The image of the duck walking along a sidewalk appeared to have been copied from a news photo. Rebecca worried that her patient had lost what grip on reality she may have had.
“Can you tell me what he was doing when you saw him?” she asked.
“Waiting for me. He knew I come. I run here and he follow me. You have call police.”
Rebecca placed a concerned hand on her arm. “Please sit down.” When they were both seated, Rebecca said, “I can see how upset you are. Help me understand what happened before you came here. I know how difficult it is for you to leave your area. Why were you downtown?”
“My cousin from United States coming ... he ask me for shop so I look around.”
“But why didn’t you shop close to home, on Eglinton? Why did you come downtown?”
Mrs. Kochinsky looked confused. “But shop downtown. I have to.”
It was Rebecca’s turn to be confused, but she went on. “Did he touch you?”
“He come at me. But I ran.” She wrung feverish hands together and leaned toward Rebecca with stark expectation. “Oh Doctor, he almost get me!”
The Greta Garbo face, the greying brown hair soft on her cheek, fought with the words. It was like a cartoon with the wrong caption. A mistake. She should have been a grandmother at home enjoying her family. Instead, she sat perched on the end of her seat, hands clasped tightly together, knuckles turning white. Deep sighs heaved periodically from her chest.
Rebecca tried to elicit cogent details that might interest the police but Mrs. Kochinsky seemed capable of relating only vague descriptions and indeterminate locations. Though she was more upset than usual, Rebecca had to put it in perspective. At last week’s session, it was someone who had followed Mrs. Kochinsky off the bus when she was coming for her appointment. Rebecca had attributed the anxiety to the unfamiliar first trip down to the new office. Maybe this was the level of anxiety the poor woman was operating on now. How was Rebecca to know, as last week was the first time she’d seen her in eight weeks.
Maybe she would call Dr. Romanov again and get clearer details of Mrs. Kochinsky’s behaviour during the time he was covering for Rebecca. She watched her patient now as she sat talking, her trenchcoat crumpled around her. This unscheduled visit worried Rebecca; she wondered if she could expect Mrs. Kochinsky to drop in anytime. At least she was calmer and seemed to have more control of herself.
“Feeling better now?” Rebecca asked.
Mrs. Kochinsky gave a wan smile.
“You can rest in here till you feel you’re all right to leave,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Rebecca closed the door and headed for Iris’ desk. “Mrs. Kochinsky is taking a short rest,” she said behind the partition. “Keep an eye on her and let me know when she leaves.”
Iris handed her the next patient’s file.
Then came a cat and ate the goat
That Father bought for two zuzim.
One little goat, one little goat.
chapter six
Tuesday, April 3, 1979
Toronto was not Buenos Aires, thought Goldie as she watched the news at eleven o’ clock. It was a staid, humourless place where streets were laid out in unimaginative lines like a giant grid. A bookkeeper’s city. You might not get lost in Toronto, but the trip would be tedious. Buenos Aires, now there was a city! As exciting as Paris, with its furtive alleyways, its wide sweeping boulevards lined with plane-trees, the women dressed like models strolling past the outdoor cafes. After nearly two years in Toronto, Goldie still missed the European feel of Buenos Aires. The city was not to blame for the nightmare of what had happened to her.
It was such a long time ago. It was just yesterday. How much older she felt now. A hundred years older, sitting in flannel pyjamas in her living-room watching the late news. At eleven-thirty Buenos Aires was just waking up. What did she care if Pierre Trudeau was heading to Calgary this week? Or that his pretty young wife was showing off their three sons to the press? He was an old goat who had found a brood mare to propagate his line. Well, why not? Why shouldn’t he have sons? Maybe he would be luckier than she had been and his sons would live past their twenty-sixth birthday.
She changed the station with the remote. Another clip of that tedious Star Wars movie. Too loud. They were trying to whet people’s appetite for the next one coming out. Something about a sinister Empire. She wished she could escape into fantasies like other people. She flicked to another channel. Maybe she could find an old movie.
That was when she thought she heard it. She flicked the mute button and strained to listen. A soft knocking came from her door. She jumped in her seat. Her heart dropped as she remembered that other knock in Argentina. “¡Abra la puerta! ¡Abra la puerta!”
She sat rigid while the man knocked softly, softly on her door (she was sure it was a man). Go away, thought Goldie, I’m not ready yet. She had told Dr. Temple today — she knew it would be him. This one was clever, tapping so quietly. The others had not been quiet. They had knocked and knocked. “¡Abra la puerta! ¡Abra la puerta!”
Soon he would kick the door down. She had seen this moment coming since the basement in Buenos Aires during that other nightmare. First the blindfold, then without preamble, the machine. People said they couldn’t remember pain. Well, maybe one forgot the pain, but never the terror of it, never the racing heart in the night. Where’s your son, you Jewish whore?
What was the point of surviving your children? The man at the door in Toronto was carrying the tail end of the plague that had come after her family in Poland in 1939.
For nearly two years in Canada now she had waited for the executioner. Every time she went on the street, someone was watching her. People scoffed when she told them. They didn’t understand. How could they? They hadn’t been tortured. Even the bakery where she worked, men came in looking for her. Oh, not openly, no. They were good actors; nobody believed her. But she knew. And she waited. Every place she had settled in had betrayed her. And now here he was at her door. Toronto was the last place that would betray her.
Safe Toronto. Safe for everyone else. Not for her. She knew he would come. She knew she could not stop him coming. And though she did not always recognize him, she knew him. By heart. How many years had she waited for him to reveal himself? Her body trembled now as he called through the door. She struggled to hear the words.
“I just want to talk,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me explain this afternoon. That’s all I want, just to explain.”
This afternoon. Yes, the confrontation this afternoon. And now he was going to kill her. He had just waited for the dark. She sat, stunned, on the French Provincial sofa, worn in the spot where she sat enjoying hours of old movies; never again.
“Let me in, please. I won’t hurt you.”
Lies, she knew. He would say anything for her to open the door. She would not answer, but it didn’t matter. She would count the seconds she had left, standing helpless inside her own living-room. She peered for the last time at the photo of Enrique on the mantel. How had it been for him at the end? She was glad she would never know. Maybe she would meet him beyond.
Pounding on the door. Pounding as if he had a right to her life. She thought of running to turn off all the lights, but there was no time. It was too late.
She jumped as the glass shattered. The pane in the front door. He was no longer pretending. He had no more reason for lies. He was inside.
“Help!” she cried, terror building in her chest. “Help me, someone!”
It was no use. Who would hear her? Mrs. Shane from upstairs was still in Florida. Bathurst Street outside was too noisy with cars.
“Help!” she shrieked. “Help!” Adrenaline pushed the sound from her throat despite logic.
The phone, she thought. Get to the phone. She jumped across the living-room toward the hall. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She felt him behind her, a large breathing presence, as she reached the kitchen. She dared not turn but grabbed for the phone
on the wall. The bear of a man lunged at her, knocking the phone from her hand. A growl of anger came from his chest as he pulled the phone cord out of the wall.
Regaining her balance, she fled back toward the front door, screaming. Someone would hear; someone would help. She just had to get outside. She was not even close when he grabbed her arm and swung her into the living-room like a rag doll.
“Help!” she yelled into the spring night. You cannot kill me while the blossoms are swelling on apple trees, she wanted to shout. But the sound that passed her lips became one long howl devoid of words.
Enraged, he stalked toward her, cap pulled down over his hair, eyes in shadow. Hiding his unfamiliar familiar face. His hands gestured wildly in the air, trying to quiet her down, his own voice raised. But she couldn’t hear him; she was making too much noise.
Panic numbed her brain but instinctively she turned toward the living-room window. If she could break the glass, if only she could get someone’s attention. She just had to reach the window. It was a mistake to turn her back on him. She realized this in a second but it was too late. She gasped as her head snapped back, forced by the cord around her neck. He was so strong he was lifting her off the ground by her neck. She scraped at the cord with her fingers, she tore at it, scratching her own skin as the breath escaped from her body. She flailed at the air with her arms, her feet, she could no longer make a sound, her mouth open to no avail as the room fogged up, began to disappear as if she and it were going in different directions. He was so strong, he was squeezing the breath from her into the fog of the living-room, her body a vessel spilling air, convulsing, leaking air like a dying balloon, until she was empty and the living-room was full.
chapter seven
Wednesday, April 4, 1979
Rebecca bent over a stack of patient files on her desk. This was the part of medical practice she could have lived without. Paperwork. She could spend hours filling out forms — insurance forms, Workman’s Compensation forms, disability claim forms. Referrals had to be written for patients she was sending to cardiologists, internists, allergists; charts to be updated with the morning’s lab test results.
She was expecting Iris to interrupt her upon the arrival of her first patient of the afternoon. But it was 1:15 p.m. before Rebecca surfaced from her papers and realized Iris was overdue.
She stepped out of her office and glanced at the empty waiting room. “Did Mrs. Kochinsky cancel her one o’clock appointment?”
Iris looked up from her papers, her spectacles part way down her nose. “I haven’t heard from her.”
Rebecca’s eyes were drawn to the violent energy in the Van Gogh on the wall. “She usually calls if she can’t make it.”
“I’ll give her a ring,” Iris said, opening Mrs. Kochinsky’s file. She dialed the number.
Rebecca watched her face go blank listening to the futile rings. Maybe the American cousin had arrived for his visit, Rebecca thought. Maybe she’d lost track of time.
Since she always saw Mrs. Kochinsky for an hour, no patients were scheduled before two. But her two o’clock patient arrived at one-thirty and it was fivethirty before the procession of patients let up. She had been distracted all afternoon, but it wasn’t until a perceptive patient asked her how she was feeling that she realized something was bothering her. Now, with a moment to herself, she thought of Mrs. Kochinsky flying into the office yesterday, breathless and erratic. It was only the second time she had seen the poor woman since resuming her practice. Had Mrs. Kochinsky’s mental health degenerated over the winter? There was no immediate family to call. Her sister had been taken to the nursing home.
She approached Iris’ desk and handed her the last patient’s file. The waiting-room was empty. The Van Gogh roiled above the upholstered mauve chairs.
“Am I finished?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No word from Mrs. Kochinsky?”
Iris shook her head.
The phone rang. “Dr. Temple’s office,” said Iris.
After a moment of listening, she turned to Rebecca. “It’s Mrs. Morgan. She wants to renew her prescription for cardizem on the phone.” One winged eyebrow climbed in disapproval.
Rebecca took the receiver. “Mrs. Morgan? Was that Dr. Romanov’s prescription? Is your angina acting up, then? You’re on 60 mg. No. You’ll have to come in so I can check you over. Well, I understand, Mrs. Morgan, but I can’t prescribe the drug without examining you. I’ll give you to Iris and you can make an appointment.”
Rebecca fell into the other chair behind the partition and peered over the test results of Mr. Batner’s blood sugar, Miss Chow’s urine.
“You look bushed,” said Iris after hanging up.
“Better skip the jogging today.”
“I just walk around the block.”
“Better watch yourself. You don’t want to get any of those knee injuries.”
“I’m not jogging. I’m not even running.”
“Keep it that way,” she said. “I need this job.”
Rebecca gave her a crooked smile. But she was tired. Automatically she took out some charts and began to update them with the latest test results.
Iris went back to filling in the day’s health insurance chits. She had taken off her tailored grey suit jacket and sat demurely in a white silk blouse. Rebecca was grateful Iris was still interested in working for her — she didn’t need the money judging by her wardrobe and regular visits to an expensive hairdresser.
After twenty minutes, Iris looked up over her glasses. “I know what’ll put some colour back into those cheeks. What do you say we go for some Chinese.”
Rebecca grabbed her gabardine jacket and locked up. They made their way down the stairs.
“Parents coming home soon?” Iris asked, her patent leather heels clunking down the steps behind Rebecca.
“They’ll be back next week for Passover.”
She pushed open the back door of the converted house. What little yard had existed was paved over with asphalt. Iris’ Buick and Rebecca’s Jaguar coupe stood in the waning sun. Behind the buildings opposite, a common laneway of cracked cement ran between rows of garages; their wood, grey with age, leaned in various stages of decay. Rebecca’s heart dipped at the sight of the backsides of these houses, always shabbier than the fronts, always the last resting place of things that had outlived their usefulness. The houses, made up like dowagers on the street-side, with lace trim and correct sashes in place, sagged in the rear, so to speak. Rusting tools lay where they had fallen, wood buckled from the sun. Last year’s chrysanthemums, desiccated, pathetic, crumbled sideways in overturned pots.
“Do you ever watch The Fonz?” Iris said as they stepped onto the sidewalk of D’ Arcy Street.
“The what?”
“You must’ve heard of ‘Happy Days.’ It’s on Tuesday nights. My kids watch it every week. The Fonz is this high-school drop-out with an unpronounceable name. He wears a leather jacket and does this funny thing with his thumbs.” She demonstrated, making fists and sticking both thumbs up in the air.
“Is that the one that’s set in the fifties?”
“That’s the best part. Remember the clothes? Those tight sweaters! Well, you were younger than me — I was in my twenties. They’re too happy — I know things weren’t as good as that — still, it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling watching it.”
Maybe that was what Rebecca needed. A TV show with a laugh track. Couldn’t hurt.
The evening sun warmed Beverley Street. They passed Lambton Lodge, the mansion built by George Brown, brick-solid with its mansard roof and the windows set in. What one would expect from the founder of The Globe and a Father of Confederation. Looking up to the third storey, she wondered in which room he had died from that gangrenous wound. The violence was out of place; he’d been shot elsewhere by a disgruntled employee and carried to this gentler street to die. Lambton Lodge. Even the name was soft. It was a private school now, with trendy awnings.
They walked u
p Baldwin Street past the narrow painted-brick homes, their chain-link fences protecting dollhouse lawns of drab brown grass. One bore a single ragged tree; another grew patio stones end to end. The house on the corner had been painted apple green and converted into the Sun Yat Sen Chinese school.
Spadina Avenue swarmed with evening traffic. It was still bright daylight but the pedestrians on the other side were faceless in the expanding distance.
“There’s the El Mocambo.” Iris pointed north to the tavern. Its stylized palm tree sign was a neighbourhood landmark. “Did you see the picture in The Star — Margaret Trudeau hobnobbing there with the Stones? In a tavern, no less. Now that girl’s got a social life.”
Rebecca smiled at her immaculately groomed friend and turned her attention to the street. The heat rising from the cars made the air fluid. They walked toward the push-button stop-lights where even inveterate jaywalkers waited. Trying to cross the six lanes of the street without lights was a quick route to eternity.
They began to walk on the green light, but halfway across the light changed and Rebecca dashed forward. Iris trailed behind, gingerly stepping between the streetcar tracks in her elegant heels, until she reached the other side.
A truck driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey, lady, want me to get behind and push?”
She struck a pose at the edge of the road, hand on her hip, and yelled out, “That depends on what you’re going to push with!”
In the Spadina Garden restaurant Rebecca picked at her meal of spicy cashew chicken in a restless silence. In restaurants lately, the food on the menu always seemed so appetizing, until it arrived. She would take a few bites then realize she was going to gag if she ate anything. She spent the rest of the time pushing food around on her plate, hoping no one would notice she wasn’t eating. But she couldn’t fool Iris.
“No wonder I’m getting fatter,” Iris said. “I keep finishing your meals.” Once it was established that Rebecca was not going to eat what had arrived on her plate, Iris speared her fork into the chicken pieces across the table.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 4
