Gary as an it, a collection of periodic-table elements worth four dollars with inflation.
“I’m supposed to go in for the identification. The medical examiner, some doctor on rotation, will take a look at him. Then cremation, I guess. We never talked about our own plans, but for sure he hated funerals. Until the recent drug cocktails, nearly every month a friend of ours was dying of HIV/AIDS. I’ll take the ashes to one of our favourite spots on Lake Ontario, or maybe the Botanical Park in Hamilton. He loved that place.” At that, his voice broke, and she could hear quiet sobs.
“I’m so sorry about Gary. Keep me posted, Mutt.” Not long ago, she had placed her mother’s long-husbanded ashes around the rose bushes. It would be a banner year for blossoms.
Now wide awake, Belle left Freya sleeping on her sheepskin and went downstairs to boost the coffee maker, timed for 5:45. What was that old medieval verse from her lit survey? “Timor mortis conturbat me”? The fear of death confounds me. Gary’s last breath had stopped long before Miriam’s designated eighty years for a Canadian male. It was hardly fair, but she should be learning a lesson.
Taking her steaming mug to the living room, she sat in the blue velvet recliner and watched the apricot glimmers of dawn set fire to the leaden sky. A small compensation for rising early. To the northwest at the Wapiti Indian reserve, the same early flicker greeted her as it had done for years, neighbours yet strangers. Like Gary and her. Scarcely had their friendship ignited than it had guttered like a surfeited candle.
Dressing hastily in cream pants, loafers and a blue cotton sweater, she headed for the van. As she took off down the road, she saw a Prius in the Lavoie driveway. Mutt’s? She hoped he was getting some well-deserved sleep, perhaps only out of exhaustion. The first two months’ rent was paid. Would he be staying for the summer, or was that a grotesque idea?
At seven, she parked in the office lot and walked to the nearby Tim Hortons. She ordered a large coffee along with a ham-and-cheese scone, a filling bargain at less than two dollars. More customers swelled the lines, retirees prepared to nurse a cup for an hour, gossiping with chums, or working folk who blew by in minutes. “Help who’s next?” one of the counter staff asked, an efficient question which put polite Canadians on their honour not to jump the queue.
“You’re up early,” said a voice in a grey coat. Bearing his own cup plus a virtuous bran muffin without butter, Steve Davis parked his six-six frame in the opposite seat. They’d met when he’d been a young cop moonlighting on security work for Uncle Harold. Now he was a senior detective. The long-abandoned blue uniform had done more for his smooth bronze complexion and jet-black hair, courtesy of an Ojibwa background with a dram of Scot added a century ago.
“Someone died unexpectedly. Guess I wanted to get to work and stop thinking about it.” She explained the accident, wasting few words. Details were unknown at this point. She attempted a stoic shrug but felt her shoulders sag.
“Happens.” He leaned back in his seat and fixed his dark pupils on her as one expressive eyebrow rose in a question. At his temples, grey was making inroads as fast as it was leavening her red hair. “An old boyfriend of yours, you say? Never heard you mention him.”
Belle gave a wry laugh. As she shared the sorrow with her good friend, the irony of the little saga made grief secondary to reflection. “He wasn’t one of my success stories. Now I understand why. All that time out of my life and thoughts, and then he reappeared as a reinvented person. But one that I liked much better.” She explained her new perspective.
He spread his large hands, strong but gentle enough to cuddle his young daughter Heather, half-Italian and half-Cree, adopted a few years ago. “Hey, I’m with wise old Pierre. What any adult does with another in a bedroom isn’t the state’s concern. And as for the new marriage laws, who cares? Move on, world.”
Belle stirred her coffee and finished the scone, the buttered fragments dry in her mouth. She wasn’t solid enough this morning to ask him about Janet and their shaky marriage. Floundering on shoals on a monthly basis, it righted itself like an old galleon and sailed off. But a crease etched itself into his broad forehead. She met his eyes and let silence lead him.
“I might as well tell you. Now that Heather’s nearly seven, Janet wants to adopt again to give her a sibling. We had some good luck with that agency in the Sault, so we’ll see.”
“How do you feel about that?” Safe enough question.
“Heather’s been a miracle. Should we hope for two?” He sloughed off the concern with masculine brio. “The dynamics don’t bother me. We might need a larger house, though. I’ll let you know. Of course, I expect a discount.”
Normally, the prospect of a sale cheered her, so she forced a smile at one corner of her mouth, wondering if he was joking about the commission. “Anything for the trade, Steve.” Then, seeing that she still had a few minutes, she explained about Jack’s accident. “You wouldn’t believe my temporary secretary. Yoyo Hourtovenko. I’m not making up the name.”
“Uh-hum.” His strong jaw curved as he took a swig of coffee. “So Yoyo’s out.”
Belle digested the three words. Out. Was he confusing the situation with Gary’s sexuality? “What do you mean?”
“I’m surprised you took her on. Or maybe not. Let me guess. Got her cheap, right?”
Belle spluttered, as too large a sip of coffee made her windpipe ache. “Well, I . . .” What was he implying?
“Yolanda was sent to the Vanier Pen in Milton for forging checks to feed her gambling addiction.”
Belle stood up, knocking her paper cup and spilling a pool onto the table. She grabbed a serviette from the overstuffed chrome dispenser, pulling out a half-dozen to her embarrassment. “Gambling? You mean the slots? Sudbury Downs?” A sudden frisson of fear charged through her body, and her knees grew weak. Yesterday she’d given Yoyo the company chequebook and told her to pay the utility bills and the bi-yearly taxes. How could Miriam have done this to her, and what was the plan now?
“Slots, horses, blackjack, the lady’s into everything.”
She arrived at the office in marathon time, jayjogging across Paris Street. Yoyo’s blue Ford Probe was in the lot, a rusty hole in one door, the trunk bearing wrinkles of an ancient accident and red cellophane mending the taillight. As Belle slammed through the door, Yoyo looked up from her computer. To Belle’s horror, the outlines of a card game appeared on the screen. Gambling on the Internet? People lost their houses that way. For a moment she froze and rubbed her temple as Yoyo smiled and pushed forward a small plastic bag. On a boom box at her feet, a frantic song was playing.
“You’re later than usual today. Isn’t this humidity awful? I brought you some of my homemade dog bikkies. Baron’s favourite.” She opened the bag and proudly held up a brown heart-shaped cookie.
“We need to talk. What’s on your screen? And what’s that music?”
Yoyo turned it down to sotto voce and smacked a wad of gum. Spearmint tickled Belle’s nose like a mocking retort. “Putamayo. Cape Verde songs. That’s near Africa. They cheer me up. What groups do you—”
Belle waved her hand as if brushing a swarm of flies. “Never mind. I know all about your gambling habit. A friend of mine told . . .”
At that moment, into the office came a couple in their early fifties. Belle and Yoyo exchanged glances. “Are you open? We saw someone
