The Blue Helmet (14 page)

“You know what?” Reena said two nights later, laying down a book of four kings and discarding the three of clubs. “I think I’m gonna get a dog.”

“You could throw away something useful once in a while,” I complained. I picked up a card from the deck, glanced at it, and tossed it, disgusted, on the discard pile.

Reena was, to use her word, a builder in the card game she called Rummy. She laid down her books and straights as soon as she had collected them, accumulating points as the hand went along. I was a hoarder, keeping my points cards in my hand until I could slap them down all at once and go out on the discard. Showy but risky, because sometimes she went out first and left me with a mittful of losing cards.

“A dog? What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like dogs.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“Yeah, well, I have hidden depths,” she said.

The truth probably was that she would feel safer with an animal around, after her scary experience with Del.

“What kind?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I’d take the bus up to the Humane Society near the Sherway tomorrow afternoon and see what they’ve got. Unless
you’d rather not have a pet around the place.”

“I like dogs,” I replied, which was mostly true, I thought. I didn’t really know.

The next afternoon I pedalled back to the café after a delivery and found Reena upstairs in her room, on her knees, making baby-talk to a caramel and white blob lying on a cushion in a wicker basket beside her easy chair. When it saw me, it jumped to its feet and began to pant. The stub on its rear end wiggled back and forth.

And I laughed.

“Stop,” Reena said. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

The dog had a smashed-in face and deep wrinkles that swooped from a spot over its glistening nose to the edges of its mouth, giving it a brainless smile. It stood less than knee height on bowed legs. One ear had been torn to a thin shred and one eye was missing, so that it seemed to be winking at me.

“He looks like a fighter,” I said.

“I thought you two would have something in common.”

“Very funny. Nobody’s gonna steal him, anyway.”

“That’s what you said about the bike I got you, and look how good it turned out.”

“This is the ugliest animal I’ve ever seen. I
thought you wanted a dog for protection.
You’ll
have to defend
him.”

“I felt sorry for him,” Reena said, getting to her feet.

“I can understand why.”

The dog made three circles in its bed, flopped down, and farted.

“I’m trying to think of a name for him,” Reena said.

“How about Windy?”

She laughed.

“Or Patch, the One-Eyed Dog?”

“Yeah,” Reena said. “Patch. I like that. Do you like your new name, Sweetie?” she cooed.

The dog began to snore.

One day, after I had dropped off Abe’s lunch, I showed up at Lakshmi and Associates. Mrs. Smith was a ray of sunshine, as usual.

“Wonderful to see you again,” she muttered as she rammed a pencil into the electric sharpener mounted on her desk.

I waited until the whine died away. “I need to see Lakshmi.”

She made a big show of blowing sawdust from the tip of her pencil before running her
bony finger down the open page of an appointment calendar.

“I’m awfully sorry. I don’t see you booked for today.”

“Probably because I’m not.”

“Well, then—”

“Lakshmi told me to come any time. No advance notice needed.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

Lakshmi looked better than ever that afternoon. She greeted me with a wide smile.

“Hi, Lee. Come on in.”

“Just wanted to see you for a minute,” I said.

She laughed. “Take a seat, and take your time.”

I sat down. Cleared my throat. “It’s about this money that Cutter left me.”

She nodded.

“Well, can I get at it any time?”

“Sure. How much do you need?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Okay. When you know, call and I’ll arrange it. How would you like it? Cash? Or I can arrange a direct deposit to your bank account.”

“I don’t have a bank account.”

Her head tilted slightly to the side. “You
don’t—well, no problem. What about a money order? You can cash it anywhere.”

“Can you send money to someone else’s account?”

“Easy as pie. I just need the name and number. What’s this all about?”

“Um … ”

She held up her hand. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Thanks, Lakshmi. I’ll let you know.”

“See you, then,” she said.

I got up and headed for the door. Then I had a thought.

“If I ever needed a lawyer,” I blurted out, “could it be you?”

“Why on earth would you need legal representation?”

“I don’t know. I was just thinking.”

“What, you were scooting past the office on your bike and suddenly decided you required a hired gun?” she laughed.

“Well …”

“Have you robbed a bank or something?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t murder anyone before breakfast, did you?”

“Not today.”

Her smile fell away. “Lee, is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wondered.”

She came out from behind the desk and held out her left hand, palm up.

“Got a buck in your pocket?”

I fished out a coin and handed it to her. She closed her fist on it and held out her other hand. We shook.

“You just hired yourself a lawyer,” she said.

R
EENA HUNG THE CLOSED
sign on the door as I was sweeping up after the lunch crowd.

“Can I have the rest of the day off?” I asked. “I got something I need to do.”

“Why not do it Sunday when we’re closed?”

“Because.”

“Will you be back to help with dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“My, aren’t you a fountain of information today.”

“I do my best.”

“Hmmm,” Reena said.

For the second time that month I hopped the train to Hamilton, then climbed aboard a city bus. The neighbourhood where I had grown up
looked the same—drab and defeated, streets with low-rise apartment buildings, discount and variety stores,
FOR RENT
signs in empty shop windows. The run-down building where I used to live stood between two identical sand-coloured structures, each with a cracked concrete sidewalk leading to the front doors and a lawn that had barely survived winter. I got out my key, let myself in, and rode the creaky elevator to the third floor. In the hall outside number four I stopped, kicked off my boots—I didn’t want to leave any sign that I had been there—and listened, my ear against the door.

My father had never missed a day’s work. He’d be at the garage, stretched out under a car or leaning in under the hood, wielding a wrench. But I wanted to be sure.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I smelled burnt toast and warmed-over pizza. Sections of a newspaper were strewn across the couch beside a take-out pizza box. A
TV
program listing lay open on the floor next to my father’s easy chair, the remote resting on top. I padded on stocking feet into the kitchen, where a radio played quietly. My father thought the sound of the radio discouraged burglars. A bowl and cup sat in the sink beside a pot sticky with oatmeal.

I pulled open the drawer where he kept his bills and bank book and credit card receipts. He hadn’t gotten any neater since I saw him last. I removed the drawer and placed it on the table, pulling up a chair.

I had seen him dozens of times sitting where I was now, a calculator and pencil close at hand, shaking his head and muttering, “I just can’t seem to get anywhere with this. No matter what I do, I’m always behind.” Then he’d take a pull on his beer, set it down with a thump, pick up the pencil, and begin punching numbers into the calculator, as if making another run at the calculations would change something.

It took me a few minutes to paw through the clutter and find what I was looking for. I scanned the figures and jotted down the numbers I wanted on a piece of paper, then replaced the drawer.

While I was in the apartment, I took a look around. His bed was unmade, the closet door open, loose change on the dresser top beside the matching brush and comb my mother had bought him for Christmas one year. I picked up the brush. If she had still been alive, my mother would have been almost ten years older, now. But I could only remember her the way she was back
then, frozen in time while her little boy grew up without her.

In my room, some school books sat unopened on my plywood desk. My bed was neatly made up, the room tidy, as if he expected me home any minute. I stood in the doorway, wishing I could stay. Just hang up my jacket and turn on the
TV
and wait for him to come home. Maybe send out for a tub of chicken, shoot the breeze while we ate, then watch a ball game together.

I pulled on my boots in the hall, and took the elevator back down to the street.

As the train passed the Oakville station, I keyed a number into my cell.

“Smith and Associates.”

“It’s Lee,” I said.

“Is it indeed?” Mrs. Smith sniffed. “I need to talk to Lakshmi.”

“I beg your pardon. I can hardly hear you.”

“I’m on the train,” I said, and repeated my message.

“Let me see if she’s available to speak.”

A moment later Mrs. Smith came back on the line. “She’ll be with you in a moment.
Please hold. Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t hang—”

But she cut me off. Got me again, I thought. I fished the piece of paper from my pocket.

A few minutes later, I heard Lakshmi’s voice. “Hello, Lee.”

“I got those numbers for you,” I said, and read them to her.

“Okay, Lee. Consider it done.”

A week later, when I hauled myself bleary-eyed from bed and clumped down the stairs for my Sunday morning coffee in Reena’s kitchen, I heard voices before I reached the bottom stair. In the hall outside the kitchen, I turned back toward my room. I stopped, took a deep breath. When I entered the kitchen the voices fell silent.

My father sat across from Reena, a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. I poured myself a cup and leaned back against the counter. Watched closely by Patch the One-Eyed Dog, Reena spooned blueberry jam onto a piece of toast and spread it around, holding the toast on her finger tips, so the jam covered the whole surface. I had told her once that she ate like a kid.

“I’m young at heart,” she had said.

I eyed my father over the rim of my mug. In the morning light he looked pale and tired, his dark hair limp, his face creased. He had missed a couple of spots when he shaved. Thick fingers curled around his cup, the nails not quite free of grease from the garage.

“Morning, Lee,” Reena said before she bit into her toast.

My father nodded. “Hi,” I said to him.

He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table with his palms. Reena picked up her cup and plate.

“Time to get dressed,” she said to no one.

I didn’t want her to leave, but my father spoke first. “Stick around for a little, okay?” he said. “The last two times Lee and me talked, we needed a referee.”

Reena slumped back into her chair and pulled her bathrobe together at her throat.

“Sit down, Lee,” my father said, pointing to the third chair.

“No, thanks. I’ll stay here.”

“See?” he said to Reena. “Defiance. I haven’t said a word and already—”

Reena’s voice was harsh. “Look, Doug. It’s been a long week. The last thing I need on my
day off is to listen to you two bang away at each other. Lee, would it kill you to sit down? Jesus, the two of you are like a couple of infants.”

I did as she asked. My father looked at the paper, as if he was memorizing the numbers.

“Funny thing happened a couple of days ago, Reena. My bank statement came in the mail. I left it a couple of days before I opened it. No use hurrying the bad news, eh? When I got around to looking at it, the statement showed a balance of zero for my loan. The bank made a mistake, I figured, deposited a bunch of money in the wrong account.”

Reena said nothing. She picked up her knife and ran the point back and forth across her plate.

My father continued to stare at the paper in front of him and talk to Reena. “I called them from work the next day. They said it wasn’t a mistake. The money came in from another bank by electronic transfer. I told them I didn’t know anything about it. So on my lunch hour I went over there. They said the money was sent from a bank in New Toronto.”

He looked up, at Reena. “I thought to myself, only one person I know in New Toronto. Only one person I know who would give me that kind of money. My sister.”

Reena shook her head. “I never sent you a cent,” she said, putting down the knife and reaching into her bathrobe pocket for her cigarettes. She lit up and blew a cloud toward the ceiling.

“Then,” my father went on, as if he hadn’t heard her, “I realized that this here mysterious electronic transfer was exactly the balance I owed. Somebody knew to the penny how much it would take to clear the loan. Sure is strange, eh, Reena?”

“A mystery,” she said, and glanced at me.

“I went home a while ago,” I said to my father, “and looked at your records.”

He was silent for a moment, taking in the information.

“Where the hell could you come up with that kind of money?” he demanded. “Thousands of bucks. You stole it, didn’t you?”

“A friend of mine left it to me in his will.”

“What? Left it—Who?”

“I told you. A friend. His name is—was—Bruce Cutter.”

A crease formed on my father’s brow. He scratched his head. Looked at Reena, who nodded.

“He’s telling the truth, Doug.”

“A friend,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“An older guy?”

“Yeah.”

Then his eyes widened. “Jesus, Lee, you’re not telling me you’re—”

Reena threw back her head and let out a laugh that rattled the dishes in the sink and brought on a coughing fit.

“What’s so goddam funny?” my father said, his fingers crumpling the paper.