“Yes.”
“Did you tell your boss to send you here?”
Ali seemed to catch the anger in Jordan’s tone. Ali flexed her jaw but kept the same even modulation in her voice.
“I didn’t seek you out, Jordan. I knew Tom wanted me back in my hometown. He liked the symmetry of it. And he knows I…” Ali hesitated, then carried on. “It doesn’t matter. When the description of the program at JP’s Gym came across my desk, I knew it was you. I did some research to confirm.”
Jordan didn’t say anything. The obvious next question hung between them, so she waited.
Ali was about to speak when the waiter returned with their drinks. They thanked him but left their beer untouched.
“Not contacting you first to give you a heads-up was childish,” Ali said. “And I apologize.”
Ali turned her pint glass in slow circles on the table but kept her eyes on Jordan.
The apology made Jordan feel a hundred times worse, not better. Jordan rubbed the back of her head roughly, then sat up a little straighter.
“I’m a complete shit. I owe you an apology for running away. For not really explaining why I had to leave. For leaving you a letter and then not contacting you. For…” Jordan trailed off and then shrugged. “For a million things. I’m sorry.”
Ali nodded slowly, her expression never changing. Then she picked up her pint glass in a salute.
“To forgiveness,” Ali said.
Jordan raised her glass, and they clinked.
“Forgiveness.”
They both drank to absolution, as tentative and shallow as it was in its current state. Jordan was grateful for the sharp, cold taste of the beer on her tongue, and she pulled in a long gulp. Ali lowered her glass and tilted her head to the side, as if in silent reflection. Then she tilted her beer slightly toward Jordan before she spoke.
“You broke my heart.”
Jordan almost choked, and Ali grinned. Maybe she was forgiven, but Ali was not going to make this easy. In some ways, it made Jordan feel better.
“I know. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Better or worse to admit she’d broken her own heart the day she walked away? To admit that the current state of her heart was still suspect? No. Jordan knew she wasn’t ready for that.
“We were kids, Jordan. I’m not kidding about the forgiveness.”
“It was still a shitty thing to do. Especially to someone who meant so much to me.”
Ali said nothing, and Jordan risked another sip of her beer. She felt more vulnerable than she had in a long, long time. She wrestled with it in silence, waiting for Ali to say something.
“You really love those kids.”
It wasn’t the conversation Jordan was expecting. But it was easier.
“I do. Some I’ve known for a long time now. Working with them isn’t always easy. Loving them is.”
Ali looked surprised, and Jordan lifted her chin. This was what she wanted Ali to see. Jordan was more whole, more grounded, just more than the angry teenager Ali had known.
When Ali didn’t add anything, Jordan jumped in.
“What about you? You told Madi you’ve worked with Centera since you left college?”
Ali took a drink of beer before answering.
“Eleven years. Worked there through both my MBA and my law degree.”
“Impressive,” Jordan said. She’d always known Ali would climb. “You must love it if you’ve been there that long.”
Ali gave a tight smile. “It’s been home for a long time.” She seemed to relax a little. “Tom’s a good guy, he really is. I’ve learned a lot from him.”
Jordan knew there was more. She didn’t know Ali well enough any more to push.
The platter of garlic shrimp arrived with skewers of vegetables and a pile of rice. The waiter dropped off two plates, and Jordan and Ali served themselves.
“Tastes as good as it smells,” Ali groaned, popping an entire shrimp into her mouth. “Thank God.”
Jordan took a bite of the grilled zucchini, wondering at Ali’s strange expression. “What?”
“You’re willingly eating vegetables? That’s a thing you do now?”
In reply, Jordan stabbed at a red pepper and ate it.
“I’m an adult. Adults fucking love vegetables.”
Ali leaned back in the booth and laughed, and Jordan’s heart swelled at the unrestrained sound.
“There you are,” Jordan said softly. She recognized the girl she’d known, recognized their last summer together in that laugh.
Ali looked startled. “Sorry?”
“I…” This was overstepping, creating bonds when she meant to be traveling the line of present, not past. “You looked like your high school self just then. That’s all.”
“I don’t the rest of the time?” Ali grinned and patted her stomach. “I haven’t had a six-pack since I was a senior in college.”
Jordan laughed with her. “I wasn’t referring to muscle tone.” Ali raised one of her eyebrows suggestively, then laughed when Jordan blushed. “Fuck off,” she mumbled good-naturedly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“You look exactly the same as when you blushed in high school, JP.”
Jordan kept shaking her head, but she was smiling. She and Ali were talking about the past as a warm time, not the brittle coldness of how it ended. Jordan felt the need to apologize again. She wondered if that feeling would ever stop.
“Ali, I—”
Ali stopped her with a raised hand. “Can we leave it right now? The archaeological dig.” She smiled oddly, and Jordan wondered if she was trying to soften her words. “I’m really enjoying getting to know Jordan McAddie as she is now.” She paused and looked out across the restaurant, then back again. “I didn’t know if I would ever get the chance.”
Relief and regret and the painful beginnings of hope twisted in Jordan’s stomach. She took a steadying breath, willing the hope to die down. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.” She didn’t know if this was the start of something new or the delayed but final chapter, but her heart was very clear which she wanted it to be.
Chapter Three
Jordan—Nine
Nine years old and the sun is warm on Jordan’s face as she rides in the passenger seat next to her dad. He’s picked her up from school for a dentist appointment, and Jordan is secretly thrilled and proud her dad has shown up and signed her out and taken her to Dr. Singh on time. He’s on a swing shift. No point in taking her back to school, so they stop for ice cream. Jordan doesn’t tell her dad the cold hurts her teeth where they just filled three cavities. She bites the frozen chocolate pieces and winces and smiles at her dad and wonders why pain always comes with happiness.
They walk down to the docks, and her dad waves to the guy at the security booth who shakes his head and makes a show of pretending not to see Jordan. Her dad points out the cranes, the efficient layout of the shipping yard, and all the precautions that keep the workers safe. The sun glints off the water and the windows of the booth of the crane operators, sitting up so high they must feel like they’re floating. Jordan wants to be up there moving freight, listening to the gulls and the hum of the machine, and the horn on the freighters as they power into port.
The sun is warm, her fingers sticky with ice cream, and her dad is here, talking just to her. She lets slip her dream. He laughs and Jordan’s chest hurts. She wonders if it’s the bones around the heart that snap and not the heart itself because that’s what it feels like. Worse when her dad’s friends come by and he shares the joke and they laugh. The docks are not for scrawny smart girls, they tell her. Jordan’s dad must see the hurt because he stops laughing and waves away his buddies. He puts his arms around her shoulder and steers her out of the gates, and she tries so hard not to cry. You’re a dock rat, he says. Like he’s explaining the world to her. You’re wily and smart, getting into everything. Use your brain and get away from the docks.
Jordan swallows and nods and gulps back her tears. S
o angry at herself for ruining this warm time. For letting dreams rise to the surface like the puff of cloud in the sky. Dreams carry weight. Dreams carry risk. The dock rat won’t forget that again.
* * *
No good phone calls came at 4:11 in the morning. That was Jordan’s first thought as she surfaced from a deep sleep to her phone buzzing and flashing on the table by her bed. Anxiety spiked in her body. Was her dad sick again? One of the kids? Madi?
“Yeah, hello.”
“Jordan, it’s Constable Frederickson. Really sorry to wake you this early.”
Jordan knew him. He’d been on the force forever.
“It’s okay,” she said, clearing her throat and sitting up in bed. Her apartment was dark, the whitewashed cinderblock walls reflecting some of the glow from the streetlights outside. “What is it?”
“We’ve got a bit of a situation down here in the Heights. We’ve rounded up a bunch of guys for public mischief, but one of them’s a kid and won’t give us his name. We’ve got no one reported missing, no contact from any group homes. Could be a street kid. Just wondering if you could give us a hand. I know you see a lot of these guys in your gym.”
Jordan rubbed her face. “Group homes won’t be a doing a check until six thirty. What does he look like?”
“Tall white kid, maybe sixteen or so. Dark hair and brown eyes maybe? Hard to tell in this light. Wearing jeans and a hoodie.”
“Constable Frederickson, you just described the entire teenage population of the Halifax Regional Municipality.” Jordan got out of bed and turned on a light.
Constable Frederickson laughed. “Don’t I know it.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I really don’t want to process this kid if I don’t have to. My call is going to sit in queue for half a day before anyone’s got the time at community services. I just thought…”
“I got it, Constable. Give me ten minutes.”
“Sure, thanks, Jordan. We’re at West and Langford. I’ll tell the guys at the barricade to let you in.”
Jordan picked up her jeans from where she’d thrown them the night before. Barricade? She shook her head. “See you soon.”
It was cold and damp when Jordan left her apartment a few minutes later, having pulled on a hooded sweater and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The metal stairs clanged loudly in the grim dark of post-night and pre-dawn.
As she drove through the empty Halifax streets out to the nicer neighbourhoods of the Heights, Jordan considered what she was driving into. This wasn’t her job, not entirely. There were community services youth workers who were on call to the police. But Halifax, even as the capital of Nova Scotia with a population at just over four hundred thousand, was still a small town in many ways. The Maritime code stuck, looking out for your own, knowing your neighbours, asking for a favour because you knew it would be returned. Some of the old-timers like Frederickson shrugged off protocol when they could get the job done. It was a community, and Jordan was happy to be a part of it.
Jordan saw the flashing lights when she pulled onto Langford. One orange barricade and a cop in a high visibility vest blocked the road. Jordan rolled down the window, gave her name, and the cop waved her through. The neighbourhood was a pricey one, all multi-story homes with wide driveways and landscaped yards. It wasn’t far from where Ali had grown up, Jordan thought, as she pulled her car over and parked behind one of the cruisers.
At first, the scene in front of her made absolutely no sense. A pyramid made up of at least forty or fifty recycling and waste bins sat in the middle of the street. Jordan could make out the relatively new wheeled green carts tilted at odd angles and stacked against the square blue recycling bins. The tower reached nearly fifteen feet in the air. Cops stood in clusters around the base, which took up most of the width of the street. Flashes from cameras went off and homeowners were standing on the sidewalk, most taking photos with their cell phones.
“Jordan, thanks for coming down.”
Constable Frederickson walked over with his hand extended. Jordan shook it, then jerked her chin at the pyramid.
“What’s with the art installation?”
“Art, right,” Frederickson snorted. “Just public mischief. Something to do on Thursday night when you’re drunk.”
Jordan couldn’t believe the size of the recycling bin tower. It would have taken a pretty concerted effort to amass that many recycling bins and construct a pyramid before getting caught.
“That would be hard to execute drunk, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, we all did stupid shit when we were drunk as kids, eh?” Frederickson looked to Jordan for confirmation. Jordan just smiled and kept looking at the tower. “At least we were smart enough to stay away from the high-end homes. Folks are pissed about this, and it’ll be our fault somehow. We’ll have the mayor on this by seven a.m., betcha a pint of Propeller.” When Jordan still didn’t reply, he waved her on. “Come on, I’ll take you to our lad.”
Jordan softened a little at Frederickson’s term of endearment. About ten people were seated along one of the curbs, spaced a few feet apart with a handful of cops near enough to discourage any talking. Frederickson pointed to the guy on the end with his hood up and his head in his hands.
“There he is. Won’t tell us his name. Said he had nothing to do with it, and he doesn’t want to talk.”
Jordan walked over and sat down on the curb next to the hooded figure. Frederickson followed, looming above them in a way that annoyed Jordan.
“Hey, buddy,” Frederickson said. “Hood off.” The guy pushed his hood back and glared up at Frederickson. “You know him, Jordan?”
At the mention of her name, the kid looked at her with surprise and then relief. Then his face set back into an angry, resistant mask.
“Yeah, I do. Give us a minute, Frederickson?”
The constable hesitated then backed off a few steps.
“Hey, Seamus.”
Jordan didn’t remember his last name. He’d come into the gym only a handful of times, obviously looking for entertainment and socialization instead of work and instruction. He was disruptive but not aggressive, a pain in the ass more than a criminal.
“Hey, Jordan,” Seamus said miserably. “They said they were calling someone. Didn’t know it was you.” He looked up hopefully. “Can you get me out of here? I didn’t do anything, I swear it.”
That didn’t mean a thing to Jordan. Not at all. Lying was a skill, like fighting or evasion or knowing when to run.
“It’s not me you have to convince.” She indicated the cluster of cops just a few feet away. “They don’t want to pull you in, but you’re not giving them much choice.”
Seamus hung his head but didn’t speak.
“Where are you staying these days?”
“With some friends,” Seamus muttered.
“These friends?”
Silence.
“Well, these friends are all over eighteen and about to be processed. No idea if they’ll get charged or spend at least part of today in jail. So, I imagine you have two choices. Let me find you an emergency placement”—she held up her hand as Seamus snorted and swore—“or let Frederickson call the juvenile detention, and they can start processing you for that.”
“No way. They said another infraction or whatever, and they’d be taking me to Westwood. I’m not going there.”
Westwood was the full-care facility for youth who needed more intensive intervention than community resources and group homes could manage. Jordan knew it was unlikely Seamus would end up there. That facility was for those too violent and explosive for a group home setting. As far as Jordan knew, Seamus didn’t have that kind of record.
“I don’t know what else to tell you,” Jordan said. “Your options are on the table.” She didn’t want to perpetuate the idea Westwood was a horrible place to be avoided at all costs.
“Can’t I just stay with you? I could sleep at the gym. And I’ll figure out something in the morning.”
He
wasn’t the first kid to ask, but it wasn’t a solution. Jordan had drawn that line years ago.
“Emergency placement or let them process you,” Jordan said.
“Fuck,” Seamus muttered and dropped his head in his hands. “Fine. But not Grange House. Hanson’s there, and he’s a dick.”
“I’ll see what I can do. What’s your last name, Seamus?”
“Harrigan,” Seamus said before pulling his hood up and dropping his head into his hands.
Jordan clapped Seamus on the back and stood. She pulled out her phone as she walked toward Frederickson, logging into the database to see if she could find him a space. Preferably not Grange House.
“Seamus Harrigan, sixteen, I think,” Jordan told Frederickson. “My guess is group home runaway, but I’ll know more when I get into the database.”
“Let me guess. He’s just along for the ride and didn’t have anything to do with this,” Frederickson said, indicating the recycling bin tower behind him.
Jordan kept scrolling and reminded herself not to react overprotectively.
“Seamus has been crashing with some of these guys. He could have been in the middle of this, or he could have just been along for the ride. I don’t know.” She found the list for emergency placement and sighed in relief when it wasn’t Grange House. “I’ll take him over to Hart House. He’ll be registered there if you need to follow up. His social worker is Alice Robinson. Or you can give me a call.” She flashed Frederickson a grin. “Preferably not at four a.m.”
Frederickson laughed as he wrote down the info.
“You’re a champ for coming out here, Jordan.”
“I’m a champ who needs coffee,” Jordan said, checking the time. Nearly five. She’d give the staff at Hart House another hour before she called. She had no real reason to wake them up any earlier than necessary, and Seamus wasn’t in a hurry.
Jordan looked up at the massive recycling bin tower, now roped off with police tape. She knew nothing about structural engineering and supports, but this pyramid had been put together with some impressive precision. As she walked around the base, her shoe kicked something metal and sent it spinning. Jordan stopped it with the toe of her sneaker and rolled it over. A spray paint can.
Shadowboxer Page 5
