Harrowing (9 page)

As if reading my thoughts, Calvin waddled up behind me and wrapped his arms firmly about my waist. I sighed with pleasure.

“I hope all the bad times are behind us now,” I said, grasping his arms in mine.

Calvin nuzzled my hair delectably.

“I get first dibs on the macaroni. And I want the part at the bottom of the pan. The part with all the yummy sauce on it.”

I cuffed him across the shoulder again.

“Sneaky you. And here I actually thought you were going to give me a compliment or something.”

I filled my hands with cutlery, then realized I had no place to dump it.

“What are you doing with the tablecloth, Romeo?” I called out. “Making the sail of a pirates’ ship out of it or something?”

Romeo gestured urgently at me.

“I can’t open this window,” he said.

“That’s strange. It worked perfectly last year.”

“The wood’s probably swollen after the long winter,” Calvin suggested helpfully. But he didn’t raise a finger to do anything about it.

“Try the other one. The one by the futon,” I said. But I knew Romeo was going to refuse. He never did anything I told him to.

“The one by the futon looks out over a footpath, Mimi,” he said in a reasonable tone of voice. “What if someone’s passing by underneath?”

I sighed.

“God. I’d do anything to be able to move to the tropics.” I strolled over to Romeo’s side.

We tugged on the window together. My hand lingered over Romeo’s soft, childish one, and for the umpteenth time I gave thanks to heaven that this cherub was my son.

After a bit of a struggle the window slid upwards, and Romeo dumped the breadcrumbs out the window. I leaned out after him, breathing deeply of the pungent scents of spring. The smell of damp earth and greenery and half-formed flower buds, pine and fir and cedar, spreading out the faintest of perfumes through the smog-filled air. I wondered idly what it would feel like to live out in the countryside as I reached upwards to close the sticky window.

And then I saw it.

The slight movement in the shadows. Out of the corner of my eye.

Something white. A white cardigan, half concealed by bushes. A grizzled face behind it.

I screamed.

It was the face of Bruno Jarvas, staring up at me with his penetrating, steel-grey eyes.

Jim Daniels’ spacious quarters at Kirby and Associates were as vast as my entire living-room. I whistled in awe when the receptionist ushered me in.

“Have a seat, Mr. Jarvas,” she said in a mincing voice as she pranced before me in her candy-striped mini-skirt and indicated one of four king-sized maroon armchairs with gold embroidery, scattered in deliberate informality about the room. “Mr. Daniels has been in the meeting for over two hours now, so he shouldn’t be much longer.”

She toddled to the door in her four-inch stilettos and let herself out. I wondered what I would have done with her if she’d been sent to my office as a temp. Probably just left her alone. It was clear she was destined for mediocrity.

I trailed my fingertips frivolously over Jim Daniels’ weighty mahogany desk, then slid the door open. There was no one in the corridor. I slipped along the hallway, my Adidas jogging shoes barely making a hint of noise on the polished porcelain floor. There were a few doors along the way, each with a metallic name plaque fashioned to it. Almost immediately I saw the one labelled “Calvin Henri”. I knocked softly. No one answered, so I pushed the door open.

Simple, modest, neat and clean. I gasped in pleasure. At least it seemed we had done well in choosing Kirby and Associates. If Calvin’s designs were anything near as tasteful as his office décor, we would have no reasons for complaint during the course of our work together.

I let myself in, closed the door softly and tiptoed behind the desk. Quickly, I skimmed over the papers and agendas. There was nothing of interest there. Most likely, he kept Annasuya’s information in his mobile phone, like most people. But maybe I would luck out and there would be something, a business card, perhaps, or a personal note. At last, fumbling through a drawer, I came upon a stained and crumpled letter with the address of a public school as the sender.

“Ms. Annasuya Adler

Re: Romeo Fabian library loans

117 Old Forest Hill Road, suite 207”

I read. Pocketing the letter as fast as I could, I hightailed it out of there and was back in Jim Daniels’ digs before anyone could say moo.

Later that night, I lounged on the sofa with Lulu drooling over my shoulder and skimmed through Annasuya’s letter. Most of it consisted of inane exhortations for her son to return some stupid book to the library. Mordecai Richler. Oh puh-lease. Don’t tell me they’re still ramming that crap down the throats of innocent babes. That old hogey-fogey died more than ten years ago. I remembered having that useless drivel pounded into my head when I was a kid. What kid likes to read, anyways?

The ice clinked against Lulu’s glass as she leaned over me, huffing. Her breath stank of something putrid. I wondered what she was up to. Since when did she take her scotch on ice?

“I’s feeling plumb outta my mind. So got me some ice,” she slurred as if she were somehow telepathic. “Ta chill me down a bit. Want some?”

I glanced at the grubby glass covered with greyish-black fingerprints and smeared lipstick and almost puked.

“Thanks, lovey. I think I’ll pass.”

She swaggered away from me, nearly toppled over her chaise longue.

“Yer loss,” she drawled.

I ran my gaze over the rest of the letter. At the very end, penned in a messy, almost illegible hand, I detected the words:
“I’m afraid, in general, your son has the annoying habit of hanging on to library books far beyond their due date. This deprives other students of the opportunity to read them. Can I call you to discuss the matter, Ms. Adler? These are your phone numbers, aren’t they?”

Bingo! I grabbed my mobile and tucked the numbers into my agenda, my fingers trembling with anticipation. Two birds with one stone, so to speak, because both Annasuya’s mobile as well as her landline numbers were listed in the letter.

And then, because I felt so happy and pleased with myself, I approached Lulu from behind. Today she turned me on.

My fingers lingered playfully over Lulu’s stained satin before I peeled it off her shoulders with an exquisite touch. She turned towards me and her eyes widened in surprise. I had to admit, it had been a while. But it didn’t take long for Lulu to warm up to me. Staggering forward, I pushed her roughly onto her chaise longue. She sprawled face down with her legs wide open. I ripped the stringy dressing gown from her and straddled her naked buttocks – voluptuous, corpulent and riddled with cellulite. She began to moan, her leathery voice screeching out more like a mouse’s squeak than a woman’s sensual sighs. I didn’t care. I wanted her anyways. The scotch glass tumbled from her hands and shattered on the ground. I threw myself against her, panting and sweating, and within minutes we were rolling like piglets on the scratchy floorboards, all other business forgotten.

*

Lulu lay snoring and naked on her chaise longue, her tongue lolling from her face while sticky drool trickled from the corners of her blood-red lips. I bent to pick up her dressing gown, thought to cover her with it then changed my mind. She wouldn’t care what she had on. Or if she had anything on at all. I tossed the dressing gown out of her reach behind the sofa. Let her do a bit of exercise, the fat cow.

I dressed deliberately in a light-coloured cardigan and stepped outside. Old Forest Hill Road. That was only a few blocks away. I couldn’t believe, of all the neighbourhoods in this vast city, she just happened to live within walking distance of my home. I bowed my head against the cool evening wind and set off.

When I reached there, I had no idea which window belonged to suite 207. I circled around the shabby, humble brick building surrounded by sumptuous mansions on either side, relieved there were no fences or other security measures. I took note of the fact that there were two entrances. The doors to the building would be locked, of course. I waited for a while, but no one came out.

At last, I made one more tour about the complex, then prepared to return home. As I waltzed near the back entrance, a window opened on the second floor. A lanky boy with messy brown curls peeked out and unfurled some sort of cloth like a flag. A mound of breadcrumbs came tumbling out. He disappeared, and a woman took his place. I watched her turn her gaze towards the sky and wondered if she was voicing a prayer. Well, she’d better.

The best thing Annasuya could do would be to yell to the gods for help and protection, because from now on I was going to make her life hell.

It was a long time before Calvin was able to calm me down. He wrapped me in the quilt from my bed and tucked me down onto the bed. I was quivering like jello, my hands jerking about without control in spite of Calvin’s steadying warmth around me. My teeth chattered.

“I’ll kill him!” he cried, bashing his fists into the pillow beside me. “I’ll fucking freaking bang his head right off his fucking shoulders. I’m going to his office first thing tomorrow morning, bash his head in with a baseball bat.”

He glanced around.

“I don’t have a baseball bat. Well, I’ll buy one on my way downtown.”

I reached my arms out from the comforting feathers and stroked his cheeks.

“If you do that you’ll lose the contract,” I said, trying to sound calm and rational. My voice still shook. “You guys worked so hard to get that contract. Besides which, you’d probably end up in jail to boot. And then who’d look after me?”

Calvin melted onto the bed beside me.

“Well. You’re right, sugar pie. But aarrgghh! It just makes me feel so helpless and powerless.”

He banged on the pillow again.

I glanced at Romeo pushing cold macaroni around on his plate with his fork. He was the only one with any sort of appetite. I dragged the quilt off me and climbed from the bed.

“Tell you what, fellas. Let’s get some takeout to celebrate my first day back at work,” I said. “I need a walk.”

Calvin graced me with a look of stupefaction.

“What the... Have you gone completely mad? With that fucking bastard running around loose out there, somewhere? Just waiting to pounce on you or something?”

I nodded.

“Exactly. I hope to hell he’s watching me. So he’ll know I don’t scare that easily.”

I began to tug on jeans and a sweatshirt. Romeo ran to me and wrapped his arms around me.

“Don’t go, Mimi!” Huge tears began to seep out from beneath his lashes. “That humungous monster will get you.”

I laughed.

“Humungous monster? My God, Romeo. He’s just a man. Only one man. What can a single man do to me?”

“Well, kill you, for one.” Calvin tossed the quilt aside and climbed out of bed, rubbing his hands across my shoulders. “There are many men out there called murderers. Those are men who have killed somebody. And each murderer is just one single man.”

I shrugged him off impatiently.

“I thought you signed me up to self-defence lessons precisely so I could defend myself from these sorts of bastards.”

Calvin turned me to face him squarely.

“I signed you up so you could take care of yourself if you had the misfortune to bump into another bastard.
Not
so you could run off on foolhardy missions you could easily avoid. Come on, Annasuya Rose. Don’t be a fool.”

I shoved against him and pulled on a camo jacket.

“No one’s going to intimidate me,” I declared. “What do you want, honey buns? I know you weren’t crazy about that macaroni.”

“Rice,” Romeo chimed up. “And chicken wings.”

Calvin made a face.

“I’m not going to be the cause of something fatalistic happening to you. I’ll just finish up the macaroni if no one else wants them. At least you’re not going out into the hostile world on
my
account.”

He turned his back on me, sulking, and began spooning macaroni onto a plate. I stared at him helplessly, then grabbed my purse.

“Be back in an hour,” I said.

Calvin ignored me.

Out on the street a blustery wind enveloped me. All of a sudden my fierce bravado in the apartment struck me as mere foolish posturing. This wasn’t a game. He really could be lurking out here, somewhere, just waiting to catch me alone and unprepared.

I groped about in my purse, wishing I’d thought to buy a can of pepper spray or one of those metallic martial arts rings they’d talked about in self-defence class. I gripped my keys the way Rudolph Verenich had taught me. It seemed a pretty paltry weapon compared to what someone as hefty as Bruno could swing about.

My favourite Chinese takeout was several blocks away, down Bathurst Street on St. Clair West. More than a half hour’s walk. A frightening, lengthy odyssey – especially when I knew that someone was out there, lurking, watching me. Just waiting for the right opportunity.

There were other eateries closer by, but we’d always gone to Mr. Leong’s. Not only was he friendly but quite frankly, his food was the best. Why should one man change my habits or scare me away?

I stiffened myself and squared my shoulders. I wasn’t going to let him run my life. He wasn’t going to get the better of me. Control my movements or turn me into a slave to my fear.

A harsh wind brushed past me. I shivered and wrapped the camo jacket more tightly about myself. Leaves rustled and branches heaved down near the ground, behind some bushes, startling me. I jumped and shot a glance upwards. A black cat slunk away through the bushes and disappeared between the slats of a fence.

It was early, but already the streets were deserted. I pulled out my mobile, checked the hour. Just a little after nine-thirty. I hated this city. Why couldn’t it sport a lively nightlife like most other grand urbs around the world?

Now I could hear my feet plodding along the ground with their faint plish-plish on the glittering concrete. There was barely any other noise. Bathurst Street, a major thoroughfare usually jam packed with bumper to bumper traffic at every hour, was eerily still. Far away in the distance, the sound of cars honking seemed to drift over from miles away. If I were to close my eyes, I could easily imagine myself in some rural village instead of the middle of a large city.

It was late April, and only a few stray patches of dirty snow remained tucked away in the mud underneath bushes by the sidewalk. I toed one of these patches idly as I passed. Branches began to toss, creaking plaintively under the weight of something heavy and ungainly. I leapt nearly a mile high, almost shrieked out loud. Whatever it was tore about in a frenzy in the underbrush, as if trapped. A raccoon as fat as a St. Bernard flashed out and paused in the light from a street lamp, glaring balefully at me with its black-ringed eyes before slinking away into a hedge.

I grasped at my chest, panting as if I’d just run a marathon, my heart heaving against my ribs as if ready to explode. The world swayed around me. I had to grab a hold of the nearby street lamp just to keep from tumbling over. I stayed there leaning against the lamp for what felt like hours.

At last, with my nerves a bit steadier, I seized my purse firmly in my fist and continued on my path. It was only a few more blocks away now. I was close enough to see the streetcars and traffic lights blinking forlornly on St. Clair West. Empty businesses yawned at me, offices dark and vacant at this late hour. For sure there was no place for a prowler to hide and leap out at me now. I sprinted, almost dashed the last few metres to the intersection.

The spirited hub-bub of this busy street nearly slapped me in the face as I barrelled into the intersection. I angled a right, mingling with passers-by with relief. Rowdy groups of immigrants, more accustomed than the locals to keeping late hours, hung around the doorways and chattered in loud voices. I remembered Calvin once telling me that the Jamaican crowd liked to hang out here, even though he avoided them.

“I’m only Jamaican in looks, and because I was born there,” he’d explained. “But I’ve always lived
here.
As far as I’m concerned, this is my city. This is my home. I belong
here.
”

“I love rotis,” I would say, licking my lips in anticipation of an invite to a roti house down on St. Clair West.

And Calvin would never disappoint. He’d take me there for a bite, much as he claimed to detest the Jamaican community. Nothing made me drool more than those spicy curried chicken pieces stuffed in flatbread. We’d hop in, and he would exchange no more than two words with the natives, pretending that he was from somewhere else. People usually never guessed that he was originally from the same country as they were, anyways.

But now I wasn’t here for rotis. I was here for spring rolls from our favourite takeaway. I loved rotis, and pizzas, and any number of dishes that could’ve been gotten more easily close to home. But I could also be fiercely obstinate when I wanted to be.

I wrangled my way to Mr. Leong’s. Not surprisingly, there was no one there on a Monday night. Mr. Leong looked pleased to see me.

“Ah, a customer,” he exclaimed in delight, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “You have whole house to yourself, Ms. Adler. What do you want? We have spling lolls, lice... Well, usual food. You pick.”

I gave him my order, which he shouted to an invisible cook banging away inside a steamy kitchen. I could see the steam roll out through the serving windows as I waited.

“How your son, Lomeo?” Mr. Leong bantered. “He big now, yes? Vely big boy, vely handsome.”

I smiled and thanked him for the compliment. Within a few minutes a number of piping hot dishes in slick cardboard boxes came sliding out through the serving windows. Mr. Leong popped them into a plastic bag which he offered to me. He plopped a clear baggie on top.

“Don’t forget fortune cookie. Fortune cookie bling vely good luck to you, Ms. Adler.”

I grabbed at the baggie as if snatching at straws. Suddenly I felt I was willing to do anything to improve my fortune. I could sure spoon in some good luck into my life by the shovelfuls.

Out on the street again, the howling wind seemed frostier than ever. I wrapped myself tightly in my khaki jacket, wishing I’d thought to bring a winter coat instead. It might be April, but late at night in this northern city it still felt like the middle of January.

I undertook the slow wind back up the still strangely deserted Bathurst Street to my home. A few cars flashed past, but nothing else disturbed me. Perhaps I was just seeing ghosts of things that didn’t exist. Merely the phantoms of my fears. Nothing to worry about. I started to breathe more easily.

I strode past open gardens, walled-in apartment complexes, stately mansions turned into apartment buildings set slightly back from the sidewalk, feigning a self-assurance I didn’t feel. Oak trees and pines wavered in the breeze. I crossed over the overpass that formed a part of Bathurst Street and bridged Cedarvale Park, peered over the handrail into the yawning blackness below. I had no idea who could be lingering there, hidden among the vast stands of bare trees, perhaps even observing me with the telescopic lens of a camera. I giggled nervously. I was getting paranoid, still seeing phantoms and ghosts. Of course there was no one there and even if there were, how would he be able to reach me from so far below anyways? The overpass I was standing on was several metres above the park, spanning over the greenery.

I continued onwards, wishing my heart would pound a little less urgently. A chill current wrapped itself about me and my breath turned into vapour on my lips. I shivered, hugging the bag of still-steaming boxes against me for warmth. Only a little ways further now. Holy Blossom Temple with its modern, taupe-coloured concrete walls, loomed to my left. I could see the lights of Eglinton straight ahead. Not a hundred metres from me. I quickened my pace.

And then it happened.

That dark, amorphous shape I’d been glimpsing out of the corners of my eyes all the way suddenly took form and solidity and turned into something real and dangerous. Something that charged into me from behind some bushes, barrelling itself against me with all its overpowering weight, slamming me crudely to the ground. Whoever he was, he pounded my head against the concrete paving with brute force, knocking the wind out of me. Mr. Leong’s boxes flew from my hand and scattered all over the sidewalk in disarray. My head throbbed and I started to see stars. Vaguely, I could feel sharp pebbles grinding into the palms of my hands.

“You shouldn’t be bumming about so late at night all by yourself, whore,” the voice hissed at me in my ear – slimy, slithery, inhuman. “Lots of crazies out there, Annasuya Rose. No wonder you got screwed. Decent ladies stay inside late at night.”

The dark shape picked itself off me and took off down the street. I barely had the wits to glimpse a black ski mask and army fatigues before it rounded a corner and disappeared.

I bolted the remaining distance to my home, our dinner forgotten on the sidewalk, and spent the rest of the night crying in Calvin’s arms.