by Katie Tallo
She climbs the stairwell. Retracing her steps to apartment 202. Before knocking, she takes a deep breath. A breath that vibrates loudly, causing her to take a step back from the door. Fear is catching in her throat. She almost turns to leave, but stops herself. Steadies her mind by gathering the random pieces swirling around her brain. Gus lays them out in front of her, one after the other.
Dez and Rory knew each other.
That doesn’t make Dez dangerous. But he could be.
Her grip tightens on the satchel. She glances down. The gun is in sight. Easy to reach.
Dez also knew Gracie. Said he didn’t.
Unless it wasn’t him at the bank.
But who else could it have been?
The cauliflower ear. The rugby photos.
Rapist? Grease monkey? Father?
Whoever he is, Dez lied when they first met by the pool.
He was playing a game. Pretending.
Gus needs to know why.
And what else he knows.
She steps toward the door as something far more powerful than fear courses through her body. Deep in her bones, she knows the only thing that matters is the truth. She needs to do this for herself. And for Shannon.
Gus knocks. Waits. As she waits, a weightlessness prickles her body. She knows her actions have disturbed the balance in someone’s universe. A balance built on quicksand. And now she’s hovering at the murky edges of that universe, and someone doesn’t like it. So much so that they drove her off the road, shot at her, gave dear Renata a stroke, and dragged poor Manny behind a car. And that someone is more than just a little off balance. They’re in deep.
And they’re dangerous.
But Dez? Doesn’t add up. He might be angry over being cheated out of money and burned in a fire, but the guy has trouble getting out of a lawn chair. Gus scans for other threats. There’s the rookie cop, but Officer Friendly seems more like a glorified babysitter than a hatchet man. Stanton’s just a washed-up paper pusher playing the big shot. Lars is a control freak, yes, but he wouldn’t drive fifteen minutes out of his way now that he knows they’re over for good. Plus he can’t track her location anymore. Uncle Rory? Meddling. Definitely overprotective and lying to cover up a past he’d rather forget. A rape he’s haunted by. Certainly a violent past, but a sustained taste for violence? She just can’t see it.
Gus knocks harder. Still no Dez. The front window is open a crack. She leans toward the open screen. The apartment is dark. She calls inside.
“Mr. Oaks? It’s Augusta Monet. We need to talk.”
Nothing. A door opens two down. A creepy wisp of a man with fishbowl glasses pops his head out. He squints and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“You can stop making that bloody racket.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Those two good-for-nothings are out.”
She walks toward him. He cowers and is about to shut his door.
“You mean Desmond Oaks?”
He leaves the door open a sliver. Looks her up and down. She’s pretty sure he isn’t wearing anything but stained boxers.
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m his social worker.”
“I seen you before. Sitting by the pool with hamburger face.”
He stares at her chest.
“You’re a young one. Fresh.”
Her skin crawls.
“You said those two? Dez lives with someone?”
“That layabout brother of his. Tommy.”
In her periphery, Gus sees something move at the end of the balcony. She turns but whoever was there has turned tail.
“Thanks for your help.”
She takes off running down the balcony.
“All hurry and no suckie.”
Gus shakes off the urge to gag as she races to the top of the metal stairwell. Looks down. Spots a hand letting go of the bottom rail. She takes the stairs two by two. Rounds the side of the building. Surveys the parking lot. Whoever it was is gone. Levi’s barking. He saw them. If only the dog could talk.
Sitting in the car, Gus jots a note in her notebook. Little brother, Tommy. Another lead. Likely the toddler standing between Rory and Dez in the framed photo. She makes a note to look into Tommy Oaks.
The sun is blinding. It obscures her vision. Intensifying her other senses. From across the parking lot, Augusta feels eyes on her. From the thicket of trees. Levi lifts his head and sniffs the hot breeze.
“You feel it too, don’t you, Levi?”
Levi’s whiskers quiver. Gus feels her own internal radar switch to high alert. Hands gripping the steering wheel. Heart pulsing against her ribs. She starts the Buick’s engine and pulls the car out of the parking lot without glancing toward the trees.
“Let’s go see how Manny’s doing.”
They drive out of the city, and back into the country, this time heading to the town of Perth. And despite crisscrossing the county all day, following trains of thought, Gus feels like they’re heading in the right direction now.
She’s careful this time. There’s only one hospital in the small town that sits about an hour southwest of Ottawa. She calls ahead to make sure Manny hasn’t been released. He’s still there. Must be a slow recovery.
Once in Perth, Gus checks her map. Finds the location of the hospital. Parks on a residential street about six blocks away. There’s no way she’s risking any further harm coming to Manny. She leaves the dog behind in the locked car and walks. If she is being followed, they’re after her. Not her dog. She enters through a laundry room door at the back of the hospital, dekes down a staff hall, and takes a service elevator to the main floor. There’s no way she’s being followed now.
Gus buys carnations at Bluebell’s Flower Shop in the concourse, then heads to the admissions desk. The woman tells her that Manny’s in the ICU. Room 677. No visitors. Family only. Gus smiles. Says she’ll go leave the flowers with the ICU nurses’ station. The woman tells her it’s on the second floor. Coming off the elevator she follows the signs leading to room 677. Heading away from the nurses’ station, through the double doors that say no entry. She almost makes it when a cart blocks her path. A nurse asks if she needs help.
“I’m Mr. Clocktower’s daughter.”
Gus scoots past as if she knows where she’s going. The nurse watches her. Gus finds the room.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me.”
Gus calls into the room, loud enough for the nurse to hear.
Manny looks like shit. Much of his face is scabbed over. One leg’s in a cast, knee to foot, and she can see pavement burns on his thigh where his hospital gown has fallen open. A morphine drip seeps from a tube into his arm. Whoever did this meant business. Manny turns as she enters.
“Manny? It’s Augusta. Monet.”
“You brought carnations.”
She places the flowers on the windowsill. Not sure he recognizes her. She gives him a hint.
“We met a while back. Just before your accident.”
“We did.”
“I came to your trailer. We talked.”
“Miss Monet. Yes, I remember.”
He points to the foot of the bed. His toes poke out the end of the cast. She reaches down to cover his toes with the blanket, tucking it gently under his feet. She sits on the bed.
“I’m so sorry, Manny. I should have come to see you sooner. This was all my fault.”
He takes her hand and squeezes it.
“You were just looking for the truth. The people who did this to me. They were looking for something else.”
“You saw who hit you?”
“Saw them? They told me they’d drag me till I talked or died.”
“Talked?”
“About the money. The withdrawal from the girl’s account. The bank drafts.”
“They wanted to know about Gracie’s money?”
“I told them I saw her put them in the mailbox across the street. I told those fellows that money was long gone and I didn’t know where t
o.”
“Can you describe the men?”
“I didn’t tell them about Ollie.”
“Ollie?”
“My friend. I didn’t tell them a goddamn thing.”
Manny lets go of her hand and sighs as he rides a wave of morphine. Gus tries to make sense of what he’s telling her about Gracie and the bank drafts. She recalls what he said when they first met.
She had me put each one of those bank drafts in a separate envelope instead of all in one. Maybe she mailed them before she died.
Manny hadn’t told her the whole truth.
“But I thought you weren’t sure what she did with them.”
Manny looks at Gus. He knows exactly what Gracie did with the bank drafts. He tells her she never put them in a mailbox across the street. He lied to his attackers to protect the truth and his friend Ollie. Ollie’s the postmaster that Manny sent Gracie to see when she left the bank.
Gus and Manny talk awhile about the weather and the food at the hospital. He likes the vanilla pudding. She promises to come see him when he gets out. Asks if he needs anything. He says he needs her to stay safe.
As she makes her way out of the hospital, the same way she came in, Gus is on high alert. Watches the couple coming out of the parking garage. The meter maid ticketing a car in a no-stopping zone. The old man sitting in the wheelchair having a smoke. She ducks into a bus shelter. Stakes out the back entrance awhile to see if anyone comes out after her. A janitor comes out. Dumps a bucket of dirty water. Goes back inside. She waits a half hour. Four buses go past. Coast is clear. No one’s tailing her.
The whole way back to the car Gus berates herself. She knows she messed up. Number one rule of a private eye, at least in the movies, is to follow the money.
Gus jumps in the car. Levi’s spread-eagle on his back. Snoring. Good old dog. She crisscrosses Perth’s grid searching for the town’s post office. The one where Gracie must have gone. To see the postmaster. Ollie. Gus stops to ask directions from a local who’s watering his lawn. He tells her it’s two blocks down on Foster between Wilson and Gore. Can’t miss it. White brick.
A woman in her fifties stands behind a shiny granite counter next to a cash register. She’s arranging a display of stamps commemorating the upcoming eclipse of the sun. Mousy blond hair. Peach lipstick matching her peach cashmere sweater set. Glasses on a string around her neck. She looks up. Augusta asks if Ollie still works there. The woman carefully removes her glasses and rests them against her collarbone. She crinkles her nose.
“You mean Mr. Oliver Trunk?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“And what is this pertaining to, young lady?”
“It’s private.”
The woman swivels her head. Shouts over her shoulder in a brassy voice that belies her delicate peach exterior.
“Oliver! There’s a girl to see you.”
Peaches stares at Augusta’s auburn hair.
“That your natural color?”
Gus nods.
“Hmm. What do they call that color?”
“Red. And is yours natural?”
The woman’s smile thins.
A little man moseys from the back office. He wears a wrinkled suit. No tie. Midsixties. Boyish face. Humor-tinged eyes. She likes him immediately.
“You the girl who’s been looking for me her whole life?”
Peaches rolls her eyes and goes back to arranging the eclipse display.
“Can we speak in private, please?”
Gus doesn’t want to stay out front. Near the large windows. In full view of anyone who might drive by. He invites her into his office with a sweep of his arm.
“Oliver Trunk at your service. How can I help, my dear?”
She’s glad he’s not the touchy-feely type. He keeps his distance, leaves the door open a crack. A gentleman. All business.
“My name’s Augusta Monet.”
She reaches out to shake his hand. He seems taken aback. Maybe he’s not used to young women shaking hands. But it’s only for a second. Then he takes her hand and shakes it warmly.
“Well, it is nice to meet you, Miss Monet.”
Gus tells him about her mother. Then about Manny. Then Gracie and the bank drafts. He’d heard what happened to his old friend, Manny. Nodding before she even finishes.
“So Gracie did come to see you with the bank drafts?”
“Manny sent her directly over. Knew I’d take care of her.”
Gus respects the bond the two men clearly share. Something about Manny and Ollie brings to mind how she imagines her father might have been. A good man. A man of integrity who would never betray a trust when it was given to him to hold on to. Gracie put her faith in these two men and they stayed true, and quiet. And yet, for some reason, they both seem to trust Augusta.
“Can you tell me what happened when she came in?”
“Gracie Halladay. She brought to mind a wee bird. Twitchy. She was uncomfortable in her own body. Like she had an itch needed scratching, only she couldn’t get at it. Despite being nervy, she was a strong-minded little waif. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t leaving till it was done. She had that stack of envelopes. Manny had called to let me know she was coming. She wouldn’t let go of them. She wanted them sent by registered mail, each and every one. Signature required so as to make sure they got in the right hands, you know. She had all thirty-four names and most of the addresses written on a piece of paper and she had notepaper that she wanted to put in the envelopes, along with the bank drafts Manny mentioned. We had to look up a few addresses and postal codes in the registry. Easy enough. I addressed them all for her and she double-checked and affixed the postage to each envelope herself. Then she sat right over there at that corner table, wrote something on those pieces of notepaper, and sealed each one herself. At one point she asked me for scissors. I left her alone to get things how she wanted them and that was that. The letters went out that day.”
Gus looks over at the small wooden table in the corner. It’s still there. She can picture Gracie hunched over the table, dark hair hiding her face, as she carefully tends to each envelope.
“You didn’t see the bank drafts or the notes?”
“None of my business. Miss Halladay paid the postage and fees in cash. Then she sat in the lobby until the depot truck came and took them away. She said she needed to see them go with her own eyes. She even gave a little wave when the truck left. Not sure if she was waving at the driver or the letters. Like I said. Twitchy.
“I promised her I’d keep track of the letters myself to make sure they got where she wanted them to go. I told her I’d let her know every time one of them was signed for and delivered. She didn’t want the names of the people kept on record anywhere. I told her I’d keep a list of names locked up in my safe until they were all checked off and then I’d burn it. That seemed to satisfy her. Even though she died the next day, God rest her soul, I still kept track. I still checked off each name on that list as I got confirmation that it’d reached its destination. It was my sworn promise to do so. My postmaster’s creed. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night. Swift completion. That kind of thing. And you know what else? Every one of those letters got delivered. All but one.”
He leans toward a safe in the corner of his office, turns the combination, and opens it. He pulls out a clipboard holding a list and lays it on his desk. He looks at it. Augusta sees that it’s a list of names with checkmarks next to each one. Even upside-down, she catches a glimpse of the names at the top of the list and recognizes them. James and Alison Pratt. Ollie picks up the clipboard and scans the list.
“Thirty-four and only one came back a few weeks later. Marked return to sender. I’ve kept that one in my safe going on five years now.”
He slides an envelope out from under the list and places it on the desk, facedown.
“Just in case I ever tracked down the person she meant it for. Like I said, I promised her. It wouldn’t have been right to toss it, or worse, ope
n it. Against the law to open someone else’s mail. It says so in the Canada Post Corporation Act. I never did find that last person. Not until today, when she walked right into my post office.”
The blood rushes from Augusta’s brain. He hands her the letter. Gus doesn’t take it at first because she’s not sure why he’s handing it to her. She looks around for the person who must have walked in before her.
“It’s you. You’re the last one. See?”
Ollie’s smiling and waving the envelope closer to her.
“I found you. Or I suppose, more accurately, you found me.”
Augusta takes the envelope. More out of politeness than a desire to touch it. She still doesn’t understand what he’s telling her or why he’s handing it to her. She turns it over and looks at the front of the envelope.
It’s postmarked March 31, 2013. There’s a stamp across the envelope. Return to sender. No forwarding address. Under the stamp is the address where she used to live with her mother. Their last known address. 95 Hilda Street. It was never changed or updated because her mother died and no one thought to forward her mail to Rose’s house.
The envelope is addressed to Miss Augusta Monet.
Augusta hovers somewhere between the linoleum floor below Ollie’s desk and the quivering branches of a birch tree just outside his window. She floats there, unable to be where she is. Ollie clears his throat to bring her back to earth.
“You did reside at 95 Hilda Street at one time, I presume?”
“Yes, with my mother.”
“We couldn’t find an address for an Augusta Monet at the time, but we did find one for Shannon Monet. Gracie said that was your mother so we sent it there, hoping your father and you still lived there. Turns out it was an old listing.”
Augusta stares at the envelope. Oliver Trunk puts on his official voice.
“Miss Monet, it’s my sworn duty as a member of Canada Post to follow the letter of the law so before I can let you walk out of here with that envelope, have you got any ID?”
Gus doesn’t remember showing Ollie her ID or watching him check her name off the list or walking out of his office or getting into the Buick. Time gets compressed when the past and present collide. Gus sits in the car with the sealed envelope lying on the passenger seat next to her. A girl on a red bike rides past down the sidewalk, the wheels of her bike sounding click, click, click, as the plastic tailings attached to the rims whip around in circles. A sound she knows. A blue truck drives by. A color she remembers. A cat skitters under a black car parked next to a bright yellow fire hydrant. The world has become overexposed and mind-numbingly loud. She can’t catch her breath. She glances in the rearview mirror, then up and down the street. She doesn’t know this town. This block. This curb. She needs to get out of here. Now.
