I'm pretty shaken up right now. I just managed to hunt up someone I haven't spoken with in a few years, and the parting was rather...icky. Anyway, I'm stressed out about the whole thing, so I sort of could use some company.

I need a reprieve. Something to take my mind off the whole freaky deal. How about a story? Just a quick one, now. Then, it's off to bed.

The Scent of Niagara

Once upon a time, my stepfather forgot to pay the rent. Yes, he plain forgot. Just crawled in bed one day, pulled the covers up, turned on Geraldo, and ignored the collectors' calls. My mom, stepdad, and I survived on macaroni and cheese for a fortnight. Then, on a bitter March morning -- one of those mornings that you wished would just snow and get it over with -- the sheriff came knocking. Said we had to leave. Just pack our things and get out, that sheriff said.

And so it was that Dad decided (as he always made the decisions) that we'd move back to California, and stay with his stepfather and brother. Just until we could get a little saved up for a place of our own, to be sure.

Now, round about the time we arrived, my birthday came. I wore last year's jeans, top button undone and ankles showing; I'd grown by accident. Of course, this did not go unnoticed by my new grandfather and uncle.

Grandfather sneered, "She really can't go about like that. Not here. It's her birthday. I'll get her...some things." With that, he ushered me out to a dozen and one shops, where he made purchase of clothing that fit me right around the hips and bust, whether I liked the colours or not.

Uncle decided I ought to be more cultured. He took me, that week of my birthday, to dinner and a concert in San Francisco. The concert is unimportant, but the dinner, I have ultimately concluded after years of consternation, is what led me to discovering the scent of Niagara.

As it was, at this particular restaurant, everything was printed in French, and there were no prices listed on the menus. I ordered chicken, having been told time and again that when a lady is unsure, she should order the chicken, as it's cheapest.

The waiter brought me an entire chicken.

Uncle was purple when he hissed at me across the table, "You are a greedy, thankless child." He went straight to Dad and told him what I'd done. Dad dealt one belt lash for every ten dollars on the dinner bill. It had been well over $100.00. 10 whacks. Not bad. I thought I'd gotten a good deal.

Now, Uncle studied Law, worked in a big office in The City, and wore a starched, button-down shirt everyday. White or blue. Pinstriped or plain. Armani or Klein. Always clean, always ironed, and always, always starched. He showed me how to iron, collar first, then sleeves, then yoke, then tails, all sprayed heavily with Niagara Starch. Hang carefully, shirtfront facing right. Next shirt. After the lesson, he proposed that I would repay my dinner debt by doing his washing and ironing -- indefinitely.

The very next Saturday, and every Saturday after, I carried Uncle's basket of dirty shirts down to the basement. The shirts often smelt of sweat and cigarettes, mixed sickeningly with Polo, Uncle's cologne. Sometimes, there were rings at the armpits and inside collars. Sometimes, there were ink smudges on the cuffs. I never failed to get the stains out, though, afraid of what Uncle and Dad might do to me next. When I emerged from the basement that Saturday afternoon, and every Saturday after, the basket was empty, and the shirts hung just so, stinking and crinkling with Niagara.

Weeks became months, and I began to wonder if I were doing such a good job ironing Uncle's shirts that he was never going to allow me to stop. It was during finals, in June, that I rushed through the job, not checking as carefully as I normally did. I had to pass my Algebra final! I had to study! I dumped the basketful of shirts into the washer and raced back upstairs, hoping they'd be alright.

And they were. Not a stain, not a stink. I starched them, ironed them, hung them, and didn't think anymore of it...

Until the next weekend.

School was out for summer break, and I had plenty of time to toil in the basement. I carried Uncle's basket of shirts downstairs, and began to check them, Spray-N-Wash bottle poised in my hand. But there were no smudges, no streaks, no sweat rings. In fact, aside from being rumpled from sitting in the basket all week, the shirts looked clean. So, I lifted one and sniffed it.

It smelt like...Niagara. Niagara Spray Starch with the tiniest, faintest hint of Polo.

I went through the motions, washing, starching, ironing, and hanging every shirt in that basket. Perhaps Uncle is testing me, I thought. Maybe last week's shirts weren't clean enough, and he doesn't think I'm taking the care that I should. As I carried the empty basket and the freshly hung shirts back up to Uncle's room, I concluded that there must have been one dirty shirt hidden in the pile of clean ones. He must be trying to trip me up, I thought.

But the next weekend was the same. And the one after. For a month, I washed shirts that were already clean. Never did I find a single dirty shirt hidden down among the lot. They were all clean!

How could this be? I watched Uncle leave every morning, starched, button-down shirt on. I watched him return every evening, starched, button-down shirt on. How could they all be clean? Unless...

On a Saturday afternoon in early August, I carried Uncle's overly clean shirts up to his closet. It was that day, as I hung each shirt over the rod, I murmured, "Guess I've finally got the hang of this washing and ironing. Your shirts hardly get dirty anymore."

I never told anyone, but they all found out soon enough. Of course, Grandfather cut off his allowance and made him move out when Uncle confessed. He'd dropped out of Law School, lost the job with the highbrow firm in The City.

He never asked me to do his ironing again.

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