Almost Criminal

by E. R. Brown

  “Supper in five?”

  Beth’s Bösendorfer, a nine-foot grand piano that she rarely played these days, was the only large item we had moved from the city. A wheel had broken off when her mover — some dude with a truck — and I had carried it in, and a thesaurus under one leg brought it up to more or less level. Bree gave me a quick nod.

  “Is your boyfriend staying? It’s lasagna, we have lots.”

  Her eyelids opened wide. She pressed a key combination, then ducked her head and pulled off the phones. She tugged my arm and nearly dragged me into the hallway. She was taller than me, and stocky.

  “How could you say that?”

  “I invited him for supper. What?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, all right?”

  That was good news. “All right.”

  “All right!”

  “So is he eating here or not?”

  His name was Nolan. He hunched over his meal and chewed.

  “Nolan,” I said.

  He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. The pathetic fuzz on his chin made him look like a squirrel.

  “You’re at ADC?” The local high school, Amor de Cosmos Secondary.

  He shook his head, “Finished last year.”

  Seventeen, eighteen, then.

  I called upstairs to Beth, “Coming to dinner?”

  No sound from above.

  To Nolan, “You like Rush?” He looked like a head-banger, but shrugged like he’d never heard the name. Too young for Rush, maybe. “Mastodon? Nickelback?”

  Bree chewed and waited for Nolan’s answer. She knew my routine.

  “I don’t listen to music.”

  Bree smiled, like she’d won. What kind of idiot doesn’t listen to music?

  “The game you’re playing —”

  “Knights Errant.”

  “Looked like machinima. Is it a multiplayer shooter or a strategy quest, or —”

  “Don’t.” Bree said.

  “Warband.” Nolan said. “You fight in tourneys against live opponents, solo or in teams. Run through scenarios, battles, earn credits.”

  “Collecting weapons, trading for special powers, that sort of thing?”

  “We’re early in the scenario. Cleansing the woods of brigands,” Nolan said. “I’ve completed it but I’m starting again, to help Bree. Building her skill ratings.”

  “Don’t talk games with Tate,” Bree said, “He’ll make you feel stupid for liking it.”

  “That’s not fair, Bree,” Beth walked in and opened a cupboard, looking for a plate.

  Nolan was in her chair, so I stood up and retrieved the spare from under a stack of winter coats near the side door.

  “He will. First he’ll tell you he hates games, then he’ll tell you he knows one that’s so much better, but since you’re playing here are the cheats. Like the game’s stupid and easy and it’s not, not when you’re in it.” She stood up. “Come on.”

  She wasn’t completely right. I like strategy games and puzzles. It’s the neural twitchers I hate — the mindless blast-everything-that-moves games. And, call me squeamish, but I’m not entertained by blood and splattering brains. I slid the spare chair into place at the end of the table for Beth.

  “You can’t stay for a minute?” I asked.

  “Why? I’m finished,” Bree said.

  Nolan gave his empty plate a long look, then licked his knife and fork and followed her.

  Holding a plate of lasagna, Beth moved out of his way and used a fork to cut off a mouthful.

  “Sit down to eat. And here, that’s got to be cold by now, let me —”

  “Don’t bother, darling. I don’t taste much of anything these days, you know that.” She reluctantly shovelled in a few mouthfuls, then slid the plate into the sink. “That’s much better.” She wiped her palms on paint-spattered chinos. “Back to it now, though. Things to finish up.”

  Half her lasagna was still on the plate. I tried, I thought, and began to clean up.

  Beth stopped at the kitchen door. “One thing, Tate — and Bree?” She gazed absently toward the piano room, one finger looping a stray hair behind an ear. “I’m off to Vancouver in the morning, just so you know. I may stay the night.”

  “The gallery?” I asked, suddenly anxious. I hoped it was for her upcoming show — that’s what she was working on upstairs — but doubted it.

  “Well, I’ll be staying with Eleanor, of course.” The owner of the gallery. “But I have to see the doctor.” Her eyes skated away from my questioning look. “Follow-up tests, nothing unusual. They phoned. There was a cancellation.”

  The familiar fist gripped my stomach. “How long have you been waiting for them to call?”

  “They’re only tests, Tate, I have to have them every so often, and they don’t mean a thing. But I can’t eat after ten, you know the rules, so I’m glad you reminded me to fill up while I can.”

  She headed for the stairs, and I followed, pulling bills from my wallet.

  “Here, then. For gas.” I was the wage earner.

  She half-turned in the narrow stairway. “No, I’m fine. I have a job.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, didn’t I? Started this week.”

  “Where?”

  “Abbots. The greenhouse.” A shy grin cracked her face and was gone. “Georgina Abbott and I go way back. It gets me out of here, clears my head. And it’s money.”

  “They paid you already?”

  “Cash. The best kind of pay.” The grin flickered on again, and she turned away.

  All the locals knew Beth. Some, like Jeannie, were proud that someone from Wallace had brought the place some kind of reflected fame. For others she was old Everett’s daughter, a spoiled rich kid who went to art school while the rest of the town was out of work. But they all knew she’d been sick. They didn’t necessarily know me, because I wasn’t what you’d call involved in the community, and I have my Dad’s surname — MacLane — but it seemed that everyone knew that Beth’s son had gallantly left university to help his ailing mother.

  That was a lie — the university booted me out after first year — but it was the story Beth gave them, and for all I knew she believed it herself. At the coffee shop, complete strangers would sometimes nod and give me a sad, knowing smile. Or tell me how lucky I was to have such a special mom, so creative.

  I’d have preferred a tip, frankly. Sometimes I wanted to grab one of them and hold my face an inch from theirs and scream, “Special? You have no idea!”

  Chapter 3

  Randle Kennedy began to haunt the coffee shop, showing up when the lines were longest, when Jeannie and Lucas were at their most disorganized. I began to doubt his love of coffee — he always wanted the same thing, a macchiato, with its tiny rosette of foam on a demitasse of rich espresso — and to suspect he was checking me out. My technique, my consistency, my attitude. Maybe he had a shop of his own, or a restaurant where the tips would be better.

  My first customer of the afternoon shift had to be a realtor, wearing a pantsuit and a too-chummy attitude to the stranger she had in tow, a dude she’d met out front, driving a Lexus with Washington plates. I can’t help it, I notice things.

  The espresso machine was sputtering a piss-pale dribble when I saw a flash of Porsche yellow pulling in beside the American.

  “Grind’s too coarse,” I called to Lucas, and cut the flow. What had he been serving all morning? “Sorry, ma’am,” I said. “Be worth the wait.”

  Her smile tightened with impatience.

  “Yesterday you said it was too fine.” Lucas sounded peevish.

  “Too fine for drip. Now we’re steaming espresso.” Like he hadn’t heard this before.

  I thumped the portafilter to knock out the half-dry crumble of coffee grounds and set the grinder back to espresso. The next two shots ran smooth and caramel-brown, topped with a thick head of crema, and I steamed the milk, poured a double-heart rosette in each cup, and handed them to the woman and her client. I restrai
ned a grimace as she dumped two packages of Sweet’N Low on the rosette and stirred it in.

  “It’s marked right on the grinder, dude.” I said quietly. “At some point you gotta start paying fucking attention.”

  “Language.” A tray of baked goods in her arms, Jeannie pushed Lucas aside. Her hair was electric orange, except for the inch of steel-grey roots, in a wild mane that flowed past her shoulders. Her brown striped cardigan would be retro on anyone else. On her it was just old. “And no arguing among the minions.” She was Chinese and spoke with a British accent.

  “Minions can be replaced —” she snapped her fingers “— like this.” She was kidding. She was a softie and we all knew it. She was perfectly happy with me, and even happier with Lucas because he was sweet and relaxed and everyone’s friend. He’d serve second-rate coffee for the rest of his life, and neither of them would care.

  “Replaced by Alexa?” Lucas snickered. “Or Christine. We better watch our butts, dude.”

  They were part-timers, students who came in after school. Nice kids, but clumsy and inexperienced.

  “Don’t joke. They show up on time and clean up their mess in back. Lucas, help me with this. Toley —” Anatole’s head appeared from the back room, sawdust coating his beard and Greek fisherman’s cap “— get that lumber out of the way. I have to clamber over all manner of flotsam and jetsam to reach the door. Why customers put up with it, I have no idea.”

  Luke pushed past me as I steamed milk for another caffe latte and Anatole swung a piece of cut plywood overhead.

  Jeannie and Anatole spent so much time here, I couldn’t figure why they didn’t just take over and run the place like they used to. It wasn’t that I wanted them gone, I kind of liked them, like they were another mom and dad, but I couldn’t see how they could afford Lucas and me and the part-time girls with the amount of business the coffee shop did, when they were always around, anyway. The numbers didn’t add up.

  “How’s that mother of yours, Tate?” Jeannie called over. “Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Better. Getting back to work.”

  “She’s so talented, that woman. Oh, hello there.”

  And there was Randle. Didn’t make an order, not a word, just gave me that Buddha smile, like this was a game of charades. I made a tentative reach to the stack of demitasse cups and he nodded approvingly. I was in training and I’d “got it.” Then he waited patiently, holding up the line while he watched me dose and tamp the portafilter, draw the shot, steam the milk, and lay it over the coffee to make the rosette. His attention didn’t rattle me. Back when I was learning to make coffee, Vincenzo had been all over me, his narrowed eyes on my every move.

  Randle lifted the cup to his nose for a judgmental sniff and wink before finally clearing the way for the next customer.

  When I first started making coffee, it was a job. I didn’t care about it one way or the other. Not that I’d ever be as sloppy as Lucas, but it was Vincenzo who taught me the trade.

  When Beth was diagnosed with breast cancer, I was in high school, about to graduate three years younger than anyone else, but that’s another story. By the time she came out of the hospital, my university career had ended. Socialization issues, the counsellor said, due to my being pushed ahead too fast. He was clueless. I’d been socializing just fine. Too well.

  With Beth frail in recovery, I learned to prepare foods that she could eat without throwing up. And I watched our money trickle away. She’d always done part-time work to supplement her painting income, but that was out. First she was too weak, then smells turned her stomach, like paint and flowers, for example. And she was convinced that people were staring at her, gaunt and pale under the wig.

  Vincenzo at Caffe Napoli didn’t know or care why I was looking for a job at fifteen. On Commercial Drive, the heart of the Italian neighbourhood, Caffe Napoli was Vincenzo’s old-country wet dream: pink walls painted like marble, a plaster David and a Venus de Milo. His crew of regulars, with their gold chains and Elvis hair, was diminishing with age, making way for skinny jeans and porkpie hats. None of which mattered to me. I liked that he imported his own coffee — flew it in fresh from Chicago every Thursday — and that the line of customers sometimes trailed halfway down the block.

  Vincenzo could be harsh, but when you got it right he let you know. It took me weeks to graduate from sweeping the floor to running the till, and months more, and a lot of substandard cappuccinos and lattes down the sink, before he risked me on his customers. And more months before I felt I was on top of the variables — the grind, the tamp, the temperature, pressure, and timing — that create a sweet, rich cup.

  Life was simple. Beth’s health gradually improved and Bree started high school. I got good enough to match Vincenzo pour for pour, and he knew it. The work put me in a zone where there was nothing but an endless line of moving people and special requests — a triple-shot soy-milk capp with a touch of vanilla, please — and the shift passed in a worry-free haze. I stopped drinking and didn’t miss it.

  It was a good time. I applied to go back to school part-time. Before I found out whether I was accepted, an envelope was slipped under our door: our landlord had sold the house we’d rented for my entire life. Gave us a month to clear out.

  We had less money than I’d thought and rents were crazy. Beth lost hope almost immediately and I took charge, roaming further east, exploring the ’burbs. I had found a place, a basement apartment near Victoria Drive, when she announced she was moving the three of us out of the city to Pop’s old mansion on the hillside.

  There wasn’t much good about Wallace, but at least I wasn’t a sideshow freak. High school students would sometimes linger outside Caffe Napoli and gawk at the skinny barista, the child prodigy whose photo was plastered all over the walls of the local school, winning awards for math, physics, English, general academics, blah, blah, blah. Look at the loser now.

  The worst thing was, moving to Wallace was a one-way trip. Rent-free living was fine — except the house was falling down on our heads — but university was back in the city, which was a couple hours’ drive away. If I got back in — if I could get back in — I’d have to cover tuition plus my own living expenses. The way I left, I’d totally blown the scholarship situation. Plus, I’d be leaving Beth and Bree on their own, which meant I’d have to support them too. So, realistically, escape from Wallace was impossible. Until Randle Kennedy decided he liked my blue eyes and freckles, and my financial outlook improved.

  Chapter 4

  In the old neighbourhood, crime meant crime. B and Es, home invasions, meth-addled hookers, fights with steel pipes and machetes, South Asian dudes blasting each other outside nightclubs. That kind of thing.

  Wallace crime, I figured, would be loggers flattening each other’s faces in the Red Rooster parking lot after too many Extra Old Stocks. Kids breaking into summer cottages and clearing out the wet bar, stealing the Sea-Doo. Country crime. I was wrong.

  Lying belly-down on the wharf, I let the half-empty Southern Comfort bottle slip from my fingers and disappear with a quiet sgloosh. I’d had enough. I’d skated to the lake after my shift to spend some time with Rachel, not to get wasted.

  “Hey! Fish live down there, dickwad.”

  I could have come up with a clever reply, but I’m not fast around girls, and besides, she was right. The bottle was on the bottom, and it was a bit late for witty bleatings of environmental concern.

  We weren’t girlfriend and boyfriend. We were drinkers who preferred company. And she called herself a lesbian, although as far as I knew she’d never had a girlfriend. Jeannie called her the Goth of Wallace, but she wasn’t, she just did things with makeup and preferred black fingernails. She was my age, and just about to finish high school. Locals tended to give her a double take. It was the white hair, close-cropped on pale brown skin — she had a Vietnamese mom — the row of lip rings and the little barbell between her eyes. I liked her delicate grace and the funny, timid smile that came out sometim
es. And her ink. She had tiny flowers tattooed on one wrist and an anime jet-girl on an ankle, but the major work was a scaly, sinuous serpent tattoo. It curled up the left side of her neck to her ear, with gaping jaws threatening her earlobe. It flowed over her clavicle and under her tank top. Where it went from there, where the tail was — I had dreams about it.

  The marina was deserted, waiting for summer to begin, and the adjacent skate park was pathetic and unused, its ramps so tame that serious skaters couldn’t be bothered. The park was strategically located on the far side of the marina, where trees would mute the noise and keep the young and unwashed far from the Steelhead Inn and its circle of lakeside condos. It made for the perfect make-out spot, a grassy hideaway that was popular for anyone too young or carless for a bush party. Months ago, Rachel had suggested it for our cocktail hours.

  “Your mom back?” she asked, rolling on her back to take a long sip from a water bottle filled with Absolut. She took her drinking more seriously than me. I could keep up, but mostly I liked being near her.

  “Last week.”

  “Big C still in remission?”

  I didn’t want to get into it. “She’s working again.”

  Rachel tipped her bottle in my direction, and I waved it off. Straight vodka might be vegan, as she claimed, and didn’t stink up your breath, but it wasn’t for me.

  She’d had an eating problem when we first met, but it was under control now, she said. The nuts, millet, and agar-agar hadn’t put much weight back on, but she wasn’t losing any, either. She never wore a bra. I didn’t think she noticed the attention I paid to those little breasts and the way her nipples stiffened in the breeze.