And finally it does hide, Below sparkling sky, Within a golden urn Treasure you will find.
I wasn't sure about the golden urn, but I knew of a movie theatre with a sparkling sky: The Roxy.
It was worth a try. If I was wrong, all it would cost me was the price of admission.. .well, two admissions. But as soon as I entered the darkened cavern of the theatre, I knew I was right. In an alcove above the exit near the stage, below the twinkle-lights-in-plaster sky, was a golden urn. I was ecstatic with my discovery. If I was reading the poem correctly, what I was after was in that urn! I'd finally made it to the end of the treasure hunt!
However, one big problem remained. How the heck was I supposed to scale the faux Spanish wall, climb into the alcove, reach into the urn, and claim my prize, all without being seen? Even if I waited until the lights were lowered and the show began, regardless of how good the movie up on the screen was, I was betting my unusual behaviour would surely attract some unwanted attention.
Or would it? Sunk deep in my seat, I swivelled my head to study the other patrons in the theatre. There weren't any. Fortunately, matinees on warm summer Tuesday afternoons are not hot ticket events.
By the time the lights dimmed and the reels began to roll, only three other people had arrived to join me in the massive, dark space. Two were teenage girls who were too excessively engrossed in their own selves to pay me much attention. The third was a woman who sat front and centre with an extra large bag of popcorn, a bag of gummi bears, and a super-sized drink the size of a pail. I was hoping her location would not only keep me out of her line of sight, but meant she was there for the movie and couldn't care less about what was happening behind and just to the right of her.
Next, I put my brain to work on how I was going to get to the urn. The bottom edge of the alcove had to be fifteen to twenty feet off the ground. Now, if I were Indiana Jones or Zorro, this wouldn't be an issue. But I was fresh out of whips and ropes and mighty steeds on whose back I could stand on. I needed something a little less swashbuckling and a little more efficient: a ladder. I needed a ladder.
Pink Panther-like, I snuck out of the theatre to check the hallway. Certainly a place like this would have ladders all over the place.
Not so.
I returned to the theatre, this time taking a seat near the rear. It struck me that if I couldn't come at this thing from the bottom, perhaps I could from the top. I studied the space, front to back, looking for an easy way—I'd even take a not-so-easy way—to make my way up to the Spanish villa rooftop. But that too seemed impossible. And even if I could get up there and make it to the alcove, by leaping rooftop to rooftop (which looks pretty simple in all those James Bond movies), I saw that the distance from roof line to urn would be simply too great for me to reach down and grab whatever was inside. I'd have to hop down into the alcove from the roof, but then I'd be stuck there, with no conceivable way to get away, unless I suddenly developed the powers of Spider-Man. I slunk low into my seat, dejected. So close, yet so far. I had to wonder if I was making a big mistake. If I couldn't get to the urn, how could anyone else have done it? And if no one else could get to the urn, that meant the treasure wasn't in it.
I mulled that over for a few unhappy minutes. But then I got over it. There could conceivably be a thousand.. .well, maybe not a thousand.. .but lots of ways that someone could have gotten something into that blasted urn. Perhaps they knew someone who worked at the theatre; maybe they had an accomplice with darn good aim. I'd probably never know. But what I did know was that I could not leave that theatre without finding out if there was anything in that golden urn.
The movie finally ended and the teenage and not-so-teenage girls left. The lights went up as the credits rolled. Panic set in. If I was going to do something, it had to be now, before the next batch of moviegoers and theatre clean-up crew came in. I was desperate.
I ran down the centre aisle of the theatre, stopping just below the alcove with its tantalizing golden urn. I stared up at it, wishing for about the millionth time in my life that I was Samantha from Bewitched. A simple wiggle of my nose would bring me my greatest desire, which at that moment was whatever was in that damn urn. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so.
Hastily devising a new plan, I scoured the area for something heavy enough, but not too heavy. I finally settled on my cellphone, which I hoped had just the right amount of heft. I was pretty good at baseball in high school, so my hopes were high. With one last look around to make sure the place was still deserted, I took aim, and pitched the phone at the golden urn.
It connected! As the phone came whizzing back down—somehow or other right into my waiting hands—I watched as the metal-lic-hued urn tipped and tottered.
"Fall, damn you, fall!" I encouraged.
Finally, with a clatter, the urn fell to its side.
I groaned. The thing was still up there! Fortunately, the floor of the alcove was less than even. As I caught my breath, the urn began to roll, ever closer to the edge of the alcove.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
And then it fell, straight into my arms. Only then did I remember to breathe.
I quickly set the vessel on the ground, and reached inside. I felt wisps of spiderwebs wash over my skin as I searched for my treasure. My fingers fell on something. A tube of some sort? I was right! I'd solved the treasure map! I pulled out my bounty. It was a spiral-bound notebook, rolled up and fastened with an elastic band. Not exactly gold bullion, but who was I to complain?
"Hey! What are you doing?" a voice rang out from the back of the theatre.
Run, baby, run!
Luckily the exit was right there. Without turning to see who was after me—I didn't want him to catch sight of my face—I smashed through the door and made like Sylvester after Tweety Bird. I made a beeline for the street and kept on going, never looking back. I was hoping that once my pursuer saw that I hadn't stolen the urn, he'd leave me be. But just in case, I ran for several blocks, whizzing by people on the sidewalk, crossing streets against the walk light, dodging traffic. For a while there, I pretended I was in some sort of heist caper and needed to get away from the bad guy. In this situation, however, I kinda was the bad guy. At least the Roxy folks would think so.
Finally, when I started not to recognize where I was, I stopped. Although my lungs felt as if they wanted to explode, I was too exhilarated to care. Running away was fun. Finding treasure was fun. Now all I had to do was circle back to get my car. I could only hope a legion of cops weren't waiting there for me.
They weren't.
When it seems you've got nowhere to go, there's usually one place left: home. For me, it was killing two birds with one stone (which I've always thought is a rather gruesome analogy). I'd spend time with my mother (who'd been complaining she hadn't seen enough of me lately), and I'd have a safe haven while I figured out what my treasure was, how it tied in to the murder of Walter Angel, and what to do with it.
Before making the forty-five minute drive to Mom's farm, I checked my home answering machine and whooped with joy when it told me that Air Canada was finally in possession of my luggage. Instead of risking a visit to the house for fresh clothing, I could recycle my Hawaii duds. I swung by the airport, picked up my bags, then headed for my childhood home on the range.
As the Mazda and I headed north, I couldn't help but feel a wee bit guilty. I'd promised Darren Kirsch that we'd work on the last verse of the clue together. And now I'd gone and done it alone, and taken the treasure out of town to boot. He'd be pissed. But it wouldn't be the first time. It wasn't as if he'd been big on the shar-ing-of-information thing in the past either. Then again, this detente could mean the beginning of a new era of improved communications between the two of us. A private eye needs a reliable contact in the police department. By the time I pulled up to Mom's place, I decided I would tell him what I had found. Just not right now.
Even though Mom's yard, five kilometres from Howell, the near
est town, is decked out with flowerbeds spilling over with stunning plants, a meticulously cared for lawn, and many pleasant sitting areas, it is for show only. Kind of like the good guest china that never gets used, not even for guests. In Mom's world, one only spent time outside for work, not pleasure. It wasn't always that way with her. I have many fond memories of family picnics from when I was a boy. Me, Mom and Dad, my brother Bill, and even sometimes my older sister Joanne, when she was around, would pack up a picnic basket, a baseball for tossing around, some blankets, and head out for a Sunday afternoon in the pasture. Somewhere along the line, I can't even remember when, all of that changed. There were no more picnics.
Now, the concept of eating outdoors is foreign to my mother, barbaric almost. Why eat outside when there is a perfectly good table and set of chairs inside, where you're close to the oven, there are no mosquitoes, and you don't risk sunburn? Once, when she was visiting me in the city, I'd taken her to Earl's deck for lunch. She'd sat through the meal looking decidedly ridiculous wearing my Maui Jim sunglasses (as she owns no sunglasses herself), wincing with displeasure each time a fly landed on her plate, and glowering at the navel ring prominently displayed by our well-tanned and toned server. It was a veeerrrry long lunch.
Mom is short, stocky, sixty-seven, and speaks with a heavy Ukrainian accent, replete with rolling r's and wailing oi's. She sports a tightly permed head of dark hair with occasional sprigs of white, horn-rimmed spectacles, a kindly face that bears a scowl just as well, and can most often be found wearing a dress, thick nylons, and black shoes with low, clunky heels (even when she's gardening).
When I'd called from the car and told her I was coming for a visit, she told me she'd have supper ready. Big surprise there. What she didn't tell me was that I wasn't the only visitor she'd be feeding that evening.
The first clue that something unusual was afoot was the rental car parked against Mom's house. The driver had pulled right up on the lawn and had knocked over a planter of pink geraniums without bothering to set it right. The trunk was left open, as if the car's occupant couldn't be bothered to slam it shut after retrieving whatever it was they'd wanted. I parked on the spit of gravel meant for the purpose and got my bag out of my own trunk. I strolled up to the car and took a casual gander inside. The back seat looked as if a family of beavers had moved in several months earlier. On the front seat and the floor were strewn a collection of candy bar wrappers (Oh Henry! and Eat-More), two full bottles of water, an empty cardboard coffee cup, a selection of pill bottles, and half a mickey of brandy.
Ahh. Now I knew.
My sister had landed.
I have two siblings. A younger brother, Bill, and a much older sister, Joanne. Bill is the most respectable, organized, prepared, controlled, solid kind of guy I've ever met. He'd had his entire life planned out in his head before he was twelve. He knew what he wanted to do for a living—be an accountant—where he wanted to live—Winnipeg, a province over—who he wanted to marry—a beautiful blonde with few career aspirations—and how many kids they'd have—four. He envisioned the salary he'd make, the suits he'd wear, the cars he'd drive, the house he'd live in, the vacations he'd take, the church he'd go to, the sports he'd play, the fishing he'd do. And now that he had all that, his new goal was to do the same for each of his children. Why leave anything up to chance?
My sister, however, was a whole other story. If I were to imagine someone the polar opposite of Bill, that would be Joanne. I was somewhere in the middle.
I rounded the house and there she was, sitting on the side door stoop. For a moment, before she caught sight of me, I was blasted into the past. How many times had I seen her sitting in that exact same spot, looking like a train wreck, smoking a cigarette or a doo-bie.
"You moving in?" she asked, noting my luggage but showing no surprise at seeing me.
Mom must have told her I was coming. Why I didn't get the same warning, I didn't know. I smiled at my sister. I'd forgotten how her voice sounded like fifty miles of rutted, gravel road.
"Just visiting for a couple days," I said as I came closer.
I did the math and realized that my sister was nearly fifty years old. If having a sibling that age made me feel old, I wondered what it felt like to her. Then again, I guessed she probably didn't care. She looked every year of her age and then some. Always had.
A life of glut, with plenty of bad times offsetting the good, can't help but show on a person who's lived through it. With my neighbour Sereena, every drug-filled night, doomed relationship, and life taken too early, appeared on the planes of her life-hewn face. Yet somehow, an inner beauty, a sprightly spirit, an indefinable aura, shone through, making her almost painfully stunning. It helped that she'd been a beautiful woman to start with. But so had my sister. Pictures of her when she was in the bloom of young womanhood showed a healthy looking Joni Mitchell type, with shiny blonde hair, large eyes, rounded cheekbones, thick lips, and skin that glowed. But no longer. Life had exacted a toll, and the price was as obvious as a tag hanging from her nose.
She reached up to me. In her hand was a dark skinned cigaril-lo. I marvelled at the contrast of her beautiful French tips stained bronze by tobacco. Joanne liked the good things in life, and with equal fervour, lusted after the bad.
"No thanks. I don't smoke." I hadn't for years. "No one does anymore," she commented, taking in a drag of smoke and holding it for a count of five. "And you? Are you here for a visit?"
She laughed. It was maybe the only thing left of her that was pretty.
Or maybe...maybe she still sang? She must. It was the only way I ever knew of that she supported herself. Or tried to. When I was young, people would tell me: "She sings like a wounded bird." I had no idea what that meant. I hadn't heard her sing in years. Her voice today certainly wasn't making melodic sounds.
"Oh Russ, why don't you just come out and ask what you really want to ask?"
No one called me Russ. Only Joanne. And that's the way it would stay, if I had anything to say about it.
"You want to know how long I'm staying. And why I'm here in the first place."
She was right. Joanne rarely came home. Even so, she and Mom managed to keep up a close relationship from what I could tell. They'd always had a special bond, often spending Christmas or other holidays together. I don't know how it worked out that way. Joanne rarely lived in the same city, never mind same apartment, for more than a year at a time. But I'd hear about an invitation, and the next thing I knew, Joanne had driven down and spirited Mom away to some resort or ski lodge or cabin in the woods she was looking after.
To me, it seemed like a crazy amount of driving for Joanne. But both women preferred driving to flying it seemed; Mom once explained that the long car trips were part of the visit. Joanne loved to drive. She said highway trips were the only time she had to really think. I couldn't begin to imagine what my sister thought about during those long hours.
Our (indoor) meal that night consisted of meatballs with a sweet-and-sour sauce made by mixing together barbecue sauce and Mom's homemade jam, a full roasted chicken, fried perogies with mushroom sauce, cabbage rolls in an onion-y tomato sauce, baby potatoes fresh from her garden in a cream sauce, and a salad without one store-bought ingredient except for the creamy Caesar dressing. As we ate, along with giving my arteries a good testing, Mom caught my sister and me up on local goings on—mostly who died, who was sickly, who missed church on Sunday, and whose garden wasn't doing so well this summer. For dessert there was zucchini cake.
After supper, Mom poured me a strong rye and Coke, and Joanne had the same (without the coke), and we settled in to play canasta for three hours. Mom also told me I should cut my hair, which I'd let grow long and a little wild for the summer. It had lightened from its usual sandy brown to near golden blond in Hawaii. I kind of liked it. So did Alex. Kay Quant nee Wistonchuk did not. Joanne was indifferent.
Begging off one last hand and a late-night snack, I escaped to my boyhood bedroom near
on midnight. Closing the door behind me, I laid my head against it and, with eyes tightly closed, slowly sank to the ground. I felt a shudder run through me. This was waaaaay too surreal. Way too reminiscent of childhood. I half expected brother Bill to come banging on the door asking me to check the assumptions in the compound interest schedule he'd created to forecast the cash he'd have on hand in his weekly allowance bank account by the time he finished high school. What a dork.
I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was my Back to the Future poster. I'd loved movies as a kid. Still do. They're like comfort food to me. Living where we did, I didn't get to see a lot of movies growing up, usually only when they finally ended up on TV. By the time I saw the first Star Wars movie, and thought it was the greatest thing since Nutella, the whole world had long ago seen it and moved on.
Under my schoolboy desk I spied Tim. Tim was a stuffed bear I'd won in one of those fishing pole games at a local school bazaar. It's where you pay a quarter or fifty cents, throw a mock fishing line over a bed sheet, and someone on the other side attaches a prize to your line. I remember being a little more excited than I should have been to win a bear at my age. But I'd never won anything before that. I leaned over and pulled Tim into my lap. I petted his brown head, and thought: it's good to be home, far away from airport murderers and knife wielding maniacs. I felt safe.
A little googly from the rye, my eyes bobbed around the room, taking in all my stuff. Was it really my stuff anymore, I wondered? Or did it belong to a boy who no longer existed? I remembered many nights sitting on that same bed, thinking, trying to figure out who I was. Those were the days before every kid's room had a phone, a TV, a computer, all the things contrary to introspection. Even as a youngster, I knew very well that I was different from other boys. Or, at least, different from what TV and movies and books and school teachers and even my parents and siblings told me boys should be. Yet, I wasn't particularly worried about it. I found it curious, and spent many hours thinking about what "it" was and what it would mean for me and my future life. But somehow, I was confident everything would turn out okay in the end. Naive? You bet. But isn't that what kids are supposed to be?
Anthiny Bidulka Page 12