“Hello, Marisol,” she says. “It’s been a long time.”
I open my mouth, but my voice catches, a sob coming out instead. My aunt reaches for me and pulls me into a hug and says, “You’re safe now,” and for the first time, the voice agrees.
Yes, now you’re safe.
DALLAS’S BOOTH
Suzanne Church
Dallas and his equipment waited for someone to dash into his phone booth and place a call. Any call. Trucks and streetcars screamed by while he squinted down at the sweet neon glow shining through the booth’s plastic walls. The painted sheet metal roof had been defiled with a splat of white and green sludge—a Rorschach inkblot of defamation.
Damned birds.
He limped into the kitchen, channeling his rage into the knurled handle of his cane. His mother had presented him with the device when he’d still believed in the merits of physiotherapy. She’d found it at one of those conventions where people wore elf ears and talked in made-up languages. She declared it “cool.” Said it would reduce the embarrassment factor. Wrong.
He grabbed a broken bucket from under the kitchen sink and filled it to just below the crack. Slopping and sloshing with every step, he walked back and heaved the water through his second-story window at the roof of his booth.
Problem solved.
Abandoning the bucket, he headed for the only seat in his living room: his lime-green leather chair. A throne in a cluttered kingdom of electronics.
He flicked the “On” switch for the lipstick-cam and turned the dial left, then right, then left once more to adjust the contrast for the live-feed video image of his booth’s inner sanctum. Next, he activated the power bars for the computers, monitors, and the two banks of audio sensors and recording devices. Finally, he scanned the labyrinth of wires, particularly those leading to the parabolic microphone hidden behind the Twice-the-Bargain Pizza sign below his apartment.
All go.
Pleased, he removed the headphones from the chair’s arm and waited for a Toronto denizen too stingy to own a cell phone. Or too paranoid to use one.
After almost two hours, the equipment auto-activated. He licked his lips at the sound of a coin dropping.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me,” she said.
With a glance at the monitor, he savored the voice of the brunette repeat-customer he’d nicknamed “Becky”.
A pause, and she added, “He did it again.”
The microphone didn’t register the other side of the conversation. Tampering with a public phone was more illegal than Dallas’s other, lesser indiscretions.
He squirmed in his chair, thinking of Becky’s choices. Why call your mother, when you should call the cops?
Becky sniffled. She turned to face the hidden camera and the dark, swollen region around her eye conveyed her latest struggle. “On the face this time. He’s not trying to hide the bruises anymore.”
Dallas waited through another pause, as Becky’s mother probably insisted she leave the guy. He twisted the headphone cord between his fingers.
She turned her back on the camera and played with the coin-return slot. “I can’t. He went out for smokes and he’ll be right back. I needed to hear a friendly voice, that’s all.”
Another pause.
“He’d find me.” Becky sniffled. “He has people everywhere.”
Dallas wanted to shout out the window, “Leave him!”
Live-feed-Becky shook her head. “Mom . . . I love you. Gotta go.” She hung up.
The equipment recorded for five extra seconds as Becky opened the door and fled the booth into the humid summer air. Dallas grabbed his cane and walked to the window. He leaned back, in case she looked up, and watched her hurry around the corner.
He needed to catalogue the call into his “Becky” directory. Calling up the new file, he said to himself, “If the bastard ever uses my booth, I’ll kill him.”
He opened a digital photo of Becky he’d taken months earlier. In the profile shot, captured with a zoom lens, she wore a forlorn expression. He touched the computer monitor, yearning for the soft warmth of her skin. With closed eyes, he fantasized how he would brush her hair aside and place his hand under her chin. She would look into his eyes, helpless against his strength, and he would kiss her moist lips. Finally, her body would relax, safe in his arms.
Dallas woke with a start, from a call in progress. He jammed on the headphones.
“I told you, two kilos.” The spiky-haired punk-of-a-dope-dealer Dallas had nicknamed “Bob” glared in the direction of the hidden camera.
Dallas scowled at live-feed-Bob.
“Early Friday.” Bob took a drag from his cigarette and then polluted the booth with his filthy habit. “Under the expressway. Put it in a duffel bag this time.”
After a pause, Bob slammed the receiver onto the cradle and stormed out of the booth.
“Be nice to my phone, dirt-bag.” Dallas sat in the dark, waiting for Bob to vacate the zone, before cataloguing the call. His stomach growled loud enough to wake the roaches.
“Better scurry or I’ll squish you,” he said to them as he entered the kitchen. He always opened the fridge without turning on the light so they wouldn’t do their worrisome flee-and-hide dance. He slid two cheese slices from the package and loaded a plate with crackers from the cupboard. Un-wrapping each slice carefully, he folded them twice to make four perfect squares—the filling for eight cracker-sandwiches. Then he coaxed cold water from the tap into his mug with the chipped rim.
Each mouthful felt like a piece of his childhood, the processed cheese an orange window into lazy Saturday mornings filled with cartoons and bad sitcoms. In those days, he could sit cross-legged, ride a bicycle, and frolic in a park without a second thought, lucky enough to live the invisible life afforded only to the healthy members of society.
Once he’d finished his snack, he rinsed his dishes and set them in the rusty drain tray. The stove clock read 2:25 a.m. on his way to the bedroom. Leaning his cane against the night table, he sat on the unmade bed. The sheets felt slimy against his skin as he rolled onto his back. “I’ll ask Mom to clean you more frequently,” he told them. The sheets remained unimpressed.
“How can Becky stay with that guy?” he asked the ceiling. “The next time she uses the booth, I’m going down there to talk some sense into her.”
Yeah, right, the ceiling jeered.
Because of his earlier nap, he couldn’t find sleep. Instead, he lay on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, fantasizing himself into a hero’s shoes.
When he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the sunbeam had passed the foot of the bed to shine on the filthy wall. Stretching his stiff muscles, he stood and walked to the closet. The scrawny guy with the mangled leg glared from the mirror with disapproval.
Mom’s gonna be here soon. He grabbed his cut-off sweat pants from the pile on the floor and pulled them over his boxers. Yanking his last clean T-shirt from a hanger, he struggled to put it on with one hand while holding the cane with the other.
He skipped breakfast, choosing instead the lime-green chair. Mornings always dragged. Disasters requiring a payphone took time to develop. Through the window, a kid’s screaming tantrum mingled with the screech of streetcar wheels against metal tracks. Before long, Dallas heard the unmistakable three taps on the apartment door.
“Dallas? It’s Wednesday.”
He turned off the booth’s video feed, shuffled to the door, and said, “Hi, Mom.”
She hugged him. “You’re looking . . . well, I suppose. It’s good to see you, honey.” She picked up two bags of groceries and set them on the kitchen counter, leaving the door uncomfortably open. Dallas turned his back to the gaping doorway, anxiously waiting for her to bring the remainder of the supplies inside.
As she stowed the food in the kitchen, she yelled, “Drag the laundry bag to your room, would you? I’ll stow your clean clothes after this.”
“My leg’s bothering me, today.” The excuse sounded as weak as hi
s self-esteem.
“Fine. I’ll get it.” She returned to the open door and hauled the big laundry bag through, catching dust bunnies as she dragged it along the floor. “I’ll run the vacuum around for you, too,” she added, as she closed the door with a reassuring thud.
“Thanks,” said Dallas, as much for the closed door as the offer to clean. “Don’t forget my sheets.”
“I’ve started stripping them already,” she called from his room. “Oh, and I bought cherry Pop-Tarts as your special treat this week.”
Dallas winced. “Cherry’s not my favorite. I’d rather you get blueberry.”
She scowled, standing in his living room with a handful of soiled sheets. “That’s the thanks I get for doing your shopping?”
“Sorry, Mom. Thanks, so much. For everything. Really.”
She disappeared into his room again. “Did you get that programming contract from that company? I noticed your computer’s running.”
“Yeah. But they won’t pay me until the work’s done. Could you lend me another hundred?”
“Transfer what you need.” She sighed with the disappointed tone that Dallas despised. “You know all of my account numbers.”
“Thanks.”
While she scurried around the apartment, tidying, vacuuming, and giving him the I’m-so-disappointed-in-you stare, Dallas sat at his computer and pretended to work. He counted to a hundred in his head, seven times, and reached sixty-three before she finished.
She stood by the door, waiting for him to see her off, and said, “Why don’t you go for a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You can’t hide in here forever.”
“So you say.”
She held out a business card.
He stared at it. “What is it this time, Mom?”
Holding the card up so he could read the print, she said, “Lizzie’s daughter sees this therapist at the free clinic.”
“I hate shrinks.”
“She’s a counsellor, not a psychiatrist. No drugs, just a sounding board. Besides, the exercise would help your leg.”
“Nothing will help my fucking leg!”
“I’m sorry.” She rubbed at her eyes, clearly holding back tears. “I’m only trying to help.”
He bit his lip, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “I’m sorry for losing my temper, Mom, but I need to get back to work.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Grabbing the full laundry bag, she added, “See you next week. I love you.”
“Love you, Mom.”
She closed the door behind her.
He squinted through the peephole, keeping his attention on her and avoiding the edge of ruin. She descended the stairs, traversing them as if her feet performed the easiest action in the world. Her ragged gray hair bobbed down with a rhythm of innocence, unaware of her peril. At any moment she could lose her balance, catch a toe in a rut, or fall headfirst over the side as the archaic railing collapsed under her grip. He opened the door and tried to say, “See you next week.” But the sight of the stairs brought forth a terror that gripped his throat. Only a squeak emerged.
As he locked the door, his surveillance equipment auto-activated. He hurried to luxuriate in the first call of the day.
“Russell, it’s me.” A new caller. After donning the headphones, Dallas studied the video-feed. The newbie had dark hair pulled into a pony tail, long bangs obscuring his eyes, and a stocky build, likely from work that required his hands not his brain. “I locked the keys in the car. Can you meet me at—”
Dallas tugged the headphones off with one hand and set them on the chair. No point listening to a one-timer. Returning to the kitchen, he retrieved the Pop-Tarts. He opened a two-pack, broke off half of the top one, and headed back to his chair. He checked the equipment and gazed at the artificial too-red-for-cherry filling between the ragged edges of pastry.
As he squeezed the edges of the tart together, the jam oozed out, dragging Dallas back in time.
He looked past the subway stairs, at the blood pooled between the jagged bones erupting from his mangled leg. People shouted while the train barreled into the station.
He shook his head, forcing his attention back to reality. His cell phone rang. He dropped the pastry and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”
“This is an automated call from the—” He hung up, avoiding the marketing spiel. The oppressive silence of the booth lingered. Despite the traffic streaming past his window, he felt alone in the world.
Except for Becky. She needed to escape from her husband, Doug, as Dallas had nicknamed the unknown asshole. Doug likely drank too much and downloaded porn. Doug was probably too stupid to hold down a job. In Dallas’s mind, Doug watched hockey for the fights, smoked three packs a day with the milk money, and screwed prostitutes when he wasn’t beating the life out of Becky.
The tiny fragment of Dallas’s ego that believed he could man-up vicariously played out a scenario. Next time she makes a call, I’ll open the door and descend one stair at a time. Like Mom. Once I reach the bottom, I’ll glide through the front door and pretend to wait for the phone booth. When Becky cries, I’ll offer comfort. His heart pounded at the thought of holding her, being the man that she so desperately needed. The stairs, demons of deception, snickered at his plan.
He shoved on the headphones, unable to block the mockery. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to control his fear as he waited for the world to wander into proximity.
A caller shouted, “How could you be stuck in Niagara Falls?”
Drug-dealer-Bob again. The ass-hat looked as though he hadn’t slept since Tuesday. Bob’s unknown partner-in-crime must have woven one hell of a long excuse on the other end of the call because the drug-dealer didn’t speak for three minutes.
“Get back here, quick. I need you for a Friday delivery.” The Bob on Dallas’s live-feed picked his nose and wiped it on the inside wall of the booth.
How the hell am I going to clean that off?
A pause.
“What about Saturday?” Bob picked his nose again.
If you wipe that on the glass, I’ll come down there, and . . . you bastard!
The other person must have imparted a heap of bad news. Bob made a fist, pacing back and forth and kicking the door of the booth. Finally, Bob slammed the receiver. The equipment caught off-the-phone expletives in the five seconds before shutting off.
The sunbeam had already caressed the foot of Dallas’s squalid bed on Friday morning when his equipment auto-activated. Did I forget to turn it off last night? Dallas sprang for his cane. By the time he reached the lime-green chair, he could hear Becky’s sobs.
“He’s furious, Mom. I’m so scared. What should I do?”
Dallas screamed the thought, Leave him! in Becky’s direction.
Her mother must have said the same words, because Becky said, “I want to. I do. But he’ll come after me.”
Dallas took a long, deep, encouraging breath, grabbed his cane, and headed for the door. The key hung where it always did, dusty and unused on the nail beside the frame. He stuffed it in his pocket, opened the door, set the spring lock, and yanked the knob behind him. He leaned against the closed door, glaring at the stairs.
Only two flights of eight.
Sixteen slippery, steep, worn-down, ugly steps.
His mother managed the trip every Wednesday. He’d done it himself, countless times, before his accident. Before his leg morphed into a dark-alley freak-show.
He inhaled, gripped his cane, and took a guarded step toward the staircase. And then one more.
After three hard swallows, and one hyperventilating fit—during which he experienced the acrid stench of the neighbour’s curry—he forced his feet to move to the brink of the summit.
Looking down made his head spin, so he focused on the ceiling. The holes of peeling paint had grown bigger and more numerous than the last time he’d stood here. The remaining paint had faded from brown to gray.
&nb
sp; He gripped the handrail. Remarkably, it felt solid in his hand and did not—as he’d expected—break free of the wall in a crumbling mess of rust and wood. He waited, motionless, staring at the pock-marked ceiling, remembering a time when he’d taken so many aspects of his life for granted.
Sixteen risers. Eight-and-eight repetitive movements of the feet, each bringing him closer to life outside of the roach-nest he called home. Anyone could do it. Except for Dallas, the broken cripple.
“Becky needs me,” he told the stairs.
They didn’t answer.
He moved his foot forward, bit his lip, closed his eyes, and pulled back in a panic. “I can’t!” The sound of his admission echoed off the empty walls, pounding him with humiliation. Turning on his heels, he pulled out his key, fiddled with the lock, and stumbled into his apartment. The deadbolt flipped with a satisfying clunk.
Safe. Defeated.
Once his pounding heart slowed, he shuffled to his lime-green chair. Searching through folders for comfort, he played Becky’s call.
“I’m going home, Mom.” A pause. “Only a small bag, with enough for a couple of days.”
“It’s about-fucking-time,” he said aloud to replay-Becky.
Dallas spent the remainder of the day snacking on cherry Pop-Tarts and waiting for Becky to use his booth. To summon her mother for their freedom-ride. At two minutes after seven-thirty, his heart skipped a beat when she opened the booth’s door. Fresh blood drizzled down her chin from her split lip, the bruise over her eye now dwarfed by deep wounds all over her face.
“Mo?” She sounded as though she’d stuffed cotton in her mouth. “E roke my yaw.” She cried as she listened to her mother’s advice.
Dallas gripped his cane with a surge of newfound strength and deeper, more intentional resolve. With the key still in his pocket, he charged out the front door.
Outside, with the door behind him, his surety faltered. The precipice so close, so endless. With thoughts of that poor woman, crying, broken, waiting in his booth for someone to save her, he gritted his teeth and stepped down.
Strangers Among Us Page 3
