Poached Egg on Toast by Frances Itani Page B

woman, he says. Have children, stay home. Write sixteen hours a day.
    Evie caught her finger under the bedroom door this morning. Inching across the rug on her tummy. Try to keep one step ahead of her, Hugo tells me. She could tumble down the stairs. He kisses Evie, Jason, me; goes to work.
    Take children for a walk along St. Catherine Street. Two tramps run out of fruit store, bananas stuffed into their jackets. Jason and I the only ones to see. Why aren’t their bananas in a paper bag, Jason wants to know.
    Must finish short story before class Wednesday night. Stop to pick up Hugo’s shirts at cleaners in Alexis Nihon Plaza. One man ahead of me. While waiting, I review physical characteristics of glaciers. (Also attend classes on Geomorphology Tuesday and Thursday nights.) Jason fusses in his stroller. Evie sleeps peacefully in backpack. Man ahead is not a satisfied customer. Didn’t get the three-shirt special.
    What’s this? he asks. Expressionless woman behind counter. I only work here, she says. You have to put your complaint in writing, send it to Head Office.
    I had my shirts in before 6 p.m. Friday, he shouts. I’m eligible for the three-shirt special and I’m not paying.
    Woman yanks shirts back across counter. Just in time. Quick, for her, I think. I lose interest in glaciers. Want to see how this comes out. Man tries to get one leg across counter. Too fast for her. Yanks at corner of package. Shirts fly: one between man and woman, two on floor. Pulling each way. Back across counter, forth across counter. Sleeve rips off in man’s hand. Man and woman red in face and puffing. Jason claps hands in stroller, stops fussing. Evie wakes in backpack, drools down my neck. Why am I shaking? I leave. I’ll pick up Hugo’s shirts tomorrow on way to get groceries. Take Jason to washroom for pee. Behind housewares, main store, sign taped to wall over sink:
SVP Ramassez vos cheveux
. Beneath, scribbled in English across tiles:
PLEASE! Pick up your hairs
.
    Later, same evening, Hugo finds Evie on top shelf of bookcase. Neither of us knew she could climb.
    Creative Writing prof reads my story aloud to class. All laugh at part about dream. Clearly, he says, this is the dream of a madwoman. All agree, even me. Don’t tell that I dreamed it two nights before story due, no time to think up fiction this week. Only reality knocks at my door.
    Madwoman? I think, as I fall asleep late, after class. My dreams are like that all that time. Hugo turns towards me, rubs my back, puts hand between my thighs. I cross legs tightly, feign sleep. Last thought of the day: forgot to look up definition of talus slope, and didn’t fold clothes. They’ll be wrinkled in the dryer.
    Jason has mumps, I’m certain. Regular sitter won’t come. Hugo at late meeting tonight; have to call agency. All reliable, all with references, say Yellow Pages.
    Grandma arrives. White hair, cane. Don’t worry, she says. I can cope. But do you have a copy of the
Gazette
? This isn’t the paper I usually read.
    Remember Yellow Pages, I tell myself as I drive off. Let finger do the walking. Evie did coo at Grandma. I settle at wheel. Remember I haven’t eaten. Stop at Mister Do-Nut for cardboard container of coffee and two cocoanut specials.
    Missed three questions in oral quiz on landforms. During break, professor sits beside me in coffee room. What’s wrong? Your work is usually prepared.
    Mumps, I say, revealing all. My son, three years old. Puffy, swollen, fever, unhappy.
    Professor and all students within earshot edge away. Professor mumbles, aren’t there supposed to be inoculations against things like that?
    Hugo still not home when I return. Grandma reading paper. Jason upstairs, puffy neck, sleeping peacefully. Evie tied to chesterfield leg, rope around one ankle. I begin to shout until I see how practical this is. Grandma has smarts. Pay double time and taxi home as it’s after ten. Agency rule. Hugo walks in, yells. Why the hell is my daughter tied