Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  It contained a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.

  I rushed back to the bedroom and stuck my head under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.

  Alvin hadn’t budged. My cellphone decided this was a dead zone. I was pretty wobbly as I hightailed it to the living room to call for help. Too bad Alvin had painted his telephone black to match the floor. I was about to race into the hallway yelling for help when I stubbed my toe on the missing phone.

  911. I stammered out the address. And admitted he was breathing. Yes, I was calm, I insisted. No, I didn’t know of any medical conditions. No, I didn’t think he had been sick recently. No, I’d found no sign of any drugs. No, I didn’t know for sure if he might have ingested anything. No, no pill bottles in the apartment. Yes, I already said I was calm.

  Extremely goddam calm, in fact.

  It didn’t take long for the paramedics to arrive. Eight minutes by my watch. Eight hours by my emotional state.

  Long enough to notice no light flashing on Alvin’s answering machine. Looked like he’d picked up his messages.

  • • •

  As the paramedics were peering under Alvin’s eyelids with little lights, he popped his eyes open and sat up.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  “You tell me,” I said, perhaps too forcefully, because the paramedics asked me to step out of the room. “Not a chance,” I said.

  I found myself being propelled by the female paramedic. She could have bench-pressed some serious numbers. I relied on the Cape Breton solution and made tea in Alvin’s grandmother’s pink and white china teapot. The tea had reached the bracing black stage when the bedroom door opened and the paramedics emerged. Lines of sweat ran down their faces. “Looks like he’s all right, Madame,” the male said. “He’s making sense. It’s probably the heat, but you should check with his doctor.”

  “He had a bit of a shock. I think he got a phone message that a family member has gone missing.”

  “That may be. But it is dangerously hot in here.”

  “Is that tea?” the female attendant said.

  “Would you like some?”

  She shook her head. I heard her mutter something like anglaise, tête carrée.

  I had no idea who Alvin’s doctor was.

  “You should get him someplace cool and make sure someone stays with him for the next twenty-four hours.”

  I’d already figured that one out myself.

  “And no tea.”

  When the door clicked behind them, I turned to face Alvin. He clutched a silver-framed photo.

  “What happened, Alvin?”

  Alvin emitted a low keening sound, raising goosebumps on my arms. He slumped to the floor.

  I dropped to my knees beside him.

  “Alvin.Alvin.”

  “He’s dead,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  Tears streaked his cheeks and dripped onto the black floor. “Our Jimmy’s dead.”

  “Alvin, he’s not dead. Nobody said he was dead. He’s missing, and they’re worried because he left his medication and what’s-its-name, the dog. I just spoke to your family no more than an hour ago, and they are out searching for him.”

  “I know Jimmy’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

  Four

  Warmth and sympathy don’t come naturally to me. But after this tragic news, even I knew Alvin needed a cool spot and someone to look after him.

  I arranged for a cab. I called Gadzooks and explained there’d been a death in Alvin’s family. I alerted Mrs. Parnell and told her to expect company. Finally, I took a deep breath and tried the Fergusons. Busy.

  Forty minutes later, Alvin was settled on Mrs. Parnell’s black leather sofa. His breathing was deep and ragged. Vivaldi played soothingly in the background. Every now and then, the lovebirds Lester or Pierre gave a war cry.

  The Fergusons’ line continued to be busy.

  I filled Mrs. P. in on the background. I figured she’d be baffled too. She surprised me. “Poor boy. He’s lost his favourite earrings.”

  “That’s the least of his problems.”

  “Perhaps, Ms. MacPhee. My point is, young Ferguson is meticulous about his appearance. He must be terribly disturbed to have left home like that. Of course, that’s one of the symptoms.”

  “Symptoms? Of losing a relative?”

  “Shell-shock.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not in the least. I saw a lot of it during the war. Many lovely boys were ruined. We mustn’t let that happen to young Ferguson.”

  “Wait a minute, Mrs. P. Alvin hasn’t been in a war. He’s upset about his brother. I guess they must have found his body and reached Alvin to tell him. Alvin was too distraught to give me the details. But anyway, I can understand his reaction.” My hands were shaky. I far preferred my old familiar Alvin, the gold-plated pain in the arse, to this fragile being.

  “This is not the way people act when they hear about a death. They might be shocked. They cry and carry on. Many keep a stiff upper lip. This is much, much worse, Ms. MacPhee. I can tell by the eyes.”

  “His eyes are closed. And what could be worse than losing a family member?”

  “If you had seen what I have, Ms. MacPhee.” Mrs. Parnell inhaled deeply. “We must stand by our fallen comrade.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for Mrs. Parnell’s endless allusions to World War II. But I did have to admit, it wasn’t like Alvin. “You know, I would have thought he’d already be on the plane heading home to comfort his mother. Whatever you can say about him, he’s great in an emergency.”

  “My point exactly. Something else is at work here. Something evil.”

  Alvin cried out in his sleep. “Forget the stupid ducks.” He flailed his arms about, staring wildly at nothing. The framed photo tumbled to the floor.

  Mrs. Parnell bent over and picked it up. “Beautiful child. What a shame, to die so young.”

  I took a look myself. If that was Jimmy Ferguson, he had indeed been an attractive young man. Wide spaced blue eyes, short dark hair, broad forehead, narrow chin, a smile to break your heart. Even the broken glass couldn’t hide that. It was hard to believe anyone with that combination of innocence and good looks could have been fished out of the same gene pool as Alvin.

  “The main thing is to get him home to Sydney. Fast,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I am fond of young Ferguson. I’ll do anything for him. This is more than grief.”

  “You haven’t talked to him yet. How can you be so sure it’s more than grief?”

  “I know it when I see it. Young Ferguson has it in no small measure.”

  “I’ll keep trying to get through to the family. They must be devastated about Jimmy, and now they have to worry about Alvin, too.”

  Mrs. Parnell stiffened. “It’s their duty to worry about him.”

  I took a deep breath and dialed. A little of the Fergusons goes a long way. This time Tracy answered on the first ring. “Tracy,” I said, “let me tell you how sorry I am.”

  “How sorry you are?”

  “Yes. I can only imagine how devastated you must be.”

  “Devastated?”

  “How is your mother?”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes, your mother.” What was the matter with these people?

  “She’s not too well.”

  “Of course, she isn’t. Please give her my sympathy.”

  “Your what?”

  “I want to assure you Alvin will be home in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  I couldn’t believe this girl could be allowed to teach school. Alvin, for all his faults, was at least intelligent.

  “Well, for the funeral.”

  “What funeral?”

  I tried to be charitable. The Ferguson family had suffered a great trauma. The family members couldn’t be thinking straight.

  “Your brother’s funeral.” I pronounced every syllable.

  “What?”

  I t
ried not to scream. “Jimmy’s funeral. Again, please let me express my condolences.”

  She blubbered. “I thought I heard you say Jimmy’s funeral.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you say Jimmy’s dead?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Dead?”

  “I am sorry.”

  She gulped, “Oh, my God.”

  Okay, so something didn’t seem quite right.

  “Hello?” I said.

  On the other end of the phone chaos erupted. I could hear Tracy shrieking: “Oh God oh my God please no dear God.” People were shouting and crying. A dog began to bark.

  Someone else picked up the phone, and a man’s voice boomed. “Who’s speaking, please?”

  Was it possible I had something confused?

  “Wrong number,” I said and hung up.

  • • •

  I reached my father’s second cousin once removed in Sydney shortly afterwards. Daddy always said if Donald Donnie MacDonald didn’t know about something, it couldn’t be worth knowing, even though it might not be worth repeating. Better yet, Donald Donnie and his equally observant wife, Loretta, lived right next door to the Fergusons. Not that they got along.

  Lucky me. Donald Donnie answered his phone.

  “Checking in,” I said after the initial pleasantries were over. “What’s the word on Jimmy Ferguson? Have they found him yet?”

  He knew what was going on with Jimmy Ferguson all right. Apparently including my latest phone call to the Fergusons, made less than a half-hour earlier.

  Across the room, Mrs. Parnell kept a close watch on the sleeping Alvin. She raised her glass to me and blew smoke rings sympathetically.

  “Jimmy’s still missing,” I mouthed at her.

  Mrs. Parnell had the grace to look surprised.

  “I’m sure the family is in a state. I wouldn’t want to disturb them by calling and...” Here I lowered my voice and stepped around the corner into Mrs. Parnell’s kitchen.

  Donald Donnie said, “Indeed, they’re disturbed already. Some wretched creature phoned and told them Jimmy was dead. They’re a pretty strange bunch, that crowd, but I can’t understand the cruelty of that.”

  “Really? Someone called them and told them he was dead? Perhaps it was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding! My God, girl.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s alive.”

  “We don’t actually know he’s alive, Camilla.” I could hear Loretta jabbering on in the background too.

  “We don’t?”

  “If the police don’t find him soon, he might as well be dead. That’s right, Mum, I’ll tell her. He’s in a bad enough way now. He can’t look after himself at all at all. Any more trauma, and I can’t imagine what would be left of that boy’s brain.”

  • • •

  When I returned to the living room, Mrs. Parnell looked up brightly. “Little something to take your mind off your trouble, Ms. MacPhee?”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t blame yourself. In his state, young Ferguson could easily have misinterpreted his family’s message.”

  “I guess so. Anyway, I’ll head back to the office and grab a few files. I can work here until we get this thing settled.”

  “Before you go, you’d better fill me in on young Ferguson’s family in case he comes to. Then I’ll know what’s going on.”

  “Sure. Seven kids, although it seems like more at times. Five are older and doing well for themselves. My father thinks the world of Alvin’s mother. She’s been a widow since Alvin and Jimmy were babies, yet she managed to get all those kids through university, except the youngest one, Jimmy. He had some kind of problems.”

  Mrs. Parnell blew a couple of very impressive smoke rings. “What sort of problems?”

  “Alvin didn’t talk about him much. I figure everyone in the family pampered him.”

  Mrs. P. said. “The lovely boy in the picture. When did he go missing?”

  “I haven’t really got the details. Everything blew up all of a sudden. His sister, Tracy, was very upset on the phone, and then Alvin collapsed. But it must have been after the going-away party last night. The family called to congratulate Alvin. Collect as usual. At first I thought it was strange people would be so agitated about this kid taking off overnight. I mean, Alvin’s way up here on his own, and nobody goes nuts about him.”

  “Hmmm.” Mrs. Parnell picked up the photo and squinted at it through a veil of smoke.

  I had a thought. “According to Donald Donnie MacDonald, Jimmy has seizures, and he’s not able to look after himself. Some kind of brain damage. And then the fact that he left his dog alone downtown, I guess that’s the clincher.”

  Mrs. Parnell continued to examine the photo. She said, “We need better intelligence before we can develop a plan of action.”

  My idea of a plan of action was to have Alvin talk to his family and tell them he was all right and maybe drive him to the airport.

  Mrs. Parnell jammed another Benson and Hedges into her cigarette holder. “One always needs a plan of action. But more to the point, Jimmy may be all right, but young Ferguson certainly isn’t. We need to get to the bottom of that before it’s too late.” I had to hand it to her, Mrs. P. knew how to convey a fine sense of impending doom.

  “Too bad my father’s in Scotland. I bet he’d know more about this Jimmy. What do you mean by too late?”

  “Ah, these darling boys. I’ve seen it too often. Things set them off. Some small trauma. Something the rest of us wouldn’t give a second thought to. But it takes them inside themselves. Each time gets a bit worse. Then one day, they don’t come out again.”

  What did this mean? That Alvin might never snap out of it?

  “Ms. MacPhee, it would be useful to have something of a context. If we know what’s going on, then we can think about how to combat it. If young Ferguson wakes up, I’ll try to get a bit more out of him without setting him off again.”

  I stood up. “We have to send him home. Pronto. He’ll be better off with his family.”

  Mrs. Parnell stood up too. She leaned forward. I leaned back. She pursed her lips. I gathered that meant no. “Can he afford it?” she said.

  “If he can’t, then I’ll have to help him.”

  “Is that such a good idea?”

  “No choice, Mrs. P. He needs to be with his family. They’ll be able to help him. Like you say, he seems traumatized.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “For sure. And listen, we have to contact his family, and I don’t want to get their panties in a twist again. So how about this. You call them and tell them he’s not feeling well and he’ll be in touch. In the meantime, I’ll make the arrangements for his flight.”

  “Not so fast, Ms. MacPhee. Consider this, young Ferguson’s family are probably the source of his problem.”

  Five

  P. J. nabbed me on the cellphone before we got any further with that idea.

  “I got some good news for you, Tiger,” he said.

  As usual, the enthusiasm in his voice was enough to make me smile. You can trust him as far as you can throw a piano, but you had to like the guy. “I can use some good news.”

  “You get your Bluesfest pass yet?”

  “No, Mrs, Parnell and I have to help Alvin out with a serious problem. I’ll pick up my pass later.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Try not to be annoying, P. J.”

  “Hey, come on.”

  “Look, I have a situation unfolding which is giving me grief. I am not, repeat not, in a good mood. So don’t pressure me. I am going to goddam Bluesfest. Don’t try to talk me into anything else. I have to get off the phone and make airline reservations pronto.”

  “Pronto? That’s my point, Tiger. I got two Clubhouse passes to the Bluesfest.”

  “What?”

  “Clubhouse passes. Two of the suckers.”

  “You’re kidding. Since this morning?”

  “Yeah. I won
a draw at the paper.”

  “That’s fabulous.”

  “Hate to tell you, but it’s actually bad news. Because The Ottawa Citizen is a sponsor, and as an employee, I was not eligible to win.”

  What was going on here? “That’s miserable.”

  “Actually, it isn’t. I knew I wasn’t eligible, so I put your name on the entry form. Then I put my own telephone number.”

  Irritation cancelled. If I remembered the Bluesfest program booklet, Clubhouse passes cost more than two hundred smackers a pop and came with a lot of goodies. I’d planned for the sixty-five dollar full festival pass myself. Now I’d have to dip into my savings to cover the shortfall of Justice for Victims, not to mention springing for Alvin’s plane ticket, so saving sixty-five dollars was welcome. “Definitely good news.”

  “Sure is.”

  “Why don’t you drop by the office and slip the passes under the door? I’ll decide who to take.” P. J. was born to be teased.

  “What do you mean, you’ll decide who to take? I thought we’d go together. That was the whole idea. Didn’t you say going to the Bluesfest was a sign you were getting a life?”

  “Did I? You told me you weren’t eligible. You’re a highly paid reporter, and now with these restaurant review gigs and this big honking political assignment, you’ll be floating in cash. You can buy yourself a pass. I’ll take someone who can’t afford it.”

  “Are you crazy? Clubhouse passes are sold out.” P. J.’s voice shot up an octave.

  “But as you say, the passes are in my name.”

  “Wait a minute. You didn’t buy the tickets.”

  “You didn’t buy them either. Anyway, what are you worried about? You can always cover it for The Citizen.”

  “I wish. I can’t cover that and Nicholas Southern’s campaign too.”

  “You keep whining about that. Seems to me a high profile assignment is money in the bank, even if you do have to listen to all that right wing bullshit.”

  “Yeah well, the paper can hardly give me Bluesfest too.”

  “That is not really bad news, P. J. Mr. Southern’s a big story. You’d better concentrate. Let me know if anything about the New Right starts to make sense to you, and I’ll do my best to get you to a deprogrammer. I can fill you in on the concerts afterwards. It’s not like you know anything about the blues anyway.”