The Arm

by Maggie Burton

The snow has just started. Florence is scrolling on her phone at the kitchen table, a 1960s chrome-legged, linoleum-topped piece she recently bought off Marketplace. The Marketplace photos hid the table’s imperfections, but TABEL $100 included delivery, and Florence didn’t drive.

The table reminds Florence of her grandmother, who always scratched her crosswords and bingos on one just like it. Sometimes, when she is feeling particularly homesick, Florence gets some tickets from Needs and scratches them off with a penny. Once she won five bucks.

She might as well have moved to the mainland. It takes her family eight hours to drive in to come visit her. In four years, they’ve only come to help her move apartments, to clean, plaster, paint. More and more, Florence notices herself trying to recreate various family milieus, like with the kitchen table, staging a play only she will see.

In a few weeks her parents will come and help her pack up again. Florence is moving to a street with higher rents and quieter nights. A good place to live with her future boyfriend.

It is mostly just embarrassing that she has never had a relationship. Her sisters are both married with kids already, living back home on the family lane, their kids growing up next to Florence’s parents. Just like her own childhood.

Florence’s mother always tells her how pretty she could be if she just put on some makeup. Florence tells herself she’s too busy with music school and rehearsals. She tells herself it’s because she’s shy, a tomboy, loner, introvert, INTP. It’s not like Florence has never tried looking for a boyfriend. Sometimes she stares at her colleagues and tries to figure out if she has feelings for any of them. She tries hanging out with them, listens to stories about who’s fucking whom. Florence doesn’t really want to get involved in that scene, but she’s sick of being single.

That would all change soon. When her parents come to town in three weeks, they will be surprised to meet Florence’s new boyfriend. After two weeks messaging the half-dozen men she matched with, Florence has narrowed it down to either Daniel or Kevin, and now it’s time to trudge up the road to meet Daniel.

 

“We have one feature today. Pickled chanterelles on warm sourdough loaf, paired with a parsnip purée, on a bed of wilted turnip greens. It goes great with our house white,” the waitress says as Florence watches the snow fall softly outside.

The museum restaurant Daniel chose offers everything from expensive muffins to pretentious mushroom dishes, all served on plastic cafeteria trays. Florence’s date, Daniel, is reading, or rather muttering, the menu out loud, under his breath, translating it to French.

“Just coffee and two muffins, please,” Florence smiles gently.

The waitress doesn’t verbally acknowledge their orders, but scribbles something down and walks away. That suits Florence, who has no need for small talk. She prefers to get to the point.

“Why were you reading the menu in French?” she asks Daniel. She can feel her heart racing in anticipation of a weird response.

“Oh, I’m working on it so I can apply for federal government jobs,” Daniel says, blushing. Or at least she thinks it is a blush. Maybe it is rosacea and she didn’t notice until now. His face is oddly square, and he has obviously cut his own hair. The edges are blunt and uneven, reminiscent of a bowl haircut.

“That’s exciting, I did a minor in French. What’s your favourite French book?” Florence is off to a sweaty start. Her armpits, like the bottoms of her feet, are usually slightly wet, one of the many undesirable things about her body. She has hyperhidrosis and her toes always look like she just got out of the bath.

Daniel smiles. “Will you judge me if I say I don’t really read?”

 

The next date is scheduled for seven at the vegan restaurant across the road from the museum. Florence is early. She studies the chalkboard menu while she waits for Kevin. “Ham” and “cheese” on ciabatta (GF). Smoked coconut “B”LT on potato bread. Miso mushroom pesto. She likes this place and its shamelessness.

Kevin walks in, a little cloud of snow streaming behind him. His face looks like a baby’s, bright and sticky. His eyebrows are fluffy and white like a kitten’s belly. He would do.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, even though he is right on time.

“No worries. Let’s order before sitting down, yeah?” less awkward that way. She feels good about this. He seems normal.

“I’ll get whatever you’re having. I’m going to the bathroom,” Kevin says, looking around for the toilet.

He’s still in the bathroom when their “B”LTs arrive. It’s starting to make Florence uneasy: What if he has some kind of unusual medical condition? Should she ask him about it right away? Do men usually take a long time in the bathroom on a date?

She takes a bite, figuring that she can even out the rudeness between the two of them. A navy-blue door opens from the navy-blue wall, and Kevin speed walks to their table.

“I’m so sorry, I was on the phone with my mother,” he explains, pulling the halves of his sandwich apart like a starving child.

Florence almost chokes on a slice of coconut. She imagines his mother, calling her grown-ass son and coaxing him through his constipation.

“You called your mom while you were taking the slowest dump in history?”

“No, it wasn’t like that. Mom just needed someone to talk to.” He puts his sandwich down. Good, he is taking this lapse of propriety seriously. He isn’t going to discuss his shit while eating.

“What was it like then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She was walking home and a sketchy guy was following her, I had to keep talking in case she was jumped or something.”

Florence feels horrible for doubting him. “Oh, god. I’m sorry, is she ok? Did she make it home?”

Kevin nods. “Yes, she’s fine. I talked her through it. She’s just an anxious person. I’m just so sorry I kept you waiting.” Son of the year takes another bite.

She looks at Kevin again, tries to give him a clean slate, a fresh start in her mind. Scanning him from top to bottom, she feels her brow furrow as she lands on his chin. There is a splash of white residue in the corner of his mouth, evidence of an open-mouthed tooth brusher. She pictures him moaning happily while scrubbing his teeth, the kind of guy who basically orgasms at the feeling of flossing. Someone who leaves his mouth hanging open while sleeping, scrapes his tongue every day. The high level of hygiene should be appealing to her, but she can’t help feeling disgusted that he’d failed to wipe his chin after such an intimate activity.

“I’m afraid I have to apologize,” she says, scanning the restaurant for other patrons before admitting the truth. “I’m a little put off by this evening so far.”

Florence is not about to have her first real kiss be with someone who has toothpaste on his face. But then she pictures her mother’s surprised face when she introduces Kevin as her new boyfriend. She needs him.

When the bill comes and he pays for the dinner, she decides to warm up to Kevin. He is nice. Charming, even. Everything is going well. She is doing the right things, has even said some of the right things. They are having a good time together. She is grinning. She must be happy. But she doesn’t feel anything.

Florence’s feelings aren’t really connected to her life. Sometimes she thinks that her emotional landscape is like the Newfoundland barrens, picked clean of berries, no animals in sight. That’s why she loves playing music. It lets her feel emotions in her body, slamming her fingers up and down on the neck of her violin in accordance with the sheet-music, no sense-making required. She can feel joy, anger, sadness, without ever disentangling her own messy feelings. Maybe that’s why she never feels desire, she doesn’t have any room for it in her body, it is too full of sound, of the ghosts of her vibratos, of the mechanical up and down scales and arpeggios.

They leave the restaurant to find the snowflakes have gotten even juicier than before they came in. Florence lets Kevin hold her violin hand while they walk up the street.

“When did you move to town?” He asks her. “I can hear an accent, is all, I figure you’ve been here for a year or so.”

“Oh god no, I’ve been here for a few years now, I just suck at assimilation.”

“That’s not what I meant, I—”

“It’s ok!” Florence laughs, as if she has been drinking.

“No, no, I don’t want to insult you,” he rubs at a patch of eczema on Florence’s hand that always grows as the seasons change.

“I’m from the northern peninsula,” she explains. “For every hour’s drive out of town, it takes another year to lose your accent. It’s simple math, really.”

They get to the horrible intersection by the museum where the crosswalks are like planks offered off the sides of ships. So long and dangerous that it seems like you’ll never get to the other side.

She takes in the view. Tonight’s snow has fallen in one thick layer. Presiding over the Basilica parking lot, the statue of St. John the Baptist wears a toupee. A steady stream of people walks into the church. There are women in winter formal wear, seal-skin coats and boots. There are men in long wool jackets. Everyone is gray.

“I’ve never been to the Basilica,” Florence mutters quietly. “My family stopped going to church before I was born, after the abuse scandals.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s go see what’s on the go.”

“It doesn’t seem like the kind of place I’d want to just walk into.”

“Don’t be silly, I was just there to see Messiah the other day. It’s fine.”

Kevin straightens his coat collar and opens the door. She follows him inside the church.

A poster in the foyer of the Basilica advertises the arm of Saint Francis Xavier, here on tour from the Vatican. Almost five hundred years ago, it declares, this very arm baptized one hundred thousand people and saved their souls. Since the great saint’s death, his arm has remained miraculously preserved, as if alive, whole and uncorrupt.

At first, Florence feels like they are at one of Barnum’s freak shows in the nineteenth century. In the entryway, a few people mill around a donation box. Within, the ceiling of the Basilica opens up high above, and she enters under the unfamiliar grandeur of stained-glass saints.

A long line of people extends along the center aisle of the church toward a clear, glass box. Around the line are pews of people kneeling, praying. The energy is solemn but excited. Florence wishes she could see auras. Everyone here would be red, she decides.

Florence and Kevin stand behind a couple who have probably been married for a hundred years. Slowly they approach the arm. A woman to their left is crying. To their right, a younger woman, possibly Florence’s age, is stating at the arm, mouth agape. Florence meets the young woman’s eyes and instantly understands that she is high as a kite. The high woman smiles slowly at Florence and waves. Her mouth is trimmed in red like a Christmas sugar cookie, and she is wearing a vintage rabbit-fur coat, cropped just above her waistline. The coat makes Florence homesick, reminds her of the rabbit-foot keychains of her youth. She wants to touch it.

Finally, Florence reaches the front of the line and takes in the arm. It is mummified, like the bog men in her childhood archaeology books. It is leathery, opaque, not at all a skeleton like she had expected. Disgusting and oddly moving. One day she’d travel and see real mummies, she decides. She looks more closely at the fingers, shriveled up like leftover Halliday’s sausages. She feels both sick and deeply in awe.

Kevin nudges Florence to let her know their time is up. She had completely forgotten he was there. Not knowing how to act, Florence gives a little bow to the arm before turning to the side aisle. The high woman giggles and follows her.

Florence feels warmth course unexpectedly through her. She wonders how baptism works, imagines the arm splashing water on people, dispensing grace with facility.

Florence is rummaging in her bag for her mittens when someone taps on her shoulder. It’s the high woman. She grins at Florence with straight, perfect teeth and hands Florence a mitten that she didn’t know she had lost.

“I’ve seen you before,” she says with a hypnotic smile, pointing up only on the left side of her face, then, more quietly, “Have we matched on Bumble? It’s Violet.”

“So, what did you think? Imagine being Catholic,” Kevin interrupts, “caring about some guy’s stupid arm.” He thinks he’s being quiet, but an elderly couple shake their heads at the young people here to gawk at a precious artifact.

“I thought it was beautiful,” Florence whispers.

“Me too,” Violet giggles. “I love body horror.”

Florence stands between the woman and Kevin. Time slows and her senses sharpen. She looks at the soft rabbit fur on the woman’s chest, her fluffy arms sticking out like the wings of a snowy owl. A shiver runs down her spine.

“Come on, cutie,” the rabbit woman says, placing her hand tenderly on Florence’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Florence looks for a moment at Kevin. She sees him sitting with her parents at the kitchen table, laughing over a cup of tea. He tolerates the tinned milk to impress them. He eats a molasses bun, dipping it carefully into the tiny teacup, sipping the sweet spilled drink off the saucer the same way her grandfather used to. Florence sees herself looking at wedding dresses with her mom. She sees a new kitten, a starter home in Mount Pearl, maybe even her parents coming to town just to visit.

It could never be so simple with Violet. Florence didn’t really know how her family would act, but it would be different.

They would just have to deal with it.

Violet looks at her with a hopeful half smile. And then, as if by a miracle, Florence feels something. Her belly stirs with an unmistakable desire. The arm has worked its magic.

“Sorry, man,” she says quietly to Kevin, and follows the rabbit fur coat out into the night.