How does justice work? Do we believe that there is something like karma that operates in the world? Do we do good knowing that those who do evil will get there’s? I’m not sure that those who are bad are punished. We are all punished. And not for what we’ve done. But it just seems to be in the world. And punishment is not handed out even handed. There are no scales. So why do good? I’m not sure. You’re brought up to believe that to do good is the thing to do. To do otherwise makes you feel guilty. Makes you feel bad. But is that just something ingrained in you. Could the opposite be just as true? All of this is academic until someone in your family especially your children are harmed. And then what? Do you believe in karma? Or justice? Or do you go out and seek retribution yourself?
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REVENGE OF THE HAG
John Newton was an ugly man. In his body and his temperament. He was thick. His head rose straight out of his shoulders. Like an escarpment from the surrounding landscape. He didn’t appear to have a neck. Clean shaven, hair sprouted out of his nostrils and out of his eyebrows. Like small horned sheep climbing the narrow paths of a cliff side. Broad shouldered, his body dropped straight down to his legs. Skinny legs that sprouted out of his abdomen like eyes from a potato. Buried too long in a damp basement.
John Newton hated people. Unless they were beautiful. And young. And female. Or had something he wanted. Like Mrs. Murphy. She had money. Those he tolerated.
Mrs. Murphy, an old woman who used a walker to make her way around in the world sat across from him. She had a craggy face like a cliff side that had faced the worst of wind and rain. Her teeth though false were bright and shiny. Like fog headlights. She was a splendid example of someone who should have run for mayor.
Newton hated Mrs. Murphy. Even with all of her money. He fantasized. About diving over his oak desk, grabbing her wrinkled chicken neck, and twisting it until her tongue hung out of her ear, and her eyes popped out onto the napkins of flesh onto her cheeks. It amused him to fantasize. But he would never have touched the old woman. Not with his bad back. Not with his own hands. John Newton was a banker. He could hire hands. Strong and gnarly fingers.
Mrs. Murphy had a large bank account in Mr. Newton’s bank. Mr. Murphy had been a veterinarian who had speculated wisely on the stock market then died. A widow for a long time, Mrs. Murphy had scarcely scratched her own wealth. Had just left it in the bank. And Mrs. Murphy had many friends. Mostly widows. Whose husbands had invested well and died young. They were old. And nothing suited them.
“We supported this bank,” Mrs. Murphy spoke, “when you were begging for customers. When Mr. Hammer, the first manager, bless his soul, helped in the annual Boy Scout Christmas Sale, and his wife was secretary of the school council. Poor Helen. How could anyone know that she was dieing of TB. Died five years later. Poor Mr. Hammer never recovered. And all of us ached every time we stepped into this bank and saw him sitting alone in his office. He was one of us. We could barely stand removing money from the bank. None of us wanted to shake his frail constitution. Mr. Hammer has joined his wife. Finally. After many years. But now, the bank decides it’s going to move. Acts like those who stood by it are strangers. Foreigners. We don’t feel as if you want us anymore.”
“I’m sure that isn’t the case, Mrs. Murphy.” Mr. Newton smiled. Of course everything the old wind bag is saying is true.
“You want to close the bank, Mr. Newton, and move it down to the Queensway!”
Mr. Newton continued to smile. I shouldn’t say a thing. Just sit here and grin. What can she do about it? Take her money out of the bank. I’d like to see her try.
Mr. Newton took a deep breath. And tried to get more comfortable in his chair. He winced.
“That was not my decision, Mrs. Murphy. I am just a humble employee of the bank. Those type of decisions are made downtown. By great men. Men who have all of our interests in mind. And it was taken with great trepidation. But the bank feels …”
“You never asked us,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted.
“We’ll still be able to serve you, Mrs. Murphy. You should see our brand spanking new offices. Why I was down there the other day to see how…”
“Serve us!” Mrs. Murphy interrupted again. “I can’t walk down to the Queensway.”
“We’ll have a bus service twice a day. Right outside the door here.”
“And I’m supposed to schedule my day around your bus service? Listen to the rubbish coming out of your mouth. Mr. Newton, there are a lot of people in this community that feel the same as I do. We won’t stand for it.”
“I think you’re overreacting Mrs. Murphy.”
The old lady gasped. “You are abandoning us. And how long will this bus service of yours last? A couple of months? It’s a pacifier. The truth is that you don’t give a damn, pardon my French, you don’t give a … about the little guy. All you care about is the tycoons.”
Mr. Newton became suddenly serious. When his smile disappeared and he put on his poker face, he expected to be listened to. But this old woman was not showing that respect.
“I can assure you, Mrs. Murphy, that we value your business. But we’ve had to change with the times. This is a cost effective method of lowering our overhead. With these increased savings we will be able to take…”
“Liar!” Mrs. Murphy struggled to her feet. “A bunch of filthy liars. You mark my words, Mr. Newton, you and your mighty bank will pay for what you’re doing to the little people in this community.”
The old lady grabbed her walker and slowly made her way to the door. As she opened the door, she met Mrs. Newton, the banker’s wife.
“Watch out for that one,” Mrs. Murphy gestured back to the banker who had risen to his feet. “He’ll steal you blind!”
Mrs. Newton, young, beautiful and dressed to emphasize every glorious feature of her body, stepped into the office and closed the door. She shook her long blonde hair out of her face, like they were curtains at a world premiere. She smiled at her husband, rolling her long black gloves off her hands as she gestured to the door.
She spoke. “What did you do, John, foreclose on her walker?”
“Stupid old cunt,” the banker muttered, turning his head away as he looked in one of drawers for a Cuban. Mr. Newton liked to smoke cigars when he was stressed. It made him feel powerful again. And made his back pain subside.
Mrs. Newton took a seat in the vacated chair opposite of her husband. She took a cigarette case out of her purse and lit up. Her husband continued unsuccessfully to search for his cigars.
“Were we supposed to go out to lunch?” he asked looking up. Back is killing me!
“Well, that would be nice.” His wife smiled. Smoke billowed out of her mouth. “But no. We did not have an engagement. I need you to do an errand for me.”
“I am rather busy,” Mr. Newton said, still grimacing.
“Your back?” Mrs. Newton asked.
Mr. Newton nodded, collapsing into his chair. He shuffled some papers on his desk. But still could not find his cigars. “That old lady ate up half an hour on me. I’m supposed to go down and look at the new bank sight. Every time they lay a brick they need my opinion. All this moving business. As if I don’t have enough work to tend to. Something fishy about this move.”
“Poor dear,” his wife said sucking on her cigarette.
The banker took a deep breath. “I think they’re going to dump me once the move is made.”
“You’re just being paranoid, darling. What would they do without you? All those bricks have to be laid.”
Mrs. Newton smiled at her husband, smoke drifting out of her mouth.
“You shouldn’t smoke that in here, Mary,” the banker said.
Mrs. Newton shook her head and laughed.
“Why do you think they’re going to deep six you?”
Mr. Newton rubbed his temples. I need a cigar.
“I can smell it. In the emails,” he said.
Mrs. Newton released a cloud of smoke.
“Fuck the bank, John!” She smiled than took another draw from the cigarette. “We could survive on what you’ve stashed away.”
“Stashed away? You don’t realize what expensive habits you enjoy, my dear.”
Mrs. Newton glared at her husband.
“Look at you! Feeling sorry for yourself! You don’t know what kind of day I’ve had. Little Jesse has been such a handful. All that screaming. I don’t know what I’d do without Peggy. She’s been a God-sent. Make sure you give her a raise this month.”
“A raise!”
“I don’t want to lose another nanny because of your miserliness.”
“We could have talked about this over dinner tonight. I’m very busy, Mary.”
“Yes, so you said.” Mrs. Newton looked around for some place to put the ashes of her cigarette. The banker in a panic looked around his office and when he reached for his cup of coffee his back spasm on him. He winced. Too late. His wife had flicked her ashes on the carpet.
“You know my pills?”
The banker nodded, shifting his weight in his chair.
“You know how I depend upon them. Well, this morning, I spilt the whole pill dispenser into the toilet.”
“All the pills?”
“Yes.”
“Phone Doctor Sirdevan. Explain what happened.”
“You know he won’t give me a new prescription,” Mrs. Newton said. “Not since I had that accident.”
“You overdosed,” her husband responded. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
“You shouldn’t have called an ambulance,” Mrs. Newton cried, a flare of anger rising in her eyes.
The banker looked at his wife. God, she’s beautiful. He remembered when they had first met. How they were all over each other. And then his back winked at him.
“What do you want me to do, Mary?” Mr. Newton asked.
“I want you to go to the doctor and tell him that you’ve been overburdened. That the stress is becoming too much. That you can’t sleep. That you need something to settle you down. Tell him about your back.”
The banker shook his head.
“Doctor Sirdevan is not going to believe a story like that.”
Mrs. Newton’s face fell into his hands. How did this day turn out to be such a disaster. It’s that old hag’s fault. Why did she have to come in here complaining? Complaining is all she knows.
“There’s a clinic in the back of the drug store,” Mrs. Newton continued. “You can go in there. Tell the doctor that you’re the manager of the bank in the plaza and can’t afford to be away from your office to go to your family doctor.”
The banker sighed. He shook his head. Mrs. Newton stepped around the desk. She smiled, than turning her husband around in his chair to face her, fell to her knees.
“You’re so tense, John.”
“I’m not going to the doctor,” Newton insisted and stood up. He stepped around his desk.
“Darling, you’re so tense!” Mrs. Newton stood up and sat on the edge of the desk.
Mr. Newton shook his head.
“It’s Mrs. Murphy’s fault. If she hadn’t come in here today, blabbering about one thing or the other, things would have been different. I can’t get that old rag of a face out of my mind.”
Mrs. Newton laughed. “You’re so full of shit, John. Since when did you care what an old woman said?”
“Look Mary, I can’t do this thing you want with the doctor. Why don’t you go see him yourself?”
Mrs. Newton turned, grabbed her bag and angrily stepped toward the door. She turned around.
“If you think that old woman gave you trouble, you have no idea what trouble is,” she said and stomped out of the room.
Mr. Newton sighed. God, could things get worse? He turned back to his chair when he saw them. His cigars. On the floor. The banker smiled. He leaned over to pick them up. And felt a disc in his back slip.
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