by Pat Capponi
There are some lumpy shapes I can make out, just in front of me, I can’t hurry to catch them up, but I take some comfort knowing that I’m not alone. I must be close. Oh God, I hope so. I’ll never venture out of the house again, if there’s even a suggestion of snow, never ever. Some of the shapes seem to be veering off to the left, not meandering, but purposefully. I’m stumbling now, as if, with the goal in sight, I’ve let down my guard, my will is receding. A light, flickering in the blowing snow, there! I would have pushed and shoved my way in had there been a crowd around the door, but there’s only me and I can’t believe it as I step into this refuge, the lights—so bright—this sudden transition from hell to mundane salvation. I ward off collapse until I reach a table and pull back a chair, easing myself down. A few volunteers are rushing around with coffee, and I think I’m crying but I’m not sure—my face is too cold. I wrap my hands around a mug, breathing in the steamy heat.
Tatters hasn’t arrived. Yet.
“Bet you’re cold!” Opposite me, a large, broadfaced, inexplicably cheery man is grinning. “Worse is yet to come. Pins and needles, poking, prickling, terrible, terrible. Still, better than them falling off. Ya gotta dance a bit, move your feet.” He comes replete with sound effects, clodhopping his boots on the floor. “It helps with the blood flow. Gets it over with faster. Dinner soon, don’t worry. Warm your belly for you. Some night, eh? We’re the lucky ones, being inside, right?”
I close my eyes, but that doesn’t do much to discourage him. In a few minutes, I’m going to try to muster the energy to relocate. I’m learning that misery doesn’t love company.
“Can’t sleep yet. Don’t want to miss dinner, it’ll be good, you’ll see. Snow will stop, always does. No forty days and forty nights for us, nope, just heaps and heaps of snow down your collar in your boots, are your boots any good? Mine have holes in them, snow sneaks right in, gotta get a new pair but I have to wait till cheque day and even then depends how much they want for them I like leather but rubber’s better, dontcha think?”
He’s never going to stop. It’s like that water torture, a word at a time assaulting my hearing. I’m gathering enough oxygen to blast him into silence when I realize that he’s stopped nattering on. Just for a moment I enjoy the blessed quiet. All the other noise in the room is background, not aimed at me, not demanding replies. Eyes still closed, I sense movement near me, way too near. I pry my eyelids apart with a sheer effort of will, turning my head at the same time. It’s Jesse. He leans even further in, concern in his eyes. He’s so close, the air between us so charged, I can hardly look at his face, and my heart seems to stop of its own accord.
“April, you’re frozen solid.” He’s brought me another coffee; my hands tremble too much to hold it. He puts the cup on the table in front of me. “What a night this is!” he says, taking my hand between his, gently massaging it. I can feel the blood start to flow again, right to my very fingertips. It feels wonderful. “How long did it take you to get here?”
I just shake my head, I’ve no idea. “It seemed like forever.”
He nods. “Most of our volunteers are older women, and they just couldn’t make it in the storm. Not even Mrs. Fitzsimmons, and she’s never missed a day. We’re terribly short-staffed tonight.”
I’m recovering enough to lift my head and look around. We could be war refugees, everyone’s slumped in their chairs, no one’s taken off their coats. I take a deep breath. “I can help, Jesse. Just let me finish this coffee, and I’ll lend a hand.”
He looks at me with such naked admiration that I’m relieved he can’t see me blush; my cheeks are still raw from the cold. “You are something! I think I’ll take you up on that offer. Tell you what, when you’re ready, if you could just do a check on folks, see if anyone’s in distress, that will free me up to get the meal out.”
“I’m glad to help.” He’s in no hurry to leave. He starts working on my other hand, and I wonder about his effect on me, on my body. He’s charismatic, no question, and his eyes, when they’re directed at me, are so intense, we could be the only people in the room. “I’m better now, Jesse, thanks.” I don’t want him to stop, but with an effort I pull my hand from his. He has enough to worry about.
He squeezes my shoulder gently as he stands, and I watch as he heads to the kitchen. I like the way he walks, I like most things about him. Just as I’m thinking this, the lights flicker ominously. I hold my breath until they steady. A power outage is all we need to make this a perfect evening.
I drain my cup and stand, taking off my coat and draping it across the back of the chair. Though I have to be careful to remain in character as April, I feel like I’m in familiar territory now: it will be just like a night, a particularly bad night, granted, but just like a chaotic shift at the drop-in.
There are about thirty “guests” in all, and most are in surprisingly good spirits now that they’re out of the storm. All of them are more than ready to eat, as am I, and in the meantime, no one seems to be suffering from frostbite, though everyone has wet socks. I manage to snag a volunteer in passing. She’s one of the cooks, she tells me; she’d come in quite early in the day to do the preparations and was now stuck like us. I ask if there are any dry socks to be had, and, as the lights falter once again, flashlights or candles. She bustles me into the room where donations are stored, the very room where Mrs. Preston was assaulted, and piles packs of tube socks into my arms. “Here, you can hand these out, dearie. I know we have emergency lights that are supposed to come on in the event of a power failure, but they’re only at the exits. I’ll start looking for candles and things right away.”
People are inordinately grateful for the socks, dry and warm as they are. As I circulate, I keep an eye out for Tatters. Stragglers are still coming through the door in ones and twos, so he may yet make it.
Food! Jesse and a handful of the young thugs, not Michael, I notice with a brief pang, emerge from the kitchen bearing plates piled high with chicken and steaming potatoes. I guess these bad boys can’t resist Jesse either. It’s quite a feat, getting them to volunteer, though they look a bit sulky. I wait until everyone is eating, then accept a plate for myself, demolishing everything edible on it.
The lights go just as the mats are being distributed. A few women scream, then I hear Jesse’s voice, calm, controlled, coming from a few feet away from me, accompanied by a narrow spear of light. “Okay, now, it’s only a power failure, no need to panic. We’ll get candles lit in just a second, everyone stay where you are so you don’t go banging into things in the dark. April, where are you? Can you give me a hand?”
“I’m over here,” I call, and shuffle my way toward him, guided by his penlight.
We make our way into the kitchen, where half a dozen candles are being lit. Someone is rummaging through drawers, using a full-size flashlight.
“I’m afraid we don’t have many candles, and only a few flashlights. I’ve searched through every cupboard and drawer I can find,” says the nice tube sock lady.
“Why don’t we put the candles in the middle of the room, like a campfire,” I suggest. “That way there’s no danger of people burning themselves accidentally, and the light will be concentrated and stronger. And then we can use the flashlights to guide people to the bathrooms and their sleeping areas.”
“Brilliant, April. That’s just what we’ll do.” I feel myself grow warm at Jesse’s praise, then think, God, I’m just like an adolescent. What does this mean? What’s going on with me? I’m tempted to slap myself.
In short order, we’re all sitting on mats around the makeshift “campfire.” It’s strange but comforting, and no one is in a hurry to be led into the dark to sleep. There are cookies and large slices of cake being carefully passed around. It’s oddly festive. A tremulous voice suggests, “We could sing hymns. We’re in a church, after all, and it would be nice.”
“That’s a good idea, why don’t you lead us off?” I call back.
“Oh. Okay. Let me see now. How abou
t ‘Amazing Grace’?”
A chorus of agreement comes from the shadows, and a moment later, the first few words rise sweetly over the coughing and shuffling and laboured breathing of heavy smokers. More voices join in, myself and Jesse included. He’s right beside me, something I’m very conscious of. We move from hymns to Christmas carols to fifties rock and roll. Gradually the voices thin out and snoring takes over, as the candles flicker and sputter, reaching the end of their wicks.
Jesse speaks in a whisper, “How are you doing? Are you tired?”
I’m exhausted, but not ready to admit it. “I’m good, thanks. What about you?”
“Me?” He takes both my hands in his. “I’m wishing you trusted me. I’d like to know the real you.”
“What?” I’m shocked at this—it seems to come from nowhere.
“You’re the reporter who interviewed Mrs. Fitzsimmons, aren’t you? It’s all right, April, really, I’m not mad or anything. I admire you, I really do.”
I open my mouth to deny it, close it again as I try to think what to say. Why am I in such a muddle? It doesn’t really matter if he thinks I’m a reporter, and it would allow me to ask him questions that would otherwise sound strange.
“You can’t just be doing a human interest story either, not if you’re out on a night like this. Tell me what it’s all about, maybe I can help.”
I’m very conscious of the feel of his hands; what I’d really like him to do is put his arms around me so that I can rest this very tired head of mine on his shoulder.
“Yes. All right. It’s true. I’m a fraud.”
A flash of something in his eyes, there and gone too fast to interpret. Then he smiles and everything’s fine. It’s funny, looking at his face by candle-light, you would not expect him to be the kind of man you’d find volunteering in a church basement. There is something flint-hard about him, tempered by humour and attractiveness. It strikes me, quite suddenly, that he looks more like a cop than Ed does. With the volunteers, who positively gush over him, he’s as gallant as he’s been with me. And it seems honest, heartfelt. I decide to trust him.
“Right now, I’d like to find a woman named Cassie. She’s a regular here. Do you know her? Her husband, Rick, is dead and I have some questions I’d like to ask her. And I’d like to know she’s all right.”
“I heard that Rick got mugged. It’s very sad, but sometimes those are the tough consequences of life on the street. There’s no more to it than that.”
“I think maybe—can I ask you, have you noticed anything strange around here, with the young kids hanging around? That gang of young men—do you have trouble with them?”
Jesse’s confusion is apparent. “Why—what are you saying?”
“I’m saying there’s some kind of gang at work here, maybe they’re recruiting prostitutes, I don’t know. But Cassie was afraid, and so was Rick. And I think he got caught in the middle after they saw him talking to me.”
“This is crazy. I’m in charge of security, don’t you think I’d have noticed if a gang was operating here? Frightening people? Killing people?”
He’s hurt. I cover his hand with mine; his is still a little furnace and I wonder if his whole body is like that. “Things can go on under the radar. Believe me, it happens all the time.”
“So that’s your slant? Out of the Cold, Riddled by Crime Wave?”
“Listen, I wouldn’t write anything that would tarnish what you’re doing here.” True enough, since I’ve no intention of writing anything at all. “It’s just that I happened to hear things, and now I’m worried because people opened up to me, and Rick’s dead and Cassie’s missing.” And Tatters hasn’t shown, and I’m afraid it may be more than the storm keeping him away. Where else does he have to go?
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“I know, but Jesse, I could really use your help to find Cassie.”
For a long moment he just stares at me. I have a feeling he’s going to turn me down, but he sighs and capitulates.
“All right. I’ll ask around, see if people know where she usually hangs out. In the morning, we’ll take my car and go looking for her. I have to tell you, though, I think this is all really paranoid.”
“I’d love for you to be right, Jesse. I really would.”
“Okay, you get some sleep now. I’m going to see what I can do about the breakfasts.”
As I watch him walk away, I realize I can’t wait to lie down, close my eyes. I’m so tired I’m slurring my words. Some Canadian I am: one winter storm and I’m out for the count.
The parking lot outside the church has been ploughed already, but there are slippery patches, one of which almost sends me flying. Jesse steadies me, and for a moment we stand face to face, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes on mine. It’s so quiet, everything muffled by the mounds of brilliant snow, that I can hear my pulse. He leans in, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. As I’m wondering how I’ll deal with that, he smiles, caresses my cheek with one finger, and leads me to his car without speaking. I remember to breathe again.
The power came back on around three in the morning, an event I missed: Jesse told me I’d fallen asleep a half-hour earlier. He and the small crew of volunteers had made sandwiches and coffee for the guests, and got everyone up and moving shortly after seven. People were still excited and chatty about the night before, especially the sing-along, suggesting with wide smiles that it should be a regular part of the program.
Jesse’s had the engine of his car running for a few minutes, so the car is warmed up and cozy inside. It’s a black Jag with tinted windows, which surprises me even in this neighbourhood. He opens the passenger door for me, then, once I’m in, closes it with a satisfying thunk. He spends a few minutes scraping accumulated ice and snow from the windshield and the side windows, his breath coming in white puffs. Every time he catches my eye he smiles. I wish I could have taken a shower, washed my hair, changed my clothes; I’d settle at this point for a good deodorant. The seats are soft leather and the warm air blowing lulls me into a fugue state. I’m brought back abruptly to the here and now when the driver’s door opens and Jesse piles in, bringing with him a blast of icy air.
“I think we’re ready to go. Just one stop, to fill up my tank, and then we’ll make the rounds, all right?”
He’s gathered a list of places he thinks Cassie might be, including drop-ins, street corners, and bars. Although he clearly thinks I’m chasing shadows, he’s willing to go along. I have to admire that. There’s a lot about him that’s admirable, I think, sneaking looks at him out of the corner of my eye, remembering that touch on my cheek, as he pulls out of the lot and into the street.
The street. It can’t be the same one I was so lost on last night! Without the wind howling, the snow striking my face and eyes, without the dark and the cold, it’s beautiful. Every branch of every tree is weighed down with snow that sparkles and glints in the sun. The houses are blanketed, as are the wide driveways. It’s all just magnificent, pristine. None of the malevolence I felt then is in evidence this morning, none of that sense that the road will open and swallow you whole. And instead of eternity, it takes us just minutes to hit a main road.
Jesse’s a competent driver, which doesn’t surprise me. He handles the car with the same natural authority he displays with everything he does. In spite of my worries about Michael and Cassie, in spite of Ed, there’s some powerful chemistry bubbling away between us. His touch…
The main streets are a lot less charming. No one’s standing around gawking at the beauty because there is none to see. Buried hulks of cars are skewed near curbs, snow beaten to dirty slush by all-weather tires. People are weighed down, glaring resentfully at drivers and their passengers as they make their slushy way across the street. I feel irrationally guilty.
We pull into a self-serve gas station. There are a number of cars idling ahead of us, some putting in windshield washing fluid, others worrying over their oil or topping up their antifreeze.
We may be a while, he tells me, apologetically. It doesn’t matter, I say, I’m warm, I’m inside, what else do I need? Coffee, he says. Well, yeah.
We’re finally at the pumps, and out he goes. As I hear the nozzle go into the tank, I find I’m looking around the inside of the car for information about Jesse, about his life away from the program, even as I’m asking myself why. I know so little about him. He doesn’t talk a lot about what he does or where he’s from. And let’s face it, I’m a natural snoop, or I wouldn’t be in the business I’m (sort of) in. The interior of the car is as clean as a whistle, so when he goes off to the station to pay, I press the button on the glove box and the little door falls open. There’s some paper, and a leather wallet, actually a document holder. I take another quick look—Jesse’s still fourth in line at the counter—and ease the wallet open.
At first I think I must have fallen asleep, I’m having a nightmare, and I’ll wake up any second now. Nothing else makes sense. Certainly not the name on these registration papers. I throw the wallet back in, slam the glove box closed, and remember I need to breathe.
Jon Walters was right. If I ever get to see him again, I’ll have to apologize.
I have no time; he’s almost at the head of the line. I have to decide what to do, and it’s so hard to think when my heart’s thumping this loudly. I should open the door and run. Did he have Rick killed? Would Cassie meet the same fate? I have to stay, I realize. Have to play along, find a way to stop him. Damn, I’m just as bad as Michael. How will I let the guys know?
Jesse’s at the station door now, holding two cups of coffee and joking with a lady who’s holding the door for him. Always charming. I realize how angry I am at him, more angry than afraid at this point. I’ll have to disguise that if I’m going to survive the next few hours. As he approaches, I lower my window and force myself to smile. Two can play at this game, you bastard.