Guardian

by Natasha Deen

She nodded and left. I took a steadying breath and stood.

  “You and I,” said Nancy to me in a tone I’d never heard before, “will discuss this later.”

  While May was gone, we pulled the chairs away from the gaping hole in the wall. She returned with wood, hammers, and nails. May and Nancy knocked out the broken panes and fixed the window, Amber and I swept the broken glass into the trash.

  “I think that’s the best we can do,” said May. Her forehead puckered. “Not sure where we’ll find the money to fix this”—she pasted a smile on her face—“but at least no one was hurt.”

  No one living, I thought. I glanced around the room, but Serge was gone.

  Nancy glanced at me and I didn’t need the push. I didn’t want to be here anymore. Between Amber’s behaviour and my newfound sympathy for Serge, I’d lost my inner grounding.

  “I should go,” I said.

  Nancy nodded.

  Amber reached for me and I gave her an awkward hug

  “Thanks for being such a good friend,” she said.

  The acid bubbling in my stomach began to churn. For sure, she was lying. The fact she was trying to force a bond between us said as much.

  I took my coat from May, ran into the rain and to the car. Serge wasn’t in the backseat. And for the first time in my life I found myself wondering where he was and hoping he was okay.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nancy stepped into the house.

  “Dad’s not home, but I let him know you’d be coming over.”

  “Worried about witnesses?”

  “You looked pretty pissed.”

  “I’m not pretty pissed.” She dropped her coat and headed up the stairs. “I’m gorgeously furious.”

  I winced.

  At the top of the steps, she turned, looked back at me. “You and your dad have a unique relationship and I love you kid, you know that. But this is a police investigation, this is a murder, and you cannot pull a stupid stunt like you did.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt!” I rushed up the steps. “You were with May—”

  “And you should have kept that cute derrière of yours in the chair, Maggie! What were you thinking?”

  “That she’d lost her boyfriend and maybe she needed someone who would feel badly for her and not treat her like a suspect or a means to an end.”

  “She is a means to an end!” Nancy put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re a smart kid, Maggie, but there are things you don’t understand.”

  I turned away from her. “I could say the same thing back to you.”

  “I’m not busting your balls to be a jerk. I’m doing it to protect you.”

  I nodded.

  She sighed. “You want something to eat?”

  If she was willing to feed me then she probably wasn’t as mad as I thought. “Yeah.”

  Nancy moved into the kitchen. “So. Tell me. What don’t I understand?”

  “Huh?”

  “You talked to Amber. What did she have to say?”

  “So, you’re going to give me grief for talking to her but you want the information?”

  She took a long look at the bread and butter on the table. “I don’t have to feed you. I could go back to the station. Leave you to toast and tea.”

  “No, I’m starving—I’ll trade information for food.”

  “Thought so. What did she have to say?” Nancy busied herself at the fridge and I sat at the table.

  “Not much. They were having problems and she’s happy he’s dead, not sad.”

  “Did she say anything about being with him last night?” She flipped the knob of the oven.

  “No, and she says she doesn’t know who he’d been with, but she’s lying.”

  Nancy frowned. “Why? What’s the point?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing…unless—” I stopped. “You don’t think she was in on it?”

  “Does she have a motive?”

  “A dirty video he took of them.”

  She tilted her head to the right then the left, as though shifting the words. “I’ll look into it. Kids have killed for less. Only…”

  “Only, she’s not the type. Let’s face it,” I said, “Amber’s nice but she’s not smart enough to have killed Serge like that. If she’d done it, she’d have left evidence everywhere.” I glanced at Nancy. “Unless you got some crime scene results—?”

  The cop laughed. “This isn’t prime-time TV. I don’t get fingerprints back in an hour. It’ll take a few weeks, but even so, my gut says she didn’t do it.”

  “Did May say anything?”

  “Not really. Guess Serge was having trouble at home—”

  “Yeah,” I said dismissively. “But we already know that.”

  The sides of her lips quirked.

  I blushed. “Sorry. What did she say about the fighting?”

  “Just that it had been worse the past few months. A couple of times, Serge came to the church office and it looked like it would come to blows.”

  “Not that I’d cheer for violence in a house of God, but if anyone deserved to get decked, it was the reverend.”

  Nancy’s brow wrinkled. “No, he was fighting with the mother.”

  “Mrs. Popov?” I thought about the night at the pool. “Are you sure? He seemed protective of her, not mad.”

  “I’m just telling you what May said.”

  “Did she hear what the fights were about?”

  Nancy frowned, but I wasn’t sure if it was at my question or the deli meat in her hand. “She said she didn’t…”

  My ears pricked. “But?”

  “It’s a police matter.”

  “C’mon, you know you want to tell me.”

  She laughed.

  “Anyway, that’s not news—Serge fighting with his parents.” I thought back to all the times I’d seen them together. “Mrs. Popov was always telling him he needed to respect his father. I’ll talk to Amber again.”

  Nancy glared at me.

  “Okay, sorry, but if she talks to me, I’m not going to tell her to shut up.” As much as I loved Nancy, I had a ghost to get rid of, and Amber was my way to do it.

  Nancy made me a sandwich and salad. After we’d eaten, she left me to the dishes and went back to work.

  I pulled out my phone and called Dad. “Hey,” I said when he answered. “You don’t have to worry. I’m okay. It’s been a few hours, I can eat again.”

  “I know.” He sounded affronted. “I’m not worried.”

  I glanced at the table, at the bread. “Liar.”

  “No—”

  “Dad, I could find dead bodies and hear The Voice every day for the rest of my life, and still not get through all the bread you left.”

  “Thought you might be hungry,” he said gruffly.

  “Just tired,” I said.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I’ll be home in a few hours.”

  “We’ll talk then.” I ended the call. I brewed myself a pot of black tea. Then I took the last bits of lunch to my room. My empty room.

  Two days later, I came into my room and found Serge hunched on the window seat, staring out at the pouring rain. He didn’t turn or acknowledge me.

  Before, I’d ignored him out of spite. Now I did it out of respect. I crawled on the bed. The animals moved out of the way. Ebony jumped on the window seat. She studied Serge, head-butted his knee, and rubbed her face against his leg. He turned. Watched her. Then, he reached out and stroked her temple. She purred, circled three times, and curled into a ball.

  The hum of the furnace was the only sound in the room. I flipped on the television. At this point, I regretted not speaking to Serge sooner. If I had, then I could have said something comforting now. Who was I kidding? If I had tried t
o say anything before, we just would have fought, and this moment would be even more awkward. Crap. I should have been happy for his pain. God knows he’d been the cause of too many tears in my life. So, why did I pity him? Wish that even one person were sorry for his passing?

  I clicked through a bunch of channels. The oldie station caught his interest. It was showing one of the police dramas from the ’80s. I wasn’t a huge fan of the pastel-wearing cop duo, but I figured Serge needed something pleasant so I left the station on. I drank some tea and decided it was a good time to catch a shower. Twenty minutes later, dressed in jogging pants and a sweater, I came back in the room.

  Serge was on my bed, the animals sleeping beside him. Absentmindedly, he rubbed Buddha’s head. The sound of the front door opening caught my attention.

  Maybe it was the result of living together for seventeen years, maybe it was the psychic skills, but there was nothing good about the way dad closed the door. Buddha hopped off the bed and we both headed downstairs.

  I found Dad hanging his coat up in the closet. “Hey. What happened?”

  He glanced at me.

  I saw the anger in his face and took an instinctive step back. “You look ready to take a baseball bat to someone’s head. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  I followed him into the kitchen. “Dad?”

  As he turned towards the coffeemaker, his profile came into view. His lips were pressed together in a tight, thin line, and his jaw was clenched.

  “It’s not Nancy, is it?” I swallowed my ballooning panic. Was I going to get in trouble all over again?

  “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.”

  Dad brewed a pot of coffee. The scent of medium-roast beans filled the air. He poured himself a drink and I helped myself to another mug of tea. I didn’t want to go back upstairs, so I went into the family room and sat down. Dad came in a couple of minutes later. I handed him the papers from the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” he grunted and sat down in the old leather recliner.

  That thing was an eyesore, all ripped material covered with duct tape. If Nancy ever moved in, it would be the first thing to go. I knew it. I also knew it was dad’s favourite piece of furniture and he was more likely to give me up than the chair.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  I started. “You want me to leave?”

  He looked at me from over the top of the newspaper. “No, I’m just surprised. You’re usually in your room.”

  “Oh.” I glanced around, pointed up, and dropped my voice to a whisper. “I have a visitor.”

  His papers fell to the floor in a crinkled rustle. “Dead Falls’s most recent contribution to the ghostly set?”

  I nodded.

  He moved to the spot beside me. “When did he get here?”

  “He’s been here on and off the past few days.”

  Dad frowned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  The heat of shame burned my cheeks. “I was being an ass.”

  I moved closer to my dad and, wrapping my arm around him, inhaled the scent of soap and cologne. I leaned my cheek against his flannel shirt. “I thought it would be this great revenge. Leave him to silence—”

  “Oh, Maggie.” In his voice was disappointment and understanding.

  “But I feel like crap,” I said. “Amber was actually relieved he’s dead. Serge was there for the whole thing. It was horrible. He was so angry and hurt. I thought it would make me feel good—” I lifted my face. “But instead, I feel like a jerk, and worse, I actually feel bad for him. He’s just sitting upstairs watching TV and hogging my bed.”

  Dad gave a small chuckle. “There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear: ‘Dad, Serge is in my bed and hogging the space.’”

  I snorted. “Yeah, not really a sentence I thought I’d be saying.”

  The smile left his face. “That poor kid.”

  “Bet you never thought you’d say that.”

  Dad shook his head. “I may never have said it, but I thought it often enough.” He sighed. “Even when he was being a jerk-off to you. It was my second thought, right after ‘I’m going to kill that little prick.’”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  He sighed and squeezed my fingers. “It gets worse, you know.”

  “What does?”

  “I just came from a consultation with the Popovs.” His face contorted with distaste. “It’s like they’re burying a stranger—some derelict off the street.” He took a breath. “They don’t want flowers—they don’t even want a service.”

  “No—!”

  “It’s like they want him gone, not just physically, but psychically, as well.”

  My brain spun with possible reasons for their decision. “Maybe they’re afraid no one will come?”

  “Come on, Maggie. In this town? People would come just out of respect. They’ll come out of morbid curiosity.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “There’s no reason for this.”

  “Who led the charge?”

  He grimaced. “They both did. He suggested it; she backed up him.”

  “Wow.”

  Dad took my hand. “Even if you were the worst kid in existence, if you died, I’d want to give you a proper burial.”

  I squeezed his fingers. “Thanks.”

  “How can parents do that?” Dad took a sip of coffee. “Didn’t they love him? Aren’t they a little upset he’s dead?”

  I was starting to wonder the same thing.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, I headed to the Popovs. Ten minutes of driving and I climbed out of the car. The rain had tapered off, leaving the smell of moulding leaves and a damp chill that seeped through my bomber jacket. I stood looking at the bungalow on the tree-lined street. The living room curtain flicked open for a second. Good. They were home. Hoping that Serge only needed a memorial to send him to the Great Beyond, I headed up the walkway. There was no bell, so I knocked on the metal door. No answer. I knocked harder. Still nothing. I did it again and started calling, “Mrs. Popov? Reverend? Are you there?”

  Of course they were there, and if they didn’t want the entire neighbourhood hearing our conversation, they would open the door.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Serge,” I called loudly. Making eye contact with a few of the people on the street, I continued, “I know you’re very upset, but it’s about the funeral preparations. There’s been a mix-up. He’s been tagged for cremation—”

  That got ’em. They were all about traditional burials. The door opened a crack and Lydia Popov peered at me.

  “Mrs. Popov. I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “I’ll fix the cremation,” she said, and went to shut me out.

  “No—” I put my foot in the jamb and winced as the edge of the door slammed into my foot. “It’s not that.”

  Giving me a look like she wouldn’t mind making me an amputee, she opened the door. “What is it?” She shivered at the wind and wound her hands in her apron.

  I moved so I stood in the doorway. Let her try to slam it on me now. “My dad said you didn’t want a service or anything.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he didn’t deserve it.” Her voice had a sudden vehemence, an anger and hatred. “I tried so hard and he repaid me by being ungrateful. He was a bad kid—” Desperation corrupted her words. “You know what the good book says. I did my best and he ruined everything!”

  “He was your son and—!”

  The door swung wide and I found myself staring up at the gaunt face of the reverend.

  “Miss Johnson. Your father’s still raising you well, I see.”

  “Better than some fathers,” I said.

 
; He didn’t blink. “Why are you disturbing us during this time of mourning?”

  “Who’s mourning?” I asked. “Dad says you’re not doing anything for Serge—”

  “That’s our decision,” he said.

  “But—he was your son. Shouldn’t you do something to remember him?”

  “We have, but putting him on display for people to gawk at him is not how we’ll proceed. This is private. You don’t know us and you have no right to be here.”

  “Folks will want to say goodbye—”

  His thin, delicate eyebrows rose. “Like who? You?”

  He leaned toward me and it took all my effort not to recoil.

  “Will you shed tears for the boy, Maggie?”

  “No—maybe.” The reeking scent of rotting wood coming off him made me take a step back. “But your son had friends—”

  “And look where it got him. Go home, Miss Johnson, and leave us to mourn in peace.” He clamped his bony hand on my shoulder, pushed me onto the cement steps, and slammed the door.

  “What about the memorial at the game tonight?” I wasn’t sure if the team was planning anything but, knowing Craig, I figured it was a good hunch. “You going to ignore that too? No funeral? No remembrance for him? What’s your congregation going to say when they find out what you’re doing?” I yelled as loudly as could, hoped the entire block would hear me. “Think they’ll still want you as their reverend when they find out your mercy and forgiveness couldn’t extend to your own kid?”

  Nothing.

  I walked back to the car, avoiding the puddles of water on the sidewalk. The wind whipped my hair around my face. I climbed inside and found Serge sitting in the back. Did he want to visit the house? Or see his parents? I didn’t know and I still couldn’t bring myself to say anything to him.

  He climbed across the console into the passenger seat. I let him get comfortable, then I started the car. Air pumped out of the vents and warmed my skin. I wondered if he could feel the heat.

  “All I ever dreamed of was leaving this crummy town, getting out of that stupid house,” he said. “Now, I’m dead and stuck here forever.” He gazed up at the shingled roof of what used to be his home. “But at least, I’m outta there. One out of two isn’t that bad.”