Aban's Accension

Chapter 23: The Taxman

Standing up, Aban goes to the fridge and reaches in for the new carton of orange juice. It reminds her of how after the storm yesterday, after she'd eaten breakfast, El had taken Aban for a walk around their neighbourhood helping to clear up the littered gardens and listening to people’s stories as they tried to make sense of what had whirled through their lives. She’d kind of liked it at first; she’d gotten to meet her neighbours through El. But then he’d kept going and going, as if he’d never stop, and the stories were all the same. And her T-shirt and pants were drenched. She swore it got even hotter after that fierce storm. There was a limit. Of course, with money, you gave as much as you could afford, but as Mom said everyone’s busy, everyone has their own worries, that’s why you pay charities to take care of people. Enough was enough. Besides, didn’t Mom always say your taxes are supposed to pay for stuff like, like after a big storm and things? And listening to the same stories over and over...God.

But El had ignored her hints that it was time to go home – he’d actually seemed interested in all their stories. Finally, he had finished, but instead of going home, he’d taken her to a grocery store. The air conditioning was a relief – she could get used to its coldness – but all she wanted to do was lie down while El was determined to lead her up and down the aisles, pointing out the kinds of things she should buy to feed herself and insisting that she did. Laden down with groceries in bags she had bought at the store – she liked how they were saving the environment – he had taken her to another kind of store to buy some dishes. They only had one pattern: plain white for the china, clear glass for the glasses. What a relief. She had no idea what she liked, and she was too tired to make decisions. But though she had grumbled all the way, she was secretly glad he had taken her there. Her one-dish set was annoying her.

She takes out the carton of orange juice, unscrews the cap, pulls off the plastic tab, throws the tab away, and pours the cold, mandarin-coloured juice into one of her new glasses, the cold of it condensing the water in the air on the sides of the glass. El had admonished her to wash all the glasses first, but she had been tired last night, and she can’t be bothered this morning. The juice tastes funny. She makes a face and puts it down. She picks up the carton to look at the label again; it’s the same one as Mom buys at home. They must sell weird stuff in Toronto and keep the good stuff for everyone else. Torontonians will eat anything; she saw that in the store yesterday.

The bills are staring at her again. She hunches her shoulders and tries to leave the kitchen. But it’s like the bills have some sort of fishing line on her.

“Oh, all right,” she grouses to herself. She sweeps them up and takes them downstairs. “What am I supposed to do with these?” she asks El as she tosses the letters angrily on his coffee table.

“What have I to do with bills?” El replies, not looking up from the sofa corner, where he’s reading a thick book.

“Can’t you help me?”

El doesn’t reply.

Aban grabs the letters, crumpling them in her hot-sticky hands, and stomps out. Now what is she supposed to do? She returns to her kitchen, throws them onto the table, slams into her chair, puts her elbows on the table, leans her head on her hands, and glares at them. Tears form and drip down her face. Grandma couldn’t have known how hard it would be, leaving her all this. Or maybe she did, that’s why she left it to her. Mom had said Grandma liked to upset her. But Mom was wrong, wasn’t she? Grandma must’ve known what would happen. How do people do this? Why didn’t she leave her money? She has no cash left. That stupid letter; it’s too bad it had found her. She shouldn’t’ve have gone to that lawyer. It’s all his fault, giving her the keys, showing her the video, making her want to see this house. And then that banker...