The Corpse Will Keep

by Pat Capponi

  “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, Dana, but we felt you might discourage us. So there we were, parked in the middle of the biggest snowstorm on record, drinking hot chocolate from a Thermos and playing hands of gin.”

  Michael, who hasn’t really separated himself from Gerry since his return, looks at Miss Semple admiringly. “You were on a stakeout!”

  “Yes, I guess we were. When you two finally came out in the morning, it was easy to keep up; that car is quite distinctive. We parked while Jesse got gas, and then kept our distance behind you until he pulled into that driveway. Oh Dana, we could imagine you being dragged into the house. It was so hard to just sit there, I wanted to call the police right away, but Jon thought we should park down the street and wait and see. And we saw a great deal, including several vans with tinted windows coming and going. We wrote down the licence numbers. I told Jon to give me his cell phone, and I called the police. It took some time, but I finally reached Ed and told him where we were and what we were doing. It was through him that we realized it was Mrs. Preston’s house. And that the young men might be the same ones doing all the home invasions in the city. Ed told us to leave the area immediately; he was quite stern about letting the police do their job.”

  “Sure, after we’d done all the work,” grumbled Gerry.

  “I think he was very worried about Dana, and about us. Those men were violent criminals. And as worried as I was, about Dana and you, too, Michael, I was happy to let him handle it. I knew he wouldn’t let any harm come to either of you.”

  I feel Michael’s eyes on me. I turn toward him, smile.

  Earlier, Michael had told his story to Ed and me in a small, windowless room at the police station where we waited to make our statements. But not before Ed and I had a private moment, when he held me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

  “For me, it was a weird experience. Doesn’t come any weirder,” Michael said, staring at his feet as he spoke. “When I ran into that group at the Out of the Cold, it made sense to stick with them. Especially since I was being vouched for by the guy I used to team with for some, ah, jobs. It was pretty clear they were up to no good, the only question was, did it have anything to do with the old lady? Couldn’t come right out and ask, you know? So I partied with them. I think they were checking me out, some of the things they said, about easy money, free drugs, made me think they might ask me to sign on with them.

  “They invited me back to their house. I pictured some dump, you know, a room or something. So I was pretty impressed when we ended up at that mansion. I was introduced to Jesse right off.

  “It was so weird. He never let me be alone, I had to be with him or one of his lieutenants. He kept me up all hours, asking all kinds of questions, about my childhood, about school, about what I’d been doing, how I felt about this and that. I knew it was all some kind of test. And that I’d better pass it. He liked to talk about himself too, all his big plans and schemes. He said we were alike, him and me, that’s how out to lunch he was.

  “By then, I knew about Mrs. Preston, and I knew about the home invasions. Dana, when he brought you in, I almost freaked. I kept telling myself in my head, keep cool, keep cool, if you’re going to stand any chance of saving her, you got to stay cool. Remember in that meeting in the basement, when he made me crew boss? I saw you looking at me. I never want to see that look on your face again, Dana. I felt so bad, but I didn’t dare show it.”

  I watch his animated face, and thank the powers that be that he is still quintessentially Michael.

  Diamond’s voice brings me back to the common room.

  “Man, what an adventure!” Diamond looks as though, given a choice, he’d quit school again just to work with us. His business courses must seem pretty tame in comparison.

  “Yeah, it was an adventure, all right. Scarier than hell, though.”

  Diamond leans forward in his chair. “And all the time you were there, that body was in the freezer! Think about that!”

  “Once I knew,” I say, my voice coming out in a whisper, “it was hard to think about anything else.” We’re all quiet for a bit.

  “Yeah, well, while you guys were living the high life in a bloody mansion, eating steak and guzzling wine, me and Miss Semple were knee-deep in that hellhole, holding T.J.’s hand,” Gerry says.

  Another story’s quickly told, and then inevitably, Michael asks, “How’s Janet doing? Did she think getting this guy, T.J. or whatever, was a good idea?”

  We’re all quiet.

  “What? Tell me!”

  Miss Semple does, carefully. “Janet is doing quite well. She’s been very successful, getting tenants to come forward. She’s also, well…” Miss Semple is struggling a bit. “She seems quite fond of T.J.”

  “Fond?”

  “Very fond.”

  “Oh.” We all watch him as it sinks in. I realize I’m holding my breath. Then he just shrugs. “It’s funny. I hardly thought of her at all when I was with Jesse. I thought about all of you, but not her. I guess it wasn’t real for me. Or for her. I hope she’s happy.”

  He’s surprised himself, I can tell.

  Gerry, loyally, says, as if it’s never been said by anyone, ever, on the whole face of the earth: “Plenty of fish in the sea. ’Specially now you’re a hero and all.”

  “Speaking of T.J., we’re supposed to meet him in front of the boarding house just after three today. He’s going to come dressed as himself, and he’s going to confront the owner. Another day of excitement! We should all go. You too, Diamond.” Miss Semple pats his hand.

  “Yeah,” says Michael. “You haven’t had any fun at all. Me, I’m going up to the drop-in, talk to Pete. I missed that place a whole lot.”

  “If it’s okay with you,” I’m looking at all of them but talking mostly to Michael, “I’d like to offer us up to T.J., for exclusive interviews about Jesse if he wants. He’s been good to us.”

  “If you say so. Maybe it’ll keep all the other reporters away.” So it’s decided.

  T.J. and his cameraman, Donny, arrive in a rolling advertisement of a car, painted brightly with the station’s call sign, and with some kind of dish up on its roof. I’ve decided not to tell him about Jesse’s gang until he finishes shooting this segment. I don’t want him losing interest. Even now, he’s not as pumped as I thought he’d be; in fact, he looks a little downcast.

  “What’s the matter, T.J.?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that, well, you remember I said that those home invasions were a huge story? It looks like the cops busted the gang last night. There’s a big press conference scheduled later today, and I’m not assigned to cover it.”

  “Sorry, T.J., that’s too bad. Have they given any details?”

  “No, apparently they’re being really close-mouthed, at least till the chief gets back from Ottawa. You know, there just aren’t that many opportunities these days. Don’t get me wrong, this is great, what we’re doing here, it’s going to make a real splash. But home invasions, especially as brutal as these were, they get you noticed by everyone, especially the big networks.”

  “T.J., your time is coming, I know it is.”

  “Nice of you to say, Dana. I appreciate it, really. Well, let’s get this show on the road.”

  With T.J. leading, we walk up to the door of the house and he rings the bell. Not surprisingly, Charlie answers, as dishevelled as usual, and, grinning out at us, asks in a high falsetto: “Hello. Whom do you wish to see?”

  T.J. grins back. “Mrs. Avery, please.”

  “Certainly. Will you follow me?”

  Like an eccentric Pied Piper, he leads us down the corridor to the kitchen. Donny has his camera rolling, and we trail him.

  Mrs. Avery looks up and pales in shock. “What is this? Who are you people? Get out of here! Richard! Richard!”

  T.J. thrusts the microphone toward her. “Don’t you recognize poor Tommy? And my dear grandmother?” Miss Semple waves cheerfully from the back.

  “What are
you talking about? I don’t know any of you.”

  I chime in. “We all sat around the table, talking about how crazy and delusional Tommy was. Don’t you remember?”

  A light is clearly dawning; her jaw drops open. Richard comes clumping down the stairs and elbows his way into the kitchen.

  T.J. thrusts the microphone under her chin.

  “Mrs. Avery, we have proof that you and your son have been intimidating and stealing from your tenants. First-hand eyewitness accounts, and acts caught on film. What do you have to say for yourself, Mrs. Avery?”

  She shoves the mike away, screaming, “Get them out of here!”

  Richard whines, “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Call the police, you idiot. They’re trespassing.”

  “Actually, I’m not,” says T.J., and I’m starting to feel quite proud of him. “I live here. Here’s the receipt you made out.”

  She tries to grab it from his hand, but he whisks it behind his back, causing her to lose it entirely. Sidestepping T.J., she rushes at the camera, knocking it skyward for a moment as she lets out a howl of rage, followed by wild flailing of her hands.

  “Out! Out! All of you! Out!”

  A very shaken Richard pleads with us to leave his mother alone. “Then you talk to us, Richard. How long have you been stealing from the tenants? Shaking them down?”

  “What?” Richard’s voice squeaks with tension and surprise, as his mother readies herself for another assault on Donny. I’m proud to see Gerry step forward to guard him. Mrs. Avery wilts in place at the sight of him.

  “You’ve been convicted of sexual assault, you’ve done time, for that and for armed robbery. And your mother is wanted for fraud. How were you able to convince the authorities to trust you with such vulnerable individuals?”

  Richard is sputtering, unable to reply. “I, I, my mother is…Please go.”

  “That’s your statement? Your last word? This will air tonight. It may be your only opportunity to explain your actions to the citizens of Toronto.”

  Mrs. Avery starts pummelling her son. “It’s all your fault. Look what you’ve done to me! Now what will happen to us!”

  “Let’s go,” says T.J. in disgust. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  As we’re leaving, Donny turns to take a last memorable shot as spontaneous applause comes from a horde of tenants who are crowding the staircase, leaning over banisters from the second floor, whooping and whistling. I catch sight of Janet and wave, which ups the volume considerably.

  Mrs. Avery drove off with Richard that afternoon, two steps ahead of the police. Pete had already notified the hospital and some government bureaucrats of T.J.’s work-in-progress, and with the agreement of the deeply embarrassed mortgage holder—one of Canada’s biggest banks—the house and its substantial mortgage was to be transferred to a non-profit agency to run.

  Michael and I are sitting in the green room, the very same one where I met the dragon lady. We’re both wearing makeup, though Michael protested loudly, at least until he was told that he’d look like a corpse without it.

  “I don’t know, Dana. This is scarier than being at the mansion.”

  “We’ll be fine. It’s just T.J. Keep your eyes on him, not the camera, and try not to swear, ’cause it’s live.”

  On the television screen, T.J.’s doing a promo about our interview. I nudge Michael, and we both watch. T.J. looks more substantial somehow, weightier.

  “Coming up, live, in our studio, my exclusive interview with two citizens who tracked down and exposed the brutal gang that terrorized our city. Call your family and friends—this is must-see television!”

  “Cool,” says Michael. “He’s talking about us!”

  EPILOGUE

  The place is transformed. Instead of the usual smells of tobacco smoke and sweat, there are wafts of pine and roasting turkey. Red, blue, orange, and purple paper snowflakes are stuck to the front door and the walls and here and there on the floor, while ragged lettering spells out “Merry Christmas” over the door to Pete’s office. The tables are all in neat rows, with colourful cloths covering the cigarette burns and coffee cup rings. Over by the television, an eight-foot tree stands tall. A little crowd of children, watched by their parents and by a beaming Cassie (who’s managed to snag the best armchair in the building), plays near it. Some of them are bursting with manic energy, hardly able to contain themselves. Others look a little too pale, too thin; they hang back at the edges of the more boisterous goings-on, wide-eyed and wondering. We don’t see them often, the children, except for holidays and other special events.

  It’s warm, really warm.

  I know Diamond is with his family, and that Miss Semple is helping serve the meal over at her mission, but I’m worried about Gerry, back at Delta Court. He had to endure so many truly miserable, lonely holidays on psychiatric wards year after endless year, with no friends, no family to look forward to, that today holds no interest for him.

  I asked him once what he liked to do on the 25th, and, predictably I suppose, he said, “Sleep till the 26th!” Michael’s promised to do his best to get Gerry to come with him. I would have dragged him here myself, but I haven’t been home. Since about seven o’clock last night, I’ve been here cooking turkeys, shifting big aluminum foil trays full of birds from oven to counter, making stuffing, peeling potatoes, and playing Marx Brothers movies on the VCR. Pete was doing the same at his house, as were other volunteers. Between us, we’ve managed to have a half-dozen stuffed birds ready to serve by the time we opened the door.

  I take my place with Pete and the others behind the kitchen counter, and start serving. At first it seems as though the lineup goes on forever, that we’re bound to run out of food, but Pete keeps smiling and reassuring me that he’s done this for years, everything’s going to be fine. Everyone is in such a good mood, I stop worrying after the first twenty or so get their full plates and find a seat; the rest is a happy blur until, wondrously, the line thins to a dribble of individuals, among them a remarkably cheerful Sister Jane, who’s hand in hand with the crossing guard, the straying boyfriend nowhere in sight. Pete whispers that he declined her offer to lead the members in a prayer before eating. Finally there’s just us, and seemingly never-ending piles of food. The only thing spoiling the moment is that neither Michael nor Gerry has come. Maybe Michael decided if he couldn’t move Gerry, he’d at least keep him company. I make two plates, cover them with foil, and put them into a plastic bag to take home with me.

  Pete has his well-organized crew of volunteers, many of them from the membership, start collecting all the empty plates, throwing out piles of garbage, putting the tables back in their usual drop-in formation. For just a moment, I’m looking around for the mat distribution point before remembering I’m not at the Out of the Cold. True, some of those here today are homeless, sleeping in shelters or staying with friends—couch surfing, it’s called—but most live in neighbourhood rooming or boarding homes or rundown, fire-trap apartments, one step up from the street.

  There’s an air of anticipation now: it ripples through the children, and some of the adults. The noise level, quite deafening at times today, has dropped off substantially. Pete is watched closely as he positions a large chair—his office chair—right in front of the resplendent tree.

  “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas, boys and girls!”

  There are gasps, kids wriggle and dance with barely contained expectation. “Ho ho ho!” And here comes Santa, in crimson suit and white beard. Behind him, I think, yes, it’s Michael, pushing three lashed-together shopping carts piled high with brightly coloured gifts.

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” It’s Michael doing all the “Ho-ing,” Santa himself being very quiet—in fact, he looks a bit stage-struck. Michael jabs him from behind with the lead cart, gets him moving again, toward the tree. I’m starting to think—but it couldn’t be, not even Michael could pull off this miracle. I walk over to where Santa stands, now surrou
nded by cheering, tugging, yelling kids, and, with Michael’s help, get them to return to their seats on the carpeted floor, while Santa almost collapses in his.

  “Okay now,” says Michael over the din. “Boys and girls, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll be calling out names. When you hear yours, up you come to see Santa. Pete will take your picture for your parents, how’s that?”

  A deafening chorus of “Yays!” and “Me firsts!” and Michael calls out, “Linda. Is there a Linda?” Pushed forward by the other children, a shy six- or seven-year-old girl stands up, one hand in the air. Her nose is running, her pale blond hair is limp, and there are shadows under her eyes, but she’s determined, one careful step after another until she stands right in front of Santa, staring up at him, open-mouthed. Michael bends down, whispers reassurances, and puts her on the not-so-jolly man’s lap. Immediately she throws her arms around his neck, burying her head in the fluffy white beard. For a moment, nothing, then Santa seems to come to life: he wraps his arms around her and hugs her. I’m close enough that I can see the tears in his eyes.

  Gerry takes a gift from Michael and hands it to the child, with a whispered and choked-up “Merry Christmas, Linda.” Pete snaps the picture, and we’re on to the next, Santa getting more and more into it as the afternoon progresses.

  Now it’s the adults’ turn. These gifts are much more practical, scarves and gloves and sweaters and hats, but are welcomed all the same; for many, it will be the only gift they receive this holiday season. From behind me, a voice whispers: “Merry Christmas, Dana.” I smile, not turning around. I was hoping he’d be able to make it.

  “Merry Christmas to you, Ed.”