by Lou Allin
Five
Those teeth. The dog had been at Petville for the extractions. Belle called the vet as coffee perked the next morning. Shana Coolidge lived on the premises, woke by five, and let recovering dogs with manners roam her apartment at will. That wouldn’t include the poodle.
“It’s been days. I was wondering why Miriam didn’t answer the phone,” Shana said. “What’s up?”
Belle resisted babbling, even to someone as trustworthy as the vet. “She’s not well. Nothing serious. How is her dog?” Miriam had been worried about the risky effects of anaesthetics on the small animal.
“A whirling dervish. And don’t let those pathetic pink gums upset you. Grinders do the job. Soft food for a few days. Animals have incredible resources for quick recovery since they don’t drink, smoke or eat Aero bars. When are you coming to—”
“I? Me? Can’t you . . .” Then two images struck her. Freya alone in a kennel, Miriam in another strange and sterile place. The personal touches Evelyn had mentioned did not include a pet. Belle would have to play nursemaid, an onerous chore. At least, it wasn’t a child. Dogs she knew.
After work, the last person in the Petville waiting room, she collected the poodle, whining minorly, tiny black nose poking through the wire of the small plastic cage. “Call it her little house, like Miriam does. Pop her in at mealtimes when you can’t eyeball her, and at night, of course, unless you want to share your bed,” Shana advised.
“Share my—”
“It’s the fastest way. A pup won’t soil the place it lies,” Shana said, flicking back a long, black ponytail streaked with silver. Around Miriam’s age, she jogged an hour with her two comical bull terriers, keeping herself lean and trim. Then she disappeared for a moment and returned with a small yellow bottle and what looked like a horse doctor’s syringe.
“Don’t tell me she’s diabetic already,” Belle said in rising horror. At the nursing home, she’d performed many routine medical tasks for her father, but never given a shot. The very concept was like chalk on a blackboard.
Shana roared with laughter. “This is a puddingy antibiotic for pups. Shove it down her throat twice a day. After any operation, infections are a danger.” Then from her pocket she pulled a medicine bottle with ten needle-like teeth, the roots half an inch long. “Some ‘parents’ like to keep these as mementos.”
First the cage, now this complex assignment. Juggling the ridiculous paraphernalia, Belle felt doubly preyed upon by responsibilities. With a bill smoking her Visa, she bundled the dog to the van, the “house” banging against her legs. At the Garson Foodmart, she assembled an armload of pop-top hockey puck tins of gourmet delights, pâté de foie gras, beef bourguignon, chicken à la king. A buck a shot plus a small bag of puppy chow. Five times Freya’s expense for one-twentieth the weight.
That evening, the shepherd seemed to tolerate the pup, though confused that it arrived sans mistress and didn’t depart after dinner. From the poodle’s well-scoured food dish, no problem wolfing the plat du jour, Belle observed as she filled and squeezed the plastic apparatus. The little dog smacked dark red lips and sucked like a weanling.
Later Belle hustled the dogs to the yard for ablutions, checking her watch. She’d have to take the pup out once or even twice during the night. For easy access, she opted for the pullout couch in the walk-out basement rec room, newly appointed with carpet and ceramic tile. Grudgingly, she arranged her down comforter, pillows, Freya’s sheepskin, the omnipresent cage, and turned on the baseboard heaters, missing the warm woodstove. Five minutes later, outside at the patio doors, Freya waited patiently, her queenly head gazing off into the darkness.
“Where is that . . .” She snatched a robe and pushed into the cold, veering to the side yard, following tiny prints in the new snow. A brutal north wind assaulted her ears and tossed icy waves, forming a white bank ten feet wide against the shore. In the reflected yellow light from the windows, the pup was cowering, frozen at the bulk of an upturned ash bucket, a darkling monster. Reassured by the human, it squatted promptly, shuffled off for a more critical deposit and pranced back inside.
“Get in your little house,” she said, mustering a firm voice. The dog obeyed with a whimper which turned to a weep, then shrill barks that blasted her skull. “How did Miriam ever stand this?” She tossed her book aside and switched off the lamp, waiting another eternity while Freya circled the cage in concern. With a snort, she hauled the brat into bed, set her alarm for two and hoped for the best. Freya would never forgive this indulgence, but a piqued pet was the least of her worries.
She made a mental note to beg for an ad hoc arrangement with the DesRosiers, Ed and Hélène, to stop on their noon walk to let the dogs out. Freya’s talented bladder was good for ten to twelve hours, but the poodle needed intensive care. The last sensations she recorded were the burble of a snout under her chin and a baby’s sigh.
Hoping to welcome Jesse home during a hasty lunch hour, Belle opened the office next morning with guarded optimism. Her answering machine had two messages from people who had declined to renew their contracts and chosen a cut-rate firm. Palmer Realty was becoming a fly-by-night, two-penny, dot.nothing operation. Scarcely had the rooms warmed than in strolled Brian Dumontelle, billed cap under his arm. His blond mini-goatee was trimmed and his shoes gleamed despite the grit and salt on the streets. In his late thirties, over his uniform he wore a heavy blue parka with the emblem of the Sudbury Police. His cheeks were ruddy and his smile broad as he brushed snow from his shoulders, studying her face with an uncomfortable, almost mesmerizing attention. “Got your call,” he said. “A den and a gazebo? Sounds great. Maybe this time will be the charm.”
Belle summoned her business smile, hoping that exercising facial muscles would convince the brain. “Fingers crossed.” Maybe she was in a prickly mood, but there was something overly familiar about the way Brian leaned over the desk and placed his broad hand proprietarily on her back as they left, as if steering a possession. Still, the commission would make a down payment on another van, not a new one, heaven forbid, but a decent late model. Then she paused at the hypothetical balance sheet. Miriam would need a lawyer. And Belle would have to pay her salary in the meantime, not throw her to the humiliation of unemployment or welfare. But then she might qualify for legal . . . her pulse quickened and her thoughts charged months ahead as she bumped into Brian, thoughtfully wiping snow from her windshield with his leather glove. He winked as if the brief contact had been deliberate.
Tabular Street was a quiet cul-de-sac in the south end. Brian’s prospect, a late-seventies backsplit, had been recently sided (vinyl is fynal) and landscaped with Norwegian spruce and compact Alberta firs, a dozen bushes covered city-style with burlap over triangular frames, like a frontier tribal encampment. He nodded approval at the two-car garage and pulled on a pair of boots to stomp around the snow-covered backyard, pounding the gazebo to test its sturdiness.
Inside, Brian admired the kitchen and bathroom refits and new carpeting. “I’m definitely interested. Think the price is firm?” he asked.
Belle gave a knowing smile, her professional allegiance with both parties. “Make an offer, but I caution you not to insult them. An old Italian family. Well-connected.”
He smiled broadly, revealing large white teeth, the canines faintly wolfish. “Come on. No such thing as the Sudbury Mafia, despite rumours about black market Chianti.”
He named a fair number, which she agreed to carry to the seller. Then he glanced at his watch, a Patek Phillipe model. “Let’s celebrate with lunch. You’ve refused so many times that I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.” A mild challenge crossed his sculpted lips. Faded blue like ice in a stream, his irises glowed under lashes more white than blond.
Business and pleasure, an evil combination. But if the sale was nearly clinched, hail and farewell. “I’m alone at the office, and I need to get back. Something quick. Vesta Pasta?”
“Au contraire. Upscale for an upscale lady. I’ll co
nfess something. I checked the house out yesterday, and I was so confident about the sale that I reserved.”
A stranger to triple-digit restaurant bills, Belle had never dreamed of entering Verdicchio’s, Sudbury’s premier restaurant in an unassuming location in a business park on Kelly Lake Road. A modern green metal gate opened onto overlapping shell-like parking areas. Located at the rear, the restaurant proudly presented its menu in a glassed case by the front door. Brian swept her into the large foyer, heaped with multi-coloured poinsettias and anchored by a restful fountain and an étagère of antiques.
“Welcome again, Mr. Dumontelle,” an attractive blonde woman d’un certain âge said in a warm Italian accent, smiling at Belle. “Please call me Willie.” A proud owner of the restaurant, she ushered them into an intimate nook decorated with framed floral watercolours and partitioned with lattice and quaint faux windows in an olde world style.
The waiter soon arrived with a lunch menu and a twenty-five-page leatherbound wine list. While Andrea Bocelli sang arias in the distant background, the waiter lit the candles, and before she could decipher a word, except for pasta, Brian was ordering the first courses. Insalata Mista (seasonal greens with prosciutto, bocconcini of fresh mozzarella, grilled red peppers in a balsamic vinaigrette), farinata di cavolo nero (garlic soup with braised Swiss chard), lumache in guazzetto (sautéed escargots with fresh tomato and white wine on crostini).
“For the lady, I think the tagliatelle carbonara con radicchio along with trota al cartoccio.” He turned to Belle. “Sound good? The trout is from the Valley farms.”
“I’m overwhelmed just holding the wine list.”
“For me, the gnocchi al pomodoro. And can you manage that triple A beef tenderloin I like so much? It’s not on the menu. Rare’s my preference.” He flashed a confident smile at the waiter.
“Certainly, sir. Bistecca alla brace. Special orders are no problem.”
Brian consulted the waiter for any recent wine arrivals, deciding on an Ascevi 2000 Sauvignon for the starters (“gooseberry grapefruit rind and grass aromas”). “Intense for an Italian white,” he added. Then an unusual blend of four varieties, an Enrich Santana 2000 Bolgheri Rosso. “Tuscan,” he said. “Vanilla, coffee and prune aromas, spicy barnyard notes, according to Anthony Gismondi’s reviews.” They both laughed at the jargon.
As their table filled with riches and the wine flowed, Belle felt slightly light-headed and reminded herself to stop after the third glass. Brian finished both bottles himself and called for another of the Rosso. His description of a car chase near Mallard’s Landing that had ended in a fatal T-bone accident was delivered in a manner which stressed thrill more than tragedy.
The table finally cleared, zabaglione appeared with a flourish, silver dishes of billowing egg yolks spun with sugar and sherry, hot and heavenly. The coffee was rich and strong, as sobering as the bill would be. Brian topped up his cup with a double Remy Martin. The meal had been memorable, but Belle anticipated the man’s craft, ashamed that she’d sent her instincts around the corner. When the cheque came to him, courtesy no doubt of a previous arrangement, she reached for her wallet. “Dutch treat, Brian. I certainly can’t—”
“Your money’s no good here, Madame,” he said, letting three brown bills flutter onto the table, three hundred dollars. Now on the defensive, she wondered how an officer’s income could afford such a splurge.
Outside, he tried to put his arm around her, snickering as she shook it off politely and picked up the pace. She hit the remote to open the van door, tempted to leave his side locked. Then with a soft growl, he drew her close, pinioned like a prisoner. His body was compact and muscular. “Older women intrigue me with their head games. I’ve been waiting for this, and so have you. Take the afternoon off.” His demanding lips nuzzled her ear. The cloying scent of Brut made her nauseous.
“Let me go!” she said firmly.
Sharp teeth toyed with her lobe as he shoved one leg between hers. A gust of wind skittered a paper wrapper into tarantellas. Thanks to their lingering lunch, the parking lot was deserted. “Ma Belle, why don’t we—”
The hoot of a train whistle and clank of rolling boxcars turned his head. She took advantage of his imbalance to knee his groin, and he doubled over, stumbled back several feet, grabbing at a light pole. His groans signalled that she’d scored, as she wrenched open the door, shutting it like a suit of armour. “Find another realtor. And as for my share of lunch, the cheque’s in the mail,” she called as she bounced out of the lot.
Six
Belle drove to Jesse’s, one leg quivering from the adrenalin rush, pumping the gas with spasms. Her churning stomach had calcified into an expensive lump, bringing an acid reflux. Yet commiseration was out of the question. As if they’d last talked only yesterday instead of three years ago, the practical woman would eyeball her and calmly ask why, if she had suspected Brian’s motives, she hadn’t found a better excuse to avoid lunch.
Her planner sat open on the seat next to her, and she realized that she was ten minutes late for an appraisal twenty miles away. Pulling out her cellphone, she moved the appointment to the next day, citing vehicle problems, chastizing herself for letting life spin out of control. Passing a Ukrainian grocery and an onion-turreted Greek Orthodox church, she parked in front of 2267 Eyre Street on the old west side, a history lesson in early Sudbury, compact, no-nonsense dwellings hunched four-square against the cruel north winds. Jesse’s two-up, two-down home had a lurching glassed-in porch. Mossy shingles edged the mansard roof where snow had melted, and the front yard measured in arm spans. Tucked in the narrow lot behind was a treasured herb garden, lovingly tended while Jesse’d been away by pensioner Gino Teolis next door.
Wary of the slippery, uneven wooden steps, Belle entered the enclosed porch. Beside a lumpy, plastic-covered sofa, which creaked on rusty rockers, she spotted Jesse’s prized mukluks. She bent to stroke the soft leather, delicate beading and quillwork, the greeting of an old friend.
“Hellooooo,” she called loudly as she entered the compact living room, remembering Jesse’s hearing problems. Behind were the kitchen, bathroom and a work room, the two bedrooms upstairs in “Siberia” with the temperatures of a meat locker thanks to the underpowered and fumy forced-air oil heat. Shelves in the living room were crammed with Jesse’s sculptures. Over twenty clay masks, some decorated with feathers, acorns and leaves, gazed down from the walls. One trio, maiden-mother-crone, had won first prize at the La Cloche Art Show on Manitoulin Island. Piles of boxes testified more to the old woman’s general laissez-faire about neatness than to her recent return. Faded magazines and yellowed newspapers often waited for decades until she delved into them for a timely article.
A moment later, Belle heard a slow pounding on the steps from upstairs, and a huffing heralded Jesse Schoenberg’s arrival. Belle peered in wonderment. Was there such a creature as a Jewish witch? Jesse had shed years abroad in the fruitful desert. The tan helped, as did the dark hair, tightly crimped. At her age, it must be white, but Belle had never noted anything but varying shades from Irish setter to oxblood.
One of the University of Toronto’s first female graduates in physical education, a gym teacher before marriage, Jesse towered over Belle and carried twice her weight. She enveloped her young friend in a massive bear hug, her Norwegian sweater faintly redolent of lilac, the stiff ribs of her “foundation” buttressing her. Then she plucked a giant tissue from her sleeve and blew her large beak with a honk. “I might as well write my obituary, or maybe you can. This Gulag will be the death of me.”
Belle grinned for the first time in days. “You’re a miracle on two legs.”
Over glasses of hot tea sucked through sugar cubes, she told Jesse what had just happened. “And I forgot an appointment.”
“Small wonder, with that goon you described. Ver geharget. May he get himself dead. And you aren’t to grow an ulcer about dear Harold’s business. You can brief me, and we’ll open at the crack of dawn. I’ll hold
the fort.”
Soothed by the tone along with the comforting clichés, Belle relaxed in an overstuffed armchair with scratched mahogany trim, its satin arms worn and nubbly, the lacy antimacassar tatted even before Jesse’s birth. The coffee table held a selection of dates and figs from Jaffa, along with a soft alpaca scarf, Belle’s late Christmas present. “And I don’t have anything for you,” she said mournfully, rubbing the soft wool against her cheek. Then she hunted up her coat and probed the breast pocket, retrieving the grouse feather, which she presented. “I wish I could pay you, but Miriam will need . . .”
Jesse tickled Belle’s chin with the feather. “It’s perfect for my Puck mask. Now shush. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Needs, wants. Don’t we have enough? A jackpot could be around the corner. Remember that time at Sudbury Downs when I won . . .”
They laughed together. Instead of buying a new furnace, Jesse had splurged on a trip to Hong Kong, spending a week at a monastery on Lantau Island, eating vegetarian meals and sketching the carved spirits which decorated the roofs.
“Where’s the Bonneville?” Belle asked, tasting a succulent date more from hospitality than hunger.
“Gino’s tuning it. Drained everything and kept it on blocks in his shed while I was gone. What a man. Maybe I should consider a second marriage.” She ran large, knobby fingers over a dusty clutch of five-year-old magazines. “But then I’d have to clean. And nothing has changed since I left, even the Prime Minister.”
“Maybe his wife can convince him to retire. No one else can,” Belle added, her humour reviving as fast as the rose hip tea warmed her bones.