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We all saw the new vacuum cleaner Kate's dad gave her mum go into the trash can the week after Christmas. I was getting off my bicycle in front of Kate's house when the garbage truck arrived.

"Take it home to your wife if you want," Mrs. Robertson shouted to the garbage man, who shrugged and tossed it in the truck.

"A vacuum cleaner isn't essential, Val," she said to me before she turned and went back into the house. That was the day she went on strike and installed herself on the living room couch to watch the dog hair accumulate.

Every time I saw her after that she was sitting in the same spot. She placed her feet in front of her and buried her hands between the cushions of the couch. She looked strangely planted there, as if she was a part of the upholstery. I tried not to stare.

I started spending more time at Kate's. I noticed the once-elegant drapes begin to yellow and cobwebs gathered around their clumpy edges. A ray of sunlight penetrated the room, making a prism in the particle-filled air. The tentacles from a row of brownish spider plants threatened to strangle anyone who carelessly sat by the window. Old newspapers were piled up in corners as though someone still intended to read them. A stack of decaying Architectural Digest magazines made a convenient footrest. I watched the loose-skinned spaniel fall asleep in the sheets of the couch after trying to find a stray crumb. A quick check before sitting was a good idea, but the place was comfortable and I kept going back.

Kate's mum was playing with one of those glitter domes, which usually sprinkle snow, but this one sprinkled sand over a little plastic couple holding hands sitting on beach chairs and their kid as he made sandcastles. She was clutching a worn cushion to her stomach, as if to hide her faded caftan. When I plopped myself down on one of the sheet-covered chairs, it coughed up a cloud of dust and hair. She smiled and said, "Make yourself at home, Val." She started a cigarette, then forgot to finish it, the cigarette turning to a stick of ash before it finally fell into the ashtray.

"Kate and I are going to see a movie next week, Mrs. Robertson. Do you want to come with us?" I asked. Kate's mum gave me a brown, thick-lashed gaze when I spoke and then looked past me, as though she were expecting someone else.

We were fond of her. We could swear, belch or play the stereo as much as we wanted; it was OK with her. We sat around the kitchen table laughing and talking, downing sugary soft drinks and doughnuts with Kate's sister and diabetic brother. Cans, bottles, pizza boxes and dirty dishes piled up.

"May I help with the dishes, Mrs. Robertson?" I asked politely, reaching for her plate. Mrs. Robertson looked up, smiled in a vaguely indulgent way and then stared past me, as if watching for a very tardy visitor.

Mrs. Robertson had retreated to her bedroom by the time Mr. Robertson arrived home from his office job around 6 pm. He glared at us and silently gathered up his records. His cuffed trousers disappeared up the front hall stairs and that was all we saw of him for the rest of the day and evening. I caught a glimpse of the inside of his room when he hurriedly crossed the hall to go to the bathroom. Dark, leather-bound books filled wooden bookcases and there seemed to be some kind of a bar. The strains of classical music or Neil Diamond, along with the scent of sweet pipe tobacco wafted our way when the door opened. Once, when I stayed at Kate's later than usual, Mr. Robertson came downstairs in a pair of rolled-up blue jeans, shuffled into the kitchen and fixed something to eat. I never ever saw Mrs. Robertson enter his room.

Mrs. Robertson seemed to be trying to make her library book last the summer at the local pool. She read and read, although I never saw her flip a page. The tattered cover looked the same as all her books - a man and woman locked in an eager embrace. She rarely looked up and seemed oblivious to the splashing, shouting, watery world around her. She never went for a swim or dived off the well-used board. The sky suddenly opened one day and everyone ran in to avoid getting wet. I clambered clumsily out of the pool, hastily finding a towel to cover my lumpy legs and belly, Kate sprinting nimbly to dryness. Mrs. Robertson stayed in that lawn chair, looking as if she didn't notice the rain, although we were relieved to see her put her book away. In spite of the lack of exercise, she never gained a pound. Of course, unlike me, she never seemed to eat. Over the summer, we watched the once carefully bleached shadow of a moustache over her lip begin to grow back. The hair began to creep beyond the boundaries of her bathing suit. We could tell Mrs. Robertson was once a beauty.

Friday or Saturday night meant the mall, the movie theatre, Kate's, or watching my parents fight. The last evening I spent at home ended in an argument. My mother wanted to discuss the Robertsons with me.

"Val, what do you make of those bags Mrs. Robertson wears?" (Like my mother is such a fashion statement.)

"Maybe that's why her husband ignores her…Val?"

"Like I would know, Mother."

"An attractive woman, though, don't you agree, Dick?" My dad pretended not to hear her.

"But I think they are a bad influence. They don't go to church and they eat badly. Kate may be slim enough, but Val is gaining weight and she's awkward for her age." She pursed her prim lips in satisfaction when I squirmed.

"No wonder - she is built like you, Dick. Poor thing - she has your shoulders and barrel chest. She badly needs some self-confidence, don't you think?" I slumped into a chair, feeling dumpy.

"Dick - You never have any opinions, especially on the subject of Val."

I thought about what my mother had said and felt depressed. Was there something wrong with the Robertsons? Worse, was there something wrong with me? I felt uneasy and disloyal discussing them. It seemed better somehow to leave them alone. If I didn't go to Kate's, where would I hang out? The thought of spending summer evenings listening to my mother talk about the neighbours or about my weight filled me with dread. I couldn't help feeling that my mother was tampering with something she shouldn't in being so critical of everyone. But then, Mr. and Mrs. Robertson were pretty weird, even I could see that.

The mall was less of an attraction these days for Kate after the old Simpson's store went up in flames and she realized the fire sale clothes her mother had given her for her fifteenth birthday smelled like singed polyester. We could usually sneak into the theatre where Kate's brother, Jim, was the night usher - a part-time job that he treated like a career. A couple of weeks after Kate's birthday, when Jim had the day off, we decided to sneak into the matinee. Following Jim's route from the parking lot through to the back of the theatre, we found ourselves in the artificial dusk of the hushed, velvety room. With our feet sticking to the syrupy floor, we groped the chairs in the acrid, butter-scented darkness to find our way to a seat. "Love Story" had already started. As our eyes adjusted to the murky light, we made out a female figure sitting alone in the centre of the front row. She sat rigidly upright. Her neck wasn't arched back in the usual manner of someone sitting too close, straining to see the full picture. Instead she stared straight ahead at a fixed point in the lower middle of the screen. We swooned when Ryan O'Neal kissed Ali MacGraw. Kate's mum must have been examining Ali's feet. I noisily munched popcorn. She sat motionless. We looked at Kate. Kate watched her mother. As the movie ended, Kate got up to leave. We glanced back at Mrs. Robertson. She still wasn't moving. I noticed a man sitting directly behind her who also hadn't stood up. The lights came on slowly like sunup, but they both sat still, their oddly similar figures eerily silhouetted in the muted dim. We didn't say anything to Kate, but silently trudged up the stairs to the exit.

As the summer wore on, I began to spend more time at Kate's. A couple of weeks after the theatre incident, Kate's sister, Donna and I were lying on the living room floor, propped up with dingy pink pillows, watching Kate practice her dance moves, her arms over her head, her lithe body swaying to the psychedelic sounds of King Crimson. There was a knock at the door. I shifted my weight and sat up, knocking my cheesies on the floor. Kate stopped, her arms still poised, as if suspended in the dance. We all looked at the door. Kate moved as if to answer it, but Mrs. Robertson had started to get up. We glanced at Kate. Kate studied her mother. Mrs. Robertson put her cushion aside carefully and shook her skirt to loosen some of the layers of fluff. Then slowly she rose.

"I'm going out." she said and walked across the room, her arms slightly raised in front of her as though she was participating in a séance. She opened the heavy wooden door with ease and sunlight flooded the room. We heard a deep voice say "Sheila." She kept on going and didn't bother to shut the door behind her. We ran to the window, scanning the concrete sidewalk, which constrained the lush green lawns of identical houses lining empty streets. She was already rounding the corner, her right arm gingerly around the shoulders of a small, thin man whose left arm hovered around her waist. They began to walk faster and then disappeared from sight. We heard a door slowly opening upstairs. Sweet smoke and soft, sultry music trickled down to the living room. The door shut again.

Several days went by and we didn't see her. Mr. Robertson emerged from his room cautiously. He began to cook at odd hours. We discovered him around midnight one night frying himself an egg and, a few nights later, an omelette. We became used to the sight of him, slippered and soft-footed, making his way from room to room like he was rediscovering his own house. The afternoon she arrived home it was hot, humid, almost tropical. A warm wind blew her in the door. Her eyes were glazed, her cheeks flushed and she looked like a teenager.

"I'm home," she announced needlessly.

She seemed taller and I realized she was wearing heels. Her hair was freshly cut and a darker, glossier auburn. She consulted a watch. She kept adjusting a tight skirt and underwire bra. Kate played with her long hair, looking sideways at her mother. I examined my tight slacks with discomfort, sucked in my stomach and glanced hesitantly at Mrs. Robertson. She smiled and stroked my head. Then she marched to the second floor, her heels clicking on the stairs and began to knock loudly, then louder still on her husband's door. Hearing nothing from inside, she came back downstairs.

"Where is he?" she demanded calmly. "He's dead, that's it," she muttered under her breath.

When she couldn't find him she went back up again, heels clicking. I heard her fiddle with the door and then force it open. A pause. I heard the sound of vinyl sliding over vinyl as she tossed his records one by one onto the floor. She stopped midway and careened down the stairs like she was drunk, grabbing the King Crimson album. She headed back up and a few minutes later I heard the familiar music. I realized she was dancing. We couldn't resist creeping up the stairs to look. Her eyes were shut and her face was radiant with the glow of perspiration, making her look young and pretty. As she danced, she made suggestive little circles with one wrist, extending her arm and pulling it back with a little twist as if to lure some imagined partner into her orbit. I saw that she had copied Kate's best moves.

There was a knock at the door. Kate opened it and faced a petite woman wearing a crisp white maid's uniform.

"Is that Desiree?" her mother called from upstairs. "Let her in!"

Kate stood aside and the little maid brushed by her. Desiree briskly and silently unpacked her cleaning supplies in the front hall and, without further ado, attacked the living room. I coughed as she shifted the faded pink carpet, revealing the outline etched in dirt where it had laid undisturbed for so long. She unsympathetically shook her head as a year's accumulation of debris fell from the sofa onto newspapers in front of us. I felt inexplicably sad as I watched the spaniel rise bulkily up out of the sofa, exhale noisily, shake himself and head down to the basement. As I instinctively grabbed for the remainder of a cruller that had fallen from the couch, Desiree gave me an odd, critical look and dragged the carpet out on the lawn. A couple of curious passersby stopped to see what was going on. A window opened, music leaked into the neighbourhood and Mrs. Robertson called down to Desiree.

"Give it a good shake. No, better yet, put it in the garbage. Then come back in. I have some work for you to do up here."

Desiree came back inside.

"Where is she?" she asked me. I pointed up the stairs. Desiree leaned her broom on the bannister and made her way up to the second floor. Mrs. Robertson was still in Kate's dad's room. I heard her begin, "This room needs a real…" but before she finished her sentence, Mr. Robertson lurched unsteadily through the front door as if he had caught word of what was happening. He growled and gave me a terrified look, brushing me aside. He bolted up the stairs, his cardigan catching on the bannister and starting to unravel. They confronted each other there, face to face, neither saying a word. It occurred to me they might not have looked at each other for several months. Then a strange thing happened. Just as I was waiting for them to call each other nasty names they would later regret, like my parents did, Mr. Robertson got a funny expression. His face, which had been contorted in anger, softened and his eyes looked as if he might cry. He clutched the railing. She reached out her hand and gently touched his arm. He freed his sweater, backed up slowly, and went downstairs to the living room where he sat on her old spot on the couch, waiting. Mrs. Robertson made her way down the stairs in a dignified way, her head up like a queen, Desiree trailing behind her. She dismissed Desiree. Mr. Robertson gave me a smile that made his eyes crinkle and turned his mouth into a crooked line. Caught off guard as I stood in the living room, I watched him retreat up the stairs to his room again.

Mrs. Robertson put an album of Kate's on the turntable and began to circle the room, looking more like a teenager than Kate. I began to move lightly and freely with Mrs. Robertson, mimicking her gestures, she in turn mine, as the old jazz from upstairs blended perfectly with my Van Morrison music. Kate sat on the sidelines watching us while we moved around the room. "Moondance" came on, and she seemed to be watching the shadow my swaying hips made in the fading, afternoon light. On one high, sweet note, I felt all the melodies and rhythms of the house come together and I hugged myself, as Mrs. Robertson's shadow lapped over mine.