Just Fall (13 page)

It is a glorious day in Toronto, but as day edges into evening, the blue skies darken to gray, and an ominous bank of clouds rolls toward the city. The man, early fifties, head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, square body, says good night to his co-workers on the Toronto Islands ferryboat for which he serves on the crew. He hunches his shoulders against the rising wind as he strides to his old Ford pickup in the dock’s parking lot.

As he drives home, he reflects that life isn’t too bad here in Canada. His job allows him routine and a sense of purpose while also keeping his disfigured face more or less private. He works belowdecks and doesn’t come into much contact with the tourists. Even though it has been years since his disfigurement, and he has had reconstructive surgery, his mouth still curls in a perpetual sneer. He avoids his reflection.

Toronto itself is an attractive city, large enough to be anonymous, and that suits the man, fits his mood, his need for privacy. He likes his little place; he even has a patch in the shared yard where he grows tomatoes and snap peas. And although he is lonely (despite his occasional bedroom tumbles with Donna, a divorcee whom he met at the local plant nursery), he also recognizes that he has always been lonely.

The man sighs as he pulls up in front of his apartment, part of a fourplex that divides what was once a stately red brick bay-and-gable row house. He thinks about giving Donna a call. Just as he opens his car door, the skies open and plump, cold drops of rain begin to spatter. He covers his head with a newspaper and bolts for his front door. He drops the soaked newspaper on the doorstep to deal with at a later time. Stepping inside, he stoops to pick up the pile of mail that has come through the slot.

A padded envelope is among the bills and circulars. It is addressed to him in a handwriting he doesn’t recognize, with a St. Lucia return address and postmark. His stomach lurches.

He takes a pair of scissors and carefully slits the envelope open, shaking the contents out on his Formica kitchen table. First, a post office box key slides out, hitting the tabletop with a metallic ping. Then a wrapped package, plastic wrap wound tightly around tissues. He ignores the key and unwraps the package. Buried inside all the protective swaddling is a severed lip.

Even with all the brutality he has seen in his life, the sight of the lip is a shock. He wraps the lip back up in its layers and shoves it into the padded envelope. He braves the rain, now turned icy and driving, to take it out to the trash bin in the alley. Back in his apartment, the man strips off his clothes. Leaves them in a wet heap on the floor. He pulls on a robe and fingers the mailbox key. Then he boots up his laptop to search for the next direct flight to St. Lucia.

It was one of those days that makes New York shine. The streets were thronged with people, spring fever thrumming through their veins. Winter had held on well past her welcome this year, but today the city breathed a collective giddy sigh of relief.

The Union Square farmers’ market was mobbed. Fresh vegetables, candles, soap, maple syrup, cheeses, pies, jams and jellies, eco-bags, wind chimes, and fresh flowers—it was life’s rich bounty. As was the crowd. College students, young lovers, families with boisterous children, artists, that guy who is always there with his guitar. Punks and nerds, hustlers and homeless.

Ellie and Rob were walking off a late breakfast of assorted pierogi at Veselka, the twenty-four-hour Ukrainian coffee shop that had become their place, after a tequila-soaked night in the East Village had left them both ravenous at dawn. They had laughingly returned to an old debate: sauerkraut or cheese pierogi. Ellie had just proposed the Solomon’s solution of a forkful that contained a bit of both when they reached the park. Rob lit a cigarette; Ellie plucked it away from him after one drag, and ground it out under her heel.

“You promised you were quitting.”

“I am quitting.” He smiled at her. “For you.”

He tossed the pack into a trash can. Ellie grabbed his hand, leading him into the fray.

“Oooh. Look at those tomatoes!”

“There’s basil too.”

“I see a dinner plan forming.”

“We just ate that huge breakfast.”

“Are you pretending, even to yourself, that that is going to be your only meal of the day?”

“Look at those strawberries. Yum.”

They made their way, loading up with produce, laughing, tasting cheese, sampling cookies. The day felt easy; everyone they encountered was in good spirits; Rob felt content. When he recognized the feeling, blood rushed into his head. He had to lay a hand on a table piled high with cucumbers to steady himself. It had been a very, very long time since he had felt content. Before his stepfather had come along.

A memory surfaced, long submerged. In the emergency room of the local hospital. Rob had been helping to groom his horse after his weekly riding lesson, learning how to use the currycomb, when something had spooked the animal. The horse bucked, and its metal horseshoe slashed Rob just above his eyebrow. An impossible amount of blood had spurted. As they waited to be seen by a doctor, Rob’s mother held him on her lap and stroked his hair, murmuring her reassuring “it’s all right, baby, you’re going to be all right.” Shock, fear, and outrage leached from Rob’s body and his tears stopped. He laid his head on his mother’s shoulder. Perfectly content, even as they were both spattered in his blood.

Remembering his mother knotted Rob’s stomach. She had gone nuts when she realized her bastard husband was dead. She’d wailed, pummeling Rob with her fists, screeching she was going to call the cops, he was a killer, he was going to rot in hell.

Rob fled the house in shock. Not so much because he had just killed a man, but because his mother had chosen the bastard over him even in death.

He spent that first night sleeping in a park. If you could call it sleeping. It was freezing cold and he had left the house with nothing but the clothes on his back. He was covered in blood and felt conspicuous and exposed. Every bump and rustle jolted him awake. He heard sirens and was certain they were coming for him. As dawn broke, he sat up and cried, wrenching sobs that left him drained.

Finally, stony-eyed and hungry, he went over to Spencer’s house. Shimmied up the drainpipe into his friend’s bedroom as he had many times before. Spencer was not surprised to see him. Told Rob the police had already been there, that Spencer’s father had forbidden Spencer to talk to Rob, that he was to let him know immediately if he heard from him. Rob’s mom had called too, had told them that Rob was a homicidal maniac, a dangerous threat to society, that he had murdered her innocent husband in cold blood. Had blamed her injuries on Rob too, a revelation that sent a sick, icy shiver down Rob’s spine.

Spencer gave Rob all the money he had ($1,586 that he had been saving toward a new guitar) and a duffel full of clothes. He believed Rob, he did, but he didn’t see any way out of this other than for Rob to disappear. Rob gave his buddy a hard one-armed hug, teen boys not comfortable with physical affection. Then he pocketed the cash and hefted the duffel on his shoulder. Left his friend, his town, his life, intending never to come back.

Rob looked at Ellie, who was choosing rich orange blooms from a flower vendor. His heart clenched. What was wrong with him? Memories. Feelings. He had no place for these things. He focused on the “now,” the people and challenges right in front of him. He moved from destination to destination, “project” to “project,” avoiding his past as best he could. Compartmentalization was necessary for survival.

He should have just walked away, melted into the crowd, and disappeared from her life. Instead he walked over to her, dropped to one knee, and heard himself ask her to marry him.

She giggled and reached out to ruffle his hair. “Are you messing around?”

“Absolutely not.”

She dropped her bundles and kneeled to face him, smiling. Around them shoppers surged and ebbed, some staring, most ignoring them.

“Was this on impulse?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

The smile faded from her face. Suddenly serious, she said, “Yes, then, I will marry you. I will become Mrs. Robert Beauman.”

They kissed with urgency. Some passersby clapped. The guitarist hooted before breaking into a spirited version of “The Wedding March.”

Ellie realizes she has to pull herself together. People are staring. She had stumbled from the cab, breath short, half-expecting…What? A bullet to the back? All she knows now is that the merchants and shoppers, mothers and children, old men and even the wandering stray dogs seem to be staring at her in confusion. Take one step, then take another, she reminds herself. Figure out the first thing first.

There is the hotel Gold Tooth had directed her toward. She draws closer, unsteady, unsure whether she should follow his instructions, not certain what the alternative might be.

The smell hits her even before the man’s presence. Pungent and ripe: sweat, dirt, salt, and ganja. The guy is impossibly huge, all muscled arms and a broad chest straining at his bright yellow Peter Tosh tank top, a knit cap in orange, red, and green crammed down on his wild and woolly hair.

“I have what you need,” he says in a low tone.

“That I doubt,” she retorts automatically, prepared to sidestep him. She’s lived in Manhattan long enough; she knows how to evade this kind of simple menace.

He’s quick though too, and falls into step beside her.

“No one on the island will give you the quality like me, pretty lady.”

He flashes his wares, a sandwich bag full of reddish weed. In truth, she’s tempted. She enjoys a cocktail or two but was never much of one for drugs. However, the idea of smoking or popping or even shooting something that would provide blissful vacancy from this nightmare has distinct appeal. On the other hand, she needs her wits about her.

“No, thank you.”

“You change your mind, beauty, you come looking for me, Crazy B. Everybody know where to find me. Crazy B have
everything
you need.” He gives her a lewd look, licks his lips.

“Not interested,” she replies firmly.

The guy shrugs his massive shoulders. Nothing ventured. He beelines for a pasty couple in matching khaki shorts, cameras slung around their necks, fanny packs clipped around their bulging bellies. “I have what you need…”

Ellie crosses the street, enters the dinky hotel, and takes a swift peek over her shoulder before pulling the door closed behind her. The lobby is shabby and worn except for the spectacular and ornate gold cage that houses two fat parrots; the plaque affixed to the front of the cage announces them as “Royal” and “Ruby.”

The names are apt: The parrots are majestic explosions of color—royal-blue heads that ombre into emerald-green necks and then into yellow, red, and lime-green feathered bodies and wings. The parrots are proud. They are the most beautiful things in this otherwise dingy little lobby and they know it.

There is a white rattan love seat with a couple of tropical pillows so ugly their faded condition is only a plus. A white rattan coffee table sits in front of it with a handful of flyers for taxis and snorkel rentals, Jet Skis and ATV rentals, restaurants and clubs. The lobby seems deserted, but for the parrots. Hastily, Ellie scoops up a flyer for a taxi company. She digs into her beach bag for a pen, thinking all the while of Rob’s instructions.
Be clever,
he had written.
Try to leave hints about where you are and who you are with. I will find you, I promise.

Ellie scribbles on the taxi flyer:
Blue Volvo taxi, 1 red door. Maison Mary Ann??

She stuffs the flyer into the parrot cage, even though while doing so she feels absurd. How can this possibly help? She feels incipient despair welling in her gut, coupled with a weird desire to laugh. This is hopeless! She is well and truly fucked. She takes a few noisy breaths and tries to calm herself. Maybe if she could get some sleep? Maybe then she can figure out what to do next.

A Dutch door to the hotel office has its top half swung open. A pile of mail sits precariously on the ledge of it. Peering inside, Ellie can see the dyed blond head of an enormous woman, not only enormously fat, which she is, but also six feet tall at least. The blond hair is airily and fussily arranged, adorned with a delicate pink flower, a pretty reproach to the hamlike limbs and deep, straining gut that root this woman to the ground. The phrase “fairy giantess” pops without warning into Ellie’s head. Ellie steps closer.