Cut to the Quick

by Joan Boswell

  A wave of fatigue engulfed her. It had been a long day. Upstairs she hooked MacTee to his leash for his before-bed walk. Standing outside, she reconsidered. Manon would have a fit if she thought Hollis had left Etienne alone. She apologized to MacTee and went back in.

  Because the dog still needed a walk, she couldn’t go to bed. Instead, she unlocked the French doors and moved to the garden. Stretched out on Curt’s chaise lounge, she considered his magazine pile and chose Canadian Art because the first article, “Painters’ Early Influences”, caught her attention. The writer paid particular attention to Mary Pratt and her artistic references to her childhood on Waterloo Row in Fredericton. Then he identified artists who had hidden backgrounds. He speculated whether an examination of their art would provide clues to their pasts.

  One was Lena Kalma, the drama queen who rode on the edge of hysteria, revelled in conflict and professed to hate her ex-husband. The article hinted that the tabloids would love Lena’s secrets but gave no other information.

  Ivan had lived half his life with Lena and possessed half her genes. The reasons why Lena hid her past might provide a clue to Ivan’s secretive personality. She’d grit her teeth and talk to Lena about her background. She shuddered but knew she had to do it.

  When Manon and Curt returned a few minutes later, she didn’t mention Lena—time enough for that later. “Why didn’t you warn me about the phone calls? They must drive you crazy. Have you reported them? I’m sure uttering threats is illegal.”

  “Our number’s listed under M. C. Dumont. I don’t know how those creeps find us,” Curt said.

  “Not ‘us’ darling, ‘you’. It’s you they want,” Manon said.

  Hollis hoped no one ever would call her “darling” in that tone. “It was a woman screaming about Hitler and murder.

  What was that about?”

  “A SOHD opponent,” Manon said flatly.

  “Sod—what is it?”

  “Curt can tell you—he’s the supporter. In fact, as of a couple of weeks ago, he’s president of the local weirdos chapter.”

  “If your son died because medical treatment wasn’t available, I don’t think you’d be quite such a bitch,” Curt snarled.

  “Please, tell me what you’re talking about?” Hollis intervened.

  Curt swept his hand through his hair and assumed a “professorial” stance. “I’ve told you I’m on the waiting list for heart surgery?”

  Hollis nodded.

  “And the ambulance didn’t take Ivan to the nearest trauma hospital—they drove halfway across the city, and he died shortly after he arrived.”

  Again Hollis nodded.

  “Why do I wait? Why did Ivan die?” He glared at Hollis. “Fundamental flaws in our system.” He pounded one fist with the other. “Under-bloody-funding. Why do we need so much health care money? It isn’t a mystery. First, too many people spend a lifetime overindulging—eating and drinking too much, smoking, taking risks.” He shook his head. “I suppose government campaigns to change how people live may help, but...”

  “And private ones. AA, Mothers Against Drunk Driving,” Hollis said.

  Curt ignored her. He smashed his right fist down on his left. “The second reason is the important one. The one we can do something about. Children are born who never should come into this world.” He narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin forward. “If their parents had genetic counselling and listened, when doctors told them they carried genes for Tay Sachs, Huntington’s, cystic fibrosis, Gaucher’s, Asperberger’s, and certain mental disorders. I could go on and on. It’s a long list. Anyway, if they listened, those children wouldn’t be born. Thousands of those people take up countless hospital beds.”

  “But not emergency ward beds,” Hollis said.

  Curt continued as if he hadn’t heard or hadn’t chosen to hear. “Stamp Out Hereditary Diseases, SOHD , campaigns not only for more genetic testing but also to have those who willingly accept sterilization shoot to the top of adoption lists.”

  “Surely if a genetic test is available, people take it?” Hollis said.

  “Not enough of them. If governments had aggressively adopted this policy years ago, we’d pay lower taxes and have less crowded hospitals. I’d have had my operation. Ivan might be alive.”

  “And Etienne might never have been born,” Manon said quietly.

  “Of course he would have,” Curt snapped.

  “No, I’ve suffered from mood swings and depression since my teens. My father did too. I think it’s pretty clear he died intentionally. He crashed his car on a nice day. There were no skid marks. According to your scheme, someone with my background wouldn’t have been allowed to carry a baby to term and risk passing on mental illness.”

  “Bloody nonsense. You may be neurotic, but it’s not an illness.”

  Hollis didn’t want this to escalate.

  “Sounds like the Third Reich to me.” She immediately regretted her words. Anything connected to Hitler carried so much baggage, it lost its impact. But since she’d started, she’d finish. “Didn’t they use sterilization to rid themselves of those they considered undesirable? Didn’t they plan to produce the master race?”

  “No, this bloody well is not like Germany. Sterilization would be voluntary.” He glared at Hollis. “You’d understand if you needed surgery, and your son had died because the hospitals were full.”

  “I agree you shouldn’t have to wait, but I can’t see what this has to do with Ivan. Emergency wards are just that—places to deal with emergencies. They treated Ivan immediately. They couldn’t save him because his injuries were too severe. How would having fewer patients in the hospital have helped?”

  Curt lowered his head like a charging rhinoceros. “You and Manon know nothing. And calling them weirdos, Manon, is uncalled for. They are caring, concerned citizens who want a better society. It’s our opponents who are weirdos. They’re the same fanatics who fight abortion. They use extreme methods. They harass and firebomb clinics and murder doctors.”

  Manon shrugged and stepped out of her high-heeled sandals. She picked them up and directed her anger at the shoes rather than her husband. When she swung them hard by their straps, one shoe broke loose and hurtled through the air. The stiletto heel clipped Curt’s hand when he reached to stop it.

  “Jesus, Manon, you could have killed me. What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re crazy as a coot.”

  Manon winced at his words and stared at his bloody hand. “Sorry,” she whispered and crept to retrieve her sandal.

  “Sorry, that’s all you can say?” Curt strode towards the house, grabbed the French door’s handle and stopped. “Goddamn it, why do we lock the goddamn doors when we’re sitting right here? Another one of your crazy obsessions.” He scrabbled in his pocket, hauled out his keys, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

  Manon sank into a deck chair beside Hollis. Neither woman spoke.

  Curt reappeared with a wadded paper towel pressed against his hand. “I’m not locking the goddamn door.” His voice challenged Manon to argue with him. The phone rang.

  “Screw you.” Curt slammed the phone back in its cradle.

  “I don’t understand why, with all that’s going on, you’re involved with an organization that attracts hatred.” Hollis, aware she should allow the hostility to dissipate, forged on. She wanted to understand.

  “It’s not my fault the telephone company can’t keep our number private.”

  “And I suppose it won’t be your fault if something terrible happens to me or Etienne,” Manon said over her shoulder. She stomped inside and locked the door.

  * * *

  The next morning, Hollis rolled out of bed before six. She forced herself to spend quiet moments meditating. As events and tension escalated at the Hartmans’, it was even more important for her to adhere to this morning ritual that helped her to keep centred and focused. As it usually did, meditation restored her, and she congratulated herself for keeping to her routine. She emerged f
rom her room to find Etienne sitting on the stairs.

  “I set my alarm for six so I could come for a walk with you.”

  “Tomas, Ivan and I walked Beau here,” Etienne volunteered when they reached the park a little later.

  “I’ve forgotten—what breed was Beau?”

  “A mutt. She belonged to Maman before she married Papa. Maman thought she was part collie and part German shepherd. Papa didn’t like Beau.” His tone changed. “He said when you bought a particular breed, you knew what to expect.”

  Hollis could almost hear Curt speaking. Etienne had a good ear. Did all children who simultaneously learn two languages as babies have this ability?

  “Maman said dogs from the pound, the humane society, were tougher. She said they didn’t spend their lives at the vets like purebred dogs.” He sighed. “Ivan thought we should go to the pound and pick one out. He said if the dog was right there,” his nose wrinkled, “it would be a fait accompli—that’s French—and Maman would let her stay.”

  “What would you have called her?”

  Etienne grinned. “I told Ivan I’d name her Penny, because a shiny new penny is lucky.” He shrugged. “But if we’d picked one out, that wouldn’t have been her name. Ivan got all red and said Penny was a girl’s name and we couldn’t use it.” His grin returned. “Did you know dogs are purebreds and horses are thoroughbreds?”

  Hollis remembered how, as a kid, she’d loved collecting nuggets of knowledge. Actually, she still did. Every morning she flipped to the back page of the first section of the Globe and Mail, where she read “Facts and Arguments”, a compendium of miscellaneous esoteric information.

  “Grandmaman gave me a book with hundreds of collectives for birds and animals.” He pointed up into a nearby oak tree where more than a dozen crows cawed and disturbed the peace with raucous noise. “Did you know they’re called a ‘murder of crows’? I’ve memorized the ones in my book. If they aren’t there, I make them up.”

  “Tell me some. A murder of crows is good.”

  “A pride of lions, a herd of cows—those are ordinary ones. Others, like an exaltation of larks, aren’t common. Maybe that one isn’t well known, because I don’t think there are any larks in Canada.”

  MacTee, who’d found a dirty yellow tennis ball so old and worn it had lost its fuzz, waltzed up and deposited it at Etienne’s feet. The dog’s intense gaze told the boy as clearly as if MacTee could speak, “Throw the ball.”

  “Message received.” Etienne tossed and MacTee, his plumed tail waving in delight, charged after it.

  Back at the house, Hollis saw she was running behind on her schedule, but thought she still had time to scoot over to Buy Right and interview Ivan’s boss and co-workers. Then she’d race back to walk MacTee before her two o’clock class. A busy morning, and a hot one if she believed the weatherman.

  Hollis couldn’t enter Buy Right and say she was trying to find out what Ivan was really like. It sounded lame and made her and his family look like idiots. Who went to a young man’s employer to uncover his personality? Instead she’d say finding more information was part of an ongoing investigation.

  * * *

  “I’d like to speak to the manager,” Hollis said to a woman manning the cash.

  “His office is back there, through the swinging doors and up the stairs.”

  Hollis followed instructions and entered a cavernous space loaded with crates and boxes waiting to be unpacked. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the office door. Told to come in, she found herself in a small room crowded with filing cabinets and a desk piled with papers.

  The man crouched at the desk grunted, “Yah.”

  After she introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit, he didn’t smile, give his name or welcome her.

  “We went through this already. You’re not a cop. I don’t see why I should do it again.”

  “I’m here as a family representative. I knew Ivan but not well. I want to form a picture of him to help me in the investigation.”

  “I can’t help you. I didn’t know him. Talk to Lourdes, she’s head cashier and supposed to know everything about everybody. But tell her I said if there’s any interviewing done, it better be on employee break time: I’m here to make money, not help a Nosy Parker.”

  Pleasant man. Hollis had read that Buy Right franchise purchasers had to prove themselves before the parent company agreed to sell them a store. Obviously this “no name” man had a chameleon personality, or he wouldn’t charm a puppy, much less an astute executive.

  “Thank you for your help.” She retreated to the front of the store and asked for Lourdes.

  “That would be me.” A dark-skinned, middle-aged woman with a round face, eyes and body, the epitome of “round”, smiled at Hollis. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Hollis Grant, a friend of Ivan Hartman’s family. The police haven’t arrested his killer. The family asked me to see if I could uncover any information that might shed light on the crime. I’m trying to find out what he was all about.”

  “Poor lad, what a horrible death.” Lourdes shook her head. “He pretty much kept to himself after he came here to work last winter. ’Scuse me, a year ago last winter. Stock boys come and go. If they do their work, no one pays attention to them. But in April he drove up on the biggest, shiniest motorcycle. Jocelyn Jones perked up and took an interest.”

  “Does she still work here?”

  “One of our best cashiers. She’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “Your boss said I should talk to employees on break.”

  “Oh him, Mr. Sourface Delaney, pay no attention. He’s a man who thinks if he’s ugly-faced and shouts, he’ll command respect.” She flipped her long, dark hair. “I’m the best cashier he’ll ever have, and he knows it. He also knows every senior who shops here loves, and I do mean loves, Jocelyn. Don’t pay any attention.”

  Item by item, she rang up a meagre order of cat food, peanut butter, day-old-bread and instant coffee as a withered, stooped pensioner with thin white hair slowly unloaded items on the conveyor belt. “If you’re talking about our Jocelyn,” the woman said, smiling at them with shining white dentures, “Our Jocelyn’s a sweet, sweet girl.” She shook her already trembling head. “I can’t imagine how some of us would survive without her.”

  Hollis returned the woman’s smile and perched on the window ledge to wait for Jocelyn Jones. Moments later, a slim, dark woman in her late teens or early twenties advanced or rather danced toward Hollis.

  “Hi, I’m Jocelyn. You wanted to talk about Ivan? I’m glad you’re here. I often think about him, and I wonder what else I could have told the police.”

  “Your boss said not to talk to you while you worked. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Trouble, shmubble—Lourdes and I have his number. Fire away.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Not intimately. It would surprise me if anyone knew him intimately.” She shook her head. “Confession time. I didn’t pay any attention to him at all until he drove up on his Harley. In car terms, his model compared to a fully loaded Jag or Beamer.”

  Jocelyn not only loved motorcycles, she knew something about them.

  “I own a bike, and I love it passionately.” She eyed Hollis quizzically. “I know, not many women do. It’s a beat-up old Honda. When I was a kid, my brothers hooked me on motorcycles. They own a garage with my dad. I learned mechanics when I was about three.”

  Hollis pictured the toddler paddling about, handing appropriate wrenches to her father and brothers.

  “When we talked about the Harley, I could tell he hated it. I couldn’t believe it—why would he ride it? I challenged him. I said, ‘You don’t like bike-riding, do you?’ He wouldn’t admit it, but I watched him leave the parking lot. He drove like the old ladies who shop here would if you stuck them on a bike. He puttered away at, like, ten miles an hour. I couldn’t see his hands, because he was suited up in the black leather stu
ff that goes with the territory. I knew that if I could, he’d have white knuckles.”

  “Why would he drive if he hated it?”

  “I was more diplomatic when we talked again. I asked if an accident had shaken his confidence. He could have said yes to get me off his case, but he said no and didn’t explain. I found it kind of hard to imagine owning a beautiful machine and not loving it. It didn’t make sense to me why he drove it if he was scared.”

  The manager bore down on them. “Here comes your manager. Maybe we should finish this later.”

  Jocelyn, a prima ballerina at centre stage, whirled gracefully. “Mr. Delaney, just the man I want.” She pointed to the wall clock. “Because we’re always busy on Wednesdays, I’ll punch in twenty minutes later this morning and stay later tonight. My decision, but I knew you’d be pleased.”

  Mr. Delaney, like a turtle sizing up its environment, allowed his head to swing from side to side. His eyes narrowed, “Good decision,” he said grudgingly. He pointedly examined his watch. “Be sure you’re on time,” he said as he walked away.

  Jocelyn giggled. “The best defense is definitely a good offense. Where were we? Oh yes, Ivan and his bike. Anyway, he interested me. I talked to him at break and then asked if he wanted to trade bikes and go riding at lunch. I remember his horror and then what he said.”

  “Tell me.”

  “‘If it wouldn’t completely piss off my father, I’d sell the fucking bike. I hate it. Hate trying to be a macho guy. We want to go to Italy on a George Brown externship, and selling it would finance our trip.’”

  We and our—that was new.

  “The family wasn’t aware he attended George Brown, let alone that he planned to study in Italy. I’m interested in his reference to ‘we’. Did he say who he planned to go with?”