by Joan Boswell
“It isn’t me. I’m here to find Curt Hartman and Arthur...” She drew a blank. “Arthur who came in by ambulance. He’d been in an explosion.”
The woman ran her finger down a clipboard list. “Curt Hartman is down the hall.” She pointed. “Turn right past the double doors. The charge nurse will direct you. Arthur White is in there.” She nodded to a door leading to the critical care unit.
Curt first. A nurse, busy with paperwork, didn’t raise her eyes when Hollis entered. Finally, Hollis cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Curt Hartman.”
“Straight ahead to the end and turn right,” the nurse said without lifting her head.
Hollis passed a parking lot of gurneys. On the first, a man shackled to his stretcher shouted and muttered. On the next, a grossly overweight man lay with tears running from the corners of his eyes. An equally large woman in a multi-coloured sari stood beside him. Her bulk partially blocked the passageway. She held one of his hands in both of hers and made the consoling sounds one makes when words are useless.
Inside the six-bed ward, curtains enclosed each bed. Hollis tipped the first aside. A tiny Asian woman lay curled in a fetal position while an IV dripped clear fluid into her arm. Hollis dropped the curtain and peered cautiously behind the next one. A man propped on pillows and coats laboured for breath. A woman dressed entirely in black hunched on the bed beside him.
Pulling back the third curtain, she found Curt. He lay with wires running from his chest to a heart monitor. A whitecoated man bent over him. Tomas stood to one side.
“No heart attack, but given your history, we’ll keep you overnight,” the man said.
“Good news,” Tomas said to his father.
“Etienne’s fine too,” Hollis said. “Arthur was seriously hurt, but the woman slipped away in the confusion.”
Tomas thought about what she’d said. He shook his head. “If she’s out there, Dad is in danger.”
“We have police coming and going all the time. You’re safer here than anywhere,” the doctor said. “The staff will keep an eye on you.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Tomas said.
“Nonsense,” Curt blustered. “What a brouhaha about nothing.”
“Dad.” Tomas bent down and locked his gaze with his father’s. “Dad, someone killed Ivan, probably thinking it was you. Someone torched your studio, probably believing you were sleeping there. Someone exploded a bomb on the porch. Dad, this is not nothing. A double negative means it’s something, something serious. It’s time you paid attention. You will stay, and I will stay with you.” He straightened up and left the cubicle, returning a minute later with a metal chair that he positioned beside the bed.
Hollis said goodnight and threaded her way through the stretchers, ambulance workers, police and waiting patients. On her way down the ramp from the emergency exit, she stopped.
What had happened to Arthur? She’d forgotten all about him. Arthur had gone to Critical Care. She swung around. If he had survived, she had to warn the critical care staff.
“Are you a relative?” The nurse stooping over Arthur’s bed asked Hollis.
Hollis shook her head. How would she categorize herself? An enemy, an acquaintance, a victim—she wouldn’t use any of those terms. “No. I was there when the bomb went off. Arthur saved my friend’s son by grabbing it and throwing it as far as he could.”
She stepped closer to the bed and looked down. Arthur lay very still, except for his chest, which rose and fell almost imperceptibly. Liquids dribbled into his arm from two intravenous bags suspended from an IV pole. His pale skin and shallow breathing did not bode well.
“How is he?” Hollis asked.
“He’s hit his head and hasn’t regained consciousness. His vital signs are good. He’s stable. He carried no information about next-of-kin. Can you tell us who to notify?”
“No.”
“It would help us if you could find out if he has relatives.”
“Have the police been here?”
“Why would they come?”
“Arthur can identify the bomber. She’s still on the loose.”
The nurse’s eyebrows rose. She peered at Hollis over her half-glasses. “You’re kidding.”
“Regrettably, I’m not. Arthur may need police protection.” “Lots of that here—sometimes I think we have more police than we do patients. Pretty violent people come in, particularly on Saturday nights. Sunday isn’t too bad, but detox is busy. I’ll alert the staff.”
“I’ll call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.” Hollis backed out of the cubicle and headed for the door.
As she parked outside the Hartmans’, the hole in the hedge that the bomb had made shocked her, as did the yellow tape enclosing the site. One or two people loitered across the street, staring at the house. And why not—a bomb in this quiet neighbourhood was definitely something out of the ordinary. Eleven o’clock. Poor MacTee. Unable to enter the front door because of the tape, she moved to the back of the house. A flash of gratitude—David had turned on the outside lights. This was not a night to brave a dark and spooky house. Maybe he was still here. She hurried inside.
“Hollis, I’m upstairs in the den,” David called. “I’ve walked MacTee.”
What a relief. She hadn’t been looking forward to taking the dog out. In fact, now that she was back, exhaustion engulfed her. It had been a frightening few hours. She trudged up the stairs. David lounged in Curt’s leather chair reading ARTnews. He stood up, surveyed her for a moment and stepped forward.
“Bet you need a hug,” he said, and, to her surprise, wrapped her in his arms before releasing her and stepping back. “Tell me what happened. How are Curt and Etienne?”
“Both of them are okay. Arthur is unconscious.”
“Are you nervous about staying alone? Would you like me to stay tonight?”
It would be nice to have someone else in the house, but it would be a responsibility as well. She’d have to offer a drink and figure out where he could sleep. And his hug had made her nervous. “It’s a lovely offer, but I’m fine with MacTee.”
David examined her face. “You’re sure.”
“I am.”
“What about Monday’s class?”
“Curt asked me to lead it if he isn’t back. The notes are all prepared.”
She closed and locked the door after David. She hoped she’d made the right decision—hoped the madwoman wasn’t still on the loose. Hollis could only hope she didn’t plan to detonate a bigger bomb.
* * *
When she opened her eyes next morning, she groaned. Her body, reacting to the previous day’s shocking events, felt heavy, unwieldy and weighted to the bed. Gritty eyes, knotted stomach and nausea added to her discomfort. In the past, vigorous exercise had solved these problems, but with MacTee’s recent injury, she had to settle for a short walk. At the dogs off-leash area, she waved at Olivero.
“Am I glad to see you! I’ve been frantic—phoning the hospitals, the police. No one would tell me anything. Is everyone okay? And Manon, my lovely Manon?” Olivero’s eyes brimmed with tears. “She’s had so much to bear.”
“She’s okay,” Hollis reassured him. “I think Manon would like, no I’ll change that—I think Manon needs to see you. If everything works out, we’ll bring MacTee over here later today.”
“Curt won’t be too thrilled.”
“Tough. He got them in this mess.” She was “aiding and abetting”, and she didn’t care.
Back at the house, she made two calls. Etienne and Curt had been released and would both be on their way home. Breakfast—something concrete to do. She filled the coffee maker and removed eggs and milk from the refrigerator. French toast could wait in the oven until the family appeared.
The paper—had the Sunday Star covered the bombing? She went to the front door, but it swung open before she could unlock it.
“Oh my God,” Hollis squeaked before she realized it was Etienne and Manon. Over their shoulders, she glimpsed a police
car double-parked at the curb.
She gave Etienne a high five and hugged Manon. Up close, the tell-tale signs of stress—puffy red-rimmed eyes, tense facial muscles and grey skin—revealed Manon’s anxiety.
“I gather I look like hell.” Manon attempted a smile.
Hollis didn’t deny it. “Who wouldn’t after the night you’ve had.”
“Maman, I’m starved,” Etienne said.
The women smiled. Boys hovering on adolescence’s cusp could be counted on to think of their stomachs.
“Let’s feed the monster eater,” Hollis said.
“How did you feel about everything, Etienne?” she asked, breaking eggs into a yellow bowl. Immediately she regretted her words. Males of all ages disliked talking about “feelings”, and “everything” was much too vague.
“Cool, it was cool. The police asked me questions. They said I was a big help.”
“What kind of questions?”
“What the lady looked like.”
“And what did you say?”
“She was old and didn’t dress like Maman or even like Grandmaman.”
Intent on the conversation, Hollis swung around with the bowl in one hand and a wire whisk in the other. What did “old” mean to an eleven-year-old? She suspected anyone over twenty-one would be classified as “old”.
“How old, and how could you tell?”
“Not old like you and Maman, but wrinkly old like Grandmaman.”
“And her clothes?”
“Her clothes were funny—a dress not like anything you or Maman would wear. And she had stiff puffy hair, sort of like the candy floss you buy at the Exhibition.”
“You’re observant. Anything else.”
“She had really red lips and blue stuff around her eyes and two red spots on her cheeks. I told the police her eyes were really, really blue and mean. When I opened the door, she glared like she hated me. She scared me.”
The eyes, almost turquoise blue and filled with venom— the description triggered a memory. The puffy hair and the outmoded clothes. How could she have forgotten? “I’ve seen her before.”
Manon, slumped forward with her head in her hands, snapped to attention. “When? When did you see her?”
“The evening I arrived. She stopped and asked me if I was Mrs. Hartman. She claimed she was recruiting neighbourhood residents to canvass for the United Way. When Etienne and MacTee rushed out, she muttered something about coming back at a better time and left.” Hollis whisked the eggs again. She dropped a butter dab in the pan and listened to it sizzle. She dipped bread slices in the egg mixture and laid them in the frying pan. Intent on cooking, she didn’t say anything else until she’d finished and carried a plate piled with French toast to the table.
“I bet she’s a SOHD opponent. When she asked me if you lived here, she wasn’t really sure it was the Hartman house.”
“She wouldn’t be—it’s in my name, and so is the phone,” Manon said.
Hollis bit her lip. “I wasn’t suspicious, but I’m sure I didn’t say you lived here. But after the fire, when photographs of the house appeared on TV and in the papers, the SOHD opponents wouldn’t have had a problem figuring out where Curt lives.”
Manon’s shoulders lifted, and her voice trembled. “Damn Curt. If he hadn’t involved himself with that stupid organization…” Her voice trailed away.
Hollis tapped the table. “Manon, look at me.” Her friend raised her eyes. “This is a good news, bad news story. The bad is that it happened because of Curt. The good is that he was and is the target. Etienne isn’t. Tomas isn’t. You aren’t. It isn’t the family—it’s Curt. I’m sorry it’s Curt but relieved it isn’t you.”
Manon had tied her napkin in a tight knot. Her hunched shoulders relaxed, and she sank back in her chair. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. Her face an expressionless mask, she watched Etienne dig into his breakfast.
What could she do to bring Manon back, to make her a participant again?
MacTee, his tail wagging, moseyed toward the front door.
“Papa, you’re back,” Etienne said happily when Curt, followed by Tomas, walked into the kitchen.
Only his rumpled clothing and the white stubble on his jaw indicated that anything out-of-the-ordinary had happened to Curt. He smiled at them. Not only did Manon not return his smile—she refused to look at him. Her body stiff, her shoulders high, her hands clutched the knotted napkin as if it were a life raft. She said nothing to anyone but stood up and left the room.
“Back, fine, and ready to get on with my life,” Curt said, ignoring his wife’s precipitous departure. “First things first— we need breakfast—they didn’t give us any in Emerg. Even if they had, it probably wouldn’t have been edible.” He smiled. “Now that they’ve fingered the bomber, maybe they’ll tie her to the fire and to Ivan’s murder.”
Tied to a fire sounded like Joan of Arc. Curt’s assumptions startled Hollis. The woman she’d met hadn’t been sure Curt lived in the house. It seemed unlikely she’d either tampered with the brakes or lit the fire.
“I’ve made French toast. Help yourselves. I’ll make more,” she said. She dipped bread into the egg mix and dropped the saturated slices into the pan. She’d follow Manon and offer comfort. But before she did, there was something she’d wanted to ask Curt—what was it?
“Do you have the latest on Arthur? I called a few minutes ago. They confirmed that he was there but no more,” Hollis paused. “Oh dear, I remember—I promised his nurse I’d find out who to notify about his accident—I totally forgot.”
“His ex-wife, Ursula, lives in Montreal,” Curt said.
“I wonder if she still uses his surname?”
“Pretty old to go back to her maiden name,” Curt said as he and Etienne ate their toast.
Upstairs, Manon slumped at her office desk. She’d folded her hands in front of her and sat totally immobile, her features slack, her eyes unfocused. Her expression alarmed Hollis.
“Manon,” she said.
Her friend ignored her.
Hollis massaged Manon’s rigid shoulders and spoke in a low and soothing voice. “It’s going to be okay. Etienne will be fine. The police will find out who did it. We’ll be safe while they keep an eye on the house. The woman won’t come back.” Her hands kneaded the tension knots in Manon’s shoulders. “Olivero’s worried about you. I told him you and I and MacTee would walk over to the park later this afternoon. Was that the right thing to do?”
Manon nodded almost imperceptibly. A task—Manon responded well when asked to do something specific. It had worked before—time to try it again. “Would you do something for me?”
“What?”
“The hospital asked about Arthur’s next-of-kin. They wanted a name and number. Would you phone Montreal information for Arthur White’s ex-wife’s number? Then call her and tell her what happened. She may want to come to Toronto.”
Manon remained immobile for a few seconds until the request registered on her neurological switchboard. She shifted in her chair and faced Hollis. “Ursula. Sure. I can do that.” She reached for the phone book and a pad of paper. “It’ll be good to do something.” She flipped to the reference pages. “Later I’ll visit Arthur and thank him.” Her tone had changed. Life and inflection had returned. “It’s the least I can do. He saved Etienne’s life.”
Hollis was elated that the strategy had worked.
She admired those who plowed ahead and didn’t regard the phone as a malevolent being. She had phone phobia. Email delighted her—she could leave messages and avoid talking to anyone.
Manon didn’t hesitate after she found the number. “Ursula, it’s Manon Dumont, Curt Hartman’s wife.”
Even sitting across the room, Hollis could hear the surprised response from Montreal, although not the actual words. She listened to Manon’s side of the conversation and tried to fill in what Ursula must be saying.
“I know, but once Curt latches on to an idea, there’s no stoppin
g him.”
Another pause.
“I didn’t realize it was one of the reasons you left.”
Pause.
“Yes, I can imagine how difficult it’s been. But I’m calling about Arthur.”
Ursula’s high-pitched voice repeated, “Arthur.”
“There’s been…” Manon hesitated and caught Hollis’s eye. Hollis shook her head—no point giving the details.
“An accident. Arthur is in St. Mike’s. I’ll give the phone to my friend, Hollis Grant. She’ll tell you how he was last night.”
How come she got to be the bearer of bad news? What approach to take? Cheerful and positive. After all, they didn’t know his prognosis. “Hi, Ursula. Last night he was stable, but semi-conscious.”
“Did he have a stroke? I always worried about his blood pressure. His mother died of a stroke. And he had migraines. Some medical literature says people who suffer from those are prone to strokes.”
Hollis interrupted the flow. “No, not a stroke. There was an explosion, and he absorbed the impact. When I called the hospital this morning, they would only discuss his condition with a relative.”
“I’ll phone immediately. Then I’ll catch a plane. Poor Arthur, he shouldn’t be alone. These days, no one should spend a single minute in hospital without an advocate. They employ far too few nurses, and they give them too much to do. I don’t suppose you know I nursed in England. No, of course you don’t; you don’t even know me. I worked in Canada too. Shocking, it’s shocking the deterioration I’ve seen. Modern medicine may have its miracles, but when it comes to care—Florence Nightingale would spin, absolutely spin in her grave. It used to be that a private room was what you wanted, but not any more. If you’re in a double or a ward, another patient or a visitor will call the nurse if something goes wrong. But I’m wasting time. Arthur needs me. I’ll make arrangements right away.”