by Katie Tallo
The sad thing about Desmond Oaks’s apartment complex is that it isn’t a motel. People live here. Permanently. Gus shudders. How do they stop from throwing themselves off the balcony knowing this is their home?
Augusta knocks on the door of apartment 202. Silence. She knocks harder. Leans her ear close to the door, careful not to touch it. She cups her hands to the front window. Blinds are drawn.
“Lookin’ for someone, Miss Nosy Parker?”
The voice echoes from the courtyard below. She jumps. Turns. Crosses to the balcony rail and looks down at the pool. At first she doesn’t see anyone. Then she spots him. He’s sitting on the far side of the pool under a cockeyed umbrella. The pool has been emptied for some reason, despite the sweltering heat. There’s a shallow black puddle in the deep end where a few pop cans have drowned. The man’s lying on a plastic chaise lounge. It’s difficult to make out his face because he’s hidden in the shade of the tipped umbrella.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Oaks.”
“That guy’s a right fucking a-hole, you ask me.”
He crushes a can in his fist and chucks it into the pool with the others. He grabs another from a cooler beside him and sticks a straw in it. Gus scans the courtyard. The place is deserted.
“Are you the super?”
He doesn’t answer.
Gus heads down the two flights and works her way along the pool fence to a gate. She enters the enclosure just as the lampposts crisscrossing the apartment complex sizzle to life. They cast a cool blue light across the pool deck. The man sips from his straw. She skirts the pool and approaches him.
“Do you know where I can find Mr. Oaks?”
He tips the umbrella to reveal his face.
She freezes. Unable to speak or look away.
The man has no face.
She wants to run. Scream. But doesn’t.
Gus holds her gaze steady. Searching for eyes.
“You’re lookin’ at him. In the flesh.”
Where the man’s face should be is a bulge of twisted raw scar tissue. His ears, his eyebrows, his lips are gone. His nose has been burned off, leaving two nostrils that flare like pitted black olives. She finds his eyes deep inside two small desiccated holes. A pair of tiny white pupils streaked with blood. A single tuft of black hair juts from his skull. Swollen scars circle his head like a Medusa tattoo. He wears white gloves. His long fingernails have poked holes through the tips of each finger. They look like claws. He’s wearing a white Adidas tracksuit zippered high up the neck. Plastic straws stick out of a chest pocket in the tracksuit. A ripple of withered flesh bubbles over his collar.
Gus coughs to snap herself out of the coma that has her entranced.
“Um, Mr. Oaks, I’m Augusta Monet.”
She holds out her hand. He raises a gloved hand toward hers. Gus leans closer and shakes his gently. It’s ice-cold. He smells like the Neosporin cream her mother used to put on her scraped knees.
“Nobody calls me Mr. Oaks ’cept my drug dealer and my priest.”
The flesh around his mouth hole stretches into a macabre smile, exposing yellow teeth and purple gums.
“Monet. How come I know that name?”
She shrugs.
“Any relation to Picasso or Pollock?”
She smiles. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“You the fresh meat?”
“Sorry?”
“Not as sorry as you’re gonna be.”
He takes a sip of his cream soda to wet his whistle.
“Last goody-two-shoes social worker they sent me couldn’t take a joke.”
“I’m not a social worker. I’m nobody.”
His beady eyes glisten deep in their sockets. “You like cream soda, Miss Nobody?”
“Have my whole life.”
“Amen to that. Sit.”
He reaches into his cooler and hands her a can.
“Mr. Oaks, I was hoping to ask you about the fire in Elgin.”
She pulls a plastic chaise closer. It squeaks as it drags. He flinches. She’s not sure if it’s because of the mention of Elgin or the squeaking.
“Call me Dez now that we’re cream soda buddies.”
He holds out his can and they toast. Then he drops his cream soda with a splash. She bends to pick it up, but he waves her off. She leaves it. The soda foams across the patio stones and trickles into the pool. He grabs a fresh one.
“Why does a young girl like you want to know about some fire in some nothing town?”
“My mom was a police officer. She used to go there.”
“Don’t recall a lady cop at the fire.”
“She wasn’t involved in the fire investigation. It’s complicated.”
“The past is complicated.”
“Can you tell me anything you might remember?”
“Remember my face melting off,” he croaks.
Gus tries not to look away.
“How’d you find me?”
“Leeds Grenville County Records Office. Fire marshal’s report.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock you are.”
“My mother was the detective. I’m just following some of her leads.”
“Leads?”
“Just some old photos and papers she left me. Probably lead nowhere.”
“Well, I do recall the tank full of ice they put me in. Wanted me to stay under only I kept floating to the top. Scum always rises to the top, isn’t that what they say?”
“I think it’s cream.”
He shifts in his chair. Wincing as he repositions his body. His breaths are raspy. She waits for him to recover.
“Truth is, I don’t recall fuck all. I got no clue how I ended up in that fuckin’ town or what happened after I got there.”
He pops the lid of his new soda with one thumb, dips his chin, and purses his mouth hole around one of the straws tucked in the pocket of his tracksuit. He lifts the straw out and places it into the can with surprising mastery.
“Do you remember seeing a young woman that day? Dark hair?”
He sips as if he hasn’t heard her. She keeps trying to jog his memory.
“She would have been about eighteen. She died in the fire.”
“Psychogenic amnesia. Doctors say parts of my brain got lightly baked.”
“I was hoping you might know something about her last moments. Maybe you saw her?”
“Why do you give a shit about some dead girl?”
Gus considers reviving her school project routine, but she’s pretty sure lies won’t cut it with this guy. He’s been lied to a million times by lawyers and insurance adjusters, by county bureaucrats and company representatives. She knows this from the fire marshal’s records. She cuts to the chase.
“I think my mom was investigating something that had to do with Gracie Halladay . . . the dead girl.”
Oaks makes a slight gurgling noise in the back of his throat.
“Your mom?”
“The detective. Shannon Monet.”
“Thought you said her name was Gracie.”
“My mother was Shannon.”
“And she died in the fire?”
“No, but she is dead.”
“Did she like cream soda?”
Gus is getting nowhere. He’s drooling soda foam.
“She did.”
Gus realizes it was a mistake coming here. Even if the uncooked part of this guy’s brain could remember the fire, he was a stranger passing through town. He’s a bum lead. He didn’t know Gracie. He was just an unlucky passerby.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Oaks.”
Gus downs the dregs of her cream soda. He doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. She shoves the empty can in her satchel. Slaps her knees. Time to leave. Desmond Oaks is blowing into his straw. The bubbling soda overflows and drips across his white gloves and into his lap. He looks up.
“Dez. Call me Dez.”
“It was nice meeting you, Dez.”
“You too, Gracie. Sorry
about your mom.”
Augusta feels nauseated from the sugary pop and from staring at this pathetic bag of charred bones. Is he messing with her? Trying to confuse her? Does he know something? She tries to meet his gaze but can’t find it. Tries to see the man he might have been. A big man. Broad shouldered, thick arms, barrel chest. Strong once. Now withered and broken by trauma and pain. Although not entirely feeble. He can crush a can in one hand and do straw tricks with his nonexistent mouth. But when she does catch a glimpse inside the hollows of his eyes, they look dead. Vacant. She can’t tell how old he is. Could be thirty or seventy. The only thing she is growing more certain of as she looks at Desmond Oaks is that he can’t help her. He’s a lost cause. Literally burned out. Gus wants to leave, but he’s not done with her yet.
“Wait. Have another soda.”
He wants company.
“You miss your mom?”
His words are a gut punch.
“I do.”
She swallows hard.
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
“A face I don’t have. Time I got plenty of.”
She steps toward him and gently shakes his hand.
“I really have to go. My dog’s waiting in the car.”
His grip tightens. He’s definitely stronger than he looks. He tries to hold on. Too long. Gus manages to gently free her hand. She gives him a little wave and heads for the gate.
“Places to be, people to meet, I get it,” he calls out after her. She feels horrible.
“See you around, Dez.”
“Not if I see you first, Augusta Monet.”
She’s surprised he remembers her name.
Gus heads out the gate. Around the side of the building. Picks up her pace to a jog. Eager to put space between her and that creature by the empty pool. Something about him scares her. And it’s more than just how he looks. It’s his whole vibe. There’s a creepiness about him. She shudders at the thought of what he’s been through. No wonder he’s weird. Who wouldn’t be? She turns to look back. To make sure he’s not coming after her. Knowing she’s being silly. He probably can’t walk, much less run.
She turns back and that’s when she does a face-plant, literally, straight into the chest of a man coming around the back of the building. He’s solid and the jolt stuns her for a second. She lets out a tiny involuntary scream. Embarrassed, she keeps her head down and dodges past him. Sending a breathy “sorry” over her shoulder. That’s all he gets.
Levi barks as Gus jumps in the car. Glances back toward the apartment building before peeling out of the parking lot.
Dusk descends from blue to black as Augusta drives down the Queensway, heading toward the Island Park exit. Back to Rose’s house. She turns on the headlights. Rattled by her visit with Desmond Oaks.
Driving calms her. Always has. Even when she was a kid, Gus loved the feeling of being carried safely along while her mother’s sure hands rested on the steering wheel, fingers tapping lightly to a song on the radio. Maybe it’s the light rocking of the old Buick or maybe it’s being completely alone with her thoughts as neighborhoods zoom past. But these days, driving is where she feels most content. Sees most clearly. Where she regroups and finds her bearings.
She knows she’s been circling the truth. Not talking to the right people. Rory. Dez. Wrong people. Wrong questions. She’s been going about this backward. The fire is the end of Gracie’s story. The end of Elgin. She needs to go back to the beginning. Back to when the town was still there and Gracie was still alive. Gus reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the Post-it that Bebe gave her. A phone number and address for the Chartwell Willowdale Retirement Home in Smiths Falls.
You want to know all about that town, Miss Monet?
Talk to Renata.
Gus takes the exit and heads home. Despite the dark, she can see the road ahead.
18
Renata
AFTER A NIGHT SPENT IN A BOTTOMLESS SLEEP, GUS PROPS herself in her usual spot at the kitchen table sipping her morning coffee. She calls Chartwell Willowdale Retirement Home. Tells the receptionist she’s a student writing a thesis on the history of Eastern Ontario. She’d like to interview Renata Corrigan. Today if possible.
Elevator music kicks in. She’s been put on hold.
Ten minutes later, the receptionist is back. Renata will meet her after lunch. At 2 P.M. Before Gus can confirm, the woman hangs up. Friendly place.
Gus arrives at the appointed time. Approaches the young receptionist at the front desk and asks for Renata. The girl is texting. She looks up and points to an elderly woman across the room. Just as Gus starts to head over, the girl shoots her a word of advice.
“She’s pretty with it today, but don’t be surprised if she sails off to la-la land.”
Gus nods and the girl goes back to her phone.
Renata is waiting in the far corner of the main lounge in one of two pink floral wingback chairs. Gus knows it’s her. She’s the one waving her tiny webbed hand. The Weather Network plays on a TV in the corner, but no one is watching. Gus approaches Renata. Walks past a lady having an animated conversation with the cushion next to her. Several other residents are nestled in armchairs scattered about the room. Blue-haired. Most in housecoats and slippers. The odd billowy knit sweater. Each a shrunken or plumped-up or crumpled version of her younger self. Each looking like she’s off somewhere else or fast asleep.
Except Renata.
She’s sitting up straight. Waiting. Eyes bright. Each delicate elbow resting lightly on the arms of the wingback chair. Augusta smiles, reaching out her hand as she takes a seat in the companion chair next to Renata.
“Renata Corrigan? I’m Augusta Monet.”
“Oh my goodness, what absolutely lovely hair you have. Bet your mother was a ginger too.”
“My father actually.”
“Ruadh gu brath!”
Gus stares, not understanding.
“It’s Gaelic. Redheads forever.”
Then Gus understands. She sees it in the freckles that dot the bridge of Renata’s nose and trail across her cheeks forming an intricate map around her smile lines. Renata was a redhead too. Now, just a hint of pale copper gilds the tips of her silver wisps.
“So tell me, what’s your thesis statement, dear?”
Renata’s handshake is feeble, but her voice is strong. She’s small. Has an open, curious face. Reminds Gus of a child about to get a cookie.
Augusta likes her instantly.
Renata’s olive eyes glisten from beneath fleshy wrinkled eyelids. Her ruby lipstick smudges the front of her white dentures. A pearl necklace loops across her gooseflesh neck and accents her yellow blouse. She wears a pair of shiny black penny loafers and tan nylons. Renata has dressed up for the occasion. She’d look good in one of Rose’s Sunday hats.
“My thesis? Well, it’s about Elgin. The town. Um. Really, it’s about a family from that town. The Halladays? It’s about them, I guess.”
“Well, is it or isn’t it?”
Renata is no-nonsense.
A heavyset man wearing kitchen whites sets a small tray on the table between them. Gus is off the hook for the moment.
“Ah, tea has arrived. Thank you, Vern. That’ll be all for now.”
She shoos him away with a flick of her hand as if he’s a servant and she’s the Queen of England. Vern stares at her, opens his mouth to speak, then changes his mind and leaves. Renata winks at Gus and calls out to Vern.
“I’ll ring for you when we’re done.”
He slows momentarily, then keeps walking.
Renata looks at Gus with a girlish grin.
“Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
On the tray sit a steaming teapot, two turquoise china cups with matching saucers, a milk and sugar set, and two silver teaspoons. Renata lifts the lid of the teapot, nods her approval, then carefully grasps the handle. She pours the tea with a few shakes and spills. Gus doesn’t reach out to help. She knows bot
h young and old are often made to feel inept. Renata wants to play host. Gus lets her.
“This was my grandmother’s tea service. Nothing like a little piece of the past to remind one of what really matters.”
Renata nods for Gus to help herself to the sugar and milk. Gus adds several spoonfuls of sugar to her tea. Renata stirs milk into hers. They both settle between the wings of their chairs and sip their warm tea.
“Okay, dolly, let’s start over. There is no thesis. So what gives?”
Augusta and Renata smile at each other. Renata feels like a kindred spirit. Perhaps there’s an old woman inside Gus who sees the young woman inside Renata and vice versa. Perhaps their kindredness has them meeting somewhere in between.
“I heard you were the one to talk to if you want to know about the history of Elgin.”
Renata leans toward Gus.
“Hah, flattery will get you everywhere. But really. One ginger to another, you didn’t come to sip tea and chew on the early days of some one-horse town. You’re on a mission. I know that look. Wore it myself for years. You’re investigating a story.”
Gus looks into Renata’s eyes and is suddenly filled with regret at trying to manipulate her. This woman is smart and deserves her best.
“I didn’t mean to lie or insult you. It’s just that I’m after the truth.”
“Oh, precious, I’m not insulted, I’m intrigued. You remind me of me in my glory days. And Lord knows I need reminding.”
She cackles. Gus smiles and dives in.
“I think you can help me. I want to know why my mother died on the very same day Kep Halladay died. I want to know what happened to June Halladay and her daughter, Gracie, and why Henry Neil disappeared and why a whole town got wiped off the face of the earth just like that. I want to know the truth.”
Renata sets down her tea.
“That’s more like it.”
Renata reaches down beside her and retrieves a large blue scrapbook resting against the leg of her chair. Augusta hadn’t noticed it before. Renata lifts the book and places it on her lap. She puts both hands on top of it and stares at the book lovingly. After a few seconds, she looks up at Augusta and reaches out to lightly touch her wrist.
