Shadowboxer

by Jessica L. Webb

  They’d ended their day at her parents’ home. Rosa had been cooking all afternoon, and the house smelled of sweet potato and spices. Jordan and Ali had spent a short time talking to Alfred McAddie, who sat in his chair in clean plaid pyjamas and a hoodie, his hands shaking as he reached for his can of light beer. But his eyes had been sharp, at least for a little while, as he’d asked about the scarecrows and if the town had fixed the on-ramp to the highway. The ramp had been fixed at least seven years ago, but Jordan dutifully answered the question. Their conversation was calm and polite, but her dad seemed happy and Ali seemed relaxed. Jordan tried to see this moment, with all its discomfort and buried history, as the gift that it was.

  “You might want to pay attention for this, buttercup. They’re talking about you.”

  Jordan’s heart jolted in her chest. Her boss, Campbell, was up at the podium now, talking about the new initiative with JP’s Gym and a private corporate enterprise. Jordan could feel the eyes of colleagues and strangers as she stared at the front, like she was listening carefully to Campbell’s boasts about forging community relationships and furthering their goals of ending the cycles of poverty by targeting youth programming. Jordan could feel the heat in her cheeks. She wished Campbell had given her a heads-up about this.

  “It looks like lunch is rolling in,” Campbell said, “and I know I’m about to lose you all to sandwiches and cookies, but please feel free to direct any questions about this new enterprise to me, Cay Rawlson, or Jordan McAddie. We’ll reconvene in an hour.”

  The din of a hundred voices released from their morning of silence was stark and almost overwhelming. The crowd surged in polite but focused urgency to the back of the room, where long tables draped with white cloths had been set up with platters of sandwiches, bowls of iceberg lettuce salad, and plates of cookies. Jordan stayed in her seat, smiling at people she knew and trying to get her head in the game. She answered a few questions from people who said they wanted to know more about the gym program or just wanted to give her a hard time for having a starring role in the day’s agenda. She was just waving off a laughing colleague when she felt the seat next to her being pulled out. Helena Cavio sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Jordan.”

  “Hi, Helena. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Helena said gravely. Of course, Helena said most things gravely. “Though if I hear the phrase ‘aligning with the Ministry funding model’ one more time, I’m going to scream.” Jordan laughed but stopped quickly when she noticed Helena had not joined her. “I wanted to ask you about this corporate partnership and how it came to be.”

  Jordan tried to decipher Helena’s expression. It was difficult to hear in this noise but she wondered if she’d just heard judgement.

  “Apparently Campbell was approached by a corporation with ties to Halifax—”

  “Which one?”

  “Centera Corporation. They’re running a pilot project with their senior staff, embedding them in various community groups and having the community mentor them. They picked the youth boxing program.”

  Jordan recognized she was now selling the mentorship program she herself had initially doubted. It was entirely possible it was Ali’s involvement that had won her over.

  “You have no concerns about allowing a corporate enterprise to dictate the directives of a publicly funded program?”

  Definite judgement. And a hint of bitterness. Jordan took apart the words as she calmed the immediate defensive response that sprang to her lips.

  “I’ve had plenty of concerns,” Jordan said calmly. “I’m content with the intent of the mentorship, the level of commitment by those involved, and the direction of the funding.”

  Helena shook her head and picked up a pen from the table, rolling it between her fingers like a cigarette. Jordan’s stomach began to rumble as more and more people passed them with plates piled high with food, but she was too polite to end this conversation. And she liked Helena. They had often been on the same side of some intensely passionate arguments at meetings exactly like this one.

  “Multinational corporations can’t possibly understand what it is that we do,” Helena said, her eyes slightly unfocused as she stared into the distance. “We are not a blip on their radar. We are not clients or partners, and yet they think they can show up and take from a community they’ve given nothing to. Ever. And we’re supposed to shake hands and thank them.” Helena dropped her pen and shifted to stare at Jordan. The intensity of her gaze made the mildest alarm bells ring in Jordan’s head. “You be careful, Jordan. Don’t forget the mission and the goals and the kids.”

  Jordan did not appreciate this lecture, but she still aimed for calm. “You know my priorities, Helena. Always.”

  Helena relaxed just a fraction, and she nodded once. Sharply. “Yes. I’ve always been able to count on you.”

  Jordan smiled. “Besides, I know the senior staff they’ve got embedded at the gym. Ali Clarke. I knew her when we were teenagers. She and Madi seem to be making a good connection—”

  Jordan stopped as Helena stood abruptly.

  “Madigan Battiste? You’ve connected her to Madigan?”

  Jordan didn’t think it was particularly important to point out none of it had been her idea.

  “I’m watching out for her, Helena,” Jordan said quietly as she also stood. “I always will.”

  Helena looked blankly at Jordan for a moment, then scanned the room, as if reminding herself where they were.

  “Yes. My apologies.” Helena gave Jordan the smallest of smiles. “I’m sure it will all work out, as they say.”

  As Helena walked away and Jordan went to join the long, snaking line waiting for lunch, she reflected on Helena’s warning. So much of their work boiled down to “us” and “them.” Her own life straddled both worlds, the giving and receiving of help. She shared that connection with some, but not all, in the social services community. She wondered if Helena’s background was the same, if that was why her fight for the vulnerable populations they served seemed more passionate and personal.

  Jordan ate the chewy sandwiches and boring salad while trying to listen to the conversation around the table in the noisy conference room. A commotion, a slight but noticeable increase in noise and hurried movements ran through the mostly seated crowd. Waiters in white shirts and black vests had been clearing some dishes, but a few more now entered carrying large platters covered in silver domes. They moved quickly, set them down on half a dozen tables around the room, and then left. Jordan felt a niggling in her stomach, the sense of something off, but she was distracted by a server coming to clear her plate. Jordan looked up and smiled her thanks.

  The mood in the room shifted abruptly when someone at a nearby table lifted one of the silver domes. A pile of hypodermic needles poured out onto the white tablecloth, and a woman shrieked as people hastily pushed back from the table. Jordan felt the tension, panic, and uncertainty as more lids were raised and more hypodermic needles covered the tables.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Cay said, turning in her seat to get a better look. “Needles? That’s horrible.”

  People were crowding the tables as others were trying to back away, some snapping pictures with their phones and quite a few making their way to the exits. They blocked Jordan’s view as she tried to visually track down the waiters who had delivered the platters to the table. But the room was too chaotic, and the only wait staff Jordan saw were two huddled at the back, watching in horror.

  Moments later, Campbell hurried up to the podium.

  “Okay, folks. We obviously have an issue here. Please touch nothing on the tables and calmly make your way to the exits. The Halifax Police Department are on their way. Calmly, folks, please.”

  Jordan stayed in her seat as throngs of people tried to exit all at once, the noise level rising until it was nearly uncomfortable. She couldn’t look away from the pile of needles on the adjacent table. Most were capped, some weren’t. All
were unwrapped. Jordan wondered if a note was amidst the needles. No, she knew there was a note. Another hand-delivered protest.

  “Come on, Jordan,” Cay said. “Let’s get out of here and let the police handle this.”

  Jordan didn’t move. Something was sitting off-centre in her chest, an extra beat of her heart or an unneeded breath in her lungs. A message, an alert from her body to pay attention. Everything faded as she replayed the scene of the platters being delivered to the tables. The uniforms that were not quite uniforms. The hurried movements.

  “Jordan?”

  Jordan looked up into Cay’s concerned eyes.

  “They were teenagers,” Jordan finally said. “The people who delivered these needles were teenagers.”

  Cay stared at her blankly. The room was nearly empty save for a handful of concerned hotel staff conferring with the Ministry leads.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it. And, Cay…” Jordan struggled to pull her thoughts into alignment. To say what needed to be said despite the sickness in her stomach. “It’s a weekday. What teens aren’t in school?”

  “Ours,” Cay said. Her shoulders sagged. “They could be ours.”

  Jordan stood and put a reassuring hand on Cay’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go talk to the police.”

  * * *

  “You’re sure you didn’t recognize any of them?”

  Jordan gripped the tiny china cup in her hand, idly wondering if she could break it. The cop she was talking to was paid to be suspicious. It was his job.

  “Yes. Like I said, I didn’t recognize any individuals, but I’ve worked with enough teenagers to know when I’m around them.”

  The cop kept looking at Jordan with his pen poised over his notebook, as if this would encourage Jordan to somehow know more than she did.

  “And like I said, you’re not actually protecting anyone by not giving names. We’ll treat them properly, but we’ve got to follow this up.”

  Jordan looked down into her cup as anger surged up through her stomach. She tilted the one drop of cold coffee around the bottom of the cup before looking up again.

  “Message received, Constable Marco.”

  The cop was confirming Jordan’s details when Rachel walked over.

  “Marco, have you got Ms. McAddie’s statement?”

  “We just finished up, Constable.”

  “Good. There are sixteen more witnesses we need to interview.” Jordan caught the look of annoyance that passed quickly over the young officer’s face. Apparently Rachel caught it, too. “I’m coming to help, you nimwit,” Rachel said, part admonishment and part fondness. Constable Marco managed to look sheepish. “Let me just follow up with Jordan, and I’ll be right behind you. And remind me to teach you how to roll your eyes at a superior officer without getting caught.”

  Jordan shook her head at Rachel as Constable Marco walked away.

  “What?”

  “You’re a piece of work.”

  “Yeah,” Rachel snorted. “I’m a piece of work that isn’t likely to put her kids to bed anytime this week.”

  “This thing keeps getting bigger, doesn’t it?”

  “Bigger…maybe,” Rachel said, her voice contemplative as she looked over the crowd of social workers and officers. “Louder, I think. Like they’re starting to find their voice. Shouting.” Rachel finally zeroed in on Jordan. “What are we going to do when they start screaming?”

  Jordan swallowed and tried to find the words to reassure her, but Rachel beat her to it.

  “Forget it. I’m tired and rambling.”

  “No, you’re tired and worried. And it’s me you’re talking to, not nimwit Constable Marco, so you’re good.”

  Rachel cracked a smile. “Thanks for that.” She surveyed the room again, and Jordan noticed this time her gaze was sharper, more focused. “I’m hoping we get some more details from these interviews. We’ve got hotel security footage from the entrances and the lobby but not the hallways or conference rooms.” Rachel took a breath. “And a task force. I just got word the city wants a task force created. I’d like you to sit on it.”

  “Me?” Jordan couldn’t think what she could possibly add to a police task force.

  “We need community representation. We’re pulling in some of the beat cops, but if they’re protesting community treatment and services, we need some of that perspective.”

  “Is that what it is? A complaint against community outreach?”

  Rachel took out her phone and scrolled until she found a picture she showed Jordan. It was a plain piece of paper with the sun symbol and large printed letters that said, “OUR HEALTH AND SAFETY.”

  “Jesus,” Jordan muttered.

  “So, the task force,” Rachel said, putting away her phone. “You’ll be on it? We could use your perspective.”

  “I guess,” Jordan said. Uncertainty threaded its way through her body. She felt pulled somehow, as if being tugged across an invisible line. Us and them. Jordan pushed it aside and looked up at Rachel, who was watching her with curiosity. “Yes, of course. Let me know what you need.”

  “Will do. I should get going. I won’t make it to the gym tonight, but I’ll aim for tomorrow, okay?” Rachel started backing away, as if itching to get at the next task. She never stopped.

  “Sounds good. And don’t forget to plan your birthday date with Adam. We’ve got the kids that night.”

  Rachel smiled for the first time. “You have no idea how much I need something to look forward to.”

  Jordan wandered through the conference space until she found Cay outside leaning up against the building, having a smoke.

  “We done? Can we get back to the office now?”

  “We’re done,” Jordan confirmed. “And I could use the walk.”

  Cay took a last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out against a garbage can. “That’s my one ciggie for the month. Seemed like a good day for it.”

  They began the fifteen-minute walk to their office. The day was grey, the roads and sidewalks still wet from the morning’s drizzle. Damp wind pushed around the buildings, forcing Jordan to acknowledge the cold and zip up her jacket.

  “Did Rachel have any more information?”

  Jordan filled her in about the note. “They’re pulling together statements and video footage. And they’re creating a task force. Rachel wants me on it as some kind of community representation.”

  “You’ll have to check with Campbell.”

  “That’s the plan,” Jordan said evenly.

  Cay let out a huff. “Sorry, I know you know how to do this job.”

  “It’s okay. I think this whole thing has everyone rattled.”

  “A task force,” Cay said. “I wonder to what end. Are you a member of the community being protested or the community under investigation?”

  There it was. That was Jordan’s uncertainty. The line of us and them. The line of protection and advocacy. Fighting for and fighting against. Her whole life had been fighting. Jordan suddenly felt tired.

  “Let’s leave it, shall we?” Cay said sympathetically. “For now. Let’s let today be today. We can circle back around and look at it again tomorrow.”

  Wise words. Advice she’d given more than once. Advice she obviously needed to hear.

  “I think that’s what I need. Thanks.”

  They turned a street corner, narrowly avoiding a crowd of tourists who were just getting off a massive tour bus, likely on their way back from Peggy’s Cove. Cay and Jordan wound their way through and around the crowd until they were back on the street, a block from their office.

  “How are things with Madigan and the mentoring program?”

  “They’re good,” Jordan said. “Madi seems really good. Steady. She’s taken to Ali much faster than I would have thought, actually.”

  “I think you have a lot to do with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ali was pre-vetted by you. My guess is Ali jumped over
a few of Madigan’s initial suspicions because she is someone you like and trust. Your opinion holds great weight with Madi.”

  Jordan considered this angle. It made sense, she supposed.

  “She’s got a performance this week,” Jordan said. “I’m wondering if she’s going to tell Ali about it.”

  “Ah, yes. That will be a real test for them, won’t it?”

  It would be. Madi had taken a long time to tell Jordan she was a spoken word poet. Jordan had always known writing was an outlet for Madi, but she hadn’t known she’d started to perform at small poetry slams. Jordan had been nearly destroyed by the power of Madi’s voice the first time she’d heard her. Madi had a gift. She hoped she shared it with Ali.

  “I’m not going to say anything to Ali about it,” Jordan said. “I’ll leave that up to Madi. But I’ll be there on Thursday.”

  “Me, too,” Cay said as they arrived at the community centre. She smiled up at Jordan as she pulled open the glass doors. “It’s good to see the fledglings launch, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Jordan said as she smiled. “It’s good to see them fly.”

  Chapter Six

  Jordan—Fifteen

  Steven has been taken to hospital, and Jordan’s fear is a flame inside her chest. The police come to the house, a knock on the shredded screen door. The officer’s voice is low and tries to be gentle. Jordan, standing behind her mom, can only look at the cruiser parked at the curb, lights off and siren silent. She stares at the coat of arms on the side of the cruiser and tries not to hear the words. A fight at the bar, Steven intervening and getting pushed. A bad landing, an awkward angle. Ambulance. Hospital. Need to get down there.