All I Ask

by Eva Crocker

  Once, I came home and realized I’d left the blanket on all day. Snot and Courtney were deep asleep under the covers, dreaming vivid cat dreams — heaps of wet food, backyards full of fat baby birds learning to fly. I’d rubbed my palm across the mattress and felt the S-shape of all the springs burning beneath the padded top.

  I went to the kitchen to check the time on the stove. Eleven-thirty. I never slept that late. I felt like I’d woken up in a different time zone. I shook kibble into Snot and Courtney’s bowls. There were still stacks of clean plates lined up on the counter from my cleaning spree before Viv’s visit. How long ago was that? I lifted them back into the dirty cabinets and put my groceries away. I was losing track of the days. The only way to tell time was by the clock on the stove. I hadn’t seen Holly since our conversation about her staying with Dave. Without a phone or a computer no one could reach me. If I wanted to talk to someone I had to correctly guess where they were and engineer a meeting or find their phone number somehow and a phone to use.

  I needed to shower and go to the theatre and find out when I was working. Snot sauntered over to his food dish; the blanket had gone cold and he’d managed to shake himself out of the special stupor it put him in.

  There was a knock. Snot lifted his head and looked at the door. My arms quivered with the weight of the plates as I lowered them back to the counter. First I looked out the back door; I couldn’t see anyone on the deck. A second, more urgent knock. I wrapped the housecoat tight around me and walked to the porch. I could see a tall figure on the step through the three frosted glass panels in the door. I saw the person lift their fist to knock again and I pulled the door open quickly.

  “Somebody here order Mary Brown’s?” the man asked. He had a big, black delivery bag, the kind with a silver lining designed to keep takeout hot. I could tell the bag was heavy from the way he was standing.

  “No.”

  The man looked about fifty, he had close-cropped grey hair and a brown leather bomber jacket.

  “This is 2 Clarke Avenue?” He was looking at the gold number 2 screwed onto the siding next to our mailbox. I could see in his face that he knew something wasn’t right. I smelled warm grease.

  “This is 2 Clarke Avenue but no one ordered Mary Brown’s.” I was sure he was just a lost delivery man but adrenaline was coursing through my body. I looked behind me to make sure Snot wasn’t trying to get out.

  “Sorry, the cat,” I said, easing the door closed, so we were speaking through a smaller opening and I was mostly concealed.

  He took a bulky device out of his pocket; it looked like a walkie-talkie. “What this says is 2 Clarke Avenue, for the Bright Horizons Youth Group, contact person Tammy. Definitely says 2 Clarke Avenue.”

  “It must be the church,” I said. “They’ve got all kinds of groups over there.”

  I stuck my arm out the door and pointed at the side entrance of the church.

  “Oh yeah, just in there? In those doors there?” he asked.

  “I think so, yeah. In the basement.” The coughing woman was out on the steps with her headphones around her neck, watching our interaction. For a moment I thought about asking her advice, was that the best entrance? But the delivery man was already walking away.

  “Thanks my love,” he called over his shoulder.

  At least there was the coughing woman, I thought as I closed the door — if there was an emergency or something.

  * * *

  I made the water in the shower hot. Snot sat on the toilet tank and watched me shampoo my hair; Courtney curled up in the sink, licking the bottom of the faucet. I tried to work out which day of the week it was: the Pleasant party was a Friday night, then Viv had visited, and last night I’d been alone. Monday?

  I walked over to the theatre; Joanna was working box office. She was watching a muted episode of Grey’s Anatomy with the subtitles on and drinking a Diet Coke. She tapped the space bar to pause the episode when I walked in. The Rolodex we used for organizing purchased tickets was out on the counter. I flipped through it, recognizing almost all of the names. Actors, directors, playwrights and regulars. It was opening night of a comedy about the cod moratorium. The play was backed by an anonymous investor, it had a huge budget. The production company had hoodies and other merch on display, underwear with the show’s title printed across the butt.

  After two nights in St. John’s, the show was going on a Canada-wide tour with a long run at the National Arts Centre in Ottawa. The cast would be flown from city to city; the truck would drive to meet them as they slept in their hotel rooms. I’d heard three drivers had been hired so they could switch out when they got tired and the truck would never have to stop. I’d watched it in rehearsal, before the police invasion — it felt like a lifetime ago even though only two days had passed. Or three days?

  “Is tonight sold out?” I asked.

  “Oh completely, why? You wanted to go?”

  The phone rang and Joanna held up a finger to say “one minute.” I leaned on the counter as she tried to talk someone through buying a ticket online. A lot of the patrons were elderly and not computer-literate. Eventually Joanna asked for the woman’s credit card number and keyed it into the Moneris machine on the counter. She minimized the full-screen image of a doctor with a clipboard held against her chest — the words I don’t want to frighten you but in chunky white font at the bottom of the screen. She pulled up the program we use to sell tickets. She scrunched the phone between her shoulder and ear as she typed the woman’s information into the system.

  “It’ll be here waiting for you, just tell us your name and we’ll grab it for you. Of course, no problem, you as well.” Joanna was rolling her eyes.

  “Did Claire send out the schedule?” I asked when she finally laid the receiver down.

  “Yeah, last night, you didn’t get it?”

  At first, the thought of telling the story again made me feel tired but once I got going Joanna’s reaction brought me to life. She thought the cops’ behaviour was despicable. I was getting wound up, a blustery rage filling my chest as I thought about the young cop in my messy bedroom.

  “I wasn’t even dressed!” I was practically shouting in Joanna’s face.

  “Fucking assholes,” Joanna said. “And I can say that ’cause my dad’s a cop.”

  I paused, taking it in, trying not to let anything show on my face.

  “I mean I had a T-shirt and bike shorts on, but I wasn’t wearing a bra.” I wanted to maintain the same level of outrage so she’d know my opinion of her hadn’t changed, but I’d lost momentum.

  “Still,” Joanna said. “You were in your own home.”

  “Anyway, I just came down to find out when I’m working.”

  Joanna put the straw to her lips and sucked up the last drips of her pop.

  “I’ll look it up.”

  She printed out the schedule for me. When she handed it to me, I felt disappointed that there was no reason to stick around. Nowhere to go besides my empty house. I wasn’t working until the following night. I folded the piece of paper twice and put it in my coat pocket.

  “I’m just going to use the phone for a sec, okay?”

  “Go for it.” Joanna un-paused her show.

  I went to dial Viv’s number but realized I didn’t have it memorized. I should have written it down. I wanted to ask her if she was going to the punk show at The Peter Easton.

  “Never mind.” I put the receiver back in place.

  Joanna gave me a concerned look.

  “All good! Thank you!” I left, feeling deeply lonely.

  On the way home I saw a woman stopped on the corner near Venice Pizza. She was holding a single-slice box, head tilted back, looking into the sky. The spectacle the woman was making of staring up at the sky annoyed me. I almost didn’t ask what she was looking at because she clearly wanted to be asked so badly. But then I felt gui
lty about being so mean-spirited.

  “Something up there?”

  “There, straight up above the door,” the woman said.

  I saw two piercing red lights on the belly of a hovering grey bot, about eight feet above our heads. When I listened for it, I could hear it buzzing, the mechanical equivalent of treading water.

  “A drone.” I glanced at the woman to see if she knew that already.

  “It’s creepy.” She nodded.

  “They’re cheap now,” I said. “It’s probably a kid.”

  “This is the second time I’ve seen it in this neighbourhood.” The woman swooped her finger around, a gesture that seemed to include my street.

  “My little cousin got one for his birthday, he flew it up too high the first time he had it out and it blew away. There are cheap ones now,” I said again, “relatively cheap. A couple hundred bucks.”

  The woman nodded but looked unconvinced. I walked on. I glanced over my shoulder, some part of me was worried the whirring machine was following me, but the drone was just hovering above the door to the pizza shop.

  * * *

  When I got home there was a cruiser pulled up in front of the house and a cop on the step. He was tall, with thick, fluffy hair. From the top of the street I couldn’t tell his age. I watched him turn on the step and walk towards the car.

  “Excuse me.” My voice came out quiet at first but I rushed down the street towards him and that caught his attention. As I got closer I saw he was mid-thirties-ish with a square face and big, pond-green eyes below blond eyebrows. I resented that — I would have preferred to talk to some dumpy older man. This guy had all the arrogance of a young cop mixed with the added smugness of knowing he was conventionally handsome.

  “Excuse me,” I said, more firmly this time.

  “Yeah?”

  “I live here,” I said over the top of his car.

  A window was open in the big industrial kitchen on the first floor of the church. Shaggy’s “Angel” was blasting inside and the smell of baking cinnamon buns was pouring into the parking lot.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Stacey Power.”

  He came around the front of the car and stood over me. “Can I see some ID?”

  “I don’t have any ID.” I looked into his movie-star face. His uniform was snug around his broad shoulders. I hated him.

  “Not in the house?” he asked.

  Maybe he was going to arrest me. Maybe I had horribly underestimated the situation. I looked to the fire escape but no one was there. I was all on my own.

  “What is this concerning?” I said finally.

  He looked me up and down, annoyed by my tone. “I have a document for you but I need to confirm your identity first. That’s all.”

  I saw he had two envelopes in his hand — normal-sized envelopes with a coat of arms printed in the top corner of each. My name was handwritten in pen on the front in scratchy letters.

  “What is it?” I asked. When he didn’t answer I added, “concerning?”

  “I’m going to need to see ID. You can come down to the station at your own convenience if you’d rather, but you’ll have to bring ID down there too.”

  I breathed in the cold, yeasty air. “Angel” ended and Shakira’s “Whenever, Wherever” started. Someone’s ’90s playlist. A band of dark clouds was gathering over the church, they were grey at the top and bruise-blue on the bottom.

  “I’ll run in and get it.”

  “Okay.” He rested an elbow on the roof of the car, like he was bragging about his height.

  I shut the door behind me and left him on the sidewalk. Once I found my ID I brought it outside and closed the door behind me again. Pinpricks of icy rain were falling. He looked at the ID and handed it back to me with one of the envelopes.

  “Is there a letter for Holly Deveraux too? She’s my roommate, I can give it to her.”

  “I can’t give you that information. If you want to read your letter now I can answer any questions you have about your letter.”

  I tore the envelope open and scanned the page. I couldn’t take in full sentences, only certain words and phrases. Available for pickup. Signature required. Investigation ongoing.

  “I can get my things?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Bring down your ID.”

  He walked around the car.

  “Anything else?” he asked, opening the car door.

  “Does this mean they’re done with me?”

  Standing in the open door he shifted his hips.

  “I’m not a suspect?”

  “I don’t have that information. I can tell you the investigation is ongoing.”

  “But this is good. Right?” It felt like grovelling.

  “The investigation is ongoing.” He pursed his lips.

  I tried to think of another way to phrase the question; sometimes if you find the right way to ask they have to answer. Or they’re supposed to, anyway.

  “Okay?” He said it in a way that meant goodbye.

  “When should I come to the station?”

  “Anytime after three p.m. tomorrow.” He slapped the top of the car and swung down into the seat.

  I went into the house, balling the letter and envelope up with both hands. The stiff corners dug into my palms. I threw it across the room — it hit the wall and dropped to the floor, almost landing in Snot and Courtney’s water dish. After a moment I picked up my crumpled letter and brought it upstairs. I might need it to get my things back.

  I smoothed the letter out on the vinyl seat of the kitchen chair I kept in my room. I took a plastic file folder out of my closet, a cheap thing made of hot-pink plastic. I stored all my important bits of paper in it: my birth certificate, my high school and university diplomas, my T4s. Proof that I was born and educated and worked. I slid the letter into the back of the folder. Proof of what?

  * * *

  I went down to the restaurant to tell Viv about the letter. It was steamy inside and smelled like pea soup. The owner was in with his family, so Viv could only talk for a moment in the porch by the “Please Wait To Be Seated” sign.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I think it’s good, they’re giving my stuff back. That seems good, right?”

  “He’s looking at me, I literally just brought their order to the kitchen. Like two minutes ago. I have to go. Unless you want a table?”

  I thought about staying and drinking a skinny mug of coffee but I hated being around the owner, especially since he fired me. I took a step back towards the door so he wouldn’t see me.

  “Can you come over later?” I asked.

  “We’re going to Mike’s parents’ for supper, his sister is in town with his niece,” she said.

  “When will you be home?”

  “I think it might be kind of late. His sister’s in town.”

  “I could meet you when you get off and walk you home.”

  “Mike is picking me up, we’re going straight to dinner. Do you want to come see Mike’s band tomorrow night?”

  “I’m working.”

  “I’ll meet you at the theatre when I get off.” Viv turned towards the owner’s table; I saw her face transform into her serving smile. It was a very convincing smile — if I hadn’t known what her real smile looked like I would’ve believed it. I was always telling Viv she should be an actress.

  * * *

  The next day I walked through drizzle to the station with the letter folded in the pocket of my rain jacket. There was about two feet of dirty snow on the unplowed sidewalk. I walked a path flattened by people on their way to work that morning.

  It was the first time I’d been inside the cop shop. The doors were two heavy sheets of tinted glass. There were smudges left by people’s palms on the tube-shaped metal h
andles.

  The lobby was lined with back-lit display cases filled with Royal Newfoundland Constabulary propaganda. In one case a huge, broad-shouldered mannequin wore a black cape with a gold clasp, black pants, and shiny black shoes with thick rubber heels. A black helmet rested above the mannequin’s smooth, featureless face. White letters on the wall behind the mannequin spelled OBSERVANT, and a little further down, above a smattering of black-and-white photos, BRAVE, and in the bottom corner near the ground, EMPATHETIC.

  Near the door, a young couple were taking turns bending to speak into a circular hole cut in the bulletproof Plexiglas that protected a cop doing administrative work.

  “He’s a Jack Russell terrier,” the girl said into the hole. “You can’t get them here, my mom had to fly to Nova Scotia and bring him back.”

  The guy leaned in: “It’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar dog.”

  “Plus the travel expenses,” the girl said.

  The cop spoke into a microphone on a silver coil. “Someone told you to come down here? On the phone?”

  “They said we need a form,” the girl said. “I’m worried about Flakey. People are sick.”

  “You don’t know what they’ll do,” her boyfriend added.

  “Give me a minute.” The cop stood and walked to a wall of squat filing cabinets. Was he wearing a gun? Yes.

  “Check Facebook again,” the guy said to his girlfriend, putting a hand on her back.

  “I just checked it.” But she pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked again.

  I looked into the display case to avoid staring. I could have commiserated but the moment had passed and now I needed to pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping. I wandered towards a case in the back of the room. WHAT MAKES A CONSTABLE? was printed above a collection of photos of cops on horseback patrolling St. John’s back before the streets were paved. Words you might find on the wall of a kindergarten classroom were printed below the question. FAIR and TEAMWORK.