The Blue Guitar

by Ireland Ann

  “I didn’t realize this lane existed,” Luke says. He’s positioned himself on the edge of the yard, respecting Jasper’s property line, an unexpected courtesy. “Very tucked away, aren’t you?”

  “That’s how we like it.”

  Luke nods with emphatic agreement while his colleagues cast impatient glances at their phones.

  Jasper booked the clinic visits back to back, no time for dithering. He slaps the trowel against his thigh now, miming a casualness he doesn’t feel.

  “Luke!” the woman from the task force calls. “We need to be across town in fifteen minutes.”

  Luke waves at her while his gaze remains intent on Jasper. “I’m so sorry it came to this. Things were ticking along well. I thought we had a good rapport.” He hesitates, shifting weight, and asks almost plaintively, “What happened?”

  “What happened?” Jasper echoes. Where to begin the litany of betrayals and miscues?

  “We all had such faith in you,” Luke continues. “Your depth of experience, your strategic skills.” He stops, noting Jasper’s look of astonishment. “You turned on me,” he says, lifting his palms, “and I still don’t know why.”

  In twelve minutes he’ll be meeting with the intake supervisor at East End Rehab to go over the revised action plan. For this task he needs copies of the guidelines and the supplement, available only on the password-protected TGI site.

  Someone toots a horn. Luke turns away, stepping carefully over the litter of weeds and debris. He hasn’t seen the mutilated rat. That’s a mercy.

  When the oversized vehicle reverses down the laneway, warm tears stream down Jasper’s cheeks. For a moment the ground beneath him seems to drop away — could it be that he got the whole situation wrong? Did he gang up on Luke when the poor man was only trying to do his best?

  Unthinkable, he assures himself.

  “I smell victory,” Toby says, making a bugle sound through the phone that just about annihilates Jasper’s eardrum. “One judge says that even if I don’t win, he’ll book me for a recital at his college.”

  “That’s great, Tobes.” Keep the boy on the line.

  “So it’s all happening, my pet.”

  The endearment, uttered so carelessly, strokes Jasper, such tenderness being rare in the boy.

  “It’s like I can’t fail,” the voice insists.

  Impossible to get through to Toby when he’s on a tear. You see someone racing toward the edge of a cliff, you don’t wait for the cliff to grow a fence — you act.

  They hang up, and Jasper scrutinizes the living room. This is where he laid his gardening gloves an hour ago, drooping over the back of a chair. Here’s the magazine splayed across the table, one corner stuck in the butter dish. How odd to return home and find everything exactly as he left it, no changes to interpret, no signs of another’s existence. This would be the texture of a solitary life.

  Fold clothing and drop it into the pack: wallet, hairbrush, toiletries. Something to read on the short flight to Montreal.

  Twenty-Four

  Papery skin and sore bones don’t frighten us. It’s when the insides start to leak that we jump in with mops and diapers and oversized bibs. Lakeview Terrace isn’t where Jasper aims to end up. Here the chairs are covered in washable vinyl and the library displays large-print Reader’s Digests and a selection of audiobooks. The advertised terrace? A concrete ledge jutting out of the second floor where, if you squint through the maples and if the prescription of your glasses is up-to-date and you’ve been taking your glaucoma meds, you might catch a glimpse of lake water.

  Klaus chooses to live here, rather than stay in his home, a mystery to them all.

  Mrs. Smiley gets right to the point. Jasper has told her, twice, that he’s in a hurry and he indicates his backpack.

  “Your father-in-law has been carrying on an affair with one of our nurse’s aides,” she says crisply.

  Father-in-law: it was Jasper who insisted on this term, yet it still sounds odd.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asks.

  They sit in her office, a corner room decorated with framed photographs of residents engaged in activities such as swing choir and gentle calisthenics. He’s shoved the pack between his knees, letting it touch the antiseptic floor. To get inside the building he had his temperature taken, then completed a checklist of questions about recent travel and any new or unusual symptoms. Don’t they know that once a patient’s temperature rises, he’s been shedding virus for days? They should be checking for red patches behind the knees, the precursor.

  Mrs. Smiley, director of Lakeview, is frazzled. Any day someone in her institution will exhibit positive symptoms, then what? Shut the place down? Quarantine staff and residents?

  She repeats the sentence.

  “You’re kidding,” Jasper says.

  “I am not.” Mrs. Smiley doesn’t smile and she certainly doesn’t kid. “We had to let Ramona go.”

  “Ramona?”

  “The aide in question.”

  “Right.” Must be rules about consorting with residents.

  “Do you know if Mr. Hausner’s son is aware of the relationship?” she asks.

  “I’m sure he’s not.”

  “Because it’s been going on for quite some time.” She taps her pen on the desktop. “Quite some time.”

  The phrase lingers while Jasper calculates. “Klaus just moved in six months ago.”

  Mrs. Smiley, an attractive woman in her mid-forties, leans back on her swivel chair. “Evidently the affair preceded his residency here.”

  “Preceded?”

  “By some years.”

  This floors Jasper. “I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble believing a word of this.”

  She nods, anticipating his reaction. “Frankly, we’ve all had a start. Ramona has been with us for well over two decades.” Then she reaches for a manila envelope and spills its contents over the desk: greeting cards, the old-fashioned kind illustrated with flowers; others with religious images — a haloed Jesus tucking a dappled faun under his arm, nativity scenes; and one card embossed with a big number seventy, the kind you give people for important birthdays.

  “From Ramona,” Mrs. Smiley says. “Written to Mr. Hausner over a period of a dozen years.”

  “A dozen years,” Jasper repeats.

  Mrs. Smiley shakes the envelope so that a tiny photo falls out, the sort taken in a railway station booth. She slips this across the desk so that Jasper can examine it closely. He palms it like a communion wafer and stares at the image of Klaus wearing an open-necked shirt. The man is smiling with what Jasper can only describe as joy, an expression he’s never seen liven Klaus’s features. He looks startlingly like Toby, minus hair, same smooth cheeks and those small, even teeth. Perched on his lap is a little girl who must have moved as the shutter snapped, blurring her features. She is dark-skinned with pigtails.

  “Who is this?” Jasper asks.

  “Ramona’s daughter.”

  So Ramona is black. Of course, most of the nurses’ aides around here are. Black or Filipino. His mind ticks: Klaus hooked up with a woman of colour, a term Klaus would never use. Everything Jasper knows about the man explodes into dust. The feeling is both a shock and exhilarating. Jasper hears himself approach Toby with the news: “You’ll never guess in a million years …”

  Mrs. Smiley lets her steady gaze linger, then finally Jasper gets it.

  “Are you suggesting …” he begins.

  “The girl’s name is Celia.”

  He is speechless.

  “It seems that all those years while your father-in-law was visiting his wife at Lakeview he was also visiting Ramona.”

  They stare at each other, facing facts.

  “So he visited his wife to get near Ramona,” Jasper says.

  “I don’t like to speculate on his intentions.”

  “What does Klaus say?”

  “Mr. Hausner is not being co-operative. He insists that if Ramona has been let go, then he must leave rig
ht away. Our management team here agrees. You can imagine how rumours fly in a place like this.”

  “I bet.”

  “Can you take him home by tomorrow at the latest?”

  “Home?” Jasper lets out a squeak of dismay. “Not possible. His house was sold months ago.”

  Mrs. Smiley laces her fingers together. “I understand, but we can’t hold a resident here against his will. Mr. Hausner is a man in full possession of his faculties.”

  “I’m en route to Montreal,” Jasper pleads.

  “I understand,” she repeats in that soothing way that makes his skin crawl, “but Mr. Hausner will have to find other lodgings as of tomorrow, 5:00 p.m.”

  With Toby conveniently out of town, guess who is in charge? Will Klaus even agree to come to their flat? This is what we do for the ones we love — take in their ejected relatives. Jasper already feels the stirring of martyrdom.

  “We’ll figure out something,” he says.

  “Excellent.”

  While Mrs. Smiley looks at him, he fingers a greeting card, realizing it’s one of the set of Amazonian scenes Toby gave to his old man last Father’s Day. This one contains Klaus’s careful handwriting:

  R: I hailed you in the corridor, but you were pushing Mrs. Vail in a wheelchair to her bath. Why do you ignore me since I moved in? What have I done to offend you? K.

  Mrs. Smiley rises to her feet. “Thank you for your prompt attention in this matter,” she says, relief inflecting her voice.

  Klaus darts out of room 313, sliding his plaid suitcase across the floor into the hallway. This obstacle forces residents to squeeze around it as they pass, using wall rails as support. Jasper raises a hand to greet his father-in-law, but Klaus pays no attention. Jasper’s presence is still an embarrassment, though Klaus has come a long way since the early days when he wouldn’t look his son’s lover in the face. He scurries back into his room and reappears carrying a stack of magazines, Scientific American, judging by their bulk, which he sets on top of the suitcase. Not a trace of stiffness now in his trim body. He kicks off the ridiculous sneakers and steps into his leather oxfords.

  “Klaus!” Jasper declares in a voice pitched an octave lower than usual. He strides forward with a rolling gait, arms raised to help with luggage.

  “All set to go here,” Klaus says.

  Two old ladies in jogging suits peer around a doorway. “Pride cometh before a fall,” one says.

  “What on earth have you been up to, Klaus?” Jasper asks, glancing at his watch. The flight leaves in two hours.

  “Don’t speak to me as if I were a halfwit,” Klaus snaps. “This geriatric institution has pulled rank.”

  “You can’t just walk out without a plan.”

  “I can and will do exactly as I please. Where is she?”

  Blush of panic. “She?”

  “The third-floor monitor. She should be preparing my medications.” Klaus straightens and tugs the sleeves of his blazer. “Once we settle that bit of business we can exit this building.”

  Jasper won’t let him bully him as he bullies his son. “Where to, Klaus?”

  “To Mrs. Bradshaw’s apartment, and get that silly look off your face.” He names a street in the north end of the city noted for its subsidized housing and drive-by shootings.

  “Ramona?” Jasper manages to ask.

  “Mrs. Ramona Bradshaw, yes, that is precisely to whom I am referring.”

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  “I certainly hope so.” Klaus attempts to look confident, but there is a tightening in his expression.

  “Mr. Hausner, your medications.” This is Teresa, hall monitor, a young nurse holding a bag of pill bottles. She is not smiling. Lakeview Terrace’s perfect gentleman has worn out his welcome. The staff feels betrayed by this small, neat man, the devoted husband, so caring of his sick wife, so lost without her that he chose to come here before his time.

  “Thank you very much,” Klaus says, making a point of meeting Teresa’s chilly stare. He pockets the bulky package.

  Toby should be here: this is his father.

  “We’ll get Paul to carry your bag down,” Teresa says, her tone relenting just a little.

  Paul’s the jack of all trades at Lakeview, a Newfoundlander who taught Klaus how to play dominoes. Suddenly, the doorways are full of residents leaning on walkers and canes, watching the dramatic leave-taking.

  The old boy’s a bit of a hero, Jasper realizes.

  “So you’re leaving us, mate,” Paul says, heaving the suitcase effortlessly over one shoulder. He sticks his toe out to hold the door of the elevator while Klaus and Jasper step in. The smell of lunch is trapped in the cubicle as they chug downward, cream of something soup and toast.

  Jasper’s mind works fast: drop the old man in a cab and send him to Ramona’s. When Toby and he return from Montreal, they’ll tackle the problem, if indeed there is a problem.

  Does he have cash for the long cab ride? Jasper hates to ask, for Klaus is a proud man.

  “I’ve plenty of money,” Klaus says, reading his mind.

  Image of Klaus stirring a pot of ox-tail stew in a high-rise kitchen while a child plays underfoot. His own modest house sold for less than expected, due to an infestation of termites introduced by a rustic wooden cross placed on the mantel two years ago. Must have been a present from Ramona. They always wondered where the sudden yearning for Christian symbolism came from.

  Klaus hesitates before working his limbs into the taxi. Suddenly, he’s looking unsteady, even frail, in the light of day.

  “I can’t go with you,” Jasper tells him. “My flight leaves soon.”

  “What flight?”

  “I’m going to watch Toby play in the finals.” Klaus just stares, so Jasper adds, “Of the guitar competition.”

  Klaus leans his forearm on the open door of the cab. “You shouldn’t have let him go.”

  Twenty-Five

  Montreal blisters open with a rat-a-tat-tat of drills carving through concrete.

  Check messages while the cab rolls down a side street. Jasper squints to see the tiny screen: “Urgent from Luke: sandwiches from Oct 4 meeting issued from contaminated carrier.”

  That was the final executive meeting: three tomato-and-cheese panini; three smoked meat with pickles ordered from the deli downstairs.

  Jasper sampled both items before the meeting began. He’s watching his blood sugar these days and doesn’t like to go more than a couple of hours without chow.

  “Home quarantine,” the message continues, “14 days. Forward info to other contacts.”

  “Crazy people!” the cabbie cries, braking hard.

  “People” being a man driving a graffiti-covered truck that pulled in front without signalling.

  So Jasper’s finally been caught on the spokes of the epidemic. It comes down to a bite of sandwich, a prep cook who may or may not have sneezed into the mayo.

  Horns blare, someone shouts a flurry of curses in French, all involving the Roman Catholic church.

  Fourteen days: Jasper knows the drill. Two weeks trapped inside with daily tracking of symptoms: dry mouth, unusual fatigue, sudden decrease in blood pressure, sore throat and joints, the dreaded rash.

  Names of contacts.

  His mind splashes names, places, tiny interactions, every keypad tapped, supermarket melons squeezed for ripeness, seatmates in the flight that brought him here, cab driver who is now pulling into the curb.

  Klaus.

  Mrs. Smiley.

  Did he cough onto his open palm before touching the airport ticketing machine? A surreptitious nose pick before shaking Mrs. Smiley’s hand? Not to mention pulling open a series of doors at Lakeview, its frail residents riding the last vestiges of their immune systems.

  He’s a stain soaking in all directions, bleeding invisible ink.

  “Deli worker is PUI,” writes Luke.

  That’s person under investigation, by no means a sure thing. Probable case, but not following the us
ual definition as the virus mutates and adapts. A self-respecting virus is always a step ahead of its pursuers.

  “Ten minutes. Dix minutes,” a voice calls from the other side of the green room door. “Auditorium is packed,” the volunteer adds in a tone of awe.

  Toby has no intention of being infected by the nerves of a keyed-up kid in a Guitar Congress T-shirt. He hears excited chatter as another might listen to mice frolic in the walls.

  Hiro is finishing up his recital on the auditorium stage, which is why Toby keeps the door to the room firmly closed. Nerves are just another aspect of technique, to be funnelled into heat and light. This is elation, not fear, that shoots through his body. He lifts his hands and stares at his palms — steady and ready for battle.

  Jasper’s cab pulls in behind the building, which is more modern than he envisioned, a late 1970s concrete block with an interior courtyard. A bilingual banner with a stylized drawing of a guitar tells him he’s in the right place.

  The backstage corridor hums with volunteers issuing muted orders. No one pays the least attention to him as he enters with his overnight pack. The walls are made of poured concrete, and half the overhead lights seem shot or turned off to conserve electricity. To one side a room is marked with a sign, voluntaires, and he glimpses a crew of young people folding slices of pizza into their mouths.

  A virus is thousands of times smaller than a bacterium, which is in turn many times smaller than a human cell. One cough might contain a sea of particulate matter; a dirty fingernail becomes the size of a football stadium.

  Until now Montreal has been clear.

  A youth in a headset mouths, “Performer off,” and this must be the Japanese boy Toby speaks of, Hiro, a warrior’s name, now striding down the hallway with guitar clutched to his side, his shirt transparent with sweat. He’s berating himself in Japanese, and upon seeing Jasper, switches to English.

  “I fuck up gavotte,” he wails. “Wrong notes and vibrato has terrible control.”