Lisa, who she is training to be a show dog.

Hovering Above Myself

A Memoir

by Jacqueline D’Acre

Chapter 9

I could not get enough of Lisa. I rushed home from school every day to feed, walk and train her. She learned “sit,” “down,” and “stay” brilliantly. We didn’t do so well with “come,” and “fetch.” On “come”—she galloped right past me, then it became a game when I chased her and failed to catch her. I didn’t know then the power of feeding treats to get results. So I hollered “Fetch,” and Lisa ran after the stick just fine. She skidded to a stop, grabbed it in her mouth, turned and started back toward me, me desperately crooning “Good girl.” Then she’d drop the stick. But I got very good at posing her in a show stance and so did she. She stood quietly while I arranged her body, made sure her front legs were straight under her. I had to hold her tail and her head up, she wanted to droop. She didn’t have that spark that makes a great dog a great show dog. She had the looks though. Unlike myself. (Did I think having this beautiful dog would somehow make me beautiful too? I just had to have some beauty in my life.)

Some days I took lunch to school. There was one other person who also brought his lunch. Brent. He was a man of some mystery. According to scandalized whispers he had failed two grades and naturally, he was quite a bit older than his classmates. He had white-blond hair. Striking. So we fell into eating lunch together and talking.

Because of the close proximity of Brent each lunch hour, I worried more than ever about my looks. Instead of getting better-looking, I was growing uglier. My face was covered in freckles, my eyebrows and my eyelashes were still blonde, and my long red hair was skinned back (so my face looked like someone who’s had a face-lift at the age of sixty) and braided. I had a little pot belly, quite prominent developing breasts, and slender arms and legs. Mother had long since abandoned my dreadful diet and paid no attention to what I ate. I cut back on the Sally Ann’s and the Persians at Grampa’s store. And, only one Pepsi a day.

Brent and I talked and talked. I looked at him closely studying him for signs of mental incompetence, because after all, he had supposedly failed two grades. I couldn’t see anything: He seemed quite normal. I felt flattered this “older” man liked talking to me and I eagerly looked forward to lunch hour every day.

During those Junior High years—1954 to 1956—there was a darker interaction between boys and myself. I don’t remember exactly when it started but one day I walked into the classroom’s cloakroom and several boys grabbed me and shoved me up against the wall. Coat hooks dug painfully into my back. I squirmed and fought to be free of them but they were too strong. All of us were breathing hard. With me pushed up against the wall they ran their hands over my body, squeezing my breasts and belly. I fought silently. I was terrified Miss Loney would catch us and she’d blame me. Every day I waited until the last possible moment before entering the cloakroom. Every day it was no good, they caught me. They hurt me. They scared me. When I got away I struggled into my coat and winter boots and ran from the cloakroom, knowing my face was red. As I exited, Miss Loney beside her desk, arms folded, frowning at me. I ran from the school and when I got home to Lisa, I ran to her.

I think now of these years as the silver years with my silver dog. Lisa seemed to sense when I was in despair or depression. When I got home from school after being mauled I first walked Lisa. After walking her, I ran upstairs to my bed and flopped down on it. Lisa climbed on and curled up tight beside me. She licked my hands and my face, mothering me. I would lie for ages close to Lisa. She was my only comfort. I was so miserable I might have committed suicide without her.

School was a nightmare because of Miss Loney and the cloakroom boys. But lunchtime talks with Brent helped. One day he leaned toward me and spoke in a whisper: “Jackie. Now, don’t get your feelings hurt. Talk to your mother. Tell her you need to have a bra.”

I blushed. “I do?” I folded my arms across my chest. Mostly I ignored my rather large breasts, except when the boys in the cloakroom grabbed me.

It’s a Saturday. Purolator Courier was just here with an order of my medical marijuana. They were two days late delivering it. On the first delivery attempt, the delivery person said there was no access to my apartment. It turned out that he didn’t know the access code so I could buzz him in and, apparently, he didn’t read the board that had the names of all the apartment dwellers next to their access codes. I called Purolator when I discovered this and let them know it was medication that I needed. And, bless them! They came through and got it to me before I ran out. I have just now figured out the right dosage to manage the pain thus, I’m having almost pain-free days. The combination of Percocet and morphine with the marijuana works well. I am taking fewer Percocets.

So I got home that day and started looking for an opportunity to tell Mother what Brent said. She was changing the latest infant, Della, when I approached her. (Della was growing some hair, white blonde, like Brent’s. She was quite pretty. Mother was very pleased with her.)

“Mother. I had lunch today with a boy at school. He’s a really nice boy—not rude and pushy like the others. He said I needed to tell you that I need a bra.”

“What?” she said and she looked at me. Her eyes shifted down to my chest. “Oh. I see. Perhaps you do. You can go with Gramma for a fitting at Chapples this weekend. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks Mother.”

 Saturday Gram and I sallied forth, headed for Chapple’s. Gram smart in bright red lipstick, high heels, her turquoise coat with the brown fur collar, and of course a matching hat with a veil that just reached her eyebrows. She eased on turquoise gloves as I got into my jacket. We went directly to the Foundations Department, where Gram was greeted by name. (She bought all of her corsets here.)

“My granddaughter needs to be fitted for a full-length foundation garment.”

The saleslady led us to a fitting room and asked me to take off my coat and sweater so she could get my measurements. Suddenly I felt very uncomfortable, half-naked in front of a stranger. Slowly I removed my coat, then pulled my sweater up over my head. Both Gram and the saleslady stared at my breasts. I looked down at the protuberances that were the cause of the commotion.

“Well. You certainly are a well-developed young lady. How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Okay. We can fit you.”

She measured me then left and returned with three chest-to-crotch white elastic dance- hall-girl looking corset objects. I stared. I’d have to wear those? All I needed was a simple bra!

“You’ll have to take off your skirt to get it on,” said the saleslady.

I pulled my skirt off and stood there in my panties. The saleslady handed me the “garment.” I took it, held it in front of myself and put a foot in, then wavering a bit, raised the other foot and shoved it in. My breasts wobbled with very move I made. Gram and the saleslady stared at me. I began to blush, all over my face then onto my neck and shoulders. I pulled on the garment. The bra part at the top was halfway up my thighs. I leaned back and grasped the garment from the back and pulled again. It inched upward. I pulled again, making a little grunting sound. Would I have to do this every day? The garment reached my crotch. I wiggled my legs trying for more maneuvering room. Didn’t work. The garment clinched tight around me. I’d begun to sweat a little and the garment kept sticking to my sweaty, red skin. It was taking forever to get it on. Finally, with a deep breath, I tugged it up to my breasts.

 “Lean forward, dear,” said the saleslady. “Let them fall into the bra.”

I leaned forward. My breasts dropped into the bra. I fed my arms through the straps, wriggled, and stood still, ready for inspection.

Gramma looked me up and down with her beady blue eyes, her mouth a grim red line. “Walk around a bit, Jackie.”

I took a few steps forward then stopped. I had reached the dressing room wall. I pivoted and walked back the other way. The garment pulled the tops of my thighs together and they chaffed unpleasantly as I moved. I didn’t think this was what Brent had in mind when he said I needed a bra. Gram was getting me a bra with a vengeance. I felt as if I was being punished for growing breasts!

“No jiggles,” Gram said. I walked two steps. “Good. We don’t want to see jiggling.” (What’s wrong with jiggling?”)

I repeated the pull-on job with the two other garments. One was decided upon. So it was bought and I left the store encased in it. It was vastly uncomfortable. It was rubbing my thighs raw. But I didn’t jiggle and my recalcitrant breasts were tightly bound in heavy-duty cotton, a bra that might be found in Soviet Russia.

Last night at about 10 o’clock in the darkened apartment, I heard a woman’s voice calling my name. I heard my front door open. Suddenly, a man appeared in my bedroom doorway—I gave a little shriek and jumped. He scared me!

“What do you want?” I cried.

“Do you have a black and white cat?”

“Yes.”

“He’s down the hall.”

(James Bond sometimes sat by the front door meowing. He wanted to go out—outside. When he managed to escape into the hall, what a rude shock for him: No sky, no grass, no bird and bees flitting and singing—only the long boring hall. Like something in a novel by Kafka.)

The man spoke to me: “Do you have any treats so I can coax the cat in?”

 “Yes. On the dresser.”

The man fetched them and went after James Bind, who responded quickly to the rattle of the treats bag. I thanked the man profusely.

The woman’s voice belonged to Barb who lives just a few apartments down from mine. She is in a wheelchair, so I guess she enlisted this man’s help in catching the cat. Thank you, Barb.

Then I got mad. The last person out was a nurse and she must have just rushed out and not checked to see what the cat was up to. James Bond had been out in the hallway for about four hours! Someone could have stolen him—he’s a gorgeous creature and very friendly. I have heard of pet abductions in the apartment complex. I called the company that dispatches the nurses and got a machine. I left an angry message on it—saying I was almost completely bedridden and unable to go out to the hall to recapture my cat! I depend on the people who care for me not to let him out when they leave! It only takes a moment to check if he’s lurking near the door!

 I also keep a spray bottle of water by the door. One squirt sends him flying, so getting out the door is easy. There’s a sign on the door reminding people to check on the cat—she must have completely ignored this and rushed out. I will have a few words for her the next time I see her.

I have a pleasant, quiet day before me. It’s Sunday so there are fewer people parading through my apartment. I’m watching Surviving Escobar on Netflix, about a drug hitman in a Bogota prison. Pretty good.

 My new medication regime—narcotics and marijuana—is working very well and I am almost pain-free. I have enormous gratitude for this. Maria from Peru and Christi (from Thunder Bay) are my caregivers today which makes me happy—they are cheerful, smart and efficient. I am well into Charley Wilkin’s great book Little Ship of Fools, and I am in awe of him for rowing a boat across the Atlantic. What a man! So, it’s a great day for me.

One day in Music (this was in Grade Seven) the class was standing, singing. Mr. Dugald, our history teacher, suddenly strode into the room. He was a lanky man and his grey suit flapped around his long limbs. He nodded at our music teacher and she nodded back. Then he walked up to us as we sang and walked slowly from person to person, head bent toward our mouths, listening to us sing.  When the song ended he went to the head of the class.

“Hello Class,” he called out. “I’m forming a Glee Club and want some of you to join.”

A hand shot up. “What’s a Glee Club?”

“A choir, not necessarily singing hymns,” said Mr. Dugald. “Now I am going to call out some names. If you hear yours, please step forward. You are invited to join the Glee Club.”

I waited, with interest, to see if I’d be picked. I had long secretly wished for a good singing voice like Mother and Auntie Dell. Names were called. I tensed. Then: “Jackie Cryderman.” Happily, I stepped forward. Then he called out “Janie Gibb.” My nemesis. No matter how hard I tried Janie always beat me by one point. She was also good at art, so she got called out to work on murals, just like me. The funny thing is, I liked her very much. We were friends. At the end of Grade Seven her grade point average was—yes! One point higher than mine. I got a 96%. (When I took my report card home, Father glanced at it and growled, “Why didn’t you get a 100%?” I dunno know, Father. Because I’m dumb. Because I’m lazy. Because I just can’t cut it.) I couldn’t answer him.

Then I won. In Grade Eight, I scored a 98% average. One of the teachers told me this was the highest grade point average in the history of the school. Father took one look and repeated, “Why didn’t you get 100%?” I pushed my dinner plate aside and got up from the table. I left the room, running downstairs to my basement cave. I retrieved a book from a shelf and flopped down on the bed. I opened the book, The Golden Bough, by Simon Fraser. Tom, from next door, had lent me this book. It was shocking. The main thing I remember from it is that it told how Christian holidays are held exactly when pagan holidays had been held and often told a story very like the Christian legend that was replaced. Aha! I was very into questioning the existence of God. He wasn’t answering my prayers. (I didn’t understand then that prayers often took a long time to be answered. But they are always answered, you just might not like the answer.) I also overlooked that I was now the proud possessor of a Weimaraner dog, in fact as far as I could determine, the first Weimaraner in Northwestern Ontario.

I continued Lisa’s training and soon the Lakehead Kennel Club’s annual show was upon me. I was almost sick with excitement. I hoped to negate my one and only experience with showing dogs. A shameful experience. A few years back at the Lakehead Exhibition, they held a dog show for all breeds and even mutts. I was desperate to show. I’d watched the horse show for years and knew it was something beyond me, but the ardour to compete was not dampened. (I don’t understand this passion of mine.) I brushed Rusty, put him on a leash and walked in the August heat to the exhibition grounds. The show was ongoing. They had classes like: The Dog with the Longest Hair, The Biggest Dog, The Smallest Dog, The Smartest Dog, and one other, The Ugliest Dog. I put Rusty in the smartest dog class. He had one trick, he could sit up and beg. The dogs, one by one performed. Down, sit, stay and so on. When it came to Rusty’s turn, I cried out “Beg! Rusty, beg!” and obediently he rose up and balanced on his bottom. He gazed up at me trustingly and expectantly. A few people clapped. But other dogs got first, second, third. By the time The Ugliest Dog class came up I was desperate to win a ribbon, any ribbon. I didn’t think he was ugly but you never knew what others might think. My wish came true. He was picked as the ugliest dog. I was overcome with shame. Really, Rusty wasn’t ugly. He was very smart! He could retrieve ducks in frozen water! He could fetch stones from underwater! He guarded all of us children! Deep in shame for letting my great dog down just because I wanted to win something, I drooped all the way home, Rusty behind me, panting. He was an old dog then too, so it was hard on him. Clearly I was a terrible person. I got Rusty home and fed him a piece of ham pirated from the fridge. I got down on the kitchen floor and hugged him and wept. Apologizing all the while, “I’m sorry Rusty, I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful dog.”

Went to an appointment with Dr. Naqi yesterday. Just routine. Filled my prescriptions. My youngest sister Della pushed my wheelchair for me. She is the best wheelchair pusher of anyone. Jane forgets I have toes and knees that stick out and she forever slams me into walls—ouch, ouch. Lee does pretty well but she also sometimes forgets I have knees and toes. But Della never runs me into a wall and she also somehow makes the wheelchair ride seem smooth. It is not a smooth-pushing wheelchair. It’s difficult to get it started, it seems to lock into place. It takes a hard push to get it mobile and Della accomplishes this without jolting me. The reason I have this difficult wheelchair is because it was the only one I tried out that didn’t hurt my back. Della never complains. She just silently, smoothly pushes.

Even though she is sixty-five she looks much younger. She’s beautiful. Slim, long blonde hair in a ponytail. The taxi driver thought she was my daughter. (Gawd, do I look that awful? Yes, I do!) Della is famous for speaking very little. The other sisters, Jane (Jeffrey), Jennifer and I often joke about her taciturn way. But while we sat in the third floor waiting room of the Port Arthur Health Clinic, overlooking Lake Superior and the Sleeping Giant, we actually talked. (The Sleeping Giant is an island just offshore that resembles a man lying down, all stretched out in the water. It’s famous all across Canada. Great to look at.)

            Della and I talked about everything: Jennifer’s new dog, a Weimaraner pup named Gloria, Della’s new dog, a tri-colour corgi named Olive, my new cat, James Bond. Della is a very successful horse trainer; (her daughter Jessie shows at the big Quarter horse world show.) So we talked about horses. We never grew out of wanting a pony. Jane has four horses, Jennifer has two, Della has maybe ten, along with about thirty boarders. I am the only one horse-free at this time. We talked about how Jessie is doing: She’s teaching English at Confederation College. She rides every day. She lives with Chad, her long-time partner. Together they own a house not far from Della’s farm in Murillo. We talked about Christmas. I talked about the drugs I’m on now. It was great. We had a wonderful time. And Dr. Naqi was in a good mood so the doctor visit went well. I didn’t mention that I am using medical marijuana for fear she’d want to take away my narcotics. I DO NOT want to go through withdrawal. Beside, my pain management system is working. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke.

I practised setting Lisa up—front feet square under her, back legs extended—I slipped the thin show leash up so it sat at the top of her neck, just behind her ears, and lifted. This raised her head and lengthened her neck. Then I harassed people to be the dog show judge. I set Lisa up and then asked them to come to her front, lift her lip and check her teeth, to examine her head, then to run their hands along her body. Next we trotted out to show off to the judge how squarely she travelled. I ran with her for the trot. Going fast she extended her legs out well.

Lisa went through the motions on all of this. She did not sparkle—in fact, the sparkle left her the minute I put the show leash around her neck. I got Jane to set her up and I played judge. From all I had studied, Lisa had excellent conformation. She could possibly win at dog shows, if only she would put a little more gusto into her performance. But, sparkle or not, I was determined to show.

The show ran three days, with each day being a separate show with a different judge. So it was a great way to score points without having to travel a lot. (Win ten points and your dog becomes a champion.) Someone dropped Lisa and I off at the exhibition grounds. I had been fluttering around for weeks in preparation for this moment whereas no one in the family paid the least bit of attention, (except to groan when asked to play the judge). So alone I faced my adventure.

The place was overrun with adults. I didn’t see kids anywhere. I collected my paperwork—which included the number I’d wear on my sleeve in the show ring. I put Lisa in her bench and went to look at the show ring. Dogs were trotting around in the ring; the crowd was whistling and applauding. Handlers with exquisitely groomed dogs were queued up near the entrance to the show ring, ready to prance in for the next class. Dogs barked, people laughed and shouted, it was a great melee. I went back to Lisa and took her for a walk so she could pee, et cetera. Then back to our bench where competition was just arriving. One male Weimaraner. Nice looking dog but a little coarse in the head and a little short in the neck. Lisa was better: I knew it. But the male dog was awfully perky. He might just show great, while beautiful Lisa drooped around the ring.

I queued up for my class. I was the only dog in the line. When it came to our turn, I lunged forward hoping Lisa would explode into the show ring. She hung back, bringing me to a dead halt. I hissed in a whisper: “C’mon, Lisa, c’mon! Please! C’mon girl!” There were some chuckles from the audience. My face turned red. I tugged and tugged. Finally, Lisa moved out of her crouch and she slunk into the ring. I pulled her head up and still hissing at her, moved forward. She followed me, however reluctantly. She got up to a trot. I ran around the ring. My hands were sweaty and I was still blushing. I stopped in front of the judge, a large square woman in a grey dress and silvery jewellery, who said, “Hello.” I croaked out a hello back to her. I got busy setting Lisa up. After her legs were positioned they looked good and straight. The judge approached and took Lisa’s head in both hands. She pulled back Lisa’s lip to examine her teeth. She ran her hand over Lisa’s back, viewed her from the rear and told me to trot away from her in a straight line. A couple of tugs and Lisa followed me. She trotted in a desultory fashion. We turned and headed straight back to the judge. Halted. And waited. Lisa’s head hung down. The judge barely glanced at her. She said “Thank you,” and a man came out and handed me a red ribbon, for first place, an easy win, with no competition. Still it was worth one championship point. We left the show ring and watched the male dog’s performance. He also was the only entry.

The man and dog exploded into the show ring. Worse than I thought. The dog moved forward, head up, in a perky trot. Awful. While the man was setting the dog up, the dog gazed up at the judge adoringly, wagging his tail. Save me. The man collected his red ribbon as they announced the next class which meant me. Lisa and I plodded into the show ring. The man trotted his animal around in a flashy way. I got Lisa up to speed, but still she didn’t wag her tail. She was hating every moment of this. I should have felt ashamed, forcing her to do something she so obviously despised. But I didn’t, my obsession to show overcame that. The class came to its predictable end, the man receiving the “Best of Breed” ribbon, while I got the “Best of Opposite Sex” ribbon. Reserve champion. There was also the myth that a kid couldn’t possibly have a better dog than an adult. Oh well, tomorrow was another show. Maybe Lisa would do better. I took her out of the show building and she cavorted perkily at the end of her leash. I broke into a run and she trotted beside me in a flashy way. We ran around for a while then settled onto the grass. In a while the show stopped for a lunch break. I watched the doorway and soon the big square judge from Lisa’s class appeared. I got and went up to her.

“Excuse me,” I said to the judge, “but could you do me a favour? Could you fault my dog for me? I’m just learning. This is my first dog show.”  

“Certainly. Can you set her up?”

I set Lisa up and the judge took a hard look at her. She took a step back to get a better view. I crouched behind Lisa, holding her head and tail up, gazing expectantly up at the judge. I knew, just knew Lisa was a better dog than the male and I suspected the judge saw a kid and didn’t take her entry seriously. Drooping or not, Lisa had the better head, neck and legs. She should have won. I watched the expression on the judge’s face change from ennui to alertness. She said, “Um.” Then walked around Lisa again, really looking at her. Then she stopped and stared at Lisa in profile. After a while, she said, “I can’t really fault her. She’s a very good dog. Her back’s maybe a bit long, but she’s a bitch so that’d be acceptable.” She leaned over and stroked Lisa’s neck and back.

“Keep showing. Work on getting her to show some gumption. You’ll do well.”

I watched the judge’s face closely. Aha. There it was, the slight shift of perception, eyes widening, a sharp intake of breath. I saw the judge suddenly realize she’d made a mistake in placing the male dog over Lisa. Lisa needed treats. They would unleash the show-girl fire in her. If only I had learned the treat trick way back then.