The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  “I’m afraid what she’ll do. If she finds out, she’s going to be so pissed. She’s scary when she’s pissed. You don’t know how scary she can be.”

  “Sure I do,” pipes Charlie. “I’ve been with her since she bought her first boarding home, way back in ’98 that was. She was all fake, ‘I’m going to have the best home in the neighbourhood, and you’re going to be a big help to me.’ That was after I’d been there for a few months, her kid hadn’t moved in yet, so things weren’t that bad, and she needed a guy around the place. She said I needed something to keep me busy, hell, she’s still saying that, like it’s for my own good she works me like a dog. You don’t know this, but we had to do a midnight, you know, the whole bloody building had to pack up, not tell anyone, not even your best friend, if you had one. Top secret, she kept saying, or they take you back to hospital, and you know you might never get out again. That’s what she said. Back then. She wouldn’t say why we had to leave, but I seen all these official letters and past due bills come in through the mail slot. I like to know what’s going on, and I saw stuff from the bank, and lawyers, and even hydro.

  “What I think is, she didn’t pay her bills, nothing. ‘It’s a better place we’re moving to,’ she says, all smiles and happy, ‘you’ll love it there.’ What gets me, those same kind of letters have been coming here over the last month. From the same kind of places. I think she’s done it again. I’ll betcha, in a few weeks, she starts talking about moving. But I’ve made up my mind, I’m not going. I like Parkdale, what I’ve seen of it, and I’m fed up with Richard.”

  Murmured agreement from the rest. Charlie continues, “But, not to be rude or anything, as soon as T.J.’s ready, you should go, ’cause she comes most days around three, and it wouldn’t be good for her to find you here. Not good for us, not good for you.”

  As they filed upstairs, Janet hung back. “Dana, where’s Michael? I haven’t heard from him, is he all right?”

  How to answer that, I wonder, without causing her more worry. “He’s fine, Janet, I’m just keeping him very busy. I’m sure you’ll see him soon.”

  T.J., sitting across from me at the wonky table, is looking even more like a stereotypical mental patient than he had the day before—unshaven, with half-moons under his eyes, his clothes the same ones he spent his harrowing night in. His hands are trembling and he still looks unnaturally stiff, his movements jerky. He sits straight, but it’s obvious he really needs to slump. Charlie’s gone upstairs with the other tenants.

  “I know you warned me about those pills, Gerry. But I was lying there, for hours it seemed like, listening to all this noise in the room and out in the hall, people yelling and screaming, banging and thumping on the walls, and to tell you the truth, I was getting a little freaked. All I wanted to do was go home. I didn’t want to let you down, Dana, so I thought half a pill might calm me enough to let me sleep. It’s not like I’ve never done drugs, so I was sure I could handle it. And it did help, I did sleep, only when I woke up, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t call out, it was like someone had wired my jaw shut.

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life. The only thing that helped me keep it together was your promise to be here this morning, and thank God you came, or I’d still be lying there.”

  I notice that Janet’s sitting quite close to T.J., her eyes riveted to his face. I feel a slight pang. Poor Michael.

  “You know, when you left,” T.J. tells Miss Semple, “this guy came in, said he was the house manager, and started tossing my stuff. He was especially interested in the medication envelope you gave me, he studied the writing for a long time, it was making me nervous that he’d figured out it was a scam, but he emptied the envelope into his palm, looked at the pills, and shoved them back in. He wanted to know if I had any money, he said he’d ‘lock it up downstairs so it would be safe.’ I said no, and he made me turn my pockets out, and grabbed the ten bucks you gave me. He took the pack of cigarettes too, opened it, threw a couple on the bed and kept the rest. Said he was saving me from myself. Told me to be sure I behaved myself, if I knew what was good for me. A real charmer. But I got it all on camera.”

  “That’s the landlady’s son,” said Janet. “His name’s Richard, and he’s an addict. He’s supposed to help take care of the place, but he was looking to roll you for drugs if you had any good ones, or money’s even better.”

  T.J. looks at Janet. “I couldn’t believe he was so brazen! Right out in the open like that?”

  “Who is T.J. the mental patient going to complain to?” she shrugs. “His poor grandmother who dumped him here? Like she’d believe you?”

  “Or care.” This from Gerry, whose own family never wrote, never visited.

  Miss Semple pipes up, “When I met the landlady yesterday, she was clearly trying to make a good impression. She told me how she’d worked as a nurse in the States for years, and that I should have no worries about leaving T.J. in her care. On the other hand, she must have counted the bills I gave her three times before she was satisfied, and I really had to keep insisting on a receipt. She finally wrote one out on a scrap of paper she found in one of the kitchen drawers.”

  “What’s the kitchen like?” Gerry asked.

  “Institutional. Superficially clean at least. I don’t get the feeling she spends much time in there.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” says Janet. “One of the tenants does all of the cooking. I think she lets him keep most of his ODSP cheque for doing it.”

  “He shouldn’t get anything,” T.J. said. I swear last night’s dinner was tomato soup poured over macaroni. It was disgusting. And it’s so crowded that guys were shoving each other to get a seat. And the dessert was straight from a can, one paltry grape and three diced peaches and a couple of pears in sugar syrup.”

  “Sounds better than what I had,” Gerry grumbled. “Meals on bloody Wheels brought me a piece of plain white fish, boiled carrots and a clump of rice. Like that could feed anyone.”

  We all wisely held our tongues, even T.J., who only stared at Gerry for a few moments before continuing.

  “There was no staff in the dining room, as far as I could tell. And I didn’t see the son anywhere.”

  “He’s hardly ever around for the supper hour, or much else, unless his mother forces him. It can get pretty wild in the dining room, T.J.’s right. Especially if the meal’s lousy.”

  “Did you get it on tape, T.J.?” I ask. He nods, but sees where I’m going with it, that it’s really only the beginning.

  “I suppose I need to spend some more time in the house, get to know some of the folks.” He sounds as though he’d been hoping one night would be enough research. “Let’s say three, four nights should do it, then I’ll sneak my cameraman in for an early afternoon. If Janet and I keep watch, he can take some interior shots on my last night here. Then we’ll take off and go over to the drop-in with your friends who are willing to talk, Janet, so that all the interviews are taped before the landlady twigs.”

  “What happens to them when she finds out they’ve been talking?” Janet asks.

  That’s been troubling me as well.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I’ll ask Pete to get an emergency meeting with some of the housing referral people and legal aids. So everything’s in place to keep them safe once it airs.”

  “Maybe we should get some of that meeting on camera too. That landlady, she looks so put together, people won’t believe what she lets go on.”

  We all nod in agreement with T.J.

  “I have an idea,” Miss Semple says suddenly. “We should catch Mrs. Avery on tape without her knowing. T.J., is your camera working right now?”

  At his nod, she continues. “Why don’t I confront her as soon as she comes in this afternoon? I mean, we’re already here, and I could say T.J. called me complaining about last night’s theft!” Miss Semple’s on a roll. “Charlie said she’d be here around three, it’s almost that now. Her response would be interesting, and with T.J. beside me, and
his little spy camera, it might help show who she really is.” I’m already nodding, this sounds like a plan, but I’m going to be right with her. I don’t quite trust T.J.’s ability to watch out for her. I know he wants to, but I’m not really sure he’s up to it. Gerry protests that he wants to stay too, but I have my suspicions that Gerry won’t be able to keep a cork in it if someone says one angry word to Miss Semple.

  “There’s one more thing, T.J. I need you to film this.” I lead him over to the boxes and point, and the next thing I know he’s gagging, both hands clamped to his mouth in a effort to keep back the vomit. It takes a number of deep breaths to get him to talk, one shaky finger pointing to the food-strewn floor, as he says hoarsely, “That’s what we had for supper.”

  “That’s an extraordinary accusation! Really, it’s unforgivable. I’ve done nothing to deserve such treatment.” It’s an hour later, and standing in the kitchen, Mrs. Avery is the picture of wronged womanhood. We’ve clearly caught her off balance; when we walked in and said our piece, she stood stock still in shock. Everything about her is perfect, her dress, her high heels, her hair, stiff with spray, her painted nails, even the spotless floral-printed apron she’s tied around her waist.

  But Miss Semple gives Mrs. Avery’s indignation a run for its money. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m very distressed. Your home was recommended to me, and I trusted you enough to place my grandson here. You assured me he’d be well taken care of. I hadn’t been home an hour when he called, crying and terrified, after being mugged by your manager! I have half a mind to call the police!”

  “Please, please have a seat. I see you are very upset. Oh dear. You too, Tommy, and your sister.” That’s me. I’m slouching in the corner, with a toque on my head and sunglasses covering my eyes. I just grunted when Miss Semple introduced me.

  “Sit down. I’ll put on some water for tea. There, that’s better, are you sure you want to leave your coats on? Fine. Now let me assure you, I would never let any harm come to any of my tenants.” She reaches over and takes one of Miss Semple’s hands, patting it gently, her eyes filled with concern and caring. “Of course your grandson is anxious. A new home, a new neighbourhood. Surrounded by people he doesn’t know. It’s a very stressful situation. Please understand, I’m not blaming him. It’s the illness, you see. Sometimes they get confused, these psychiatric patients, they have difficulty telling what’s real and what are simply paranoid fantasies.”

  “My grandson doesn’t get confused like that. And he doesn’t lie.”

  “Oh, I’d never accuse him of deliberately lying. Please. You know that, don’t you dear?” She smiles at “Tommy,” but her eyes have a totally different message. “The illness is at fault here, it distorts reality.”

  “He takes his medication.”

  “Yes, I realize that. Perhaps it needs adjusting, just to get him through this transition period.” Miss Semple manages to look a little confused herself under this onslaught of reasonableness. “I’ve worked with these people most of my life, and my son has as well. We understand them. I’m not saying it’s easy, or that it doesn’t hurt a little, this kind of accusation. We do our best, my son and I, to make their lives as comfortable as possible, to keep them safe, to be family.” She swipes at her eyes with a corner of her apron. “We don’t ask for thanks. The work is its own reward.”

  “Well, I don’t know…” Miss Semple is a hell of an actress. She’s so believable.

  “I’m sure you can’t take care of him yourself. That’s why you brought him to us in the first place, isn’t it? There, there, I know how hard it is. Let’s try again, shall we? At least a month? Give us all time to get to know each other? What do you say?”

  “Tommy, you know I’d keep you at home if my health was better, you do know that, don’t you?”

  T.J. nods miserably, keeping his head low.

  “If you’ll just try a little longer, it would be such a big help to me.”

  T.J. mumbles, “All right, I will.”

  Mrs. Avery smiles brightly. “There we are. Everything’s settled! Just in time for our tea. Tommy, I’m sure we can find some nice biscuits for you, would you like some?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Now where are they?” She rummages in the cupboards. “There should be a tin, yes, here it is.” She pries off the lid and passes it around. “Isn’t this nice? Here we are, all warm and cozy, among friends.”

  Miss Semple passes on the cookies, T.J. takes a handful, slurping his tea and spilling most of it. I think he’s starting to enjoy himself.

  “Well, I must be going. My cat will be wondering where I am. Thank you, Mrs. Avery, I’m sure we’ll talk again.”

  “Lovely to see you. Do drop in anytime. Tommy, we’ll see you at supper.”

  Miss Semple, T.J., and I walk to the front door on our own, T.J. patting his radio triumphantly. I stand to the side as T.J. sees Miss Semple out, but I’m startled when he pales and almost collapses at the sight of the man coming through the door, a shovel over his left shoulder. I figure it has to be Richard, Mrs. Avery’s son. He looks at us curiously before heading down the hall toward the kitchen. I watch his back while calling goodbye to “Tommy” and closing the door more forcefully than necessary from the inside. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting, and I’ve no intention of leaving. I push T.J. toward the stairs, and whisper to him to make some noise.

  He stomps halfway up the stairs and I tread softly in his wake. We then lean over the banister, peering back down the corridor. A loud metallic clang and rattle rings out from the first floor, as though the biscuit tin had been flung at a wall. I grab T.J.’s shirt, point back down the stairs. He shakes his head violently, but I’m insistent. We tip-toe back down to the bottom landing.

  “I’ve told you before, Richard, keep your hands off the tenants!” There was none of the cheerful, understanding woman we’d just left in that voice; it was cutting and angry.

  “I never touched him! He’s crazy!”

  “Don’t lie to me, you little bastard. I’m always having to clean up after you. The last time, it was that girl you mauled, and before that…” T.J. frantically points back upstairs, but I shake my head and make him follow me just a little way down the hall.

  “Look, she was always walking around half-naked, she was begging for it.” She slapped him, that’s what it sounded like, and he gave a little cry of surprise.

  “Hey, what the hell!”

  “I won’t tolerate any more screwups from you. I won’t let you ruin things again.”

  “Get off my back, Mother!”

  A door bangs and we race back up the stairs quickly and quietly, but keep our ears open.

  We hear Mrs. Avery shrieking. “Remember, Richard, there’s a limit to my patience, and you’ve reached it. One more episode, and you’re out.”

  He slams the front door behind him, rattling the pane of glass inset in the wood. A few minutes later she exits out the back, gets into her BMW, and roars off. T.J. and I grin at each other, execute a perfect high five, then I rush off to catch up with Miss Semple.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There’s an odd older man ahead of me. He walks like the ground’s sucking at his legs, the top half of his body pushed forward, head straining, his three-quarter-length coat open and flapping in the wind, hands out before him to break any fall. He’s not making much headway: it looks like his boots are too big for his feet, and he has to stop every few yards to reach back and retrieve one boot or the other where it’s stayed behind. It’s exhausting just watching him, but it takes my mind off my own trouble negotiating the drifts piled up at every curb.

  He sits, almost collapses, right in the middle of where we’re estimating the sidewalk to be in this storm, upsetting some pedestrians, who snarl at him. No one’s watching where they’re going, the winds are too miserable, even the snowflakes hurt. I don’t know if he’s on strike against the conditions or just taking a break, but he pulls out a sandwich from one of his pockets
and starts to hold his own little picnic. He looks so comfortable, I might just join him. I don’t realize I’ve come to a stop till I’m bumped from behind, nearly sending me face down on the buried pavement. I keep moving, leaving the man to his late lunch, plodding on, my ears and toes frozen solid, even my thighs burning with cold. I realize with a shock that what I thought was the wind howling is actually my own breathing, ragged and loud.

  Cars are having trouble as well, though it’s difficult to spare a thought for the drivers encased in their cushiony warmth, even as they skid into light poles or mailboxes or other vehicles. I’m not a fan of winter. I should have checked the forecast. I never thought it would take this long or be so damn hard. I’ll probably get to the church half-dead, and it will be closed because of the storm. Then what am I going to do?

  I know this kind of self-pity isn’t helping. If I start to cry, I’ll freeze my eyelids shut. I have to be my own cheerleader here: that’s it, you’re doing great, left foot, right foot, left foot, even if you can’t feel it, it’s doing what it’s supposed to, moving you along, getting you closer with every step.

  That guy had the right idea. Just sit down, have a bit of lunch, why fight it? I shake my head, drive that thought back.

  Tatters has to show tonight, I have to be there. I settle into numb misery, there is no before, no after, just one foot ahead of another. The blare of a horn alerts me that I’ve wandered into the street. I track back to where I think the sidewalk is. On either side of me, homeowners might as well be on some other plane of existence. Smoke, barely visible, curls out of chimneys, scenting the air that freezes in my nostrils. Though some houses have curtains drawn against the night, others, like tropical islands scattered in the ocean, have framed in their windows people inside sitting down to dinner, hot soup in fine china bowls. I can almost taste it. I wrench my gaze away, try to get my bearings.