The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  It didn’t help.

  Seeing his wardrobe laid out was another trauma for T.J., and the worst is yet to come.

  Donny has lifted the camera again, focusing now on Gerry as our man mountain judiciously applies cigarette burns and dribbles of ash to the stained and already distressed ski jacket, a hideous, puffy, purple pile of unidentifiable material. Which reminds me, the shopping was exhausting too. T.J. kept reaching for items that flattered his shape or highlighted his eyes. He was even excited at the prices for some of the brand-name shirts. I’m betting that once this is over he’ll go back to do some surreptitious bargain hunting.

  Donny pulls out a battered-looking portable radio from his bag of equipment. It has a strap that’s been jerryrigged to allow T.J. to wear it around his neck. It looks exactly like the one I described to him.

  “I think it’s time you changed.” I gather up the jeans and pullover and boots and pile them into his arms, directing him to the bathroom just beyond the entrance to the common room. It’s small, really, really small, and in a few seconds we can hear him bumping knees and elbows into walls and the door as he tries to put together his new look. There’s no mirror in there, which may be a good thing.

  The bathroom door creaks open, we all turn to the doorway, expectant, and Donny hefts his camera up to his shoulder. There he is, our star, profoundly embarrassed, hangdog, standing like he doesn’t want any of the cloth touching his skin. The bargain jeans are stiff and stand out from his legs, and the grey pullover, two sizes larger than he requires, makes him look gaunt. On his feet are a pair of flat, faux-leather boots.

  “Not bad,” Gerry opines. “We gotta do something with his hair, though.”

  “My hair?” We’re back to that.

  Gently, Miss Semple leads him by the hand to one of the chairs. “You’re doing very well. Just a few more touches, and you’ll be ready. Please sit down.”

  “This is good, man.” Donny is grinning. “You really look the part. I wouldn’t have believed it, but you do. This is dynamite stuff. Say something to the camera.”

  He’s at a loss. As Miss Semple rubs baby oil into his once sleek, curly hair, giving it that unwashed, uncared-for look, he tries to come up with some words and fails.

  “Turn it off a minute, will you?” Donny obliges, going back to his wine.

  “There’s something…” Diamond is staring at him, his head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. “It’s his teeth! They’re way too white, too perfect. They’ll give him away. You’d better not smile, try to keep your lips together, mumble maybe.”

  “Yeah, mumble. Like your lips are rubber, and your tongue’s too long.” Gerry’s enjoying this. “You shouldn’t be smiling anyway. You’re not over-joyed, you know it’s just another crappy place. And don’t go asking for another room, or bitch about the can. It’s not a hotel, that’s what my worker always told me.”

  “Here’s your meds, in case he asks for them. Some places do. The hospital often sends patients out with these little brown envelopes, till they see their regular worker, so that should be fine. We got the meds from a tenant who left them behind. Anyway, if he does take them and hands them out later, just stick them in your cheek, and spit them out fast as soon as you’re alone. They’re antipsychotics, very strong, one pill can really lay you out.” As I hand him the envelope, I repeat, “Just cheek it and spit.”

  “When you say ‘lay me out’…?”

  “You’ll sleep, maybe for days.” Gerry is talking from experience. “And you’ll be stiff as a board, have trouble swallowing. Hey, maybe he should take one now, he’d be more believable.”

  I shoot Gerry a look that, instead of intimidating him, makes him break into a wide grin. He tosses the jacket over the table. “Put this on, and you’re ready to go.”

  We all hear the front door crashing open, undoubtedly adding another crack to the wall, and a high-pitched screamfest erupts. I’m on my feet, so are Gerry and Diamond. It’s not all that rare to have “incidents” in the house. With a lot of people jammed together, all of them poor and often tense, it’s a marvel there aren’t more.

  “Dana! Dana, where are you? I have the bastard! You get in there, I’m warning you, I’ll hit you again!” The crossing guard. Only she could hit those high notes. And her reluctant boyfriend, I’m guessing. We all meet in the narrow hallway. She’s in her civilian clothes, everything in disarray, her blouse under her coat gaping open, only one boot on, the other foot with a snow-encrusted sock. He’s a sight too: a little balding, bucktoothed man, cringing with his arms over his head. She’s whacking him with her stop sign, landing a few good blows before I manage to wrestle her weapon away from her.

  “Stop that! Stop the hitting!”

  She grabs him by his few strands of combed-over hair; he squeals like a mouse in a trap. “You tell him. Tell him you know what he gets up to. I warned you, I hired a detective! You can’t fool me and you can’t fool God. Tell him what happens to sinners who hurt good Christian women, women who just want to be good wives! Tell him about the fires of Hell!”

  Behind me, I hear Gerry mutter, “He knows, boy, does he know.”

  “On your knees!” He drops like a stone at her feet; he’s repentant all right. “Admit you’re a bastard! Pray with us, Dana, all of you, pray that God smites him! He has other girlfriends, he wallows in sin, then he comes to me, all sweet and lying, just to get in my bed. I’m a good woman, you bastard, not one of your Babylon whores!” She’s kicking him again. I think her missing boot may be embedded in his backside; her socked foot doesn’t carry the same impact, but she loses her balance and lands on her bum beside him.

  There’s an audience gathering, entertainment being scarce, and some of the tenants are leaning over the staircase, pointing, snickering, and adding fuel to the fire.

  “Smite him again!”

  “Details, give us details!”

  Above all this, another voice, this one deep, commanding: “Shame on you! Go back to your rooms! Is this how you behave? Jackals, all of you!”

  Oh Lord, it’s the evangelist, in all her glory, a lightning bolt of outraged Christian fervour standing alone in her tattered pink velour jogging suit, Bible in hand, staring down at us like a female Moses returned from the Mount. “Come to me, Sister, bring me your pain, bring me your sinner, we will pray together that God will enter his heart and cure his evil ways. Come now!”

  For a moment nobody moves, then the spectators wisely melt away. Enthralled, the crossing guard takes a few steps forward, letting go of her victim and oppressor long enough for him to stand, a little shakily, a little warily, understandable in the circumstances.

  Sister Jane points a stern finger at him. “Salvation waits! Jesus died for your sins! Will you kill him again? Or will you accept the sacrifice?”

  The miserable little sinner reaches out his hand, and the crossing guard takes it. They stumble forward and up the stairs, where Sister Jane turns regally and leads them on to her church on the second floor.

  It’s so quiet now, there’s just me, Miss Semple, Gerry and Diamond, standing in a little circle, staring at one another.

  T.J.! Back in the common room, the cameraman is relaxing on the couch, smoking a cigarette. He grins at us, rolls his eyes, and waves a hand toward the bathroom. “T.J. said he had to pee.”

  “T.J., it’s all right, they’ve gone, you can come out now.” I don’t hear anything, so I call to him again. “T.J.?”

  There’s the sound of flushing, which is quite loud, rattling the pipes as usual, and he fumbles with the door, opening it just a crack.

  “Really, it’s quiet, back to normal.”

  Gerry guffaws, I can’t even glare at him. Poor T.J., this has been a bit much for him. He’s starting to realize what he’s gotten himself into.

  “C’mon upstairs with me for a minute, T.J., I want to show you something. We’ll be back in a minute, guys.”

  I lead him to the staircase, keeping my ears alert for sounds of
heavy praying, but all’s still in the house chapel. I’m feeling a little guilty about leaving the crossing guard to Sister Jane, but not so guilty that I’m going to interrupt the prayer fest. By the time we reach my room, T.J. has regained some of his colour, though he still seems to be jumping at his own shadow. He sinks down into my rocking chair with a deep sigh.

  “Is it always like this?”

  “No. Listen, I know it’s probably a little strange for you, but there’s nothing dangerous here, and nothing dangerous at the boarding house. Really. All you need to do is keep your head down, concentrate on blending in. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know. Is it, well, is it like prison? I mean, at night? Will I be safe in bed? You said there’ll be others in the room.”

  “T.J., don’t scare yourself. There’s no need.” I repress the thought that there will be plenty of others to do that for him. “You’re on an adventure, look at it that way. Be nice, accommodating, you’ll have cigarettes to hand out, which will help. Don’t be confrontational with anyone. If something does start, which it won’t, just walk away. You can come over here anytime you need to.” He’s looking at his feet, his whole body’s in a slump. I’ve invested in this guy. And at the moment, it seems a pretty poor choice. He rubs his face with his hands, sighs deeply.

  “What are you looking for out of this experience, T.J.? Why were you so excited when I called?”

  “I want to be taken seriously as a reporter. It’s not easy at the station, there’s a lot of competition. I mean, anyone can look good these days. Have you seen the women? Probably the hottest ones in Toronto work for the station, and feminism aside, that gets them on air. And some of the guys, hell, they look like they’re eighteen, for God’s sake. I’ve got to break out of the pack before I get much older. I’m almost thirty.” He shudders a bit, as if he’s just confessed to child molesting. “I want to prove I’m worth the airtime. I think…I think this could be my chance.”

  “That’s a good ambition, T.J. I’d like to help you realize it.”

  He mumbles his thanks, still a bit glum.

  “Listen, let’s get going, we need to get you into the house before it gets too late. You’ll be alone until the morning, when Miss Semple and I will be by to check on you. Are you ready?”

  “I guess. I can’t believe I’m doing this. This kind of self-sacrifice must mean I really am a reporter, not just an on-air personality, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As we walk down the stairs, I’m mentally crossing my fingers, hoping he can last at least a few days. I remember with some discomfort my first week at Delta Court, how the sights and sounds of the place kept me shivering and frightened in my bed, certain I’d entered Bedlam itself.

  “You’ll be fine,” I mutter, to both of us.

  I’ve been hanging around downstairs in the common room tonight so that I can hear Ed if he shows. Miss Semple has returned without T.J., who’s now a bona fide tenant in the boarding home. It’s late, and everyone has retired to their rooms. I find it impossible to sit still, so I pace up and down the narrow hallway to the front door and back, accompanied by the discordant music of Gerry’s deep snores.

  I know Ed’s going to be angry at what I have to tell him, he’ll shake his head with that slow I-told-you-so gravity he’s so good at. But Rick is dead, Michael is missing in action and Cassie’s in hiding, so I have no choice. Suddenly, I’m feeling quite lonely and rather small in the face of all this.

  Maybe Ed’s right. Maybe I have no business playing at being a detective. With a sigh, I force myself to sit on the couch, and drop my head in my hands. Last night, about this time, I was breathing in the boozy exhalations of the person sleeping inches from my face. Not exactly a restful experience. I’d like to go upstairs, get under the covers, and forget all this ever happened. Instead, I grab my jacket and head toward the door. Far better to wait outside in the frigid air than to sink into self-pity.

  Ed’s just putting a foot on the first step when I pull open the door. We’re both caught by surprise. I’m instantly reminded how much I like his smile.

  “Hey there, Dana. Glad you called. I was afraid you were mad at me for cancelling on you like that.”

  He kisses me, sending little sparks of warmth right to my toes, but that doesn’t stop me from looking around. “Where’s your new partner?”

  “I hope she’s at home, in bed, all the hours we’re putting in. Why?”

  For a cop, he can be a bit thick sometimes. “Just wondered. C’mon, we’ll get a coffee and I’ll tell you what’s happened.”

  He groaned. “Not McDonald’s?”

  “McDonald’s.” I like walking hip to hip with him, one of his arms around my shoulders. There’s such a feeling of safety, of the cavalry arriving in the nick of time to save the day. Though a large part of me rebels against that admission, I won’t lie to myself: it’s wonderfully seductive.

  “I ran into one of yours a couple of days ago.” I tell him about T.J.’s show, and the dragon lady.

  He laughs, pulling open the door to the restaurant. “I saw him when he came back to the office. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. I guess she fits the bill all right.” He sighs. “Seems like everyone’s taking shots at us these days. I’m starting to think maybe we deserve it.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yeah. Grab us a seat, I’ll be right back.”

  I choose a table and sit myself down, keeping my back to the door and the huge plate glass window that frames the winter night. I’ve had quite enough of that view. In the daytime, this is quite a cheerful place, filled with high school kids, transit workers, parents and their toddlers, but now the colour scheme just looks garish in the unforgiving light. The few occupants scattered here and there are hunched into themselves, puddles of greying water pooling around their feet.

  In this neighbourhood, we all get our household supply of sugar, salt, and pepper from the little packets at the self-serve counter, along with creamers and serviettes, courtesy of the owners of the franchise. I expect one day we’ll come in and they’ll have moved everything behind the counter in an effort to stop the petty pilfering. I don’t know what we’ll do then. Ed’s heading back with a loaded tray, reminding me of our first meeting here, when he and his then-partner, Price, had come to the house to tell us of Maryanne’s death. It seems like such a long time ago, but it was just this past summer.

  Ed’s clearly remembering too. “Some couples have their own song, or a favourite romantic spot,” he says, unloading the little steaming bundles from the tray. “We’ll always have moulded plastic seats and quarter-pounders with cheese.”

  “Don’t forget the fries,” I add, snagging a few, and closing my eyes to savour the taste. He snorts derisively, then, wrestling out of his jacket, sits down opposite me.

  “How come you were at the studio?” he asks.

  That’s a lot easier to talk about than Rick or Cassie or Michael, and as I paint a picture of our plans with T.J., he gets into the spirit of it. “Good for you guys. It’s hard to believe what some of those landlords get away with. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  I nod, and take another bite of my burger, stalling for time.

  “But I don’t think that’s why you called me.”

  I swallow, sigh, and crumple a napkin in my hand. “Okay, here it is, Ed.” I take a deep breath, and let him have the whole story. He leans in to listen, and to his credit doesn’t say anything until I’m finished. Then, instead of giving me that head-shake I’ve been expecting, he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and pokes a button.

  “Price? Ed here. Looking for some information on a guy named Rick, Rick Merton, supposedly beaten to death in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Anything?” I watch his face, but he’s giving nothing away. I hear a tinny little voice coming from his phone, but can’t make out what’s being said. “Yeah, yeah, okay, no, nothing to add yet. I’ll get back t
o you.” He shuts the phone with a brisk little snap and puts it away. I’m about to jump out of my shoes, but he just stares at me.

  “Tell me more about these young gangbangers.” He’s opening his notebook, fishing in his pockets for a pen.

  “Tell me what Price said first.”

  He actually glares at me, giving me a real sense of how upset he is. “He was stomped to death, which, from your description of the wife, lets her off the hook.” It had never occurred to me to suspect Cassie. If Rick had been found with a bump on his head, sure, even a black eye, but not murdered. “Dana, it doesn’t mean that he was deliberately killed to silence him. People like this, heavy drinkers, they get into fights, things get out of control.”

  I turn the tables, glaring at him, till he drops his eyes and repeats, “The gangbangers.”

  “All right.” I go through descriptions of the most memorable members of the gang, concluding, “It’s not like they wear leather jackets or badges, I don’t think they’re that kind of group. They’re cocky and loud.” I stop for a second, thinking. “Of course, I’ve only seen them in that setting. But people seem to know them well enough. No one would dare challenge them.”

  “They can’t be that effective as criminals if they need an Out of the Cold program.”

  “I know. It’s funny, I didn’t get the sense that they did need it. Their clothing was certainly upscale.” I’m remembering the wool sweater and some of the brand-name running shoes they wore. “Like I said, they left, almost all of them, right after the meal, taking the girls with them.”

  “I’ll ask around, check with the vice guys. It sounds like something they might be aware of. In the meantime, you need to stay away from there. You’re not planning on going back, are you?”

  I hesitate a little too long. “Dana, this is no joke. Even if Rick wasn’t targeted, you’ve got some bad characters there. They’re not going to appreciate you snooping around.”

  “I know. Listen, could I use your cell phone? Save me standing outside in a booth. If I can find Cassie, I might not have to go back tomorrow night.” While he fishes around for the cell, I look through my pockets till I find the number of the coordinator of tonight’s shelter. The woman who answers is lovely, and as concerned as I am. She does know Cassie, but hasn’t seen her since “that episode back in November between her and Rick.” She asks if there’s any information I can give her. Not at the moment, I say, but I promise I will let her know if I find Cassie.