The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  The tension in the room was stifling. She reached down to the pocket of her jeans again and felt around for the dime she had hidden just for times like these. It was a coin Daniel had given her to keep in her dime box. Not one from years ago, but a symbolic one to remind them how they had been brought back together; a coin she hoped would keep them together in the future, too. Now, she carried it everywhere. She rubbed it slowly, back and forth.

  “Just to be clear,” she said, breaking the silence, “I like my apartment.”

  The pencil stopped writing.

  “By the time I’d moved in, I passed high school and got my driver’s license. I failed the first time, but Kanza said it was important to build my independence so I tried again. And then I applied for college.”

  The detective looked up briefly. Her eyes gave nothing away.

  “I’m telling you this for a reason, right?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I may not have been totally ready to transition to independent living, but I was turning things around. My life was good.”

  Detective Perez stared back at her from across the table. Unable to read her body language, Greta knew something still wasn’t sitting well. She didn’t blame the detective; she hadn’t been fully convinced, either, the first day her grandparents had left her standing alone in the apartment.

  The first week had been tough. The silence was eerie and the days felt empty. She didn’t have the Penn staff around her, her classmates beside her, or Kanza there to root her on. The silence was scary, but the TV helped—the blare, the repetition—so she kept it on day and night. When her show broke for the local news, the CP24 news anchor announced the most prolific northern lights show in years was anticipated for later on that same week. It reminded her of her childhood when she and her mother would watch the northern lights on their back patio. She recalled wondering—maybe more hoping at the time—if it was her mother’s subtle way of saying hello; wishing her a happy eighteenth birthday.

  The first five sleeps in the apartment felt like a whole year. Desperate to see her grandparents, to hear their laughter fill the void of the apartment’s stifling quiet, she’d talked to Latoya on Skype every evening. Late Friday afternoon, her sprint down the stairwell took less time than a ride to the ground floor in the elevator. She wasn’t sure whether it was because she missed them so much or the training regime she’d adopted had started to pay off.

  “Did things settle after a while?” Detective Perez asked, her brow furrowed.

  Greta’s face went still. She started to fidget, and so she sat on her hands as inconspicuously as she could. The detective put her pencil down and waited.

  “I kept busy. Introduced myself to the neighbours. Went out. Ran. Visited my grandparents on the weekends.”

  Downplay. Downplay.

  Running was the only true thing in what she’d said. In fact, it was what she spent most of her time doing. Running to mask her loneliness. Running to ease her pain. Everything else was a lie. And the detective was having none of it.

  “Want to try again?” she said.

  Her comment came as a blow. Though she’d been forced to deal with transitions her whole life, she still found change difficult. Too many changes to count, there was no getting used to them. Even the easy ones were hard. Who was she trying to fool? She hated transitions. She stretched, trying to keep the blood flow in her legs. She knew instantly she needed to back pedal. She decided to fess up.

  “It took a little time.”

  The detective eyes bore into her.

  “Okay, a lot,” she admitted. “But all that changed in September.”

  The building intercom broke the silence in her apartment.

  “G, you’ve got guests,” a voice said.

  She looked at the wall. “No one knows where I am.”

  “Someone does.”

  She took the elevator fourteen floors down to the street. The metal doors slid open and she peered into the lobby. Her face lit up. She ran straight into the arms of Latoya, who greeted her a squeeze.

  “Didn’t you say next week?”

  “I was too excited.”

  She laughed. “Come on.” She grabbed her arm and pushed her into the elevator, and when they got upstairs, she swung open the door to the apartment. “Ta-da.”

  Latoya’s face crumbled.

  Greta took her hand, pulled her through the front door, and led her to the living room. They sat side by side on the couch, and Greta wrapped her arms around her.

  “I hate it here.” Latoya cried.

  “Your school?”

  “Already lost.”

  “Classes?”

  “Start next week.”

  “What about residence. Your roommate?”

  “The food sucks. I can’t stand it.”

  “But she’s good?”

  Latoya held her hand up to stem the questions. Greta held her in her arms, and her sobs eventually slowed to soft weeping. Latoya wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. “Good ugly cry, huh?”

  Greta passed her a tissue. “We’ve all done it.”

  Latoya wiped the snot from her nose and laughed. “Look at me. I couldn’t wait to get to the city and now I’m down here I just wanna go home. How messed up is that?”

  Greta shook her head. Had things been different, she might’ve felt the same way. But there was nothing for her to go back to.

  After a short break, Detective Perez walked back into the room, cell phone in hand, and sat down in her chair. Under her arm were two blue files: a thin one labeled Giffen, I., Investigation, and a thicker one stamped with the outline of a trillium. She opened the first and held up a document.

  “How do you explain this?” she asked, sliding the piece of paper across the desk, swift and efficient.

  Phil paled as he scanned it, wincing as he read. “This wasn’t in the case file you shared yesterday,” he said.

  Detective Perez nodded. “The document just arrived.” She looked at Greta. “It was what my officers said they found when they called my office yesterday.”

  “How did you get it?” His tone was more inquisitive than condemning.

  “Search warrant. From your client’s phone.”

  Detective Perez stood back up and passed Greta her purse. As she started for the door, she stopped in the frame and turned around. “I assume you’ll need some time,” and walked out.

  Silence filled the room. Greta noticed she was holding her breath. Finally, Phil slapped the paper down in front of her. “Did you not think to mention this?”

  Her heart sank and she turned on her chair, curled her feet under her butt, and dropped her head.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “You knew they’d find it, right?”

  She picked at the material of her sweatshirt. “It’s not real.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He held up her finger and thumb to mark an inch. “You’re about this close to being charged with murder.”

  Greta cursed under her breath.

  Phil leaned back and raked her fingers across his head. “Holy crap, Greta. I’ve got to make a call and figure this out.” He pulled out his cell phone and turned away.

  “Thanks.” She was about to say more when he looked over her shoulder, red-faced.

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Though she didn’t need to, she reached forward and picked up the sheet. As she read, her hands trembled.

  Latoya: Hey u

  Greta: Hey

  Latoya: Thanks for having me over last night

  Greta: Feeling better?

  Latoya: Yeah. Gonna stay

  Greta: Like me

  Latoya: Would u ever go back?

  Greta: Only one reason

  Latoya: ??

  Greta: To kill the fucker

  Latoya: Wtf?

  Greta: Smiley face

  Latoya: Girl, I wouldn’t blame you but seriously, no way

  G
reta: He ruined everything

  Latoya: ik but ain’t nobody helping no one meet their maker

  Greta: KK

  Latoya: We’re here together now. I’ve got your back

  Greta: smiley face

  Latoya: Talk tmrrw. Heart u

  Greta: Heart u2 Night

  She stood, leaned forward, and pressed her hands against her thighs. She felt everything unravel, pulling apart one thread at a time. Eyes closed, she breathed in and counted.

  One, two, three. Collect yourself, damn it. Four, five.

  When her nausea eased, she opened her eyes slowly, straightened her back, and sat back down. Detective Perez’s footsteps echoed off the walls and, seconds later, she strolled back into the room.

  “We ready?” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. The air shifted and Phil nodded. The detective sat at the table and made herself comfortable. “So,” she turned Greta, “how would you like to explain this exchange?”

  Greta considered her question a long time before she answered. “I get what this looks like”—the detective leaned forward—“but Latoya’s my best friend. We were just yapping, having fun…”

  “That’s it?” she replied with a wry look. “That’s your explanation?” She narrowed her gaze.

  “It was a joke,” she blurted.

  Detective Perez’s eyes widened. The colour drained from her face. “About killing your father?”

  Greta rolled her eyes and flashed a satisfied smile. “Come on. Get serious for a minute. If I’d really wanted to, I would’ve done it at the cabin.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  G reta’s bag had been packed for more than two days. It was sitting by the door, waiting for the trip that would take care of unfinished business. The notion of facing it terrified her—and she wasn’t alone.

  “This is crazy,” Daniel told her, drumming his fingers on the table. “Why see him now?”

  She didn’t know how to explain it. She needed him to admit he murdered her mother, and while having her grandparents in her life now meant the gaping hole no longer felt as wide, she still wanted those adoptions papers her mother had promised her.

  Polly looked on. “From everything you’ve told us, your father is unpredictable. He sounds dangerous, God damn it.”

  Greta looked at her grandfather, who sat shocked at his wife’s language, but neither dared to share their thoughts out loud. Polly abhorred cussing. She didn’t withdraw the rest of her comment either.

  “Why don’t I come with you,” Daniel suggested.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  She hadn’t shared the full truth about her childhood or what had happened to her mother. Not yet, at least. She shivered at the recollection, doing her best to wipe the picture from her mind, and instead pulled her sweatshirt around her. Maybe one day. But today was not that day.

  Polly rearranged herself in the chair. “You’ve got to be vigilant.”

  “And call us every couple of hours,” Daniel added, “and we’ll call you, too.”

  She knew her grandfather’s suggestion wasn’t negotiable. It was the only compromise that would keep her grandmother from sitting in Brantford worrying all day. She stuck out her hand in front of her. “Deal,” she said. It would be an easy one to keep. She’d made the same one with Latoya.

  Greta woke up early on the Saturday morning. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach unsettled. There was no way she could sleep. She got up, puttered around the kitchen, and made breakfast. She couldn’t eat. Her heart raced so fast she thought it was going to burst out of her chest, and she wasn’t even out of the apartment yet. How would she make it all the way up to Ravensworth? She folded herself into the couch in the living room and stared far off through the window. She anticipated she’d feel her mother all around her when she arrived.

  Laptop in front of her, she picked at the keys. Her mother liked history, so the least she could do was share some with her. She googled Route to Ravensworth and tapped some notes into her phone.

  The official name of Highway 401 is the King’s Highway.

  Ravensworth used to be part of the township of Bethune.

  Whatever.

  A bunch of artists came up on the feed. Seven of them; Canadians, famous for painting trees. She peered into the screen. Weren’t those the same ones in the woods behind the cabin north of where she’d grown up? Where she ran? Her mother was likely aware of them, but she felt certain she’d have smiled anyway and let her ramble on uninterrupted, just happy to be together again and to learn what she’d discovered.

  Before she left, she double-checked her phone. As a graduate of Penn, part of the Connect Program gave her access to Kanza twenty-four seven. The fact that she was a text away—no questions asked, no reason required—made her feel braver.

  The last thing she did was pick up her dime box from the coffee table. She cradled it in her hands, her fingers following the gentle lines her great-grandfather had carved so long ago; lovingly, tenderly. She closed her eyes.

  It was time to go. In the car her grandparents had lent her, Greta travelled north up the highway, past Canada’s Wonderland, where the gray cement turned into rolling green fields and the pungent smell of the Holland Marsh filled her nose. She stopped in Barrie for gas. The slim fellow in his early forties who filled the tank turned his nose at her crumpled twenties. When she was younger, it would have embarrassed her, perhaps even made her mad, but not anymore. Now she imagined him some old man, close to retirement, wearing a fanny pack and returning his latte at Starbucks because he asked for light foam. He’d be telling long-winded stories of his glory days to anyone who would listen. That was all he had left. She’d moved on.

  She dropped the car into gear and headed to Muskoka. Salmon-coloured veins weaved and sparkled through the slabs of rock sitting on either side of the road. It was like they were decorated for a party—a celebration welcoming her back to her roots. There was a sign on the side of the road, reflective white letters on blue paint. Bracebridge. The cut off came quickly. She’d called Mr. and Mrs. Xiangzi to let them she was coming, so they weren’t surprised when she pulled in. Though they’d explained her father had moved out a couple of months earlier—some type of cancer, they’d said—the restaurant was her first stop. Family was family.

  Back in the car after lunch, she set off again. The clouds spat and the gray sky hung dangerously close to the ground. The ride to the old cabin felt both quick and slow, but the GPS found it easily, where Lake Rain Road and the north end of Aholas Drive met. It was so isolated. She was surprised that her father had moved all the way back out there… but didn’t they say criminals always returned to the scene of the crime?

  She pulled into the laneway, careful to navigate the scarred pits and rutted potholes swelled to the size of mammoth craters. Overgrown branches scraped the sides of her grandparents’ car the whole way down. It annoyed her. Her father hadn’t bothered to cut them back, as she remembered from years before.

  At the end of the laneway, Greta turned the corner into what had once been a grassy patch; but now it had deteriorated into a sandy path at the front of the cabin. She turned the ignition off. Her heart pounded. She gave it a quick up and down, but she couldn’t believe what she saw: it didn’t feel possible. Rotting logs, streaked green with moss. Windows dark with grime, encased in weathered plastic and duct tape. Was this all it had been? Where had their brown log cabin gone? What she remembered had been so much larger. She pulled herself out of the car and up to the front porch where a swarm of blackflies circled in a cloud. The door hung loosely; she opened it slowly.

  Debris crunched underfoot as she walked through the door. The first thing to hit her was the lack of sound. The cabin was nothing more than a deep, distant void that guarded past secrets, keeping them safe. The smell hit her next. The hot odor of death, stale dust, and her mother’s perfume were thick in the air. Woozy, she grabbed hold of the handle on the closet to steady herself, careful not to turn it. She didn’t want the door
opening, giving the bad spirits any chance to wake up and escape.

  In the front hall, Greta stood, feet cemented to the floor. Sweat ran in rivers, making her T-shirt wet against the length of her back. She looked right to the tiny kitchen. Cups and plates and forks encrusted with foot sat stacked on the counter. Grit clung to the walls and floated in the air. Back in the hall, the familiar soaring wooden statue—the one overflowing with jackets that came alive and chased her in dreams as a child—was missing. Where had it gone? Surely it wasn’t the worn out four-foot upright with the rusty hooks straight in front of her.

  She gulped a deep breath and called out her father’s name. The silence was deafening. The hallway, narrow and dark, creaked with every step she took. Another. Then another. She stopped to look at the pictures that hung on the wall—feeling nothing, mostly—and tore herself away. Eyes to the dark at the top of the stairs, she shivered and then pushed towards the back room. Six more easy steps that felt anything but easy.

  By the entrance to the back room, she stood silent. Filled with the furniture she remembered as a child—the couch and chair, caked in dust, plastic covers removed—looked like they’d been sitting there for thousands of years. Something about the room was off. While the TV flickered, she didn’t recall it being so dark. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. Why was it taking so long? Curtains. Long, flowing curtains covered the back windows. Those were new. And now she knew why. While her mother tried to bring light to their world, her father had snuffed it out. The thought of it made her sick. When her eyes acclimatized, his outline materialized in the darkness. He was across the room, sitting in a patched leather chair, with his back to her. Who watched TV with no sound on?