“In. The. Back.” he says, his voice firm.
J pushes me and opens the back door so he can climb in. “Let’s just go, okay.”
“In the back!” he says to me. “I will not allow you to sit next to me.”
“Jesus, sometimes you are a huge dick, man,” shouts J.
“I am not the one who was arrested by the police.”
“There was no arrest; M was just taken in for questioning.”
“Semantics will not change the fact of M’s actions. So M will sit in the back.”
“You’re one to talk.”
I let my brothers argue as if I am not even there. Eye contact with Rhonda. She nods and climbs out of the van. I walk around J and join her. We walk away as she touches her phone.
“Hey, where are you going?” J asks.
“Uber” is all I say.
A pause. “Now look what you’ve done, you dickhead.” Car door slams. “Drive home by yourself.”
A Ride Home
“Hey guys,” J shouts. “Wait up.”
Rhonda and I turn and wait for him.
“Jesus, what a dickhead, eh?” J says when he catches up to us.
“He’s just looking out for the family,” Rhonda says.
“He’s just looking out for himself. As per usual.”
“K is K,” I say. “He can’t really help who he is, sometimes. Best to ignore him and move on.”
“But he’s being a dick.”
“And we really can’t change that. The only thing we can affect is our reaction. I choose to walk away.”
“And let him push you around. Like you always do.”
I stop and look at J. “If you wish to come with us in the Uber, then you’ll have to stop talking like this.”
“But . . . you always—”
I raise my hand to stop him. “I really don’t need a lecture today, J. From you or from K. All I need is a ride home.”
The van pulls up in front of us. All the doors open automatically.
“Get in,” he says. After a moment: “Please.”
Without a word, I climb into the front seat, Rhonda gets into the back.
“You coming?” I say to J.
“What about the Uber?” J asks.
Rhonda puts on her seatbelt. “What Uber?”
Spoon
J leans forward to say something to K but Rhonda places her hand on his shoulder. She shakes her head. He looks at her for a second, then sits back, looking out the window. In the side-view mirror I can see his face, scowling.
For the rest of the ride home, nobody says anything. We pull up to the house and even before K puts the van in gear, J is out the vehicle, storming toward the house. He roughly unlocks the door and stomps in, no doubt heading to his basement.
K gets out wordlessly, but much slower, his body stiffened into a passive aggressive posture. I wait several seconds until I know both my brothers are in the house and into their respective rooms. Only then do Rhonda and I get out.
She smiles gently at me and takes my hand, leads into the house. She doesn’t let go when we walk in but guides me to my room. Only then does she release my hand, turning me around to face her. A light kiss on the cheek. She removes my shirt, gently pushes me so I sit on the edge of my bed. Removes my socks, my pants, my underwear, tossing them into a pile of discarded clothes in a corner. She lifts my feet so I can lie down on the bed. Pulls the covers over me.
I lie on my side and she leaves the room. I hear her pad around the house, locking doors, turning out the lights, feeding the cat. She comes back into my dark room, removes all her clothes, and climbs in beside me.
She spoons me. The warmth of her body and the calmness of her breathing lulls me to sleep.
The Best
When I wake, I’m alone. I roll over onto my stomach, lying diagonally across the bed. I rest my head on Rhonda’s pillow, pulling her aroma into my nose. It’s a mix of her body odour, hair products, laundry detergent, and many other things that she comes in contact with through her day, all part the fragrance of Rhonda. For the most part her scent is something I notice subconsciously, but when I roll over and rest my head on her pillow, I wonder briefly if I have an odour, and if Rhonda knows it.
Of course, she does.
It’s raining, a watery hiss coming from outside. But as I waken further, I notice popping and splattering sounds along with the hiss. And a distinctive smell coming from the kitchen. It’s not raining; Rhonda is frying bacon. I know that because the only person in this house who actually cooks bacon is me. J and K are afraid of frying bacon.
The sweet, meaty smell of the bacon pulls me out of sleep and soon out of bed. I slip on a T-shirt and a pair of sweats and walk down the hallway into the kitchen.
Rhonda is standing by the stove—yes, frying bacon. And making toast. And eggs.
My two brothers sit at opposite ends of the table, J behind a book, K behind his iPad, ignoring each other but forced to come out from behind their respective reading materials to take bites out of their respective meals.
I stand next to Rhonda and put an arm around her. “You’re the best.”
She hands me a plate with bacon, toast, and two over-easy eggs.
“I know.”
Talk
After he finishes his meal, K puts down his tablet. “Will you need a lawyer? I know several who can offer a reduced fee.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been charged with anything so I don’t think a lawyer is necessary.”
“Did the police tell you that? That you are not a suspect?”
“They said I was a person of interest.”
“Which means you’re a suspect.”
“Technically, yes. But one of the constables told me there was nothing to worry about.”
“That’s what they want you to think. I would recommend getting a lawyer. I’ll talk to some friends today.”
“Man, you don’t always have to take over and think you’re saving the day, you know,” J says. “Sometimes we can handle problems ourselves.”
“Yes, everything’s hunky dory, isn’t it? M is a suspect in a murder—”
“I’m not really a suspect,” I cut in.
“M’s not really a suspect,” J repeats. He sits up high in his chair, as if poised to attack. K is sitting the same way. He looks at both of us and shakes his head.
“K is right,” Rhonda says. Their postures relax at the sound of her voice. Because Rhonda has no family baggage, she is seen as neutral. “Regardless of what the constable told you, you are a suspect in a murder investigation. I think it’s wise to get some outside help.”
A moment’s pause. K stands up, grabs his tablet and his phone.
“I’ll make some calls.”
Suspended
Rhonda takes her uniform from my closet and gets dressed. “Officially, you’re suspended for a week.”
“A week. That’s not fair. I’m not really a suspect and I did nothing wrong.”
Rhonda buttons her shirt and slowly turns around. “Seriously?
That’s your defence?”
The angry look on her face makes me step back to sit on the bed.
“Your being a suspect has nothing do to this.”
“Then why?”
“You want a list? Let’s start with accepting a gift from a citizen you were investigating.”
“It was only tea and cookies.”
“Still against the guidelines. Let’s not forget the nap and the speeding.”
“I can explain those.”
“And you’ll be able to. But not now.”
“So, I’m being punished.”
“Prior to this, would you have taken anything, even a drink of water, from a citizen you were investigating? Let alone fallen asleep on his couch?”
&nbs
p; I can do nothing but shake my head. She steps forward and touches my cheek.
“You also need a break to get your shit together before you can go back to work. So do that.”
Empty House
Rhonda and K have work. J is at school. The empty house feels strange. There are odd noises all over the place. Each one seemingly new and strange but once I search out its source, I discover that these are normal noises. Like the dripping in the back of the fridge, the hum of the water heater, the sound of the wood frame of the house expanding in the heat.
Being alone at home during the day is disconcerting. I take a walk. The weather is also odd. The wind is sporadic, blowing the clouds about. The sun goes in and out, so at one moment it’s almost too hot, but then in the next it’s almost too cool.
My walk doesn’t last long.
Back at home, I light some sage, let the smoke blow over me. I’m too jittery for the smudge to work. I try to watch tv but then remember we cut the cable. Our streaming services offer me nothing. For half an hour I watch a documentary about a classic rock star but that gets old very quickly.
J has games in the basement, but I could never get into the type he plays. For a brief moment, I think about cleaning the house, but it’s already clean.
I make myself lunch; it’s not even eleven, but I’m bored. I get a little more elaborate than I should and make a lasagna. After that, I make two batches of cookies, eat a few, then pass another half-hour cleaning the mess I made in the kitchen.
The cookies taste good but I’m lost. And only one day of suspension barely over. I have four more to go. I’m in trouble.
Parallel Parking
The next day I have an appointment with a lawyer. K drives me because he knows the lawyer.
“Where did you find a lawyer who would meet with me so quickly?”
“He’s a contact from the party,” he says, as he searches for a parking spot downtown. “I made a few calls about your situation and someone set this up.”
“Wouldn’t my situation hurt your position in the party?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” K says, laughing. He hasn’t laughed for a while so it’s nice to hear, even though it is at my expense.
“I didn’t get into the details, I just told them a family member was having some kind of legal trouble with the police and that was that. They gave me the name of lawyer in the party, I contacted him and filled him in with some details.” He spots an open parking spot. “Ah, here we go.”
K parallel parks like an expert. “I’ll admit they responded quickly, but apparently this kind of situation happens more than we think.”
“What? Someone the party knows becomes a murder suspect on a regular basis?”
“Don’t be silly.” K’s parking is almost perfect but he still moves the car back and forth to fit even better.
“I’m talking about legal problems, although your situation is a little more serious than most, I’m sure.” K’s parking is proper now and he starts to adjust his tie in the mirror.
“I really appreciate your help, K, but I’m worried about the cost,” I say. None of us in the family makes a lot of money. Enough, but to pay for a lawyer? I’m not so sure.
“He’s a contact from the party,” K says. “And because of that, he’s waiving his fee.”
I open my mouth, but K holds up a hand. “Don’t ask. Just let it go.”
The Lawyer
The lawyer is a lot younger than I expect, probably only five or so years older than J. But his office is well appointed with oak furniture and a corner window looking out over the river valley. Based on these signals, I assume he’s good at what he does, despite his youthful appearance.
I’m introduced but quickly forget his name as I look out the window.
I let K do all the talking, explaining the situation as best as he can. Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound like he’s disappointed in me. He phrases the story like I’m some kind of victim caught up in circumstances beyond my control.
The lawyer nods thoughtfully and even though he already knows the situation does not interrupt K once during his explanation. He only speaks when K is finished.
“The situation is a bit apprehensive, I’ll admit that. But based on what you’ve just told me and what I’ve gleaned from the Crown’s office, M is officially a suspect, but it’s more along the lines of a person of interest. A witness. A suspicious witness. There are concerns, but based on my conversation with the Crown, so far there is nothing to be too worried about.”
“You’ve talked to the Crown already?” K asks, eyes wide.
“Of course, of course,” says the lawyer, waving his hand. “And there may be questions again, more DNA samples, but it’s just procedure. I’ll be there for both of those events.”
“That’s wonderful,” K says.
“For all those lists and new members you’ve brought to the party, it’s the least I can do,” the lawyer says with a bright smile.
K offers his thanks yet I can’t help but notice the quick look he sends my way. And how his face briefly turns red when he does so.
The Lists
On the third day of my suspension I have something to do. I tell everyone that I’m going to undertake a serious cleaning of the house but that’s just a ruse. K and J are fastidious people; they are always cleaning up after themselves.
So while I clean, I also search. K wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave important papers lying around, or just tucked into his desk. But he’s also not as imaginative as he thinks he is. And I find the box tucked into the storeroom. On the outside it’s marked taxes, and it’s true, there are some tax forms, etc. in the front of the box.
But at the back of the box, I find what I’m looking for: several lists. The first group is a list of the names, addresses, and phone numbers of members of various community groups that K’s work has brought him into contact with.
The other is a list of new members of the political party that my brother belongs to. Every name from a community list is on the new member list.
The final list is the most damning. Every new member has checked the box stating they will allow their individual vote to be decided by a proxy. The handwriting on the membership card is identical. He’s not named as the proxy—that would be stupid. There are several different names shown. But it’s all K’s handwriting.
I put the lists back into the box as I found them, and pack the box away. And then, as promised, I finish cleaning the house.
No Caller ID
The next morning, after making breakfast for my brothers and sending them off to work and school, I’m at a loss about what to do. The house is clean, there are enough cookies, and I don’t wish to think about what my brother has done. Just before I turn on the television, I get a call on my cell.
“No Caller id,” it says. Everyone I know who calls me is entered into my contacts menu.
I put the phone back in my pocket and turn on the tv, choosing a sports documentary on the knuckle ball. I did not grow up with baseball but I find it intriguing. On the surface, it is a simple game but many miniscule details are involved. Not just about how to throw a ball or swing a bat, but the endless statistics, and the almost obsessive nature of how people collect them and use them.
My phone vibrates yet again. I pause the knuckleball documentary.
No Caller id.
I wonder which unknown person would be calling me. The only two that come to mind are the police and my lawyer.
I sigh and answer the phone.
It is neither the police nor my lawyer.
“Is this the bylaw enforcement officer?” a familiar female voice asks.
I pause, trying to place the voice before I answer. “Who is calling, please?”
“It is you,” the voice says excitedly. “I recognize your voice.”
“Who is calling, please?”
“It’s Yuri,” she says. It takes me a second to remember who Yuri is and that the voice on the phone belongs to his wife.
“He’s missing.”
Please
“How did you get this number?”
“Did you not hear me? Yuri’s missing.”
“Call the police.”
Pause. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
When she says nothing in response, I continue. “The police can help you. I cannot.”
“You must.”
“Why? I’m only a bylaw enforcement officer. Call the police.” I move to disconnect the call.
“Please,” she says, her voice cracking, so pitiful yet honest that I cannot hang up.
“Call. The. Police.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” Her voice breaks and she begins to cry. It takes twenty seconds for her to compose herself enough to answer.
“Because he’s done this before.”
“Done what before?”
“Gone missing.”
“Then he’ll come back.”
“This time is different.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m his wife,” she shouts at me. Angry. Then crying again. “Please.”
Indecision
I spend the next twenty minutes wracked with indecision. Obviously, the police can help Yuri’s wife much more than I can. But since she said he went missing before and returned before, they would consider his behaviour a recurrence and would not help her.
But I have no authority to conduct such an investigation. Even going over to Yuri’s house and talking with his wife could have implications for my already tenuous employment situation.
I am also a person of interest in a murder investigation relating to the murder of the Pyjama Man, Yuri’s neighbour. And there was animosity between these neighbours, a fact I myself told the police in my statement.
The Red Chesterfield Page 4