She nodded and looked disapprovingly at her mother. Like being eight wasn’t something you told just anybody.
“Kyla, this is Adam.”
“Hi,” I said trying not to be over-the-top friendly in that way some adults have of speaking to kids that aren’t their own. The same voice they use when talking to someone’s pet schnauzer.
“Hi,” Kyla said softly. She had Jill’s mouth and eyes but, at least so far, seemed more serious than her mother.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a copy of The Spoofaloof Rally, held it out to her. “I brought you something.”
She stepped forward, accepted the book, and retreated to beside her mother again.
Jill said softly, “What do you say?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Kyla. I hope you like it. I wrote it about three years ago.”
“You wrote a book?” Jill said. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“It wasn’t a Globe and Mail bestseller. Besides, I was saving it for tonight’s conversation. Now I don’t know what we’ll talk about.”
Jill laughed and she and Kyla flipped the pages of the book. “That is so cool.”
I wasn’t sure Kyla shared her mother’s enthusiasm but after a couple of minutes of looking through the book, she looked up at me.
“The Spoofaloof Rally is a race.” She was smiling.
“Uh-huh. But not a car race. And not for people.”
“For hippopotamuses.”
“Right.”
“Hippopotamuses can’t go very fast.”
“The race takes a long time.”
“Is this book funny?”
“I hope so.”
“Mommy, can I go read it?”
“PJs and into bed. Anya will be here in a few minutes. You can read for fifteen minutes. Then lights out.”
Kyla took off for her room, skidded to a stop at the door, and looked back at me. “Thank you, Adam.”
“I hope you like it,” I said a second time.
She grinned at me and disappeared into her room, the door slamming behind her.
Jill held her drink up in a salute. “I’d say Adam Cullen, writer of children’s books, has a brand new devoted reader.”
I clinked glasses with her. “That makes a total of one.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“So what’ll it be? Chinese? Italian? Or are you a meat and potatoes girl?”
“All of the above. There’s a nice Asian place not far from here. Amazing salt and pepper shrimp, not all breaded and deep fried … I mean, unless that’s how you like it.”
“I prefer amazing to totally breaded and deep fried. Should I call for a reservation?”
She glanced at her watch. “I think we’ll be fine.”
Ten minutes of small talk before Anya, the babysitter, arrived and we gathered coats and gloves and stepped out into the increasingly frosty night.
“I’d have left it running but I had a sense you wouldn’t approve,” I said as we walked to the car.
“You sensed right,” Jill replied. “There’s this thing called climate change.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Wow, a Honda Accord,” Jill said. “I used to have one. I loved that car. Perry got it when we split.”
“Best heater on the planet. We’ll be toasty in a couple of minutes.”
I was right about the heater and she was right about the salt and pepper shrimp. After several wonderful bites, I nodded and said, “This place is a gift from the food gods.”
“Told you. So tell me about Jay.”
“Right. Well, first of all, we haven’t found him. Cobb is masquerading as a street person to see if he can get a lead on him.”
“Not great news.”
“It gets worse.” I told her about Zoe and Jen and the murder of Owen Harkness.
When I’d finished she was silent a long minute … not eating, not talking. For long enough that the waiter came to our table.
“Is the food all right?” he asked Jill.
Jill came back from wherever she’d been and said, “Yes, yes, the food is fine. Very good, thank you.”
The waiter moved off and Jill looked at me.
“My God, that boy. That is so awful.”
I nodded.
“Did you know Owen? He was a user, I’m guessing regular.”
She shook her head. She seemed paler than earlier.
“Sorry to have told you this. But I figured you should know where it’s at.”
She nodded. “I appreciate that.”
“Ever hear of a group called the MFs?”
“The MFs … no, I don’t think so. That’s the actual name, not the Mother —”
“Nope, the MFs. All about political correctness.”
“Who are they?”
“Motorcycle gang. They run the house where Jay’s old man shot those two dealers. Apparently big players in Calgary’s crime scene … and they play rough.”
“As in killing Owen Harkness?”
“We don’t know that but it would seem to be a strong possibility.”
The talk was desultory after that. Then halfway through dinner Jill set her chopsticks down and looked at me.
“I think it’s time.”
“For?”
“A confession.”
“Is this going to ruin our evening? I mean, assuming our earlier topic of conversation hasn’t already done that.”
“I hope not.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. Confessions can be messy. And if Jill was about to announce that she had poisoned a couple of previous husbands or she hated left-handed men or she was an Edmonton Oilers fan, the tone of the evening would definitely be altered.
“Confess away.”
“I Googled you.”
“That’s it? That’s your confession?”
“I hope you’re not angry.”
“Should I be?”
“Well, it’s sort of cyber stalking, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure I see it in quite that light. I am surprised you were able to fit in computer time in your seventy-five minutes.”
“That wasn’t when I Googled you. It was after we went to Starbucks.”
I looked at her. “Why?”
“I … I liked you, I guess, and I wasn’t sure if you’d actually call me and I wanted to know more about you.”
I laughed.
“What?”
“After you left, the lady sitting next to us gave me some advice on communicating with women. Apparently she thought I was pretty hopeless — especially the Sleepless in Seattle reference. I guess she misjudged my animal magnetism.”
It was Jill’s turn to laugh. “Actually, I’d say she had it about right. You were pretty hopeless. But I liked you anyway.”
“Thanks, that should give the old confidence a boost. So what did you find out?”
“Not a lot. There were a few stories about the fire, a couple that pointed at you as the probable arsonist. And there were a few mentions of things you’d written for the newspaper. Nothing about a kids’ book though.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t a big hit.”
“So you’ve never Googled yourself?”
I shook my head. “I doubt there’s anything there I’d care to read.”
We went back to eating. After a few minutes I said, “In lieu of Googling, can I ask you a few things? About you?”
“Sure.”
“The shelter is a volunteer position. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a bookkeeper. I do the books for five different smaller companies. It lets me be at home with Kyla and gives me time for my volunteering at the shelter.”
“Sounds like a win-win.”
“I’d get better money in the accounting department of an oil company but I like the tradeoff of being on my own.”
“Tell me about Kyla. She’s eight and she’s great, but what else?”
“Grade three. Love
s school, especially reading and phys ed. She’s read all the Harry Potter books, pretty good for eight. I helped her with the later ones — they’re a little tougher. She’s also watched the DVDs maybe six times each. I think she has a crush on Harry. She’s precocious, only shy when she first meets someone. Next time you see her, you’ll be her long-lost pal.” Awkward silence. “I mean, if there is a next time.”
I smiled at her.
“I’m flying down to Phoenix tomorrow morning. I’d like to call you when I get back.”
“I’d like that. Phoenix … golf holiday?”
“No, not a holiday.” I looked at her for several seconds. Made a decision. I told her about Kelly and my wanting to talk to her in person, that it was part of my ongoing search for whoever set the fire that killed Donna. I wondered how she’d react to hearing that.
She ate a small bite of the shrimp, sipped her wine. “I think if I were you, I’d be doing the same thing. I’d want to do whatever I could to find the bastard.” She looked around quickly, afraid she might have been a little too loud.
I smiled again. “It might be a giant waste of time.”
“Or it might not be.”
“I like your attitude. Dessert?”
“I’ve been told I have a very positive attitude, especially about dessert.”
We ordered coffee and shared a baked blueberry cheesecake.
Back in the car later and after the Accord’s heater had worked its magic, I put a CD in the player. Arcade Fire.
Jill said, “I love them.”
“You know Arcade Fire?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
We sat and listened while I drove slowly through residential south Calgary. Between tracks she asked, “So what are you into musically? I mean you like these guys, obviously. So are you a rock fan?”
“I guess I like a lot of different kinds of music. Some day I’ll have to show you my collection.”
“This day would be okay.”
I looked over at her. “You mean that? You want to stop at my place? I have to warn you, the record collection is about all I’ve got. I can’t show you my etchings because there aren’t any.”
“No etchings. I’m devastated.” She turned in the seat, looked at me. “Adam, I haven’t gone out with anyone in a really long time. I have a babysitter who can stay up past eleven and I’d like to see your music collection. Really.”
“We can do that.”
I signalled to turn left at the next set of lights.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we stop and get my car? That way I can follow you to your place and you won’t have to drive me home later.”
“Somehow that doesn’t feel awfully chivalrous on my part.”
“It’s okay if I offer. It’s right there in the first date manual.”
“Yeah, but —”
“I know it sounds odd but some of the things I say will sound odd. Or so I’ve been told. I just think this is a good idea. For both of us.”
Good idea, for both of us. What did that mean? I got to thinking that maybe Jill wasn’t comfortable with coming to my house without a mechanism for escape if the need arose. Then why did she suggest my place at all? Okay, so maybe she was thinking he seems like a nice guy but just in case this guy actually started that fire …
I was still embroiled in this interior debate as I pulled up in front of her house for the second time that night.
She leaned across the seat and kissed me on the cheek. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Actually I’m not sure I do, but if it’s what you want I’m fine with it.”
“That’s even better than understanding.”
I handed her a card with my home address on it. “In case we get separated in traffic.”
“I’ve got my keys with me,” she said. “Give me a few seconds to let the van warm up and I’ll be ready. Oh, and keep the car running.” She was out the door and running toward the Dodge Caravan before I had time to respond.
“Keep the Car Running.” Pretty good. A song from the Arcade Fire album Neon Bible. This was a woman I could get to like.
I watched her climb into the driver’s seat, heard the grudging turning over of the van’s motor. It kicked to life after a few seconds. She smiled and waved in her side mirror. I waved back and cranked up the music. Drummed my hands on the steering wheel.
Happy.
Thirteen
Forty minutes later we were drinking coffee and Tia Maria at the kitchen table. Well, I was at the kitchen table. Jill was sitting on the floor, barefoot, her coffee on the carpet beside her. She was thumbing through the albums and CDs that took up most of the south wall of the apartment. She hadn’t spoken in several minutes.
“This is amazing. Do you have every piece of music ever recorded by a Canadian?”
“No. There’s an early Don Messer album I’m missing and maybe a Guy Lombardo or two.”
“I’m serious — this is unbelievable.” Still thumbing.
“There are some who might think of it as freaky.”
“I love it. I want to listen to everything here.”
“You better hope your babysitter doesn’t have to be home for about six months.”
She turned to look at me and grinned. “So what should we play?”
“Your call.”
“How about some Bachman-Turner Overdrive and Loreena McKennitt? First we rock, then we chill.”
I laughed. “Perfect combination.”
“But is it sacrilege that I didn’t pick Leonard Cohen or Bruce Cockburn or April Wine or Joni Mitchell or … oh my God, I love The Duhks.”
“I think you better stay with your first choice. You can get to some of those others next time … I mean if there is a next time.”
She stood up, crossed to where I was sitting, and for the second time that night, kissed me on the cheek.
She resumed her spot on the floor, just long enough to put the two CDs in. Then she picked up her coffee and as Randy Bachman and Fred Turner and the rest of the band poured out the first track of Not Fragile, she went to the window and looked out at the street. Her body language seemed to convey that she was deep in thought and I didn’t want to interrupt. But when she stayed there into the next track I walked across the room and stood beside her.
After a minute she took my hand, held it. “It’s nice here,” she said.
“Yeah, I like it.”
“Sometimes I think about some of the people I see in the shelter, people who must have been okay at some point in their lives, and I wonder why they would prefer the lives they live now to stuff like this — just ordinary life stuff that sometimes is pretty great.”
“Maybe they never had a shot at the ordinary life stuff that sometimes is pretty great.”
She nodded. “Maybe. But my God, that’s sad.”
“And for some I guess the pull of that other crap is so powerful, they just don’t see anything else.”
“That’s even sadder.”
“It is.”
“Sorry to bring up downer stuff.”
“There’s no rules on conversation topics. I checked that first date manual myself.”
She smiled and we moved to the couch/hide-a-bed that I congratulated myself on having made up that morning. Folded up, it made the room look a little bigger and more inviting and even conveyed the image that I was domestically organized, which was the case maybe 10 percent of the time.
By the time Loreena McKennitt succeeded BTO, we were on our second coffee and Tia Maria. Jill set hers down on the floor next to the couch and slid closer to me, the warmth of her body flooding over me. I nuzzled hair that smelled like fresh cut flowers as her small body fit comfortably against mine.
We listened to “The Mummers’ Dance,” and I could tell Jill was caught up in the Celtic pagan feel of the song. Her shoulders swayed gently to the rhythm of the music. When the song ended she turned her face toward me.
I bent to kiss her. Our mouth
s touched, moved against each other, softly at first, then with more urgency. Her tongue teased my lips and our lips and tongues caressed, the excitement moving through me for the first time in forever.
I moved my hands over her body, felt its heat, felt her moving as she returned my intensity.
I pulled back, looked at her.
“Wow,” I said, working at catching my breath.
She nodded. “Yeah.” Then, “How fast can you make this become a bed?”
I stroked her cheek with my hand. “Pretty fast.”
Neither of us moved. She kissed me lightly on the lips. I looked away.
“But?” she said.
“Jill …”
She sat back a little away from me. “I know. That was way too fast. And that is so not me. I guess I just … look, I’m sorry if —”
“Whoa, whoa. Jill this isn’t about too fast or I’m not ready yet or anything in that area code. In fact, there are parts of me that are hating what I’m saying. I like you a lot and I want you really a lot. But —”
“Ah.”
“But right now there’s something else that is eating me up from inside, taking my energy, my thoughts … my … everything.”
“Phoenix.”
“And whatever happens after that. I guess I’d like to get that done before —”
“Just so you know, there are parts of me that really hate what you are saying too.”
I smiled. “Can you understand?”
“No, I probably can’t. But I’ve never had the person I loved most murdered by somebody. What I can do is accept. And I do … with great reluctance.” She smiled and I was glad, partly for what I thought the smile meant and partly because it was a great smile.
I nodded, touched my fingers to her lips, her cheek.
“Thanks.”
“Adam.”
“Yeah.”
“The person who killed your wife is very likely still out there … and very likely still dangerous.”
I nodded.
“You stay safe, okay?”
“I will. Listen, how about I at least follow you home?”
She shook her head. “Not a chance. I’m fine.” She stood up.
I helped her on with her coat and we walked to the door. She opened the door and looked back at me, shaking her head and smiling. “I knew I should have picked the Leonard Cohen.”
Serpents Rising Page 17
