by Ross Pennie
Kenyon’s scowl had disappeared. “You’re facing other cases, aren’t you?” he said, his tone empathetic, the aggression gone. “And you guys don’t know what it is.”
“We’re doing everything we can to figure it out.”
Kenyon removed his hand. “Oh my God.” He bit his lower lip and gazed into the distance as though imagining a chaotic future. “You’re an infectious-disease specialist. That means you’re probing an epidemic.”
“Let’s not go that far.”
“But there could be a lot more cases unless you guys figure out where it came from.”
Reluctantly, Hamish nodded. “Yes.”
“So get out your pen and paper and let’s get on with it.” The cups and saucers rattled as Kenyon cleared them from the table. “I assume we’ve got to retrace Owen’s steps,” he said. “When do you think he contracted whatever it was that killed him?”
“We don’t know for sure, but we’re looking back two years from the first signs of illness.”
Kenyon set the dishes in the sink and leaned against the counter. He frowned, as if working to recall everything that could be important. “Owen had viral meningitis a couple of years ago. His doctor said it wasn’t dangerous, just damned unpleasant. He got that right.” Kenyon wiped the table with a cloth, which he folded and placed on a rack under the sink. “The fever and headache lasted a week and the tiredness another few weeks after that. He was back to his old self before Christmas.”
“So he recovered completely? No after-effects?”
“None,” he said, returning to his seat. “For the next few months he was in great shape.” Kenyon swept the thighs of his jeans with his palms. He pulled his chair closer to the table and rested his smooth, pale forearm only millimetres from Hamish’s. “Things didn’t start going bad until the spring. The first time I noticed anything, we were getting ready to go out for my birthday.”
Hamish had to force himself to concentrate. The warm touch of Kenyon’s palm still lingered on his wrist. “What was that about your birthday?”
Kenyon flashed a quizzical look that hinted he’d caught Hamish daydreaming. “As I said, it was the first time I saw Owen acting strange. My birthday, May fifth. He put our whitening toothpaste under his arms instead of deodorant. Ruined his favourite shirt.”
“And then he started losing control of his emotions and having memory problems?”
“You really are on top of his case, aren’t you? I’m glad I pushed for the autopsy.”
Hamish’s heart raced like a Lamborghini, but neither angst nor fear had its foot on the gas.
CHAPTER 12
“Watch me, Dad,” Max called from the far side of the swimming pool at three thirty that afternoon. “I’m gonna do a really huge one.” With that, Max sprang from the diving board and made a large cannonball splash.
The pungent smell of chlorine peppered Zol’s nose and stung his eyes as he watched from the poolside bleachers. Every minute of discomfort was worth it to watch Max having such fun in the pool. “That was a huge one,” Zol said with a clap of his hands after the small body popped to the frothy surface. “Good for you. Now let’s see the butterfly you’ve been working on.”
The weekly lessons, the free swims afterwards, and Max’s natural enthusiasm had turned him into such a nimble swimmer that you had to look closely to see that his left arm didn’t straighten completely at the elbow. In all the rippling and splashing, the knot of crooked fingers in the left hand disappeared. Here, Max was as whole and as agile and as perfectly created as any other boy.
Day to day, Max didn’t seem to notice the spasticity of his arm or the compromised function of his hand. But still, it was a worry. His pediatrician said the spasticity in Max’s fingers was certain to worsen as he got older. And so would the teasing. His classmates in grade two only showed wholesome curiosity at the special way Max held his game gadget. They cared nothing about cerebral palsy, did not even know the term to use it as a label of derision. Zol ached to think of those same seven-year-olds transformed into a huddle of taunting preteen bullies.
The pediatrician had referred Max to a neurologist, Dr. Margolis, at Caledonian Medical Centre. Margolis pronounced that Max would be an excellent candidate for a new treatment of the muscle stiffness that had disabled Max’s arm since birth. Extendo-Tox, a derivative of the botulinum toxin first made famous as the de-wrinkler of Hollywood’s aging faces, was said to be working wonders at relaxing the cramped-up limbs of children affected by CP. By partly paralyzing overstimulated muscles, Extendo-Tox made crooked joints straighter and clawed fingers nimble. And because this new extended-action version of the toxin had been bioengineered to last for twelve months at a time, there were very few injections compared to the old formulation that had to be painfully repeated at least four times every year.
The hitch was that Dr. Margolis had a long list of children waiting for the Extendo-Tox injections. Margolis was the only pediatric neurologist in the two hundred kilometres between London and Toronto. His partner had left for greener pastures in the U.S.A. where MRIs and PET scans were available almost instantly at the swipe of a credit card. Zol still couldn’t stop feeling resentful that the earliest Dr. Margolis’s secretary could book Max for the procedure was the third week of January. So much for watching Max unwrap his Christmas presents with a rejuvenated left hand.
At the sound of four toots of the lifeguard’s whistle the free swim was over for the week. In the changing room, Max slipped off his bathing suit, gave himself a cursory wipe with his towel, and put on his clothes as Zol handed them to him, piece by piece, so they wouldn’t fall onto the wet floor. When he still had his socks, shoes, and sweater to put on, Max planted his bare feet and cocked his head. “Daddy, I’m wondering.”
“What are you wondering?”
“Will Cory go to heaven?”
“Cory? He seems fine to me. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. Here — dry your feet and put on your socks.”
Max didn’t budge. “But when Cory dies, will he go to heaven?”
“I don’t know, Max. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Michael Thornley said cats aren’t allowed in heaven.”
“How does he know? Has he been there?”
“No, silly. Once you go there, you can’t come back. Like Uncle Joe.”
Zol smiled, lifted his son by the armpits, and plunked him on the bench. “I’ll think about it while I’m drying your feet.”
“I’d miss Cory too much if I never, ever, ever saw him again.”
Zol lifted Max’s foot, wiped between the toes, and pulled on a sock. “Well then, I’m sure you’ll see him in heaven.” He stroked the back of Max’s neck, nuzzled him, and closed his eyes. He slipped his arm around Max’s waist and drew him tight. “But you won’t be going there for a very long time.”
“How do you know, Daddy?”
He looked straight ahead into the bank of lockers in front of them, where Max couldn’t see the graffiti of emotions on his face. A shiver shot across his shoulders.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Max?”
“How do you know I’m gonna see Cory in heaven?”
He shoved Max’s sneaker over his sock and pushed at the Velcro tabs. “Well, heaven is supposed to be a perfect place. It’s got everything you want to make you happy.”
“Even video games?”
“Definitely,” said Zol. “And if it would make you happy to have Cory there, he’ll be waiting for you.” He wiped Max’s other foot and pulled on his second sock. “How does that sound?”
Max smiled and gave the thumbs-up sign with his right hand. “Are we going to Four Corners now?”
Zol yanked Max’s sweater over his curly head and popped it across his nose in a motion that always made the youngster laugh. “Yep.”
“Goodie. Can I have a super-duper sausage dog?”
Zol winked and returned the thumbs-up. “Maybe I’ll have one, too.”
At five thirty Zol
set a bowl of partially prepared brownie batter on the kitchen table. “Okay, Max. It’s almost ready for you to start stirring,” he said. “Have you got the wooden spoon?”
Max nodded and held up his hand, spoon ready, his eyes as wide as the solar system. They’d been that wide at Four Corners while he was scarfing a Viennese pork sausage, slathered with corn pickle and ketchup, followed by a handful of sickly-sweet Swiss chocolates.
Clutching the spoon with his right hand, Max hopped onto a chair, perched on his knees, and reached for the half-filled mixing bowl.
“Wait just a sec,” said Zol, lifting the hot saucepan from the stove. “Let me pour in the butter and chocolate.” He swirled the thick dark liquid over the white mound of flour, sugar, and baking powder. “Okay. All yours.”
Max held his spoon high and motionless above the bowl, like a conductor not quite ready for his orchestra to begin. “Daddy . . .” Max cocked his head and fired a teasing look that said Zol had made one of the dumbest moves ever. “You forgot something.”
“What?”
“Can you guess? They’re yellow.”
“Yellow?” Zol stared into the bowl for a moment and tapped the cleft in his chin. “What a goof,” he said, slapping his forehead. “I forgot the eggs.”
Zol cracked two eggs into the bowl and steadied it while Max, the tip of his tongue clamped between his lips, whisked the batter with the force of a professional.
“Can I have one as soon as they’re done?” Max said, hunched over the bowl, stirring with gusto.
“Don’t tell me you’ve still got room in that tummy of yours. Haven’t you had enough chocolate for one day? How many did the lady give you at Four Corners?”
“Only three.”
“These brownies are for my guests tonight. You get to have popcorn at the movies.”
Zol watched Max’s smile fall like a sponge cake removed too soon from the oven. The boy’s enthusiasm with the spoon quickly faded.
“Come on there, Mr. Chef,” Zol said, “put some muscle into it. We’ve got to get these into the oven so they’re done and cool enough for you to cut and test before the show.”
Max’s face bunched in confusion, then brightened. “You mean . . . ?”
“Isn’t it your job,” said Zol, “to test all brownies baked in this house to be sure they’re delicious enough to serve to company?”
At six thirty, Zol wiped most of the chocolaty crumbs and smears from Max’s hands and chin, and dressed him in his boots, winter coat, toque, and mitts. Max was peeking through the glass of the front-hall window when a minivan pulled into the driveway. “They’re here,” he shouted and ran ahead down the steps.
Ermalinda climbed out of a rear door of the vehicle. Her sister smiled and waved from the front passenger seat.
Zol descended the steps and shivered as the frosty air raised goosebumps on his skin. He crossed his arms and clamped them to his chest.
The driver, Ermalinda’s French-Canadian brother-in-law, rolled his window halfway down. Vapour billowed from Jean-Guy’s lips as he called, “Allô, Dr. Szabo. The night, it is cold. You should be putting a jacket.”
Zol shuddered then slapped his hands against his shoulders. “Max is excited about the movie. Thanks for taking him.”
Jean-Guy pointed at two small, bright-eyed bodies bundled and strapped into the seat behind him. “Our two, they are excited. And us, we are having a good time.”
Max was too excited to wave goodbye as he skipped down the sidewalk. Zol felt a pang of emptiness as his son ducked into the third-row seat without even a backward glance. As soon as the rear door clunked closed, Jean-Guy tapped the horn and backed into the night.
A few minutes later, Colleen Woolton rang the doorbell — an hour early. As Zol threw open the door, her eyes crinkled; her mouth opened in a warm smile. Behind her in the driveway, her silvery Mercedes-Benz sedan glinted under the street lamps.
“I know I’m early,” she said, “but I was doing a little surveillance job not too far from here. There didn’t seem much point in driving home and right back out again.”
“Hmm . . . bad guys in my neighbourhood, eh?”
“Afraid so.” She unbuttoned her coat and undid her scarf. “I run into villains almost anywhere. This one’s not violent, but he’ll get his comeuppance. Not to worry.”
“I’m amazed to hear you talk about bagging bad guys. You seem so . . .” He felt foolish instantly and wished he were better at keeping his mouth shut.
Colleen shrugged. “Short? Yes, I am small. Some might say too petite to handle brutes. But —” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “This job takes mostly brains. I can hire brawn when I need it.”
As he placed Colleen’s scarf and coat on a hanger, a wonderful fragrance wafted from the silk and sheepskin. By force of habit, he began to identify the components — gardenia, citrus, vanilla, and a hint of jasmine — that the perfume maker had blended with such skill and subtlety.
Zol had always been a sucker for jasmine activated by the warm glow of a woman’s skin. His high-school English teacher used to say that Shakespeare’s heroes were wooed by their eyes, while his heroines were wooed by their ears. For Zol, the wooing came through his nose.
While Colleen busied herself with her winter boots, Zol faced the open closet with his hand on her coat. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, struck again by the yearning that surfaced wherever he expected it least: in an elevator, in a supermarket, in a video store. The lesser part of this yearning was purely biological, akin to hunger, and could be satisfied discreetly in a private moment. The greater part was more profound. It was a loneliness of spirit that he feared might last a lifetime, deepening when Max grew into an independent teenager. His yearning intensified as he fumbled with the coat and the hanger and wondered why no woman had proven equal to the promises conveyed by her scent.
He swallowed hard and guided Colleen and her captivating fragrance ahead of him into the kitchen. He manoeuvred himself to the opposite side of the counter before the private detective he’d hired to unravel a complicated problem could spot what was developing inside his jeans.
“Have you eaten?” Zol asked, by way of a diversion.
Colleen inclined her head and bit her lower lip. “Actually not,” she said, then added, “but I didn’t come early so you’d have to feed me.”
“Do you like Campanzola? I was going to make myself an omelette.”
She pulled up a bar stool and climbed onto it. “Sounds delicious.” She rested her elbows on the countertop, her tiny ankles hugging the legs of the stool.
Zol pulled ingredients from the fridge and peeled an onion. His eyes stung, and the physical intensity of the earlier moment eased, leaving in its wake a pleasant excitement. He hadn’t felt this good in ages.
Colleen’s gaze fixed on his hands at the chopping board. “It’s extraordinary how you do that,” she said.
He paused and looked up from his task. “The first thing we learned in cooking school.”
“Chopping onions?”
“Chopping everything but our fingers.” He held up his hands and fanned his digits. “See, still got all ten.”
“There’s quite an art to it.”
“I suppose.” He made a show of chopping a green pepper. “It was the first thing that impressed my family. More than the taste of my cooking.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No, I’m serious. They still prefer my mother’s meals. She gets a bit huffy if I make more than a peanut butter sandwich in her kitchen.”
He continued preparing the ingredients for the omelette and for a mesclun salad to accompany it. Colleen seemed content to watch the process without having to natter. He enjoyed feeling comfortable in the silence of another’s presence. She seemed to like it, too.
As he combined the ingredients for a quick vinaigrette, Colleen lifted her nose and lowered her eyebrows. “Is that walnut oil I smell?”
This captivating woman had a fabulous sense o
f smell. Zol hoped it matched a discriminating palate. “You’ve got a great nose,” he said, and passed her the unlabeled glass bottle in which he stored the walnut oil. “Do you think it’s okay? Walnut goes off pretty quickly. Even in the fridge.
“Smells just fine to me. But I’m no expert.” She sniffed again, gave a smile of satisfaction, and placed the bottle on the counter. “The first thing I notice about things is the way they smell.” She clasped her hands, separated them, then took a deep breath as if to say something, but hesitated. She fiddled with the clasp of her watchband.
Zol busied himself with the baby greens until Colleen finally took another deep breath. “You know,” she said, “what struck me first about this house was the oil of bergamot.” Her cheeks coloured as she continued, “Not that it’s overpowering, and perhaps I shouldn’t mention it, but every now and then it wafts through the air. Like a signature — of you and your home.”
The final nail in the coffin of his doomed marriage had been Francine’s complete lack of sense of smell. Day after day he had come home to Max’s dirty diapers left rotting in a pail, filling the house with a terrible stench. Francine had shown no interest in the subtleties of his cooking, and she’d drenched herself in far too much cheap cologne because a girlfriend suggested it, not because she could appreciate it.
But here was a woman who understood — and seemed to share — his passion for aromas. His pulse raced in his throat. He couldn’t trust himself to say anything rational or coherent, so he hunched over his cutting board and minced the hell out of the peppers and salad greens.
Colleen lifted the flask of walnut oil and appeared to study it. She set it down and raised the bottle of balsamic vinegar from the counter and examined its label.
“Look,” she said, breaking the awkward silence, “I’ve offended you. And I’m sorry.”
He stopped chopping. Was she playing him? “No,” he said. “Not at all.” He could feel himself beaming as he studied the golden glints in Colleen’s hazel eyes. “In fact, I’m thrilled. Yes, totally.”
