Ticket of Opportunity

TICKET OF OPPORTUNITY



Georgina Lake wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. It was a remarkably hot day, even for mid of August. 100 degrees, that was what the thermometer Mac tied to the window screen showed, but it felt even hotter in the small scrimpy kitchen, where she stood cooking dinner for him. She glanced at the wooden wall-clock, shaped like a truck cabin, a gift from Mac’s friends for Christmas. It was only 10:45 a.m., but she already felt tired, and she had yet so many things to finish. She took a hand-cloth from the top shelve above the sink, dabbed it in the cold tap water, and wiped her sweaty-red face and neck. She let the cold-water running and finished washing the last couple of dishes in her sink. Then she stepped downstairs to the basement, leaving the soup, and the beef stew to continue slow cooking on the stove. She opened the closet under the stairs and pulled out an old suitcase that was wrapped neatly in a plastic bag. She took off the cover, folded it nicely, tucked it back into the closet, and climbed with the lightweight brown luggage upstairs to her bedroom. She laid the suitcase on her bed, and started to fill it with a few plain cotton briefs and bras, a couple of pairs of white socks, three faded T-shirts, six different colors golf shirts, two blue jeans, and her best sweatshirt, which she didn’t want to leave behind. Her toothbrush, hairbrush, and comb followed and concluded her packing. She did not have many outfits, and what she had she did not mind leaving behind. ‘Let Mac give it to the Salvation Army’, she shrugged indifferently, ‘they will need it more than I do’. A smile brightened up her taut thin face with that thought, and with a light foot, she stepped into the tiny corner-shower. She took a quick shower in the coldest water she could possibly bear on her hot skin, and wrapped in her bath-towel she pulled out the dress from the closet.

It was her best attire, her Sunday dress, which she wore only on rare, special occasions to church, during holidays and particular services. A navy-blue Polka dot dress, with short sleeves, white collar and cuffs, and buttons down the front, from bosom to calf. The dress her grandma gave her for her engagement party, some 16 years ago, and the only change she made to it was to shorten the length, so that now it reached mid ankle. She took off the plastic cover that kept the dress from dust and moths, carefully put it on and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She saw a tall, thin woman with high-cheek bones, blue-gray eyes, which the color of the dress accentuated, and auburn-brown hair, cut shortly only the day before yesterday. She finished buttoning down the dress, and looked herself over with satisfaction. The dress always gave her sense of elegance that straightened her shoulders back, and brought a smile of content to her wide, full mouth. She pulled out the white high-heeled shoes from their box, the ones to match her dress, but she knew she would not be able to wear them on the way, and regretfully packed them into her suitcase. She will have to wear her sensible walking shoes for now. Later, later she promised herself.

She zipped her suitcase, tied the protecting belts and carried the luggage off the bed to the door. It was not heavy, and she could carry it easily, which was good because she did not want anyone to help her. She put it down and sent a long look around her surroundings. Her bedroom, the bed she slept for the past 15 years of marriage. It did not feel that long, and the room did not reveal any evidence to the lovemaking it witnessed over the years. Not that it could notice much, she thought bitterly, not lately and not too often in the past years. She remembered the many times she tried to touch Mac’s hot flesh, to put her hand on his skin, under the white T-shirts he insisted to sleep with, night after night. He refused to wear any of the P.J. she bought for him occasionally. But he would push her hand from his body, and grumbled in his heavy sleepy voice: “Go to sleep, lassie, not tonight!” nor on any other nights, as far as she was concerned. And shortly after she would hear his loud snore while she kept on turning and tossing in frustration and disappointment, until she learned to not even try to get his attention. Not that he did not like making love, but his sexual urges with her were rare and seldom.

James McIntyre was a sturdy built man, and always complained she was too bony and angular for him to touch her. He was afraid he would crush her under his heavy weight body, and in between his strong hands. Ever since he shoved her and she slipped down the whole flight of stairs to the basement, breaking a rib and her left leg, he was afraid to come close to her. He carried her in his muscular arms to his truck, as if she was a broken rug doll, and brought her to the only hospital in the Town of Carrot River, Saskatchewan. She told the doctor she lost her balance on the stairs. James was frightened and white faced, and since then he did not touch her even when he was drunk and wild. He was not a bad man, James. A truck driver that went on the roads of Saskatchewan, Alberta and B.C., for days, transporting lumbers and seeds. Nobody called him by his Christening name. He was known as Big Mac to his friends and wife, and they did not hint only to the fast-food item that was occasionally on his plate.

Georgina did not change her maiden name. She could not see herself called McIntyre, or Mrs. Mac. Lake was more like her. Light sound, with association to blue waters, like the color of her eyes, and the lightness of a stream, like herself. And so, excluding her marriage license, in her bank account, her paycheck from the co-op she worked at, as a part-time cashier, her health card, and everywhere else she registered as Georgina Lake.   

She straightened the bed cover and sent one last look at the small room with its strict appearance like a nun’s chamber. A King-size bed, with a dark-brown Maplewood headboard, one night table on her side of the bed, white-painted walls, with no pictures or decoration, except for the white quilt that covered the bed. The quilt her mother gave her on her wedding day, which passed down in her family from her great-great-grandmother to her, where it stopped. She did not have a daughter to give it to her.

In the first few years, she tried laboriously to get pregnant, still feeling the bitter taste of disappointment every month when she got her period exactly on time. She started to see doctors, to find out what was wrong with her, until one of them told her: “There’s nothing wrong with you. Here, give it to your husband,” he handed her a sealed lab glass cup, “do what you need, and when he’s ready tell him to put it in the cup, and bring it here. He might have the problem.” Mac stormed at her with anger, and threw the cup smashing it into the wall behind her. “Nothing is wrong with me, woman! I’m a healthy, strong man!” he yelled, waving his fist in her face, and she, frightened into silence, picked up the broken pieces from the floor. They never talked again about having children.

She picked up the suitcase and put it by the door. The food was ready and the appetizing smell filled the small bungalow. She tasted from the pots, added a bit more salt, and was satisfied with the flavors. Mac liked her cooking, and although she worked at the co-op, she tried always to wait for him with a hot meal when he returned from his long way. Mac did not like her working. He wanted her to stay home and be a housewife, to take care of him and the house. He gave her money every week, a lump sum that he never checked for adequacy. He expected her to manage, and she did. It was enough for the food, but not for any other needs, and so she found that part-time position as a cashier in the near-by co-op, where she worked for the past eight years. She saved her money, spending very little on cloths or cosmetics; her only vice was to go every three weeks for cheap hairdo at Stella’s, who lived across from her house. The money she earned accumulated in a separate account she opened under her name, and Mac did not know.

She called the only cab company they had in Carrot River to get a ride to the rail-station. She decided not to take the bus. She knew that Joe, the regular driver on the bus-line would remark how smart and fancy she looked, and would like to know where was she going with the suitcase. He was not a bad person, just very nosey, and she knew that in few hours the whole town of Carrot River would know she had gone, along with her destination. And that she did not want. Now she could afford to take a taxi, she smiled slowly and with a deep sigh of relief wrote the note.

‘I am gone, Mac. No use looking for me - I am not coming back. You have dinner on the stove, the meal you like. Put the rest in the fridge for tomorrow. I left my keys under the front door mat. Goodbye, Mac.’ She thought to leave her engagement ring beside the note, but then stubbornly decided no - she earned her right to that ring. She served Mac fully in the 15 years of marriage, cooking, cleaning, and caring for him, without getting a thing in return. She shook her head from side to side, then straightened her shoulders, and opened her purse. Yes, it was still there, her freedom, folded neatly in half. She pulled out the small ticket of 6/49 and looked at the winning numbers with a look of amazement. The numbers that brought her the $3.5 million, her lucky numbers - 1, 9, 16, 22, 29, and 49. These were the numbers she played for years, always knowing that one day, one sweet day they would bring her, her freedom.

The number one for the month she was born, the number nine for her birthday in the first month, the 16 in reverse was the year she was born. She celebrated her 40th birthday earlier in the year. Mac called her from Vancouver just before midnight, to wish her a happy birthday. He did not forget, but she could hear his blurred voice, and the noises in the background of country music along with high-pitched laughter, and she knew he was sitting in a bar, drunk, and accompanied by some cheap woman.

The next numbers, 22 – she chose for her mom’s birthday and the 29 for her grandmother’s date. She did not know her dad’s day, and it did not matter. He died when she was only nine-year-old, and her mom never remarried. She always grumbled in bitterness that she would not support another drunk! The only thing Georgina remembered clearly from him was his smell, a peculiar mixture of alcohol and Tobacco, a stench she recognized many times on Mac. 

The last number – 49 - she put in an unexplained hunch, to close her ticket with the last number possible, to make it complete - from the first one to the last one on the ticket of opportunity.

She folded the ticket back in two, put it in a plastic sandwich bag, and secured the package in the zippered compartment of her handbag. The taxi honked outside her door. Smiling she picked up her suitcase, and opened the front door.