Shop followed shop along the straight line of St. Clair Avenue, where so many Italians had emigrated after the war that Toronto was home to the largest community outside of Italy. Colourful, confident stores laid end to end sold wedding dresses, shoes, fabrics, leather goods, and pizza; apartments ranged above. All the way to Keele Street, then a gradual diminishing of style, a shift of ethnicity. Car lots, gas stations, wider spaces with less purpose, a coffee shop with aimless clientele.
Then, without warning, the stench. Like being thrown into water. Rebecca gasped for air. She could hardly believe it could get worse, but as they drove it got harder to breathe.
Sarah flipped open the Perly’s and studied the page. “The stockyards,” she said, holding one hand over her nose and mouth.
They both rolled up their windows, and Rebecca turned off the vent that brought air in from the outside. It suddenly got very hot in the car. She looked in the mirror to see Natalka holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth.
They passed Canada Packers on the north side of the street, a red-bricked warehouse of a building. More meat packers on the south side, all the same square boxes of brick, white trucks parked in front.
“Must be those,” Sarah said, pointing to the south side of the street.
Rebecca noticed her mother-in-law stiffen and followed her finger. To their left, a hundred feet in from the street and fenced in by a tower of chain link, ran an endless stretch of what looked like red, oversized garage doors. They so closely resembled cattle cars that she could imagine Sarah’s distress, the wartime memories they must be unlocking. Sarah never talked about those years, but Rebecca had learned from David how painful they had been.
Were the stockyard doors painted red so the blood wouldn’t show? The entranceways to death went on and on for half a mile or so, while Rebecca drove the car over ancient criss-crossed railway tracks embedded in the road. They must’ve brought the animals to their final destination long before the new tracks were laid down on the south side of the stockyards, more convenient to bring them directly to the slaughterhouses.
“Turn left at Jane,” Sarah said through the hand over her mouth. “The next lights.”
They passed plain semi-detached houses, their porches littered with cartons and worn-out sofas, some pots festooned with petunias. The smell dissipated and they both opened their windows again to chase out the stale air. Shops began on the east side, became quite smart and trendy suddenly. Rebecca wondered where an elegant man like Michael would live in such a neighbourhood.
“It’ll be the next street on your right,” Sarah said.
Rebecca slowed down and searched for the sign: Baby Point Road. The prominent family that had lent the street its name was French, the “ba” pronounced with a short vowel, like sheep bleating. One James Baby became a judge in the eighteenth century, later commanded a militia in the war of 1812, according to her book on historic Toronto. Over the years he bought and was granted thousands of acres in Upper Canada, as it was called then, including this area in the west end.
Rebecca made a right turn into an enclave of large, luxurious houses, of which there had been no hint from the main street. She could have been in Rosedale, only the street was wider and the houses set on larger lots. The road wound further and further, a treasure trove of houses, no two alike, past a centre boulevard that split the street and led them down a road where the homes must have backed onto the ravine, because suddenly nothing could be seen beyond them but sky. The Humber River would be coursing through the valley of that ravine, where, according to her book, an ancient Iroquois village once stood, the southern end of a portage that linked Lake Ontario to Lake Simcoe and Georgian Bay.
“Almost there,” Sarah said as the car crawled along. “It’s that one.”
They stopped in front of a many-gabled house that looked as though it had been plucked from the English countryside. The rough limestone walls were studded with mullioned windows that caught the sun in their leaded panes. There was a wide chimney and a sweeping roof. Rebecca felt as if she’d gone back a few hundred years, though the house was probably built in the 1940s like the others on the street.
The three of them walked along the flagstone to the front door carrying their various bags stuffed with towels and bathing suits.
“What a beautiful house!” said Sarah.
“Like from a fairy tale,” Natalka said.
Rebecca rang the doorbell. They waited. And waited. She rang again.
She looked behind them at the street. Not a soul stirred.
“Maybe he’s already in the back,” she said.
A high wooden fence surrounded the backyard, an entrance gate near the side of the house. Rebecca played with the latch and found it was unlocked. She swung the gate open and led the others in.
Bushes of deep pink phlox grew against the stone wall, their airy blooms nodding forward, touching the women’s legs as they passed. The edge of the swimming pool winked amid the glistening white concrete. Rebecca caught a heady whiff of chlorine, a smell she always associated with happier times in bygone pools.
“Michael!” Rebecca called out. She caught Sarah’s look of surprise at her use of his first name. No doubt she would put it down to Canadian familiarity. Rebecca would have to explain later.
The water in the oblong pool was a pale turquoise, the surface dappled by a wisp of breeze that made the sun bearable.
“Michael!” Rebecca sang out.
Stepping toward the house, she could see through the window that the kitchen was empty. A silence fell, the breeze stilled, and the rays of sun blazed down on them without mercy.
Rebecca turned toward the water, suddenly smooth as glass. A reflection there drew her, only it wasn’t a reflection. Could it be a shadow? She squinted through the haze of sun and saw an outline at the bottom of the pool.
“Oh my God!” she gasped.
Kicking off her sandals, she took a deep breath, then jumped feet first into the water. It was a shock, the sudden change of dimension, silent water pressing in on all sides.
She kicked her feet frantically until she reached him: Michael lay face down on the floor of the pool wearing blue bathing trunks and a pair of goggles. His hair was waving in the water. She grabbed it in her fist to lift his head up — his face was blank, his mouth open. She looped an arm under his and lifted his body. With her free arm she began to stroke hard, pushing the water away. She wasn’t sure she would have the strength, but she kicked and kicked her feet, shoving the water aside, and found herself shooting up in the direction of the surface. It had only been seconds, but her lungs were empty and screaming for air. She had to keep going, she had to get him out. She only needed to surface before her lungs burst.
She sensed, rather than heard, a nearby breach of the water. Someone else breaking the surface, creating waves.
Suddenly an arm reached for her, a slender but determined arm pulled her up into the world again. Sarah.
Rebecca gasped for air.
“Grab the pole!” Sarah shouted.
With her free hand, Rebecca lunged at the pole Natalka was balancing over the water. She let herself be towed into the shallow end of the pool, Michael hooked under her arm.
The three of them struggled to get him out of the water. Sarah and Natalka each took a shoulder, Rebecca carried him by the feet. They managed to get him to the stairs of the shallow end of the pool then lifted him step by step, trying to keep from dragging him along the concrete. Finally they deposited him gently by the edge of the pool.
She stood coughing and gasping for air. The sky was a perfect blue. She had never seen it so blue before.
“Are you crazy?” Sarah cried. “What are you, a cowboy — risking your life like that? You could’ve been killed!”
Sarah’s dripping clothes and hair stuck to her body, her head small as a cat’s.
Rebecca’s chest heaved while she tried to catch her breath. She could only gesture toward Michael like a trophy.
“He’s dead anyway!” Sarah said.
Rebecca shook her head, crouched over him. “Michael!” she shouted, breathless. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response.
“Call for help!” she said to Sarah.
Sarah hurried to the house.
Rebecca rolled him onto his side, pressing down on his back to push out any water in his lungs. A,B,C, she remembered. Airway, breathing, circulation. She turned him onto his back again, then placed one hand beneath his head to tilt it up and lift his chin, a manoeuvre that would remove his tongue from the back of his throat if it were blocking his airway. She noticed a dark bruise at the edge of his jaw. What had happened? A heart attack? The sculpted mouth was gone; only thin blue lips remained. She ignored the goggles, leaned her ear to his face. Was he breathing? Was his chest rising and falling?
No sound. No movement.
Kneeling beside him, she pinched his nostrils together. She took a quick, conscious breath, let it out again, bracing herself for the intimacy. She was glad of the goggles as she bent over, then covered his lips with hers, breathing into his mouth at a normal rate. That was when she tasted it. Alcohol. Nothing particular, like scotch or rum. It was probably vodka, the drink of choice if you didn’t want people to smell liquor on your breath from a conversational distance. The whole scenario suddenly made more sense. Adrenaline still buzzed through her chest, only now it fuelled her anger while she breathed into his mouth. You stupid bastard, she thought. Who are you anyway? I don’t know the first thing about you. Except that you’ve thrown your life away.
Okay, she thought, okay. Concentrate. Breathe. Wait a beat for him to breathe out. Breathe into his mouth. A beat to breathe out. This is how a person lives. A breath in, a breath out. So simple. Yet every cell in the body requires it. It only looks simple. Breath in, breath out. So that oxygen can infuse the blood to course through the organs and keep the engine of the body running. This is how we stay alive.
She placed her fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse at his carotid artery. Christ! Nothing!
Okay. Chest compressions. She counted two fingers from the bottom of his sternum, then positioned the heel of her right hand there, the heel of her left hand over her right, interlacing the fingers. Strong, smooth compression with the left hand, faster than one per second, the heel of the right in constant contact with the sternum. Pump, pump, pump, pump. She was his heart now, his only hope, if he had any hope left. It didn’t look good. His skin was clammy, taking on a waxy look. But one never knew, with drowning victims, when they would suddenly sputter back to life, water erupting from their mouths. She had no way of knowing how long he had been in the water. She looked at his lifeless face, the goggles that gave it a surreal sense of normalcy, the wet brown hair flattened to his cheeks.
She kept pumping, breathing into his mouth, pumping, breathing into his mouth. After about ten minutes she asked, “Do either of you know CPR?”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. Then, “I’m going to take off his goggles, all right?” She asked this softly, the way one spoke to an unreasonable child whose behaviour was unpredictable. “I can’t stand looking at them.”
Rebecca glanced at the goggles for the first time. “Speedo” was stamped on the plastic piece between the eyes. Upside down.
Sarah carefully drew them up over his head.
Rebecca lifted one of his eyelids. His pupil was dilated. It was over.
She suddenly became aware of the sharp concrete against her skin. She pulled her wet top off over her bathing suit and stuffed in under her knees.
A siren approached in the distance, its urgent wail incongruous in the perfect afternoon. Sarah ran to the gate to direct them.
A minute later she was leading in two firemen in blue short sleeves carrying portable medical equipment.
“Okay, ma’am, we’ll take over,” one young man said to Rebecca, positioning himself over Michael to continue the procedure.
She sat back on her haunches to get out of the way. “He’s gone,” she said, glancing at Sarah.
“Let us be the judge of that,” said the second man.
“I’m a doctor,” she said, with resignation. “His pupils are fixed and dilated.”
The first man continued the chest compressions while the other nodded his acknowledgement to her, then took Michael’s blood pressure.
“We have to keep going until we get him to the hospital, Doctor.”
“I understand,” she said.
She stood up and wavered on her feet, dizzy from the stress, the heat, the shock of death. Exhaustion suddenly hit her like a wall. She couldn’t move.
Two paramedics rushed into the backyard carrying a gurney. The firemen briefed them, but she couldn’t hear through the noise of static in her head. It was as if she were tuned in to a radio on the fritz. She watched them heave Michael onto the gurney, while the fireman continued the CPR.
“What’s happen?” A plump, grey-haired woman in an apron came running into the backyard. “Oh, Jesus!” She crossed herself, then her hands flew to her face and strings of Polish issued from her mouth in a wail.
Rebecca glanced at Sarah, hoping to get a translation, but her mother-in-law sighed with fatigue.
Instead, Sarah asked in English, “Are you a neighbour?”
“Just across street.” She waved her hand toward the gate, then put her palm flat against her cheek in the universal gesture of woe. Her blue eyes never left Michael.
“How this happen?” she said. “I just here this morning. Bring food. I here every day bring food. He great man. Great man.”
“It was probably an accident,” Sarah said.
“Poor Edek! The son! He has son. Will be all alone now.”
The paramedics were strapping Michael to the gurney, preparing to leave while the fireman kept pumping, pumping on his chest.
“You should take care of yourself, Doctor,” one of the firemen said to Rebecca. “You’re looking pale.”
The paramedics started pushing the gurney toward the gate.
“Take her in the house,” the fireman directed at Sarah. “Get a blanket for her — wrap her up before she goes into shock.”
That was when Rebecca realized she was shivering.
Sarah put an arm around her waist and led her toward the house. The Polish woman followed the paramedics out of the yard. Sarah opened the French door into the kitchen and prodded Rebecca inside.
“Sit down. I’ll go find a blanket.”
Natalka followed with their bags.
Rebecca stared at the honey-coloured wooden cupboards, the oak floor. She could see Michael sitting in a chair at the small oak table. He was lifting a glass of vodka and toasting her. Better luck next time, he was saying, his sculpted lips smiling, his eyes alight.
“You are all right?” Natalka said.
“I’m very thirsty.”
Rebecca stepped toward the sink and opened the logical cupboard to her right. In front of a row of drinking glasses stood a small crystal glass that looked like it belonged in a bar. She reached behind it and picked up a glass.
“I will do that,” Natalka said. “You sit.”
Rebecca’s legs wobbled beneath her as she headed for a chair. Natalka handed her the glass. Water had never tasted so good.
Sarah came back with a maroon quilt. “Take off your things — they’re all wet. Did you bring some other clothes?”
“Just underwear.”
Her arm around Rebecca’s waist, Sarah led her into the small bathroom down the hall. “Do you need some help?”
Rebecca shook her head and closed the door. She pulled off the wet shorts and bathing suit and wrapped a towel around her body. Then she caught herself in the mirror. Her dark hair was drying in frizzy patches around her white face. Dark circles pulled her eyes into her head. She had to lie down.
She tugged on the dry underpants and bra over her damp skin. Still shivering, she pulled the quilt over her shoulders.
Natalka w
as speaking Polish on the phone in the kitchen when Rebecca emerged from the bathroom. Probably telling Halina the bad news. Her voice rose in sudden agitation. Halina was taking it badly.
Rebecca followed the hall to a wainscotted study, where a desk stood by the window; behind it, a flowered chesterfield faced the fireplace. She lay down, enveloping herself in the quilt.
A great numbness descended on her, the kind she remembered from her internship when she’d gone without sleep for twenty straight hours full tilt at the emerg. David had tucked her in when she’d finally stumbled in the door of their small two-room flat. They lived in the married residence of the Mount Sinai Hospital then. It had been the happiest time of her life — too much to do, maybe, but the sense of accomplishment, the excitement of adapting everything she’d learned to treat real people, the importance of the work, and of course, David. None of it would’ve meant anything without him. Everything was possible with David beside her. No. That line of reasoning went nowhere. The implications were too barren to contemplate.
She dozed on and off. David knelt beside her, his flaming red hair and beard trembling near her face. The hair turned brown and became Michael’s. He was leaning over her, trying to tell her something, his eyes blank and glassy. His mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Suddenly she was conscious of sound, a filament of noise that rolled out without turning into words. The noise was pulling her into consciousness. She resisted, but a man’s voice insinuated itself.
“She’s very tired,” she heard Sarah say. “I can answer your questions.”
Rebecca opened her eyes to find a uniformed policeman in the doorway of the room. She sat up, every muscle in her back complaining.
“You’re Dr. Temple?”
She blinked, trying to focus.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, I’m Constable Tiziano. I’m afraid I have bad news. Mr. Oginski was pronounced dead at the hospital.”
She closed her eyes. She had known he was dead, had refused to accept it.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 33