by Stephen Law
As an act of contrition, Shaz tattooed a key with handcuffs to her inner ankle, a reminder of the power of imagery. She left the cuffs open, broken. The last link in the chain of folks she’d tried to keep together. She’d let them go.
After that, she tried to pay attention to her freestyle doodles.
Since her father’s phone call, she’d added more crows to the collection: those lonely, dirty scavengers picking up the scraps others discarded. Whether the crow was Shaz or her father, she wasn’t quite sure.
“Is this where I can get a tattoo?” Rashid grinned as he came through the door.
“Hi,” she said, her mind going blank. Rashid was here, dropping in to see her.
Moving in, he peered at the gallery of birds on the wall. “What’s with these?”
“It’s a series I’m working on.” Shaz started to relax. Talking about her work was easy. Checking herself in one of the mirrors, she decided she was looking good: black tank top, cargo pants, teeth brushed, hair back. Nothing unreasonably blemished. She was fine.
She tacked towards him.
Eyes drawn away from the doodles, he turned to face her. “I was thinking of getting something, somewhere.”
A shrug suggested he was still deciding, but Shaz knew better.
“I’m not sure where or what yet, but maybe you have some samples.” He broke eye contact.
He was definitely lying. If someone really wanted a tattoo, they always knew where they’d put it, even if they didn’t know what “it” would be. Would she let him know or play along? She could remain aloof and professional, or flirty and personal, the choice was hers and she liked it.
“There’s lots of places we could put a tattoo.” It was an effort to remain neutral.
He looked away, but when he drew back, she caught him eyeing her curves, then quickly averted his gaze, as though it were an accident.
Feeling no need to be discreet, she allowed her eyes to glide over his body, up and down.
The jeans were nice, the kind that gave definition. He had on a leather jacket, she liked that, and a button-up shirt open at the neck. He’d missed a spot shaving, but had remembered cologne or aftershave, a hint of it spiced the air.
If she put herself into that spot, if she nuzzled herself there, would he mind?
“So, why did you pick crows and not ravens?”
It wasn’t something she’d considered. “What would it matter?”
“One is associated with luck, the other with loss.”
Something to consider later, not now, not with him. “And for you, do you prefer one or the other?”
“I’m not sure what I want just yet.”
Shaz took a breath to steady herself. “How about we decide what it is you do want?”
She was not usually obsessive about hookups. It wasn’t that she didn’t dream up conversations or create elaborate run-ins that could lead to lascivious encounters. She did. But these fantasies were fleeting, and could as easily include an Idris Elba or a Rhianna as they could the local barista or some guy with dreamy brown eyes she’d passed on the street. Rashid was different. He was fine, tall, lean, a sip of milk chocolate, and he was standing here in front of her.
“Why don’t you come to the back where we can look at some options?”
This was not just some client she was showing around. Through the studio, to the back office, she invited him sit on the cheap chair that squeaked when it pivoted so they could pretend to look for a design.
Standing over him, looking down at the page over his shoulder, she could feel the space that enveloped him. She tested it with her fingertips as if she were stroking his energy.
“Maybe an animal,” he said.
“Any particular one come to mind?”
He’d showered before he’d come over. The scent of clean lingered in his hair. By shifting her feet she could peer down his chest.
He caught her looking. He’d stopped at a page of mermaids and sirens.
She knew he didn’t want a tattoo. And now he knew neither of them need pretend.
The dance of breath and small movements. Eyes locked, bodies immobile, the air hung between them, suspended. The space separating their skin vibrated, breezes lingered on arms and lips, the energy entwined.
The chair squeaked and Rashid spun away.
Their energies had fucked. She’d felt it. But he pulled away, told her he needed to think about it, about what animal he wanted on his body.
Shaz straightened, recovering. “How about you come back another time?”
“Sure, I’ll do that. I’ll come back. Another time.” He jumped from the chair and hustled out the door.
“Shit!” Throwing herself down on the couch, she slammed the binder shut. The crows stared down at her. “What are you looking at?” she snarled.
***
IN HER DREAMS, BEING chased by flocks of ravens and crows psyched her up for a confrontation.
Awake, the feeling lingered. Throwing on some comfortable clothes she felt good in, and lining her eyes with some bottom-of-the-drawer mascara, she headed back over the bridge to her nan’s, swinging her arms, like she were lifting weights.
The waffles, freshly squeezed orange juice with foam on the top, and the aroma of brewing coffee disarmed her. Nan baked cheddar and bacon right into the waffles, using the old cast-iron waffle maker, heavy as a load of bricks and well-used. It still had a thread cord, but her nan saw no reason to retire it while it was still able to service the needs of a weekend feed.
Her mom sat at the table wearing her white terrycloth bathrobe, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. She’d laid the paper out beside crystal jars of homemade marmalade and strawberry jam.
Nana was at the counter, scooping batter from the bowl. Shaz went over and gave them both a hug.
“Would you like some, dear?” Motioning to the stack on the table, her mom would have her sit.
“Desmond’s downstairs.” Nana had her back turned while she spoke as she pressed down on a fresh griddle full of batter.
Hesitating, wanting to stay within the confines of familiar warmth, Shaz could feel the flock of pecking birds prodding her on. At the table, she loaded a plate with waffles and smothered them with butter and syrup. On a tray she placed two glasses of juice, the plate of waffles, and two forks before heading downstairs.
“Is that a bribe or an offering?” Desmond was already dressed: white button-down shirt, beige pants. He stood at the bottom of the steps, looking nice.
Shaz stalled on the stairs. “Are you heading out?” The plan had been to surprise him, catch him unaware, feed his acquiescence and then bludgeon him with questions. She didn’t want him up and about. She pushed past him and put the tray down on the side table by the couch.
The basement had been her first studio. The bulky cabinet which held the TV still centred the room. But the scent, that was the smell of her brother.
Taking a seat on the old faux-leather couch, she faced him. “Help yourself.” She gestured to the tray. Plan still in motion.
Desmond took a waffle from the plate, “I love these. I could smell Nan cooking them from here.” Holding it like a piece of toast, he took a bite, chomping it near in half. Careful to keep the syrup from running down his hand, he finished it off in a second bite. He licked his palm and then took the glass and drank it down in a gulp.
Shaz watched his Adam’s apple move up and down. Desmond raised his eyebrows toward the plate. She shrugged.
He scored two more waffles off the stack. Shaz took in the surroundings, the wood panelled walls, posters, furniture, the old green and yellow lamp by the TV.
Finishing with a smack, and then, with her assent, he quaffed the remaining juice.
“They’re good. Thanks for bringing them down.” He paused to consider wiping his hands on his pants, then, thinking bett
er of it, he grabbed a towel near the door to the laundry room and wiped the syrup clean.
“Gotta go!” He turned around and galloped up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
The door clicked shut.
Arching her neck, hands to her head, she closed her eyes, wanting to scream. With all the brouhaha that had gotten her here, all she’d gotten out of the encounter was a tray of dirty dishes. She plunked her feet on the coffee table. What now?
Desmond’s bedroom was off the rumpus room. She could see the mess he lived in. Stealing a glance back up the stairs, she waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to return. All she could hear were the quiet movements of her nan and mom.
Eyes on the stairs, she waited a few more beats, long enough to be certain. Then lifting herself up, she tiptoed over to the open doorway of his room, thinking she would just take a peek, see if there was anything to suggest he was involved in something criminal. When she didn’t find anything, maybe she’d come back to the couch and watch some Saturday morning cartoons.
On entering, she was assaulted by the heady mixture of smelly socks and the sour odour of a wet towel left on the floor. The blinds covering the little window were closed. She turned on the light to a ravaged landscape: clothes everywhere, on the floor and the dresser, bedcovers and sheets bunched up, duvet halfway to the ground, copies of Sports Illustrated, King and Maxim scattered about beside the pillow and beneath the night table.
Covering the dresser were the archeological remnants of his pockets: coins, corks, singed paperclips, bits of paper. She went through and identified receipts for bags of chips from the convenience store, deodorant from the pharmacy, and fast food orders. Discarded gum wrappers shared space with a bottle of cologne and empty drinking glasses.
Socks hung from the mouth of the top drawer while the bottom drawer was pulled out of its sockets, its t-shirt entrails spilling onto the floor. She decided against picking through the mess, convinced even if she did, he’d never notice. Nudging the duvet aside, she looked under the bed, finding discarded shoes and a school textbook with pages of unfinished homework, used Kleenex, and a half-empty box of condoms.
On the side table she found a spray bottle for stinky feet, a jar of pennies and a piece of tinfoil. She picked it up and took a whiff and then touched her tongue to the wrapper to confirm.
Drugs, sex, and a messy bedroom. Not atypical for a teenager. Frank would have said as much when she’d been living down here. He’d always felt he was on an archeological expedition when he had to go searching through a pile of clean clothes she’d dumped on her dresser in search of something. So maybe she and her brother weren’t so far apart.
Inside the closet was an unused laundry hamper. She shunted aside jackets, sweaters and two church suits on hangers A school yearbook on the floor caught her eye. She took it over to the bed, carefully moved things aside, and sat down.
She flipped through the faces quickly. People had written quotes beside their pictures, signed their names in unpractised scrawls. “We gonna turn it up” — Ricky Cain, “Pizza pops rule!” — Kyle Hamilton. “Love you bae?” Kaylee.
Desmond seemed popular — his face looked out from the rugby club picture alongside a bunch of other pug-faced boys. She continued flipping, seeing if she could spot him in other random pictures taken of school dances, clubs, ceremonies, and activities. A side profile caught him in the background of the school gymnasium setting up for the school play, Little Shop of Horrors.
The only shot of her would have been the one where she was sporting her graduation cap.
Maybe it wasn’t Desmond who had beaten up Frank. Maybe she’d gotten him all wrong.
She put the yearbook back in place, erasing any vestige of her trespassing. She was manoeuvring past the mess out the door when her foot kicked something just beside the dresser. Whatever it was had been concealed by a #23 Cavaliers jersey. With a pinch, she removed the shirt to discover a little black box, with file cards. She almost put it back, thinking it was probably a sports card collection, but in the end flipped it open to appease her curiosity.
Coloured file cards sat neatly in alphabetical order — a kind of homemade Rolodex. Randomly choosing one, she pulled out “Chris Cooper.” Name, cellphone number, a date on the right hand corner and an address at Portland and Main Street. It seemed odd that he would maintain an old school filing system to keep track of his friends given what a cellphone could do. But who knew, anything could be retro these day.
Feeling naughty, she took the opportunity to look up Rashid. Getting a hold of his phone number and address might come in handy. She didn’t find his listing under “R,” though there was a Rachel Sorrenson. Taped to her card was her driver’s licence. Rachel was twenty-five, blue eyes, brown hair, and she had a class 5. Shaz flipped the file card over, confused. The licence stated she lived on Young Street, but he’d written Agricola — Bloomfield Centre on the card.
Rifling through the box, Shaz found other listings with licences, but sometimes they were affixed with health cards or Airmiles cards. Some just had store receipts of some kind, or no other details. They all had dates and locations.
It didn’t make sense. Why would he have these things?
A thought struck her then. A terrible thought that she almost wished she hadn’t had.
Back through the index box, letter by letter, she walked her fingers to “F.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she snatched up the card there. A file card with another driver’s licence.
She opened her eyes. Frank’s licence.
She dropped it to the floor and kicked herself away.
He was there. And not just that: there had been more than one victim, more than one attack. These were souvenirs from the people he mugged, collected and stored in this box. It was twisted, vile, horrific, these trophies, this catalogue of crimes.
Realization struck again and Shaz gave an inner gasp: the box may not just reveal muggings on the street, maybe it catalogued break-ins too.
Spinning around and scrambling to her feet, she peered around the door, then checked the pantry by the TV and the laundry room as well. Everything was still and quiet.
Returning to his room, she stared at the box, unable to move. She didn’t want to know. She wasn’t ready. But if she could check for Frank’s name then she should be willing to check for her own.
Quick flip to “S,” where there were two cards, Shakil Farouq and another. It took all her effort to pick it up. Stacy Armstrong. She made herself check again. Only two. Her card wasn’t there.
She let out a huge sigh. Both relief and horror coursed through her mind. Now what? She eyed the box. Maybe she should burn it? Or abscond with it and dump it upstairs in front of her mom and nan, put all of Desmond’s misdeeds onto the table. What would they do? What would happen to her little brother?
She decided she didn’t have to decide. Not right away.
Picking up Frank’s licence, she slipped it into her jeans, then nudged the box back with her foot and replaced the jersey on top.
As she was racing up the stairs, she remembered the dishes from the breakfast offering and went back to retrieve them. Trying not to stumble she burst into the light of the kitchen like a miner who’d been trapped underground.
“Thanks, I’ll just add it to the pile in the sink.” Her mom relieved her of the tray without taking notice of her shaking hands.
Nana was sitting with a cup of coffee at the table, finishing the weekend crossword. Shaz cast about trying to decide what to do, share or bolt?
“Ten-letter word for the edge of adorable. Starts with P.” Nan moved the chair aside, and motioned for Shaz to sit.
Her mom dried her hands with a dishtowel and joined them. “Precocious.” She counted out with her fingers to be sure. “Yup. Ten letters.”
Sitting, standing, running, fleeing. She looked to one woman, then the other. They were b
oth concentrating on the puzzle. How could they not know what Desmond was up to? Shaz opened her mouth, ready to spill.
“Urban cowboy?” Her Mom broke in before she had a chance.
Eyeing the door to the basement, Shaz sucked in her breath and turned back to the table, “Keith.”
It would taint them knowing what Desmond had been up to. It would be a stain on her, a stain on everyone.
“He’s a country singer.”
“How about this one?” Her nan wrote while her mom suggested another. “Coiled out of shape.”
“That one,” Shaz replied, “that’s twisted.”
***
RIDING THE BUS IN a fog. Horrified. Her mom would be beside herself. What would Nan say?
Her neck felt itchy and hot. She surveyed people behind and in front. No one on the bus was paying her any mind.
Thefts and beatings. This was serious stuff.
Cash sales unclaimed on her taxes, cashews eaten from the bulk bin while she shopped — sure. The “property is theft” sign a housemate had stuck over her bedroom door had a certain ring to it. But, the ID cards in her brother’s file box — that was something else entirely.
She shifted. Frank’s licence burned in her back pocket.
The bus turned onto Quinpool Road and she hopped off outside the Canadian Tire, one stop ahead of her studio. Passing the clerk and the security guard leafing through a flyer on the counter, Shaz felt them ignore her. It would have been different if she’d been with Desmond — they would have followed.
She prowled up and down the painting aisle. It was a place she came to often, to pick up brushes and other items for the studio she might need in a pinch.
What she was looking for today? How was being in Canadian Tire going to help in any way? She picked up a small can of shellac and dropped it into the bag that carried her cellphone, wallet, lip balm and pepper spray, and headed to the front cash. She bought a pack of chewing gum, easing the shellac, unpaid for, past the checkout. Expecting someone to come running out after her, she passed through the exit without anyone noticing her. In the clear. Was that what she wanted? To get caught stealing?