by Myrna Dey
He was dripping on me like a dog and I shook him off just as the ambulance arrived. At that moment, Henry woke up, not in the least surprised to find himself wet and naked in a room full of strangers. While the paramedics got him onto a stretcher, my tall friend pulled a pair of hot pink spandex capri pants over his wet stockings, threw a shawl around his shoulders and volunteered to go with Henry in the ambulance. On the way out, he hugged me again as he grabbed a blow dryer from a table, promising to fix himself up at the hospital. Too late for another short guy in a woman’s sheer wrapper, who shouted after him: “Leave that dryer, Nicki. How am I going to get ready for visiting hours?”
The most remarkable part of this scene was that it was no longer remarkable. In fact, Sukhi and I both agreed this file was less sordid than the domestic we attended yesterday where a man had tied his wife to the sofa and made her watch him have sex with a prostitute. A disgustingly fat, greasy, toothless drunk no one should have to have sex with, paid or not. Humiliation was usually the starting point in domestic calls, quickly accompanied by blows and screams. The transvestites, on the other hand, were not humiliating one another, and there was no violence besides what the heroin and cocaine were doing to their systems.
I was in one of my moods where I didn’t think it was right to be discussing the price of gas over coffee so soon after dealing with these socalled misfits. But then Sukhi said, “How’s your history class going?” and I was immediately aware of my own misfit status. If I could think of one more detail of ridicule — like the tampon in Henry’s purse — I could stall this conversation, but all I could manage was “Okay.”
“Okay? You like it, hate it, what?”
“My dad helped me with the term paper.”
“You have the right to remain silent.”
“He practically wrote the whole thing.”
“Anything you say won’t be used against you. I was only wondering because Amara is thinking of taking some courses in the winter to finish her B.Sc. I told her I’d ask you how you like your instructor.”
Sure. Amara would pull off 90s in whatever she took. Immigrants’ children have all the luck with their parents making every decision for them. Easy for her to write her own essays when her father hardly knows the language. “My professor is great. Brings the material to life, if not me. Your wife will do brilliantly, as she always does.”
Sukhi set his coffee cup down, put his hands on his seated hips, pushed his head into the back of the booth, and said: “What’s up? You’ve been talking about taking courses for years and now you’re sabotaging yourself. Why? Still caught up in the Ray business? Your mother? Work?”
I shook my head. “No, no, maybe. I don’t know. As for the job, you know my doubts.”
He resumed drinking his coffee, secure now, like a good cop, that he had me talking. And thinking. When we sat down, I was feeling queasy about tonight’s history class. Not so much about what Barnwell would give Dad for his effort — that should be respectable — but he was to announce the topics for our final paper, and I would have to put myself through the shame of it all over again. What caught me off guard in the midst of this dread, however, was a warm wave of anticipation about the last of Jane Owens’ letters waiting for me at home. She was doing this more often, passing through my thoughts like an old familiar song. As if we had once shared something intimate. But I had yet to discover what my great-grandmother was transmitting.
I had forgotten what we were talking about when Sukhi said, “I have bad days too.”
“Bad days aren’t years of wondering about your real calling. I worry when I stop thinking of these weirdoes as weirdoes, and worry just as much when I don’t. Maybe I’m not sure of the difference between right and wrong, and that should be a must for cops and preachers. Only lawyers can get away with arguing either side.”
“You add a human element to the job, whether or not it’s deserved.”
Accepting praise from someone always guaranteed to give it to me seemed a bit pathetic. Would I be this open with Nancy Grace?
“Ever think about transferring to another section?” Sukhi asked.
“Sure. Aren’t we all sick of domestics? I think I’d like Serious Crimes.”
“You? Someone as non-violent as you wants the gory cases?”
“Why not? We’d come in after the fact. I like asking questions.”
“You’re definitely good with witnesses. Look how Nicki couldn’t tear himself away from you on that last call.”
“What about you?”
“Same. I’d hate to break up the team of Ahluwalia and Dryvynsydes. It’s hard to badmouth names like ours.”
It sounded like a good idea, but I probably would never exert myself to apply. I downed the rest of my coffee and stood up to leave. Sukhi followed and we went through the motions of getting out our wallets until the waitress waved us away. At least we left tips.
My belt and all its accessories felt heavier than usual today. I straightened my shoulders to take the pressure off my back before getting into the passenger seat. Sukhi slid behind the wheel and I cleared us for calls. B&E in progress in Deer Lake area. Sukhi wheeled out of Denny’s parking lot and was at the address before we could start the siren. It was your standard mushroom-coloured, two-storey, 2,500-square foot attempt at grandeur in a colony of almost-identical houses, all ten feet apart. A young man in an old sweatshirt and windpants beckoned us from the garage next door and we pulled into his driveway. He whispered excitedly to Sukhi, glancing at me as if I were a ride-along so keen I had borrowed a costume for the occasion.
“I called. They’re still in there. Came out of the old van parked in the back lane. Got in through the patio door on the deck.”
“Sure they’re not tradesmen?”
“They’re kids. With a crowbar.”
“Stick around,” Sukhi said. “We’ll need a statement later.” He had already flattened himself against the east side of the house, edging around toward the back. I followed, but not without a dismissive look at our witness: bead necklace, diamond stud in one ear, small hoop in another, a costume that was his way of declaring he didn’t really belong in this neighbourhood when in fact, he simply hadn’t shown any aptitude to leave it yet.
From the deck we could hear sounds of large objects being moved carelessly inside. Glass smashed. The patio door had been jimmied, and Sukhi drew his gun as he stepped quietly inside to the eating area. I pressed against the wall on the deck next to the open door and put my hand on my holster. Drawing my firearm always gave me a sick feeling, and this was no exception. I felt as if I were back on the basketball court, doing my best to stay occupied so I wouldn’t have to catch the ball.
“Police,” Sukhi called out, advancing through the arch to the living room. He didn’t have to say “Drop it” because they did — a TV set, by the sound of the thud. With Sukhi in possible danger, the gun felt more comfortable in my hand. My feet were poised to run to the front of the house where any good thief would make his exit if he knew cops were at the back, but I could not set them in motion and leave my partner on his own.
Sukhi lunged toward the open passage with both hands outstretched on his gun. Two teenagers rushed through: the first eluded him, but he tackled the second and forced him to the floor. I yelled “Stop” at the first and chased him across the back lawn to where their van was parked in the lane. He ignored me and kept running.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” I called again, hoping he would drop to his knees without noticing I was aiming at his tires instead of him. He did stop. But it was to turn around at the door of the vehicle and face me with a gun of his own. He looked like a little boy with a Christmas toy, scared rather than menacing. “Drop it,” I said, when a stab of fire hit my foot and I fell over.
With my ear to the ground, I heard another shot. My shooter fell and we lay together almost head to head for a few seconds before Sukhi reached us. He had not shot him, but the bullet whizzing past his head had caused him to collapse in f
right and drop the gun. Thief Number One, handcuffed to the rail of the deck, looked on, ashen-faced and terrified. Faster than a magician, Sukhi cuffed hair-gelled, well-groomed Number Two, and locked him to the other end of the deck, at the same time calling for back-up and an ambulance. He then slid to where I was.
“You okay?”
I nodded as efficiently as I could with my cheek on the grass. My shoulder must have twisted in the fall and was throbbing. My boot was oozing blood, Sukhi said, and he tried to loosen the laces. He stopped short of pulling it off lest he cause further damage, and because of the yelps any movement provoked from me. When the paramedics arrived, he was holding my hand, his face as close to pale as I had ever seen it. At the same time, Rudder and Emile screeched into the back lane and Sukhi nodded in the direction of the prisoners. From my worm’s-eye view, I could see tears on the face of my shooter and his accomplice as they were escorted into the P.C. I had a split-second twinge of sympathy, knowing what they would get in the back seat of the cruiser would be far from consolation.
The paramedics were the same ones who had picked up Henry at the transvestite party this morning. I noted the special consideration I was getting as they gave me a sedative; then again, Henry had not been in any pain. As soon as they began cutting away my size 10 boot with an instrument I couldn’t imagine, all gratitude gave way to a flash of red heat, followed by white light, then darkness.
I awoke in the Vancouver General Hospital to find Dad sitting on a chair next to me. As consciousness seeped in, I became aware of a huge white slab of plaster rising from the end of the bed. I must have forgotten how long both my foot and my body were, because this came as a surprise.
“They brought you to Vancouver instead of Burnaby because of a specialist here,” Dad said quietly. “Your ankle took quite a hit.”
“Yeah?”
“The surgeons were working on it for two hours. We can be thankful you were wearing boots or you might not have a foot left.” I could see Dad’s hand shaking and I stretched mine across the sheet to clasp it. “Sukhwinder, Emile, Jake, and Dave have all been by to see how you were doing. Sukhwinder feels terrible that he didn’t spot the young man’s gun.” Dad considered it presumptuous to use nicknames he had not given himself.
A glance around the room told me they had left their calling cards in beautiful flower arrangements. The only card close enough to read, however, was attached to a bushy azalea plant and was signed, “Smooth recovery. Ray.” How quickly word got around in the halls of justice. I knew he wouldn’t have the nerve to deliver them himself.
The crime scene was also coming back to me. I couldn’t get beyond the scared face of the kid with the gun and his tears later. “Sukhi shouldn’t feel bad. He was busy taking care of the other guy. I did see the gun. I was the one who should have shot, or disarmed him somehow.”
“You weren’t brought up that way.”
“Have you forgotten my line of work?” I tried to roll over on my side toward him, but a sting from the intravenous needle in the other arm reminded me I wasn’t free to do so. My shoulder also screamed at this motion. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight. Visiting hours are over.”
“Day?”
“Wednesday.”
“One way to get out of history class. We were to get our papers back. I should say your paper with my name on it.”
“I didn’t do that much. You put it all together.”
“Yeah, I put the sheets from the printer in the right order.”
Dad stood up to go. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Anything you need?”
“My history books.” I enjoyed the expression on his face: as if I had been hit in the head instead of the foot. “And one more thing: Jane’s last letter is on my dresser. Please bring it too.”
He stood next to me for a moment, pausing before he spoke. “You know, my first reaction when Sukhwinder phoned me was ‘How will Bella get through this without her mother?’ But my next thought was relief that she’s spared the worry. And seeing you now, I know you’ll be fine, if you do what they tell you in here.”
I nodded as he rubbed the top of my head gently: it said more than a kiss would have from a more physically affectionate man.
After he left, a pretty little nurse came and explained in more detail what Dad had already outlined about my foot. I would have to be in here a few more days. While checking my functions and equipment, she remarked in a Caribbean accent: “You’re brave to put your life on the line every day.”
“I could say the same to you,” I replied, feeling more negligent than brave. “You have a lot more than one life in your hands.”
I was practically asleep when she left, and as usual lately, Jane Owens was in the twilight. At least her life of drudgery was a safe one.
DRYING DOES NOT HELP Jane’s clammy hands. Like blood in a fresh wound, the cold film reappears as soon as she blots it and lifts the towel away. From the bedroom her mother’s loud sighs are not enough to penetrate her thoughts until they become almost a shout.
“Jane!”
Mechanically, her legs carry her to the chamber of lavender and menthol they once shared.
“Can’t you hear me? Or your brother coughing? You’re in your head again.”
When she concentrates, Jane does hear Gomer’s raw rasps almost shaking the framework of Thomas’ bedroom, but they have been background sounds for too long to distract her at the moment.
“Would you make him some hot lemon and honey? I don’t have the strength for it right now.”
“There are no lemons in the house.”
“He’ll have to hack away then. And fill Tommy’s room with germs.”
“I’ll check with Salos. They might give us one or two until I can get to the store.” Jane dries the last cup and sets it in the cupboard before wiping her hands again.
“You know I don’t like to borrow. Gomer will get through this if you boil some water for vapours.”
Her mother’s words dispatch a bolt of resolve in Jane. She will go to Louis, after all. She cannot waste precious minutes babying her brother with a vapour tent when he gets as many colds as he can to keep from going to school. The numbness that seized her after hearing Lance Cruikshank on the road an hour ago is now transformed into determination of equal measure. In the early January darkness he did not notice her on the other side, but she could not miss his belligerent, drunken words to a fellow miner.
“Everybody’s patience with that darkie has run out. We’ll have a new coal seam soon, with or without the slave’s permission.”
A sharp crack of laughter followed Jane out of earshot. She had kept quiet the first time she heard Lance, but now she must warn Louis. What can an old man do? And what will be the consequences? At least Louis should know of this talk, if he doesn’t already. His family might be able to help him. “I’ll find a lemon for Gomer,” she says abruptly, untying her apron and hanging it in the scullery. She notices her hands are dry.
“You shouldn’t be out after dark. Cougars, you know.” By her tone, Mary Owens concedes she is no match for the firmness in her daughter’s.
“It’s dark before supper now. I walk home in it every day.” Jane has her cloak on before her mother can mention the vapour tent again. “I’ll be careful.”
She laces her boots, wraps a shawl around her head and shoulders, and steps into the damp night. Once outside, she digs her hands in the pockets of her long woollen cardigan, wishing she had brought her gloves. At least Thomas is working night shift, making her mission easier.
She looks toward the Salo house, envisioning Gertie and her oversized brothers sitting in their small kitchen filled with cabbage and turnip fumes. She has no intention of exchanging words with them over a lemon, while their mother demands in Finnish from the other room to know what they are saying. Hastening her step, she is soon heading in the opposite direction toward Louis Strong’s log house. Traces of yesterday’s snow cling to the base of trees and bushes, but the trail
itself is clear. Her heart pounding with urgency, she is sure of her purpose, though not quite sure of what she will say.
Jane knows the route so well she could probably traverse it blindfolded without straying into too many thorns, but she welcomes the moon’s accompaniment tonight. Its eerie light foils clouds and evergreens to guide her. She thinks of Hansel and Gretel, part of her lost childhood world in Wales. A rustle in the bush startles her until the hoot of an owl assures her it is not a cougar but some small prey running for cover. She moves so quickly she does not expect the shack of Butch Hargraves to appear as soon as it does.
Instinctively, she slows to listen for signs of life inside or out; if not, she always hurries past. Tonight muffled sounds issue from the cabin, indistinguishable until she gets closer. Voices. She stops short and crouches, finding a limited line of vision between the Oregon grape bushes and the window, lit by an oil lamp. Two figures move back and forth until one stops with his back to her. She recognizes the faded green shirt she has washed so often on the tall, stooped man. The bulkier one paces back and forth, the grimy windowpane muting words that convey frequent surges of tone. Louis turns to the side, and Jane sees he is holding his rifle. Have they just come back from hunting? When Butch stops to make a point, Louis turns away from him toward the window, half-cocking the rifle, then lifting it close to his bad eyes as if to inspect it. Butch backs away, reminding Jane of Louis’ claim that he was a better shot and Butch knew it.
Jane pulls the shawl tighter around her head and throat, then reclenches her cold fingers in the pockets of her cardigan. When she looks back to the window, neither man is in view. The creak of a wooden door at the side alerts her they are coming out. Jane quickly ducks from the trail behind a bush closer to the cabin. Louis emerges, black woollen toque on his head, tired feet trudging down the path.
“Ah got no time for this now. Ma son Maynard comin’ home and he’s what’s on ma mind. Ma place want cleanin’ up for him and that’s whe’ ah goin.’”