Roderick and Jaan rushed to their assistance. Even after thegirl cried, “Don’t touch me!” and the scruffy guy vomited all over Jaan’s uniform, Roderick was moved somehow by thesepeople. He didn’t know a thing about them, but he knew this:these three had suffered horribly, and, together, they had survived.
TWO MONTHS LATER
STAGE 9: DEAD RABBITS
She put on a pair of clear plastic disposable gloves and a surgical mask and left her apartment, locking all three bolts onthe door. Aaron was at work, and Samantha needed somethingfrom the pharmacy—something she didn’t want to tell himabout yet.
There was a small pharmaceutical section inside CanPrice,and she knew they had what she was looking for, but she didn’ttrust their selection. Two blocks in the opposite direction, wherethe streets got a little rougher, there was a Rexall. They’d havemore options, different brands. She’d have to go there.
The late July sun scorched the back of her sunscreenslathered neck. She’d decided to keep her hair short, despiteAaron’s protestations. Their compromise was that she get it fixedand styled by a hairdresser—which she did, reluctantly, with hermask on, followed by a forty-minute shower when she gothome. She felt stronger with short hair, like a reverse-Samson,the biblical lion slayer. She’d slain her own beast, after all. ZackPike, already inflicted with Buzzard Flu, had died of benzalkonium chloride poisoning, according to the medical examiner. Twoof the local newspapers, both of whom agreed to preserve heranonymity, referred to her as a “hero” for fighting off her attacker, whose computer, investigators discovered, contained dozensof photoshopped pictures of her head superimposed onto variouswomen engaged in pornographic and other compromising acts.Even her parents didn’t know what she’d been through, and shewanted to keep it that way. Especially now, with this new problem looming.
She’d learned, a week or so after the ordeal with Zack, whyshe’d never contracted the disease. They’d held a press conference with the Chief Medical Officer—a pretty woman in her early forties, surprisingly—that people with high levels of estrogen were immune to Buzzard Flu, and those most susceptiblewere men whose immune systems had been compromised byalcohol consumption. Cannabis, on the other hand, was apparently helpful in combating the symptoms. It helped explain whyZack had remained functional. It didn’t explain, however, whyAaron had remained healthy, besides the fact that he didn’t drink. She was beginning to think of her boyfriend as super-human.
Trudging her way to the pharmacy, she felt like a meltingcandle in her corduroys and long-sleeve pyjama shirt. Shewould’ve worn shorts but she didn’t own a single pair, and bothof the summer dresses in her wardrobe gave away too much.Jeans were out of the question—she didn’t fit into them anymore. At least with her cords, she could leave the button fly partially undone, and her pyjama shirt hung low enough that no onewould notice.
All she wanted to do was make it there and back without getting sick.
She passed the government housing tenements, the doughnut shop that still had a smoking room, and the parkette with thegraffiti-covered jungle gym that was more a playground for drugdealers than children.
The Rexall was a glass-and-steel oasis of health and beautyproducts in a decrepit concrete wasteland. She pulled off hermask as she walked through the automatic doors and took a deepbreath. Inhaling the air conditioning was like swallowing icecubes and having them drop right into your lungs.
She scanned the signs hanging above each aisle for what shewas looking for. She tried the condom and contraception sectionfirst, and, realizing what kind of message it would send if this particular product was included amongst contraceptive sponges andspermicidal foam, she moved on to the isle of feminine products.There, on the bottom shelf next to the extra absorbency tampons, were five or six different brands of pregnancy tests. Pinkboxes and blue boxes and white boxes, even green boxes.
Congratulations/I’m sorry, you are/are not carrying a beautifulbaby girl/boy/TBD/alien.
Samantha had never been this late before. She spent the firstmonth telling herself it was just a side-effect of PTSD, and thesecond month trying to hide her morning vomit sessions fromAaron. It was time to know for sure.
She grabbed two boxes—one each of the two most expensive brands—put her mask back on, and made for the cash register.
*
Faucet Fountain was quiet today. Instead of upgrading theirshowerheads and stocking up on filtered water pitchers and icecube trays, people were out buying fans and air conditioners.Aaron had sold only two items all day—a replacement set ofshower curtain rings, and a toothbrush holder, that was it.
Normally he would’ve locked the doors by now and startedon a crossword puzzle, but Mrs. Vaughn, who’d taken over thebusiness after her husband’s death, was in the office in the back,waiting for the new manager to arrive. Apparently Nicole hadquit sometime during his absence. According to Mrs. Vaughn,she’d gone out west, to Banff or something, to work at a skiresort, but Aaron had a hard time visualizing Nicole serving hotchocolate to waspy couples on a freezing cold mountaintop.
Things were different at the store, but not in a bad way. Mrs.Vaughn had given him a raise, for one thing. She’d also agreedto hire on two part-timers, in addition to the new manager coming today, to spread the work out a bit.
He picked up the phone to call Samantha, to ask if she wanted him to pick something up for dinner on his way home, whensomeone walked into the store. A woman, thirtyish. He hung upthe phone.
“Hi,” she said. “You must be Aaron. I’m Lisa. I’m here to see Paula.”
She held out a hand to him. He surreptitiously examined herfingernails before reaching out to shake it. Her grip was firm.
Paula Vaughn came marching out from the back beforeAaron had a chance to buzz her.
“Lisa, you’re early,” she said, smiling widely. The two women hugged.
“Aaron, this is Lisa DiBiase,” Mrs. Vaughn said, her arm stillon the woman’s shoulder. “As I mentioned, she’ll be the newmanager here. She’s never worked with bathroom suppliesbefore, but she has plenty of managerial and customer serviceexperience. I’ll be counting on you to bring her up to speed withour stock and store procedures, etcetera.”
Aaron nodded. “Sure thing, Mrs. V.”
“All righty. I’ll leave you to it, then!” She smiled again atboth of them and returned to the office in the back.
When Mrs. Vaughn was out of earshot, Lisa said, “Let’s notstress too much about work stuff today. I left my old job on awhim and I’m still not sure how I feel about everything. Howabout we just chat for now, get to know each other a little?”
Despite his vacant expression, Aaron beamed inside. Slackingoff was his favourite. Perhaps he and this Lisa person would getalong well.
He gestured for her to sit on the stool behind the cashcounter. “Sounds like a plan.”
*
Dr. Sedgwick parked her car in front of the old four-storeymansion in Leslieville. She opened the glove compartment to getthe folder she needed, and a half-crumpled photograph of Lisafell onto the passenger seat. Roz sighed and stuffed the pictureback inside amongst the rest of her clutter. She wasn’t ready toreminisce about Lisa. Not yet.
She got out of the car and looked up at the house. Claire wasstanding out on the porch, as she’d promised. Even from thesidewalk, Roz could tell she looked good. Healthy.
Claire lit a cigarette and waved.
“You should put that out,” Roz said, walking up the frontsteps. “I was just noticing how healthy you look.”
“A girl’s gotta have some vices.” Claire leaned against theporch’s railing, flicking her cigarette into the garden below.
Roz sat down on the wicker bench and held Claire’s filealoft. She opened her mouth to speak as two young woman burstout of the house, laughing hysterically.
“Oops! Excuse us,” the one with dreadlocks said. The shorter one with a purple pi
xie cut blushed and giggled. They hurrieddown the steps and sauntered off along the street together, holding hands.
“Those two seem cheerful,” Roz said.
Claire exhaled a long jet-stream of smoke. “The short one,Dessislava, was brought here from Bulgaria and abused by herpimp for six years. The fucking asshole died of Buzzard Flu, ofall things. She left him rotting in his bed and walked to the localchurch, told the priest everything. I guess that’s how she endedup here. This place is like paradise for her.” She nodded at thecouple, who were half a block away now. “Denise is happy tohave found her. They’re good together.”
Roz smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. And how are you doing?”
Claire inhaled deeply and thought for a moment. “I’m good,I guess. Better than I was. I feel a little strange here, but only acouple of the girls know.”
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you being here, Claire.”
She exhaled, nodding slowly. “I know.”
Roz held up the folder. “I have your test results here. Lookslike you’ve made a full recovery. Your other results came backin, as well. Everything’s normal. I wanted to tell you myself.”
Claire nodded without looking at her, and pulled anothercigarette out of her pack.
Roz raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Claire put the smoke between her lips and narrowed hereyes. “Can I ask you something?”
Roz shrugged. “Sure.”
“Why are you helping me?”
The question caught Roz off guard. She didn’t really know theanswer, other than the fact that it was, at least to some degree, herjob. Many of her patients had died during the worst part of the pidemic, including a man named Doug Chisholm who, she’d learned, had transmitted the disease to Claire. If she dug down insideherself, she supposed she had a bit of a saviour complex. Back in highschool, the boys she chose to date were always troubled in someway, and after she came out it was the same with the girls. Lisa hadbeen bulimic when they’d met. But it was different with Claire. Itwasn’t romantic. She dug a little further down and realized withshame that, if she was honest with herself, she was helping herbecause she felt lonely and heartbroken, and assumed Claire was too.
“It’s okay if you don’t know,” Claire said. “I just want youto know I appreciate it.”
Roz smiled down at the folder in her lap. Stood up and heldit out to Claire.
“There’s some information in here about local sexual healthclinics, rehabilitation programs, discussion groups, employmentopportunities. I’ll check back in with you in a few weeks, seehow you’re doing.”
Claire exhaled a puff of smoke. “Thanks.”
Roz removed her car keys from her pocket. “And next timeI see you, you better be a non-smoker.”
*
Odane “Ugbo” Johnston looked like a living skeleton in thelarge black leather chair across the desk. His eyes were bulging intheir sunken sockets. The rash hadn’t completely subsided: hisgaunt face was dotted with little red dots, like chicken pock scars.His fingertips were swollen as well, and when he cracked hisknuckles, it occurred to Darrell, who was seated on the other sideof the desk, that his little brother now had frog hands.
Darrell opened the small silver case in his hands and pulledout two perfectly rolled blunts. “Smoke?” he offered.
Odane shook his skull.
Darrell tapped his Zippo against the desk. “Smoke with me, brother.”
Odane sat still for a moment, then reached out an amphibianhand and accepted one of the blunts.
Darrell snapped open his lighter and lit his brother’s smoke,then his own. He blew a silky-smooth cone at the ceiling fan,held Odane’s gaze and said, “So. You like to fuck trannies?”
“What?” Odane spat, mid-puff, gasping himself into a coughing fit.
“You heard me, baby brother. That shit was in the news.The famous first female victim of Buzzard Flu who wasn’t reallya female. You don’t think I know how you got sick?”
“I . . . I didn’t know . . .”
“And working with motherfuckers like Zack Pike?” Darrellshook his head, then slammed his palm down hard on the desk,causing his brother to jump in his seat. “Your prints could be onthat gun the cops found.”
Odane coughed, his blunt shaking between his fingers. “I’msorry, Darrell, I . . .”
“Sorry’s not good enough this time.” Darrell took a puff andheld it in his lungs for eight seconds, then expelled it slowly inhis brother’s direction. “I’m renting out your apartment to a niceimmigrant couple. You no longer have Toronto privileges.You’ll be working directly for me from now on, until you showme you deserve your own pocket again.” He leaned back andplaced his blunt gingerly in his porcelain centipede ashtray.
Odane didn’t speak. He sat blinking at his brother like anadmonished pet while hunger moans emanated from his stomach.
“Now that’s settled,” Darrell continued, “you can start bygetting me some lunch. Twelve inch turkey sub, extra cheese,extra mayo. You got me?”
*
Dr. Ishmael Rottermeyer was parked on a stool at the poolbar at the Casa Gallinazo resort, devouring a ham and egg sandwich between sips of a piña colada.
The hot Dominican sun would endow his pasty shoulderswith a blistering burn in the morning, but for now he was sweatyand happy as a hog. After the Buzzard Flu madness, he needed avacation. The last time he’d been anywhere in the Caribbean was with his ex-wife, before the divorce. Things were different now.He could do what he wanted, such as eat and drink all day without a nagging harpy chirping in his ear. He was a doctor—a goddamn department head. He knew what was and wasn’t good forhim, and sometimes all a man wants to do is enjoy the sensorypleasures of the things that can kill him. Experience told him thiswas an impulse women simply couldn’t understand.
He looked up from his sandwich, and what he saw pleasedhim greatly. Men and women drinking cocktails in the shade ofa beach hut, teenagers playing volleyball and frisbee on the beach,children splashing in the pool, locals in resort uniforms servingdrinks and plates of food. He pretended, for a moment, that hewas dead and this was heaven, and just as the thought was takingform, a beautiful young Dominican woman in a yellow bikini satdown on the stool next to his.
“Hola,” she said with a dimply smile.
Dr. Rottermeyer dabbed his mouth with a napkin andcleared his throat. “Hola!” He looked her up and down while shespoke rapid-fire Spanish with the smirking barman. She was abuxom little number with bright hazel eyes and honey-brownskin smattered with dark freckles. There was a tattoo on the backof her shoulder, but it was hard to make out—something like abouquet of twigs and feathers bundled together with string.
Once the flirty barman had placed the young lady’s drink infront of her—a tall perspiring glass of something orangey-red—Rottermeyer said, “What’s your name, beautiful?”
She half-turned her head toward him and smiled coyly withher straw in her mouth. “Maria. And you?”
*
As Samantha turned onto her street, she saw Luca out front,dragging the recycling bins from the side of the building to thecurb. She’d only had to face him a couple of times since that day.As a rule, she tried to avoid him—even more so than she avoidedeveryone else—but it would be a lot harder now that he’d takenover as superintendent from poor deceased Mr. Böröcz.
“Hey, there!” Luca called, waving, just as she was considering turning around and sprinting in the opposite direction.
Shit, she thought as she approached. He’s going to ask what’s in the bag.
“Long time no see,” Luca said, wiping sweat from his brow.The idea that his sweat once appealed to her now madeSamantha’s insides curdle. Funny how cheating on Aaron hadonly reinforced her love for him. She wondered if it was a common phenomenon.
Luca nodded at the twisted up sack of plastic in her hand.�
�What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing,” she sputtered. “Toothpaste and stuff.”
Luca winked—a lame attempt at flirtation. “That’s so you.Gotta keep clean, right?”
“Doesn’t everyone use toothpaste?” Samantha asked, flatly.
He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Touché.”
Samantha shrugged. “For all I know maybe you don’t brushyour teeth. If so, that’s disgusting.”
Luca shook his head and snickered. “Come on, Sam. There’sno reason to be mean. I was just trying to be friendly.”
She glared at him and tried to think of some other nastything to say, but nothing came. She was sweating profusely. Sheneeded a shower. The pregnancy test was burning a hole in herpalm. “I have to go,” she said, and made for the door.
“Hang on,” Luca said.
Reluctantly, and surprising even herself, Samantha stoppedand turned around.
“I just . . . I want to . . .” His eyes were fixed on the pavement. He was still holding a recycling bin. “I’m sorry for howthings went down. I just wanted to say that. I’m not good at thistype of thing.”
A silence passed while the sun drifted behind a cloud thenpopped back out again.
“And I wanted to say thank you,” he went on, torturing thetwo of them. “To you and Aaron. For what you did.”
“Okay,” Samantha managed to say, after another silence. “Is that all?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She was pretty sure she sawthe beginnings of a nod. She spun around and darted for thedoor, for the air conditioning, to be alone again. She didn’t meanto be a bitch to Luca, and she knew he didn’t deserve it, but shecouldn’t help herself. It was a form of self-preservation. He’dbeen reduced to a symbol in her life. A symbol of temptation andbad choices. She told herself it was better for him too. It wouldbe easier on him if he could learn to hate her.
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