Torque

by Glenn Muller

Friday, October 23rd

  Fenn awoke Friday morning refreshed and in a better frame of mind. He’d picked up a new toaster so breakfast was cream cheese on a toasted bagel with orange juice. To save washing a plate, he ate over the sink. The juice had to be in a mug since none of his glassware had survived the break-in. Over the weekend he would try to replace some of his furniture, then he would look for a new place to live.

  That thought drew a dark cloud over his disposition and for the first time in a long time a quiet rage began to percolate within. It grew steadily and rose like magma, a volatile force that he had learned through experience to keep in check. Muscular and athletic, he hadn’t been in a scrap since he was a teen. His last punch had been a haymaker. And it had killed a boy.

  Or so he had thought. The kid came to after a couple of minutes, but the scare effectively turned Fenn away from future fights. It was a hard stance to take in the old Montreal neighbourhood yet the pacifism had served to thicken his skin and hone his diplomatic skills. But this was different. The assault on his apartment had been unprovoked and without parlay. The next time he’d be ready and there’d be no holding back.

  He wrung out the dishcloth and put it with the mug on the drainboard. He hated being in this kind of mood—even more so because a couple of assholes had steered him to it. Life was too short for that sort of crap, and he made a conscious effort to focus on something more mundane. Mundane, however, turned out to be last night’s sighting of Joe and Asha.

  Even after sleeping on it he still thought they were an incongruous pair. Posada’s reputation as a Don Juan was no secret, though Joe always dismissed it as semantics; ‘I guess I just find a new partner before the old one realizes we’re done.’

  On the flip side, Asha brooked no fools and would kick the ass of anyone who trifled with her affections. Joe must be aware of that but, hey, if it didn’t work out, Fenn at least knew Asha was receptive to dating co-workers.

  Whatever.

  For now he’d have to consider other avenues to end his involuntary celibacy. Five months without a date was way too long. It wasn’t like he didn’t have options. He could think of at least…one, and he resolved to act on it without delay. He’d see Posada at the King’s Head pub tonight, and it would be gratifying to turn up with an assignation of his own. Not that he was bitter about Joe and Asha. It was just time he got some.

  With no drapes to get in the way, the morning sun threw a bright rectangle of light across the living room rug. Mogg, seemingly recovered from the home invasion, occupied the center of it. Seeing her there gave Fenn an idea. He’d decided to disregard Reis’s request to hand the package over, at least until the contents were scrutinized to his own satisfaction. Security was a problem since his front door didn’t lock, and hadn’t stopped anyone when it did, so to safeguard the disc he would stash it in the one place the burglars had overlooked. Mogg’s litter box.

  They’d not even gone near it. Who would?

  After freshening the box he wrapped the package in plastic then placed it on the bottom beneath two liners. He added an extra scoop of litter for good measure. If Mogg noticed the difference she didn’t let on. But then again, cats know how to keep a secret.

  == == ==

  Burlington’s driver test centre was always busy, and despite health department notices to the contrary had a constant clot of smokers just outside the door. Half of them weren’t even taking a test. Fenn held his breath until he got past the cloud then queued up inside. The facility was overdue for expansion and the line shuffled about as people maneuvered through the small common area.

  “Afternoon, Chas. Here for a test?” Roy Halliwell, one of the examiners, clutched a clipboard to his chest and turned sideways to squeeze past.

  “Just booking, today, Roy. How’s your day going?”

  Halliwell made a face. “It was fine until I got to work.” His driver applicant, a kid who looked about twelve but had to be at least sixteen, held open the door. Roy nodded to him and walked through.

  A raised voice at a far wicket drew Fenn’s attention. A parent was protesting the offspring’s test failure. Fathers tended to protect the reputation of the family gene pool—my son can handle any situation—but mothers focused more on social standing, as in my daughter needs to get to her clubs and activities. This one followed a familiar script.

  “Eight months before she can take the exam again? That’s ludicrous!” The woman looked around for support but the queue was looking elsewhere. “The girl made one mistake. And that was in the parking lot!”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” said the teen vainly trying to stop disappointment from turning into embarrassment.

  “No. It is not okay. I’ve heard about that examiner. He always fails kids the first time.”

  Fathers denounce faceless institutions and their policies. Mothers go straight for the jugular. Unfazed, the clerk returned her stare.

  “Your daughter came into contact with another vehicle, Ma’am. That’s an automatic disqualification.” She made a couple of clicks on her keyboard. “We have the tenth of May open.”

  The line shuffled again and Fenn’s attention shifted to the other clerk on duty, a petite blonde in her late twenties. This one still smiled for each customer even after six months on the job. Most clerks lost their love of humanity after only three. When her wicket came open Fenn stepped up and waited patiently while she made a show of straightening forms and collecting paper clips.

  “Morning, Chas.” There was no eye contact but Fenn could see she was suppressing a grin.

  “Morning, Kim.”

  “What do you want?” she appeared to have found something interesting in a drawer.

  “How about a large fries?”

  The smile broke through and she leaned sideways to the clerk beside her. “What do you think I should do with this guy, Antonella?”

  Antonella pretended to give Fenn the once over. “Well I know what I’d do, girlfriend, but he’d need more calories than just fries.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Kim. “Let’s make it poutine!”

  “Well it figures that you would think of that,” countered Fenn.

  “What do you mean?”

  Fenn leaned into the wicket. “Oh come on, Miss Innocent. Even your licence plate spells KINKY.”

  “It does not,” she said but her cheeks took on a pink tinge. “Those are my initials. K N K for Kimberly Nadine Klaasen.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” Fenn opened his binder. “So tell me, Kinky, er, Miss Klaasen, which exam dates are you booking these days?”

  “For you? Oh look, we’re all booked up. You’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  Antonella chuckled. “You tell him, Kim.”

  Kim adjusted her monitor and tapped a couple of keys. “I’ve got one on May tenth at two-twenty. After that, the fourteenth at ten-thirty.”

  “The tenth will do.” He gave her the student’s name. “I could also use a favour.”

  “What did you think that was?”

  “Could you run this for me?” The paper he gave her had the plate number of the Grand Marquis.

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “How much poutine do you want?”

  “Actually, I want dinner. Out. And drinks.”

  Antonella raised an eyebrow. This was new ground.

  Hardly believing his luck, Fenn closed the binder and tried to remain cool. “How’s tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Seven it is. What’s the dress code?”

  He thought for a moment and then said, “denim.” He leaned back into the wicket. “And spurs if you’ve got ‘em.”

  “Oh I’ve got ‘em!” she shot back, laughing as Fenn turned to leave and collided with the next person in line. So much for making a smooth exit.

  CHAPTER 22

  Saturday, October 24th: CKKC 1140 The Morning Show.

  HOST: Explain to our Coffee Time listeners, Walt, exactly what Apithery is—am I pronouncing that right?
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  GUEST: Just about, Richard. The correct term is Apitherapy, which is the use of honeybee products, including the venom, for medicinal purposes.

  HOST: Did you say venom? Does this mean that you sting people with your bees to make them healthier?

  GUEST: That's part of it. There have been over fifteen hundred scientific articles published on the benefits of Bee Venom Therapy, or BVT, and beekeepers are being called upon to provide bees for these alternative remedies.

  HOST: I can’t imagine anyone actually volunteering to get stung. Who are these people?

  GUEST: Well, BVT is generally used to ease pain and swelling, so we get those who suffer from arthritis or have acute injuries like bursitis, tendonitis, and chronic neck or back pain. Bee stings have also been used to break down scar tissue.

  HOST: Is this an ongoing treatment, or does one sting do the trick?

  GUEST: The treatment varies according to the complaint. Mild conditions may only require three to five sessions of a few stings each, while more chronic ailments could call for several stings—two or three times a week—for several months.

  HOST: And people actually let you do this to them for months at a time?

  GUEST: In some cases they do it themselves. I personally know of one woman who suffers from MS—

  HOST: Multiple Sclerosis.

  GUEST: Yes—she and her husband first came to me about a year ago. They now have two hives of their own.

  HOST: So Apithery might be a cure for MS?

  GUEST: This particular use of Apitherapy is a treatment—not a cure—and is still being studied. However, patients with MS claim it eases spasms and gives increased stability and stamina. It’s a prolonged process, though, and not for the faint of heart.

  HOST: That's me, all right. Richard The Faint-Hearted! What about risks or side effects, Walt?

  GUEST: There are people so severely allergic to stings that the result could be fatal. Anyone considering this form of therapy should certainly be tested by a doctor first and, even if cleared, should always keep a sting allergy kit close at hand.

  HOST: Good advice. Well, I'd like to thank our morning guest: Beekeeper Walt Fleming. Walt, it's been very informative but I think the only thing I'll be wanting from your bees is this jar of honey you gave me. Thanks again.

  GUEST: I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for inviting me.

  == == ==

  Propped against the refrigerator, one bare foot atop the other, Eileen Tillart was delighted to hear her neighbour on the local talk show. Walt was a kind man who freely gave advice on ‘the copious healing potential of bees’ as he often put it. Given a cue he could talk for hours on pollination, honeycombs, parthenogenesis, or any other aspect of his favourite topic. Walt’s time had been limited today, and now the interview was over Eileen reached up and turned the radio off.

  There was a false silence until her ears picked up the other sounds that had been masked by the radio; a faint rustle of birch leaves both on and off the branch, the sharp chirrups of small creatures that flitted among them, and the quiet chortle of the refrigerator as it worked to cool down the groceries she had recently loaded into it.

  There was little warmth from the mid-autumn sun but the season was still mild enough for a cotton T-shirt and denim shorts. The open freezer door was a bit much though, and she let it close right after grabbing a small metal cylinder from beneath a bag of green beans. Four inches long with a foam grip at one end and a flat base of bare chrome at the other, the cylinder was designed to apply the coldness of ice without the watery mess.

  There were enough ledges to lean on that Eileen could move around her kitchen without a cane. Fridge. Counter. Sink. Stove. Her soles picked fine bits of grit from the worn hardwood floor. She chided herself for not having swept before now yet recognized that being able to feel the sand, and her mobility such as it was, were testimonials to the effectiveness of her chosen, if rather painful, treatment.

  Two and a half years ago, a few months shy of her thirty-third birthday, Eileen's symptoms had been diagnosed as Multiple Sclerosis. Her doctor had expressed concern that the verdict would also affect his patient’s mental health but Eileen had a natural fighting spirit. It was not knowing why she experienced numbness, muscle spasms, and a mild electrical sensation when she bent her neck that had distressed and frightened her the most. Once the enemy had been called out, she channeled the same energy that drove her to an Honours Degree at the University of Toronto into fighting the debilitating disease.

  The tall windowpanes of the farmhouse were swung open so they could pull the breeze from the yard into the kitchen. It was a shame to close them on such a nice day, so she drew them in with a promise to reopen them the moment her session was over. The sill was wide and deep, and still used occasionally for cooling pies. At the moment the sole occupant was a potted cactus. She fingered the soil to test for dampness.

  The house had been passed on to her as a wedding present from her parents when she’d married Larry. Typical of Victorian farm homes, the kitchen as the main gathering place was naturally the largest room. The great harvest table across from the hearth stood as evidence to the size of her grandfather's clan.

  The dark wood had a rich patina that virtually invited contact. Eileen set the cylinder on a paper towel next to a pair of tweezers and turned one of the Windsor chairs sideways. Laying a bare arm on the table she felt the cool wood absorb the heat from her skin. With her eyes closed and hand flat she traced an arc across the oak, the pits and pockmarks rippling beneath wrist, palm, and fingertips like a Braille map to her past. The journey ended against the side of a tall, equally cool, glass jar.

  This new object held life. Life that hummed and throbbed and tapped with persistent vigor. Eileen rolled the back of her hand against it to better feel the pulse emanating through the smooth transparent walls. She opened her eyes and refreshed her fascination.

  Inside were a dozen or so bees, and they were all quite large; their head, thorax, and abdomen easily definable. Their size would make them easier to manage. A few on the bottom of the jar were eating through a layer of tissue to get at the honey below. Their more vigorous glassmates clambered over each other to scale a cardboard tube standing silo-like at center stage. They looked like stout little men in shiny tuxedos and yellow cummerbunds though there would be few males in the batch. Only females have stingers and therefore guard the hive. As the front line of defense they were always the first out of the hive, and the first into the jar.

  Her husband had collected them this morning before he went to harvest the apples. Larry used to handle the bees and administer the stings but Eileen had found the strikes easier to endure when she could control them. So, unless a target area was out of reach, she preferred to sting herself. Larry preferred not to watch, anyway, and if he didn’t have to be there generally found some chore to do on the farm. A bee sting kit was in the pantry, just in case, but it had never been used.

  “C’mon, Tillart,” she admonished herself. “Quit stalling.”

  She crossed her arms, grasped the hem of her T-shirt, and pulled it over her head and off. The newly exposed flesh pebbled as Eileen examined her fading tan. There were no noticeable sting marks from previous sessions but the sudden hardening of her nipples was immediately obvious. This was a recent development, and the involuntary reaction had a masochistic flavour that unsettled her. Her minor in psychology had rationalized it nine ways to Sunday but it still felt weird. Rather than mention it to Larry, she'd logged on to an Internet forum where BVT was accepted as a viable form of treatment. The clinical online chats had eased her mind a little, though she wasn’t about to accept invitations to any stinging parties.

  Clad only in shorts she felt the flesh on her torso becoming cool and focused her attention on the task at hand. Easing one side of the lid from the mouth of the jar she plucked a convenient bee off the cardboard tube with the long, curved tweezers. Held firmly by the thorax, the bee’s head swiveled about and the abdomen pulsed up
and down. Lid back on, she placed the ice-cold cylinder on her skin just below the ribs. She squirmed a little herself, then removed it and touched the bee to the numbed area.

  The barbed stinger lanced her flesh like a red-hot spear and tore away from the insect, as did the venom sac. The attached muscles pumped and continued to flex until they had injected the full load of melittin into her. Wincing against the pain, Eileen dropped both tweezers and bee onto the paper towel and gripped the solid table for support.

  A welt grew from the heat. It flared around the reddening wound until, gradually, her natural endorphins kicked in and she breathed easier. The first was always the worst but if they were all of that magnitude she would have to cut the session short.

  Don't be such a wuss, Tillart. She wiped her eyes. It’s worse for the bee you know.

  Taking up the tweezers again, she picked out another of the fat hymenoptera, and with grim determination applied the cold, sobering metal to her other side. She brought the bee into contact and sucked air through clenched teeth at its response. The chair creaked as she pushed at the table.

  “Owww! Man. You gals are just full of it today!”

  But that was okay. Two down, only eight more to go.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kim Klaasen’s home was only six kilometres from Fenn’s apartment. In fact, from her vantage point on the escarpment she could probably see the top floors of his building with a cheap pair of binoculars. Still, with several intersections to cross, and Burlington being notorious for red lights, it took Fenn nearly fifteen minutes to negotiate the Saturday evening traffic.

  On the way, he pondered whether dating the desirable Ms. K. could be construed as gold-digging. Her father, while not personally responsible for Burlington’s rapid growth, had certainly managed to cash in on it. Follow any cement truck through town and they’d likely stop at a job site overshadowed by a Godzilla-sized picture of Jack Klaasen on a billboard.