The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  “We’ll take a right?”

  “No, keep going.” She sat up straighter. The taxi crept forward. A copse of stunted maples gave way to a school’s parking lot crowded with squad cars, SUVs, media vans, and the mobile forensic unit. Officers walked with purpose, talking intently on radios. A K-9 team, led by a tugging German shepherd, cut across the field towards a birch grove. Hassan stopped for the police officer barring the road. He dabbed his brow before rolling down his window.

  “Hello, good morning.” Hassan nodded. His smile was broad. “We go through to bridge, please.”

  Tamara could see the officer’s torso, holster, and gun. Dark stains sullied his vest and the front of his pants. A deep, unfriendly voice responded, “Local residents only. Take the detour.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Hassan looked to Tamara in the mirror.

  “I’m not asking you.”

  Hassan’s shoulder flinched. The officer bent down to peer through the side window. Tamara looked up at Constable Mike. In the daylight, she thought he didn’t look well. His skin was sallow and dry, and dark circles distended under his eyes. His lips were pressed tight and there were no laugh lines. He had blue eyes and the whites were bloodshot. She thought, His shift is over. But knew why he was there.

  She rolled down her window.

  “I have to go this way,” she said, and he understood she was saying I’m sorry it went bad.

  Stiffly, he straightened up and waved the cab through. “Don’t stop,” he said to the cabbie, his voice hard and threatening.

  “No, sir. Thank you.” Hassan cautiously pulled ahead and swung around the police car, taking extra care not to touch the brakes.

  Tamara craned to see the narrow footpath carving its way through the dun grass away from the sidewalk’s safety. Amidst the dappled shade of green leaves and white birch trunks the forensics tent looked almost serene with purple ribbons trailing from the treetops. The cab turned left towards the bridge and Tamara shut her eyes.

  OFFENCE/INCIDENT REPORT

  OFFENCE/INCIDENT TYPE LOCATION OF OFFENCE TYPE OF AREA

  SHOOTING VICTORIA RD WOODED

  TYPE OF OFFENCE DATE OF OFFENCE TIME OF OFFENCE

  MURDER 24/08/2009 0126

  Beat Badge# REPORTING OFFICER

  CST MIKE BRANDT

  COMPLAINANT HOME ADDRESS HOME TELEPHONE

  ANTOINE LUCAS xxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx

  RACE SEX DATE OF BIRTH SIN

  BLACK M MINOR- 14

  CODES DESCRIPTION OF ITEMS VALUE

  D-DAMAGED

  E-EVIDENCE

  L-LOST

  R-RECOVERED

  S-STOLEN

  CODE V-VICTIM ADDRESS

  S-SUSPECT

  M-MISSING

  HOMICIDE V- DEVON JOHNSON

  DATE OF BIRTH HOME TELEPHONE

  MINOR-12

  RACE SEX HT WT EYE /HAIR COLOUR

  BLACK M ------- BROWN/BLACK

  EMPLOYER PHONE DATE OF BIRTH HOME TELEPHONE

  NARRATIVE:

  ON THE NIGHT OF 24.08.09 AT 0126 HRS, I CONSTABLE MIKE BRANDT WAS AT IES AND HEARD A CALL COME IN NEAR MY LOCALE. I ARRIVED FIRST ON SCENE FOLLOWED BY PARAMEDICS. I LOCATED TWO MALE JUVENILES ON A PATH CUTTING ACROSS GROVES CORNER.

  DEVON JOHNSON, 12, HAD BEEN SHOT AND WAS BEING ASSISTED BY ANTOINE LUCAS, 14. THE VICTIM WAS NON-RESPONSIVE ON ARRIVAL. ANTOINE DID NOT SEE THE SHOOTER. THE SINGLE GUNSHOT SEEMED TO COME FROM THE ROAD. HE DID NOT SEE A VEHICLE.

  PARAMEDICS WORKED TO REVIVE VICTIM. I STAYED WITH THE OTHER JUVENILE UNTIL BACKUP ARRIVED. I THEN ACCOMPANIED EHS TO HOSPITAL. VICTIM PRONOUNCED DEAD.

  RETURNED TO ASSIST SECURING CRIME SCENE.

  END OF REPORT

  11

  Mike stirred to the squeal of children’s voices. He wrenched awake, alert to the muffled cries of distress. No, it was laughter. He was lying naked on his back under a cotton sheet. His skin was clammy from the stale heat in the room. What day was it? He looked to the clock: 5:10 p.m. He had slept in. His heart tightened, but then he realized his police radio was silent. Lori must have turned it off. It must be a day off.

  The hoots and hollers were coming from the backyard. A play date. He thought he smelled barbecue and his stomach growled. Was tonight the night they were having steak? No, that was last night. He heard the back door open and Lori’s voice spilled in. Who needs a drink? He heard several women answer enthusiastically. Outside his window, the patter of a sprinkler fanned back and forth. It would be good to run through the spray with Caleb. It wasn’t too late in the day.

  Mike swung his legs off the bed and sat up with his feet flat to the floor. He winced at the hitch in his back. His head felt thick, muddled with a low-grade pain as though he had been drinking. He yawned and pondered the small paunch at his midriff. Sucking in his belly, he stretched his arms high above his head to release the tightness.

  He must have had a shower last night, or rather this morning, but he couldn’t recall doing so. His gear was on the highboy dresser and his work belt and holster were hanging from the back of the door. All was safe. Yawning, he donned a T-shirt bearing his unit’s emblem and his baggiest shorts. His shoulders drooped under the lightness of the fabric. He was going barefoot today. His toes waggled happily.

  On his way to the bathroom, he barely acknowledged the tightly bound garbage bag beside the laundry hamper containing his uniform’s pants and shirt, or the words that he had written with permanent marker—Do Not Open. Dry Clean Only. He had a long, satisfying pee, then filled the sink with lukewarm water. He lathered the soap and washed his hands, then washed them again, and again. He found the nailbrush and scrubbed under his nails and between his fingers. Rinsing, he could still feel the stickiness of warm blood. He doused his face and checked his hands again.

  He stepped into the hall towards the clink of ice and Lori’s mutterings. His thought of surprising her with a hug from behind and a kiss on her neck deflated when he saw the kitchen counters strewn with bags of hotdog buns, chips, pop, paper cups, empty beer bottles and popsicle moulds. On the island a large crocodile slab cake shouted in crayon colours, Happy 4th Birthday, Caleb!

  “Good. You’re up.” Lori cracked a tray of ice cubes into a bowl. “Everybody’s here and it’s time to put the wieners on. You can do that.” She loaded a tray with rum and Cokes. Her eyes said, We’ll talk about this later.

  Moving towards the open patio door, he saw the colours first. Exclamation marks of fun: turquoise wading pools, red plastic gingham tablecloths, orange umbrellas, and the stark, sun-white day. Christ, he needed a coffee. He stood at the threshold, obscured by the screen and the room’s shadow, conscious of his blanched legs, exposed feet, and the thinness of the fabric separating him from them.

  The adults, wives of his colleagues, had migrated into small groupings, laughing at shared jokes. They held their drinks as though nobody had a care in the world. The women were dressed in floral dresses and capri pants that flattered each body. Mike wondered what it would feel like to be so at ease.

  The barbecue was smoking. The backyard was perfumed with suntan lotion and bug spray. On the deck was a stack of unopened presents mostly wrapped in blue paper festooned with superheroes and cars with giant eyes. Hordes of boys were charging each other with balloons fashioned into sabres, the parents watching and not watching. The disorder unnerved him. Nobody was in charge.

  He located baby Connor on his grandmother’s lap. His sunhat was askew and the chinstrap tugged at his neck. He was gripping a popsicle stick. Red juice stained his face and dripped down his chest. Mike bristled at his mother-in-law’s inattentiveness. His own mother had always been so particular about her only son’s appearance. She believed one must always be prepared to meet their Maker. Into her seventies, she was still curling her thin hair and insisting on wearing a blazer, skirt, nylons, and low heels, even though her fingers could no longer fasten buttons or pull up zippers. In the end, she met her Maker in a crumpled, stained hospital gown and diaper.
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br />   “Daddy!”

  Caleb ran towards him, arms wide open, Birthday Boy emblazoned across his chest, a child-size police hat on his head, and at his hip a plastic gun and holster.

  Mike adopted his best civilian guise and stepped into the day.

  * * *

  —

  The party was over. Gift bags had been bestowed, guests hugged out the door, picnic tables cleared, and murky wading pools dumped. From the kitchen, the sound of dishes clattering was more emphatic than usual. The baby was already asleep. Mike had rubbed Connor’s mildly sunburned shoulders with aloe vera and tucked him in. He would have to talk to Lori about her mother. She was getting too old to watch the boys. People assumed accidents were something that happened away from home, but he knew that most happened right in front of you.

  “I’m dried, Daddy.”

  He stopped rubbing the towel and lifted it to reveal his son’s pouty face and mussed hair. Caleb’s entire body had tanned to a deep, rich brown with the exception of the bathing suit line highlighting his little white bum.

  “Okay, PJs on and bedtime.”

  Caleb draped his arms around his father’s neck and leaned in as Mike pulled on one pyjama leg followed by the other. He breathed in vanilla bubble bath and that other smell that only children have, something that reminded him of fresh-cut grass.

  “Okay, birthday boy, away we go.” He hoisted him up.

  Caleb wrapped his legs around his father’s waist and tucked his wet head against his chest. It always surprised him how little his son weighed and how much he had to adjust his hold to not crush him. Caleb was limp in his arms and he thought he might be asleep, but then his son reached out, miming for his stuffed crocodile propped on the toilet seat cover. Mike leaned down to retrieve Snappy and his back muscle tugged.

  Caleb squirmed to loosen his father’s grasp. “Too tight.”

  He redistributed his son’s weight onto his hips and groaned upright. “There’s too much cake in your belly, little buddy.”

  At nine o’clock the sun’s orange cast suffused the blue walls in Caleb’s room. The salvaged stop sign and one-way street marker above his bed gleamed. Mike pulled the blind down and night instantly fell. Stars painted on the ceiling glowed an alien yellow-green. He checked the safety lock restraining the window. Hot air streamed over his hand, drawing through the narrow opening.

  “I want my birthday present with me,” said Caleb.

  “Tomorrow we’ll make the bed when you’re not so tired.”

  “No,” he whined and clung tighter to Mike’s neck. “I need it to go to sleep.”

  Mike looked at his son’s face and tried to imagine its visage as a man’s, but could not. His hand was on his son’s chest and he could feel the thump of his heart so alive.

  “I guess that would be okay.” He flipped the boy on his back and flew him once around the room before floating him down onto his bed. Caleb heaved the bedcover embellished with soccer balls onto the floor.

  “Hey, hey, Mommy’s not picking that up.”

  His son winced at the disappointment in his voice. “Sorry.” The r’s rounded into w’s.

  “I’ll get it this time, but only because it’s your birthday.” He shoved it into the laundry basket. “I’ll be right back.”

  Caleb watched his daddy disappear into the light of the door. He looked up at the stars above his head and pulled Snappy closer. Snappy smelled like laundry. Mommy had washed him for the party. Snappy didn’t like going round and round in the washy machine. Even if Mommy said crocodiles liked water, Snappy didn’t. Caleb counted on his fingers: 1, 2, 3, 4. He was four now.

  He told Snappy about his cake, chocolate, his favourite, and about stepping on balloons that went pop-pop-pop, and the fizzy root beer that came out his nose, and hot dogs catching fire, and Aiden puking blue and green, and everybody singing “Happy Birthday” to him, and Daddy not coming downstairs to say good morning. He held his hand up and saluted four fingers.

  Daddy said, “Close your eyes.”

  Caleb scrunched his eyes shut. A waft of warm air and soft cloth fluttered onto him. He lay perfectly still while a tickle of hands straightened the covers over him.

  “Okay, open your eyes.”

  He was swathed in a red and blue comforter. There were two police cars going in different directions, almost as big as his whole bed, and squiggles to say the sirens were on. He reached down to touch the sun-yellow police shields adorning the cars. Skirting the floor were roads with street lamps and high buildings at night, some windows were lit up yellow and others dark, and bad guys were jumping over rooftops with bags of loot.

  “You like it?” Mommy asked. Caleb couldn’t see Mommy. She was standing in the doorway and all he could see was the light around her.

  He didn’t know all the words to tell her that the bad guys thought they had got away but the police cars were waiting on the other side of the bed to catch ’em and take ’em to jail for a time out. He was in the police cars and on the roof and in the streets and in the cars and he could drive off the bed and down the hallway to patrol the kitchen and windows and doorways and nothing bad could ever happen to Daddy or him or Baby or Mommy because now he had all the superpowers to keep them safe.

  So he settled on the best words. “I’m the good guy. The end.” He squirmed under the covers, pulling Snappy close.

  Mike bent down and kissed him on the forehead three times. Always three times; Caleb insisted that was the magic number. By the time his mother leaned in, he was asleep.

  * * *

  —

  The stringent eucalyptus ointment made Mike’s eyes water. No matter how far he twisted his naked body, he couldn’t reach the middle of his spine to apply the salve. Lori stepped out of their bathroom, rubbing away moisturizer on her cheeks and neck. Her white tank top highlighted the soft distension of her belly and the milk fullness of her breasts. Silvered stretch marks radiated down her inner thighs.

  “Give it to me.” She took the ointment and sat beside him. He shifted sideways, irritated that he needed to rely on her to reach the tender spot. It wasn’t how he wanted her to see him. His skin flinched from the cold salve and the gentle pressure of her touch. She rubbed the cream in a widening circle. Its heat flared.

  She said, “Tell me.”

  The hot prickled his skin and he thought maybe she should stop.

  “Not this one,” he said.

  She worked her fingers deeper, kneading the muscle that was rigid across his lower back. “Tell me.”

  “No.” He moaned as her fingers probed the aching hurt.

  “This is the only way we make it together.” Her voice was soft, a whisper behind him. The pain wormed deeper. “Why did you forget your son’s birthday?”

  Her hand stopped on the small of his back and pressed deep. Warmth bloomed against his spine, numbing the pain. The sensation was no longer hot or cold but liquid.

  Her hand burned under his skin.

  “Why were you late coming home? Did you go for breakfast with the guys again?”

  “No.”

  She rubbed the small of his back, melting away the hurt. He squirmed from her probing touch. “Tell me.”

  He couldn’t tell her about the boy he knew was dead before he reached for a pulse. Or how he made a rookie mistake and looked him in the eyes breaking the first rule to never look them in the eyes.

  He couldn’t tell her about the meat smell of warm blood. Or the strength of a fourteen-year-old boy who doesn’t want to let go. He considered telling her how the boy curled into him, burying his face against his chest, but then he would have to tell her about the sound that tore from the kid’s throat.

  “Two friends in a band were up late writing songs. It was hot, so they took a walk because they couldn’t find the right words to describe what it felt like to be in the street in the middle of the night. So they walked to find the words…”

  Lori’s hand was on his back. Heat flared from her fingertips.

/>   “One of them got shot. He was twelve. He didn’t make it.”

  Her hand fell away, and cold flushed his skin. She stood and wrapped her arms around him and he leaned into her breasts to breathe her in.

  “I couldn’t help him.”

  “Shh.” She kissed his forehead. He fumbled for her breasts. She lifted her shirt and slipped off her panties. He was awed by her softness. She laid his hand on her heart. He kissed her in gratitude and in hunger. Straddling his lap, she guided him inside her, her nipples against his chest, her long hair smelling of sun and coconut. He tasted salt on her neck. Unable to stop, unable to wait for her, unable to escape the boy’s staring eyes, he came.

  12

  Spooned against him, Lori listened to her husband’s restless dreams and held the spasms of his legs and the shudders of his body. When his sleep breath arrested, she nudged his shoulder and breathed in with him. She whispered in his ear, “Tomorrow will be a better day.”

  She wondered how much longer she could keep telling herself that.

  13

  On Wednesday, the mall was crowded with teenagers and the elderly. The media had been advising people to go to air-conditioned malls, theatres, bars, and restaurants to escape the heat. They were heeding the call.

  Strapped in his stroller, Connor was crying, and Caleb was dallying, focused on his ice cream cone rather than on where he was going. Lori was navigating the stroller, and Mike, cranky that he was there on his day off solely to spend his mother-in-law’s birthday gift certificates, had been relegated to lugging shopping bags. Somewhere between the fifth or sixth pair of rejected sneakers, when he suggested Lori come back another time, she gave him a warning growl. “I’m not doing this alone.”