by Pat Capponi
“What?”
“I don’t mean to put anyone down, but the truth is, people get hard on the street, they have to. It’s about survival, pure and simple.”
“You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
“I am. I’ve done my time on the pavement. The company I worked for went into bankruptcy, and I couldn’t find another job. For a while there, I thought I’d never get back on my feet. When I found this place, I was humiliated walking in. I couldn’t believe it had come to this, taking charity from strangers. But I was able to help out the volunteers, which made me feel a lot better about myself, I’ll tell you. It wasn’t that long before I had a new job, an apartment, a car, all the things I’d lost. I love this place, I’d do anything for them.”
“Wow. That’s quite a story.”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing, really. I just know how it grinds you down, steals your pride, your humanity. You deserve better.”
“We all do.”
“Jesse, there you are!”
Oh Lord, I know that voice—it’s Mrs. Fitzsimmons. She’s right behind me, and Jesse rises to speak with her. I keep my head down, and pretend not to listen.
“Did you hear the news? We had a lovely reporter in yesterday, she’ll be doing an article on our little effort. It’s quite exciting, and you should know, I told her all about you, how much help you’ve been. So don’t be surprised if you see yourself mentioned!”
I can’t see how he’s responding to this; he doesn’t say anything.
“Oh dear, I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.”
“No, no. It’s just, well, you are the heart and soul of all this. I…” He seems at a loss for words.
“Mustn’t hide our light under a barrel! You’re a good man doing good work, and I like to give credit where it’s due. Anyway, you may see her for yourself, she could drop by one of these evenings.”
“Did you get her name?”
“You know me, I wrote it on a scrap of paper and promptly mislaid it. No matter, I’m sure we’ll see her again.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer, I’ve a mountain of things that need attending to. I’ll see you later?”
“Yes, of course.”
As she bustles away, he remains standing just behind my chair. Finally, after what seems an eternity, he retakes his seat.
“April, I’d love to talk more, but I’m afraid I have to make my rounds. I enjoyed talking with you, however briefly. I hope to see you again.”
“Thank you, Jesse, I appreciate it.” My instincts about people are usually good, but I need a little distance from his charisma in order to be sure I’m thinking clearly. I watch him walk back into the kitchen, and then I make my own way to the bathroom. Miss Semple follows me in, and watches as I check the stalls to be sure they’re empty.
Speaking quickly and urgently, Miss Semple says, “It’s harder than he thought it would be. There are so many people. Still, he says the man you were just talking to looks the most like him.”
I can’t mask my disappointment. I’d hoped, since Jon had actually laid eyes on our villain at the rest home, that he’d be able to identify him tonight.
“No, it’s not Jesse. He’s one of the staff here. There was no one else?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“It was worth a try. You both should head out now. Give Jon my thanks, will you?”
“You’re staying? Are you sure you won’t come with us?”
“I’m sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I wait until Miss Semple leaves, use the facilities, and head out to pick up a mat to sleep on. Right outside the door, I see Tatters, he of the sliced-up pants. He looks even more morose than he did yesterday.
“April.”
“Hi.”
“You like Cassie.”
“Yes, I do. Have you seen her? Or Rick?”
“Rick is dead. Cassie is hiding.”
I just stare at him, open-mouthed. “Who? How?”
“The bad boys. Beat him, kicked him, killed him. Cassie says, you watch out.”
He’s about to walk away, but I call after him, “Wait!” I need him to tell me more. Desperate, I add, “We can go out for a cigarette, is that all right?” Tatters shrugs an okay.
Outside, it’s even colder than I remember. At least I still have my jacket. Tatters is just in his T-shirt. He seems oblivious to the cold, his eyes riveted on the cigarette package I pull from my pocket. “Here.” I also have to light it for him, and as I do I can almost hear Gerry saying: You want me to stick around and put it out for you too?
“This is good, thank you. Cassie told me, if I saw you, to let you know. So I have. But that’s all.”
“Can you tell me who the bad guys are? Or where Cassie is?”
“Rick already told you, now he’s dead.” He sighs, forlorn. “Who will take care of Cassie now?”
“Are you afraid too?”
“No. Nobody bothers with me. They say ‘crazy man’ and stay away.”
“What’s your name?”
“No name.”
“Okay, okay. No names. Will you do me a favour? I’ll be back here the day after tomorrow, that’s Friday, right?” He nods. “If you see Cassie, ask her to write me a note. I need to know who the boss is, the boss of the bad boys. Tell her I’ll make sure he’s put away for what he did to Rick. Tell her…tell her how terribly sorry I am.”
He reaches out one hand and touches my eye lightly with one trembling finger. It’s only then that I realize I’m crying.
In the morning I’m up as soon as the lights come on, in the bathroom and out in record time, anything to avoid the crush. I didn’t really close my eyes all night, thinking about what Tatters had told me. I didn’t question the truth of it, he was too sure, though he wouldn’t tell me anything else, including where Cassie was hiding.
I catch sight of the weaselly guy from a couple of nights ago, the one with the big ears, just as he’s heading out the door. And I start to wonder, as I hurry after him, could he have ratted out Cassie and Rick? They’d both been afraid, that was clear, and now it seemed they may have had good reason to be. I catch up to him a few blocks from the church: it’s a hard slog, the snow thick on the ground, up to my shins.
“Hey!” I call to him. He turns toward me, alarm clear on his face. “Wait up a second, I just wanted to ask you something.” He’s indecisive enough that I’m able to get to him before his instincts for survival send him running. “Hi, I’m April.”
“Yeah?” He tries to snarl, but he can’t pull it off—he’s afraid, there’s no doubt about it.
“Want to make ten bucks?”
“Who do I have to kill?” He snickers at his own joke. He’s a bit more relaxed, not as anxious to leave. Money will do that.
“I want to know who you told.”
Now he turns to run, but I have him by his arm. He’s so scrawny, it’s no contest.
“I’m not mad, I’m not going to do anything but pay you, but I want to know.”
“What makes you think I know what you’re talking about?”
“Because Rick is dead.” His mouth drops open.
“You were so anxious to hear our conversation the other night, really anxious. All I want to know is, who did you tell?”
He tries to wrench free. “They’ll hurt me too!”
“They won’t know. Tell me.” I’m waving a ten-dollar bill in front of his face. His eyes follow it, his tongue darts in and out of his mouth.
“Okay, okay, the crew. I told a guy from the crew. Now let me go.”
“What did he look like? C’mon, talk.”
“Shaved head, you know, always in the back of the room, has rings in his nose. Gimme my money now.”
I hand him the ten and watch him scuttle off. I know who he’s talking about. It’s one of the young men who were sitting talking with Michael.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After a quick shower
and change of clothes, I head up to the drop-in. I don’t have a lot of time; I’m meeting T.J. this afternoon to shop for his clothes, and then bringing him back to the house so that we can help him prepare. It seems like such an unnecessary distraction, especially with Michael missing, but I can’t put him off now that we’ve got him interested. It’s not every day we can smuggle a reporter into one of these homes.
It doesn’t feel like ten o’clock. Going by my body, it’s more like 3 a.m. I can’t imagine what it’s like to spend night after night after night lying on the floor with strangers for all the long winter months. And my feet! As much as I enjoy walking, I’m suffering from blisters and aches and residual cold that make me want to sit somewhere warm, put my feet up, and never move again. Instead, I’m stepping from one pool of melting snow to another, and the cars that seem to race by throw up little tidal waves of slush, soaking my jeans and splattering my jacket. I deserve it, I tell myself, I’m guilty, responsible. Rick was right when he shushed Cassie, warned her not to talk. I put them both directly in harm’s way.
Cassie. I need to find her, talk to her. Rather than trolling through the downtown, I’m going to call around to shelters and drop-ins from Pete’s office, masquerade as her worker, and see if anyone has seen her, or knows her hang-outs. If Janie’s at the drop-in, I’ll have a chance to ask about her experiences at that church, though I don’t expect much—she’s not really the observant type, except, apparently, when it comes to spotting me.
The drop-in’s packed, and I’m greeted as though I’ve been away for months, not days. There’s a dozen “Hey stranger, where you beens?” and “Long time no sees,” all punctuated with hugs or updates of life’s events, moves, new boyfriends, new girlfriends, difficulties with welfare workers and probation officers. There’s a wet wool and dirty socks smell mingling with cigarette smoke, and it’s hard to navigate between the crowded tables. It’s made even more difficult by the winter coats layered over the backs of chairs, and scarves trailing on the floor, which has its own layer of mush slowly drying into swirling patterns of mud-coloured art. I still find it surprising that there was a time when this place petrified me. If Maryanne hadn’t been so insistent the day she brought me, I don’t think I ever would have raised the courage to walk through the crowd hanging around the door, they looked so rough and strange. But that was long ago; now it feels a bit like coming home. There’s warmth here, and friendship, acceptance, and trust.
I can’t see Janie anywhere, but she may still show. It’s early yet in Parkdale time. I can just see Pete standing at the coffee machine way in the back, showing a member how to make a fresh pot. I wave to him and he grins and waves back as though it’s mountains that separate us, not clumps of people.
Pete and I meet at an empty table and pull up a couple of chairs. He’s brought me a steaming Styrofoam cup, which I sip at eagerly before updating him on the case and my efforts with T.J. Pete is a good audience, listening closely even in all this barely organized chaos. I’m not sure how much to tell him about Michael. It feels disloyal to share my fears of how vulnerable he is, that he may have gone over to the bad guys, so I stick to the facts.
“I guess Michael was right,” Pete says. “The day I dropped by your place and gave him a ride here, he was already sure this was going to be it for you guys, the case that would make your careers. I didn’t want to discourage him, so I told him to take whatever time he needed, we’d pick up where we left off once he had more time. How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure. You should have seen those young thugs welcoming him into the fold. Most of his life, he’s had to survive on his wits. How he ever managed to keep his…his core intact, stay as caring as he has, is beyond me. All those years, balanced against the little time we’ve had with him…”
Pete nodded slowly. “So you’re worried.”
I’m loath to admit it, but I do. “A bit.”
“I can see why, but he is a decent kid, and I think you really matter to him. I don’t see him going back to that life, knowing how that would hurt you. No matter what the temptation.”
“I hope you’re right, Pete.” I don’t say anything about the pen and the scarf that he’d stolen lately. Those are small things, little blips on his moral compass. Turning against his friends, getting back into a life of crime and violence—that would be of a whole other magnitude, and I’m not sure it’s something I can let myself imagine.
Janie hasn’t shown, and I don’t get any more time with Pete—he’s called to replace a euchre player who’s leaving—so I head to his office to make those calls.
I won’t call Ed, I decide, unlocking the door and slipping inside. Even if he could break away from his svelte new partner long enough to talk to me, he’d probably just say I told you so…I stop for a moment, my hand on the phone, reviewing what has just flitted through my brain. I’m jealous of her! Green to the gills! I want to slap myself, bang my head on the desk. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, I want no part of it.
I realize that I’m muttering out loud, and quickly look around before remembering I’m alone. I promise myself that if I can’t find out where Cassie is, I’ll call Ed—Ed the cop, not Ed the guy I’m all weird about.
A dozen calls later, I still don’t know where Cassie is, but I have learned some things. Her last name is Merton, and both she and Rick have been barred from most of the places the poor frequent because of their repeated drunkenness, aggressive behaviour, cursing, and assorted other bad behaviours. The destructive duo had been together for at least twenty years, and efforts to separate them had failed. One young worker earnestly explained that she had taken Rick aside once, told him that he was a battered spouse, that she could get him help. “He just looked at me like I was the one who was crazy, told me I needed to mind my own business.”
Now that I have a last name for Cassie, I’m able to call around to the hospitals and detoxes, but she hasn’t been admitted anywhere. I tell myself that’s a good thing, as I look up the regular Out of the Cold schedule and call the contact person at the synagogue where some of the homeless will be bedding down tonight. It takes three different people before I’m given the name and cell phone number of the coordinator, and a promise that she’ll be told I’ll be calling again around ten this evening.
I stare at the phone after I hang up, remembering the deal I made with myself. With a deep sigh, I pick up the receiver and dial Ed’s number. I’m relieved to get his answering service, and I leave a message asking him to drop by the house later tonight if he’s able to.
“We’re here with Dana Leoni and her friends as they help me prepare to enter a shadowy world most of us know nothing about. Dana and I spent the afternoon shopping at second-hand stores in Parkdale, where we picked up a pair of torn and stained jeans that feel as stiff as cardboard, a couple of shirts with built-in underarm stains, and a puffy winter jacket and boots, all of which you see here.” He gestures toward the couch, and the camera pans over. “Because I’m easily recognizable as a television personality, I need to radically alter my appearance, take on some of the characteristics of a psychiatric patient, a poor person with a broken spirit. Once I’ve completed my transition, I will be accompanied by Miss Semple, a resident here at Delta Court, who will courageously assist me in gaining entrance to the infamous local boarding home. I will spend at least a week undercover, investigating allegations of abuse.” He pauses and holds up a bottle of wine, left open on the card table. There are other bottles, which we’ve been sharing, but they’re stuffed behind the couch for the moment. “You may be wondering about this. This is to help me achieve the medicated look that most patients have. I think my eyes are already a bit glassy. How’s that?” This last is directed to his cameraman, a regular guy named Donny, who shuts the camera down and picks up his own plastic cup.
“Great, good stuff.”
The ambiance of the common room suffers in the glare of the harsh spotlights; I’m beginning to appreciate the owner’s wisdom in using 60-watt b
ulbs in the overhead sockets—some things are better left unseen. Every tear and stain on the old couch, every grubby handprint on the wall, every hole in the plaster stands out in stark relief. We blew three fuses before finding the right outlet. Gerry muttered his way down to the basement and back, throwing switches like a pro, and cursing like one too.
The four of us are all missing Michael. He would have enjoyed this a lot, I know. We haven’t really talked about it, as if we’re afraid that to do so will somehow make his situation, whatever it is, even more desperate. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the church; maybe I’ll learn more, maybe Cassie will have sent me a note. I shake off the gloom that’s trying to settle on my shoulders, and then I notice that our heroic reporter’s brief rally of spirits for the camera is over. It’s been one trauma after another for him. The first had nothing to do with the state of the room or its occupants, it was the glaring absence of a television set.
“Where’s your T.V.?” T.J. had asked.
“We don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one? Anywhere in this place? No television?”
“Nope.”
He’d gaped at us, searching our faces for any evidence we were pulling his leg. Gerry had belched nonchalantly, “Haven’t had one for years.”
“But, but, how do you get your news? What do you watch?”
“I watch some of the sick bastards we got living here, that’s plenty for me.”
That old question, if you were stranded on a desert island and you could only have one thing, came to mind. I had a vision of T.J., Robinson Crusoe–like, cross-legged in front of a blank set.
“How do you keep up, how do you know what’s going on?”
“Who the hell cares? I got a bellyful in Whitby Psych. General Hospital, All My Children, The Price Is Right—eighteen hours a day, zombies crowded round, drooling and farting and shaking. Cards is better, I like cards.”
Feeling the reporter’s distress, Miss Semple offered, “I have a radio.”
