He had gone for breakfast and had the Hearty Man’s Special: eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. Yogurt or fresh fruit weren’t on the menu, just greasy, cardiac-inducing goodness. He’d even had a cup of coffee, knowing Lori would disapprove. He hadn’t called to say he’d be late. He would blame it on paperwork. It didn’t matter. He’d be in shit either way.
He gathered the bouquets in his arms, a crackle of cellophane and blurred condensation. The brown, mummified roses and wilting carnations smelled dusty and sweet. He didn’t read the cards. He had already gathered the teddy bears and drawings and placed them in clear bags. There was a right way and a wrong way to do this job.
It had to be approached solemnly, with ritual. It couldn’t be rushed. He carried the relics in both arms with the ceremony and dignity of a folded flag and gently laid the flowers in his open trunk. He was doing everything right. If someone was watching, they’d see him demonstrating proper respect and care. The trunk was almost full. He would put everything curbside in dark bags on garbage day. It was the simplest way.
He felt good walking back to the site. He was upright and strong. The harbour was ablaze with morning, and windows flared molten. He was golden. Two little pills and he was whole again. He pulled up the wooden cross and hoped it would fit in the trunk. He carried it flat in his arms, bearing the painted word DEVON like an offering to the sky. He looked up quickly, wiping the word from his mind. People didn’t understand how dangerous distractions could be.
A car with tinted windows rounded the corner. He straightened his back and lifted his chin. He was in full uniform with the cross level in gloved hands. His stride was a measured march. He was doing everything right.
The tinted window slid partially open. An arm extended. Male. Brown skin. Middle finger saluting.
He memorized the licence plate.
34
Kate downed her third coffee of the morning. She was only a few hours into her eight-hour swing shift to relieve Amy, who was fighting a cold. After Riley’s, she’d gone home intending to sleep, but kept seeing him in the bed, at the stove, on her couch, in the shower…so she laid down food and fresh water for Zeus and left. He’d be fine until lunch break. She managed a couple of hours’ sleep in her jeep in the hospital parking lot and showered at work. It was the only good choice she had made in days.
It had been a deep, dreamless sleep and when her watch alarm went off the sky was purple and pink and the moon and sun were sharing the translucent blue. Curled up in the seat hidden from view, she had heard the murmur of voices passing nearby. It was like being inside a tent.
She felt surprisingly good despite her lack of sleep. The hospital was in a buoyant mood, prepping for the approaching hurricane. Pain meds, suture, and dressing supplies were being stocked in anticipation of the upswing in chainsaw lacerations. She had agreed to work multiple shifts day and night. She could grab sleep as needed and relieve nurses with families or those dealing with extensive property damage. Special allowances had been made for Zeus to crate in the storage room. And as for Riley…they would get past it. They were both professionals. She didn’t think she would even miss him much.
Two young women slinked past her station, shielding their eyes from the probing sun. Purple Jesus punch casualties. Their mascara had run and lipstick smeared their cheeks. Their high heels clicked unsteadily as they wobbled by in rumpled short skirts and vomit-stained tops. Night shift said the girls wanted their gurneys side by side so they could hold hands. One girl sang hit songs out of tune and begged the other to join in on choruses between retches. Through slobbering tears, they told each other, I love you, I love you. Four paramedics kept them company for five hours. The girls loved them, too.
“Have a good day.” Kate was feeling magnanimous. Everybody screwed up now and again. The girls slipped through the sliding doors, pretending not to hear.
Despite her personal life being in ruins, so far it was a good day at work. Word had spread about Zeus’s find and she had been given her choice of doughnut and her first coffee was hot. Her colleagues were calling her Tracker and diverting her intake of frequent flyers and Advil pain. The jokes were particularly sharp and the atmosphere was almost giddy in anticipation of the possibility of major trauma within the next forty-eight hours. She pulled her next chart, a four-year-old boy with a possible arm fracture, Caleb Brandt.
She passed through the sliding doors into the waiting area. The boy, his mother, and infant sibling were seated close to triage for rapid admission. The baby was asleep in a car seat and the boy was curled in his mother’s lap. His face was flushed from crying and his arm was wrapped in an ice pack. He hugged a green stuffed toy that resembled an alligator.
“Hi,” Kate said. “Is this Caleb?” She reached for the toy’s leg. “I hear he’s hurt his paw. Is that true?”
The little boy snuffled, “I’m Caleb.”
“Oh.” She checked the paperwork. “They must have written it down wrong. It’s not a green alligator, it’s a boy.”
She looked to the woman. “You’re the mother?”
“Yes.” The woman had the stoic calm of someone accustomed to taking care of things. But her eyes were fearful.
“Come on back with me and we’ll get you fixed up.”
The little boy, supporting his arm with his stuffed toy, slid off his mother’s lap.
“Have you ever been to the hospital before?” He swung his head in an emphatic no and sniffled. She walked slowly to give the mother time to gather the baby and led them to a private room. All eyes waiting in the common holding-pen glared as they passed by. Children first.
“I’m going to put you on the bed, okay?” She lowered the gurney as low as it would go, which wasn’t low enough. “I’ll help you up.” Cradling the boy, taking care not to jostle his arm, she sat him on the edge. He was trembling and moaned softly. He smelled of suntan lotion. She raised the head of the bed to an upright position. “You can lean back.” Uncertain, he complied. “My name’s Kate and who’s this?”
“Snappy.”
“Oh my, I hope he doesn’t snap me.” The boy relinquished a small smile. “I’m going to unwrap this and take a look. I promise I’ll be very gentle.” The boy stiffened, but he was trying to be brave. “Tell me what happened?”
“Mommy hurt me.”
“Caleb!” The mother’s face reddened. “It was an accident.” She burbled, “We were late for swimming lessons, the baby was crying, Caleb didn’t want to get in the van, then he didn’t want his seatbelt on…”
Kate waited patiently for the woman to move past the why and get to the what.
“…and I slid the van door shut. I thought he was in. I didn’t see his arm.” The woman’s eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep. The baby keened a shrill protest.
Kate prodded her to the ending. “So his arm was caught in the van door?”
The woman nodded. “I put ice on immediately, but it looked like it was swelling.” Absently, she unstrapped the baby from the car seat and tugged him out before the latch released. Half awake, the baby kicked and whimpered. The mother untangled his leg and rocked him back to sleep against her breast. The infant looked healthy and cared for.
The boy’s forearm was faintly bruised and reddened. The shape of the bruise seemed consistent with the crush of a van door. She lifted his T-shirt and checked his torso, front and back. There were no other signs of bruising or abuse. “I bet it hurts?” He nodded emphatically. “Does it hurt more now? Or did it hurt more before?”
“Before.” His eyes roved over the vitals machines in the corners. His fingers were white from clenching the toy. She checked his chart. No previous visits for broken bones and he didn’t appear to be afraid of his mother. It likely was an accident.
“Can you move your fingers?” She placed his hand tenderly in hers. They wiggled. “Excellent,” she said. “Do you want to lie down? I’m going to get the doctor now.” The bed lowered and his eyes widened.
“Will I hav
e to gets a needle?” He snuffled. “Snappy doesn’t like needles.”
“No, I don’t think so, but we might do an x-ray. They’ll take a picture of your bones. How cool is that?”
Caleb didn’t look sure if that was a good thing.
“Afterwards you can have some juice. What’s your favourite kind?”
“Apple.”
“Apple it is. And would a cookie help? Chocolate chip?”
“Yeah.”
She tucked the sheet under his chin and over his stuffed toy. He was a beautiful boy. “Will Snappy need a cookie, too? He’s been such a good alligator.”
“Crocodile.”
“Of course he is. Would you like a cookie later, Snappy?” Caleb nodded. She patted the toy’s head and turned to the mother.
“He’ll be fine. It may look worse than it is.” The woman looked as though she might cry. “Would you like a tea or coffee?”
“Tea. Thank you.” Her thank you was steeped with a mother’s gratitude.
The door to the exam room slammed open and a police officer filled the room. It was the same cop who had come to the house. She couldn’t understand how he found her, or what horrific crisis had happened to bring him here, and who had her brother hurt?
“What happened?”
The intensity and bark of authority made Caleb jump. She noticed the boy’s reaction and the wordlessness of the mother. The cop wasn’t there for Kate and her fear sloughed off. She stepped in with her most professional voice. “It was an accident. There’s some bruising and hopefully that’s all.”
The cop’s shining, drugged eyes narrowed in recognition. She could see his confusion, but they were professionals and could pretend they didn’t see each other.
“He’ll be fine,” she said.
He turned on his wife. “Where were you?”
The woman’s jaw clenched, her neck flushed red. She bit back. “Where were you? I’ve been calling and paging. You were supposed to be home hours ago.”
The little boy was hiding behind his stuffed toy. Only its wide mouth and fabric teeth were visible over the sheet.
“I’m going to get a tea for your wife. Do you want anything?” She was trained to redirect and de-escalate. “Caleb’s been very brave. He let me meet Snappy.” The boy lowered his toy. His eyes were brimmed with tears. The officer’s shoulders softened and he went to his son.
“A coffee?” she offered.
“No,” the cop said, not looking at her. His wife added, “Thank you.” “Hey, kiddo. You okay?” He stroked his son’s hair.
“Say it,” the little boy said.
The police officer glanced at his wife and leaned in closer. Kate noticed his back spasm and the flinch of his cheek. During the doctor’s exam, she would check the boy’s legs and backside.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” the cop said, punctuating each with a kiss.
“Again,” said the boy.
35
The church was overflowing. Breathless. Shoulder to shoulder. Paper fans wafted under noses, churning hot air across cheeks. A video screen had been set up in the basement to accommodate the excess of grief, and the air conditioner moaned, overwhelmed to capacity. Standing at the back of the church, Tamara dabbed sweat from her brow.
Dozens of young people, stark in black shirts, punctuated the crowded rows of straight-backed chairs. Leaning forward in their seats, they stared at brand-new sneakers firmly planted to the floorboards, their shoulders resisting the sermon, rejecting forgiveness. Every young man in the congregation had crisp razored lines over his temples. His mark. Devon’s. Edie’s salon had been busy.
Tamara swayed in the heat. The smell of coconut oil and hair products was making her lightheaded. She breathed through her mouth. The church was smaller than she remembered. Her bare arm brushed against Hassan’s tan linen suit. She could smell the soft scent of his soap.
The sun slashed through the windows, across the pulpit and casket. White. Small. Closed. Thank God. An enlarged photograph of him. The same one used for television and newspapers. Him smiling on his way out the door.
In the front row, she could see the back of a red velvet chair and the top of a woman’s head. Her hair was cropped short. No other family members sat with her. The woman was still and erect. The mother.
Tamara and her Granny Nan had sat in those same red velvet chairs. Her feet didn’t reach the floor and she didn’t understand why they were being punished and not allowed to sit with the others. She had on a short dress and Granny Nan slapped her legs when she kicked the chair rungs. There were two coffins then. The pastor had kept saying her parents’ names, and when she stood to look for them in the congregation, she was swatted again. And when he sang, she danced and couldn’t understand why everyone else was crying.
Sandwiched between the wall and broad shoulders, Hassan shifted beside her. Pastor Linda’s voice rose and fell, speaking of terrible injustices and the inadequacy of words. She spoke of home-going. Her voice softened them through the pain, carried them up to the steeple of anguish, held them close in the weeping of goodbyes. I will be your Light. I will keep my hand in yours. Her words churned between the oscillating fan blades, wobbled at the roof peaks, and wafted down to roost in their caged hearts. Amen.
Hallelujahs rose from the congregation, and the Revival Choir stood. Their shimmering blue and golden robes blossomed in the whiteness. One lone voice sang out “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” as hundreds of hands reached upward. In the red velvet chair, the mother did not move.
In the wake of shuffles and rustle of tissues, a boy rose from his seat and made his way to the pulpit, giving the casket a wide berth. He faced the congregation, his head down. His whole body quaked. In his hand, he clutched a CD player. He set it on the pulpit and adjusted the gooseneck microphone to its speaker. Every breath was held. Willing him to speak. Waiting to be released.
Pastor Linda laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked up and out. His eyes were glistening. White-hot.
He leaned into the mic. “Devon was my best friend.”
She knew his voice immediately. Antoine who had made the call. Antoine who did everything she had asked him to do. Antoine who looked as young as he had sounded. His scalp glistened where razor lines had been cut into his hair.
“We were working on this…Devon and me. He said it was one of your favourites.” He said this to the woman in the red chair. “It was gonna be a surprise.” The words caught in his throat and his thin chest heaved. He nodded and the young people in the congregation stood. Antoine pushed the Play button. Head bowed, he placed a trembling hand to his chest.
The room leaned in closer. A voice spoke. His voice. Laughing. Alive. “Take one. We ready, yeah? Here we go…”
A piano stool scraped across the floor. He breathed out and the notes lifted, one by one. A simple, pure refrain. Sombre and sober. Broad hats nodded in recognition. Some inhaled its exquisite pain. Others prayed. Praise Jesus. Praise the Lord. Many looked up to some place beyond the rooftop.
Another scrape of the piano bench and she knew the boy was drawing himself closer to the keys. His sneakered toes were reaching for the pedals. It was coming. He was taking it to church. His left hand rolled the octave into a tremolo and the bass chords started to billow.
Antoine, head down, began tapping his heart like a kick drum, slapping the snare of his bare arms. His teen choir followed their conductor. Clapping hands, stomping feet. Fluttering wings. The melody broke free.
Antoine drummed his chest as his youth choir clap-clapped in syncopated beat. They sang, heads high, their voices thin and wavering. Some glad morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away…
Antoine was drumming his ribs, his fingers snapping, his feet stomping in and out of the half-steps walking across the blues scale. I’ll fly away, O glory…All around her voices soared as the piano revealed itself to be percussion and string.
She could hear it all. The blues, the jazz, gospel, and classical—al
l of time resurrecting. A riff descended the pentatonic scale in free fall. Suspended. His foot lifted from the pedal, clearing the sound. The piano’s inner voice opened to ascend on the breath of its own expanding choir. There was the call. There the response.
Antoine’s face had lifted and he was drumming his chest with both hands. Palms open. His eyes fixed on the rafters. Cheeks stained wet. Drumming the hollows of himself. Antoine was singing. His voice slipped between the lines like jazz. Countering the other voices. I’ll fly away…The beats of his heart. I’ll fly away…
The music scrabbled against the windows and skimmed the roof peak. The floorboards bounced, vibrating through Tamara’s soles. The murmur of song flew over them and into them. O glory! The notes churned and dipped, rising in an orchestrated swirl. She was clapping. She was stomping. She was singing. When I die, hallelujah, by and by…She was weeping. I’ll fly away.
The boy, Antoine, was pounding his chest with closed fists. Hands uplifted all around him. Holding him up.
The woman in the red velvet chair stood. Her dress was the same bruised colour as her grief. The woman was small, but her legs were strong. She wasn’t singing. She wasn’t crying. She went to Antoine and wrapped her arms around him tight. Her son’s name freshly tattooed on her sinewy forearm. She clasped Antoine’s pummelling fists to his heart as he pleaded with her, broken-winged, I’ll fly away.
Tamara heard her Granny Nan singing and her momma and her papa. O! She heard the voices of the sixty-seven-year-old white male cardiac arrest rising from the sidewalk I’ll fly away, O glory and the girl in the yellow dress levitating from the bridge I’ll fly away, in the morning and the baby choking in its mother’s arms, soaring When I die and the ninety-seven-year-old woman who never woke Hallelujah, by and by and the paramedic bleeding out his own life’s blood I’ll fly away and the crumpled bodies unfolding from twisted metal I’ll fly away, the born and the unborn O glory, swooping into her chest, flapping against her rib cage I’ll fly away, clawing at her throat In the morning, thrashing against her skull When I die, a blurring white light of wings exploding Hallelujah! behind her eyes. By and by, she flew away.
The Waiting Hours Page 22
