12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  “That’s not good enough,” the man snapped. “They’ll still be living across the street from me. I’m voting for your opponent.”

  “Your choice,” Brock said. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Wait,” the sandy-haired man said. “I notice your friend has a camera. Maybe she could take a picture of you and me together and send it to me.”

  Brock’s eyes met mine. For both of us the situation evoked the painful memory of the buddy photograph I’d taken of Cronus with Zack and Brock on Labour Day.

  Brock was the first to recover. “Maybe Joanne could take a picture,” he said. “Incidentally, this is Joanne Shreve. She’s managing my campaign and her husband, Zack’s.”

  The sandy-haired guy was philosophical. “A picture’s a picture, no matter who takes it. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” Brock said. “The same way a touchdown is a touchdown, no matter who scores it. Ready when you are.” He put his arm around the sandy-haired man’s shoulders, and the older man put his arm around Brock’s waist. I took the picture and got the man’s email address so I could send it to him with a nice note.

  I dropped Brock off at the Al Ritchie Family Wellness Centre, where he was having lunch with parents interested in coaching football.

  The wellness centre wasn’t far from the houses on Rose Street that Zack and I now owned so on impulse I decided to check them out. I was hoping I’d run into Angela, and I was in luck. She was sitting on her stoop, smoking and watching her children. The oldest, who appeared to be about three, had a rusty metal sand pail. He was trying to dig up the hard-packed dirt of the front yard with a stainless steel soup spoon. Both the other children were staring incuriously at the soup spoons they clutched in their own small hands. When I parked in front of her house, Angela stood and limped towards the front gate.

  She looked gaunt and ill. “Eddie says you sent me a letter and some money,” she said.

  “I dropped off a note a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “I included my address and phone number in case you wanted to get in touch, but there was no money in the envelope.”

  Her lips twitched. “Eddie found the envelope in the mailbox. He’d already opened it when he brought it into the house. He said you’d sent $500 cash, but he’d taken it because I wasn’t bringing in any money these days. Then he made me watch him rip up the card and flush it down the toilet.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She shrugged. “Why does Eddie do anything? Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.”

  Suddenly the youngest child grabbed the handle of the sand pail and pulled it towards her. The boy who’d been digging for dirt hit the baby hard with his spoon. The baby howled and Angela turned and limped towards her. She scooped up the screaming baby, then bent, picked up the sand pail, and flung it against the front gate. The boy who’d been digging the dirt started to cry and other child joined in. The gate had a padlock on it.

  “Angela, if you’ll unlock the gate, I can give you a hand,” I said. “I have kids of my own and grandkids.”

  She gave me a long, hard look. “And I’ll bet their lives are fucking perfect.” She limped up the stairs, put the howling baby on the porch, and then limped back, grabbed the other two children, and disappeared into the house.

  I stood on the sidewalk staring at the sand pail lodged against the gate. Much of the paint on the pail had flaked away, but there were still enough patches of white, turquoise, ocean blue, and sandy brown to reconstruct the idyllic scene of beach life that had greeted the pail’s first owner.

  Like my children and my grandchildren, that child was one of the lucky ones.

  Zack was heating up last night’s borscht when I got home. “That smells good,” I said. “How was your morning?”

  “Heartbreaking,” Zack said. “Debbie called. They’ve released Cronus’s papers. They’re already at Falconer Shreve, but Debbie had two files she thought we should see delivered here.” He wheeled to the butcher-block table, picked up a file folder, and handed it to me. “Take a look,” he said.

  The folder was filled with booklets and computer printouts. The title of the brochure on top was Living With ALS. I riffled through the other material. “These are all about Lou Gehrig’s disease,” I said.

  Zack nodded. “It was in Cronus’s desk drawer.”

  I remembered the difficulty Cronus had typing out the message he sent with the photo of him with Zack and Brock. “Cronus had ALS?”

  “Looks like it,” Zack said grimly. “According to Debbie, Cronus’s Daytimer lists an appointment he had on August 15 with a neurologist.”

  I shuffled idly through the material in the folder. “And the neurologist confirmed that Cronus had ALS?”

  “He’s out of the country. Debbie’s office is still trying to reach him, but apparently the pathologist who did the initial autopsy was very thorough. The relevant test results came in yesterday. Cronus had early stage ALS.”

  Bright as a knife the memory of Cronus’s face as he made the decision that led to his murder flashed through my mind. “We only live once,” he’d said. “Might as well make it count.”

  “He knew they’d kill him,” I said.

  Zack shrugged. “He probably did, but he still sent out the picture.”

  “He could have lived years,” I said. “They would have been difficult years, but still …”

  “Cronus sacrificed them,” Zack said. “We’ll never know what Cronus was thinking that day, but he was prepared to die.” Zack opened the second file and handed me a single sheet of paper. “These are Cronus’s instructions for his farewell to the world. Check out the date.”

  “August 15,” I said. “The day he got his diagnosis.”

  “And Cronus had Darryl draw up the will naming me executor and sole beneficiary right after the jury found him innocent of his girlfriend’s murder. That was over a year ago. As far as Cronus knew then, he was in good health.”

  “So there was no urgency in leaving instructions for his funeral. But that changed on August 15.” I read the directions on the single sheet of paper. They were pithy.

  1. cremation

  2. private funeral

  3. no religious crap

  4. SHORT service – Zack Shreve delivers eulogy. Frank Sinatra sings “My Way.” Zack takes his wife and my ashes out for dinner at the Sahara Club, and we all go home.

  The irony of choosing the Sahara Club for Cronus’s farewell hit me like a slap. “Zack, given the circumstances of Cronus’s death, do you think we should choose another restaurant for our meal with him?”

  “Cronus always wanted us to go to the Sahara Club with him,” Zack said tightly. “Why the hell didn’t we go, Joanne?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Look, this second-guessing is just making us more miserable. Let’s go over to the couch and be close for a while.”

  Zack and I were still big fans of what teenagers used to call petting. After ten minutes of semi-chaste lovemaking, we were both at the heavy-breathing stage, but Zack had an afternoon of meetings, and lunch was waiting, so with reluctance, we moved to the table.

  By the time we started lunch, we were both in better spirits. “So how was your morning?” Zack said.

  “Perplexing,” I said. “Brock and I went door-knocking together in Broders Annex and we met a man who was concerned that infill housing would mean he’d have to live across the street from Indians.”

  “He said this to Brock?”

  “He exempted Brock because Brock was a football player and a credit to his people.”

  Zack turned down the gas under the borscht. “The dinosaurs still walk among us,” he said.

  “Indeed they do,” I said. “And they vote, although not for Brock. Zack, the guy who doesn’t want Indians living across the street from him, says that he’s voting for Councillor Trotter because Trotter told him he doubted that infill housing would come to Toronto Street.”

  “Trotter can doubt all he wants, but the city’s already committed
to it,” Zack said.

  I took sour cream and fresh dill out of the fridge and began chopping the dill. “Has the city bought the land?”

  “They announced the project last year. They must have made their move by now. I’ll get Norine to check.”

  Norine called back just after lunch. Zack’s face was impassive as he listened to the report, but when he hung up he was clearly both amused and amazed. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Despite the big announcement, the city never actually purchased the land. Guess who owns it?”

  “Us,” I said.

  Zack nodded. “At the time of his death, Cronus owned twenty-six separate parcels of land in the area where the city announced they would be building low-income housing.”

  “That includes Toronto Street,” I said.

  “It does. So Trotter’s information could be accurate. Apparently, Cronus was a meticulous recordkeeper. Norine’s got Angus working on the files on the properties. Should be an interesting job for the scion of a slumlord. And it will be very interesting for our campaign to know why the city is dragging its feet on this.”

  After Zack left for his afternoon of meetings, I sat down to check my messages. I hadn’t told Zack about Angela because there was nothing to tell. I had dropped in on a sad and seemingly hopeless life, stayed five minutes, and left. But the images of the children’s misery and of Angela’s fury as she condemned the fucking perfect lives of my family were sharp-edged. I couldn’t focus on the messages on my phone screen. Finally, I gave up.

  One of the initiatives at Racette-Hunter was a program called Shop Smart/Eat Healthy. There were no grocery stores in North Central, and not everyone had regular access to a vehicle. Shop Smart/Eat Healthy offered family classes about nutrition and regular excursions to big-box stores where a careful shopper could get more bang for his or her shopping buck.

  With a Costco Cash Card, Angela could buy what she needed. If she was interested in Racette-Hunter’s Shop Smart/Eat Healthy program, she’d have free transportation to the store and help loading and unloading groceries. The plan was workable, but Angela was proud, and the prospect of playing Lady Bountiful swooping in with a temporary solution did not sit well with me. The cash card was an unpalatable option, but the memory of Angela’s son trying to find fun with a battered sand pail and a kitchen spoon trumped my liberal guilt. I picked up my wallet and my car keys. It was time to head to Costco.

  When I went to get into my Volvo I noticed that one of the tires was low, so I took Zack’s Jaguar. It was a fun car to drive and I was moving at a fair clip in the right lane of the Ring Road when a black SUV started coming up on my left.

  It pulled even with me, then, in the blink of an eye, swung into me, bumping me into the ditch. The airbag inflated, the car rolled, the airbag began to deflate, and the Jaguar righted itself. The whole sequence was over in seconds. Stunned, I sat, still strapped into my seat. A good Samaritan ran down the bank of the ditch, leaned into the Jaguar, unsnapped my seatbelt, and told me to get out in case the car caught fire. I didn’t move, so he hoisted me in his arms and carried me up the embankment to the road. He put me down carefully, then asked if I was okay. His voice, like the rest of him, was immense. He introduced himself as Boomer.

  Boomer was the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley – shoulder-length dirty blond hair, missing teeth, heavily tattooed arms, a barrel chest that burst out of his leather vest, torn jeans, motorcycle boots. An unlikely saviour, but he was mine and in my eyes, he was beautiful.

  The Ring Road was always busy, and cars slowed to see what had happened. It wasn’t long before the sirens sounded – an ambulance arrived, then the police, then a fire truck. First responders everywhere.

  Later, I would discover that I had extensive bruising and a pulled shoulder muscle, but initially I was simply numb – an isolated figure watching as strangers tried determinedly to get me to talk. Everyone had questions, but I had no answers, so I clung to Boomer, my protection against the real world. I didn’t call Zack. I didn’t look at the Jaguar. When the EMT asked me my name, I told them it was Joanne Ellard, the birth name I hadn’t used in thirty-five years.

  Boomer proved to be not only my saviour but my best witness. He’d been riding his motorcycle behind me and he’d seen what happened. As the emergency medical team checked me over, Boomer’s voice boomed out his narrative to the police.

  Someone had checked my wallet, found my next-of-kin card, and called Zack. He arrived just as they were about to load me into the ambulance. Before handing me over to my husband, Boomer exchanged a few words with Zack. The EMT had given me something for pain, and the medication was beginning to hit. Everything suddenly seemed very far away. The last thing I remember was seeing Zack hold out his arms to Boomer, and Boomer bending to be patted on the back.

  I spent Monday night under observation at Regina General Hospital. Despite my protests, Zack stayed beside me. All night I drifted in the grey zone between wakefulness and sleep. But whether I was awake or asleep, the images of the weather-beaten sand pail and of Angela limping into the house carrying her crying children were never far away.

  When I awoke, Zack’s chair was close and he was holding my hand. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A toothbrush,” I said.

  Word for word this was the exchange Zack and I had the morning after we first made love, and we both smiled at the memory. Zack kissed my hand. “You and I both know where toothbrushes lead. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Two hours later, I was home.

  During the early years when my kids were in sports, I handled all injuries that didn’t involve blood by buying two Freezees from the concession stand. I’d sit the injured child down, tell him or her to stay still, elevate the arm or leg, hold one of the Freezees on the injured area, and open the other Freezee and give it to the child to suck on. The treatment was based on the acronym RICE – rest, ice, compression, elevation. The therapy for my pulled shoulder muscles followed the RICE protocol except it didn’t involve Freezees.

  Before I left the hospital I was fitted with a cold shoulder wrap that kept my shoulder iced, compressed, and relatively immobile. Suitably trussed, all I had to do was take my anti-inflammatory painkillers and get plenty of rest. I settled in on the couch in the living room with a comforter, Lady Antonia Fraser’s memoir of her life with Harold Pinter, and a pot of tea. I was determined to be a compliant patient who healed quickly. Zack offered to clear his calendar for the next few days, but I reminded him that the election was now only a month away and every day counted.

  I was just nicely into the first stirrings of passion between Lady Antonia and Harold when the doorbell rang. It was Brock. I stood aside to let him in. He usually moved with the athletic looseness of a person comfortable in his own body, but that day as he walked towards the living room he was tense.

  “I know you’re supposed to be resting,” he said. “But I had to see how you’re doing.” He tried a smile. “I recognize the cold shoulder wrap from my football days. Those things really do work. Anyway, we need to talk. I promise I won’t stay long.”

  He helped as I lowered myself carefully back onto the couch, then pulled a chair over and sat beside me. His face was grave. “Joanne, I don’t want to add to your anxiety, but I think we have to face the fact that whoever did this to you probably thought that Zack was driving the car.”

  My stomach roiled. “You’re right,” I said. “There aren’t that many white Jags in the city and the vanity plate is a giveaway.” Out of nowhere a memory came. One night before we were married, Zack and I had parked down by the creek. A police officer arrived and took great pleasure in shining his flashlight on us. As Zack was zipping up the cop suggested that the next time Mr. Shreve was feeling randy he should rent a room or at least drive a less identifiable car.

  Brock was looking at me with concern. “Joanne, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. My mind just drifted there for a moment.”

  “I’m sor
ry. You should be resting. I just need to be clear about exactly what happened. Did you get out of the car at any point? If the person following the Jag saw you get out, that would change the picture.”

  “No, I got into the car in the underground garage. I was on my way to the east end to shop.” My shoulder was aching and I adjusted my position.

  Brock picked up two small rectangular pillows from the couch and placed them expertly behind my neck and shoulder. “Better?” he said.

  I nodded. “Much better. Thanks. Brock, Debbie’s coming over in a few minutes. Why don’t you stick around and see if anything new has come up?”

  “I’d like to. Maybe the three of us can start putting the pieces together.”

  “We live in hope,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to curl up for a while.” With that, I turned back to my tepid tea and Lady Antonia and Harold’s far from tepid love affair.

  After she’d given me a quick, concerned head-to-toe, Debbie moved straight to the business at hand. She took out a paper notebook, wrote Cronus’s name in the middle of the page, and circled it. Then she drew spokes out from the circle and labelled each neatly: alleged abduction conspiracy; Darryl Colby’s office; the black SUV.

  “You’re going to have to add another spoke,” Brock said. “Two nights ago I had trouble sleeping. I took my bike out for a ride. I had a strong sense that I was being followed – by a black SUV. After what happened to Joanne, I’m certain we’re being targeted.”

  Debbie added a spoke, labelled it Brock Poitras, and stared at the diagram. “Something’s missing,” she said. “In fact, a lot of ‘somethings’ are missing. I’ll go back to Boomer. See if he remembers anything more.”

  I changed position and winced at the pain. “Debbie, could I have Boomer’s contact information? I’d like to thank him.”