Yesterday

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  I jump in front of Henry to stop him from reaching the door. “You can’t let them take us!”

  Henry’s veneer of calm drops with a thud. “How much do you know?” His pupils are pinpricks and his intent stare gives me a better glimpse at the real Henry behind the grandfather façade.

  Henry must have left the door unlocked because two men in dark suits are bolting into the living room. The first is about thirty years old and has a buzz cut and sunglasses, like a Special Forces officer in an action movie, and the second I don’t have time to look at. “Be careful with them,” Henry urges the men. “They won’t resist.”

  Wrong. Garren’s already reaching for the coffee table, swinging it into his arms and launching it at the dark suits.

  Everything seems to happen in the same instant. Henry reaches for Garren, who shakes him off as though he’s nothing more than a spider. My legs are hauling me away like they’ve already formed an escape plan and then I’m twisting to check that Garren’s behind me. “Follow me!” I shout, remembering the back door through the kitchen. One of the men is reaching for his gun and Henry’s shouting something in a horrible, high-pitched voice.

  In my panic, I can’t tell what it is but he sounds scared and I don’t understand that. Why should he be afraid? Garren and I are the ones in danger.

  Then I’m flying past Henry’s fridge, into the back hallway and outside into daylight. I don’t even feel the cold. I don’t feel anything except my heart pumping.

  “Over the fence,” Garren calls from behind me. I veer left, flinging myself onto the chain-link fence. Garren’s neck and neck with me now, effortlessly clearing the fence. He pulls me over the other side. We fall in a heap together. Then we’re up and springing forward, Garren tugging me towards the back of the neighbor’s yard, another chain-link fence.

  I chance a look back and see one of the men hot on our tail. I don’t know where the other one’s gone. Garren heaves me up onto the next fence like a doll. He’s saying, “Go, go, go, go!” and then he’s next to me again, running with me like this is the end of the world. A Dalmatian bares his teeth and barks at us as Garren and I tear through the dog’s territory but we’re already onto the next fence, which is tall and wooden with nowhere to get a foothold. Garren locks his fingers together to give me a step up. As my right sole lands on his palms, he hoists his hands into the air, sending me flying towards the top of the fence. I grab hold of it, pulling my torso over the edge. In what feels like a single sweeping motion I’m up, over and dropping clumsily to my feet.

  I survey the backyard, Garren landing next to me. The snowy landscape is littered with paw prints and fresh dog shit. Someone’s left the back door to the house ajar and no matter who we’ll find inside they’ll be easier to deal with than armed men. I point as I run headlong towards the door, not wanting our position to be overheard by the men with guns.

  There’s an empty metal dog dish on the floor that I don’t notice until it’s too late. I kick it as I burst through the doorway. The clang echoes through the house as Garren follows me inside, locking the door behind him.

  “Who’s there?” a woman calls.

  Garren and I freeze in our tracks. I hold my breath, as though even that could be too loud.

  “Jerry?” the woman calls. “Was that you?”

  The woman, in brown cords and with her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wanders into view, feeling her way along the hallway towards us. There’s a series of clicking sounds from behind her, which turns out to be a Labrador retriever.

  She spins to face the dog, bending to loop her fingers around his collar. “Do we have company, Jerry?” Jerry’s wagging his tail, evidently not as talented a guard dog as the Dalmatian next door.

  “I know you’re here,” the woman says, visibly shaken. “Just take what you need and go. My purse is in the kitchen, hanging over a chair.”

  My lips part. I stare searchingly at Garren and decide to take a chance. “We don’t want anything,” I tell her. “I’m sorry we charged in like that—we’re being chased.”

  “You and who else?” the woman asks. There are faint laugh lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes but aside from those she looks youthful.

  “Me,” Garren answers. His voice is deep and therefore more alarming than mine but Jerry the dog is still wagging his tail.

  “Who’s chasing you?”

  I twist my hands in front of me. “We don’t know who they are. There were two of them and they had guns, like police, but I don’t think they are.”

  The woman blinks slowly, like she doesn’t believe me.

  “We don’t want to take anything,” I say again. “Can we just hide here for a minute or two until they’re—”

  An aggressive knock at her front door cuts my sentence short. The woman flinches, hesitating in the hallway. Then she says, “Go upstairs and don’t come down until I tell you it’s all right.”

  We do as we’re told, Garren whispering to me on the steps, “Would they hurt her?”

  “I don’t know.” We shut ourselves up in what appears to be the master bedroom and sit on the hardwood floor. I can’t believe that someone who doesn’t know either of us would do a stranger such a favor. But maybe the woman believes we’re dangerous and sees this as the safest way of turning us in.

  The knocking hasn’t stopped yet. Then we hear the woman’s voice, muffled by the floor that separates us, and brace ourselves for a barrage of noise that doesn’t come. Two minutes later she gingerly opens the bedroom door. “I think they’ve gone,” she tells us. “But don’t look yet. They could be watching the house.”

  “What did they say to you?” Garren asks.

  “I wouldn’t open the door for them. They told me, from the other side, that they were CSIS—Canadian Security Intelligence Service—and that there’d been reports of suspicious activity around the neighborhood that related to national security threats.”

  Jerry pads up behind the woman, skirting by her to sit in front of the bed with us. I automatically reach out to run my fingers through his fur. The repetitive motion, along with the rise and fall of his breath under my hand, keeps me anchored.

  “But I don’t believe they were who they said they were,” she continues. “People sound different when they’re lying.”

  “They were lying,” Garren confirms, although we can’t really say that with any certainty because we don’t know who they are, just that they seemed prepared to shoot.

  I can’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you hand us over to them?”

  The woman’s eyes move like she’s focusing on me, although I know she can’t see. “You sounded afraid.” She brushes invisible hair from her face. “I had problems with the police in another life.”

  Garren thanks her and says that we’ll leave as soon as we can. The woman asks whether we have a place to go and Garren’s eyes zoom over to mine. Where is safe? We can’t go home again—Henry knows where we live. What will they do to our families, who know nothing of any of this?

  “We’ll think of someplace,” Garren replies, his voice soft so that although he’s answering her question I know he’s really saying it to me.

  The woman fits her fingers around her ponytail and tilts her head. “I can give you a little money. Not much. Just some of what I have in my wallet. And a bunch of subway tokens, if that would help.”

  Money. I hadn’t thought about that but I know I don’t have a lot on me and I doubt Garren came prepared either. “Anything would help,” I say gratefully. “Thank you.”

  The woman nods sort of sadly, and I hope there was someone to help her when she had problems with the police. There’s a spark of panic inside me that I concentrate on squeezing down under my ribs so it won’t grow. If it gets any bigger I won’t be able to move.

  It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to return home tonight. If anything happens to my mom or Olivia because of this I’ll never forgive myself.

  Jerry follows his master out of t
he room and, left alone, Garren and I turn inward, like the other doesn’t exist. The spell’s broken when he gets up to pace the room. As he nears the window I warn, “Don’t look out there.” I’m not ready to be chased again.

  “I know,” Garren says impatiently. Then he stops and rocks on his heels. “How did you know they were coming for us?”

  There’s no way for me to explain it. “I just knew. I could see it happening.” Not a brain hiccup like I’d convinced myself when I guessed about Christine’s mom, a phenomenon.

  “In your head?” Garren asks, running one of his fingers over his bottom lip.

  “Yeah.” I shiver in my coat.

  “So what do you see now?”

  I turn inward again and attempt to listen to a deeper silence. I picture the man with the buzz cut and glasses. Think of him, think of him, think of him. Where is he right now? What will become of Garren and me when we walk out the door?

  But there’s nothing there to see. There’s just this. Us in a strange woman’s bedroom, scared and confused. I throw up my hands in futility. “Nothing. It’s blank.”

  Garren pulls the collar of his coat up, retreating into it. “We have to go to the real cops. Tell them what’s happened.”

  They’d never believe our story. There are too many gaps and besides, the men outside have had a head start to set their plan in motion.

  “We need to warn our families,” Garren continues, zeroing in on the phone atop the bedside table. “My mother had an appointment at the bank. I have to call her there and tell her not to go home.” Garren picks up the receiver and calls directory assistance to ask for the bank’s telephone number. By the time he’s gotten through to the correct branch and uncovered the name of the person who his mother was meeting with he’s informed that his mother has already left the premises.

  Olivia would’ve already left school too. Whether she’s my sister or not, I’m afraid for her, and then it occurs to me that Garren and I only seemed to be at risk when Henry (if that’s even his name) found out that we knew things we shouldn’t. Maybe our family’s ignorance will keep them safe.

  I tell Garren my theory. His eyes shrink as he says, “But you can’t see what’s going to happen to them, can you? So you don’t know.”

  I don’t know it the way I knew about the men coming for us but it feels true. Maybe only because I want it to be.

  “I’d never get to my family in time.” My voice splinters. The words are jagged and rusty in my mouth. “Henry would’ve told them everything—where my mom works, where my sister goes to school, where we live.”

  Garren digs his fingers into his scalp. “I wouldn’t make it either. Not if they’re trying to get to my mom.” He sits on the bed and stares at the floor. “Who are these people? What do they want from us?”

  Jerry patters through the open door, his owner behind him clasping several ten-dollar bills and a fistful of transit tokens. “Here,” she says, holding them out to us. I stand and take the offered things from her hand.

  “Thank you,” Garren and I say in unison. As much help as Jerry’s owner has been to us, I have the distinct feeling that we’ve begun to outstay our welcome and Garren must feel the same way because he motions to the window and says, “I’ll have a look outside and if it’s safe, we’ll be on our way.”

  He crosses to the other side of the room, peels back the blinds two inches and studies the neighborhood sideways through the gap. “I don’t see anything—what did their car look like?”

  I take Garren’s place at the window, scouring the road for a black sedan. It could still be parked back on Henry’s street (the nearest parallel road to this one) as the armed men lie in wait in the shadows, crouched down beside someone’s porch or harmless-looking station wagon.

  But I don’t see anything either and we can’t stay here forever. I hand roughly half the tokens and bills to Garren and watch him deposit them in his front pockets. Two of his fingers brush against my wrist. “Ready?”

  I nod and thank the woman a third time. We exit through the front door, our eyes flitting from house to house and all the spots in between where gunmen could easily conceal themselves. “Quick,” Garren urges. “We need to get off this street and onto a busier one so there are people to blend with.”

  We walk rapidly in the direction of Mount Pleasant Road, constantly looking over our shoulders like we have targets painted on our backs. Surrounded by stores and cafés, I begin to relax my shoulders but not my mind. Garren hurries us along to Yonge Street (which is bustling with people of every description—teenagers, office clerks, construction workers) where he pulls me into a phone booth with him and calls home.

  I can tell his mother has answered the phone by the way Garren exhales—she’s answered and she’s all right (just as I’d hoped) because she’s oblivious to the things we’ve discovered. I lean back against the cold, dirty glass of a phone booth that isn’t really large enough for two people, and allow myself a moment of happiness before I’ll have to face the fact that although our families are safe, Garren and I have no place to go.

  ELEVEN

  Garren doesn’t stay on the phone long. When he hangs up he tells me we should move on in case they’re somehow tracing calls to and from his house. As we’re trekking along the sidewalk, Garren explains that Henry got through to his mother first and told her that Garren had dropped in to see him, asking for money and acting aggressive and strange. “Paranoid,” Garren specifies. “He told my mother that he thought I must be on drugs and that he was very worried about me. He was trying to fish for information and find out what she knows. He asked if I’d been saying any weird things lately or hanging out with a bad crowd.”

  Since I heard Garren’s half of the conversation I know he didn’t tell his mother what really happened at Henry’s, just that she shouldn’t worry because he’s all right. I tell Garren I want to phone my family too and we pick a different telephone booth, one that makes my stomach rumble because it smells like French fries. My mother’s extension is busy so I call Olivia who has read the note I left her and wants to know where I am. “With a friend,” I reply. “When Mom gets home just tell her I’m fine, okay?”

  “Won’t you be home by then?” Olivia asks.

  “Probably,” I lie.

  When I hang up Garren starts talking about going to the police again. He says there’s bound to be a station nearby and that all we need to do is stop someone in the street and get directions. I shut my eyes and when I open them again he says, “What? You don’t think we should go to the cops? This isn’t something we can handle ourselves. We’re being hunted. And we still don’t know what they could do to our families. Okay, they haven’t made a move yet but that doesn’t mean they won’t.”

  I push the phone booth door open and step outside, Garren following me. My lips feel chapped from spending so much time out in the brutal wind and nerves are bouncing around my throat, making me wonder if I really have to puke or whether I can talk myself out of it. Mind over matter, I lecture, but the trouble is, my mind is terrified. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next but I know what Garren’s suggesting could get us killed or at the very least taken.

  “The first thing the police would do is call our mothers,” I tell him. “They’d think we were making it all up—that we’re either nuts or high, like Henry told your mother.”

  Garren’s dumbfounded. “But our dads—their deaths must be a matter of public record. The stuff about our grandparents too, if it’s the truth. Henry’s two addresses and Evelyn and Irene.”

  “You really think the cops are going to look all that up?”

  Garren’s head snaps back like he’s only now beginning to understand the ramifications of our situation. We can’t go to any of the usual people for help. We’re on our own.

  “We need someplace to go,” I continue. “Someplace we can just take a minute to figure out what to do next.” My mind speeds to Christine and Derrick. But their parents might ask questions and they
certainly wouldn’t allow Garren to stay over with me, even for one night. Besides, my grandfather will probably have my mother looking for me, calling everyone she can think of.

  Nancy. Is she in on this with Henry? And what about Doctor Byrne? Aside from Henry he’s the only known living common denominator between me and Garren.

  The abrupt realization makes me cry, “We have to talk to Doctor Byrne!” The traffic lights ahead change and Garren and I are forced, by an onslaught of cars, to pause on the corner. “Henry said he and Doctor Byrne have been friends for years and he examined your family too. He could know something.”

  “He could,” Garren agrees. “But if he did, wouldn’t they warn him about us?”

  Now Garren’s the one seeing a clear picture and I nod. “You’re right.” The armed men could be waiting for us at Doctor Byrne’s office as we speak but …

  “I know where he’s going to be this weekend.” My words spill out with such velocity that I’m not sure whether I’m putting them in the right order. “It’s his anniversary and he told me and my mom he was taking his wife to dinner at a place called the Bellair Café.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure. We could call the restaurant. Pretend we forgot the time of the reservation or something.”

  It’s the only thing we have to cling to right now—the idea that Doctor Byrne might be able to deliver the truth—and I watch a sliver of hope steal into Garren’s face. The sight of it instantly doubles my own hopefulness.

  The walk symbol flashes and the crowd gathered at the lights with us pushes on, Garren and I straggling behind as he says, “I have an idea about where we could go. Somewhere no one would think to look for us.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I feel jumpy wandering the street—anyone who gives us a second look could be working with Henry. We need to duck out of sight as soon as possible.

  Garren arches his eyebrows. “Not exactly. It would mean breaking in.” He tells me that the girl I saw at his house the other day, Janette, has a thirteen-year-old brother who shovels snow for some of their neighbors. “One of the families he shovels for has driven down to Florida on vacation for two weeks. He’s supposed to drop by and clear the snow and pick up mail and stuff every few days so it’s not obvious that the house is empty.”