by Lou Allin
“Wonderful. Can you take off this IV?”
“Not on your life. Think of it as a little friend.”
Eager to hear any news of Micro, Belle gulped the juice of undefinable extraction and took the hockey-puck bran muffin to the lounge down the hall. Seated awkwardly on a sofa, she dipped it into her tepid cup of brown water. “If this is coffee, give me tea. If this is tea . . .” she muttered as the announcer began. “Still no word in the case of the missing Sudbury boy. His father has offered a reward. Details at six.” Dave was pulling out all the stops. As if he didn’t have enough to worry him, he had to take time out to rescue an idiotic woman. A video came on with Micro opening a present at what looked like an outdoor birthday party. Bea was carrying a monster chocolate cake across the lawn to a group of giggling children in funny hats. With a clenched jaw, Belle wheeled forward to switch off the picture and grabbed a tattered Reader’s Digest. “Ten Ways to Beat the Gas Crisis.”
At high noon, declining the free lunch, with McAlister’s blessing she divorced her little friend and cashed in her chips at the health care casino, having broken even by staying alive. Following hospital rules, Hélène arrived to push her wheelchair to the elevator, then out to the covered portico where Ed waited in their Buick LeSabre, its 790 station playing Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces”. Had she ever.
“Miriam is taking care of everything at the office. It’s Friday anyway. You and Freya are staying with us,” Hélène said.
“But I—”
Hélène placed a warning finger on her friend’s dry lips, and short of biting it, what could she do but smile with gratitude? “Just for a day. When I’m old and greyer and need a vacation from Ed before I kill him, I’ll stay with you, and you can treat me like a queen. Deal?”
She’d been warned about overdoing it, but over the weekend, primed with Hélène’s stuffed beef roll and gnocchi, pillowed to death on the sofa with a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage, and forced to watch cooking shows all afternoon and American football until bed, Belle felt like a restive racehorse bumped at the starting gate. The second spare room had another torturous mattress, which folded her five ways. At least she scored some emollient for her lips, but she was tossing back their ibuprofen like peanuts.
Monday she returned to work and set the world on normal wash instead of spin. She called Dave to invite him to dinner, the least she could do, but got no answer at his house or office. In the meantime, the day for the appointment with Psychic Paula had arrived.
Tuesday at four, she and Hélène drove down the busy Kingsway and took a perilous road winding up the stark rock face that anchored downtown Sudbury. At the entrance to Paula’s shabby stucco house was a shrine to the Virgin, constructed from small bits of coloured glass and cement. In an unusual touch, the statue was polished ebony. Hélène raised an eyebrow, but Belle wondered if it represented the Black Madonna, a likeness found in many French churches after the Crusades, or whether the motif was New World. Dried bundles of goldenrod, black-eyed Susans and daisies decorated the rustic altar, sheltered by plastic sheets. Farther up the rock face, Belle thought she saw a chicken foot. Or was it a tangled root? Under a broken screen, a crayoned sign was affixed to the front door. “Come in.”
In the tiny living room, strange spices made Belle’s nose twitch. Curry? Coconut? Cabbage? Lime? Dusty brocade curtains were drawn against the light. “Please enter,” a creaky, disembodied voice said, and they parted a beaded curtain into a dining room. In a long white linen dress, a wizened woman dark as India ink sat embraced by a massive high-backed rattan chair, a paisley turban on her head. Before her on a carved oak table was a crystal ball on a lace cloth. Belle struggled to retain a neutral expression.
“Welcome, Hélène. How lovely that you brought a friend.”
As a furnace roared into action in the bowels of the house, the fug of oil heat began to move the air, tinkling the dangling crystals of the chandelier. After the introductions, the visitors took two plastic nesting chairs. Paula explained that she would try to channel into one of her contacts in the “shadow world which lies beyond ours.”
“You have told me the sad facts of his disappearance. Did you bring an article belonging to the boy?” she asked.
Hélène passed over a FUBU T-shirt. A knot in her throat, Belle remembered Micro wearing it on their last morning together. With the reverence accorded the Shroud of Turin, Paula grasped it with candy-apple-red taloned fingers, closed her rheumy eyes, and suddenly the lights dimmed. An eerie green floated up through the ball like a ghostly protoplasm. Some form of pyrotechnics?
The air was suffocating, patchouli incense burning nearby in a censer hung from the ceiling. Belle shifted in her chair, on the alert for fakery. She could hear Hélène’s expectant breathing, felt her own heart’s drum. The honk of Paula’s broad nose into a tissue gave strange punctuation to the tremulous moment. “Hold hands, my lovies. The circle will strengthen the power.”
They locked hands and waited. Hélène’s was warm, Paula’s cold as raw turkey tendons. Outside, a cat squalled, and a transport’s jake brakes shrieked. Paula’s breath came in short gasps. “Are you there?” The table rapped twice. Belle blinked. They were still connected. Was a foot control in operation?
“Thank you for answering my call, Ruth. Ever vigilant for your fellow children.” She summarized what Hélène had related, how he had vanished in the night on his bike. He had gone to a camp in the bush but had escaped their efforts to find him. The room returned to dead quiet. Minutes passed. Belle felt a sneeze coming on and fought the urge with no success.
“Sorry,” she said, managing with a contortion to swipe her nose on her shoulder instead of breaking the circle.
“I sense an unbeliever here,” Paula said in a hurt tone. “We must unite our spirits, not divide them.”
Belle squeezed Paula’s hand. “Sorry. I’m new at this.”
After a few agonizing moments, Paula shuddered. “Yessssssss.” She whispered sibilants, sometimes laughing, then reduced to guttural groans.
“Rest now. You have done well, little one.” The lights came on, and the wrinkles on her face smoothed into a perfect serenity. She withdrew her hands and folded them.
Hélène’s eyes widened with hope. “What did you hear? Did you see anything? I don’t know how this works.”
“Neither do I. That is the wonder of it all.” The woman spoke slowly, forcing each syllable around an ill-fitting pair of dentures. “My contact is Ruth Adams, a wee girl who died in the Spanish flu epidemic here in 1918. I visit her grave in the Eyre Street Cemetery to plant marigolds there each spring, her favourite posie. She tells me he lives. Those in the shadow world have special—”
“I knew it!” Hélène’s fingers tightened around a handkerchief, twisting it into knots.
“And I saw green.” Her eyelids feathered as she struggled for memory.
“Trees?” Belle asked.
“I suspect not. The aura is very light green, wrong for this time of year in a land of ice and snow. And metal all around. Cold. Hard.” Paula pulled a shawl around her thin shoulders.
Metal. What sense did that make? Belle grew impatient. “Are you talking about a cage?”
“There are no . . . bars. He walks free, but he cannot leave.” She covered the ball with a silk handkerchief and bent over in a coughing spasm violent enough to flatten a linebacker.
Belle turned away from Paula. A virulent cold was not the intelligence she sought. “Is he hurt? Hungry?”
The psychic pooched out her dark purple lower lip. “No sign of harm. He has food. His energy is strong, that boy. It reaches out from a long distance.”
“So he’s no longer in the city? Oh, my God,” Hélène said.
Paula gave a vague wave of her hand. “Not that far. A day’s journey, perhaps.”
While Belle was still pondering the freedom paradox, Hélène rose, bracing herself at the table. “Thank you so much, Paula. You’ve confirmed my feelings. If Micro
had been . . . had . . . I would have known.”
Belle wondered when the charges would be forthcoming in this hundred-dollar performance. “What do we owe you?” she asked in a bland voice.
“Not even an undervalued loonie, my chicks.” She cocked her head. “You seek answers in unselfish concern. No Doris Day ‘Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?’ My services are voluntary. If you wish to contribute, please donate to your favourite cause. The Catholic Charities Soup Kitchen at the new Samaritan Centre on Shaughnessy Street always welcomes provisions to succour souls in the harsh winter to come. A full belly is the easiest wish to grant.”
As they left, Hélène’s face glowed with renewal, and she walked quickly. “I’m going to call Detective Sumner with this information.”
Belle pursed her lips. “It’s pretty vague.”
Hélène turned and gripped her shoulders with passion. “Such a doubting Thomasina. If you were a Catholic, you’d know the power of faith and prayer. What’s her motive? Not a cent. Doesn’t that prove that she’s no fake?”
For once, Belle was at a loss for words. No one denied that sometimes psychics did hit the mark. Other times they gave misleading or useless information, or if they seemed to know too much, became suspects themselves. Metal? Light green? A long distance? Was Paula a true seer, a fraud, or merely a well-intentioned old woman with time on her hands?
She stopped for cream at Mike’s Mart in Garson, noticing that Bobby’s Place seemed closed. “What happened next door? Bobby get the flu?” she asked the manager as she paid for her purchase.
The woman, a touchstone for gossip in the community, shook her savage red locks. “The legal flu. Pleaded guilty and off to jail once the sentencing comes through. I hope he gets twenty years.”
Belle remembered Bobby’s handsome smile and generous personality. “I don’t believe it. He was far too nice a guy.”
The woman leaned forward. “Listen. My daughter saw the tooth marks on his girlfriend’s shoulders. It was damn sickening. Choppers don’t lie. That’s why he rolled over.”
Bobby’s smile haunted Belle all the way home. Now where would she get her father’s meal? The Falcon Hotel was a popular spot. Surely they had mashed potatoes and portioned turkey slices.
That night she reached Dave to invite him to dinner. Life had to go on, and people needed the mutual support of social routines. Hélène and Ed were included, but they opted out, having committed to a fortieth anniversary celebration for Ed’s brother.
“I’d love to come. Lord, I need a break,” Dave said, then assumed a quiet, self-deprecating tone after she thanked him for rescuing her. “Anyone would have done the same. Your smart pup deserves the medal.” He broke off for a sigh. “If I’d been a real hero to Micro, he might still be here.”
His reaction to the information from Psychic Paula was similar to hers. “Hélène means well, I know, but most of those people are out to fleece the customers or exercise their egos. Sounds like creative guesswork. Sumner told me not to get my hopes too high. Whenever there’s a missing child, Paula calls in on a regular basis.”
Leaving work early on Thursday, Belle bought thick filet mignons from Terini’s Meat Market on Lome Street. A package of hollandaise sauce might clog their arteries, but Zocor would be a cheap generic by then. Fresh asparagus from sunny Mexico. Baked potatoes drowning in sour cream, bacon bits, chives from her faithful patch, and a tossed salad with mesclun, prepackaged in California. As Belle set up the CD player with classical selections, Freya barked, announcing Dave’s arrival at six, a package tucked under his arm, letting Buffalo out of the rear. From the way the man walked to the deck, the loss of spring in his step, she could see that he was deeply troubled, perhaps even clinically depressed. His smile was forced as he presented the wine, creases dividing his wide-set eyes. He wore pressed dark slacks, a blue cable-knit sweater and polished low-cut boots. His hair needed a trim. She’d set aside her jeans and T-shirt to make the occasion special, choosing beige Capri pants, an off-the-shoulder leopard-print blouse and sandals.
Buffalo roamed the yard and whizzed on two deck posts. Observing the interloper, Freya raised her ruff and charged down, leaping past the dog in a customary bluff. The sheepdog tucked his tail between his legs as he lowered his gigantic head in submission before the Alpha bitch.
They watched the dogs circle, sniff noses and settle into an amicable truce. Dave gave a thumbs-up. “Hope it’s okay to bring him. I should have asked, but Hélène said you had a female.” His broad shoulders sagged in another message. “He’s all the company I have. Mackenzie King passed on last week. Pined away, I guess.”
“Bea said your parrot was quite the old man, but I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, that male-female dog compatibility idea is pure myth.” She wheeled the pine table on castors into the sun, its varnished surface set with placemats, cutlery and stemware. “A warm night. I thought we could eat on the deck. Al fresco. No blackflies.”
“The weather’s been fine since those rains stopped. One prayer that’s been answered,” he said, firming his lips and then swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was probably thinking that Micro could survive these temperatures, given shelter. But not for long.
Puffy, gilded clouds, backlit by the setting sun out of sight to the west, gathered in the sky. After handing her the package, he walked to the edge of the deck as if admiring the view, then took out a handkerchief, turning his back in a face-saving mode. She pulled the bottle from the bag and went inside to open it. Napa Valley Zinfandel. 1999. Usually rough stuff which married well with red pasta sauce. 14.9% alcohol. Who let the dogs out? Then she remembered that he belonged to AA. Diving into the bottle again?
He came to the patio door. “Just a soda for me. But tell me how you like the wine.”
Perrier with a lime twist seemed a good alternative. “The label mentions dry farming at the highest level. Interesting,” she said as they sat down in patio chairs. She knew the small talk wouldn’t continue. No one could ignore the elephant in the corner.
“I’m no connoisseur. I asked the guy for the best suggestion to go with beef when you mentioned steaks. A little thanks for your efforts, too. Len told me that you talked to Jean. Funny old girl.” Then he levelled his eyes at her, and the lines around his mouth deepened. He pressed her hand gently. “Going out to Massey after Sean Broughton? Bea said he was a hothead. That could have been dangerous. There’s a murderer out there, and I don’t want anyone in harm’s way.”
“I seem to be doing a remarkable turn at that in my own backyard,” Belle said, stopping the wine in mid-pour. “Listen here. You saved my life, mister. Think of it as advance payment for my stupidity in the sauna.”
After lighting the BBQ, Belle set dinner in motion. Dave offered to handle the steaks and had them juicy, medium rare with artfully crossed grill marks by the time she’d mixed the salad dressing with white balsamic vinegar and nippy Sicilian olive oil and brought out the courses. She had a fancy buttercream chocolate torte from Laitila’s Finnish Bakery waiting for dessert. They ate until a tardy troop of geese winged overhead, stragglers far behind, their honks echoing like hoarse barks.
“Noisy out here,” Dave said with the nuance of a smile over his even white teeth. Then he turned his head at the music inside. “Is that Holst’s ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country’? Bea loved The Planets.”
“Yes, it’s a cut from Dies Irae, a choral collection.” Wrath of God. Not a cheerful theme, but the selections were powerful and emotive like the struggles of a man coping with cumulative tragedies. Belle sipped the wine, upgrading her opinion of Zinfandel. Here was the king of its class, blackberry with hints of Asian spices and herbs. When she’d opened the bag, she’d peeked at the sales slip. Thirty-five dollars. Dave was no piker.
He finished the meal, which gave her some satisfaction. Like bruises against his olive skin, shadows had formed beneath his raven eyes. “I’ve posted a reward for information leading to Micro’s return. No questions asked.”
“I set the figure at $100,000.” He looked across the lake, following the path of a plane heading south toward the airport. “Not that I have that kind of money at hand, but Bea put me on the property deed, and the bank has cooperated about a new mortgage. What does a house matter anyway? Without people, it’s just a shell.”
How Bea must have trusted him. These days many couples marrying later in life drew up pre-nuptials more ironclad than the Monitor and Merrimac. She gave a slight cough. “Do you still intend to sell?” She didn’t mean it the way it sounded and hoped he wouldn’t think her an opportunist.
“A smaller place would be ideal, maybe a condo if Buffalo can have a yard. That Laurentian Village on Paris isn’t bad. Not this year, though.” He clenched his jaw, moving a small muscle that revealed his ongoing tension. “When Micro comes back, I want his home, his room, to greet him, not a moving van.”
Belle didn’t mention the publicity surrounding the chamber of death. It would take a while before tongues stopped wagging and the John Street property resumed its stature as a prime piece of real estate.
“I’m glad to talk straight to someone about my son. You’re Micro’s friend, and that’s golden.” He cleared his throat. “Hélène and Ed are good people, but they skirt around the worst possibility, that he’s in the hands of a pedophile. I can’t stop thinking about that message on the computer. Every day that passes makes such a hideous idea more of a possibility. Even Sumner had to admit that.”
Belle swallowed back a sigh. The mind spoke what the heart whispered. “I’m sure the police have been very frank. But there have been cases where children were recovered safely.” In Florida, a baby thought dead in a fire had emerged as a six-year-old, having been stolen from her crib by a family acquaintance. Her real mother had seen her at a children’s party, recognized the resemblance, snipped a lock of her hair on the pretext of removing gum, and found the DNA match. Fairy tales come to life. But how did that apply to Micro?