Stone Woman
Page 10
“No, that’s what the report says. Haven’t seen it for myself. But then, how would I? It’s not there anymore.” The policeman laughs. He squints an eye and studies her curiously, “Have we met? We have, haven’t we? Yorkville, right?”
She shrugs. “There’s only one block of marble there. I’ve got to go to the park. I need to see this. How about I meet you at your station in an hour or so?”
“The Sergeant wants to talk to you. We need your help, Miss Grant. You can refuse, if you want. It’s your right.”
“What if I was at the park today? On business. You would’ve come looking for me there. Right?”
“This is urgent, Miss. Mr. Burman, the sculptor who owns that stone, came to the station this morning. He was furious. The Sergeant hopes to get to the bottom of this. Quickly. This Symposium’s the biggest thing Toronto’s ever seen.”
Should she call the police station and ask to speak to the sergeant? Why should she be asked to go to the police station? And could she not go to the station after the meeting? The officer locks eyes with her and smiles. He did save me from that reporter.
“Give me a minute,” Liza says. “I’ll get my purse.”
In her office, Liza pauses. I have to see the sites first. She picks up her purse and walks to the reception. “Officer, please call your Sergeant. I’d be glad to come to the station with you, after I see the sites in High Park. I need to check that it is missing. And not just moved somewhere else. And if anything else is missing. Otherwise, I am not coming with you, unless you arrest me.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the next and shrugs. “Wait here,” he says, and steps out into the hallway.
A moment later the officer returns. “You win, Ma’am. Any problem going in my car? I’ll drive you back.”
* * *
The officer opens the back door of the police car. “Sorry Miss Grant. Procedures.”
They drive south along University Avenue. He searches for her in the rear view mirror — that spark of recognition still in his eyes. He couldn’t be much older that her, she thinks.
“What did you say your name was, officer?”
“I didn’t.”
Liza smiles. “Come to think of it, weren’t you supposed to give me your name?”
“No, I wasn’t. Just the badge I showed you when I came in. No name there. Only a number.”
She fumbles for words. “Any rules against using names?”
He nods. “Personal safety.” A coy little smile plays across his lips. “But you can call me James.”
She brushes an unruly strand of hair away from her face and catches his eye in the rear-view mirror. “Ok, James. I feel a bit better. Now, with a wave of my magic wand, I will turn this police car into a black limo.”
He laughs, and his brown eyes sparkle as if a match was thrown into a pile of kindling.
* * *
James parks the car on Colborne Lodge Drive near the Forest School. As soon as they step out of the vehicle, Liza’s heart drops. The marble is missing. Not that she doubted James’ words. But seeing it makes it real, somehow. The CFTO Television crew is filming the sites and interviewing curious onlookers who are gathered next to Burman’s blocks of granite.
“They don’t waste any time,” Liza says, looking at the film crew. “We better wait until they leave. Or they’ll badger me to death with questions.”
They get back into the car, and Liza suggests they have coffee at the Grenadier Restaurant.
James glances at his watch. “Almost lunch time,” he says. “My treat. How about it?”
* * *
After lunch, they walk toward Burman’s granite blocks. The film crew has left, and curious visitors pace the sites and chit-chat. James takes a few shots of the tire tracks. Liza produces a paper napkin out of her purse and uses it to collect some cigarette butts she wraps in a few more napkins and gives to James.
He laughs. “You’re a real detective, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you going to take some close up photos of this place?”
“Another officer was here early this morning.”
Liza gives James a tour of the sculpture sites, then they drive to the station.
The Sergeant questions Liza about her work and her involvement with the Symposium. At first, he is direct and somewhat impatient, as if he knows the answer even before she gives it. He asks about Greenwin Construction and the companies which donated the use of its equipment, and she wonders why he needed to talk to her. He could have gotten the same information from the Human Resources. Then he turns edgy — how often she visits the park, when she was there last, who are her friends, whether she suspects anyone, and why, in her opinion, would someone steel a block of marble. He pauses at her answers and glares at her. Is he doubting me? Or the sincerity of my replies? Instinctively, she keeps David out of it. Why should I divulge personal details? Am I a suspect? It is late afternoon by the time she finally returns to her office.
CHAPTER 17
ANNA STRIDES ALONG Yorkville Avenue fuming.
She’s left two messages on David’s answering machine asking to meet him. Marching to their secret place where pressing matters are usually aired, she almost misses the Riverboat. Next to the coffeehouse, she turns onto the side street that leads to the back alley. He is leaning against the wall, hands in pockets.
“I want the truth, David. And I want it now.”
He winces. “What’s up, Anna?”
“You a great actor or a great liar?” she snaps, as they walk back to Yorkville Avenue. In front of the Riverboat, three teenagers are sitting on the newspaper boxes lined up along the sidewalk.
She props her hands on her hips. “What do you know about that missing marble, David? The papers are plastered with speculation. And things are heating up in my office.”
The city noise has subsided and her voice carries in the stillness of dusk. She glances at the youngsters on the boxes and they smile.
“Don’t know anything about that, Anna. Just as I didn’t know you’d have your own audience here today. Should I pass the hat or let those three stooges get a free show?” David waves dismissively and turns his back to the trio.
The teens rest their chins on their hands and glare, intent on not missing a word. One has long dark hair spilling over his forehead and covering most of his eyes. He waves a folded newspaper page with a picture of Burman’s two granite blocks with a heading: “High Park stone thief,” and says: “It’s cool, man. Stone thief in Toronto.”
His buddies repeat after him: “Yeah. Cool.”
Anna marches over to them. “Let me see that. I didn’t see this one.”
The youth flips his mane, and looks at her. Then he hands the article to her. “It’s all yours, lady. Knock yourself out.”
Anna takes the paper over to David. “Have you seen this?”
David strokes his beard. “How ‘bout a drink?”
Anna walks over to the newspaper boxes and hands the paper back. Then drifts down the steps that lead below the street level to the Riverboat. David follows. He takes a long puff, butts out the cigarette in the can of sand on the window sill, and they enter the smoky darkness of the club. They sit in a red booth across from each other, surrounded by pine walls and brass portholes.
From her purse, Anna pulls out a piece of newspaper, unfolds it, and plunks it on the table. It’s the front page of the Toronto Daily Star, featuring a photograph of the same blocks of granite, taken from a slightly different angle, with a heading: “Who would steal a block of marble from High Park?”
She pulls out another page and unfolds it. This one is from The Telegram with a heading: “Toronto thief.” She irons the pages out with her hand.
“Have you seen these? Since that marble disappeared, that’s all anyone talks about.”
“I’ve seen some. You collecting them?”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“They’ve questioned Liza.”
“What could she know? She doesn’t sleep there.”
Anna shakes her head. “The ‘artists’ children’ are playing amateur sleuths. Scouring the area for clues. Collecting cigarette butts. Turning into little detectives. And having a ball.”
“Ah, my buddies. Doing a good job. Keeping those relentless visitors at bay so the men can work on their pieces.”
Anna winces. “It’s not just the children any more. The locals have joined in as well. They’ve organized shifts to patrol the sites. The park has many eyes. There’s always somebody out there who sees what happens.”
David nods. “Hope they get him. Or her. Whoever stole that piece. I hear Burman’s taking it hard. The quarry offered to replace it free of charge. But he refuses.”
“Or her? You think a woman did it? You making fun of me, David?”
“Well, well. You seem to have your finger pointed at me. And how do we know it’s not a woman?”
“Because it never is.”
“Oh? And what if it happens to be a sculptress who fell in love with that stone? What do you say to that?”
Anna’s face turns red. “Now we’re on to something. And that’s what worries me, David. I saw you coveting that piece. There was something about that block of marble. And that wistful look on you every time it’s mentioned. The way you caressed it that day in the park . . .”
“I thought you didn’t like the park. You prefer your garden. Or your porch.”
“I go for a walk there, like everyone else. Was surprised to see you there. But then, I figure, with the Symposium and all.”
She gives him a long, hesitant look. “The way you were leaning your greedy paw on that boulder, David.” She waits for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, she continues. “After that piece disappeared, the sight of you and that stone kept flashing in my mind. My gut feeling tells me you have something to do with it.”
“Your gut feeling’s wrong, Anna.”
Her eyes narrow. A mischievous smile scans across her lips. “You’re the stone thief, aren’t you, David?” She says it slowly, without taking eyes off him.
“Almost wish you were right. That was a nice piece.”
“So where were you last Sunday?”
“You know where I was. Same place as you. The Sit-in.”
She takes the gum out of her mouth, unwraps a new piece, and begins to chew noisily. “Oh, didn’t know you saw me.”
“Yep. Said nothing. Like we agreed.”
“I left when the arrests began.”
“Glad you did. I’m still trying to clean up that mess. Still trying to get some of the protesters out of jail. You’ve seen the paper.”
The Star reported that the Yorkville Sit-in, which was staged as response to the failed Talk-in between the Foragers, a community activist group, and City Council, had become a Jail-in. The protesters had been dragged off to Don Jail.
The article said that the Sit-in, organized by the Foragers, drew hundreds of residents who sat on the road blocking traffic to protest the grid-lock of vehicles that had plagued the street ever since it became a gawkers’ mecca. The Yorkville old-timers were joined by the hippies and the youth. They demanded that Yorkville Avenue be closed to traffic and turned into a pedestrian mall. The protest grew to a few thousand. They formed a human chain to show the bridging of the gap between the youth, the hippies, and the old-timers of Yorkville — and to send the message that the influx of vehicles was the problem and not the influx of youth. Anna was not surprised when the police showed up, but she was stunned by the show of force she thought completely unnecessary. The police ordered the protesters to leave, and those who refused were beaten and dragged away to jail. The youth were a particular target. Anna found a telephone booth and called a friend at City Council. Although she knew he would not be in the office, she felt the need to report it, and calling the police would not have helped. She left an urgent message, and followed up with two more messages since. But three days have gone by and he still has not returned her calls. She realizes the issues are a lot more political then they appear, and she just might have to go in person to see him. But now, her suspicion of David’s involvement with the missing marble pushes her worries to the edge.
Anna shrugs. “Stealing that marble was a late night job. Where did you go later on?”
“To bed. Where else? I was in bed, Anna.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“After a day like that, where do you think I’d be?”
David had spent the afternoon getting the protesters out of jail. He had managed to get some released, but many are still held for questioning.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “Getting discouraged with the Foragers lately.”
Anna nods. “I see your point. I sometimes wonder as well. When that girl got raped . . . I thought, if there is no help here, maybe the teenagers would stop coming.” She heaves a sigh. “But then, things could get worse. The youth really depend on you guys. Especially the homeless. For everything, food, shelter.”
“Too much dependence, if you ask me. Too many teenagers pouring in daily. The help’s supposed to be temporary. But it’s turned into a way of life for some. A free-ride. And the number’s growing.”
Anna knows David has a point. Many teenagers, in their zeal to stand up to convention that includes just about everyone, from parents to educators to employers, leave their homes and flock to Yorkville. In return for food and shelter, they’re expected to look for employment and help other newcomers. But the teenagers’ focus on having a good time. David has been patient with them. To him, this is all part of the big picture, and change could not happen without this wave of free thought that has swept the world and turned Yorkville into “the eye of the storm.”
She shakes her head. “After all that mess at the Sit-in, you went straight to bed? And that’s it?”
“That’s all, Anna.” He squints his right eye and his left one — the one that sometimes turns into a lazy eye —is frozen and ice-blue, staring right through her, and she wonders how does he manage this? Is the eye-squinting some type of subconscious self-preservation technique? And what does it mean? After all these years she still cannot decipher his lazy eye and what message it holds. One thing she realizes, though, is that there is no point in continuing the discussion. This is his stubborn mode.
“If I could only believe you had nothing to do with that missing stone,” she says.
“Believe it,” he says, his lazy eye a clump of ice.
Anna wonders if she is being too hard on David.
Accusing him of stealing that block of marble may not be fair. Why did she reach her guilty verdict even before talking to him? She could’ve probed for answers gently. He takes on too much. Clearly, dealing with the failed Sit-in is stressful. And so is trying to broker some semblance of peace between the homeless youth, the hippies, and City Council. Would he actually risk his freedom and his reputation for a block of marble? Besides, he is becoming fond of Liza. And she is in charge of that project. Would he risk drawing her into such a perilous situation? No, that doesn’t seem reasonable. Now, she is really remorseful. How could she make it up to him?
David leans back in his chair and rocks on the two back legs. He takes a long puff, then blows the smoke into the bluish haze hanging low.
“What the heck,” Anna says and pulls out her pack of Eve — the last pack she’ll ever smoke. She’ll quit after this one’s finished. She’d sworn. She’s been pacing herself, taking a few puffs when she can’t resist, then putting the cigarette out and stashing it back into the pack. She shakes out a half-cigarette, picks up David�
�s flashing-nipples-lighter off the table, and lights up. She draws in deeply, then lets the smoke out slowly. Courage, God, give me courage to quit.
She heaves a sigh. “Okay, David. I’m relieved you had nothing to do with that stone.”
After several heavenly puffs, the butt scorching her fingers, she grinds it into the ashtray. “Got a friend at City Council. Left a few messages, but haven’t heard back. Owes me a favour, though. I’ll go see him tomorrow. Twist his arm a bit. See what can be done about those jailbirds.”
CHAPTER 18
“HERE’S THE KEY to the side door. Use the path from Glendenen Road through the backyard — a bit more
secluded. There’s a lot of rental housing around here.
Nobody really cares who comes and goes. Careful with
the fire escape. Hasn’t been checked for a while — since my folks died a few years back. Don’t think you’ll need
it, though — sure hope not. And this large key’s for the
garage door — need to jiggle it a bit so it’ll catch. The
garage’s cluttered with stuff my folks collected. Mom
was an antique buff and God knows what’s in it. But if you need to store something, you’ll find some room.”
Anna presses the keys into Ricky James’ hand, props up on tiptoes, and kisses him on the lips. She shoots him an alluring smile. “If you’d like to see me, you still need to ask me out. You know, on a date. Can’t just sneak down to her boudoir and fuck your landlady any time you like.”
Ricky smiles, lifts Anna in his arms, and the next moment they’re making love on the Qum Persian silk rug which Anna’s mother bought on her trip to Iran. With one foot, Anna pushes off her panties caught on the ankle of the other, while she struggles to pull Ricky’s shirt over his head. His trousers are in a pile under her and the belt buckle is pressing sharply into the fleshy part of her buttock — and we’re off to cloud nine, Anna imagines.
As Ricky dresses and hums the Mynah Birds’ new song, “It’s My Time,” he inserts Anna’s name into the lyrics about loving her every day. Anna sits on the red plastic sofa in the attic apartment and sways to the rhythm as she sips lemonade. It had been a few years since she’d closed off this unit from the rest of the house to save on heating bills. She’d used it as a teenager for pyjama parties and sleepovers, and as she glances about the small but airy space with peaked ceilings, she recalls it strewn with sleeping bags and knapsacks and bowls with chips and Cheezies and plastic Koolaid glasses and some favourite teddy bears girls cuddled imagining they were boyfriends. Now, it harbours a sentimental aura of times long ago, some gloomy and written off, and others pleasant and cheerful. Having Ricky use it is a meaningful way to bridge the past and the present. Besides, the plumbing in the apartment above the garage is too old and the knob-and-tube wiring too dangerous — all too costly to replace. Ricky’s glass of lemonade, sweating from condensation, is perched precariously on the radiator.