One thing I've always known I can do is run fast. I've saved myself that way more than once. Hildie frowns. Now what's made me think about that? Then she sees the man standing on the sidewalk a couple of metres ahead of her.
"Hey, Pretty. C'mere," the man says.
Hildie looks around. Because a grocer has piled empty fruit boxes beside the produce store to her right, the guy's blocking her path. She stops short and peers at him. Scary: bushy hair spiraling six inches above his eyebrows but cut close around his ears. Dangling earrings. Short, tight-fitting magenta jacket with black trim. Slinky black pants adhering like plastic wrap to his muscular legs. Something like patent loafers, shiny. Does he think this is Hallowe'en or what? That watch looks expensive. Hairdo professionally constructed. She keeps her distance, not sure what to do.
"Cm'on, Honey, what's your name?"
Now Hildie notices the two young girls loitering behind him smoking cigarettes, or no, judging by the smell, it's pot. The blond wears something that looks like a tot's playsuit, short pants with a bib over a see-through gauzy blouse. The brunette has on one of those full little jackets with three-quarter length sleeves that are all the rage these days, dark green velvet over silver tights. Both sport high heels. Hildie can see the guy's a pimp. She says nothing and takes a step back, sneaking a look at the girls. Fourteen at the most. Probably younger. At sixteen Hildie feels a lot older.
She thinks of Julia, one of the people she squats with in a big house over where the industrial section starts. Maybe owned by someone holding onto land that might be worth something one day. Julia has told Hildie that she once had a pimp. Don't go there, find another way. Hildie had tossed her head, irritated. Like what? She should steal from grocery stores like Julia, running the chance of getting caught, going to the youth detention centre?
"Aw, jail," Julia had said. "Hey, there's food there. It's warm, too."
Food. She can feel her stomach cramping at this very minute. Not sure how much longer I can hold out, will have to do something.
"You look hungry. Wanna a nice meal? Whaddya like? Steak? Chicken with fries? Pheasant under glass?" The pimp snorts, his lips twisted with wry humour. "Whatever, I'll get it for you. Take you to a nice place too. Buy you a new dress so you won't be embarrassed in those ragged jeans."
Hildie glances at the two girls. He'll get her that kind of clothes, he means. Poised to run, she weighs her options. It's not like she's twelve, brand-new on the street with no inkling of what can happen or what people can do to you. She has known what could happen to a person almost as long as she can remember. She doesn't intend anything bad happening to her. It's just that she can't figure out what to do with herself. So far on the streets she's avoided pimps, but he's right that she's hungry. Can she take a chance, go with him, eat the meal then run? The blond, the one in the gold playsuit, smiles at her. “Hey, don't worry. Steve here's a great guy. You can't go wrong with Steve.” A sympathetic look comes into her eyes. “You look cold.”
Right. Like I'm not wearing shorts like you are. I'm bundled up in my Sally Ann special, wool the weight of pure lead and stinking of moth balls, but warm. Boots got a hole in them but not on the bottom and I've got socks. No, thanks.
The man's smiling now, if you could say curling your lips without warmth in your eyes is smiling. "C'm'on, you're a real pretty girl. What're you scared of? Not gonna hurt you, just wanna be your friend."
Like get real. I know the score. I've seen Julia's bruises the time her pimp caught up with her. Deep bruises that lasted forever. Broken nose, broken arm. They patched her up at the hospital, tried to get her to talk to the social worker, but she ran. She has had some experience with social workers too. Especially a particular male one, but that was before, when Julia was still a pretty girl.
“Come on, Steve,” the brunette says. “She's Indian. Doesn't have a clue what you're offering. She wouldn't know a decent restaurant if she saw one.”
Steve! The name of Julia's pimp! Now that she thinks about it, he fits Julia's description too.
Hildie gives the girl a level look and steps back again, flexing her knees so she can run fast if she has to. She can feel the guy getting annoyed now. If he can't lure her with false promises, what might he do? As for being pretty, she likes to think the fact that she's not is what has saved her many times. Already she has learned to feel sorry for the pretty ones like the little blond in gold. The way she lied about Steve, what a great guy he is, with those big innocent looking eyes. Stupid man doesn't see I'm wearing what I am just so someone like him doesn't get ideas. I'm just average height, stocky build from my tribal ancestors, olive skin, dark hair and eyes, and in good shape. But not pretty.
He takes a step closer, saying, “I like the little squaw.” When his arm shoots out to grab her, Hildie spins and runs. It takes her about three blocks to lose him.
She hides in a video store for a long time, keeping near the displays by the window so she can make sure he hasn't followed her. She can't stay forever though, because the clerk's watching her like she's going to steal a video or something. As if she has something to play a video on. Besides it's getting dark. She heads out the door toward the vacant house. The house isn't much, one story with what could be called a bedroom and a half plus a kitchen without appliances or water. They've trucked in water in those four-litre plastic milk bottles. Usually they can get water at public parks if someone hasn't stolen the knob, although the old pliers Nate found do the trick. Sometimes they get water at gas stations or public washrooms too. The house has a dark, dank basement, but the squatters don't use that because of the rats. They keep the door to the stairs wired shut because Hildie imagines that rats can open doors! Anyway, all the doors and windows are boarded up, except for one into the kitchen where they've pulled the boards off. Like usual, Hildie crawls in through that.
"Hey," she says to Julia who's lounging on a filthy sofa they'd managed to drag into the place.
Julia looks up. "Hey. Got any food?"
"No. Sorry. But I've got some dope."
Julia perks up and smiles. "Yeah? I could do with some of that."
They sit on the floor and Hildie rolls a joint, sucks on it to get the flame to catch, inhales and passes it to Julia.
"Oh, my God," Julia says. " This is so good. If I could just stay high on this stuff, I wouldn't need to eat ever."
"Sure you would. You'd starve. Besides, smoking pot makes me hungry."
"No, I would not care," Julia says in her Jamaican drawl. "Not even if I died."
Hildie laughs. "We'll get to test that soon enough!"
Dusk turns to dark as they float in a cannabis haze. Julia has lit some candles. It's after eight when they hear the kitchen window slide up; they turn to look, ready to run. They've loosened the boards on the front door so they can escape if someone dangerous, maybe Julia's Steve, pokes his head through the back window. Julia says Steve's always on the lookout for her, trying to track her down and put her back into The Biz, as she calls it. "That man, he's gonna kill me one day," she told Hildie when they first met. Julia had been on the run from Steve, and Hildie, fresh on the street, had been looking for a place to stay. Since Julia had spotted the house earlier, they went to see if they could squat. That's when they'd found Ewin and Chemali already living there. After a little chat, Hildie and Julia had joined the household. They've lived here for almost five months, and since then have added Sheilagh and Nate.
Chemali comes in first, shedding the wool shawl she wears over full-cut polyester pants, black, with a red-printed top, silk. Lacking an iron, Chemali will wear polyester pants, but her top always has to be silk. Has to breathe.
“Hey,” Hildie says. “What've you been up to?”
“Working.” The nostrils of Chemali's aristocratic nose dilate as she sniffs. “Do I smell pot?” She walks over to Hildie who hands her the joint. “My feet are much frozen! I need some boots.”
Hildie knows that “working” means scavenging for bottles. Because the competition in the 'hood' is stiff, they have to go out of their own district to find stuff. She looks at the plastic bag Ewin carries slung over his shoulder. “Bottles?”
“Bread,” says Ewin as he shuffles into the room. He drops the bag to the floor, pushes back a lock of dirty-blond hair that tends to creep over his forehead, and gazes at the cannabis in Chemali's hand. She hands him the joint. He puts it to his lips and sucks on it.
“Bread's moldy, probably.” Chemali laughs and shrugs her plump shoulders.
“Turnips,” Ewin adds, letting smoke stream from his nostrils. He passes the joint to Julia, who's reaching for it.
“You kidding me?” Julia tokes and passes the joint back to Chemali. “How we gonna cook turnips?”
“Eat them raw,” Hildie says. “Like carrots. Just cut them up.”
“Yeah!” Ewin grins as he bobs his head up and down, his forelock dropping back over his eyes which focus somewhere behind them. “We can eat them like carrots.”
“Stumbled onto one of those church food programs,” Chemali says, taking care as she transfers the joint – a roach really, back to Hildie who draws a last toke. “If we'd got there earlier, could've scrounged more. We were about the last to arrive and just got what was left over.” Kicking off scuffed flats and sliding into the tattered sleeping bag she keeps against one wall of the room, she spreads the shawl over herself like a comforter. Opening one of the bags of bread, she takes a slice and passes the loaf around.
Pan Bimbo, Hildie thinks. Stops. Blinks. Words she didn't know she remembered. Spanish ones. From a long time ago. Means cheap bread, boring. She takes a bite. Gobbles the whole piece and takes more.
“Hnn,” Julia says. Gets up and opens her daypack. “Got some peanut butter. Sorry it's not much, but hard to carry out a big jar and not get caught.”
Ewin rummages in a box, pulls out his personal set of metal camp dishes and hands her a table knife. She puts some peanut butter on her bread and passes the jar and knife to Chemali. He digs a pocket knife from his pants pocket and begins to peel a turnip, slice it in small pieces. Together they consume three loaves of bread, half the peanut butter plus two of five turnips. Hildie passes around another joint. The group is silent as each takes a toke and passes it on to the next.
Then Hildie looks at Julia. “Saw Steve I think.”
“God, you didn't tell him where I am, did you?”
“Are you kidding? He was trying to recruit me. I ran like a bat out of hell!”
“Ugh, gross!” Ewin says. His pale nose turns up in his little round face, his cobalt-blue eyes shining from below long lashes.
“We ran into someone looking for you.” Chemali's looking at Hildie.
“Me? What for? Who was it?”
“A guy. Asian, medium height, slim build. Quiet voice.”
“David,” Ewin puts in. “He said to tell you David's looking for you. To call David.”
David. The reason I'm on the street. What can he want?
“Know him?” Chemali asks.
“Yeah. Friend of my uncle's. My uncle thought he was coming on to me. Or worse that I was coming on to David, so Uncle Norm kicked me out.”
“You have sex with him?” Chemali's expression is sympathetic. Hildie knows that's how Chemali got thrown out, except she had sex with a boyfriend and got pregnant.
“Not likely. I think he's gay.”
"Hnn, your uncle was jealous?” Julia asks.
“Something like that, I guess. Anyway Uncle Norm and I never got along.”
“Men,” says Julia. “If they don't screw you one way, they'll do it another.”
“I heard that.” It's Nate, edging his sinuous hulk through the kitchen window, Sheilagh behind him. “Dissing us guys like you women are saints.” He rolls his chocolate eyes, the whites glimmering with humour. He and Sheilagh stand quietly in the kitchen doorway, Nate looking down at them from his height of over six feet. Sheilagh, big-boned with pale freckled skin and long red braids, gazes with emerald eyes from about the height of Nate's elbow.
“So, was David coming on to you?” Sheilagh asks.
“No. He was comforting me about something. Can't remember what now. He put an arm around me and had his face close to mine. I don't know why Uncle Norm freaked out. Of course, back then I hadn't figured out Uncle Norm and David are lovers, like David didn't live with us, no cosy bedroom scenes. I thought he was just a family friend.”
Sheilagh gives Hildie a direct look. “That was a long time ago. Your uncle's probably cooled down by now. You should phone him and explain.”
Hildie shakes her head, accepts the communal joint from Chemali and takes a deep pull on it. “Uncle Norm's weird. Believe me I know. I've lived with him since I was eight. He doesn't change his mind. And he scared me, getting that mad. Not sure I want to go back.”
“He's probably worried about you. I think you should phone him and find out what the score is.”
“No way. Hey, Uncle Norm just took me in because I had no one else after my parents died. He was my mother's only sib. Never cared about me.”
“Report him to Social Services. He has to take care of you until you're eighteen.”
“Fuck him. I can take care of myself.”
Sheilagh shrugs. “Makes no sense to me, but suit yourself. At least he wasn't screwing you the way my dad did me.”
Hildie jerks to her feet and shouts, “How do you know what I've been through? Have I told you? Have you asked me?”
Sheilagh backs up. “Hey, I thought you just told us. I'm not asking. I'm just trying to help.”
“Well, don't! There are things you don't know. Some even I don't know. Screw you!”
Hildie realises she's shaking, can't even begin to think why she has reacted like this. She doesn't have much, really, against Uncle Norm and certainly not against Sheilagh. Why should Uncle Norm care about her? He never even liked her mom. Sometimes she has thought he was taking out his anger at her mom on her. She remembers that last day -- the ugliness in his face, the venom in his voice. “You little slut. You're out of here. And don't expect me to pay any more tuition to that fancy academy, lot of good it has done you.”
Hildie had glared at him, turned and walked straight out of the house. If she hadn't had her purse in hand, she'd have gone out without anything except what she was wearing.
Crazy. She takes a deep breath and starts rolling another joint.
For a moment Sheilagh stares at her, first looking angry and then hurt. She turns to Ewin. “Do I see food?”
Ewin smiles and shuffles toward her holding out a bag of bread. “And we have peanut butter and turnips.”
“Fantastic!” Nate says. “If only we could make a fire.”
“For bread and turnips?” Chemali asks.
“We brought some meat. I put it in the kitchen. Got to figure a way out to cook it without someone calling the fire department.” He grins. “Peanut butter's great in stew. Old African custom.”
“Where did you get meat? The food depot?” Chemali asks.
“Um, no. Just around. Don't worry, it's fresh.”
Julia gives him a knowing look. “You killed something? What?”
“Don't worry about it. It's meat and it's fresh.”
Hildie thinks she's going to be sick. “Was it a dog?”
“Racoon,” Sheilagh says. “Not anyone's pet. And Nate knows how to kill animals, clean.”
“Not mean,” Ewin says, staring at his hands.
“That's right.” Sheilagh looks at Nate. “On the east side of the house no one could see a fire if we keep it small. Only that warehouse, and no one's around at night. We'd best cook it right away.”
“Good idea,” Julia says, getting up. “I'll help skin it. Done that a time or two or more, back in Jamaica where folks know how to survive.”
“Not me,” Hildie says. “I've already eaten, and I might throw up all the good stuff.”
They go into the kitchen, leaving Hildie alone. She holds up the joint and sees her fingers trembling, shakes her head as though to clear away fog from her brain. What got into me? Sheilagh's a decent person, just direct, that's all. She shakes her head again. Let it go, let it go, let it go. She gets up and pulls on her boots.
“Where you going?” Julia asks. Hildie shrugs. “Out. See you later.”
She's learned places to go, places that are safe even when it's dark. The free movie program over at the community center with popcorn and coffee. The drop-in centre she's been to with Julia, for hookers really, so they have a safe place to get warm before they go out again, but they have coffee, some food. Only Hildie doesn't feel comfortable there, can't bear to think what those girls have been through. Hurts to watch them try to keep face. Hurts to even think about what happens to women.
What happened to my own mother.
She stops on the sidewalk to light another joint, struggles to get the lighter to flicker. She draws the calming smoke deep into her lungs. Holds it, until her lungs force it up and out. Still, the memory she just shoved away clutches at her consciousness. She pushes herself forward, hunching over as she walks so people can't see the grimace on her face, the rolling tears. Hugging her arms to her chest, she tries to slow the thumping of her heart. She feels weak all of a sudden, is afraid she's going to black out, the pain in her chest is stabbing so much, thrusts sharp as a razor. She looks round for a place to go, a place to be safe.
“Want some crack? Make you feel better.”
She hasn't even realised someone's beside her. For a split second she hesitates. Anything to take away this pain ... She squeezes shut her eyes and thinks again of her mother. Not the last memory, but from before. Her mother in the kitchen, smiling at her, asking her about her day. That mother would say – no. Hildie drags herself away from the man and keeps walking. She realises she feels a little better now, can breathe. The tears have stopped and she wipes her face with her sleeve.
A close call, she thinks. Have to pay attention when I'm on the street, can't just let my mind wander.
Whatever. I had to get away from the people in the house. I need to think.
She decides to go to the library. She can sit in a comfortable chair and read a magazine until closing time. Maybe read a novel that she'll put back on the shelf, pick up again some other night. She doesn't have a card because she has no ID with her current address, no phone number. Too bad she always used the school library or she'd have a city card. At the academy library they had everything you could want, computers for research, everything.
A few moments later she walks between elliptical walls that resemble a Roman colosseum and into the glassed-in public concourse of Library Square. All around her are food and coffee shops where people are sitting at tables, eating and drinking. The sound of laughter comes at her like an assault, and she hunches her shoulders again and pushes through the turnstyle into the library itself.
She sits in a reading area, straight up like they were taught at the academy, because she doesn't want anyone to notice her. A copy of Seventeen rests on her lap. She flips through pictures of clothes she now knows are expensive and irrelevant. Sometimes she enjoys knowing what fashions are in, what she needs to look for at the thrift shop if she wants to pass as an ordinary person. Which I am not. She sighs. What's going on with me? I should get a job. Shouldn't be so hard. I could pay rent maybe. Buy food. Get a life.
She sighs again. The will to act is just not within her. It's like there's something else she needs to do, but she's not sure yet what it is. And she's already learned from Julia and Sheilagh that employers figure out fast if a girl has no one. Make passes. Don't pay her. Treat her like dirt.
Besides, a job would mean starting over. At the house she has friends. Julia's been like a mother or at least an older sister, and Sheilagh's close to being a friend. Doesn't hold it against her like the girls back at the academy that she's First Nations, Indians they called her people in the old days. At least in Central America they use the word indigenas which means you were born there, didn't come from India or some place far away. At least the Canadians have got it right. Aboriginal people were the first ones here. They might as well get credit for that, at least. As for the guys in the house, they feel maybe like brothers, she's not sure, never having had any. But she's not scared of them. As Julia has pointed out, their group is on the fringe of the fringe. “You just don't know, Baby,” she said once, “what people around here live like. Lives despoiled, not pretty. Believe me, you don't wanna know.”
Worse than eating racoon for dinner? Hard to imagine. Hildie smiles, in spite of herself. Gets up and puts the magazine back. But Julia's right, I do not want to know how bad things can be here, even in Canada. Although they can't be worse than back home in El Salvador. Where I saw my mother die.
Her eyes light on a headline, “War Rape a Part of Rwandan Genocide.” She picks up the magazine. It's an account of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. That's a country in Africa. She remembers discussing the civil war in a social studies class at the Academy. She scans the article: sexual assault used specifically on Tutsi women to destroy the ethnic group, soldiers encouraged and affirmed for these actions, organised propaganda inciting violence against Tutsi women, brutal and public nature of these rapes ...
She can read no more. The magazine falls from her fingers and she drops to a squat and puts her head between her knees, gasping for breath, her heart thundering like a drum in her chest so that the pain envelopes her as if she's in a white-hot fire.
“Excuse me. Are you all right?” A woman's voice asks.
She hears the voice but can't come out of her cauldron of pain to respond.
“Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
Activity around her. A woman is unbuttoning the neck of her blouse. Patting her hands, hard. “Breathe. That's it, just breathe.”
Two anxious faces come into view. A young woman, short auburn hair, wide blue eyes. A guy, blond, twenties, with gray eyes. “We've called 911. An ambulance is on the way.”
“Oh jeez, no! I can't. They'll call my uncle.” Hildie struggles to get to her feet, but they hold her down.
“Wait! Relax. It'll be okay. You need to see a doctor.”
“Please! I'll be all right. I just need – coffee. To sit down a minute. Please.”
They help her to her feet. Stand with her, watching her.
“Breathing okay now. What do you think, Wendy?”
“I don't know. She was pretty bad there. I thought she was having a heart attack.”
“Please, just cancel the ambulance. It was shock. Let me explain.”
Wendy looks at the man, shrugs. “Nick, if you want to talk to her, fine, but I've got to pick up the kids and get home.”
“Sure. See if the librarian can cancel the 911 call, and I'll talk with the girl.”
Outside in the plaza, the crowds have dwindled. They cross to a coffee shop. “What'll you have?” The man looks at her. “
"I – uh – don't have any money. I'm sorry, I didn't think ...”
“It's okay. What do you want, a latte?”
“Sure, a latte's fine.”
A few minutes later they are sitting inside the cafe and away from the plaza concourse. “So what's up?”
Hildie swallows, tries to push back tears. “That magazine. It had an article about genocide.”
The man looks at her. “Genocide? Pretty upsetting, for sure.”
“Yeah. Maybe a million people killed. Rwanda.”
He nods. “I agree that's terrible and even frightening. What I don't understand is why you collapsed. I mean, what upset you that much?”
“It was the women, the stories about rape. Like they were raping all the women before, before ...”
“Before they killed them.”
Hildie looks down at her hands. They are clenched in her lap.
“What's your name?”
“Hildie.”
“Well, Hildie, is it that you've never heard about genocide before? Or rape in war?”
She shakes her head, the tears flooding now.
“What is it?” His voice is soft, gentle.
“It's about my mom. I saw the soldiers rape her. I just ..." She stifles a sob, " I didn't know that's what they did, you know, to everyone. I didn't know it was planned.”
“My God.” His expression is grim. “Where was this?”
“El Salvador. Eight years ago.” The sobs are welling up now. She puts her hands onto her head and cries out, “I can't bear it!” Out of control, she weeps.
He reaches out and takes one hand, gently. “Hildie. My God. I can't begin to know what to say.” He lets her cry it out, she doesn't have a clue how long. Then he asks, “Where do you live? I can take you home.”
She shakes her head. “I don't live anywhere. I mean, my uncle kicked me out. I live with some people in a house on the East Side.”
“Kicked you out? You mean, just like that?” The grey eyes flash with anger.
Hildie manages a feeble smile. “Another story. Really, I'm okay now. Thanks a lot for listening. Didn't realise I needed to tell someone. I can make it home okay. I'm a pro now at keeping safe.”
“Thank God for that. Look, let me at least walk with you. You're in a state. I want to make sure you make it home safely."
She looks at him for a moment. He seems nice, but she doesn't know him. Besides, he might get Uncle Norm in trouble. “No thanks.”
He spreads his hands wide, sighs and says. “Okay. Good luck. Oh, and in case you need to talk again, here's my card.”
To be polite she takes it, puts it into her pocket without looking at it, and walks toward the door. Glancing back, she sees him standing there, watching her as she leaves the building.
Despite her bravado, going home's tricky late at night. She fishes a tuque from her coat pocket, jams it over her hair. She's figured out the unisex look is her safe passage back to the house, if there is a safe one. Her boots, her coat, they're men's, so much for styles like those in Seventeen. You need parents and cars and taxis to wear clothes like on the pages of Seventeen. Unless you're a punk waif. And that's another life Hildie's not sure she wants to know about. Walking with her face turned toward the pavement so she doesn't have to make eye contact, she heads east on Georgia, veers left on Beatty, skirts the skytrain station to follow Keefer but changes her mind because the park ahead's not a good place at night. She turns back along Abbott, makes her way amongst the cheerful movie viewers turning out of Tinseltown, walks on Pender through Chinatown, crosses Main and keeps going until the houses begin to peter out. She pushes into a lope until she gets to the house, heaves open the window, and crawls through. The candles have been put out, but she finds the one they keep in the kitchen and lights it. The rank smell of cooked meat hovers in the air. On the counter whatever remains of the racoon appears to be rolled up inside the bag Ewin brought the bread in.
Shit. Not sure I can stay here, but I'm not going back out now.
She makes her way with the candle to her corner in the big room, kicks off her boots. Digs out a couple of pairs of men's wool worksocks she got at the thrift shop in exchange for some volunteer work, thrusts her feet into them. Keeping on her jacket, she slides into her musty sleeping bag and curls into a small ball.
“You okay?” It's Julia.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Good-night then. Sleep tight.” Hildie can hear the smile in Julia's voice.
“Yeah. Sleep well.” Smell's not so bad in here now. She sleeps.
Against her better judgement Hildie has phoned Uncle Norm's friend David. Yeah, it was his fault Uncle Norm booted her out, but David hadn't meant for that to happen. So here she is at Blenz on the corner of Dunsmuir and Granville, wearing clean jeans and blouse, Julia's heels, and Sheilagh's coat. She loves the fur collar that nuzzles softly at her neck like a cat snuggling up to keep warm. All put together, she looks normal, not like her usual bulked-up unisex self.
She's standing outside the coffee shop, because if she goes in, she'll have to buy her own coffee. She raises her arm and looks at her wristwatch to show she's waiting for someone. Doesn't need anyone imagining she's loitering or planning a heist or something.
When she sees David speeding toward her, his open trench coat flapping to either side in the wind, joy fills her. She knows it's been David who has made the eight years she's lived with her uncle bearable. David was the one who remembered birthdays and made sure they celebrated. He was the one who made the cake and brought gifts. He planned the summer trips to the beach and the Canada Day trips to watch fireworks. The more she thinks about it, the more she realises that if she has a parent at all, it's David.
David's wearing a black jacket over an open-necked white shirt and straight-legged black pants. He keeps his hair long in the back and short on the sides with a scattering of locks that fall forward over his eyes. When she remembers how Uncle Norm and David look when they enter a room together, she almost giggles. Uncle Norm is tall, pale and a tiny bit seedy from so many hours in the stockbroker's office, whereas David's small and sophisticated with everything about him immaculate and in place.