The Midnight Boat to Palermo and Other Stories

by Rosemary Aubert

  I pushed my way through the video crowd, using my elbows when I had to. One or two guys yelled, but I ignored them.

  Out on the street, some idiots were filming a movie. They had cables and lights and jerks with clipboards all over the place. I ducked into the shadows fast. Only a total loser stands still for a camera. Parents, cops and social workers watch everything. A person is a fool to take a chance. Even a person like me who has no family looking for them.

  Except the Prince.

  I shoved the last of my change into the fare box. Lucky for me, the driver couldn’t count. I yanked a transfer out of her hand and pushed my way through the crowd of late-night losers right to the back of the bus where I slid down into the last seat left.

  The vomit comet bumped along Yonge Street picking up stray drunks, loud kids, cleaning ladies. At King, I jumped off and used my transfer to grab a streetcar west.

  By the time I got off at Dufferin, the streets were starting to get that empty look they have when all the straight people have gone home to bed. There was nobody in sight except for a bag lady asleep in a doorway.

  The woman opened her eyes and I got a familiar creepy feeling. This wasn’t any old hag—it was my guardian looney, the old witch that seemed to follow me everywhere. I turned off King and onto Fraser as fast as I could.

  One side of the street was nothing but a huge open stadium. Across the empty playing field I could see a big blue sign flashing in the distance. The sight of it made me laugh, made me remember the summer night the Prince and I, stoned out on a little something I’d scored off a trick, had lain on the grass of the field and tried to shout “on” and “off” in time to the sign—like it was us making it work instead of some dumb computer somewhere.

  There was another set of lights in the distance—the gold and blue dome of one of the buildings of the Exhibition grounds. My memory of that went farther back—to the time my father used to take me to the fair every summer. He told me fairies lived in domes, flying around the top where nobody could see them. Of course—like a stupid idiot—I believed him.

  The other side of Fraser was different. From the sidewalk, the whole block looked like one long building, six floors high. But as soon as I found what I was looking for—a narrow alley lit by a dusty old bulb in an iron cage—and slipped through it, I was in a whole different city—just like in the Dickens books I lifted from the library once in a while.

  Here there were all kinds of old warehouses and office buildings from a hundred years ago—still in perfect shape. Some were set around a sort of courtyard in the middle, others on narrow streets. There were iron fire escapes with little balconies and metal loading doors with huge bolts and hinges. Most of the buildings had high windows with hundreds of tiny panes under curved tops like the windows of a palace or a church.

  The place seemed deserted, but it wasn’t really. Even though the buildings were mostly dark, almost every one of them had a light shining in it somewhere. Nearby I could hear a saxophone going—and the same bunch of notes played over and over on electronic keyboard. A bright red motor scooter was parked beside a loading dock along one of the buildings, sitting there as if the owner would be back any minute.

  I did a three-hundred-sixty degree turn, trying to figure out where I was supposed to go. A slight noise caught my attention. I jumped when I saw a tall, skinny, bald naked guy glancing at me over his shoulder out one of the windows way up.

  Then I doubled over laughing when I realized it was just a manikin in some fashion studio.

  I walked toward that building anyway, and when I got closer, I saw an open door on the first floor. Slow, listening hard for sounds from inside, I walked toward the door.

  The nearer I got, the more my heart pounded. I gave the door a shove.

  It creaked open on complete darkness, except for the light coming over my shoulder from outside. I could make out a hallway, and off that what seemed to be a room. Somebody was breathing in there.

  My heart jumped into my mouth and I turned to run. But too late.

  Before I knew what had me, a hand bunched my t-shirt so tight around my neck, I thought I was going to choke. My fingers flew up, trying to free my throat so I could breathe, trying to get the bastard off me.

  Hard as I could, I brought my foot up sharp to get my heels into his shins, but the son of a bitch pulled back, taking me with him. I squirmed and elbowed and kicked, but it didn’t do a bit of good. He was way stronger than me, strong enough to hold me with one hand—no matter how much I wiggled—and slam shut the door with the other.

  The minute the door shut and the light was gone altogether, he let me go. It took a second to realize I was free. I reached out in the darkness. My hands hit nothing but air.

  “What the hell is this?” I shouted, hating the sound of fear so clear in my voice. “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

  For answer I got nothing but the same breathing sound as before.

  I stood still for a minute, trying to get my bearings in the room, but it was useless; I had no idea where I was. Or where he was—assuming it was a he.

  I forced my heart to stop pounding, forced myself to think. As long as it was pitch dark, the only advantage he had over me was physical strength. So what? I wasn’t what I was for nothing. I’d gotten the better of customers bigger and stronger than myself lots of times. All I had to do was stay cool….

  I kept as still as I could, trying to judge what direction the sound of his breathing came from. He seemed to be moving all around me, circling me like a dog circles a rat. I didn’t move. Just the way rats don’t. I knew if I could figure out a pattern to his motions, I could jump him.

  He jumped me first. I felt the full weight of his body hit me at once, tumbling us both to the floor, his arms locked around me breaking my fall, as if he didn’t want me to get hurt.

  And then I heard his soft, familiar laugh in my ear and felt him kiss my cheek and tighten his arms in a hug.

  “Jamie, you idiot, what the hell are you trying to prove—you stupid bucket of…”

  I was crying and laughing and pushing him away and pulling him toward me all at the same time—still not able to see a damn thing or hear anything but my own words.

  He laughed again. “So you got the message….”

  “Yeah, I got the message. Messages. Who’s that old spook of a bag lady who follows me all the time, anyway?”

  “One of my other girls— You jealous, Bri?” He touched my face with the back of his hand. “You think you’re the only one I love?”

  It made me furious when he teased me like that. I was glad it was dark. The Prince had hit me for having the wrong look on my face before this. And the wrong tone in my voice. I had to wait a minute before I said, “So are we going to sit here in the dark all night or are you going to stop playing around and turn on the light?”

  “Prince of darkness, that’s what I am!” he said.

  “That’s the devil,” I answered. “And you’re not that—”

  “Some people would disagree,” he answered, without any particular emotion. I felt him move away, and I just sat there waiting for whatever he decided to do next.

  “Well, Brianna,” he finally said, “what do you think? You want to see what the Prince is looking like these days? You want to see what a couple of years of time does to a guy?”

  All of a sudden I was scared again. Scared in a worse way than when he’d grabbed me. When he’d gone up, Jamie had been sixteen, the best-looking guy on the Track. He’d been in a lot of fights, but he didn’t have a mark on him. And no tattoos, either. I had plenty of tattoos myself, so I didn’t give a damn. It was just that the Prince was perfect looking. My mother said he was perfect looking from the time we were born.

  “What do you mean? Did you get cut or something?”

  “Of course I got cut. You think I’m going to do time and not get cut?”

  “Jamie, I don’t want—”

  Before I could finish, the room was all of a s
udden filled with light. It was a little room, looking like it was just finished being renovated. It was painted all white. It was completely empty, so that the only thing there was to look at was the Prince.

  He was taller than he’d been when he went away—much taller than me and I’m not short. His legs looked strong in jeans that were tight enough but too new. Since I was sitting on the floor at his feet, I could see that his boots were new, too. Like the jail gave him some kind of clothes allowance or something.

  But his leather jacket I’d seen before. It was scuffed and scratched from a hundred street fights. The sight of it filled my heart with happiness. Slowly I let my eyes move up toward his face.

  There still wasn’t a mark on him. His good, tough, square jaw was as proud as ever and his eyes danced the same way they always did, like there was something going on there that nobody would ever be able to guess.

  The guards hadn’t cut his hair, either. It was even longer than before. The bright light made it shine as it fell in a heap of curls from his forehead to his big shoulders.

  He was beautiful! As beautiful as the prince in any story. I was so happy to see him, I thought my heart would explode.

  I jumped up and grabbed him, standing on my toes and trying to get my arms around him—not easy because he was a lot bigger than me. Except for the occasional old customer who missed his wife or kid and was willing to pay for the privilege, I hadn’t hugged anybody in a long time. It felt like heaven. “Oh, Jamie, don’t go away again. Don’t get in trouble again—”

  The Prince pulled away. He smiled. He leaned back against the wall, one foot up against the whiteness. He dug in his pocket for makings and rolled a joint for himself, sucking in hard and holding his breath as he passed it to me.

  I shook my head. I needed to keep my thoughts clear because I knew what was coming next.

  “Business been okay?” he asked

  “Not bad.”

  “Those cops still on your butt?”

  “No. Guess they got bigger fish to fry or something….” I lied.

  “How much you pulling in a night?”

  “I guess that recession thing sort of hit people—”

  He took another drag on the joint. “That’s not what I asked, is it?” The tone of his voice reminded me I better be careful.

  I glanced down. There was an ugly black mark from his boot on the perfect white wall. My voice felt stuck in my throat.

  “Come on—spit it out….”

  “I’m older now. I don’t get as much as I used to, Jamie, and everything’s really gone up. I pay rent, I—”

  He took the cloth of my t-shirt between his fingers and gave it a little twist. “Sounds like you need me—am I right?”

  “I don’t want you to hurt me, Jamie. I’m done with that—”

  “Well, hurting you’s not what I want, either.” He shoved me away, but he kept his eyes on mine. I could see the anger melting away. That was a good thing about Jamie. He got mad strong but not for long.

  “Look, Bri,” he said, again leaning on the wall, “you got to help me out here. I been up for almost two. I’m gonna need a place to stay. You’re family. I gotta count on you….”

  “I know.”

  “So you gotta, you know, share. Maybe work a little harder.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good,” he said, touching my face, “I’m glad we talked about that.” He sucked up the last smoke from the joint and tossed it onto the floor where it burned a little circle in the shiny wood before it went out.

  “You want to go for a ride?” he asked.

  “A ride? Where?”

  “Any place. You see that motor scooter out there?”

  “Yeah. Is it yours?”

  “Not yet. But it can be if you want. What do you say? We can go down to the harbor and stone a few gulls.”

  “You’re crazy, Jamie. You wouldn’t do that!”

  “No. Wouldn’t be any fun. They’re all asleep. Sitting ducks. Gulls.”

  We burst into a fit of giggles. “Sure,” I said, “what the hell? Let’s.”

  “Right! Come on!”

  He took my hand and led me out of the building, the two of us clowning around, sneaking on tiptoes and holding our fingers to our lips as if to warn each other to be quiet. It was a hoot. Just like old times.

  I was so happy I could sing. He started the scooter—Jamie could get anything going, key or no key—and we took off. By the time the fool who owned the thing discovered it was gone, we’d be miles away.

  It was so good to have the Prince back. I put my arms around his waist and laid my head on the scuffed back of his jacket that smelled like cigs and sweat and trouble and fun.

  The bike tore through the dark empty streets, the sound of it making an echo off the buildings. The wind hit my face—it hurt and felt good at the same time. Like a slap. Like a kiss.

  GETTING RID OF COTTAGE PESTS

  When I first started going up to the cottage, I hated how you had to be killing something—or thinking about killing something—all the time.

  I guess the first time I noticed was with the garden. My husband said that if I was going to learn to love the country, there was no better way to begin than gardening. “You’ll enjoy it,” he said, “it’ll be just like the balcony….”

  Only it wasn’t. The impatiens and pansies in the window boxes on the balcony of our high-rise apartment were delicate and lovely. The garden at the cottage was overrun with weeds—some of them as big as I am. I particularly hated one that was tall and thick but with a single tiny flower at the top. Like a large man with a small head.

  I pulled and tugged and whacked and felt that the plants were far stronger than I. But in the end, I had a large pile of dead ones.

  “Good girl,” my husband said. Then he handed me a rake and a hoe. I was tired, but he said that country life was about endurance and that a city person like me could use a little more of what he called “stamina.”

  It was then that I realized how many creatures have been killed in the name of gardening. My rake, grabbing clumps of thick, brown dirt, scraped across a nest of beetles. As shocked as I would have been had the roof of the cottage suddenly flown away, I watched as they scrambled in all directions, disappearing under the black clods I’d displaced.

  I shuddered. My husband, watching from beside the stump of a tree he’d just felled to let more light into the garden, laughed. “That’s it,” he said, “get ‘em running. The more bugs you chase out of there, the better.”

  Luckily, he had gone to wash up and wasn’t there when my hoe cut a worm in half and I burst into tears. I brushed the earth back over the halves and went in to cook supper.

  The garden wasn’t much of a success. Even though my husband sprayed everything with what he called “a damn good dose” of insecticide, every weekend when I went to look at the spindly plants, there were bites out of the leaves.

  “Animals,” my husband said. He took me by the hand and walked me around the garden. “You’re not paying attention,” he announced. “Look at this—”

  I didn’t know what he was looking at, but he put his hand at the back of my neck and bent my head until my eyes were trained on the dirt at my feet. I saw a little hole, about the size of a dollar coin. “Baby chipmunks….”

  “Oh!” I cried in delight. I leaned down toward the hole, but before I could catch a glimpse of the babies, my husband grabbed a handful of soil and shoved it into the opening. “That’ll fix the little bastards,” he said.

  As the weeks went on, the window boxes in the city thrived. Sometimes we’d eat breakfast on the balcony, looking out over the city, so calm and peaceful in the early morning haze of summer.

  Come Friday, though, it would be back to cottage country.

  I guess it must have been about the end of July that I looked out the window after serving lunch and saw that something was swimming in the river that ran past the picture windows of the cottage. It was moving steadily and quickly, maki
ng a V in the water so wide that it reached the bank on either side.

  “Beavers,” my husband told me.

  “How beautiful—”

  “You won’t say that when they start chomping on the timbers of the house—”

  I laughed. I thought it was a cute joke. Then I caught a glimpse of my husband’s face. Remembering the scowl on it, I wasn’t surprised when, that afternoon, he made a deal with a local farmer to put traps under the water along the shore of the river. “I told him he can keep any pelt that he catches. That’s what I love about the country,” my husband mused, “tradition. There’s still people around who know where to sell a good beaver pelt.”

  I started to cry. My husband took me in his arms. He ran his hands along my hair, then my cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re a typical city girl,” he said, “and I find that sweet. But you have to be tough in this world. It’s us against them. Mano a mano. You can’t feel sorry for the enemy….”

  When we got back home to the city, he brought me a present, a tiny orange kitten with a sweet pink nose, a little pink tongue and eyes still the blue of baby eyes. “You can bring her up to the cottage every weekend to keep you company. In fact,” my husband said with a smile, “you can bring her on vacation—”

  “Vacation?”

  “Yes. I’ve arranged for us to spend the whole month of August at the cottage.”

  I named my kitten Baby, and it was lucky I had her or I would have died of boredom. It wasn’t until we were up at the cottage day after day that I noticed there weren’t any neighbours around. And the only town—about an hour away—didn’t hold any interest for my husband. “And you wouldn’t like it, either,” he told me. “You’re happier just staying here at the cottage. My little woman’s turning into a country girl. I can tell.”

  The only trouble with Baby was that she kept trying to escape. Every time I opened the door, she ran out. Because she was so little, it wasn’t hard to catch her. But after only a month, she’d doubled in size, and it seemed as if her running speed increased daily.