The Red Chesterfield

by Wayne Arthurson

After a few minutes, she comes into the entryway, waving a piece of paper. She hands it to me. I take it and she places both her hands over mine. “Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure,” I say, but that’s only manners and protocol talking.

  She looks at her two hands over mine, then glances up and smiles at me. She releases me.

  I nod, deeper than I expect, almost like the nods so carefully demonstrated in a Jane Austen movie.

  I turn and leave the house, stuffing the recipe into my coat pocket, vowing never to return.

  Boris

  I walk to the road, repressing an urge to run. I fumble for my phone so I can call an Uber and get a ride. I open the app, but a large pickup pulls alongside of me, facing the other way, so the driver’s door is next to me; the windows are tinted and I’m unable to see who is driving.

  Then the window slides down and Yuri’s brother Boris stares at me. “Get in,” he says. He does not look happy.

  I try to call 911 on my phone, but he senses the movement and furrows his brow. “Get in,” he says again, his voice colder this time.

  My muscles tighten with fear. I shake my head, a slow twist to the right and then the left.

  He blinks at me. Then he pulls a pistol up from behind the door and holds it out, not quite pointing it at me, but not quite not pointing it at me.

  “Get in,” he says again in his icy voice.

  My muscles tighten further. And then they loosen and explode into life as I run. Away.

  Flashback #3

  I was at the outer edge of a fence, near where the garbage cans are placed so the waste management contractors can pick them up. All around were plants, Canada Thistle and dandelion, the white puffs ready to burst.

  The dandelion was fine—it’s not a noxious weed. But the Canada Thistle was. Not a danger to the waste management contractors, because of their clothing, but Canada Thistle has an extensive root system. These plants were concentrated, their roots probably spread along the side of the fence and into the neighbour’s yard.

  I was writing a warning note when the homeowner showed up, carrying a hockey stick. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.

  “We had a report of Canada Thistle.”

  He waved the hockey stick in my face. “You better leave.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He looked at the stick and waved it again. “You better leave.”

  I stepped out of reach of his stick and held up my phone. “I’m dialling 911 if you don’t drop the hockey stick. Uttering threats is an offence under the Criminal Code, especially when such threats are made to a peace officer.

  “Shit, they’re just weeds, no need to make a federal case out of it.”

  “Yes, they are just weeds. No need to go to prison threatening a peace officer because of weeds.”

  He dropped the hockey stick and backed away. At the corner, he rushed back into his yard, into his house.

  I put the warning about his weeds in his mailbox.

  Flashback #4

  The homeowner stepped out of his front door barefoot, holding a hunting rifle in one hand. He stood at the top of his steps and pointed it at me.

  “Get off my lawn.”

  Technically, I was not on his lawn. I was on the walkway from the main sidewalk and hadn’t yet reached the bottom of his steps. But I wasn’t going to argue the semantics with him. I dropped my bylaw ticket book and held up my hands, palms out. I could feel my body tighten with fear.

  He smiled at that and raised the rifle a bit higher.

  I stared at the barrel.

  “Get off—”

  I dashed away to the right, running along the front of his house, close to the wall. It took me only six steps and I was at the corner of the house. I raced around that and ran along that side of the house.

  I heard him shout, “Hey!” but I kept running through his side lawn, then took a left turn to run along the back of the house. I jumped over bits of broken wood and debris near the back door and headed to the other side, where I knew a rundown gate led into the alleyway. This was not my first visit. I was quite familiar with the layout of the yard.

  When I got to the alley, I turned right and ran north, away from the house. I didn’t know where the homeowner was, but I didn’t care. There was no way he could have chased me through his dangerous backyard barefooted.

  As I ran, I called 911 on my phone, identified myself as a bylaw enforcement officer, and reported the threatening man with the gun.

  The sound of sirens in the distance was almost instantaneous.

  Run!

  I run the length of Boris’s truck, swerving directly behind and then along the road on the passenger side; if he decides to shoot, the angle of the shot will make it tough for him to hit me. But I don’t think he will shoot. It’s not the first time I’ve faced someone with a weapon. That’s why I run.

  He shouts, “Hey!” but by then I’m several metres from his truck and still running. Running towards the ditch at the edge of the cul de sac.

  I hear the roar of his engine coming closer. He’s reversing to drive after me.

  But when I hit the ditch, I know he can’t get me. His truck may be big, but the ditch is too deep. If he drives into it he will get stuck. Or, like me a few days back, flip the truck over on its side.

  Across the ditch and then I’m on the shoulder of the road that it runs alongside. Traffic isn’t that bad, but I have to run about ten metres before there’s enough of a gap to sprint across the road. Horns blare and tires screech, but I do not slow. I make it across four lanes of traffic and cross the ditch on the other side. Into that neighbourhood, weaving between houses for several blocks until I find a small green space with trees and bushes.

  I push through the branches, ignore the scratches on my arms and face, and find a secluded spot. I collapse on the ground, knowing it will take a long time for my breathing to slow and the shaking to stop.

  Escape

  I wait in my green space hidey-hole until it gets dark. Then I wait a bit longer. It’s the cold that gets me out of there.

  I think about calling someone for help, maybe K or Rhonda, but I don’t want to put them in danger. Even though Boris didn’t look like he would use his gun, I can’t be too careful.

  I step out of the trees and bushes, trying to look like someone who’s searching for something. A lot of people own dogs these days, and there’s always somebody walking a dog. So I have to be careful.

  There’s nobody.

  I brush myself off and walk west, away from Yuri’s house. Then I walk about thirty blocks west and another twenty-five or so blocks south, through various neighbourhoods I have seen in the course of my work. I come out onto a semi-major arterial road, which I know has some bus routes. I stand at a stop for about twenty minutes before a bus comes.

  I take that bus to a transit centre farther west and transfer to another one heading downtown. I get off near the library and walk three blocks to the east, where I know I can get a bus heading north. I transfer to another bus that drops me off about three neighbourhoods from my house and I walk home.

  The whole time, I’m looking over my shoulder, wondering when Boris will show up with his gun.

  No One Home

  There’s no one home when I arrive, which is strange, considering how late it is.

  But at least there’s no one to see the dirt on my clothes and the scratches on my face and arms.

  These scratches sting when I shower, but I don’t stay under the water as long as I did after I found the foot.

  Even after my shower, no one’s home. I grab a quick bite, half a bagel with cream cheese, but although I haven’t eaten since Cassandra’s tea and cookies my stomach can only handle so much.

  I climb into bed, thinking it will take me a long time to get to sleep, but I’m so exhausted I�
��m out within seconds.

  Dream

  I dream . . . of nothing. Again.

  No Coffee

  J shakes me awake.

  “Wake up, M, wake up!”

  I sit up quickly, ready to run from Boris and his gun again, then calm down when I see J. His face is full of worry. “Where were you all day yesterday? You were home when I left but then you were gone when I came back?”

  “Where was I? Where were you? When I came home there was nobody here.”

  “I went over to Sid’s house?”

  “You stayed there all night?”

  J shakes his head but blushes, revealing the truth.

  “You know how K feels about sleeping over.”

  “Come on, I’m an adult. What big deal is it if I stay at my girlfriend’s house? You do it all the time.”

  I shrug because I don’t care if J stays out late with his girlfriend or otherwise. As he said, he’s an adult.

  “Anyway, K won’t find out because I don’t think he’s been home all night.”

  “Maybe he left early. He does that sometimes.”

  “There’s no coffee left in the machine,” he says, with a shake of his head.

  I look at my brother with surprise. “No coffee?”

  “No coffee.”

  “Then where could he be?”

  After a moment, J looks at me more closely.

  “Hey, what happened to your face?”

  Coffee

  At the dining room table J and I drink coffee, eat some of the bagels he toasts for us.

  “I tried calling him, but all I got was voicemail,” he says. “Several times, only voicemail.”

  “Maybe I should call him, ’cause . . .” I don’t finish my sentence because I don’t want to insult my brother.

  “He might be blocking me,” J says, without feeling any insult. He looks at me and shrugs. “Happens all the time. I block him too.”

  I call my older brother. Voicemail. “Hey K. It’s me. M. Just checking up on you. Give me a call when you get this.”

  I set my phone down, and the instant I do it vibrates. Call display shows a blocked call.

  J sees it too. “Answer it. Could be him,” he says.

  Could be Boris. Or Cassandra. Or Yuri.

  “You going to answer it?” J asks.

  After a moment, I do.

  “Hello.”

  “This is Detective Mason of the police service. I’m calling about the body found under the red couch?”

  “Yes, the Red Chesterfield?”

  “Yes. The chesterfield.” A pause. “I’m informing you that we are only going to consider you a witness in the case, rather than a suspect.”

  “Has there been a development about the Red Chesterfield?”

  “All I can say is that you are now just a witness. You may be asked to testify about the events you witnessed related to the case, but that is all. You will be informed if this is so. Have a good day.”

  The call is disconnected and I’m left staring at the phone.

  “Was that him? Was it?”

  Lawyer Calls

  I don’t have time to answer J because my phone starts to ring again. Another blocked number.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, this is Jon Smythe from Neumann Associates.”

  “Excuse me? Who?”

  “Your lawyer. The one representing you in your case regarding the body found in the red couch.”

  “You mean the Red Chesterfield.”

  “Yes, the red chesterfield. I’ve been advised by the Crown that you are no longer a suspect in the case.”

  “I’ve heard that from the police. They just called me.”

  “They are efficient. Be that as it may, our dealings with you are complete. Please be advised that we will be severing any contact with you after this moment. And due to the situation with your brother, we’d ask you not to contact us again.”

  “What situation with my brother?

  “You are unaware of what occurred last night?

  “What happened last night?

  A pause. “I am not at liberty to say. I would talk to your brother.”

  “My brother is not here.”

  “It would be best to hear the news from him. I’m sorry I’m unable to continue with this call. Have a good day.”

  Our Brother Is an Idiot

  “Who was that?” J asks.

  “That was my lawyer, you know, the one K got me. I guess I’m not a murder suspect anymore.”

  “Hey, that’s great news,” J says, offering a fist bump. I don’t leave him hanging.

  “Still . . .” I start, then pause.

  “What? Is there something else?”

  “Yeah but it’s odd, the lawyer kept mentioning the situation with K last night.”

  “With K? What situation?”

  “He didn’t say. Did K have a meeting or event last night?”

  “Some meeting, I think,” J says after a moment. “Some nomination prelim for his party.”

  My mind explodes in realization. I remember finding those membership forms in the storeroom. “Shit,” I say, jumping to my feet. I rush down to the storeroom, J right behind me.

  I throw open the box marked taxes and rummage through the papers. “Where are they? Where are they? K, I hope you weren’t being an idiot.”

  “What are you talking about?” J says, trying to see what I’m doing. “What are you looking for? Why is our brother an idiot?”

  The papers are still there. But the Chromebook is gone. I step away and sit down on the floor. A deep sigh.

  “What?” J says, kicking me gently to get my attention. “What?”

  I look up at him. “Our brother is an idiot.”

  I Am an Idiot

  J and I return to the table. I explain the membership papers I found in K’s box, how I suspected him of forging party memberships to ensure his candidate would be selected for the nomination.

  Halfway through my explanation, J shakes his head. “Our brother is an idiot.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. There’s more.”

  “Oh God,” he says. “How can it get any worse? Is he doing drugs?”

  I smile, thinking how silly it looks, not just K doing drugs, but J, the little brother we always try to protect, asking if his older brother is doing them.

  “It’s about me,” I say.

  “It’s not your fault you found that foot,” J says, reaching a hand out to touch mine. “And you’re not a suspect anymore.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Like a leg? Or an arm?”

  I shake my head, take a breath, and tell him the whole story, everything that happened after my finding the foot, including my hours-long trek through the city last night in order to evade Boris and his gun.

  When I finish, J just stares at me, disappointment in his eyes. He shakes his head, picks up his tea and stands up. “Fuck you two. You’re always on my case about doing the right thing and here you are, both of you, fucking up left and right.”

  He walks away from the table, heading towards the front door.

  “J,” I call out to him.

  “You don’t get to say anything about how I live my life.”

  “But what about K?”

  “Especially him.” He slams the door behind him.

  Fire

  I don’t go after J because I have no time. I go into the basement, into the storeroom, and pull out the box marked taxes. I carry it into J’s area and set it down by the fireplace.

  There are several large pieces of wood but no bits of kindling. I grab one log, take it into the laundry room. On the dryer there’s a hatchet we use to chop large pieces of wood into smaller ones.

  That done, I carry the pieces and sta
ck them into a log cabin shape in the fireplace. Then back into the laundry to get some dryer lint. I scatter the dryer lint into the spaces of the log cabin and spark them with the lighter that sits on the mantelpiece.

  It takes several minutes for the wood to catch completely, and then I gingerly place a couple of bigger logs on top. It takes more time for those to catch and for the fire to grow large enough.

  I throw the bits of paper in—not in one bunch, because that will just smother the fire, but in small batches. I wait for each batch to burn before I put another on the fire.

  Two hours later, my job is complete.

  The Whole Story

  I haven’t told J the whole story. There’s a part of my and K’s life that he knows nothing about. He wouldn’t understand. Sometimes I barely understand it myself.

  But it’s there and it’s part of our lives. And remembering it gives me a clue as to where K could be.

  I take a shower, dress in some clean clothes, and head out the door.

  The Uber driver picks me up and we make simple small talk about the weather as he drives me to my destination.

  Upon arrival, I get out and wait for a moment at the edge of the sidewalk. I rate my driver very well to take up some time. Then I take a deep breath and walk up the sidewalk.

  Normally, I would knock on the door and enter on my own. I do have a key. This time I ring the doorbell and wait.

  Nothing happens, so I ring again. I hear footsteps inside the house and see a shadow through the window. The door opens and she stands there, looking at me.

  Rhonda.

  She’s wearing a bathrobe over her pyjamas.

  “Is he here?” I ask.

  A pause. A deep sigh. A nod.

  She pulls the door open wider and steps aside to let me in.

  “He’s in the bedroom.”