The Appraisal

by Anna Porter

  “You’ll be going over there tonight?” Levine asked.

  “Yes. Soon as this is over.”

  “Don’t you ever do it by phone?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Parr said quietly. “I sure as hell wouldn’t like to be told on the phone. Would you?”

  The supervisor interrupted them, opening the door to a small staff room near the Yonge Street exit.

  “There were only six people on the platform,” he said. “They’re all in here.”

  “Good evening.” Parr smiled encouragement as he entered. “We won’t want to keep you long. Just a few questions and you can all be on your way again.”

  Six faces glared at him, silent. In shock, Parr thought. Suicides are damned unsettling.

  In the corner, a kid about twenty with short-cropped, greased brown hair, leather jacket, tight blue jeans, scuffed leather boots, not quite punk but thinking about it. He held hands with a girl, same age, long damp hair, pale pinched skin. She huddled close to him, touching his body with hers. She seemed docile and needy. He was defiant. At his age, that was fashionable.

  By the window there was a black woman, late fifties, soft felt hat pulled down low over her nose, worn khaki raincoat too narrow and too short, orange Dacron dress. She was holding a white supermarket shopping bag, her arms wrapped around it. She looked scared. Might have weathered some bad times with the law; more likely, she was an illegal.

  A man, about thirty-five, sat uncomfortably straight-backed at the narrow table, an ashtray in front of him, his briefcase tucked between his navy-blue lace-ups. He wore a three-piece negotiating-blue suit, tinted rimless glasses, and was smoking his third cigarette. He had an exceptionally thin long neck with a jumpy Adam’s apple tucked into his tight white collar.

  The other end of the table was occupied by a man in his forties — balding, red-faced — and a pinched, matronly woman, possibly English. Clearly they were not together. They were a study in contrasts. She had half-turned away from him, balancing her outsize monogrammed handbag against the table leg. She wore a black mink coat, casually unbuttoned, her elegant knees composed over each other, foot tapping in anticipation. The man was sweating. He took a crumpled Kleenex from his lumberjack shirt pocket, shook it out, and wiped his forehead.

  Levine flicked open his notebook.

  “Could we please have your names and addresses. Police procedure, I’m afraid,” he said deferentially. “Perhaps you’d like to get the ball rolling.” He turned to the executive type, who was closest.

  “Joseph Muller, 27 Roseborough,” he said, shaking another cigarette out of the package. “Do we get called for an inquest or something?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Parr said. “Phone number?”

  Levine wrote down both the home and business numbers. A stockbroker going home late. Edgy.

  “When did you arrive on the platform?” Parr asked.

  “Couple of minutes before the train. I wasn’t even near him when he jumped . . .”

  “Did you see him jump?” Parr asked quickly.

  “Well . . . I sort of saw a movement, out of the corner of my eye really. Then there was this awful thud.”

  “Was he already on the platform when you came down?”

  “I don’t know, really. I don’t remember. I was reading the paper.” He waved his rolled-up Star at Parr.

  Parr thanked him and opened the door to let him out before turning to the others.

  The apprentice punk hadn’t seen anything. Nor had the girl. It was the thud she remembered. Her lower lip trembled when she spoke. While Parr questioned them the boy was pumping her hand, his eyes steady with hostility.

  “Get them out of here,” Parr murmured to Levine.

  The man in the lumberjack shirt said he was a cab driver named Jenkins, taking a day off. “Teach me to take the gawd-damned train,” he grumbled. He had seen Harris march to the edge of the platform, lean out to look up the track when they heard the train coming, then back up as if to get out of the way. But he didn’t. He had sort of lurched forward again and fallen in front of it. Somebody screamed.

  “Who?” Parr asked, but none of the remaining passengers admitted to screaming, so he went on with the questions.

  The black woman, not unexpectedly, had heard nothing and seen nothing. She was so eager to get away Parr could feel her vibrating toward the door. He hoped they wouldn’t have to call her or that she had given a false address. He wasn’t going to harass her for identification. Rotten luck for her to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  They had left the gray-haired woman to last. She seemed content sipping her tea, listening with grave interest, like a schoolteacher watching the class take turns at reading. That is what she turned out to be: Mrs. W.A. Hall, a retired schoolteacher. The husband must have made the money.

  She had seen Harris coming onto the platform. His right hand had been in his trouser pocket. His raincoat was open, loose, the belt swinging as he walked. Such a distinguished-looking man, graying at the temples. Couldn’t have been much more than fifty. He had hurried to the end of the platform — the north end.

  “To think now what his purpose was!” she said with a sigh. “What a horrible waste. And why would anyone choose such a messy way?”

  “Did you actually see him jump?”

  “No. I heard him hit, though. Sounded like a ripe pumpkin hitting the pavement. It was the black woman who screamed. She kept screaming afterward too. Very emotional they are, on the islands. Though I daresay they see more violent deaths than we do. She wasn’t so far from where I was. I saw she had her mouth open. She’d dropped her bag.” She was quite certain the black woman must have seen the man jump.

  Parr offered to drive Mrs. Hall home. It was more or less on his way.

  She obviously enjoyed the idea of sitting in a police car. Her one regret was that Detective Inspector Parr would not tell her the name of the deceased. He couldn’t, before notifying the next-of-kin.

  Chapter 2

  Judith decided it was time for her to draw up a will. Nothing fancy, mind you, no heavy legalese, just the basics, in her own words. At age thirty-eight, a responsible person must have a will. Even if she wasn’t consistently responsible. A will is something like a stocktaking.

  I, Judith Hayes, being of sound mind (mostly) and body (still holding on), do on this day, April 9, 1985, leave all my clothes to my daughter Anne. My new sling back sandals can be held in trust for her until she is old enough to wear them. She’s certainly big enough to wear them. My son, Jimmy, can have the typewriter, and the two of them can wrangle over the couch, the chairs and all the stuff in the kitchen. They can have their own beds. They can split the insurance dough. Their father had better take over the mortgage payments on the house. For all I care, he can even move in with them. I don’t wish to have my kids move to Chicago and live with him.

  She wondered if she could be quite as specific in a will and whether her instructions would be followed because they were in a will. Could James just declare himself legal guardian, or next-of-kin, or whatever, sell off the house (all the blood-sweat-and-tears to keep it these past seven years) and move the kids to that glass and chrome tower he called home in Chicago? She should probably postpone all thoughts of dying until she had ascertained what her rights would be afterward.

  She climbed out of bed and padded down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. Naturally there was no milk in the fridge. Anne drank about a quart a day, and all those brilliant plans for the kids to keep an up-to-date shopping list on the little blackboard Judith had bought for the purpose had long been abandoned. The idea had been that when you finished something, you wrote it on the board.

  No bread either. She didn’t care so much about that, but the kids would notice when they got out the jar of peanut butter for their early morning treat. Serve them right.

&nb
sp; The black coffee tasted stale, but it would wake her up and might get rid of the pounding in her head. There was a time when she could stay up till 4:00 a.m. drinking, talking and smoking cigarettes. Now, just a few drinks and she had a thumping hangover. Still, she was entitled to one the day after her thirty-eighth birthday. Fair way on the downhill slope. What gets you is knowing all the things you will never be when you grow up. For example, she would never be a great dramatic actress, or a ballet star, or a famous inventor. She’d never even be rich, damn it. Not even the editor of the lousy Toronto Star, let alone The New Yorker. Self-pity, Marsha had said . . . on your thirty-eighth birthday you are entitled to indulge in some self-pity. And double martinis on the rocks — hang your diet — and chain-smoking that last package of Rothmans Specials, and staying up until you’re ready to drop — alone, or otherwise. She had had a few friends over for a late dinner, but had never quite found the courage to tell them what the occasion was. Allan Goodman had come with two bottles of Asti Spumante, a poor substitute for champagne, and barely enough to go around, but OK for toasting an evening if you weren’t having a birthday. And it hadn’t been Allan’s fault; he didn’t know. After they left, she had brought out the cake with all thirty-eight pink candles, all her wishes ready before she blew them out. Then she had finished the entire pitcher of martinis. She vaguely remembered having had a discreet little cry on the expedition up the stairs to her bedroom.

  After a thorough search, she located the Alka Seltzer and managed to drink about half a glassful without gagging. The rest of it had stopped fizzing anyway. She took her coffee mug upstairs. In turn, as she passed, she banged on the kids’ doors and opened them slightly.

  “Time for another fun day at school.”

  She had got the idea of banging before she opened the door about a year ago when she found Jimmy examining his balls in the mirror. He had been furious at the intrusion. And she had been a little startled herself.

  Anne was pulling her jeans on already. Amazing how that kid never had any trouble waking up.

  “Hey, Mum,” she said over one bony shoulder, “had quite a night last night, didn’t you? How is the happy birthday girl this morning?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Judith plaintively. “I doubt if I shall survive the day, let alone the next year.”

  “Why don’t you go back to bed? We’ll make our own breakfast.”

  “Can you get Jimmy out of the sack for me?”

  As Judith crawled in between the cooling sheets she heard Anne’s familiar hollering at her brother and the equally familiar grumbling reply. Then the phone rang.

  “May I speak to Mrs. Hayes?” a polite male voice enquired.

  “I think so,” said Judith cautiously. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Detective Inspector Parr, of the Toronto Police Department.” A pause. My god, they’re on to me. Parking tickets . . . those parking tickets I haven’t paid. They’re going to put me in jail. She was still trying to clear her throat when the polite voice came back on the line.

  “Hello. Is this Judith Hayes speaking?”

  “Yes. This is she,” Judith said firmly and grammatically, remembering to show no weakness in front of the police or they’ll suspect you of more than you’ve committed. An armed robber she had once interviewed in the Kingston pen had given her that piece of advice. Why was it that policemen always made her feel guilty, even now that most of them were younger than she was?

  “Mrs. Hayes, I’m afraid I have rather bad news for you,” said Parr, in the soft, modulated tone he had developed for such occasions. “Mr. George Harris died late last night. It was a . . . sudden . . . death.” He let that sink in, then went on quickly, “I was told by Mrs. Harris that you were with her husband yesterday. I wondered if I might come around and ask you a few questions.”

  Oh god.

  Parr waited a while, then asked: “You did see him yesterday?”

  “How did he . . . ?” Judith choked on the last word. She was going to call him today. He had looked so well. Happy, really.

  “It happened on the subway,” Parr said not very helpfully. “You did see him yesterday?”

  “Yes, we spent a couple of hours together. Did he have a heart attack? Did you say on the subway?”

  “We haven’t determined the cause of death yet,” Parr interrupted. “May I come over this morning? It will only take a few minutes.”

  “Well, I had planned to . . .” Oh, what the hell. The day lay about her in ruins already. “Why?”

  “It would appear you may have been the last person to talk to Mr. Harris. Routine questions, Mrs. Hayes. It’s what we do.”

  “OK,” she said, hesitating.

  “Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Now, wait a minute. I’ve only just . . .” but the line was already dead. Damn him. Inconsiderate bastard.

  She jumped out of bed, yanked her nightgown over her head, threw it back onto the pillow in almost the same movement and grabbed some underwear from the top drawer of her dresser.

  “There’s no bread,” Jimmy said accusingly. He was leaning against the open door wearing torn jeans, a stretched sweater and his best tough-male pose. Cute.

  “I have no time for that now, Jimmy. If you want bread, you can write it on the blackboard, or you can get it yourself.” She took out a bulky black sweater. Like Jimmy’s, it was guaranteed to hide all imperfections. Color appropriate too. What the hell did George have to go and die for anyway?

  “Something wrong, Mum?” Jimmy’s voice rose a little and he abandoned the hunched-shoulders-forward segment of the macho stance.

  “Somebody I know just died.” No tears. Swallow hard.

  “Who?”

  “George Harris, the publisher. You met him. He was a friend.” She pulled on a pair of tailored slacks. They were new, with razor-sharp seams, and made her feel a little less like falling over.

  “Hey, Anne,” Jimmy yelled. “Can you put the kettle on? Mum would like another cup of coffee.”

  If Judith had had time, she would have gone over and hugged him. As it was, she just smiled at him in the mirror.

  “You should see yourself,” Jimmy said helpfully. “Must have had quite a night of it.”

  “You should see yourself,” growled Judith. “I still remember when you liked to have your pants in one piece. Takes some asshole in the East End of London to start it, and all you kids think it’s cool to have more holes than pants. Cool all right. Specially in the middle of April.” Jimmy shuffled his feet for a second. Then he must have decided to let it go. She loved him for it.

  Judith examined her face in the bathroom mirror. Even in this dim light it looked dreadful. Dark patches under the eyes, slight sag where the lines were etching themselves further in. She breathed in deeply to make sure her lungs were both still there, then alternated splashing hot water and cold water on her face.

  “Jimmy just told me about Mr. Harris dying,” Anne said as she deposited a cup of coffee on the cracked toilet lid. “Terrible. He was such a nice man.” Anne sat on the rim of the bathtub.

  “He wasn’t that old, was he?” Jimmy asked.

  “Look you two, I’d love to have your company for the rest of the day, but you have school and I have a policeman coming around in about five minutes. So please . . .”

  They left, reluctantly.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Anne asked from the stairs.

  “Yes. I’ll be fine, thank you. I mean I’ll be OK.” Judith coated her face with darker-than-skintone, cover-all, pan-stick make-up. It smoothed over the creases and added a touch of color.

  “Not much of a birthday, is it?” Anne yelled.

  “Your presents were good. Jimmy, where did you find that chime?”

  “Chinatown. I wanted silk slippers but didn’t know your size.”

  “Marsha’s co
ming today, isn’t she?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Judith outlined her eyelids in gray. It was a good color to lift up the green of her eyes, which needed all the help they could get. She picked a smoke-black mascara and pale lipstick.

  “Are you kids still down there?” she shouted, feeling a little stronger. She never knew what to say or how to behave, other than busy, when people died — she had never been a good weeper. Must be a fear of losing control — that was Marsha’s theory, at any rate. Marsha had endless theories about human behavior, and she had majored in Judith’s special fears.

  “Mum, I’ll get the bread,” Jimmy called, “and milk. OK? You can pay me back later.”

  Fabulous kids.

  “Great. Thanks. Listen, tell you what, I’ll make you guys a sumptuous dinner if you come home in time. We can all eat together.”

  Detective Inspector Parr was at the door. Judith grabbed for her hairbrush and whipped it through her long auburn hair. It needed washing, but even so, it was her best feature.

  Anne opened the door and she and Jimmy left, making room for Parr to enter.

  Detective Parr was not the type. The last time she had talked to a police detective, he had been ex-army, sturdy and square-shouldered. This one was thin and angular, fortyish, tall enough to have to duck at the door. His eyes squinted under heavy eyebrows. He wore a tweed jacket with oversize brown buttons, dark gray pants, a creased white shirt open at the neck and a stained blue-gray tie that had slipped askew.

  “Mrs. Hayes?”

  “Yes. Detective Inspector Parr, I assume. Come on in,” Judith said coolly since he was already progressing toward the living room. He threw his raincoat over the back of a chair and scanned the room quickly. “Must have had a bit of a party here last night,” he smiled.

  “A birthday party. Sort of. Do sit down.”

  He chose a straight-backed chair by the dining room table and pushed aside a few of last night’s dishes, all business.