by Adam Knight
The extended version of Cathy’s piece had been even worse on Saturday.
Thankfully it aired while Mom was resting, avoiding more pain for her and guilt for me.
Small mercies.
But seeing the greater details that Cathy weaved together was somewhat staggering. Showing the levels of mismanagement within the police force. Inadequate shelters and support groups for the downtrodden and truly needy. Which lead to more poverty and more desperate folks seeing the gang life as their only option. Watching the reports on the missing women, the victims of violence and narcotics. The number of people out on bail facing multiple open charges while the sloth-like legal system waded through cases, entitling dangerous folk to “time served” and “early releases” due to overcrowded penitentiaries.
It was a comprehensive piece. Tied together with the interview she’d shot with me only the day before where she couldn’t have known what I would say to help or hurt her special. Objectively speaking, it was impressive. Very slick stuff.
And it made me want to throw up.
It’s one thing to know peripherally that there were people in danger. People who are downtrodden upon and needing help. It’s another to acknowledge that these people existed. People with real parents and real families.
Sure, everyone says they understand. They feel awful. Oh, if there was only something someone could do to help.
Blah blah blah.
I’d seen it happen my whole life. To other people. To Mom. To myself. And while it was all terrible – no matter how much crap got dumped on you and everyone around you - at the end of the day everything boiled down to one simple reality.
Shit happens.
And it sucks.
So either you whine and cry about it, or you pick yourself up off the ground. Face your shit head on and tell your shit that you ain’t gonna bend no matter how much more shit gets piled on top of you.
Still sucks though. Especially when you see others bitching about the system and being rewarded for it.
Pisses me off.
So does the price of gas.
And knowing that the kid who shot me is wandering the streets a free man.
I slammed the steering wheel with my fist in frustration. My poor van lurched from the impact, nearly causing an accident because I was being an idiot. I made conciliatory waves out my window, acknowledging my buffoonery.
Once out of the main crush of traffic I took the side streets and managed to keep my cool until finally pulling into Mom’s driveway. I then began the usual circus trick of carrying fifteen plastic bags and my keys all at the same time, an important skill to have if one wants to avoid more than one trip from the van to the house. Shutting my van’s sliding door while balancing on one foot, cursing vociferously the whole time is usually worth style points depending on your level of grace and dexterity. Then making that quick – but not so quick that I tear the handle on one of my bags – walk to the back door is a talent that rarely gets acknowledged by the Russian judges.
“Joseph?” Mom called as I fumbled my way in through the back door. “Is that you?”
Who else would it be?
“Yeah. Sorry I’m late,” I grumbled using my elbow to try and shut the door behind me while trying to kick my crummy boots off amidst the collection of feminine shoes. “The Goddamned stores are packed and everyone’s as slow as hell today.”
“That’s all right, Joseph…”
“I honestly don’t get why people would choose to go anywhere on a Sunday,” I continued, lost in my own frustrated headspace as I heaved the bags carefully up onto the kitchen counter. I shook my hands out, trying to get the blood back into my fingers. “All those people in the fucking way. Crowding you. It’s impossible to get anywhere in anything resembling proper time.”
“Don’t worry about it, Joe. Why don’t you …”
Food stuffs began going into cupboards with loud clunks of tin cans, certainly louder than they needed to be. “It’s just so damned frustrating, Mom” I grumbled, assorting soups apart from canned vegetables. Tomato paste apart from tomato sauce but opposite from the crushed tomatoes. “I mean, can’t people use their brains and shop on different days? Everyone would have an easier time. There’d be better overall selections.”
“I should do a story on that.”
“Well somebody should! It’s bad enough that the damned stores are only open for six fucking hours on Sunday so of course ….”
Wait. What?
I paused in the middle of separating the microwaved popcorn from the rice cakes and checked back over my shoulder, one arm still buried in the pantry.
Cathy leaned against the doorframe to the dining room with her happy dimples striving to show through. She wasn’t dressed for work unless CTV had instituted a casual broadcaster uniform that included blue jeans and cream colored turtleneck sweaters.
I said nothing for a moment as my brain informed me of things it had noticed while the rest of me was too grumpy to listen. Pastel colored Volkswagen Passat parked out front. An unfamiliar pair of heeled boots at the back door. The smell of fresh coffee in the air at three-thirty Sunday afternoon.
Shit.
Feeling my face begin to heat up I withdrew my arm from the pantry and proffered the item to Cathy. “Generic microwave popcorn? Only half the fat?”
Her dimples came all the way out of hiding as she laughed lightly. “I’m good. Want a hand in here?”
“Joseph’s very particular about the groceries, my dear,” Mom called from the living room, dooming me to the embarrassed flush I thought I had left behind at fourteen. You know, back when Mom would get to the phone before I did and begin chatting up my girlfriends. “Might be better off leaving him to his own devices.”
“Is that so, Joseph?” Cathy asked, making extra emphasis on my full name.
“No popcorn for you.” I grunted as items started going into the pantry again. I made my voice as huffy as possible, still trying to hide my embarrassment. “Surprise visiting is considered extremely gauche, Miss Greenberg.”
Funny voices. Always gets a laugh.
“Fine, I’ll go sit with your mother. Take your time.”
I set the World Record for putting away groceries in the Joe Olympics that day. Medalling in egg arrangement on the proper shelf, roast beef slicing into manageable steak sized chunks and placing in prepared marinating baggies. My vegetable crisper storage was a little shoddy however. Stupid asparagus, never fits in there with the salads and tomatoes.
Five minutes later I strolled into the living room as casually as possible. Poker face up at full power.
Mom and Cathy sat on opposite ends of the couch from each other. As per her custom, Mom had stayed in her Sunday church clothes after the service. “Honoring the day” as she put it until at least suppertime. A good thing too, because I know how embarrassed Mom would have been if Cathy’d come by while she was in her housecoat with her hair all messed up.
Which somehow would’ve been my fault.
“I did very much enjoy your story the other night, my dear.” Said Mom politely from behind her coffee mug. “It was very nicely done.”
I managed to keep my questioning eyebrow from twitching to the sky, remembering my weeping mother sitting in that very same spot two nights ago.
Cathy flushed politely, making a tiny aw shucks motion with her hand. “That piece wrote itself, Mrs. Donovan. I have been compiling information on civic and provincial corruption for months.”
“Even still, it was very compelling.”
“Well, thank you. I just hope it brings more awareness to people.”
“I’m definitely more aware,” I muttered to myself, taking a seat in Dad’s battered and oh so comfy recliner.
“Did you remember the honey?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“The organic, all-natural kind?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You know how the regular processed kind affects my stomach.”
“I know, Mom.
It’s the organic kind.”
“Very well, then. I just remind you because you’ve forgotten before.”
“I’ve done lots of things before. Including all the times I didn’t forget.”
Cathy looked back and forth between us bemusedly.
“Yes,” I answered her unasked question. “It’s always like this.”
They both laughed, though Mom was a bit flushed as she did so.
Cathy caught my eye and made a show of finishing her coffee before standing. “Thank you so much for the company, Mrs. Donovan. It was nice to meet you and to let me wait.”
“Oh it was my pleasure, dear. Joseph rarely has any friends over.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-three years old.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t have company now and then.”
“What? You want to skin my buddies on a poker night?”
Cathy gathered up Mom’s empty cup as well, prompting my manners to stand me up and take them from her. She gave me a bemused smile.
Mom made a shooing motion with her fingers. “Go ahead you two, I’ll be fine right here. Go have your private chat.”
Is it possible to die from humiliation?
Cathy followed me back into the kitchen where I hoped like anything the flush on my face would be mistaken for an early spring sunburn or a heart attack or anything other than the flush of childish embarrassment. I ran the cups under some hot water while Cathy slipped on her heeled boots and shrugged on her coat. In the living room I heard the snap-whine of our old model tube TV clicking on as Mom settled into her spot on the couch.
“So,” I said, drying my hands on a dishtowel. “Three visits in a week. I’m not sure my debt collectors are that persistent.”
Her dimples flashed again. “Well, there’s interest on missed dates ... appointments.” She finished in a rush, correcting herself.
I chose to ignore the miswording. Nothing good would come from pursuing that line of self-flagellating humor.
“What’s up?”
“Can’t a friend just pop by for a visit?”
“Not when she never has before. How’d you even know where I live?”
Cathy shrugged, looking a tad sheepish. “Hospital records. Is that okay?”
The paranoid part of my brain shuddered for a moment, giving me a full high-def imagining of the tattooed kid and his buddies hanging out in front of my Mom’s house with my hospital transcript in one hand and firearms in the other.
“Sure.” I said through my poker face. “No worries.”
We stood there silently for a moment. My Mom in no way eavesdropping from the other room.
We both tried to talk at the same time. Then we laughed.
“Just like a bad movie,” I chuckled softly.
“No doubts.” Cathy replied. She looked up at me shyly. “You got dinner plans?”
Something clattered noisily in the living room. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“Sorry!” Mom called. “Everything’s fine. Don’t mind me!”
“Why don’t you get out my baby pictures while you’re at it, Mom?” I called, my face heating up again as Cathy covered her dimples with one hand.
“Sorry!” she called again, the TV volume suddenly increasing. Vic Router’s famous voice making the call at the Brier apparently.
I ran my palm over my face and tried to regain some sense of dignity.
“Dinner plans?”
Cathy laughed. “Yeah.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” I checked the clock above the kitchen sink. “Can you wait two hours? I could use a shower and stuff.”
“Sure. Don’t get all fancy or anything.”
“No. Of course not. Why would I do that? It’s just dinner, right?”
“Exactly. Just dinner.”
“As friends.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“Sounds great. Where?”
“You like steak?”
I winced internally at the thought of a steak house then remembered the thick wad of cash I still had in my coat pocket.
“I love steak. Hy’s?”
She blinked in surprise, clearly doing some quick math in her head. “Wow, uhm I was thinking more of …”
“No worries, I got it.”
“Joe, I can’t ask you to…”
“It’s fine. You got breakfast last week. This one’s on me.”
Cathy screwed up her face in thought. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Now scoot, I gotta get all purty.”
Cathy smiled quickly and let me escort her out the door. I prayed that she didn’t hear the hammering of my heart as she passed by. She waved over her shoulder as she hurried to her VW.
Mom was behind me as I closed the door. Her eyes alight and excited.
“So,” I asked her as calmly as possible. “What can I make you for dinner?”
Chapter 20
“Really? Twenty dollars for a glass of wine?” I muttered sourly.
My earlier spendthrift bravado began to retreat faster than a whole pack of schoolyard bullies in the face of literacy. All my bluster and affluent talk smacked aside by the harsh slap of reality and fear as I perused the finely designed wine list in my hand.
Overall, the prices at Hy’s Steakhouse weren’t too outrageous all things considered. I’d seen worse, though it was definitely beyond my standard fast food fare. Dining out wasn’t really my thing. Always sucks to say “table for one.”
“Hmm?” Cathy asked from behind the rim of her sparkling white wine flute.
I forced my small smile back into place, trying to ignore how much that glass was costing me per sip and shook my head slightly. “Never mind.”
Located on the main floor of one of the office buildings at the famed corner of Portage and Main, Hy’s was considered the trendy place in town to go to by all of the haughty folks that gave me attitude at Cowboy Shotz. I figured that meant the prices were high with great atmosphere and lousy food.
Turns out the food was pretty good.
The waiter refilled my coffee mug and took away our empty dishes with a perfect, professional smile. I wondered briefly if he’d trained in HR with Donna from Canada-Pharm then banished that horrible place from my mind and turned back to my dinner companion.
There is a thing that women can do with their appearance that I’ll never figure out. Despite looking exactly the same they manage to look completely different at the same time. I’m not sure if it’s a hair or make-up thing? Different style of clothing, different coloring? Whatever. On this night, Cathy had gone out of her way to be unrecognizable as CTV News and Weather Correspondent Cathy Greenburg. And yet I never would have mistaken her for somebody else.
Fascinating.
And with that said … Wow.
