by Cathi Bond
Copyright © 2013 Cathi Bond
Published by Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5V 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher: Greg Ioannou
Editor: Alexa Caruso
Front cover image: Lisa Kiss
Front cover design: Lisa Kiss
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bond, Cathi
Night town [electronic resource] / Cathi Bond.
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-927403-64-8 (EPUB).—ISBN 978-1-927403-63-1 (Kindle)
I. Title.
PS8603.O5198N55 2013 C813’.6 C2013-901509-4
This is an original electronic edition of Night Town.
For my Mom(s) and Dad.
PROLOGUE
I’ve always been a fire-chaser. My Dad, Dr. Theodore “Teddy” Barnes, was a country doctor, and he had to be on the scene whenever tragedy struck. But a fire was different. A fire meant every man, woman and child had to be on hand to help. When the village siren rang, our family piled into the Oldsmobile and tore down the drive, with me clutching Dad’s emergency kit full of white gauze, scissors, antiseptic and pain medication. My two younger brothers, Frank and Tedder, jammed on top of one another, bounced around in the back seat of Dad’s car that was always full of medical journals, bags of forgotten cookies and drug company samples. Mom tried to ignore the mess under her feet, keeping her eyes trained on the horizon looking for signs of smoke.
The only fire truck in the area belonged to a town about ten miles off, so it was usually up to the locals to deal with the fire themselves. Neighbours would run across the fields, anxious to help a farming family save their home and livelihood. Dad, in his worn fedora, applied tourniquets and salves, while brilliant yellow flames, the same colour as Mom’s bandana, licked the sky. The rest of us lined up in long bucket brigades that streamed from deep rural wells.
But a doctor’s family and a bunch of friends aren’t always enough to stop a barn full of dry hay from burning straight up to heaven and right down to hell. Our family, the whole community, would stand there, praying that the fire didn’t flash and spread along the grass and light up the house, taking everything the owners had with them. Back then few had insurance. And even if they did, I never heard of any good luck coming from a bad fire. But even when the flames took everything I secretly looked forward to the next one. I loved them. Fires have a personality. Nobody could stop them. No person. No nothing.
CHAPTER ONE
Our family lived in a three-storey white frame house with a deep wooden veranda in a small town called Sterling in Southwestern Ontario. Dad’s medical practice was on the main floor of one side of the house and we lived on the other. The day after they moved in, Mom carefully stripped the veranda floor, stained the wood, and bought matching his and hers chaises. She loved the two stately horse chestnut trees that stood on either side of the house, certain they’d keep the home cool in the summer. Instead, the trees mercilessly dropped their blossoms and nuts into the eaves and Mom spent nearly every weekend up on a ladder. There was no making Dad do the job because he always used the same excuse: “I think that sick people are more important, don’t you?” Mom, on her way out the back door in her gardening gloves, didn’t look so sure.
The house was located on the busiest road in the village, a murderous stretch of Highway 10 that turned into McKenzie Street as it made its way through Sterling and shot out again at the other end of town. McKenzie began at a gas station and short-order restaurant at the top of the hill that served truckers mostly burgers, fries and pies. The hurtling trucks, their drivers jacked up on instant coffee, sped by our house at breakneck speeds, and more than once an unfortunate family pet was chewed up and cast aside by a thundering eighteen- wheeler. When all that remained of the neighbour’s three-year-old apricot poodle, who loved to hump children, was a smashed jewel-encrusted collar, Mom and Dad sat me down and sternly warned me to never ever leave the backyard. But back then I was only five and down the street, within eyeshot if I craned my neck, stood Comfort’s Diner. A candy castle of chips, toffee and creamy chocolate milkshakes poured from frosty stainless steel blenders. It was also full of older kids doing things that were a lot more fun than what was going on at my house.
Chatty Cathy’s head lay on the bed beside her body. I’d begun an operation earlier that day and was about to remove the voice box from Cathy’s chest with a screwdriver.
“I love you, do you love me?” Cathy asked.
She didn’t have a top on. I used to love Cathy when I first got her, but now I was more interested in trying to see what made her talk than listening to what she had to say. While I dug the screwdriver into her back there was a long howling screech of tires followed by a horrible mangled bang, punctuated by a woman’s scream. Dropping the screwdriver, I ran down the stairs and followed Mom out the door, onto the veranda and across the snow-covered lawn.
Dad was already there, on his hands and knees in a pool of red, cradling a little girl younger than me in his lap. Blood ran out of the back of her head, seeping into Dad’s trousers. One eye was open, staring at the sky. The other was shut. The driver had both hands clamped over his mouth while the mother screamed for Dad to save her little girl. Mom approached the mother, wrapping her arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. They were a new family who’d moved in last year.
“Why don’t you come into the house,” Mom said, gently pulling the woman away from the road. “Teddy will do all that he can.”
I stood and stared as Dad lifted the child from the road and carried her across the lawn. Her head lolled in the crook of his arm, face tilting towards the sky with her neck twisted like Chatty Cathy’s the time I spun her head around. The sidewalks were filling with grim-faced spectators, some in coats, most not, while a police siren howled in the distance. Could that ever happen to me? Running ahead, I threw open the office door as Dad carried the little girl into an examining room and carefully set her down on the table.
Glancing down at her limp body, he started to cry. My fists rolled themselves into hard balls. I didn’t like it when my father cried. It made me antsy.
“Can you save her, Dad?”
“She’s dead.”
Gently, he closed her open eye and pulled a white sheet up over the little girl’s body. Was she a ghost now? Could she fly like Casper or was she just dead like President Kennedy? Everyone was so upset when he died a few months earlier and watching the funeral made me cry. How could a man that young be dead and how could that little girl be gone? Where did they go? The neon sign from Comfort’s Diner flickered through the office window –a faint flashing of red against the blue sky of the dwindling day.
The four of us sat at Mom’s new teak dining room table eating salmon salad sandwiches. Mom, who had recently gone on a diet, was eating raw vegetables.
“A woman’s figure is one of her most valuable assets,” Mom said, with one of her looks.
“That, a clever mind,” Dad replied, taking a bite, “and a good heart.”
Mom gave Dad her special smile. She didn’t need to be on a diet, she was perfect the way she was. The snow was letting up and the gully at the back of our property was coming back into view. The gully was deep, a natural home
for tobogganing and sledding. Beyond it stretched a mile of scrubby field, dotted only by a line of telephone poles, where it was finally disrupted by a railway track. Every day the train whistled its arrival, and colourful cars of oil, livestock and grain cars rattled by.
Dad thoughtfully chewed his food. When I asked him why he ate so slowly, he said he was ruminating.
“A fence would solve all our problems,” he said.
I glanced out the window. Three kids in snowsuits appeared, dragging sleds in the direction of the diner. Were they having toffee at Comfort’s?
“Fence?” Mom asked.
I asked for another sandwich. “Please?”
“Fat!” Frank yelled.
Frank was only three, but he was already a goodie goodie who got on my nerves. And besides, I wasn’t fat, I was just healthy. I stuck my tongue out.
“What fence?” Mom repeated. “Maddy, eat some carrots.”
Frank banged his spoon on the table. “Fat fat fat!”
“Frankly, I wish you’d never been born,” I said, crunching down on a carrot stick.
“Maddy, that’s not nice,” Mom said. “You’re to set an example for your little brother.”
“A cedar job might do the trick,” Dad said. “But it might not be strong enough.”
“No!” Mom said, loud enough that we all looked up. She rarely raised her voice. It was a sign of poor breeding.
Dad started to spell. “I t.h.i.n.k. we need to secure the property from escape attempts.” They thought I didn’t understand, but I knew how to spell words. Lots of them.
Peering into the kitchen to make sure Mom was busy doing dishes, I put on my coat, quietly slid open the patio door and sprinted across the neighbours’ backyard, sliding in behind their miniature barn. Panting, I looked out. All clear. To be extra sure I crouched down low, running behind a long line of cedar bushes, past two barren gardens, a swing set and then there it was –Comfort’s Diner. Wooden toboggans and red sleds rested against the wall to the side of the front door and some cars and a couple of big trucks filled the rest of the lot.
Standing, I kicked my way through the drifts toward the diner, dreaming about gumballs and chips, when there was a bellow. Dad, wielding a yardstick, was roaring across the neighbours’ backyards, legs pumping up and down while his striped tie bannered out behind him.
I had to make a break for the gully. There was a thick line of bramble where there was a secret hole. A quick glance over my shoulder showed Dad gaining and getting madder by the moment. Mom had joined in the pursuit, her polka dot dress and apron spreading out behind her.
“Stop, Teddy! Stop!”
But Dad didn’t listen. He was all red, huffing and puffing. He looked so funny I couldn’t help laughing as I dove into the hole. It was smaller than I thought. Scratching and digging, I heard a rip as my coat tore. A black freight train picked up speed in the distance. I tasted mud and ice. My body was nearly through when a big meaty hand grabbed me by the ankle, and with a hard yank, my father pulled me out of the bramble, back to the civilized side of the lawn.
Dad dropped to one knee and threw me over the other. The yardstick came crashing down. Once, twice, three times. Mom pulled on Dad’s arm, begging him to stop. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. Dad’s face flamed like fire.
“Don’t you remember that little girl?” he shouted. “That child is dead!”
Up went my coat and skirt and down came the stick. Real pain came then, followed by tears. Mom pulled on Dad’s arm again.
“Teddy, stop it!”
The yardstick dropped into the snow as Dad grabbed me, holding me tight, kissing me, asking me over and over again.
“Why did you do that?” Tears ran down his face.
“I just wanted some candies,” I sniffed.
Mom pulled a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and wiped away my tears. “Oh Maddy, why are you so willful?”
It wasn’t on purpose. I just couldn’t help myself. Now that the show was over, the neighbours who had assembled on their back stoops slowly filed back into their houses as the three of us walked hand in hand through the snow.
Dad felt terrible about spanking me. He was still crying when the workmen installed a chain-link fence the next day. They claimed the ground was too hard, but Dad didn’t care what it cost. Mom stood on the back patio, arms crossed, sadly watching as sledge hammers finally broke through the frozen earth. The neighbours tried to convince her that it wasn’t all that bad, but Mom knew “the blight” was ugly. I felt bad for ruining Mom’s backyard, but was just as upset that I’d lost my last chance for a sneak solo run to Comfort’s.
Mom dabbed a bit of Eau de Joy behind her ear lobes. The day my littlest brother was born Dad surprised her with a bottle of French cologne. He said it was because Mom insisted on naming Tedder, short for Theodore, after Dad. I think it was because she always wanted to go to France and the cologne was Dad’s way of taking her there.
The smell of the Joy drifted into the back seat of the car. I loved the scent. Tedder started jumping his stuffed animals Kanga and Roo around the back seat. Mom made them for him when he turned five and he took them everywhere. Roo hopped onto Frank’s hockey cards, knocking them to the floor.
“Spaz!” Frank cried, quickly rescuing his hockey heroes from the dirt and slush of snow boots.
“Francis!” Mom said, turning around.
Then it got worse. Dad started singing their song: “Gonna take a sentimental journey.”
Mom chimed in, “Sentimental journey home.”
“Never thought my heart could be so yearney. When did I decide to roam?” they sang together.
“No more,” I moaned, clapping my hands over my ears. Since I turned twelve I decided to hate all old time music.
Mom just sang louder as the Oldsmobile clattered over a rickety bridge that spanned a churning river below. A group of kids played hockey on a ledge of ice that shot out from the shore. Blue water rushed past them, racing down the centre of the river. Frank said it was risky playing near open water like that, but I thought it looked exciting. Would the ice break? Would you fall into the water and the fire department would come and all the townsfolk would flock around to watch and hope? Would you drown? Or would you float away on a chunk of ice like an Eskimo?
“How long can a person survive in freezing water before they die?” I asked, leaning over the front seat of the car.
“Not long,” Dad replied. “First you sink, then your body starts to fill up with gases and eventually you’d float back up.”
A sheet of ice slid off the top of a truck in front of us, smashing onto the road. Dad veered.
“Like that dead cat in Granddad’s pond?”
Dad nodded. Ick. The cat’s eyeballs were gone and the rest of it was green and foamy with bones poking out. Granddad had seen the coons chewing at the corpse.
“Morbid,” Mom said, opening her compact.
A deep red spear rolled up out of the silver lipstick tube as Mom’s face flashed in the compact mirror. Her eyes were green and her auburn hair was flecked with strands of gold. The Joy made my nose tingle as I reached forward, slowly running the palms of my hands down the sides of her hair –the electricity made the soft strands cling to my skin.
“You don’t need any makeup,” Dad said, his hand reaching for hers.
“Dad’s right,” I said, throwing my arms around her, nuzzling my face into the darkness of her hair. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Nothing smelled like Mom. It was home and something I couldn’t quite name –something mysterious and sweeter than chocolate. Mom’s hand touched mine.
“Don’t muss my hair, honey.”
Reluctantly, I pulled away as she dropped her head onto Dad’s shoulder. That was going to mess up her hair more than I would. I rolled down the window.
“Mom, it’s cold,” Frank complained.
“Too bad,” I snapped.
“Maddy, shut the
window,” Mom said, lifting her head from Dad’s shoulder and turning to look at me. I pretended not to notice.
“We don’t want to get those ear infections going again,” Dad added.
Ignoring them all, I put my arm out and cupped the wind in the palm of my hand, letting it arc and dive with the gulls that soared over the river. The sting of the cold sharp wind felt good.
Giant spruces with snowy branches like greatcoats lined the drive as we approached Granddad’s enormous, two-storey, red brick farmhouse. The shutters stood open and a wrap-around veranda hugged the house like a clean, white apron.
“The lower branches need trimming,” Mom said.
Granny Gillespie had planted the line of trees when she was a newlywed. She wanted shade in the summer and a place for her children to play. Granny had died three years ago and now the trees were huge, with thick branches like ladders that my cousins and I loved to climb. We hooted like Robin Hood when we poked our heads out at the top, gazing over the acres of farmland for miles around. As the Oldsmobile made its way towards Granddad’s house, I wondered what it would be like to climb up the trees in the winter and look out over the snow.
Dad pulled onto the parking pad, and I could see Hugh and the other boy cousins playing hockey on the pond out past the cattle pens. The pad was full of cars. The relatives were already there. Frank grabbed his stick and skates from the floor of the car and reached for the handle.
“Can I go?” he asked.
Mom nodded her head as Dad turned off the car.
“Me too,” I said snatching my skates.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
“To play hockey.”
Frank grinned. I wanted to punch him.
“You know you have to help in the house,” Mom said.
Throwing the skates back on the floor with a bang, I kicked the car door open. Frank was already past the pens, running towards the pond while the other boys called hello.
“It’s not fair,” I grumbled.
Dad said that kitchen skills were important for the manhunt.