The Harm Reduction Centre Ladies Auxiliary

She keeps herself busy and out of trouble, Eve does. 

Twice a week she goes to work with her daughter Angela. She’d become the head of the Harm Reduction Centre’s Volunteer Ladies Auxiliary. There were only two members. Eve had enlisted her friend Wilma to bake cookies for the sex worker social hour every Tuesday and the Needle Exchange on Thursdays. Sometimes, Eve made muffins. They weren’t as popular as the cookies, but people deserve a choice. 

“I have never met so many people who just need a hug,” Wilma had said the first time Eve brought her to the centre.  

Hugs and cookies were Wilma’s forte. Eve was in it for the conversation. Angela, as the executive director of the centre, had to remind her mother not to ask the clients so many personal questions. 

“Have you ever had a real complaint?” Eve demanded. “Everyone seems to appreciate the attention.” 

True, there had been no official complaints from clients, social workers, or medical staff, but, Angela reminded her mother, there was privacy legislation. 

“Lawyers exist to ruin everyone’s fun,” Eve said, slamming the door as she got into Angela’s car. 

She wasn’t late, but it felt like it. On Tuesdays she made the coffee and tea and liked to have the refreshments ready before the clients arrived. The tin of muffins rested uneasily on her lap as she fidgeted. She’d used cream cheese icing to give the users some sweetness with their dates and bran. It was new and meant compromising her desire to provide the clients with a healthier option than cookies. 

“It’s not a struggle,” she said. It had happened again, she realized and shook her head. Sometimes, Eve said things aloud that she meant to keep in her thoughts.  

“What? You don’t want to come today?” Angela asked. 

“No, I love going to work with you. The other day, when we were out shoveling snow, I told the neighbours about volunteering at the Harm Reduction Centre. They were impressed to the core of their progressive little hearts,” Eve bragged. “And they were maybe a little shocked when I told them sex worker is the preferred term to prostitute.” 

“You need to stop telling people that,” Angela told her mother. “Strangers don’t need to know how our clients earn a living.” 

“You think that’s bad? Wilma goes to church and brags about hanging out with sex workers,” Eve exclaimed. “I don’t think she actually says, ‘just like Jesus did,’ but it’s implied!”

“I’ll talk to her about client confidentiality too,” Angela said.

“Our problem is we don’t have juicy stories to share with the girls,” Eve said. “They have real drama and what do we talk about? What kind of icing would improve the muffins!” 

“I’m sure they appreciate your muffins,” her daughter replied. “You should stick to topics like that. And the weather.” 

“You could try paying attention to what you’re doing,” Eve said. “Did you think that stop sign was just a suggestion?”

She had given up driving, but had not yet become a good passenger. 

“Pardon?” 

“The stop sign you just blew through!” 

"Did I?” 

“You’ve been distracted for days, don’t think I haven’t noticed! Is it Debby’s nephew?” Eve asked. “What’s his name? The one I introduced you to at the fundraiser?” 

“No, no. Well, maybe.” 

“What happened there?” 

“His son got moved into remedial math while we were together,” Angela said. 

“What’s that got to do with you? Or him? What was his name?” Eve asked.

“Marc. I didn’t like his parenting. He only has his son on Wednesday evenings and every other weekend. And, he was always texting me when he should have been concentrating on his child.” 

“Those damn phones, again!” 

“So when his kid got moved into remedial math, I suggested they spend an hour less playing video games and more time on homework every Wednesday. I had a list of helpful websites to suggest. There’s a brilliant account on YouTube that is great for that age. I mean, we’re not talking calculus and vectors, it’s just grade 5.” 

“And he didn’t do it?” 

“No, he threw a tantrum about child support and how his ex should use the money to hire a tutor.” 

“Instead of spending it on frivolous things like food and electricity?” Eve asked. 

“That’s what I thought!” Angela said. “But, I’m not a monster, I gave him a chance. I wondered if, maybe, he couldn’t do grade five math himself. I started building little tests into our conversations. Things like, you know, I have to re-do the backsplash behind the kitchen sink. The tiles I want are 15 centimeters square and the area I have to cover is 90cm by 60 cm. How many tiles do I have to buy?” 

“Here’s a number two pencil and some scrap paper, please show your work kind of stuff?” Eve asked. “You actually did that?” 

“There is no easier surface area calculation possible, Mom. I had to know if he was a bad parent or just stupid. Anyway, he knew the answer was 24 tiles. He could spend an hour a week helping his own son with math, he just doesn’t want to. I can’t date that kind of parent. I mean, could you?” 

“You could have tried keeping your mouth shut about something that’s none of your business,” Eve said. “Single mothers don’t have a lot of options.”

“I couldn’t do it, Mom.” 

They pulled into the Harm Reduction Centre’s parking lot. 

“Well, you have the kids, so you won’t die alone,” she told her daughter, “but before you give out more math problems, you should learn to park between the lines.” 

Angela sighed and tried to concentrate as she re-parked the car. 

Eve grabbed her muffin tin and dashed across the icy parking lot. She’d share her morning commute gossip with Wilma and the girls.  It wasn’t a juicy story, but it would have to do.