Harrowing

by S. E. Amadis

  I patted his shoulder.

  “Why’re you so down?” I repeated.

  Calvin bristled with impatience, wrestling his way out from under my healing hands.

  “’S nothing, babes. Nothing.”

  But I knew it wasn’t just nothing. We’d only been together for five months, but I already had a keen sense as to what made him tick.

  I left him moping about and went to make dinner. Calvin hopped into the bathroom for a shower, dropping his clothes onto the bedroom floor as usual. That slovenly habit of his drove me crazy. And even more so taking into account that he didn’t even live here – yet.

  I grabbed his clothes and plonked them onto a chair. Something fell out of the pocket of his jacket. I stared at the gold-embossed index card that had landed on the faded yellow carpeting. It could have been just Bruno Jarvas’ card that he had picked off of Bruno a couple of weeks back at the Queen Street Station.

  I glanced more closely at it.

  Although the company was still Herbert and Mons, the name was different, as was the address.

  “Lars Herbert,” I read. “President and Chief Executive Officer.”

  “What’s this card, honey?” I said when he came out of the shower. “Why do you have a card from Herbert and Mons? I thought we’d agreed you’d forget all about Bruno Jarvas.”

  “You mean, the asshole?” Calvin grimaced as he pronounced the despised name and rubbed a towel through his hair. “I have forgotten about... What was his name again?” He grinned.

  I threw a dishcloth at him.

  “But yes,” Calvin continued as he pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms. “As I said, I have forgotten about him.”

  He noticed the business card in my hand and gestured at it.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. That’s the card of my new client.”

  “Your new client?” I repeated, parrot-like, my brain too numb to understand the implications. “Bruno Jarvas is your new client?”

  Calvin shook his head and reached for the card.

  “No, no, no. Definitely never. Not Bruno Jarvas.” He tucked the card hastily into his jacket pocket. “His company is my new client. They’ve hired us to design some sorta boutique out in the boonies. That’s what the meeting was about tonight. Seems it’s urgent.”

  He followed me into the kitchenette and wrapped his arms warmly about my waist, rocking me back and forth.

  “I thought you just said you didn’t know what it was about.”

  “And I don’t, really,” he hastened to reassure me. “When I found out it was Herbert and Mons, pretty much nothing else was able to make its way into my little head. I was dumbfounded. I mean, what bad luck, no? It’s so weird. Everything just went in one ear and out the other during the entire meeting.”

  He rocked me some more.

  “But don’t sweat it, honey love. I made it clear to Lars Herbert that I have no interest whatsoever in maintaining any sort of contact with his Vice President. I said he’d worked with a friend of mine once, and the friend didn’t have a very positive impression about that guy. Lars Herbert agreed, and he’s my sole contact in that company. End of.”

  I let him continue to rock me. But I didn’t trust him one whit. I was still sure he was up to something.

  Or he and Lindsay both.

  *

  My eyes were sunken with fear. No amount of concealer could hide the raw terror, verging on panic, reflected in them as I faced my first morning back to work. I put on a minimum of makeup, dreading the idea of appearing too sexy and seductive to my new bosses. I took care to get up especially early so I would have time to fashion a severe chignon, sweeping my hair back tightly from my face and the nape of my neck, the way I’d seen Russian ballerinas do.

  I made sure my blouse was extra loose, my trousers wide-legged and not in the least bit form-hugging.

  I chopped the leaves off of a few carrots and stuffed them into the cage for Fatty and Skinny. Dragged my always-sleepy baby out of bed and plopped him down in front of his ever-present Honey Pops. Calvin had already left, tossing his pyjamas onto the floor as usual. Sighing, I picked them up and dumped them onto the chair, then slid into flat-heeled leather loafers. I almost opted for running shoes, just in case I needed to run out of there again, but decided in the end to resist the irrational temptation and stop acting so paranoid.

  As Geri had promised, my new office consisted mainly of an enormous clerical pool occupying the greater part of the suite. There were a few semi-private offices at the edges, equipped with panoramic windows looking out over the smog-covered city, for the Vice President, the CFO, the office manager and a few other sundry privileged positions. The rest of the staff occupied desks in an open arrangement. Working areas weren’t even separated into cubicles. There was no place you could hide if you wanted to pick your teeth.

  Sandy Bleckley was the office manager. And for the next few weeks, she was also supposed to be my boss. Middle-aged, overweight, with obvious dark roots protruding out behind her stick-straight, bleach-blond haircut, she nonetheless greeted me with a warm smile and casual gestures when I walked in. I liked her immediately. She put me at ease right away as she walked me to my desk which, as promised, sat smack dab in the middle of the clerical pool.

  She gave me a tour of the unpretentious surroundings, introducing me to the professionals I would be working with most often.

  “Geri, your agent, told me you’re especially fast at typing,” she said. “So we’re going to set you up answering emails for most of the head honchos round here.” She giggled. “A few PowerPoint presentations. Every once in a while you might need to make photocopies or call a courier service. But I understand you’re familiar with all these tasks, right?”

  I nodded. Easy peasy.

  Yeah. Right.

  Although most of the employees I saw were women, unsurprisingly, almost all the “head honchos” were men. Sandy presented me to a few of them, then led me to the canteen.

  “There’s a fridge so you can bring your lunch if you want. I imagine you’re familiar with the neighbourhood, at any rate, if you want to go out to eat.” She smiled. “Every Friday the staff gets together for lunch, if you’d like to join us.”

  I grinned back.

  “Sounds marvellous,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  I couldn’t wait to start living a normal life again. Mix with normal people, carry out normal conversations. Just like any normal human being who has never suffered a trauma before.

  To my tremendous relief, my life was starting to settle down into a predictable routine again. Predictability was exactly what I needed at this moment. No shocks. No scares. No creepy people sneaking up behind me in empty offices or alleyways.

  *

  “How was your first day back at work?”

  Calvin turned on the kettle while I lounged on our sofa-futon and raised my feet. Leaving the kettle to boil, Calvin plopped down next to me and began to massage my feet.

  “Mmmff. That feels sooo good, honey buns,” I whispered. “I haven’t stayed so long on my feet in weeks.”

  Calvin batted at me.

  “It’s only been a month. Not like you’ve just come out of retirement or something.”

  All the same, he slipped a jar of mysterious cream from his bag and began to spread it over my aching muscles. A faint aroma of camphor wafted over me.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Calvin waggled a finger at me.

  “Ne ne ne. An old Jamaican secret formula. Can’t tell,” he said enigmatically.

  I pushed at him and sighed.

  “So. How was work?” Calvin repeated. “You going back tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “Mmmhh. It’s a nice office. Lots of people. I’m surrounded by women.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  Romeo burst in and shoved a paper into my hand. I turned it over pickily.

  “A fine, Romeo? What’s this fine for?”

  Romeo waved a paper
back at me.

  “I forgot to take this back to the library.” He snuggled against my neck in anticipation of the scolding he knew would follow. “Don’t punish me, Mimi. I loved this book. I forgot all about it.”

  I squinted at the book.

  “Mordecai Richler? I hated him as a child. Good writer though. Why didn’t you return it?”

  Romeo shrugged.

  “I dunno. And anyways, they didn’t send me a reminder letter. So not exactly my fault.”

  I tousled his head, grateful I’d spawned a child who loved to read.

  “Okay. I’ll let it pass this time. But the next time this happens, I’m taking it out of your allowance.”

  I frowned at him. I hoped it scared him. But he only sighed with relief. Calvin banged his forehead with the palm of his hand all of a sudden.

  “Oh, so sorry, kiddo,” he said. “They did send a reminder letter. I tucked it away somewhere. Don’t know where...”

  He began to shuffle through the papers in his leather portfolio. I cuffed him across the shoulder.

  “A little late for that, don’t you think, weeny brain? The fine’s already out. Next time, give the letter to me, will you?”

  Calvin smiled a little sheepishly.

  “Well, at least let me pay the fine for you,” he offered, somewhat abashed.

  Romeo began to thumb through the items on the shelves in the kitchenette. He banged open the refrigerator, ruffled near the back of the cupboard for hidden bags of potato chips. I got up and shoved against his shoulder.

  “Hey, gopher. What’re you doing? There’s nothing there, you know. Only good old supper.”

  Romeo shrugged.

  “Okay. So what’s for supper?”

  I stirred a pot on the stove.

  “Macaroni and cheese.”

  Romeo groaned.

  “Again, Mimi? When’re you gonna learn to cook decent food? Lindsay cooks a hundred times better’n you, and she lives alone and orders out half the time.”

  “Well, then go to Lindsay’s to eat.”

  I poured some cutlery onto the counter, banged out a few plates, pulled a tablecloth out of a drawer. The tablecloth felt like a sandbag.

  “There’re bread crumbs all over this,” I complained. “Didn’t you shake it out last time?”

  Romeo shrugged again, kid fashion.

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, that’s your job, you know. So do it now.”

  Romeo idled to my side lazily, snagged the tablecloth with trailing fingers, scuffed the toes of his tatty running shoes as he dragged his feet towards the window.

  “When’re you getting me new shoes?” he said plaintively.

  I glanced at the worn ones on his feet.

  “When I’ve been working for a while.”

  “Well, you’ve been a month outta work, Mimi. How’re we gonna pay the bills this month?”

  I sighed, saddened that a ten-year-old had to worry about such onerous things. I was sure his classmates still lived in blissful innocence and ignored the fact that electricity and water didn’t just fall from the sky. Romeo had offered so many times to get a job delivering newspapers, but for me his grades, and his future, were the most important things in life.

  “Better we do without now so you can get into a good school and get a job you love,” I’d told him countless times. I didn’t want to see him living the same dead-end life I was stuck in now.

  I stirred the macaroni and cheese in the pot, then leaned back against the counter and studied my makeshift family with joy. It had cost me the world to achieve this bliss, this peacefulness, this rare domestic tranquillity.

  How many times had I dashed around in a panic chasing a hyperactive toddler one-handedly, raising him all by myself? The times he’d screamed with fever, and I had had no one to turn to. The times we’d had to grab a taxi to the children’s hospital in the middle of the night because I didn’t own a car. And then we’d had to jump out halfway there because I didn’t have enough money to pay the full fare. The times I’d left him alone at home, aged seven or eight or nine, and dashed off to finish a late shift with my heart in my mouth because I couldn’t afford a babysitter. Now, at last, I had my Calvin by my side to help me.

  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.

  Chapter 9

  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 re
asons 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?”