Take the Stairs

by Take the Stairs (retail) (epub)

  Constable Davidson boomed out questions at me about what I had seen that Saturday night and how well I knew Hunter. Or, Alexander Hunter. I had never heard his first name. The red-haired cop, Constable Jeffries, wrote everything down in a small notebook. I didn’t tell them anything that would incriminate me.

  It was obvious that they only knew what Tony and the Building’s gossips must have told them, which was that Hunter came back to his place at about nine o’clock with enough beer for everyone in the Building. They asked if I’d seen any suspicious characters lurking in the corridors. I said no. Constable Davidson called them “corridors,” not halls. It didn’t make the Building seem any grander.

  Of course, Tony wouldn’t have told them how he had talked me into sneaking a few bottles for us. Or how he knew that Hunter always forgot to lock his door. No, Tony would never have told them that.

  The questions lasted forever. I squirmed on my chair. Mom and Dad looked from me to the cops like they were watching a tennis match.

  Just when I thought they would never leave, the cops stood up. But by then I was thinking, I deserve to be arrested. I never should have taken those beers, or Mom’s ribbon. I was almost ready to confess.

  “One more thing,” Constable Davidson turned back just as we almost had them to the door. “Mr. Hunter’s daughter, Mrs. Joanna Sterling, discovered that a few items were missing from the apartment. A watch. A television set. And $5,000 cash.”

  Mom gasped. Dad frowned and his mouth became a stern, tight line. I tried to hold myself steady. $5,000 cash! What I could have done with that!

  Constable Davidson’s dark eyes caught me in an intense stare. Terror swirled through me. I was in more trouble than I’d thought. How much did they know? I had to be stronger than them. I sucked in my cheeks, raised my chin, and looked him right in the eye. “I don’t know anything about that.” At least it was true.

  “Can you explain why we have reports of you exiting Mr. Hunter’s apartment on Saturday night at about …” Constable Jeffries, on the other side of me, checked his notebook, “eleven o’clock?”

  I was surrounded by enemy fire. These guys were good.

  “Uh, I helped Hunter out sometimes. Carried in his purchases. But I wasn’t there Saturday. Your sources must have got the wrong night.”

  I knew my excuse sounded lame, but now I could never admit that I’d been in Hunter’s place that night. They’d think I’d stolen his money!

  “OK, son. If you’re sure you didn’t see anything.” Constable Jeffries put a beefy hand on my shoulder and squeezed. He was so close I could smell his aftershave. “Nice to hear that you help out your neighbors.”

  I cringed inside.

  Constable Davidson gave me his card. “In case you remember something important,” he said.

  After my father shut the door, he gave me a searing, skeptical look. “Are you sure you’re not involved? Hunter hardly needed help carrying anything.”

  “Dad! I’m not a thief!” Yet I could feel my face heating up and I couldn’t look at Mom when I said it.

  “We believe you, Flynn,” Mom said quickly, putting a hand on Dad’s arm. “But if you ever want to talk about anything, we’re here for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” As if I didn’t feel bad enough. I gave her a smile, and thought about how I was going to get back at Tony.

  * * *

  I CORNERED TONY AS SOON AS I COULD at school the next day, after first period. Everyone was noisy so we could talk without much chance of being heard.

  “Why did you tell the cops about me?” I would have pinned Tony to the lockers, but he was two times bigger than me.

  “What’d you take?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Tony looked at me long and hard. “You didn’t take that cash?”

  I couldn’t believe that Tony was asking me this. “What are you talking about?”

  “Shh.”

  Two girls bounced to the locker beside us. Tony pulled me away from them by the shirt and shoved me up against the water fountain.

  “If you didn’t take that cash, who did?” Tony tapped two fingers against my shoulder, pushing me backward until the fountain jabbed me in the back.

  “How should I know?” I thought briefly of that guy with the cardboard box. He was getting on the elevator as I was heading into Hunter’s. The box had been big enough. Maybe he was the thief, but I sure wasn’t. I mean, I had just taken a few beers, five bucks, and a ribbon. That hardly counted for anything, right?

  “You know what I took,” I whispered, moving off the fountain and rubbing my back. “Beer. That’s it. I had nothing to do with anything else. I didn’t even know he had died until Tanya told me about it.”

  “Yeah, you did look surprised.”

  “Of course, I did. Geez, Tony.”

  I didn’t like where this conversation was going. I was supposed to be the one accusing Tony of snitching. Instead he was accusing me of taking the money. For some reason, that really bothered me. Because I wasn’t a thief, just an opportunist. Right?

  * * *

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I fingered the cop’s card in my pocket until it was tattered. And I thought a lot about Hunter, probably dead while I was stealing his beer. My mother was still looking desperately for her ribbon—in between giving me sideways glances. Dad just glared at me.

  I didn’t know what to do about Hunter. Tell the cops about the guy with the box? He could have been the thief. But then they would know that I’d been lying. Maybe they would think I was working with the real thief. The idea gnawed away at me, but I couldn’t help Hunter now. He was dead. Yet I could do something for Mom.

  That night, I dug the ribbon out of the ground and washed it the best I could in the bathroom with the door locked. It was still crumpled and wet, and it smelled like a sewer, although it was mostly clean.

  Mom was doing crosswords at the kitchen table, munching green grapes. Dad was across the hall, playing dominoes. I sneaked into the living room, listening for any movement from the kitchen. I slinked around the fish tank and the coffee table to her chair, then I reached into her purse, which was on the rug beside her chair.

  I couldn’t return the five dollars yet, but I promised myself that I would pay her back, in time. After all that had happened, I vowed that I would and I meant it.

  “Flynn? What are you doing in my purse?”

  Her voice sounded hurt, and her eyes were pinched and sad.

  “I’m just …” What could I say?

  She waited with her mouth turned down and her eyebrows ruffled in disappointment.

  “I …”

  Would the truth hurt?

  “I’m returning your ribbon.” I squared my shoulders and faced her.

  “What?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom. I took your ribbon to give to someone else. Someone who doesn’t even care about me. I’m really sorry. Here.”

  I thrust the soggy, crushed ribbon at her.

  She took in a sharp breath. Slowly, she reached for the ribbon. “Flynn!” She frowned then began to smile. I don’t think she knew whether to yell at me or give me a crushing hug.

  Mom took it from me and rubbed it between her fingers. She didn’t seem to care that it was wrinkled and wet.

  “I’m glad you returned it,” she said. “That took courage, Flynn.”

  That wasn’t so bad. I let my breath out. “I’m glad I returned it, too.”

  I smiled back at her, relieved that she wasn’t yelling at me. Then Hunter snuck into my thoughts. I had to make it up to him as well.

  I thought about the $5,000. Someone had stolen that money. Hunter would have wanted it back for his daughter. Maybe I could help. Maybe the police could catch the real thief. Even if I did get in trouble, I had an opportunity—an opportunity to help.

  “Mom?” I hesitated.

  “Yes?” She folded her arms and tilted her head as if she
would be able to understand me better from another angle.

  I gulped in a deep breath then spoke. “Remember when you said we could talk about anything?” She nodded. “Well, I think we’d better talk now. You, me, Dad—and the cops.”

  Stern Paddle

  Sidney

  Apt. 1219

  THE CANOE SCRATCHED THE SANDY BOTTOM and thumped into a massive gray rock, almost knocking me off my seat.

  “Sidney, whatcha doing up there, girl?” my father called from the stern.

  “Oops!” Thoughts of Clive, back in the city without me, burst like tiny popping bubbles. I heaved my tired legs out of the canoe and got two chilly bootfuls of water for my trouble.

  “Cold!” I yelled.

  Dad laughed, even when I splashed him. I began to pull the canoe over to the sandy patch where we should have landed.

  “Made it,” I said after I yanked the canoe partway onto the bank. Our campsite looked like a luxury hotel after the long daytrip.

  My legs were stiff from sitting so long, and my arms were sore from pulling the paddle. I wanted to collapse on the sand, but I straddled the bow of the canoe to steady it for my father.

  “Oh, I’m an old man.” He groaned as he stepped over the gunnels.

  “Can’t keep up with me?” I teased.

  “Humph.” He threw the two daypacks far up onto shore with one easy toss. “Not too old to get a fire started before you can unpack our supper.” The skin around his eyes crinkled.

  “You’re on.”

  I was too tired to help get supper, but I was too hungry not to. My father had chosen a challenging route for us. A cluster of portages—the longest took over an hour. At least we hadn’t had to carry much. Most of the gear had stayed back at the camp.

  My father headed to the fire pit with the daypacks, after he pulled the canoe up. I hurried up the slope of rock and earth to the pine tree that held the food pack, and began, once again, to think about Clive.

  The movie had started it. “Come on, Sidney. I can’t go to a girl flick,” he’d said, flashing those huge brown eyes at me and smiling innocently.

  I’d frowned, but he’d leaned in for a kiss. His hair had fallen in waves against my cheek and his rough stubble had given me shivers. One kiss and I had lost myself in the dark curve of his lashes, only coming to my senses later at a disturbing David Cronenberg flick. I was beginning to see that Clive ran my life.

  A hunger pain, growling and kicking at my stomach, brought me back to the forest. I untied the yellow nylon rope from around a branch and lowered the food pack. I could hear my father chopping wood. Clink. Clunk. Sticks of kindling clattered over the rocks.

  I knew the routine. Birch bark and cedar to start the fire. Bigger pieces of the dry cedar log we’d found. Finally larger strips of hardwood—birch and maple.

  My father had taught me everything I knew about camping. How pitching your tent in a low spot meant you woke up in a puddle after a rainstorm. How eating bananas made the mosquitoes ruthlessly seek out your blood. And how to start a campfire with dry softwood.

  Clive hadn’t wanted me to go camping. “You’d rather canoe with your old man than hang out in the city with me?” His face had gone red before he pulled away.

  “My dad is making me go. Please, Clive. You know how it is.” I had grabbed for his hand, hoping that he wouldn’t discover my small white lie.

  I couldn’t explain it to Clive, and I couldn’t give up the trip. Why choose my father’s company over his? Because of the peaceful green-black forests, the calm purple of the evening sky, the rebellious white-gray rocks that jammed through the earth. And because Clive couldn’t come.

  The beauty of the lakes and the forests recharged me. Reminded me that the world could be open and beautiful. Not like my Building, which squeezed us so tight together that we could hear each other sweat. The Building made me dislike people because up close they seemed just as hopeless, and helpless, as me. But in the wilderness, my problems melted away from me like lumps of butter in a hot frying pan. My lungs expanded to fill my chest, and I could laugh with my father.

  Not that I couldn’t laugh with Clive. I had laughed with him through those staged wrestling shows that he liked so much. I had laughed with him when I beat his friend Ernie in a beer-chugging contest. Clive and I had shared a lot of fun—when we did what he wanted.

  I dug further into the food pack for the freeze-dried stew and dumpling mix. My hands felt each bag to discover the contents. Pancake powder, pasta, raisins, granola bars. When I found the granola bars, I pulled them out for a little snack. My father might finish the fire before I gathered the food, but my stomach was crying out and supper was still way off.

  The September air was cooling down fast as the sun edged closer to the hills, and I was getting cold in my T-shirt. In the east, dark clouds loomed, but they were still too far away to be much of a threat.

  I bit into a granola bar and my stomach gratefully started to digest the first few crumbs. I was just searching for my jacket when I heard a dull thud then a gurgling sound. The sounds were strange, and I couldn’t place them. Not a chipmunk. Not a loon. Another sound came. A cry of pain, strangled into a murmur.

  “Dad?”

  The wind stopped. The trees stilled. The birds were silent. A passing cloud threw a shadow over the camp. I dropped my granola bar and raced around our tent, just missing one of the nearly invisible cords that held out the side.

  I saw his face first, white as a cloud. His red hair even more fiery than usual. The axe had dropped to the ground. Blood squirted over the neat pile of kindling. My heart pounded the taps of a woodpecker beating on a tree.

  “I … cut … my … thumb.” A grimace of pain flashed across his face, and I remembered my father’s weakness—how he fainted at the sight of blood.

  I grabbed Dad’s arm. He was holding his thumb with his other hand, trying to stop the flow of blood. I couldn’t tell how bad it was.

  “Let me see.”

  My father sunk to his knees in the sandy dirt of the campsite. Somewhere nearby a red squirrel began to scold us. A chickadee called out. The wind found its voice again. My father opened his hand so we could both see the damage.

  I held back a gasp and shut my eyes. “Oh!”

  His thumb was sliced lengthwise from the middle down into the fleshy muscle of his hand. A river of blood pulsed through the wound. My head grew dizzy and my stomach tightened.

  Dad squeezed his thumb with his other hand. He leaned into a tree. “We can’t stay, Sidney. We have to paddle out tonight.”

  Paddle out tonight. With no supper. After a long day of hiking and canoeing. Hours of paddling in the dark.

  “OK.” I stared at my shoes. How would I paddle all that way?

  Dad lifted my chin with one finger, his hand still clasped over the cut. “We’ll make it.”

  “I know,” I said, trying to sound convinced.

  Dad straightened his shoulders and stood up. “Get me the first aid kit. And I’ll need a strip of cloth. Just rip a piece off one of my shirts. A clean piece, if you can find one. I’ll tie it around to try to stop the bleeding.”

  “Right away.”

  His orders comforted me, and I hurried to follow them.

  * * *

  ONCE HIS THUMB WAS WRAPPED and bandaged, I made up a bottle of powdered orange drink for us to share, and we had a quick supper of crackers and cheese, peanuts and raisins. I noticed that Dad hardly ate, although I couldn’t get enough. He drank plenty of what he called snake-bite medicine. It was the apricot brandy that he’d brought in a wineskin.

  “Let’s pack up,” he said as I screwed the lid on the plastic jar of peanuts and raisins. But he didn’t move.

  Dad’s face was pale. His eyes had a shiny, glazed-over stare. I silently questioned him. Pack up? Wouldn’t we leave it all here—the tent, sleeping bag and pads, and everything else that we didn’t need for the trip? Couldn’t we come back and get it later? I looked down at his thumb where th
e blood had soaked through the bandage. Maybe he was going into shock. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight.

  He caught my look. “It’s not too bad. I can pack.”

  I knew that he sometimes pushed himself too hard, but I said nothing. We began to pack the camp.

  My stomach had a tight knot like a stone in it. I tackled the things outside the tent while Dad did the inside so he could sit down. He handed the sleeping bags and pads out to me then began to take down the tent. I packed the knapsacks—one for food and cooking equipment, the other for everything else. I had to pack properly because we had one short portage to hike, but at least most of the trip out was paddling.

  I caught my father resting beside the half-finished tent, his hand holding up his head.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “You rest.”

  How would I get him out if he passed out? He was huge compared to me.

  Dad lay down with his head on a rock. “The first-aid kit, Sidney? The pain is … bad.” His voice sounded so calm, but his forehead was knotted.

  I raced over to the packed knapsack and pulled things out, looking for the first-aid kit. Why hadn’t I put it on top? I couldn’t make any mistakes. I had to be smarter.

  The sun was starting to sink behind the hills of trees as I finished packing the canoe. It was a cedar-strip—light enough for me to carry short distances. My father and I had made it in his friend Bert’s garage on weekends. That was before Clive. With Dad and Bert, I made the mold, stapled on the strips of cedar, built the seats and gunnels, and fiberglassed. Even now, the warm shine of the wood was a comfort.

  I guided my father to the stern of the canoe. My father always took the stern—he was heavier and better at steering. I always sat in the bow, although I knew how to stern paddle.

  “No, Sidney.” He motioned toward the bow. “You’ll have to take the stern. I’ll try to help as much as I can.”

  Me, stern paddle? With the weight of my father and the packs against me? Could I do it?