Once Upon a Time in West Toronto

by Terri Favro

  He knows that eventually the hospital will figure things out. Maybe they already know something is not on the up-and-up. Maybe they’ll figure out that Claire is the missing girl from Love Canal. They’ll make a few calls, and someone in her family will come and take the baby away. Benny doesn’t even want to think about what’s going to happen after that. Be Rocco, he decides. Do what has to be done. Just do it.

  Benny opens his jacket and slips the baby inside—a soft, sweet-smelling bundle against his chest. The baby chirps again, as if happy to be snuggled between Benny’s bloody T-shirt and a second-hand jacket stinking of cigarette smoke. He keeps his arm under the lump in his abdomen. Supporting her head.

  He slips out the door and looks up and down the hallway. He can hear women’s voices, but sees no one. He heads for the stairway, descends to the first floor, and opens the door marked EXIT. He finds himself at the back of the hospital next to a loading dock. Walks up the alleyway next to the hospital to College Street. They should be calling the police in, what, ten, fifteen minutes? Plenty of time to get home. But the cops won’t go to Benny and Claire’s basement flat. Oh no.

  They’ll go to the address on Claire’s intake form: 45 Robert Street.

  Scott’s house.

  As they round the corner of Robert and College, the front of a Toronto Star newspaper box catches his eye. A photo of a disaster scene. A blonde stewardess standing at the edge of a debris field, one hand on her face.

  Benny hesitates. He looks up and down the street, then reaches in and steals a copy. Tucking it under his arm, he continues on his way.

  9. RIDE INTO DARKNESS

  TORONTO, BARRIE AVE. (OAKWOOD AVE. AT ST. CLAIR WEST), OCTOBER 1975

  IT’S HARD TO CONCEAL secrets in a blast of sunlight. In the weeks following the explosion, the neighbourhood shifts on its foundations like one of Mr. Cake’s rooming houses. Not enough to bring down the roof on everyone’s heads. Just enough to show some cracks in the walls. With her and Marcello’s whereabouts known to anyone with a TV or radio, Ida wonders how long before her remaining secrets tumble into the open like dice thrown from a fist.

  Despite her fears, Ida’s life sweetens. The neighbours warm to her. Everyone enjoys the memory of her sitting in the lawn chair outside the barricade, nobly erect in her militaristic flight attendant uniform. Not to mention the way she flew off the handle at Mr. Cake. Did you see her sock that guy? She’s tougher than Muhammad Ali!

  There is a certain pride to be taken in a feisty neighbourhood woman standing up for herself and her man. Ida is sfacciata. Nervy. Gutsy, even. She’s okay, that Ida, they’re saying. She has even picked up a nickname: La Contessa. The Countess. Sure, it’s a backhanded compliment, a good-natured jab at Ida’s stiff-necked Northern Italian arrogance, but Ida doesn’t mind that the neighbours accept her enough to mock her. She likes being liked, for a change.

  Marcello remains simply “Cello” to the neighbours, but now buffed to the shine of a Queen’s Park statue, as heroic as one of those big shots on horseback. For weeks, the neighbourhood wives have kept bringing over home-cooked meals under tea towels. The regulars at Esposito’s ply him with espressos and cigars, driving him to the café while his eyes are bandaged.

  Finally, on the third week after the accident, with a cold front licking at the women’s red-painted toes and the men’s open shirt collars, Ida drops by Esposito’s. Time to put her foot down about the cigars.

  “Cello is getting a cough from all this smoking. Maybe you could give him some pastries instead,” suggests Ida to the proprietor.

  Mike Esposito shoots an amused look at the regulars, huddled around tables with their coffees and cards, trying to pretend they’re not listening. “Of course, Contessa! Does Cello like cannoli?”

  “Certo,” says Ida. “The kind with lemon custard inside.”

  “Are they for you? Or for your husband?” asks one card player.

  “Don’t make her mad! She has a wicked right hook!” warns another.

  Ida tosses a smile to the laughing men as she leaves with the box of cannoli —compliments of the house, of course. As she walks across St. Clair Avenue toward home, she can tell the men’s eyes are following her. But even after she’s out of sight of Esposito’s, she still feels as if she’s being watched. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck tingle and lift—her personal danger signal, like the Distant Early Warning Line that is supposed to alert everyone to a nuclear attack. Ida has learned to trust this sensation, ever since Senior and Stan showed up the Seahorse looking for her and Marcello.

  Someone is watching her. Possibly even following her. She’s certain of it.

  Using a parked car as a shield, she takes in the street from all directions but sees nothing unusual, just a few older ladies carrying their groceries in string bags, and children playing in the parkette across the street. A mother stands by a swing set, jiggling the handle of a baby buggy; she’s tall and slender, a colourful granny gown billowing around her hips. Oddly, she seems to be wearing construction boots under her long floral skirt.

  Ida tries to reassure herself. The coast is clear. No one is following her. Yet the uneasy tingling sensation lingers. Ever since Cello’s accident, her imagination keeps working overtime, inventing disasters. Ida takes a deep, cleansing breath—the way she’s been taught in Jasmine’s yoga class—and heads for home with the box of cannoli, shoulders squared, chin high. She is the Contessa, after all.

  As she nears the house, she sees a motorcycle parked in the driveway behind Marcello’s battered Chevy. She admires the shine of the chrome, the thick leather saddle, the black and red insignia reading Harley-Davidson. A horse on wheels, she thinks, her head suddenly full of the strings and horns of the theme from The Big Country. She touches a handle grip, still warm from the rider’s hand.

  Lina Agnelli trots out to the porch in her apron, a letter in her hand. She jerks her chin at the Harley as if pointing out someone who has failed to curb a dog. “I was watching my story on TV and hear the racket on the street. I see the man go inside your house. He looks like one of those Hell’s Devils. I almost call the police! Oh, and a letter come for you Ida—addressed to our house by mistake.”

  Ida takes the letter absentmindedly, still focused on the mysterious Harley. Wondering who could possibly be inside with Cello.

  The house feels like a men’s club—male laughter, the odours of beer and cigar smoke, “Conquistador” on the stereo. Ida sets the box of cannoli on the kitchen counter.

  In the living room, Marcello lounges in an easy chair with one long leg thrown over the armrest, a stripe of pale skin across his forehead and nose marking where the bandage had been wrapped. The rider sits on the couch across from him, meaty arms resting on his knees as he doubles over with laughter, dressed in black leather pants and a sleeveless leather vest that exposes arms that bulge like rising bread, tattooed with skulls and the words Ave Maria. His hair, curly and black like Marcello’s, hangs to his shoulders in ringlets, held off his face by a red bandanna knotted around his forehead. Ida takes a sharp breath: Lina Agnelli was right, the man looks like a thug. But when Marcello sees Ida, he says with joy in his voice, “Ah, here she is now,” and the thug turns and shows Ida his face.

  The hair on her neck tingles and rises. She knows this man from somewhere. He looks like Marcello, if Marcello were prone to getting into knife fights. A thin silver scar runs from the corner of one large brown eye, along his cheekbone, to the corner of his lip. It must have been an ugly wound when it was fresh, but it has faded to make the man’s face look like that of a stone angel, damaged by vandals or neglect. His mouth is wide and full, his cheekbones sharp above the stubble of a beard, his eyes a rich chocolate, thickly lashed.

  “Ida, you remember my paesan, Rocco Andolini,” says Marcello, who is clearly delighted that the man is here. Shoulder to shoulder, the two men look like brothers.

  Ida takes
Rocco’s hand when he offers it, then turns her cheek to be kissed. The man even smells like Marcello. Of course, he would have to be an Andolini, one of Prima’s many grandsons who were always running in and out of the house where Ida lived for a few days.

  “Of course I remember you,” says Ida, smoothly. “Rocco Andolini, the fighter.”

  Rocco grins. “Boxer, not fighter. It was almost worth having a house collapse on Cello so I could find him. And you.”

  Ida, for once, doesn’t know what to say. Finally she manages: “This is your motorbike outside?”

  “Yeah, but it’s no bike—it’s a chopper.”

  “I am sorry, I don’t know the correct English words for so many Canadian things,” she says, waving her misaddressed letter in the air for emphasis. “It’s a very, a very—attractive macchina. Speedy looking.”

  “I can take you for a ride later if Cello doesn’t mind.”

  Marcello laughs. “I’d be afraid she’d want one for herself. Ida’s just learning to drive the Chevy, and she’s already talking about getting her pilot’s licence.”

  Rocco raises his eyebrows. “That so? Well, well. Not many chicks would have the guts for that,” he says, looking her over again with those soft eyes. “I like strong women.”

  Ida feels as though she’s been dipped in melted chocolate.

  “Rocco’s on his way west,” says Marcello. “I told him, stay for dinner.”

  “Only if it’s no trouble,” adds Rocco, dropping his head slightly as though asking permission.

  Ida lifts her chin. “I would insist on it, if Marcello hadn’t already. Just give me a moment to change out of my work clothes.”

  Ida goes into the kitchen, her face warm, unbuttoning her blazer. She thoughtlessly slips the letter Lina Agnelli gave her between the toaster and the wall, the handwritten name Ida Umbriaco magnified in the dome of the electric kettle. Forgetting about it immediately, she goes to the bedroom to change. She pulls out a pair of pretty flats, then decides to stay barefoot, suspecting that Rocco will find her pink toenails charming.

  When Ida returns to the kitchen, she stops to fill a pot with water for penne. In the next room, the men speak in raised voices, louder than they realize. This happens all the time since Marcello’s eardrums burst.

  She hears Rocco say, “He won’t stop until he finds you.”

  Marcello answers, “I’ll get my lawyer to force him to agree to a divorce. Annulment be damned. That way he won’t have any right to Ida, even if the Church thinks he does.”

  “Better hurry it up, brother. Until she’s your property, he considers her his.”

  Ida has broken into a light sweat, even though she is standing stock still. She braces her back against the counter, staring at the modern kitchen fixtures in harvest gold and avocado green. My fridge. My stove. My property. It’s just beginning to sink in that Cello and Rocco are talking about her. What do they think she is—an appliance?

  “Ida isn’t ‘property,’ Roc.”

  “I’m telling you what they think, not what I think.”

  She forces herself to slow her breathing and the wild tango of her heart. Senior still hasn’t given up. Still wants her back. Still wants revenge. But they are not children anymore, she tells herself. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows and cares about them. And Cello’s best friend Ed is a lawyer. How can anyone try to hurt them? She and Marcello are still—come si dice?—respectable.

  And yet, Ida feels sweaty fear settling around her shoulders like a shawl. Their trespasses haven’t been forgotten or forgiven in Shipman’s Corners. She straightens her spine under her thin T-shirt before she goes back into the living room.

  “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says crisply, sliding out her Air Canada voice like a linen serviette from its wrapper. “What shall we have for apperitivi?”

  Ida serves the penne all’arrabbiata with a little extra oregano—very good with the wine she is serving. After espresso and cannoli, the three sit sipping grappa that Ida has poured into cut crystal liqueur glasses. A little extravagance she picked up on sale at Eaton’s.

  “How’s Pasquale getting along at Prima’s?” asks Marcello.

  Rocco clears his throat and stares down at the table. “She passed away last spring.”

  Marcello puts his hand on his heart. “I’m sorry to hear that, Roc. She was like a mother to me. How’d Pasquale take it?”

  Rocco stares down at the table. “He doesn’t know. He’d already run away by then.”

  Marcello’s glass stops halfway to his mouth. “You’re kidding. What the hell happened?”

  Rocco shrugs, eyes still lowered. “Bad blood between him and Dad. That’s why I’m headed west. Dad wants me to track him down and haul his ass back to the farm.”

  “I do not understand this. Why would your father want Pasquale back if they quarrelled?” asks Ida.

  Rocco grimaces. Ida notices that he’s still not meeting her eyes.

  “The night the kid took off, he made a cash withdrawal from the Bank of Prima. Five hundred bucks out of her underwear drawer. The shock gave her a stroke. She poured her heart and soul into looking after the kid and look how he repays her. Dad’s wanted to get his hands on him every since.”

  “Why do you think he went west?” asked Marcello.

  “He said he was going to look for you two. He figured you were still on the run.”

  Marcello says, “We’re done running, Roc. We just want to live a regular life. Get married. Have kids.”

  At the mention of kids, Ida glances at Marcello who refuses to meet her gaze. A sore topic between them, even now.

  “If you didn’t want to be found, Cello, you shouldn’t have let a house drop on you,” points out Rocco, refilling all their glasses with grappa.

  After dinner, Rocco takes Ida for the promised ride on the Harley. She climbs on the back, straddling the wide saddle, following Rocco’s instructions to slide hard against him and wrap her arms around his waist. With Ida sitting on the idling chopper, Marcello carefully places Rocco’s spare helmet on her head, tightening the chinstrap. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to my little testadura.”

  “Ready?” Rocco yells, as he backs the Harley onto Barrie Avenue. Before Ida can answer, he guns it.

  The rush of wind in her face, the sense of flying through empty space without the metal cage of a car or plane around her, is so exhilarating to Ida that for a few moments, her breath will only come in gasps. She clings tightly to Rocco, her face against the wall of his leather-clad back, her nose full of his Marcello-smell. She quickly learns to become one with him whenever he goes around a curve, moulding her body into the wall of his back and butt.

  Rocco blasts along St. Clair to Oakwood, loops east to Bathurst, and south toward the lake, rocketing up the on-ramp to the Gardiner Expressway. They fly past massive billboards and tops of water towers and roofs of buildings. At one point, Ida realizes they’re passing the spot where the boarded-up Seahorse Motel waits to be demolished to make way for a ten-storey apartment building. It’s been a long time since she picked dandelions in the empty lots under the Expressway.

  Eventually the Gardiner blends into the Lakeshore, and then into the highway. Ida begins to see signs reading QEW WEST. He’s not turning around; he’s kidnapping me and taking me west, thinks Ida. She knows she should thump a fist against the broad wall of Rocco’s back, but instead she tightens her arms around him.

  When they reach the city limits of Oakville, Rocco pulls onto a country road. They’re flying past fields and barns now, the eye of the sun split open as it sets in the sky. Ida is both relieved and disappointed when Rocco slows and pulls onto the gravel verge on the side of the road. He straddles the bike with the engine idling, arms spread and head lowered, for so long that Ida finally shouts: “Is something wrong? Why are you stopping?”

  Rocco shakes his h
elmeted head slowly, then looks up at the sinking sun.

  “Just catching my breath,” he shouts back.

  He heel-toes the chopper back a few paces, then reverses direction, speeding back toward Toronto. Soon, Ida sees the city skyline on the horizon. She feels strangely let down.

  When they finally coast back to Barrie Avenue, Ida sees Marcello in the driveway, grinning as the two of them roar in. He helps Ida out of the helmet. “I wondered if you were ever coming back. What did you think?”

  “I love it!” she says, pulling herself unsteadily off the saddle, her knees jellying beneath her.

  “Don’t get too excited, these things can be dangerous,” cautions Marcello, gently cupping Ida’s face with his hand.

  Ida turns away. Why can’t Marcello let her enjoy this small adventure without talking to her as if she’s a child? She feels a prick of irritation, watching the two men crouch together in the driveway to examine the engine. Ida stands silently, holding the empty helmet, a bystander to the dangerous world of men. She can visit it now and then, but she can tell that Marcello prefers her safely at home. Even her career as a flight attendant has a tentative feeling to it, as if Marcello thinks of it as an interlude in her life, a short period of independence before they have children. If she can have children. Marcello’s expectations unsettle her. She tries not to think about them.

  It’s decided that Rocco will stay the night. Ida gathers bedding from the upstairs closet and brings it downstairs. In the darkened living room, she pulls the cushions off the couch and Rocco yanks the folding bed from the frame. She busies herself making up the pull-out couch with the neat hospital corners Jeanie taught her at the Seahorse. When she straightens up, she sees that Rocco has taken his shirt off.

  The two of them stand looking at one another. She feels herself sinking into those chocolate eyes again.