Tamara turned off the hot water and braced for the numbing cold. Ice rain pricked her fevered skin.
Unable to carry both the plate and iced tea, Dottie insisted she accompany her to the living room despite her protests. With the food cooling in hand, she lost her patience, This day’s about the woman in the other room. Whatever else, you set yourself aside. Tamara followed her through the press of sorrowful faces and questioning eyes. Ice tinkling in the glass. She tried to count the number of dresses, the number of tissues, the number of chairs. Dottie’s dress fluttered in the fans’ breeze as she set the plate on the folding tray beside the pink chair. The boy’s mother stared at the food, but didn’t reach for it. Thank you, she said and looked up to Dottie, Have you eaten, yet?
Tamara bowed into the pounding water. It slammed against her back. Her skin and muscles contracted, arching from the shock. Water roared past her ears, but she could still hear the breath that caught in Dottie’s throat, a cello’s moan. She could see the shudder of her body trying to gulp it down.
The woman in the pink chair stood and wrapped her thin arms around Dottie’s broad shoulders supporting the weight of unhinging, arthritic knees. Their dresses billowed in the cross-breeze of fans. Purple and blue. Tamara left the glass of iced tea melting on the front steps.
She turned off the tap. Water gurgled down the drain, churning with long, snaking strands of hair. As she stepped out of the shower, her skin goosebumped as the heat of the room rushed in.
She wiped the condensation from the mirror. Ragged lengths of braids roped her chest. Edie would be upset with her. She ran her fingertips down the sodden hair, feeling for the woven bridge of hers and someone else’s. She trailed her fingers a few inches past, picked up the scissors, and cut. She laid the stranger’s hair in the sink. Unbraiding the short tail, she inserted her comb’s pick into the plait and gently tugged. The remaining hair slipped free. She brushed it from her hands. She picked up the scissors and cut another and another. Her face and eyes emerged. Patiently, she unwound the strands until she was done.
Her head felt lighter and her neck longer. She raised her chin and her cheekbones sharpened. She ran her hands over the short crop of her hair. Water trickled over her shoulders. She didn’t feel the slightest urge to avert her eyes from the woman in the mirror. She was simply curious about who this woman was. She smiled, and the woman smiled back.
Dripping wet footprints across the gleaming hardwood floor, she went and sat at the piano and lifted the fallboard. Black and white. She touched the smooth keys with damp fingertips. Water droplets ran down her cheeks, neck, breasts, and spattered her thighs. She straightened her wrists, barely pressed her toes to the cold brass pedal, and rooted her bare sole to the wooden floor. She closed her eyes and breathed in lemon polish and cucumber skin.
The first notes announced themselves: Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, the “Moonlight” Sonata. She played the rolling triplet slowly, delicately, as Beethoven had noted, Adagio sostenuto. She swam into the formal harmonies washing together.
The current of deep overtones strengthened into each other. The sympathetic vibration of low bass strings churned in resonance. Her right hand lifted pure notes from her heartwood. She breathed in the empty bars of its measured, funereal march. Her right ear cocked to the clear, articulated notes falling into her chest. Driving deeper under her skin. The sombre notes drawing her sightless into its creator’s grief. A lament awakened throughout the centuries to mourn the unspoken losses of Wilhelm Kempff’s liquid blue eyes and Vladimir Horowitz’s sixty years of exile. Bowed heads. Inward stares. Music that refused to cry. She wrapped herself in its grey textures, holding its exquisite hurt until the last dark notes of the first movement tolled. Black on white.
She sat in the space between. Eyes closed. Her tongue flicked against her lips. There was no hallelujah in this music. No coming home. She spread her long fingers and opened the chords, widening the piano’s voices. She walked the keyboard, shifting the rhythm to a 6/8 shuffle, into the blues, into gospel. Her left hand strutted the rhythm. Her right hand balled into a syncopated fist pounding the roll. She pressed the pedal to the floor, her free foot stomping time. She was groaning and muttering, a song without words. Ancient sounds before time, before her.
She slapped at the keys, her wrists elastic. She laughed at the boogie roll barrelling up through the floorboards. Her nipples brushed against her forearms. Her wet bottom slid across the polished bench. Her hands flew as she hammered the rhythms of Reverend James Cleveland, Pinetop Perkins, Willie “the Lion” Smith, Margaret Allison, and Granny Nan. She boogied and she rolled.
The music led her back into the blues. Into the blues. Her hands slammed the keys and the gospel triad chord sang out. She played. Grunting and puffing. She played until her arms and fingers were stumbling. Pedal foot stuttering. Breasts clammy. The small of her back and forehead slick. The final notes coursed through her body and she laid her hands on the piano and held on as the vibration emptied the room.
She opened her eyes, saw her breasts, and instinctively covered herself with her arm. She checked the window, but the blinds were closed. Lowering her arm, she examined her body—dark areolas, nipples erect, small pudge belly, dark pubic hair, strong thighs, water pooling at her bare feet. This was her skin.
Gently, she lowered the fallboard. She didn’t bother to wipe away the fingerprints. She padded across the floor. She picked up the phone.
Tender fingertips pressed the numbers. Black on white. She listened to the ring. Sweat evaporating on her hot skin.
“Bluebird Taxi, how can I help you?”
Between heartbeats, she hung up.
39
Zeus tugged Kate down the corridor. The evening shift change was under way on the eighth floor. At reception, nurses were huddled in their paperwork. In shaded rooms, suppertime news trickled from rented televisions relaying hurricane warnings.
She had managed a nap after shift, only to wake a few hours later panicked that there was somewhere she had to be. But she wasn’t on duty until tomorrow night during the storm and had already prepped all she could at her place. Her fridge was stocked with beer, ice, and barbecue meat. She had candles, dog food, and chips. The propane tank was full. Her SAR and emergency kits were replenished. She had even managed a load of laundry. She was prepared, like she always was. Beyond that, it was her landlord’s problem. She had called, but he hadn’t trimmed the limbs or cleared the gutters. She’d never understand people who didn’t worry, didn’t act, and were truly shocked when their worlds caught fire, even though flames had been licking the walls for years.
Zeus strained on the leash and she slowed to bring him back in check. She should be sleeping or watching mindless TV. But if the hurricane hit, she’d be too busy in the ER to check on her mother and she still had to swing by her house to secure what she could. And if her brother was there? She would have to try again. Wouldn’t she.
Or she could pretend she didn’t see the flames. Walk away and wait for the collapse. His body would eventually fail without food and someone to enable him. Then he could be admitted as a medical emergency, something easier to understand. It was unlikely she was listed as next of kin. She didn’t even know if Matthew had ID, or if he would ask for her. If it happened, she hoped she wouldn’t be working that shift. Maybe the landlord was right. Let it burn and worry later. The thought curled her stomach.
Years ago, a social worker, who tried to help before moving on to someone who wanted help, said she’d seen Matthew at a Christmas dinner for the homeless. He used an assumed name. Ruth had called her, appalled that he had come home with new socks, mitts, and a bag of leftovers. Why would he do that when he had a home? People would think she didn’t feed him. Flush with shame, she proceeded to inventory all she had done for him. It was a long list that culminated in the preparation of a second Christmas dinner replete with all the fixings. Ruth said he ate two helpings. It wasn’t his fault, Kate reminded herself. It wasn’t his f
ault. Though it felt like it was.
She dropped the lead and Zeus ran into Ruth’s room. Country music was crooning. Her mother’s favourite. Someone had brought in a radio. On the nightstand, the angel was facing the room again. There was a white carnation in a paper cup and a get-well-soon card signed “Mr. Poranek (Joe).” There were X’s and O’s.
The nasal prongs had been removed. She was breathing on her own. Kate checked the vitals monitor. Stats were holding in the normal range. Her mom’s colour was good and her skin looked moisturizer-smooth. She smelled faintly of roses and jasmine.
She should have brought in one of her mother’s steamy romances to read to her. She could replace the Aidens, Raifs, Luciens, and Coles with “Joe Poranek.” Maybe that would get a rise. Zeus nudged Ruth’s hand and his tongue flicked against her fingers. He studied her face and deemed her still sleeping. He squirrelled past Kate and out the door.
“Zeus!”
His ears shot back and he paused at the threshold of the room across the hall. He looked back and his head lowered. He knew what she wanted, but chose to disobey. He disappeared into the room of the One-Legged Man.
She ground back her anger. She would have to give him a hard correction and haul him out by the scruff. She despised cowing a dog. She hated the wounded look of hurt and betrayal, and the uncertainty and timidity right after. He could tear her throat open before she could raise a hand, but he wouldn’t. He would submit and make her the punisher. She hated that most of all.
She stopped short at the door. The man, who had patted her arm while she was scrubbing gravel from his skin and told her not to worry, it didn’t hurt, was sitting in the corner chair, and Zeus was standing before him. The man with one leg now had two. A prosthetic extended from the soft, bare flesh of his thigh. He was staring at the sneakers cladding his feet. One was laced tightly around a titanium rod. Zeus rested his chin on the man’s stump. His eyes were patient and his ears relaxed. He had assumed his most supplicant posture. See me.
She was about to intervene, but couldn’t think how, when the man’s hand lifted and gently rested on Zeus’s head. He looked into her dog’s eyes and Zeus licked his chin with one flick. The man lowered his forehead to Zeus’s soft brow and his body racked and sobbed. Smothered in flesh and steel, her dog didn’t pull away from the constricting arms and fingers clutching his silken coat. He braced against the man’s collapsing weight and allowed himself to be held too tight. He glanced to Kate, as though conveying that this was where he had to be, and it had to be okay for him to stay.
She backed out of the room and braced herself against the wall. The man’s low moans shivered under her skin. It was a sound she had heard before in the aftermath of stunned, shattered silence. A sound only the heartbroken could vocalize. Once spent, the body even rationed tears more sparingly.
The hall was empty and darkening. The sun had fallen behind the buildings. She should wait until Zeus came back for her. She should stay in one place and wait to be found. But she was certain nobody was looking for her. No one knew she was lost. She bolted for her mother’s room.
Ruth’s eyes were closed and her lips parted. She was breathing in and out without a care in the world.
“Mom. Wake up.” Kate nudged her shoulder. Ruth slept on peacefully. Kate rocked her harder. “Wake up.” Ruth’s shoulders jostled and her head bobbed. She knew her mother could hear her. She hissed, “You don’t get to sleep through this.” She dropped her closed fist hard on her mother’s chest and rubbed her knuckles over her sternum. “Wake up!”
She wanted to see pain. She wanted her to cry out, or open her eyes in shock, or slap her daughter’s face. She wanted her to scream and yell. She wanted to see tears ravage her face. She wanted her to apologize for leaving her alone. She wanted her to say “I’m sorry for forgetting you. I’m sorry, I thought you could find your own way back.” She wanted her to beg forgiveness: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but he needed me more.”
Her lungs heaved. She wanted to join in the One-Legged Man’s ragged chorus. But her eyes were dry. And her vocal chords silent.
Ruth breathed in and out. Kate took her mother’s hand in hers. It was warm and unresponsive. Her fingers were the same length as hers. She placed it against her cheek to feel its touch. She straightened the puckered nightgown, then lingered over her rising-falling chest and the soothing beat of her unperturbed heart. She laid her mother’s hand on her chest, palm to heart, so she could feel it, too.
“It’s okay, Mom,” she said, her voice raw. She brushed Ruth’s bangs over her forehead the way she liked them. “You don’t have to say anything.”
40
Mike leaned back in his seat. He felt good. He felt friggin’ awesome. Every muscle was cocooned in liquid warmth. Cars and taxis streaked past, tailing light, and the street lamps radiated glowing haloes diamonded white with moths. The police radio sputtered and chirped. He loved his job, he loved his wife, he loved his baby boys—he loved his life. He breathed in deep. There wasn’t any pain. All life’s despair and hurt had dissolved, its frenzy reduced to millisecond frames. He could see it all.
He understood how everything fit together: the lumbering moon, the street’s lights, the mosquitoes caught in their beam, the garbage bags in the street, the graffitied walls, the kids, good kids, hanging out on a summer night, the white cat slinking across the road, the reflections shining in the hood of his car, the scar on his ring finger where the screwdriver slipped, and his wedding ring, golden, the bottle of pills in his hand, small and round, glowing redemption-bright…
There hadn’t been any calls since eleven. The city was dreaming itself whole again and he was part of the dream. Before long, he’d be home in his own bed beside his wife. Lori. Her name shone. Lori who slept with her hand on his heart to feel it beat. He placed his hand over his vest and felt the surge of heat emanating from within. The pulse in his fingertips thrummed. This, he thought, is love.
The car radio squawked. Car 322. Check.
A voice. Watching over him. Watching over all of them. It wasn’t Tamara’s voice, but he knew she was working tonight. She was part of all this. He didn’t know Tamara’s last name. But he loved her, too. He hated when they installed GPS on the cars to monitor every time he took a piss. But now he was grateful not to be alone. So, so thankful that someone was keeping watch over him to bring him home. Home…
Car 322. Check.
He reached for his mic but grabbed air, which made him laugh. His finger groped for the Talk button. He pressed his lips to the handset. “Car 322. Ten-two. Good check.”
He waited for more. It would be nice to talk. Leaning back in the seat, he miscalculated the distance of his hand to the mic’s cradle. The handset plopped to the floor. The twist and spin of coiled cord unravelled in slowing, perfect orbits. The window, open a crack, spilled the sweet fragrance of night bloom and warm asphalt.
He, too, was part of all this good. Absently, he rubbed the itch under his vest and the pill bottle dropped from his hand.
41
“911. What is your emergency?”
Tamara glanced over her monitors to Greg, who had snagged the only call in over an hour. His head was bent low and his hands were cupped to his earpiece. She and the other call-takers watched a partial address scroll across their monitors. The entry stalled and deleted. It was a non-emerg. The room relaxed back into their books, snacks, and crossword puzzles.
It was almost midnight. By shift’s end, she would have been up for over thirty hours. If her supervisor knew, she’d be reprimanded, maybe even suspended, rightfully so. She had broken the codes of conduct and risked her career to follow a call to the end of its story. But she already knew all tragedies ended the same.
From here on, she was satisfied knowing only the beginnings. That was her job. Stop mid-chapter. Maybe not even that far. A paragraph. Or perhaps nothing more than a single line of a life. That would have to be enough. They weren’t her stories.
It was one mistake
in her entire career. She wouldn’t let it happen again. Only Hassan knew the truth, and she had walked out on him mid-sentence. The end. Her hand trembled slightly and she steadied it on her console.
She fought a yawn and sipped her energy-inducing drink. In a few seconds, the caffeine would tremor her heart to stay alert. Waiting for its surge, she practised Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca” in her head, but kept tripping over the prancing notes. She was so tired. Just a few more hours and this week would be over. She focused on the map and the locations of squad cars standing by. Most were parked in their hiding nooks.
Her fingertips brushed the short, tight crop of curl at the nape of her neck. The entire room had turned when she arrived for shift. Their sharp eyes had assessed her as an intruder before softening to surprised recognition and widening smiles. Greg gave her the thumbs-up. Colleen said she looked powerful. During breaks, everyone stopped by her station for a better look. Beautiful, they said. She adjusted her headset, noticing it didn’t snag and tug. Her family of co-workers said she was beautiful. Her heart jittered and she braced for the caffeine’s quickening. Her fingertips tingled.
She had used another cab company to get to work. It was an old car and an old driver, who talked on his phone the entire trip. He took left turns and didn’t slow crossing the bridge. She kept her eyes open the entire way. That was her penance. White-knuckling the safety grip, she thought her heart might stop, but to her surprise she survived and arrived at work twenty minutes early. En route, she saw several Bluebird taxis, but none were his.
The police car icons pulsed. She zeroed in on car 322’s location. She would like to tell Mike about her day. He would understand. Maybe it would help him, too. But that would be another breach of boundaries. Her job was here. His job was there. All the life between had to remain unspoken.
The Waiting Hours Page 25
