Up in Smoke

by Ross Pennie

  “A long drive south of Cleveland,” he told her. “Almost at the Ohio River. In two aboriginal burial mounds.”

  “And that’s where you found yours? Outback Ohio? Then smuggled it over the border?”

  He shook his head, then explained.

  He’d found the loon pipe buried in a corner of his family’s tobacco farm. He’d been about twenty years old at the time, playing around with his dad’s metal detector. Dad used the homemade gadget to find old coins and such along the shores of Lake Erie. Zol had never taken much interest in the hobby, but one Saturday afternoon, when he was home from chef school for the weekend, he found himself with nothing to do. It was the end of the tobacco season and he’d exhausted the list of farm chores Dad always had waiting for him. Zol was goofing around with the detector when it screeched over a patch of dirt. He got a shovel from the barn and unearthed what turned out to be a rusty strong box. He forced it open and found the loon wrapped in a rag. He had no idea what it was, but his high school history teacher at Simcoe Composite understood its significance immediately and put Zol in touch with the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto.

  “The Brits have dozens of stone pipes, similar to that one?” Colleen said, pointing at the newspaper photo. “And they’re all two thousand years old?”

  He’d never figured out how the English had managed to scoop up a cache of priceless artifacts and speed them off to London without the Americans making an epic fuss.

  “And carved from a type of rock called pipestone,” he explained. The ancient workmanship was as fine as the best modern Inuit carvings he’d seen for sale in the classiest art shops. “The pipe fits in the palm of your hand. Nose to nose, eyes boring into yours when you take a toke through a hole in the base.”

  “Did you ever try it out?”

  “A couple of times.”

  She studied the photo again, then said, “Amazing to think of the Indians smoking tobacco for the past two thousand years.”

  He flinched at the sound of that word, even voiced in her musical accent. He avoided it, Indian, especially now that he was a public official, representing the interests of a multi-ethnic society, and under constant public scrutiny. Only the federal government clung to the outdated term and used it in its legislation pertaining to Canada’s indigenous people. The feds still called the land set aside for the country’s original inhabitants Indian Reserves.

  On the street, everyday Canadians were so caught up with the shameful plight of the country’s Native people that no one knew what to call them. Political correctness inhibited constructive dialogue and strangled common sense. In the end, they were labelled Indigenous, Native, Aboriginal, First Peoples, First Nations, Status Indians, Band Members, Metis, Inuit, Mohawk, Algonquin, Ojibwa, Anishinaabeg, Cree, Dene, Haida, or any of a host of other tribal designations. And did it really matter, as long as you were respectful?

  “The original tobacco variety was Nicotiana rustica,” he said, sticking safely to the biology of tobacco, as taught to him by his dad. Gaspar Szabo had made an excellent living as a grower because he used science to achieve high yields of top-grade product. “The original tobacco plant was harsher than the modern version and probably reserved for shamans and chieftains.”

  He explained that pre-contact, Native tobacco contained an almost poisonous concentration of nicotine and an untold number of hallucinogens. Smoking it would have been quite the trip: psychedelic visions accompanied by a rocketing heart rate, dilated pupils, and drenching sweats. Europeans found a tamer species when they landed on Bermuda, or maybe it was Bolivia — the story changed depending on what history book you read. Anyway, Nicotiana tabacum was less harsh on the heart and nervous system, and not hallucinogenic. But equally addictive. The Europeans quickly appropriated the ancient custom they’d stumbled on in the Americas and transformed it into a worldwide mega-industry. And governments everywhere taxed the hell out of it.

  “No wonder Native shamans appeared to be possessed by spirits,” Colleen said. “With all that mind-blowing dope and the addictive power of nicotine, they must have been running round half mad a lot of the time.” She took her mug of Maxwell House and sipped it; her eyes lit with gratitude. She was no less addicted to caffeine than he was. After a moment of reflection she asked, “But how did your loon get from Ohio to Ontario?”

  “Stolen and traded dozens of times, I guess. First between Natives, and then the Europeans got in on the act.”

  She threw him that smile of understanding he was coming to love so much.

  After those rocky years with his ex, Francine, and the following seven years of hapless dating, it was wonderful to have a gorgeous, kind, smart, stable woman who understood him so well and expressed her appreciation both inside and outside of bed. True, he found it a strain when she pestered him with questions, but if that was her major imperfection . . .

  Max, now ten, had asked a few weeks ago if he could call Colleen by a special nickname, since she was almost part of the family. Not Mum or Mummy, Max had said, because he already had a real mother who was waiting for just the right time to come for a visit. Zol had quickly changed the subject, worried they were living a dream that couldn’t possibly last. Did he possess a flaw that drove women to nastiness once they got to know him? If he could ever remember how to pray, he’d plead on his knees for things to be different this time.

  “Come to think of it,” she continued, “that little loon did have a couple of millennia to make the trip. It seems to have been well cared for through the ages. Extraordinary. No chips in its beak, and its tail looks perfect.”

  “That’s what my history teacher said. It had been handled with the same reverence as the British Crown Jewels.”

  “Did you trace the strong box to its owner?”

  “Manufactured in Sheffield, England. Mid-1800s. That’s all we could find out.”

  She cocked her head toward the newspaper. “What’s this legend they’re referring to? A second, almost identical pipe is out there somewhere waiting to make big things happen when the two of them are finally united?”

  The front door opened and closed with a bang. Zol heard two clunks against the floor as someone kicked off a pair of shoes. The hardwood creaked beneath the approach of stockinged feet.

  A few seconds later, Hamish Wakefield burst into the kitchen. He was soaked through and covered in bubbles.

  CHAPTER 3

  At Zol’s first whiff of the bubbles, the Beatles struck up ten bars of “Hey Jude,” and he watched as Hamish’s jacket and slacks drained into puddles of industrial froth. There was no mistaking the smell of the cleanser from the Maxi-Wash, three blocks over on Garth Street.

  Caledonian University’s workaholic assistant professor — and one of Hamilton’s ace diagnosticians — looked as if he’d been plucked from the brink of Niagara Falls.

  “Good God, Hamish,” Colleen said, pulling off his sodden jacket. “What in heaven’s name have you been up to?” She fished two dish towels out of a drawer, threw one to Hamish and rolled his dripping jacket in the other. “Don’t tell me you went through the Maxi-Wash with your windows down?”

  Hamish shot her a look that said Give me a break, I’m not that dumb. “The track jammed,” he said through blue lips and chattering teeth.

  Zol clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh that was bursting to come out. He couldn’t trust himself to say a word; Hamish was easily offended, and his limited sense of humour never included jokes on himself.

  “So you got stuck in the Saab?” Colleen said. “With the water jets and rollers running?”

  He rolled his eyes and backed away from Colleen, who was now attempting to relieve him of his soaking-wet shirt. “I honked and honked.” He glared at his watch. “Sat there thirty minutes and no one came. Finally climbed out.” He drew his hand across the back of his neck and made a face at the pink lather on his palm. “Ultra Wax.” He swe
pt anxiously at his flat-top. For once, his hair wasn’t perfect. He patted his trouser pockets, and his face lit with alarm. “The keys. Hell’s bells, still in the ignition.”

  “I’m sure the guys will take good care of your vehicle,” Colleen reassured him. “Heavens, it’s almost a member of their family.”

  Did Hamish get the irony of his predicament? Probably not — he was too cut and dried to appreciate satire — but he was the Maxi-Wash’s best customer. Who else had their car preened at a carwash half a dozen times a week? Of course, Hamish’s anxiety over his vehicle was understandable. The Saab had been stolen from outside a gay bar a few months ago, during his first experience drinking to excess. When the cops found the vehicle and returned it to him, he had the body repainted, the upholstery repaired, and the carpet fumigated.

  Zol swallowed his laugh and clamped his jaw, then persuaded Hamish to come upstairs and change into dry clothes. Of course, Mr. Fastidious balked until Zol promised that the plaid shirt, Blue Jays sweatshirt, and slacks he was offering were freshly laundered. Zol conceded the pant legs were too long, but assured Hamish they’d roll up easily enough.

  Back in the kitchen, Colleen handed Hamish a mug of hot coffee and excused herself to get dressed. Hamish sank onto a chair and drank in silence, the fiery blush on his cheeks broadcasting his mortification. More than anything, Hamish hated two things: being wrong and looking foolish. Socially, he was the Tin Man, largely unaware of the feelings of others and inept at idle chatter. Sometimes he came out with tactless zingers that really stung. He had no idea they were hurtful. Zol put it down to his lonely childhood as a brainy kid — no siblings, few friends, and parents who bickered constantly.

  Hamish drained his mug and thumped it on the table. He was scowling. “You should’ve returned my calls.”

  “Hang on,” Zol countered. The sharpness of the guy’s tone was a bit rich, dressed as he was in Zol’s favourite sweatshirt and basking in the warmth of his kitchen. But he did have to admit, it was a relief to hear Hamish speaking in a normal voice again. The croaky whisper he’d been plagued with for a couple of years had disappeared a few weeks ago as mysteriously as it had come. Colleen was probably right — the feeble voice had been some sort of psychosomatic manifestation of Hamish’s anxiety over hiding in the closet. Now that he was well and truly out, and he and Al Mesic were openly partnered, Hamish’s voice had returned to full volume.

  “All day yesterday,” Hamish said, “and not a word back from you.”

  “I was in Simcoe. Didn’t get home till late.” Had Hamish forgotten about his new job? He certainly hadn’t called the Simcoe office. Zol’s new secretary, obliging and efficient, wouldn’t have forgotten to pass on a message.

  Hamish scratched at the yellow stain on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, then rolled back the cuff to hide the blemish. The Blue Jays logo looked out of place on his chest. He’d probably never been to a ballgame, never eaten a foot-long hot dog slathered in mustard.

  “Next time,” Zol told him, “message me on my BlackBerry. God knows, that thing can find me anywhere.”

  The BlackBerry had been the digital sergeant major Peter Trinnock used to keep Zol at his beck and call. Their three-year relationship was a Pandora’s box of complicated, tacit understandings. Both were well aware that Trinnock couldn’t cope without an underling thirty years his junior to take the heat. Trinnock panicked when the mayor, the press, or their politically ambitious boss Elliott York came calling. Zol could stay calm — at least outwardly — and blunder through. He chuckled at the thought of Trinnock forced to give up his three-martini lunches now that Zol was tied up in Simcoe. But would he?

  Hamish stood up and began pacing between the stove and the kitchen table. “I’ve been dying to tell you about a couple of things. First, my fifteen-case cluster of atypical skin lesions.” He was obviously feeling better. An intriguing medical dilemma always perked him up. “I’m hereby reporting it to you . . . you know, officially. A fascinating outbreak for your team to sink its teeth into.”

  Like most jurisdictions, the Province of Ontario required practitioners to report to their local health unit any sightings of certain contagious diseases on a specified list. Zol had a staff of inspectors and nurses who took calls from doctors and laboratories. Hamish insisted on reporting directly to Zol. Though he was flattered to have such loyalty, he wished Hamish would leave simple voice mails like everyone else.

  “What’ve you got?” Zol asked.

  “I’m calling it lip and finger eruption.”

  “You mean, like hand, foot, and mouth disease? Coxsackie virus?” Certain infections, such as syphilis, influenza, and meningitis warranted top priority because they were highly contagious and had devastating consequences if not managed promptly. This lip and finger thing didn’t sound too serious, so why was Hamish so bothered? Especially on a Saturday morning.

  “I don’t mean that at all.” Hamish was wagging that annoying index finger of his in full professorial mode. “Much bigger blisters that last far longer than Coxsackie. Weeks and weeks.” He waved off Zol’s suggestion, clearly disgusted at its feebleness. “The cultures are negative for Coxsackie. I made sure of that straight away.”

  “Could the blisters be herpetic?” Zol asked.

  “Thought of that first. Negatory on herpes simplex.”

  “Shingles?”

  “You’re not serious. Lesions on the fingers and lips simultaneously? Impossible. Anyway, the cultures are negative for V-Z virus.”

  Hamish’s demeanour had transformed itself over the past few minutes. Shop talk had replaced small talk, and the awkward Tin Man was gone. Now, a short, blond version of Oscar Wilde was pacing the kitchen with extravagant confidence. Zol pictured Professor Hamish Wakefield strutting the streets of Victorian London, a cane in his hand a cape over his shoulders.

  “You’re right. Of course,” Zol admitted. “What about an allergic reaction? Contact dermatitis. A plant? A herbal remedy?”

  “Honestly, Zol. It’s way too late in the season for poison oak or ivy.”

  “Easy now.” Hamish needed reminding that he wasn’t the only doctor in the room with a good brain. “Did you ask about firewood?”

  Zol had once diagnosed poison ivy in seemingly the wrong season. It was mid-winter and the patient a farmer with a rash on his upper limbs: blisters that had persisted for weeks and perplexed three other doctors. Zol diagnosed poison ivy that had been contracted in the act of chopping firewood. The man’s woodpile had been covered in poison ivy vines during the summer, and the plant had left its rash-causing resin behind when it died back in the autumn. He was still proud of that little diagnostic triumph.

  “No,” Hamish tsked, “I didn’t ask about firewood. Many of the cases are skinny teenage girls. I doubt they’ve been going at woodpiles with an axe.”

  “How about giant hogweed? It’s generated dozens of calls to our hotline.”

  Giant hogweed — a recent invader from China — looked like an enormous version of Queen Anne’s lace, the delicate wildflower that no one could resist picking. If hogweed sap got smeared on the skin, it caused large, painful blisters when the affected area was exposed to sunlight. The health unit had been warning the public to stay away from the plant and had put an alert on its website, asking people to report hogweed sightings to their local city hall.

  “I’ve seen your posters and bulletins,” Hamish said. “But hogweed dermatitis erupts everywhere the plant touches the skin. Not only on the lips and fingertips. Besides, hogweed gets better with steroids. These lesions don’t respond to anything.”

  Zol looked at his watch. It was almost time to pick up Max from his sleepover at Travis’s house. No doubt the boys had been up until all hours playing a marathon of video games.

  “Are you dealing with a closed population?” Zol asked. He hoped not. Health-unit staff were required to give immediate attention to group
homes, retirement residences, and nursing homes. Regardless of personal weekend plans.

  “Not closed, but several of their postal codes are clustered.”

  “Yeah?”

  Hamish beamed. He loved hunting down a diagnosis, either in a single patient with symptoms that had stumped other doctors, or in a cluster of cases threatening to break into an epidemic. “A few cases come from Hamilton, and the rest live smack inside your new territory, Dr. Szabo. Town of Simcoe and a bunch of villages in Brant and Norfolk counties. Cool, eh?”

  “Oh, great.”

  “I’ll say. Now that you’re the boss, you and I can call the shots on a full-scale investigation.”

  Zol shook his head. Outbreaks of contact dermatitis sat too low on his mandate to even think about. Hamish should know that.

  “Why not?” Hamish said.

  “For crying out loud, I’m a civil servant, not a magician. Your epidemic isn’t on the list of reportable conditions, and there’s nothing my staff can do about a non-infectious rash that’s not a major risk to public safety. The Ministry frowns on us sticking our noses into every health problem we come across. We don’t have the resources.”

  Hamish whipped off Zol’s Blue Jays sweatshirt and tossed it over the back of a chair. And then, as if suspicious of the borrowed sport shirt underneath it, he straightened the collar and checked the buttons. When he looked up, he caught Zol’s gaze. “Would it make a difference if two of the cases, both teenagers from Norfolk County, died yesterday morning?” His baby blues hardened as the pupils widened. “Jaundiced head to toe from galloping liver failure?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Colleen swished into the kitchen looking smashing in a white blouse, a funky multicoloured knitted vest, designer jeans, and her favourite silver elephant pendant dangling above her chest. Zol had never noticed the piercing intelligence in the animal’s eyes before. Its trunk usually led him straight to her cleavage and its exquisite promise of warm softness and jasmine. But at this moment he wasn’t feeling the heat of ardour, more the cold disquiet of unfocussed dread.