Her face shining with hopeful pride, my mother handed me an envelope. On the front was my name typed in the crisp script of a topnotch electric typewriter. When I turned the envelope over, I saw, embossed on the flap, the elaborate coat of arms of the Province of Ontario. Beneath that was printed the address of the attorney general’s office.
She watched intently as I tore open the envelope, my nervous fingers ripping the coat of arms in two.
“What does it say, Gelo?”
I studied the single sheet of letter-size paper. Centered at the top, that embossed coat of arms again. Beneath that on the left, the address of the attorney general and the address of the actual sender and my own address. Beneath that, a file number, then the date. The letter had been written four days earlier. At the bottom was the usual complementary close, then the signature, then the typed name, then the title of the sender, then the initials of the man who had dictated the letter, in capitals, and of the woman who had typed it, in lowercase.
“For heaven’s sake, Gelo, tell me what it says!”
Despite all the formal information, the body of the letter consisted of a single sentence. “Please see me on Tuesday, April 27, 1965, at 2 p.m. at the morgue.” The letter was signed by Levi Rosen.
“Gelo?”
“It’s nothing, Ma. It’s just a meeting I have to go to for school.”
“Must be some big-shot meeting if they send a government man right to the house.”
A WARM SWEETNESS softened the April air as I made my way east on Lombard Street. I was held up for a few minutes by a delivery truck blocking the sidewalk in front of Nu-Style Chesterfield. Two men wrestled with a long sofa upholstered in a pattern of green, orange and purple that reminded me of a snake writhing.
The truck finally pulled away and when it did, I saw that a few doors down, a man in a suit was standing at the top of the stairs to the morgue. As I got closer, I realized that the man was Rosen himself. I glanced at my watch. I was not late. Why was he so anxious to see me?
I tripped a little on the bottom step, which must have been the reason Rosen was smiling as he extended his hand when I finally reached him. His handshake was firm and warm, and with his other hand, he patted me on the shoulder and turned me toward the door, which opened without his having to touch it. On the other side, door-knob in hand, stood the guard Gleason and I had seen the night of our fateful visit. The man shot me a glance that told me he wasn’t any happier to see me now than he’d been then.
Rosen said nothing as he preceded me up the curved stairs to his office. In the absence of small talk, I could hear myriad sounds around me. The morgue was buzzing. I heard the voices of men echoing in the corridor. I heard doors—and presumably drawers—being slammed shut. Faintly but clearly audible, the varying whine of an electric saw started up, cut into something soft, hit an obstruction, forced its way through.
“This way,” Rosen said, but I already knew the way. Gleason and I had spent some minutes eavesdropping outside Rosen’s door.
The office looked as though the chief coroner had taken one of the rooms of his Forest Hill home and transported it downtown. Smooth, pale blue, wall-to-wall carpet, a mahogany desk, a single glass-doored bookcase in which rows of legal and medical books were carefully arranged according to size. Rosen signaled toward one of two chairs in front of the desk. He took his own seat and as he did so, I caught a glimpse of a photograph on a mahogany credenza behind him. In the picture Rosen stood with a pleasant-looking woman and two teenage girls. The four of them were standing on Rosen’s front porch, in precisely the same spot I’d stood on the day I was trespassing.
My letter, I saw with a sudden jab of fear, was sitting alone in the center of Rosen’s desk. He picked it up.
“I understand you are a first-year law student,” he said. He had a light voice, friendly. But he was a very powerful man and I felt I must weigh each word. Did he think my letter was the hysterical outpouring of a student who’d gone off the deep end?
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“And you came here as part of your first-year studies?”
Not exactly, of course, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. “You could say that, sir.”
Levi Rosen was not a man given to idle conversation. I knew that from what I’d read in newspaper articles about his feud with the A-G. It seemed that our idle chitchat was now through. He appeared to be studying my letter and I began to feel pure dread. If he took the letter seriously, would I be subject to police interrogation about my suspicions that Gleason was implicated in the murder of the woman whose body had disappeared? Worse, if Rosen didn’t take the letter seriously, could he report me to the Faculty of Law and have me removed from the law program, the way that unfortunate young man had been removed from the prosecutor’s office?
“You’re quite a convincing writer,” Rosen said, breaking into my thoughts.
“Sir?”
“You are observant and articulate, Mr. Portal. No doubt those qualities will serve you well in your legal studies.”
“Thank you, sir.” I was more grateful for this reassurance that he wasn’t going to kick me out than for his appreciation of my literary skills.
“But I think you need to be reminded of a few things, and I feel it my duty to remind you, since you appear to be under the impression that some sort of irregularity has occurred in my department.”
Such a steely edge emerged in Rosen’s voice that his previous warmth and friendliness seemed something I had imagined.
“No, sir, I—”
“Don’t interrupt me, young man. I called you here to listen to me, not to listen to you.” He shook the letter. The paper was cheap and thin. It rattled. “You better learn—and fast—that a man of the law does not speculate. He does not question the decision of his betters with no cause except his own inept, uninformed opinions. And above all, Mr. Portal, a man of the law never—” he shook the letter again “— never creates a document, a record of accusations, he cannot substantiate.”
“Sir, I—”
He stood. He was a short man, but then, so are a lot of bullies. “You and your friend were here because I okayed it,” he reminded me. “But you came without an appointment. You showed up with no warning and you happened to come at a time of crisis.” He gestured as if to indicate the whole building. “Crisis is our profession, that’s true,” he said. “But nonetheless, some sense of respect is necessary. Public trust works both ways. You trust the coroner to fairly determine the legal implications of a death. And I trust you, as a member of the public, not to interfere in the work you have mandated to us. I have the power—indeed, Mr. Portal, I have the moral obligation—to do my job in the way that I see fit. If I elect to have a deceased examined somewhere other than here, I order that body removed. That in itself means nothing. Do you understand?”
I was afraid to answer. Was he saying that the body of the woman had been removed merely because he had decided it should be? Fine. But why?
“Mr. Portal, I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, I understand.”
He sat down. For a moment, there was silence. Was he gathering steam for another onslaught?
Perhaps not. He was quiet, almost friendly again, when he resumed. “I understand your concern about your friend, Mr. Portal, but you must take my professional word for it that at all times, with the exception of war and riot, homicide is always, always, Mr. Portal, the least likely explanation for a questionable death. I suggest you sit down with your friend and straighten the business of this letter out with a good man-to-man talk. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our interview is over, then,” he said. “You may see yourself out.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I nearly ran to the door. When I reached it, I turned to say goodbye. I saw Rosen open one of the drawers of his desk. My letter was still in his hand and I realized he was going to save it. On the way down the stairs, I wondered. If he was so conc
erned about my creating documents and so sure what I had told him was useless speculation, why didn’t he just throw my letter away?
“YOU’RE LATE, PORTAL, which makes you only a little better than your friend, Gleason. He’s absent. He hasn’t made a tutorial in weeks. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, Professor Kavin.”
“Forget him for now. Come in, Portal. There’s news.”
“News?”
“Yes.” I carefully removed a stack of papers and sat down while Kavin finalized the required preparations of his pipe.
“I’ve spoken to Tuppin about you, lad. There’s hope.”
“You mean Tuppin is going to take me on?” I should have been overjoyed with this information; instead I felt a stab of self-doubt. Rushing from Rosen’s office to Kavin’s, I’d pretty much concluded that the gist of Rosen’s warning was that I should mind my own business. But I needed time to think. All I could think right now was that Tuppin’s interest in me could be cancelled by a single phone call from Rosen, despite all of Kavin’s hard work.
“Patience, Portal!” Kavin smiled. “I’d say we’ve reached the point at which Tuppin is willing to take your proposition under advisement. Considering that you may, in fact, be as talented a protégé of mine as I once was of his.”
“What?”
“I told him about your work with Billy Johnson. Tuppin wants more. He wants you to interview Johnson again. He wants as clear and complete a personal history on Johnson as you can put together. He wants to know Johnson’s parents’ lineage. He wants to know the exact time and location of Johnson’s birth. He also wants you to find out what tribal treaty arrangements exist between the Tuscaroras and New York State. He also wants a similar workup on any treaties between the Muskeg Cree and the Province of Ontario.” He pulled hard on his pipe. “Can you do this, Portal? You’ll have to go out and talk to Johnson again.”
“I don’t think that would be a problem.”
Only it was. Because when I got to Bleecker Street later the same day, there was a wrecking crew dismantling the house where I’d last seen Billy and Kee Kee.
I hoped against hope that Billy had told Michele where he was going and that Michele could pull himself away from Martin Luther King and Hanoi and Saigon long enough to help me find out where Billy had gone.
“I’M NOT SURE where Billy is, man. Like he and Kee Kee had to split. He appreciates that you tried to help, but maybe you can’t.” Michele could be pretty vague for a man intent on saving the world.
“You got me into this, Michele,” I told him, “and now my project depends on it. You’ve got to help me.”
“Chill out, Angelo. I’ll do what I can.”
APRIL TURNED INTO May, the days turned warm, the black trees turned lacy green with new leaves. I was studying almost twenty hours a day now, researching the Johnson material, preparing for the final exams that moved ever closer. I tried to put Gleason Adams into a little compartment in my mind labeled “Other People’s Problems, Not Mine,” and I nearly succeeded. But when he missed yet another Kavin tutorial, I decided to look for him one more time. Call it curiosity, call it a hungry need for a friend, even one as dismissive of me as Gleason. I psyched myself up enough to get on the Rosedale bus and return to Whitney Square.
I remember that it was unseasonably hot that day, at least eighty degrees, but a strong wind blew, and from time to time, I had to brush the hair from my eyes. My studies had made me neglect my grooming. I was beginning to look as messy as Michele.
The grass of the square was that green that falls between the tentative chartreuse of April and the verdant lushness of June. Spiky crowns of dandelions dotted the park, but soon someone’s gardener or one of the men who worked for the city would crop the errant flowers and mow the lawn into a smooth carpet beneath the oaks. Red and yellow tulips, the pink and white cups of our northern false magnolia, yellow daffodils, dark purple buds of what would soon be lilacs seemed to scent the air. Whitney Square was paradise, but I felt that my friend was the snake lurking there. I didn’t know what Gleason had done, but it was something illegal. There was no other explanation for his behavior. There wasn’t much explanation for my behavior, either. Except that, try as I might, I couldn’t file away the Adams matter as easily as Levi Rosen had filed my letter.
I took a deep breath of spring air, tugged on my rayon shirt and ran my fingers through my hair, which immediately sprang back again on my forehead. I wondered if Gleason’s parents were home. It had been nearly two months since they’d gone to Switzerland to claim the body of their son. I dreaded having to ask them about the disappearance of their remaining son, but I had no choice. Nobody had seen Gleason in weeks. If he had truly disappeared, it could mean several things, chief among them being that he’d become a fugitive from the law. I wasn’t going to suggest that to Gleason’s parents. Then again, they weren’t about to reveal such a thing to me, either, if they indeed knew where Gleason was.
Another foolish expedition of mine, I felt, as I pushed the ivory button beside the door and again heard the melodious chimes ring faintly from deep within the stately Rosedale home.
I waited. Across the square, a bluejay called raucously, its cry a shocking incongruity in the quiet confines of the park.
Still no one came. I turned, turned back, decided I should give it one more try and rang again. The instant my finger left the button, the door opened more forcefully than I expected. Startled, I jumped back. My foot caught on the flagstone step and I stumbled, grabbing the nearest object, which happened to be a juniper bush, in an attempt to right myself.
I heard soft, high-pitched laughter. I looked up to see the pretty little maid standing in the doorway. She wore her uniform, a cliché in black and white. “I like your hair,” she giggled.
A person more familiar with the manners and morés of Rosedale than I was then would have taken her insolent casualness for the only thing it could mean: that her employers were absent and not expected to return anytime soon. I, however, did not realize this and, regaining my balance, politely asked, “May I see Mr. Adams, please?”
“You mean Gleason’s father? Sure, you can see him. If you happen to be in Zurich.”
“What?”
“Zurich. It’s in Switzerland,” she explained with exaggerated emphasis on each word. “Don’t they teach you boys anything at the university?”
“What about Gleason, then?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. “You look kind of, uh, hot,” she said with a wide smile. “You want a Pepsi or a Coke?”
“Listen,” I said, “I’m a little concerned about Gleason. He . . .”
She shrugged. “So he skips school once in a while. Big deal. You want a Coke or not?”
She was a cute little thing with dark hair wound into a few spit curls at the temple, a style I doubted she’d have gotten away with if her bosses were around. She had a nice figure, too, only a little disguised by her uniform. “Okay,” I said, “a Coke would be cool.”
“Come on in, then.”
I expected to be seated alone in the parlor as I had been before, and have the maid return from the kitchen with the drink, but that’s not what happened. Instead, she guided me straight past the parlor and through a long, narrow corridor that led directly to the back of the house.
We moved fast, but not too fast for me to make several observations, the main one being that the house was cold, the sort of cold that results from a building being closed up before the weather warms.
I noticed also that there was not a single light on in the whole, vast first floor. True, it was bright outside, but no window could light every corner of such big rooms. In addition, the window shades and drapes were all drawn shut. It was darker in Gleason’s Whitney Square home than it had been in the deserted halls of Ellis Island.
As I passed, I noted that the portrait of Gleason’s brother gazed out still from its appointed place, and it now seemed to me, as we neared the back of the house, that his spirit was
standing guard here in some way, as if he were awaiting the return of those who had loved him and whose hopes for his promising life had been dashed.
“Here we are,” the maid said. She gave a swinging door a good slap and it flew open to reveal an enormous sunny kitchen with sparkling new appliances, rows of casement windows opening onto a luxurious back garden, and a long white table with eight chairs around it set in front of the window, no doubt to give the household staff a good view of the garden while they ate. Nobody, however, sat at it now. This kitchen, like the rest of the house, had the feeling of domestic life indefinitely suspended.
“Is all the staff gone, too?” I asked as the maid set a Coke bottle and a crystal glass in front of me at the table. She plunked another bottle of Coke on the table for herself and sat cater-corner to me, her knees accidentally brushing mine. Either she’d hiked up her skirt in her employers’ absence or the Adamses allowed their maid to adopt the short style that was making me feel very hopeful about the coming summer fashions.
“Yeah,” she said, “they split.” She shook her curly head. “It’s really sad,” she said, “about the Adamses’ son—Gerard was his name; Gleason told me he used to call him Gerard of Gleason and Gerard . . . Anyway, Gerard got discovered dead in Switzerland a little while ago. I mean, they found his body. He was missing for a long time, lost while skiing or something like that. When they finally found him, Mr. and Mrs. Adams went to Europe to bury him and they said they didn’t know when they could come back. Maybe even never. But I have to keep the house open just in case. Except it’s not really open. I just—”
“But I thought they went to Switzerland so they could get the body and bring it back to Canada,” I interrupted.
The girl’s automatic response was, “No, I don’t think so,” but the minute she said it, she seemed to realize that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to talk so openly about the family’s business to a stranger, even if the stranger was Gleason’s friend.
“Maybe,” she said, “maybe they planned to do that. To come back with the body. I don’t know. Anyway, they didn’t come back. They stayed there and who knows, maybe they’ll stay forever. Makes my job easy.” She smiled and took a slug of Coke straight from the bottle.
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