by Hal Ross
The wait took longer than expected. Finally, a male orderly dressed in hospital green led the way to their mother’s private room. The unit was of average size, approximately twelve by fourteen.
The apparition Blair spotted on the bed frightened him. Much of the woman he remembered was gone. She’d been replaced by a stick figure. Skin and bones, and not much else.
“Ian?” his mother said when she saw him.
Blair moved closer to the bed. “No. It’s me, Mother. Your son. Not your husband.”
The woman raised a scarecrow arm. Then she yanked the bottom denture from her mouth and cackled. “I don’t have a son.” She pointed at Cynthia. “And whose bitch are you?”
Stunned, Blair felt his mouth go dry. In all the time he had lived at home, he had never known his mother to use foul language.
In commiseration, his sister placed her hand on his arm. “Mom,” she said in a gentle voice. “Blair’s driven in from New York to see you.”
“Who?”
“Blair.”
Their mother began to cry. Galloping tears streamed from her eyes.
Blair recalled their last telephone conversation. She had appeared to be losing it then. But this was worse.
Cynthia bent over the bed. She used a Kleenex to wipe her mother’s eyes. “Now, now, Mom. You should be happy. Not sad.”
As quickly as they had begun, the tears ceased. “Blair?” the woman questioned.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, brightening.
“How is New York?”
He wanted to humor her. To keep her going on the straight and narrow. “New York is wonderful, Mother dear. Congested as usual. Do you remember the time you visited?”
A near-beatific look crossed the woman’s face. “I remember,” she said. Then her eyes closed, opened again. “Ian?” she said.
“No. It’s Bla—” He caught Cynthia’s head shake and stopped in mid-sentence. There was no point in correcting her.
His mother nodded off.
“She looks terrible,” Blair said.
“She has her good days and her bad.”
“Worse than this?” he was afraid to ask.
Cynthia shrugged. “No. Not worse.”
He used what little comfort that knowledge brought him to silence his other concerns.
“Remember when you were a kid,” Cynthia broke into his thoughts a short time later. “And Tommy Curry bopped you in the head with that shovel? The doctor suggested Mother keep a twenty-four hour vigil. Instead, she took it upon herself to monitor your breathing non-stop for five full days. She wouldn’t let you out of her sight. Morning, noon, and night. Dad got really pissed at her.”
“He did?”
“Who could blame him? She stopped making his meals. Sharing his bed. All because poor Blair was hurting.”
“I wish I could remember.”
“You were only seven.”
A noise came from the bed that startled them both. Their mother was talking in her sleep. But the voice was like that of someone possessed. It kept rising in pitch.
They looked at each other. Neither said a word. Then Cynthia broke into a laugh.
“What?” Blair said.
“I was thinking of the time I brought my first date home to meet Mom. We were only going to the movies. But she gave that boy the third degree. He was to be careful where he took me. He was not to leave me alone. And he was to naturally get me back at a decent hour. I never heard from him again.”
Blair caught his sister’s laughter turning to tears.
“Dammit,” Cynthia said. “Why couldn’t she grow old with dignity?”
CHAPTER 35
Back in the car, Blair asked his sister if she was hungry.
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. What time is it?”
“Umm—six of six. When’s our reservation for?”
“Seven. Do you want me to change it?”
“No, no. Seven is fine. Let’s take a drive first.”
“Okay. A drive would be nice.”
Blair knew exactly where he wanted to go. As a young man, when dating, he would often end up atop Mount Royal, the mountain that separated the downtown core from the rest of the city.
More a hill than a mountain, Mount Royal would be subject to ridicule for its compact size were it not for the impressive view the “lookout” afforded of the south-eastern extremity of the island. In the distance, one could see the St. Lawrence River and part of the town of Longueuil beyond it.
There were no other cars when they arrived. And Blair could see why. The signs, written only in French, warned about a sinkhole. The road and much of the protective barrier of trees and shrubbery had been torn away.
Despite the warning, however, and not to be deterred, he pulled in and parked.
In front of them, void of vegetation, they could see the drop. It was long and precipitous. Nothing but rocks and tree stumps trailing most of the way down.
Blair shut the motor and set the emergency brake. Then he leaned back. “Okay, bring me up to date,” he said. He was hoping they could divert themselves from the subject of their mother for at least the time being.
“About what?” Cynthia asked.
“I want to know more about this fireman you’re dating. His name, age, social status, the works.”
“His name is Francois. French Canadian and lovely.”
“Oh yeah? Like Marcel?”
She laughed. “Wasn’t he a beaut?”
Blair recalled that Marcel, a hairdresser, was unusually thin, practically bald, and had the annoying habit of squinting whenever he spoke. “What did you ever see in him?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But he was great in bed.”
“Cyn!” he said in mock horror.
“Blair—” She grew serious. “—what do you do to relax?”
“Relax? I don’t understand the concept.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She turned toward him. “Do you still golf?”
“Not often enough.”
“But you love the game.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Did you know I’ve taken it up?”
That startled him. “You?”
“Yes. Why are you surprised?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I thought you once told me the game was stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
“So?”
“I find it’s a great way to meet men. That’s how I met Francois, as a matter of fact.”
He laughed.
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I really hate seeing you this way.”
“Which way is that?”
“C’mon, Blair,” she said. “You can’t kid a kidder.” Her favorite expression.
“Cyn…” he began to say, intending to move the subject away from himself, when he felt something hard collide with the back of his car.
His sister screamed.
Blair quickly looked in his rearview mirror. All he could see was the front end of a truck. A blob of blue.
The truck was pushing them forward.
He hit the brakes.
Nothing happened.
Then he remembered they were power assisted. He started the car and tried again.
Even with the emergency brake still engaged, they were being forced closer to the edge.
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “Blair?”
“Hold on,” he said.
It would be impossible to survive a drop of such depth, he knew. He quickly released the emergency brake, shifted into reverse, and floored it.
The tires spun crazily on the asphalt. He heard a screeching sound.
His car began to rock from the pressure.
The smell of burning rubber wafted into the air. But the Beemer was no match for the blue truck behind them.
Blair shoved the gear into park and slammed his foot on the brakes, trying to swallow his fear but not succeeding.
Think, an inner voice demanded.
“Cyn,”
he said, speaking quietly. “I need you to do something for me.”
“W…what?” She was obviously going into shock.
“You must remain calm, Cynthia.”
“We won’t make it, Blair. I know we won’t!”
“Listen to me,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “We will make it. I promise.” He tried to estimate the time they had left. He knew it was close. “Put your hand on the door handle,” he instructed.
His sister didn’t budge.
“Cyn?”
She turned to face him. “I don’t want to die, Blair.”
“You won’t die.”
“I will!” she shrieked.
“Cynthia, we’re going to jump out of the car. It’s our only chance.”
“Jump?”
“Yes. I need you to follow my directions. Please, Cyn. You’ll be all right. Now—take hold of the door handle.”
She semi-positioned her hand. But it hovered.
“At the count of three,” he said. “Grab the handle, push the door open, then roll out.”
There was no response. His sister had gone mute.
“Cynthia? We have to do this. At the count of three. One…”
Gunfire rang out.
“Get down!” Blair hollered.
His sister crouched low.
After the incident with John Dalton, Blair had no doubt of the sound he was hearing. But were the shots aimed at them?
He bent as low as possible on the seat, waited for the bullets to strike, waited for the car’s windows to shatter.
Miraculously, he sensed the pressure from behind relenting. Slowly, he raised himself up and glanced in his rearview mirror. The blue truck was flying into reverse.
He counted to ten in his head. “It’s safe, Cyn,” he said.
“I … don’t know.”
“Trust me. You can get out of the car. But be careful.”
Blair stepped out himself and hurried around to the passenger side. Cynthia came into his arms with such force it knocked them both to the ground.
More gunfire, this time from afar.
He could feel his sister trembling. “We’re okay,” he said, wanting to reassure her. “We’ll be okay.”
The blue truck was barreling up the road. It was being pursued by a beige box of a car that looked vaguely familiar. He waited until both vehicles disappeared. “Can you stand?” he asked, turning back to Cynthia.
Her nod was not enthusiastic.
He helped her to her feet. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s see about the damage.”
The trunk of the Beemer was slightly bent. There were a number of blue paint marks staining the bumper. “I thought it would be worse,” he said, not wanting to traumatize his sister any further.
Blair guided Cynthia back into the car. He closed her door, came around to the driver’s side. “Ready for Gibby’s?” he asked, forcing a measure of normality in his voice.
Cynthia glanced his way. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”
“The police?” he questioned a bit too emphatically.
His sister regarded him as if he had two heads. “Oh, my God!” she said. “What in the world have you gotten yourself into?”
CHAPTER 36
As he drove he monitored traffic, fearful that they might be followed, that the people in the blue truck—he now believed it to be a Ford Explorer—were not done with them yet.
They were on the way back to Cynthia’s apartment. His sister had made it clear that she couldn’t possibly think of going to a restaurant. And he had agreed. But he traveled a circuitous route. When they arrived, he found the identical parking spot he had occupied before, which he took to be a good omen.
He grabbed his overnight bag and followed Cynthia out of the car and into her building. They rode the elevator in silence, and exited on the eighth floor.
Cynthia opened the door to her apartment. She hit the lights, then dimmed them. “Scotch?” she asked. She was already leading the way into the living room.
She pushed a stack of old newspapers and other waste aside. The small bar had been set up next to the credenza. She struggled to get the door open. “Here,” she said, handing him a bottle of Chivas. “You pour.”
Blair filled two glasses with ice. Then he tipped the bottle until their glasses were full. He handed her one and quickly took his first sip.
Reality hit them both at the same time.
Cynthia came into his arms.
They stood in place as if dazed.
There has to be an explanation, Blair was thinking.
“I made such an ass of myself,” his sister said as she finally eased away.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did! I panicked. I lost control.”
“You were fine.”
“I wasn’t fine. It’s just … I was so afraid.”
“You were afraid? Let me tell you something, sis. I was never so close to puking in my life.”
“Serious?” she said.
“Of course, I’m serious. So don’t talk to me about being scared. Now, come. Let’s get comfortable. And bring that bottle of Chivas with you.”
With the stacks of refuse filling the apartment, Blair realized it had the appearance of being half its size. The living room also served as the den. Traditional furniture without anything too extravagant. Shades of burgundy, for the most part.
There was a Murphy bed for guests. They sat down on it.
A few minutes went by before Blair understood why the car that had come to their rescue looked familiar. A beige Chrysler. Lisa’s car? But how did that make sense?
“What are you thinking?” Cynthia asked.
“I was thinking of how paranoid I’m becoming. A friend of mine in New York drives the same kind of car that saved our butts today.”
“Who is he?”
“She. He is a she. Someone I met recently. We’ve been dating.”
She shot up. “You’ve been dating? A woman?” She smiled. “So Mandy’s hold over you isn’t what everyone believes?”
“Cyn, I just met her. Give it a chance.”
“Oh, I will, baby brother. I will.”
“Hungry now?” Blair asked. It was 9:00 PM and they still hadn’t eaten.
His sister shook her head. “Not a bit. You?”
“Uh-uh. Let’s just drink.”
She wagged a cautionary finger. “Not good for you.”
“I know,” he said as he sipped.
“You’ll wake up with a hangover.”
“I know that, too.”
“But you don’t care?”
“I don’t.” He picked up the bottle. “May I pour you some?”
“Oh, what the hell.” She proffered her glass.
They both laughed. But it was fleeting.
Cynthia grew serious. She asked what was going on.
“What do you mean?” he said, playing dumb.
“Blair, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
He lifted his glass to his lips and drained the Scotch. He had come here today to confide in his sister. But this was now impossible. Trouble followed him wherever he went. There was no way he could involve her.
Cynthia poured them each another shot. “I want the truth,” she said.
What the hell is the truth? he asked himself. Do I even know? With all the crap that’s been happening? Here in Montreal? In New York? In Israel?
“Blair?”
His sister deserved an explanation. But he couldn’t give her one. The less she knew, the less anyone knew, the better. “I think I’ll hit the sack,” he said. “Got a big drive ahead of me tomorrow.”
Cynthia’s look was one of concern. “I want you to know something,” she said. “I’ll be here for you. Whenever you need me. But if not me, then seek the help of a friend. Don’t keep this locked up inside, Blair. Whatever it is. You’ll compromise your health if you do. And I don’t want to see that happen. P
lease. Will you promise me?”
He finally put his glass down. “I promise,” he lied.
CHAPTER 37
Too many questions kept him awake. Why was John Dalton gunned down? What was Jeremy Samson’s role in all of this? Who were the people in the blue truck?
The crawl out of bed the next morning was not a pretty sight. Shaving, he opened a cut on his chin. It didn’t appear deep but he couldn’t stem the flow of blood.
“Here you go,” Cynthia said, once he coaxed himself to the breakfast table. She proffered a plate of bacon and eggs. “Coffee?” she asked, a little too cheerful for his liking.
He noticed four aspirins. They were standing like white Centurions, next to a tall glass of water. He forced them down slowly. His sister had been right. Drinking too much Scotch, especially on an empty stomach, was not beneficial to one’s health.
Cynthia waited for him to finish eating. Then she handed him a Xerox copy of a Loto-Québec subscription for the entire year.
“For me?” he asked.
She nodded.
He stood and gave her a hug. “This is so nice of you. Thanks.” He remained on his feet. “Before I go,” he said, “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to get help for your problem.”
“I can’t afford it. Psychological consultation isn’t covered by the RAMQ.”
Blair knew she was referring to the Régie de l’Assurance Maladie du Québec, the government body that handled the administration of the healthcare program in the Province of Quebec. “Screw the RAMQ,” he said. “I’ll pay for it.”
“You can’t!” His sister was adamant. “You’re already paying for Mom. And you’re not exactly rolling in dough.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Cyn, let’s not argue. You promised you would seek help.”
“I will. On my own.”
“You can’t afford it on your own.”
“So I’ll wait.”
“That’s just it. You can’t wait. Please, Cynthia.”
Her frown turned into an oblique smile. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You tell me what’s really going on in your life, why you arrived here in town with your face all beaten up, why someone in a blue truck tried to push us into oblivion yesterday, and I’ll do as you ask.”
