Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  Wayne turned to me. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  I shrugged.

  “There’s a force plane leaving at 7 AM if we can schedule an interview with the girl.”

  My mind blanked. “Why me? Why not Sex Crimes?”

  “They want to send a female and theirs are tied up.”

  “I’d go,” said Tessa, “because I have a feel for the guy, but I’m leaving for Guyana with my dad the next day.”

  “What’s your feel?”

  “That he did it. But young girls are hormonal and easily influenced, so we don’t have anything firm. The Calgary girl might just tip in our favour.”

  My head spun, inventing possible excuses. Having just come up empty at Selena’s, I said, “Okay, I’ll go.”

  Wayne smiled. “The girl does pedicures downtown and we’ll set up an interview. I’ll brief you on the case.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon going over the file to get an idea of what to ask. It helped to look for patterns. The next time I checked the clock, it was four: time to change for my two dates. I had brought good clothes to work — a short tweed skirt, white blouse, and sweater vest. As I pulled on my brown tights, I thought of Sara insisting a woman’s legs were flattered by high heels, but the kitten heels on the copper-coloured Mary Janes I stepped into were as high as I got. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about towering over either of my escorts tonight.

  Dad was already at Douglas Park when I got there. He was holding a yellow and white rose, sitting on a commemorative bench next to the ball diamond. The plaque read “To A Wonderful Father Who Loved This Park.” I wish I had thought of it first, because Dad spent hours here through the summer watching baseball with the willows in the background. Then I reminded myself its recipient was dead.

  “Did you ever think how confusing it’s going to be when our time comes?”

  “You can divide my ashes,” he said rising from the bench and starting toward the willows with me. Just then the late afternoon sun broke through the heavy clouds as it had at Selena’s this morning. What other city opens from a dark, damp oyster shell into such a glistening pearl? The bright sky felt like a sacred dome above us, the smell already in the air of Japanese plum trees about to burst into gaudy pink blossoms. Warmed by the short walk, we stood under the lofty trees where we had recycled my grandmother in her chosen corner eight years ago. Mom, Janetta, Lawrence, Lenny, and Doug were part of the ceremony. I had been surprised at how the ashes — which might have looked like white fertilizer to a passer-by — took more than a week to be absorbed into the soil and moss. Of course, dispersal of human remains in public places is against the law, so we did it in the evening. One of the practices a law enforcement officer can rationalize as being illegal but not immoral.

  Dad wedged the yellow rose in a cleft in one of the branches. I’d parked my car on Heather Street and we started back toward it. Last year we might have walked to Queen Elizabeth but Dad had already walked from home and was looking stooped. We drove the few blocks to RCMP headquarters, where I decided to leave the car in the parking lot and walk from there. I took Dad’s arm to cross Cambie, but as soon as we were on the road starting up Little Mountain, he led the way to the burial site. Ringed by ferns, Mom’s sequoia was marked by a brass plaque identifying the species. The lowest branch was out of reach, so Dad set the white rose at its base.

  “Your mother would be happy for a bird or bee to make use of the flower.”

  Traffic was swelling behind us and I was thankful not to be joining the stream heading up to the restaurant, and then being forced to park halfway back down on the road.

  We found a bench near the pond and sat watching the sun make its exit over the city Mom and Sara loved so much. Sunsets were bittersweet at the best of times, and sometimes I wondered if I should simply allow Dad’s mind to idle in melancholy rather than try to rev it up, as I was now, babbling about work. But he was interested to hear of my trip tomorrow — even giving speeding tickets was enough to impress him.

  “Calgary? That’s quite a jaunt to see a witness.” He never asked for details. “Will you get a chance to see our cousin?”

  “I hadn’t thought of Mona Mingus. Thanks, Dad. I’ll call her. Don’t you wonder about Jane Hughes coming back to fill the gap left by Mom and Sara?”

  “A full circle.” He looked at his watch and stood up. “We had better get going if you’re to meet your young man. You can drop me at Wendy’s. I’ll walk home from there.”

  Wendy’s was not far from south Granville, but for the second time today I was later than my date. I waved as I passed Warren standing outside the restaurant on Granville. The closest parking spot was at the end of a side street; I ran back as fast and gracefully as I could in my kitten heels.

  Couples were milling on both sides of the entrance. “Relax,” he said, “I made reservations. A week ago. Easier to cancel than book late for Valentine’s Day. Call me an optimist.”

  “Or a Boy Scout. Always prepared.”

  We were ushered to a table against the wall. During the Ray years, I had sampled a few of Vancouver’s fashionable restaurants but had never been to this one. Slim leather chairs, bronze-coloured plates that looked like pottery. I thought of Dad, eating his senior’s chicken burger, as I studied the appetizers: ravioli of quail, black winter truffle, seared foie gras with candied grapes.

  Warren ordered a beetroot salad and I decided to go straight to the main course. I passed over the fennel and pepper-crusted yellowfin tuna, not wanting to be guilty of depleting overfished species. I couldn’t remember if Arctic char was also in dwindling supply, but Warren ordered it anyway. It came with smoked salmon caviar, honey mussels, neon squid, and littleneck clams; he said I was welcome to sample them all. The neon squid convinced me to settle on something safe like Virginia’s organic redbro chicken with twice-cooked leeks.

  From the restaurant’s wall of wines he ordered a bottle of Okanagan white. As the waiter poured it, the old queasiness started up. Every time I saw him, Warren Wright got better-looking. From scruffy barfly clothes to hospital gown to running gear, he now sat across from me in a sports jacket and checked shirt undone at the neck. His thick hair was trimmed but not short. I wondered why some model type wasn’t with him in this expensive restaurant, and when he would discover his mistake.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He raised his glass. “Stranger.”

  He said it fondly, but he was right. We were strangers. I still really knew nothing about him. Had he been — or was he now — married? Did he have kids? Had he just broken up with someone?

  He had obviously been thinking the same thing. “I’ve been giving you your space, but I feel as if I’m in a cat and mouse game. Or is it cops and robbers?”

  I smiled and sipped my wine. “My schedule’s been crazy lately.”

  “It’s more than that. Will you ever trust me enough to tell me where you live? I wanted to pick you up tonight, like a real date.”

  “I was already in the area,” I said feebly.

  “And next time? You’ll be in that area too.”

  “It’s my work. We have to take precautions.”

  “It’s three months, Arabella. Have I given you cause for suspicion — beyond that arrest?”

  “None.”

  “Then do I have to sign over three cows to your father? What’s expected of me?” He was becoming more attractive by the minute as his face flushed with frustration.

  My shoulders crumpled. I heard myself almost whimpering at yet another romantic disaster. (The trouble with you, Bella, is that you’re too independent.) “I don’t know much about you, I guess.”

  “That’s why people go on dates. To get to know each other. For the record, I’ve never been married, though I was close once, if that helps. She was an artist and moved to the States after six years together. I didn’t try hard enough to follow or keep her here.” His beetroot salad arrived at that moment and he pointed his head and fork to my bread plate, as if
it were common for him to share with a dinner partner. “And you? I don’t know anything about you, much as I keep trying.”

  “Same. My relationship broke up after three years.” I didn’t offer that he found someone else. “And my mother died not long after.”

  “Yes, it must be hard for you today.”

  His expression of sympathy made me realize that I had been using mourning as an excuse for too long. It had been a whole year, for God’s sake. Here was a normal, red-blooded male, whom I fantasized about alone, only to freeze up when he was actually around. “I’m sorry to be so difficult.”

  He sat back with an exasperated sigh. “Let’s drop it for now and enjoy the evening. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

  Just then, our meals arrived and were intriguing enough to keep our jaws moving in one way or another. My appetite had deserted me, and I forced myself to finish my expensive food. He clearly did care about me, and I had no explanation for my yo-yoing emotions. Or control over them. Seeing I had knocked the wind out of him was now knocking it out of me.

  After an hour of strained small talk, we got up and left. Outside, we stood awkwardly together. I turned toward the side street where my car was parked; it was usually at this point that he would say goodbye and jog off home. He stood close to me without moving and looked directly in my eyes.

  “Would you care for a nightcap somewhere? My place, maybe. It’s close.”

  I caught my breath at his nearness, but the faltering creature I had become spoke without warning. “I’d love to, but I have to catch a plane tomorrow morning at seven. For work.”

  His eyes lingered on mine before he stepped back. Then he shook my hand and said, “Thanks for a pleasant evening, Arabella. Give me a call sometime.” He turned quickly and walked down Granville.

  ON THE DARK TARMAC, raindrops conveniently masked my tears. Four other members were boarding the twelve-seater, each of us with Tim Hortons coffee, and all but me with a muffin. I still had no appetite. They were on their way to Edmonton via Calgary to take a course together, so after the usual small talk, I left them alone and opened my notes.

  For all the sleep I got in my off-limits apartment, I could have gone to Warren’s and taken a chance on a new adventure. How did I keep messing up? Given more opportunities than most, I always seemed to blow them at the last minute. Men aside, the unsolved Kubik case niggled at me constantly, and here I was on my way to collect critical evidence in a sex assault file. Would I lose my edge again?

  The sound and vibration of the small plane’s engine put an end to self-recrimination and concentration. My eyes clamped shut on the ascent and reclaimed the sleep they had missed in the night. No sunrise over the Rockies for me. I first saw daylight as the plane coasted into the Calgary airport. The pilot announced that it was minus twenty-five outside, but the number meant nothing until I stepped into the prairie air. Dad had advised me to dress warmly, and I had on a thick turtleneck, pea coat, scarf, and high boots, but it was my bare legs under dress pants that felt the cold most. Mom and Dad had brought me to Alberta a couple of times as a kid, once for the Calgary Stampede, and once on a trip to Red Deer and to Gull Lake where Sara and Grandpa had owned a cottage and Dad and Janetta spent their summers growing up. Both were in July; this was February. Snow covered the foothills and frost coated the airport buildings and roofs of the sprawling suburbs. Behind me, the four members came down the metal stairs noisily, reacting to the cold in unquotable language. At least the crisp air woke me up and dried my damp cheeks.

  It was ten-thirty Calgary time. The interview with Robin Basa was scheduled for noon at the city police station, where rooms were made available to us. I was booked into a downtown hotel with shuttle service that would get me back to the force plane tomorrow morning at ten on its return from Edmonton. Wayne told me to cab it anywhere else I needed to go during my twenty-four-hour stay.

  Before looking for the shuttle, I found a pay phone and called Mona Mingus.

  “This is Arabella Dryvynsydes. I spoke to you in January about our family connect — ”

  “I remember who you are.”

  “I happen to be in Calgary and am wondering if you’d have time for a short visit later today.”

  Pause. “That might be possible. My stories finish at three, so you could come at three-thirty.”

  “Stories?”

  “Days, All My Children, General Hospital. I’ve got a bit of time before Wheel of Fortune.”

  I thought of Dad and Jeopardy! and their shared DNA. She told me she was on the north hill just off 16th Avenue and gave me her address. I promised to be there on time.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Mother’s picture.”

  “It’s in my purse,” I assured her, then to give her time to produce her item for the barter, added, “and I’m looking forward to reading my great-grandmother’s letter.”

  Luckily my shuttle was at the curb and I hopped on. Half an hour later, I was checked into my hotel, thinking I should eat something. Not because I was hungry, but I didn’t want a headache to complicate my agenda. The police station was only a few blocks from the hotel, they told me at the desk, so I set off on foot and found a Starbucks along the way where I warmed up and satisfied a few protein requirements with a jumbo pecan cranberry muffin and a cup of steamed milk.

  The Calgary City Police headquarters were in a grey cement building about twelve storeys high. A friendly woman at the front desk led me to the interview room I would be using and did a routine explanation of the audio/video equipment; she said there would be someone in the adjoining room monitoring it as well. Before I had my jacket off or tape recorder out, the door opened again and a tiny young woman came in quietly. Standing next to her, I thought of Sara’s expression “knee high to a grasshopper,” with me as the grasshopper. I shook her hand, thanked her for coming, and offered her a chair across the little table from me.

  Robin Basa’s appearance was Goth meets salon: choppy black hair with a maroon streak, diamond nose stud, dark purple lipstick, muted eye makeup. Under her black leather coat she wore a hot pink midriff-length sweater over a black tank top, black jeans rolled up to the calf, and pointed high-heeled boots. Several fingers bore silver rings, the only part of the outfit her customers would see under a white smock. I pushed my notebook to the side, turned on my tape recorder, and asked if she knew why she was here.

  “Sort of.”

  “We’d like to know more about the complaint lodged against Mr. Frank Naylor when you were his student in Grade Seven.”

  She blushed. “Yeah, like, we never laid a complaint, you know.”

  I nodded. “Why not?”

  “My parents didn’t want a spectacle or anything. They’re, like, from the Philippines. Mom came as a domestic and brought Dad and me over a few years later. She wanted to bring my grandmother over, and uh, they thought a police record might, like, make them look twice at our family.” She made a nervous sound close to a laugh.

  “Thank you, Robin. You’ve just told me a lot.”

  “Uh, like what?”

  “Like the fact that you haven’t said you didn’t charge Mr. Naylor because he was innocent.”

  Her flawless skin turned pink again.

  “I know how uncomfortable this is for you, and we really appreciate your courage in being here. But if a man did something that still makes you feel this uneasy six years later, don’t you think he should be stopped from doing it again?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me how it started.”

  “He told me what a good artist I was. Like I should be encouraged to do more.”

  Our Burnaby victim alleged that Mr. Naylor asked her to help design a poster for an upcoming volleyball tournament, and while she was at the computer he began stroking her hair. He told her what a beautiful strong body she had, that he would like to take pictures of her in shorts, then digitalize them for the poster.

  I nodded.

  “Like, he wanted me to stay
after school to help with ideas for a poster,” Robin blurted out. “I was like, ‘Why me?’ and he goes, ‘Because you’re so artistic.’”

  “And did you?”

  “I was scared not to. My parents were strict. Teachers and priests, like, they were the highest.”

  I wondered what her parents thought of Robin’s look and lingo now. She must have broken out of her shell somewhere along the way.

  “And then?”

  “Uh, he said I was pretty, and then he goes, ‘When you get into art school, they’ll want you to model.’” As she spoke, she smoothed her hair with the flat of her hand then fluffed it up from underneath using her fingers. I stayed quiet. “Like, my hair was long then and he would take it and roll it into different styles, and pretend, like, it was for the modelling.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “It grossed me out.” She gave a nervous shriek of a laugh. “I was shy. But I didn’t want to fail my class.”

  “How many times did this happen?”

  “Three. He told me, like, what a beautiful body I had, and that third time he goes, ‘They will want to see your whole body, you know, for modelling in the art school.’” Her face was hot and alive with the thought. “And then he, like, started trying to take my blouse off.”

  “Was the door closed?”

  “Yeah, he always closed the door.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was freaking out. But I was, like, frozen — you know?”

  I nodded sympathetically. “Go on.”

  “I was saved by the janitor. She opened the door to clean and, like, there we were. Mr. Naylor told her to come back later, that we were working on an art project. Yeah, he quickly bent over the poster and picked up a marker. But the janitor had seen enough and got me outta there real fast.”

  “The janitor reported it?”

  “Yeah, she called the police and my parents. Like, she had daughters of her own.”

  “What did you tell the police?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t speak. Too ashamed. Especially in front of my father. And like, I didn’t want other kids knowing.” She lowered her eyes and pulled her arms tightly around herself, remembering.