Going Out With a Bang

by Joan Boswell

  He abandoned the stars and retired to his room. Tim must be encouraged to stand firm.

  In the morning, Matthew waited until he heard Alison turn on the bath water. She would, he knew, spend at least thirty minutes in the tub. He puttered into the kitchen, where he found Tim clearing the breakfast things.

  “Ah, Tim. I owe you an apology. I was distraught yesterday, said some stupid things.”

  “Hey, that’s okay. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re upset.” Tim smiled, and his grey eyes twinkled. “What say we make some ‘real’ coffee while Alison takes her bath?”

  They took it into the study. “So she won’t smell it,” explained Tim. “She’s got a thing about it. Ah, there’s Ori, looking just fine.” He walked over to stroke the cat. “Don’t gulp your food down in future, eh. You scared Uncle Matthew.”

  “I must admit I am rather on edge these days. I’m not used to living with other people. When you asked me if you could come and stay, I hadn’t envisaged it being such a prolonged visit.” He sipped the coffee, relishing the richness of fresh ground Java beans.

  “Me neither. But Alison has something in mind, and it’s hard to get her to compromise.”

  “Some people are like that. They get a mindset, and it’s as though they’re driving down a highway with a sound barrier on each side. You cannot get through to them. It can be an asset, that kind of ability to focus, but it can be rather difficult at times.”

  Tim leaned against the door, staring into the courtyard. “Yes. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess Alison does focus on things. Right now it’s your health she’s worried about.”

  “I leave that to the doctor, he is the expert. Has me in twice a year now for a check-up, and the last time he told me he hoped he’d have hearing and eyesight as good as mine when he was my age. The only parts I have problems with are these.” Matthew patted his knees. “I can live with that. But if I couldn’t read...”

  “What are you into now?” Tim came over and picked up the book beside Matthew. The Big Bang: A History of the Universe. A bit lowbrow for you, isn’t it?”

  “I know it’s written for the masses, but he has an interesting perspective on some matters. You might enjoy it.” He stopped. “Listen. Is that the bath water draining? Perhaps you’d better sneak these cups back into the kitchen before Alison comes down. She certainly has fixed ideas about eating and drinking.”

  Tim laughed. “That’s for sure.” He collected the cups and headed for the door. Matthew fancied he had more of a spring in his step than when he’d come in.

  The morning coffee became a ritual, and Matthew felt he was making headway. Despite Alison’s protests, Tim put in an offer for the house on Yonge Street, and for the last few days Matthew’s bowels had behaved themselves.

  On Thursday morning, Tim came in waving a letter. “They’ve accepted the offer. I must tell Alison.”

  “I’d like to see her face, Ori,” Matthew began, but Ori had followed Tim out, probably heading for the kitchen, and Matthew settled down to read.

  Well into an absorbing discourse on black holes, he was startled by shrieks coming from the kitchen. Looking up, he saw Ori come flying through the door, jaws clamped on a large piece of red salmon, with Alison not far behind. Matthew grinned as Ori neared the French doors.

  But then Alison snatched the Astronomical Society paperweight from his desk and threw it at the cat. Ori howled, staggered and fell. “Got you,” she yelled.

  Without thinking, Matthew hurled his book at her. It hit her hard on the back. She arched backwards, her arms going up, tripped over the umbrella and fell with a crash.

  “Ori.” Matthew pulled himself to his feet, his knees shaking. He shuffled past Alison, who lay so still and on to the silky black body lying by the door. “You nearly made it,” he whispered, bending down to touch the soft fur. “You’ll be okay, my friend.” He creaked upright again. He needed the vet. What was the number? His head felt strange, as though he wasn’t really there. He reeled. Have to sit down, he thought and stumbled over to his chair.

  “What’s going on?” Tim stood in the doorway. “Oh my God. Alison.”

  Matthew sat in a daze, unaware of the activity exploding around him. He knew he had to do something, something important, but he couldn’t remember what.

  He heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike and began to count. Eleven. Someone touched his shoulder. “Drink this, Matthew.” Sara from next door put a mug into his hand. A young policewoman pulled up a chair and looked closely at him. “The doctor’s coming to see you in a minute. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “She tried to kill him.” To Matthew his voice sounded far away, thin and shaky. He gulped a mouthful of hot, sweet tea.

  “Who tried to kill who?”

  “Ori. Alison hit him with the paperweight.” A tear escaped. He felt it rolling down his face. “That’s what I have to do, call the vet. I must call the vet. Look, over there, he’s lying...” he pointed towards the French doors. “Where is he? He was there. Who’s taken him. Where’s Tim?”

  “Hey, Matthew, calm down.” Sara rested a hand on his shoulder. “No one’s touched Ori, he must have got up again. And Tim’s gone to the hospital with Alison.”

  “Is she badly hurt?”

  Sara nodded. “I’m sorry. She hit her head on that iron thing near the door.”

  “Good,” said Matthew.

  “I don’t think you really mean that, my dear.” Sara bent down and looked into his eyes. “Would you like me to go and look in the courtyard for Ori, while you tell the constable what happened?”

  “Please.” Matthew hardly dared hope, but maybe...he stared around his room. It seemed to be full of people. He focused on a policeman standing by the French doors talking with a young man. The policeman had the paperweight in his hand.

  “That’s what she threw at him,” Matthew said, pointing.

  “Take your time and tell me from the beginning.” The constable had a notebook in her hand.

  Before Matthew could speak, Sara appeared at the door, her face a greyish green. She looked at the policeman. “You’d better come.” Her voice wobbled.

  “What’s happened?” He asked.

  “It’s Ori, isn’t it?” Matthew’s heart felt tight.

  Sara shook her head. “He’s okay, just limping. He was hiding in a hole someone’s dug. Where the blue flowers were. I got him out then I saw something shiny. I pulled it up. It was a ring.” Her voice rose. “And a bone fell out of it. A finger bone. I think I’m going to be sick.” She ran from the room.

  Within seconds, the room had emptied.

  The idea of planting bluebeard on Janet’s grave had always tickled Matthew. He heaved himself to his feet. He’d like to finish the chapter on black holes if he had time.

  Ori limped into the room, ears back, fur dishevelled. He stalked over to the chair and began to groom himself. Matthew smiled. He picked up the book he’d thrown at Alison and settled down next to Ori. He smoothed the crumpled title page.

  “The Big Bang”.

  “Not a bad title for a murder story, eh, Ori?” he said, reaching over to stroke the cat’s head.

  Liz Palmer’s commute between the Gatineau Hills and the Rideau Lakes gives her ample time to dream up plots, and she loves the challenge of a themed short story. She has been published in almost all of the LKC anthologies and in Locked Up, a collection of mysteries set on the Rideau Canal.

  The Porsche

  Joan Boswell

  Perry’s in trouble.” Marsha’s voice quivered. “Mom, tell me something new. Perry’s always in trouble,” Harriet replied, holding the phone with one hand and sorting invoices for her accounting clients with the other.

  “No, he’s not. He’s a saint. An absolute saint.”

  Well, maybe—if the criteria for sainthood required them to live very weird lives. But more like a nut, a fruitcake, a flake. He might be her brother, but she didn’t have any illusions about him.
What man with two first-class university degrees took what amounted to a vow of poverty and lived in the slums with his social work clients? Maybe a Catholic aiming to be canonized, but her brother called himself a Buddhist, and she didn’t think they had saints.

  “So, what’s happened now?” Harriet asked, although she really didn’t want to know.

  “Well, he was in the back of the van handing out sandwiches to the homeless, and the driver, stupid man, drove forward unexpectedly, and Perry fell out. He put out his arms so he wouldn’t land on his face and broke both wrists and sprained several fingers. He says he’ll be fine, but how will he manage with both arms in casts? I’ve been imagining how I’d cope if I couldn’t use my hands and arms. It’s impossible.”

  “What about Summer? Isn’t she looking after him? Isn’t that what partners do?”

  Summer had to be as crazy as Perry if she chose to live with him in a building that Marsha said was a tenement. Harriet had never visited, but she’d seen enough TV shows to figure out what it must be like. Maybe Summer loved him. Love wasn’t on Harriet’s radar, but on TV people did strange things and said love made them do it, so that might be the explanation.

  “Summer is in England at a World AIDS conference.”

  Harriet guessed where this was going. Time for fast thinking, for the quick double shuffle. Her mother might expect Harriet to leap in and help her brother, but there was no way, no way at all. Mom had always wanted her to be the supportive big sister. She’d refused when she was young, and she wasn’t about to start.

  When Harriet didn’t say anything, Marsha continued. “You know I’d help, but I’m not strong enough to go to him. And with only my bed and the living room love seat, there isn’t anywhere he could sleep if he came here. Besides, the nurses drop in at odd hours, and they’d disturb him.”

  Not strong enough? An understatement. Her mother’s metastasized cancer left her barely able to care for herself.

  “I’m on morphine, and it’s working well. By next week, when it really kicks in, I could help Perry, but that doesn’t do him any good right now.”

  “I suppose not.” Morphine was a last ditch medication. “Does Perry know about the morphine?”

  “Of course. He visits almost every day. I still expect to recover, but last week, when I knew Perry would be here, I had my lawyer come in. I signed a living will giving Perry power of attorney for health and finances. And, just in case it’s necessary, I’ve put my name on the waiting list for Brook House, the palliative care hospice.”

  Oops—this could be bad news. Why had her mother only given Perry the right to make decisions? Shouldn’t Harriet have had an equal voice? And why hadn’t they told her? She didn’t care about health decisions, but what if Perry could cut her out of the will? Maybe this meant her mother had already done that. Time to say the right thing.

  “I’m glad you’re being so positive. I’m sure you’ll get better.”

  “We’ll see. Right now it’s Perry we should be talking about. He could stay with you for a few days, couldn’t he?”

  Not a chance. She invited no one into her condo, but she had to offer an alternative. “That wouldn’t work, but I could check in on him at night and make sure he’s ready for bed.” She thought how much she didn’t want to deal with the unpleasant physical tasks this might involve. “Surely his friends in the building are helping.”

  “You’re right, they are—they love Perry and Summer. However, many have their own problems.” Marsha’s voice brightened. “But there’s Russell. How could I have forgotten Russell? Have you met him?”

  “I’ve never been to Perry’s place or met his friends.” And Harriet would like to keep it that way, but didn’t think this was the time to say so.

  “Russell is one of Perry’s success stories. He lives across the hall. Perry arranged for him to rent the apartment. Russell now has a job and is doing well.”

  Harriet saw that Marsha expected her to show some interest. She didn’t give a fig what Russell did, had done or would do, but she’d go along. “How nice of Perry to help.”

  “Poor Russell. What he went through in prison. That’s what happens when you’re chief financial officer of a big company and embezzle to pay for your drug habit.”

  “And now he’s okay?” Harriet asked. Fat chance. A man who sank that low wasn’t likely to rise again.

  “More than okay. Perry brought him to see me. He’s a terrific, positive man. He really has it together. I’m so glad Perry was able to help. Russell’s right there across the hall, but he works evenings. I’d feel better if I knew you were keeping an eye on Perry.”

  “And how does Perry feel? Does he want me to help?” She seriously doubted that he did.

  “You know Perry. He says he’ll be fine. He dropped in earlier this afternoon. A friend drove him over. Did I tell you that he or Summer or both of them come every day to see me?”

  Harriet had managed one quick visit and two short phone calls in three weeks.

  Uh-oh. She sometimes wished she were better at navigating her way through life. This was serious. If she wanted to be sure to get her share of her inheritance, she’d better make an effort and turn up more often.

  Maybe she should offer to drive Perry places. She shuddered. That definitely wasn’t an option. No one ever rode in her vintage Mercedes, her chariot, her pride and joy. Not one speck of dirt or dust marred the interior. Every week she drove it to the car wash and watched while they hand-polished it. Her car. She sighed.

  Beautifully engineered cars were works of art. Her gaze turned to the bookcases filled with neatly filed back issues of her favourite car magazines.

  “He says he’ll cope,” Marsha said. “Of course, he’s well connected to social services, and he’ll get help from them.”

  “Mom, you could use your money to pay people to come in and make sure he has everything he needs.”

  “I could, but it’s much better if it’s a family member.”

  Her mother’s money was an issue with Harriet, who’d once told Marsha that leaving money to Perry was useless; that he wouldn’t hang on to it, wouldn’t invest it to provide for his old age or buy a house or do any of the sensible things ordinary people did. Her mother’s eyes had been cold, and she’d said that what Perry did was his business. Her mother had closed the door on the subject before Harriet could tell her how prudent she planned to be.

  She knew she should feel guilty recalling this conversation, but even thinking about inheriting money made her heart pound. She envisaged paying off her condo’s mortgage and maybe, just maybe, buying a silver Porsche Turbo Cabriolet. Beautifully engineered, rear-mounted engine, good stability, smooth handling and above all-fast. Perfect. Owning a Porsche was her dream.

  “I’ll drop by later this afternoon for a visit with you then go to Perry’s this evening,” Harriet promised.

  Harriet used her key to let herself into her mother’s light-filled apartment. She called hello.

  “I’ll be right out. I was napping. Will you make us a cup of herbal tea? I love ‘Calm’. Read the promo on the box, it’s very funny,” Marsha instructed from her bedroom.

  Harriet did as she was told and snorted to herself when she read it. Typical hype written to endear the Tazo company to the kind of people who drank herbal tea. Maybe she didn’t think it was funny because she wasn’t one of them. Wasn’t one of any group, if it came to that. And happy to be a loner, to run her own life to suit herself. She rummaged through the cupboard and found a tin containing three lonely digestive biscuits.

  Harriet hoped she didn’t look as shocked as she felt when she saw her mother. In three weeks, Marsha had lost even more weight and had that large-eyed look that went with cancer-induced starvation.

  After taking slow steps across the room, Marsha lowered herself carefully into her recliner. She caught her breath before she pulled a quilt over her knees.

  “Summer made it for me. Isn’t it lovely?” she said, smoothing the subtly- patterne
d quilt with almost transparent fingers.

  Harriet agreed that it was and thought that if she wanted to stay in her mother’s good graces and in her will, she’d better make an effort. She picked up the plate with the three cookies. “Next time I come, I’ll bring you lime shortbreads from the bakery you like on Yonge Street,” she offered.

  “Lovely,” Marsha said. She looked at Harriet then closed her eyes briefly as if the sight of her daughter was too much for her to deal with.

  As Harriet considered whether this would be a good time to talk about the will again, the doorbell rang and she heard a key in the lock. A cheery-looking middle-aged woman bustled in talking as she entered.

  Her mother scrunched her lips into a rueful grimace. “Darling, this is Carol, the V.O.N nurse—it’s time for my shot. I’m going to have to send you on your way, but I’m so glad you came.”

  Maybe that was true, but to Harriet it seemed Marsha looked even happier to see her go. That was nothing new. When they were children, her mother had always preferred Perry.

  “After you see Perry, phone and tell me how you think he’s doing. It doesn’t matter what time it is, because I don’t sleep much.”

  Harriet stood, bent forward, kissed the air next to her mother’s cheek and tried not to inhale the pervasive smell of ill health. She drove home breathing shallowly and showered immediately. Clean again, she microwaved a dinner and watched two back to back episodes of Law and Order. At eight thirty, she drove to Perry’s. She’d considered going by bus to protect her car from neighbourhood vandals, but the thought of people standing close to her on the bus upset her even more than the fear that her car might be damaged.

  A developer, anxious for profits, had divided what had been a Parkdale mansion into a warren of apartments. Harriet pushed open the front door and stepped into the tiny vestibule. Cheap plywood doors and artificial partitions left the downstairs hall cramped. Fifteen apartment bells. The unmusical sounds of too many people living too close to one another and the unpleasant smell of cheap cooking assaulted her. The only light came from a dirt-encrusted transom over the front door.