“Kezia does poorly at school except for one class: English, and she is interested mostly in writing. In fact, she has actually been working on a book—not a silly, childish thing, but a recipe book called Fifty Recipes for Snow.”
“Aliana, I can’t help saying that you got a great deal of information from this girl in what you called a brief interview…”
“I’m a pro, Ellis. And so are you. Kezia told me about a quote from the Book of Job that inspired her. She said that she did a lot of research and has already written a good part of her manuscript, based on all the things she’s learned about snow and ice. She told me that she’s writing about ‘real miracle-type things.’”
“How was she able to do all this, given her circumstances?” I was pretty sure this kid had spun a tall tale for Aliana, though the idea of the ace reporter being fooled was not an easy one to entertain.
“Kezia said that she found all this information on the internet. She said that her brothers stole a lot of iPads but they would never give her one, so she has to use the internet at the library.”
I had to stop her. “Look, Aliana, this is all very touching, but what does it possibly have to do with me? If you got all this information from this girl in a single sitting, it seems pretty clear that she’s willing to talk about her life without reservation. The idea that she would ‘open up’ to me more than to you just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Ellis, a life of crime is reaching out to this girl. She learned about her name and she found that quote from Job in a Bible she stole from the Baptist church her mother goes to.”
“That’s not exactly an indication of budding criminality. A lot of Baptists would be happy to think a teenager had ‘stolen’ a copy of the Bible.” I couldn’t bear to add that I myself had stolen a copy of the good book very recently. Without asking for it, I took home the one the pastor used to lead Queenie in her last prayer, her last words.
“Kezia has been caught stealing a number of times, including shoplifting cosmetics, swiping food from sidewalk markets, even tricking mobile food vendors out of food by running away without paying.”
I recognized these small acts of criminality, this lively contempt for law, and knew that Aliana wasn’t wrong. They might in fact be signs of greater crimes to come. I had once had to sentence a young man for a particularly violent murder. His lawyer had, in an attempt to achieve a lighter sentence, read a long history of crime that began when the boy was seven and had stolen a donut from an unforgiving vendor who had called the police and sent the young man on a long journey toward perdition.
“You can talk to her. You can show her that there are two ways she can go. You can tell her from your own experience…” she hesitated, “from your own heart, that one way leads to sorrow and the other way leads to happiness.”
“Happiness, Aliana?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said before I could give the matter another moment’s thought. “Okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The minute I got home, the phone rang. I assumed it was Aliana calling to say she’d checked her calendar and was ready to set a date for our first meeting with Kezia.
But she was not the caller.
“Your Honor, how’s it goin’?”
I’d certainly never had a phone call from Johnny Dirt before, but of course I immediately recognized his gravelly voice with its underlying note of contempt.
“I’ve got some info on that Ted Downs guy.”
“Downs—that older cop?”
“Right.”
“What? What have you got?” I didn’t trust Johnny, but, as with Aliana and our so-called “deal,” I wasn’t in a position to turn down any possible lead.
“One of our clients—a guy who never minds his own business, by the way—said he heard that Downs is assigned to special duty at Queen’s Park. Seems the cops are really keeping an eye on the provincial parliament building because of that Global Partners thing.”
“Why would they be going that?”
“Don’t you read the papers, man? And here I thought you were up on everything. Just shows you…”
“Cut the crap, Johnny. Just give me the information. I don’t need the footnotes.”
Johnny laughed—his annoying cross between a chitter and a growl. “Yeah. So Downs would be on guard down there because of all the rioters. Looks like this summit thing is going to be just like the last one. Lots of yahoos all over the city rippin’ things up.”
“I know about the summit,” I said, not trying to hide my irritation. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Get your butt down there, that’s what,” Johnny answered. “You’re lookin’ for info and if you can see Downs in action, you might learn something. Now I know that you think you got nothing left to learn in this world, but…”
“I’ve never seen the man. How will I recognize him?”
“You’ve got a good description of the guy, plus they all have to wear really visible name tags this time, seeing as they all forgot to wear them the last time the foreign bigwigs showed up.”
He was right about that. A number of officers had removed their name tags during the G20. The better to remain anonymous when they were beating somebody.
“Thanks, Johnny. I’ll check it out.” I hung up. And I went to bed.
But the next day, I got up early and I headed down to Queen’s Park. If Johnny wasn’t pulling a fast one—sending me on a wild goose chase—there might be a chance to observe the officer—maybe even talk to him.
***
The traffic was horrendous, and the parking ridiculous, as usual. I had to pay twenty dollars for an hour and a half, and even then, I ended up walking for six blocks along College Street before I could even catch sight of the red stone castle-like building, set in a lovely park, that serves as the seat of the government of Ontario.
As I got closer, I could see that Johnny’s information was accurate. A crowd of protestors—hundreds it seemed--was gathered in front of the building, yelling slogans and waving signs.
As was the case in so many of these public demonstrations, each protestor seemed to have his or her own reason for demonstrating. The demands on the hand-lettered signs they carried ranged from “Keep our city Green. Keep conferences out,” to “Justice for the people of Afghanistan,” and everything in between.
The place was clogged with cops. A line of officers with bullet-proof shields and riot helmets stood shoulder to shoulder between the crowd and the building. The nearer I got to the front, the clearer it became that these men were all young, not middle-aged like the man I was looking for.
If I hadn’t gone through so much trouble to get there, I would have just turned around and gone home. But instead, I wandered through the crowd. Before long, I was freezing. The trees of Queen’s Park were ablaze now, and despite the sunshine, I could feel the breath of winter on the wind.
I was headed back toward the car when I caught sight of him.
Except for the name tag, which, as Johnny had suggested, was readable from quite a distance, there was absolutely nothing to distinguish this man from any other old-school Toronto cop. He was moving slowly through the crowd, his hands nowhere near his weapons, on his face a neutral expression as if he could respond negatively or positively to any action of any party depending on what the circumstances required.
I watched him for a while, but the exercise told me nothing.
As I reached College Street, I stopped and turned for one last look at Downs. As I did so, he noticed me, strode toward me and said, “Move along, old fella. This is no place for you.”
Miffed at the insult and the waste of time—not to mention money—I did as the officer commanded.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aliana called that night. She didn’t waste any time on small talk. “We’re meeting Kezia tomorrow at 2 p.m. at her apartment. It’s on Kingston Road near Eglinton.” I jotted down the address. “Sorry I can’t talk now,” she said. “Deadline.”
I felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment when she hung up, but the next day, as I set out through the autumn rain, I was almost happy to be doing something that, at least on the surface, seemed as though it might help somebody.
Which is not to say that I wasn’t apprehensive about meeting the child.
The traffic, as usual, was slow across Eglinton. Scarborough, a section of the city running along the northern shore of Lake Ontario, is very spread out, and I passed countless shopping plazas, high-rise apartment buildings, service stations and little local strip malls made up of what we called “mom and pop” operations, tiny stores stuffed to bursting with merchandise that ranged from cigarettes to health-food supplements.
Autumn was taking over. The yellow and orange leaves would soon turn to red and brown. A few of the trees were already bare.
As I moved across the city, the waning of the year brought back a cluster of memories about something I hadn’t thought about in a long time.
It had been on an early autumn day just like the present one that I had asked Queenie to marry me. We had been walking in the valley, discussing winter and the fact that her clients, people who had once lived in a tent city by the river, now had warm, safe places to sleep every night.
“Safety is the best thing you can give another person,” Queenie said.
She was walking a little ahead of me on the narrow path through the fading trees. When she had been a street person, Queenie had worn all the clothes she’d owned at the same time, even in summer.
But it had been years since she had had to live like that. Now, she wore simple clothes appropriate to the season, but with a touch of the fashion of Canadian natives. On that day, she had been wearing slim black slacks and a black sweater. And over that she was sporting a beautiful wool shawl decorated with stylized designs that, she told me, represented myths about the seasons that were a legacy of her people. She also wore a silver cross on a chain around her neck. I never asked Queenie who had given her that cross and she never volunteered the information.
Once she had abandoned dressing like a pile of Goodwill rejects, Queenie had revealed that under all that cloth, she had a tricky little figure, an attractive, graceful body that the years had not yet stolen.
On that autumn day, as I watched her walk deftly ahead of me on the river path, I saw, in a flash of insight lasting less than a second that Queenie and I had been meant to be together from the start. I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder, slowing her and drawing her close. “Queenie,” I said, “I love you. I want you to marry me.”
She turned. There was shock in her eyes, then the wariness of a person who’s been tricked a lot of times, then a softening that I had never seen before. She reached up and stroked my face. “Okay, Your Honor,” was all she said.
I smiled at the memory. Instead of hurting, as all the memories had hurt in recent weeks, this one made me feel peaceful. It made me feel that I had been right in making that promise to Queenie and that I was right in doing whatever was necessary to fulfill it.
***
Aliana was waiting for me. As I pulled into the small “visitors only” parking lot in front of the Middle Scarborough Community Center, I saw her standing by the window in the lobby.
But when I actually entered, she was gone.
Seeing my confusion, the receptionist, a young black woman with a very cheerful face, nodded in the direction of a nearby hallway from which I could hear the melodious laughter of a young woman.
I followed the trail of the laughter.
And I found Aliana looking very efficient in a dark gray business suit that fit her slim figure as though made to measure and her thick dark hair drawn into a chignon at the back of her neck.
They were laughing, as if they’d just shared some hilarious joke. This I took as a good sign.
I stood in the door for a few seconds before Aliana jumped up and drew me into the room.
“Ellis, she said, “this is Kezia.”
The girl looked up at me, but her wide-eyed stare was the only acknowledgement of my presence. No greeting. No smile. Not even a small change in the expression on her dark-skinned, lovely face.
There are, unfortunately, a lot of obese teenagers in Toronto, but this girl was not one of them. Like Aliana, she was slim. But unlike Aliana she didn’t seem to feel that our interview merited any kind of special care in dressing. Kezia wore a pair of tight, faded jeans and a Maple Leafs hockey sweater that she must have borrowed—or even stolen--from a child because it was tiny and didn’t make it all the way to her waist. Over it, she wore a tight little leather jacket, a scuffed and battered object with a couple of burn marks that I didn’t want to analyze.
She had, however, taken some care with other aspects of her appearance. Her curly black hair fell in a shining tumble from her smooth brow and her cheeks were rosy, something I had never noticed on a black female before. And her wide, well-shaped mouth was quite beautiful even if she didn’t smile.
The light, easy manner she had displayed with Aliana seemed to have instantly disappeared. She made a sassy remark that I didn’t get, except to realize that it was personally derogatory and directed at my age, my gender, or both. Then she slouched in an attitude of bored contempt. She didn’t move in any way to greet me, so I took a seat on an uncomfortable wooden chair opposite the couch on which she and then Aliana sat, not far from each other but not touching.
“Hi. I’m Ellis,” I said, reaching out my hand.
The girl shook it with limp indifference and without a word.
“How is everybody today?” I sounded like an idiot.
“We’re great,” Aliana cheerfully answered. “And we’re really looking forward to talking to you….”
The girl looked up. “Heard you been in jail. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I answered. Remarkably, it wasn’t the first time I’d begun a conversation by having to answer that question. The fact that it came from a teenager in danger of coming into conflict with the law was rather reassuring. It was easier than answering it in front of other judges at a social occasion or having to answer it for my grandchildren. “What was it like? Was it really scary?”
“Yes. It was really scary. Especially at first.”
“Did they, like, torture you or anything?”
“No. But it was frightening to know that you were living with other people who’d done something seriously wrong—wrong enough for them to be sentenced. Frightening to be separated from your friends and family. Frightening to know that somebody was probably watching you every minute of the day…..”
“Do you get to take your phone with you? Do you get to text anybody?”
I had to smile. It had been the better part of twenty years since the day I’d wakened in the Don Jail and realized where I was and who I was then, compared to who I had always thought of myself as being. “I can’t say that I know the answer to that one, Kezia, because when I went to jail, there were no such things as I-phones, no such thing as texting.”
For the first time, I got a genuine reaction from the girl. I think “shocked disbelief” would be the term Aliana would have used.
“OMG. How did you talk to anybody outside the jail?”
I didn’t want to tell her that shame prevented me from wanting to talk to anybody. Not my former fellow judges. Not my then wife. Not my children.
“You didn’t. You didn’t talk to anybody on the outside.”
“Holy shit!” She shook her curls, which bounced back exactly where they’d been before. “What about eating?”
“I don’t know how it is now,” I answered truthfully. I suspected that the food served to the detained and the incarcerated today followed the same rules as the food served in other institutions. Gone the French fries, the hot dogs, the tough little pieces of meat smothered in salty gravy. Gone the watery soft pasta swimming in gooey sauces that always tasted like they’d come out of a soup can.
Now, I imagined, the jail kitchen
was full of fruits and vegetables and multi-grained bread and yoghurt and skim milk. I imagined visitors smuggling in bags of potato chips with the same concentrated stealth that they snuck in guns and drugs.
She shrugged, glanced at Aliana and shrugged again. “If you gotta eat it, you gotta eat it,” she said. I figured she was talking about more than food.
She had a lot of other questions. Naturally I wondered why she was so curious, but I was very careful only to answer exactly what she asked and to tell her honestly if I didn’t know the answer. Of course, I had to tailor my descriptions of my own adventure outside the law to suit the comprehension of a young teen.
“Wow!” she commented a couple of times, and I realized that I’d better avoid making my past life in the valley as a “hopeless” homeless person sound like a grand adventure.
With that caveat in mind, I tried to steer the conversation toward what I had learned from my life inside and outside jail, and of course I said that it had led me to the conviction that people always need to obey the law.
This was of no interest to Kezia. I could tell by her posture, which returned to slumping and the look on her face, which returned to its fine imitation of a statue.
“Ellis,” Aliana piped up, “I’m sure you’ve given Kezia a lot to think about. Maybe we can…”
Suddenly, Kezia sat forward, as if some new thought had hit her. Some other angle, some other way of making me tell her what she really wanted to know.
“You have kids? Like grandchildren and that?”
Aliana reached across and put her hand on top of Kezia’s. The girl quickly pulled away, but Aliana showed no reaction to this rejection. “I don’t think we need to ask Ellis personal…”
“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “No problem. Yes. I have a son and a daughter and each of them has a child. So, two children, two grandchildren.”
“How about a woman?”
“A woman?”
“Yeah, like are you married or do you have a girlfriend?”
“Kezia,” I said, “I had a very wonderful wife named Queenie but she got sick and not long ago, she died.”
Don't Forget You Love Me Page 7
