Leave Me by Dying

by Rosemary Aubert

  He shook his head, his dark hair catching the dim light of the room and holding it the way water holds the moon. I was afraid I’d used words he couldn’t understand. Like all first-year law students, I was in love with the sound of law, the cadence of statute and case, the arcane vocabulary, the long, flowing sweep of legal argument. “You’re not as plain a talker as your brother,” he said, “but you’re a dreamer if you think Indian law could ever be more powerful than American law.”

  Now I shook my head. “That’s not what I mean, exactly.” I was finally beginning to get interested in the complexities of the case. Being faced with a real person, an actual client—if only a practice client—brought my case to life. It sharpened my thinking, too. “But it also occurs to me,” I said to Billy, “that should I determine that you have a choice between American and Canadian citizenship, you can renounce the American citizenship and—”

  Billy looked shocked. “No,” he said calmly, “no renunciation. A man accepts the legacy of his birth or he is not a man.”

  As he spoke the soft light of the lamp flickered and went out.

  “That’s it,” Billy said.

  I thought he meant our interview was over, but I was mistaken. In the light that filtered through the heavy window curtain I saw Kee Kee slip in and sit on the arm of Billy’s chair. She was like an angel hovering in the shadows.

  “The stove ain’t gonna work to cook supper,” she said.

  “You better light a few candles and build a fire in the fireplace for cooking,” Billy said. “Looks like this is definitely it.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked in alarm.

  “The landlord’s trying to get rid of us,” he answered. “We’ve been out of heat for a month. Now he just cut off the electricity.”

  “That’s appalling!” I gasped. “No one should be deprived of basic necessities for the sake of raising real estate values.”

  Billy and Kee Kee both laughed at my consternation. “You can really tell he’s Mike’s brother, can’t you?” Kee Kee said.

  “We’re Indians,” Billy Johnson added. “We can build a fire. Maybe we’ll catch one of the rodents in the basement and roast him. Want to stay for supper?”

  Awkwardly, I laughed now, too, realizing Billy was teasing me to put me at ease. But I only remained at ease for the moment in which it took me to put two and two together. I already knew the answer to my question when I said to Kee Kee, “What are those marks on your hand?”

  “Rat bites,” she said, as if the answer wasn’t outrageous in the least.

  FOR THE NEXT two weeks I avoided Gleason Adams. I kept an eye out for him at school, and if I saw him in the distance, I went the other way. My visit to Bleecker Street had fired me up, and I wanted to keep Gleason and his project at a safe distance. Immediately after class each day, I ran to the law library and searched volume after volume of law reports looking for cases to guide me in my analysis of Billy’s situation. Soon I would have a brief to present to Sheldrake Tuppin. I would have to ask Kavin to give it to the great man, but I was sure I could talk the professor into doing it.

  If any thoughts came to me about the mystery at the morgue, about Slater or Rosen or Garrey, the A-G, I pushed them away. I convinced myself that I was far better off working on my own project instead of having Gleason drag me down with his disreputable one.

  But I did wonder how he was doing and whether he was indeed still working on the case of the woman in the morgue. I thought about the two rings, about the pawn-broker’s astonishing estimation of their worth. I thought about how Gleason had called me boring, a plumber refusing to take chances. I remembered what Gleason had said about the man who’d gone missing from the prosecutor’s office. The one found in a compromising position. I even discreetly asked a few of my fellow students if they’d known Neil Dennison, but got no answer that was helpful.

  One night, exhausted from my studies but not yet ready to go home and deal with my family, I decided to walk up to a diner on busy Bloor Street. Behind Flavelle House ran a treed path that led up out of the campus. At the top, it wound between the classical perfection of the Royal Ontario Museum and the gothic bulk of McMaster Hall, which had been a Bible college but was now a music school from which issued the mingled sounds of cello wailings and soprano trillings. For reasons unknown to me, this pleasant path was called Philosophers’ Walk. In daylight it provided a winding, shady thoroughfare ideal for several minutes’ contemplation sheltered from the boisterous background noise of the city. At night it was not in one’s best interests to use it alone.

  On this particular evening, I felt a sense of relief when a fellow law student who was going to the subway station on Bloor offered to join me. We passed a few lamps that cast small pools of yellow light on the uneven surface of the walkway. Just before we reached the museum, the path veered a bit to avoid a small clump of bushes. “That’s where Neil Dennison was found on his knees,” my companion mentioned casually. “You know that as a prosecutor he was drummed out.”

  “I heard he disappeared,” I said, trying to elicit information without seeming too eager or ignorant.

  “Yeah,” my companion said knowingly. “Here tonight, gone tomorrow morning. Just as if he never existed.” He shook his head. “It’s a shame, really. He was a bright guy. But I heard that nobody over at the A-G’s office even mentions his name these days.”

  “Do you think he could have been murdered?” I asked.

  My companion was silent for a moment. Then he laughed as if I’d made a joke and he’d suddenly got it. “Yeah,” he said, “murdered by his father who wasted all that money on his legal education.”

  I despaired of learning more until my companion volunteered, “It’s 147 to 149 inclusive, and 150, sub two, para b. You play, you die.” He laughed again, waved, turned right onto Bloor Street and disappeared.

  I skipped the coffee and went straight home. I thought I knew what the numbers referred to. I brushed past Michele, telling him, “Later!” when he said, “Let’s talk.” I rushed to our room and the shelf where I kept my books, including the Criminal Code of Canada. Section 147, “Buggery or bestiality.” Section 148, “Indecent assault on male.” Section 149, “Acts of gross indecency.” Section 150, subsection 2, paragraph b “. . . publicly exhibits a disgusting object . . .”

  Interesting, even disturbing, but clearly had nothing to do with me, with Gleason, or with either of the matters we had considered for our project.

  Which would by no means explain why the next night, I again strayed onto Philosophers’ Walk, and the night after that, which was the first night on which I thought to leave the path itself, and consequently, the first in which I saw the odd denizens hidden behind bushes just beginning to bud and slinking along the sides of buildings almost invisible in the evening’s dusky light.

  To be honest, I saw no one on his knees. I saw no person assault another, but I did hear an argument that was so heated it could only be profoundly personal. I certainly witnessed no bestiality or the public exhibition of a disgusting object, but then, I would have been hard-pressed to recognize my mother in the semidarkness. I did hear groans and giggles and the nervous laughter of those simultaneously amused, aroused and ashamed. I was, it seems now, very much a naive boy at twenty-three who, despite all the dire warnings of nuns and priests, was only vaguely aware of the sounds of masculine mischief. For, in the shadows beyond the quaint lamp-lit twists and turns of Philosophers’ Walk, the voices I heard belonged only to males. Embarrassed, I hurried back to the path and up into the street.

  Without being able to say why, I felt a connection between the walk and the conversation we’d had with Dr. Slater. So the next night I went back again to the secluded spot. This time, I clearly heard the voice of Gleason Adams.

  I pulled back into the shadows, straining to catch what he was saying and to whom. I was close to the west wall of the stately museum. A damp cold seemed to rise from the ground, embracing my ankles. I shivered soundlessly.


  Or so I thought. I could hear my own nervous breathing. As insects suddenly seem to go quiet at certain moments in the night, the habitués of Philosophers’ Walk fell perfectly silent. I held my breath and listened intently for a few moments, but when I realized I would hear nothing, I moved on.

  As my foot hit the first step of the stairs leading up to Bloor, I felt someone lay a hand on my shoulder from behind.

  Terrified, I sprinted up the steps, but the man behind me was slimmer and swifter. He reached the top of the stairs before me and stood blocking me, the brightness of Bloor Street silhouetting him, a sinister blackness against the light.

  I drew a breath to shout, but before the sound left my mouth, my pursuer laughed. “Boo, old lady,” he said. “Scared you, didn’t I? You spend too much time in the library. You ought to be researching out here where the action is.”

  “Adams, you fool!” I couldn’t believe the relief I felt. And the anger. “You idiot. Get out of my way!” I shoved him. He swayed as if about to topple down the stone steps.

  But the danger of falling only made him laugh harder. “On your way home after a long day’s brown-nosing?” he asked. “If so, may I advise that you’re headed in the wrong direction. Unless Eye-tal town has moved recently.”

  Obviously my avoidance of Gleason had not affected his attitude toward me. He was as mocking and contemptuous as usual. At least he seemed to be at first, but as he accompanied me along Bloor, like somebody else’s puppy who is determined to follow you home, I began to realize that he seemed jittery and defensive. “I guess you wonder what I was doing down there, right?” he said when we reached the diner. I didn’t answer, hoping he would correctly read my silence as a hint that I wanted to enjoy a coffee by myself.

  “Look, Portal,” he said, holding open the door and gesturing in a way that made it clear he intended to come in, too. “I know you’re mad at me, but you should listen to what I’ve got to say. You can’t keep crossing the street when you see me. You’re going to run out of streets.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” I countered weakly.

  “Come on, Portal, you can’t deny you’re avoiding me—and our project, too. Time’s running out.”

  I scanned the brightly lit room with its long counter and chrome-rimmed padded stools. The less time I spent here, the sooner I could get rid of Gleason. Nonetheless, I selected an empty booth near the front window and slid into it. Gleason settled in opposite me. There would be no getting rid of him now.

  “Look, Adams,” I said, realizing I was treading all-too-familiar ground and wondering how I could possibly get Gleason Adams to give up pursuing me. “I don’t know what you were looking for on Philosophers’ Walk and I don’t care. Inasmuch as I was down there myself, I’m not at liberty to question you. But I think I’ve made my position perfectly clear. I can’t obstruct justice by withholding evidence and I can’t talk privately to officials who should be talking to the police, not talking to us.”

  “Forget Slater,” Gleason said offhandedly, “he’s cool. Trust me.”

  “Gleason,” I said, “this is the last time I’m going to explain this to you. I am not—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he interrupted. “You’re not going to jeopardize your big law career by bending a few stupid rules. Listen, Portal, I’ll forgive you for being chicken, and a righteous one at that. And you’re going to forgive me when you see what I’ve got.”

  “Oh, great,” I said sarcastically, remembering I had said all this before many times, “now you’ve got something else. Something besides Slater and the rings. Gleason, can’t you leave me alone? I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Portal, just listen to me one more time. I’ve been doing some checking around. You’re not the only person who knows how to do research. I’ve got a lead. I’ve got someone who saw our rings being worn, someone who knows firsthand who the wearers were.”

  “Don’t call them our rings,” I said in disgust.

  But not enough disgust.

  “You’re interested, Portal. I know you are. I can tell. You’ve always been interested but you’re too much of a coward to say so.”

  I shook my head.

  “Come with me,” he persisted. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. We can go anytime. But I want you to come with me.” There was a touching note of desperation in his tone. Gleason was good at such effects.

  “Why?” I asked, not wanting him to need me, because I feared his need would draw me further into the danger I could so strongly feel in his words, his posture, his zeal, but, like an unpopular boy who feels he is finally getting in on the action, intrigued still.

  “Because you make it legit.”

  “What?” I sat back sharply.

  “Don’t be so suspicious. All I mean is that to have my law school partner along will make these people feel more at ease about telling us what they know.”

  “I’m not your partner! I’ve told you that a hundred times! I do not want to speak to anyone whose interview comes as a result of a bribe or any other questionable behavior. Can’t you get that fact through your head? But,” I said, aware of my weakness, “if you can convince me that you’re putting this together in a legitimate proposal to hand in to Professor Kavin—without resorting to anything illegal or underhanded—I’ll help you with the proposal itself, including interviews. Providing you don’t pull any fast ones, Adams.”

  He smiled as if he had won a great victory. “Anything you say, Portal. Anything! Come with me on Friday to meet my people. That way we can get started doing the job on your terms. Is that good enough?”

  His puppy-dog eagerness was appealing, so appealing that I agreed to talk to “his people,” completely forgetting that Friday night was Good Friday and my mother’s big debut as the Virgin in the Passion play.

  Chapter 11

  The next afternoon after classes, I told Gleason about Billy Johnson. Gleason exhibited a great deal of interest in the complexities of the case and said he’d like to learn more, but the interest was feigned and we both knew it. I also told him that he should consider trying to get an interview with Chief Coroner Levi Rosen.

  “Why would I want to do that, Portal?” he asked.

  “Because it would legitimize your interest.” And my own, in case anyone, Kavin for instance, or even Tuppin, found out I was working with Gleason. “Don’t forget it was Rosen who let us into the morgue that night.”

  “Yeah, and Rosen who kicked us out.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Meet with Rosen? No way!” Gleason shook his head, ending the discussion.

  That Thursday I arrived home hoping to have dinner before I met Gleason downtown at the same Bloor Street diner where we’d had coffee. We planned to walk down to St. Nicholas Street and catch Billy reading poems at the coffeehouse.

  But nothing went according to plan that evening.

  Arriving home, I noticed a black, late-model Cadillac parked in front of the house. I saw from the license plate that the car did not belong to Uncle Salvatore. That observation exhausted my ability to figure out to whom the car did belong.

  As I stood studying the vehicle, the front door of our house opened and a middle-aged man I didn’t think I’d ever seen before stepped out, adjusting the collar of his black coat and pulling on black leather gloves as he made his way to the curb, rounded the car and let himself in. I thought he smiled at me as he pulled away and I got the uneasy feeling that I had somehow been the reason for his visit. Was his smile a threat?

  I tried to think of any reason Uncle Salvatore might be displeased with me, just in case the man was his minion. Perhaps my uncle knew that I’d visited his friend at the funeral home, but that would have pleased him, since he himself had given me Spardini’s name. I had, of course, been perfectly respectful to the undertaker, and Uncle Salvatore liked it when I expressed interest in the business activities of his associates.

  There was, I realized, a slight possibility that Uncle Salvatore knew a
bout my visit to Billy Johnson or even, I shuddered to think, about my amateurish and awkward detective work in the wilds of Philosophers’ Walk!

  I decided I was being foolish and made up my mind just to go inside and ask the identity of the man in the black car.

  I nearly forgot all about that, though, when I walked through the empty kitchen and into the middle room to find a scene that resembled an explosion in a clothing factory.

  Some endeavors look absurd when done in a hurry and sewing is surely one of them. Surrounded by fragments of garments like those worn in the early first-century colonies of the Roman Empire, my mother and my sister were sewing as fast as they could. Arletta’s hands moved so quickly I could hardly see her fingers except for a blur where some gold-looking woven braid was being attached to pieces of old bedsheet.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Togas,” they both said at once, as though they had to talk as fast as they were sewing.

  “We have to get all this done tonight,” my mother said, raising her eyes from her needlework to glance around the room. Draped over each of the six dining-room chairs were two robelike garments in shades of blue, brown and deep red. It took me only a minute to calculate that these must be the robes of the Apostles. Even I, who knew nothing about the crafts of women, could see that the rough edges had yet to be hemmed. On the buffet were stacked several more togas. They were folded neatly and their edges showed the glint of gold. I wondered how long Arletta and my mother had been at it to produce that pile of finished work. On the table itself were more togas and robes, tangled in disarray as if someone had tossed them there in a hurry, no, in a panic.

  “How come you two are both sewing now?” I asked. “Isn’t tomorrow the Passion Play?”

  My mother always did everything so far in advance that I sometimes wondered how she remembered what a given bit of work was for. It worried me to see her obviously caught in such stressful last-minute preparations. I was afraid she’d make herself sick. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Her usually perfectly arranged gray hair had slipped out of the bun she habitually wore and strands of it lay along her neck. I noticed with alarm that she’d unfastened two buttons of her dress. I blushed to see the edge of her slip peeking out over the top of the third button.