by LR Wright
“My goodness,” said Enid aloud, lifting her eyebrows disapprovingly at the sign. Insufficient time had passed, in her opinion, for them to be renting out the dead boy’s room.
Yet it started her thinking. As soon as she got home she took a close look around, down in her basement. Then she asked Homer O’Connel to recommend someone. Of course Homer had volunteered to do the job himself, for nothing. But Enid had refused, gently but firmly: what was over was over, and she was not one to take advantage of the past. Reluctantly, he’d given her a name. And before she knew it, there was a perfectly good suite down there. Small, but private and clean. Just right for a single person. A single woman, of course, was what she’d had in mind.
Enid was idly turning the pages of her account book, but had lost interest in her finances. She didn’t know enough about greenhouse gardening to be able to decide what kind of a structure to buy. And where, exactly, ought she to put it? Some research was obviously necessary.
Enid put away her account book. Then she picked up her soiled sheets and tiptoed down the basement stairs to put them in the washing machine. She knew that her lodger had gone out. But tiptoed anyway.
All morning, as she went about her chores, the suite and the man who lived there encroached upon her thinking. She pushed them aside but they always came back, gently nudging her, like a bathtub toy—that was the image in her head: Enid lounging in a bubblebath, daydreaming, and a red rubber octopus recalled from Reggie’s babyhood bobbing nearer and nearer, bouncing from the end of the tub along the length of her leg until finally she felt it, cold and curious, against her lolling breast, and pushed it away, again and again, and finally had to pick the damn thing up and chuck it right out of the tub.
Enid stared out her kitchen window, astonished. What a bizarre thing. She was holding the coffeepot in one hand and her favorite mug in the other, a white one with painted pansies all over it. Come to your senses, she admonished herself, and poured coffee into the mug.
He spent very little time down there. She didn’t think he’d cooked himself a single meal. Off in his truck early every morning, usually not coming home until late evening. Looking long and hard for employment? Just driving around?
She had left the basement door open so as to hear the washing machine complete its final cycle. When she had moved the sheets from the washer to the dryer, and turned the dryer on, she stood in the laundry room for a minute, smoothing her apron. In a plastic basket several pillowcases and some damask napkins waited to be ironed.
Would she hear his truck from down here, pulling up in front of the house? But it wasn’t even noon yet.
Enid set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron. From where she stood she could see the door to her lodger’s suite. She had a key, of course, in case of an emergency—or maybe simply because it was her house, after all, and she was entitled to have a key to each of its several locks. Obviously she’d never use it, except in an emergency.
The iron, she knew, took a few seconds to warm up.
Enid wandered out of the laundry room, feeling unaccountably light on her feet, as if laughter were burbling somewhere in her chest, filling her up like a balloon. She rested her fingertips on the doorknob and pushed it slightly to the right—and the door slid open. He didn’t keep it locked, then. Enid was touched.
She tapped on the door. “Hello?” she called. “Hello?” She could be inviting him up for coffee. She would, in fact, invite him upstairs for coffee, if he was home. But she knew he wasn’t.
She slipped through the doorway into his bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. The bed was made, an alarm clock ticked from the bedside table, and not one personal object could she see, not a single piece of clothing, not a book or a magazine—not even a used Kleenex, balled up and left on the top of the dresser.
Enid realized that her hands were clasped, as if to keep herself from touching things, like a small child in a museum; like Enid herself, as a child, visiting her paternal grandparents. She shuddered at this flicker of memory and stepped into her lodger’s small living room.
Because it was the only thing in the room that she hadn’t put there herself, she noticed the photograph immediately. It was on the middle shelf of the otherwise empty bookcase, and it would be at the lodger’s eye level, she thought, as he sat in the basket chair. And, yes, the cushion she had thrown onto that chair, a nice splash of red against the brown corduroy cover, that pillow was crushed, as if someone had been leaning against it.
Enid glanced into the kitchen, which looked unused except for an empty glass on the counter; she saw that the sink was water-spattered.
In the small bathroom his electric razor sat on the counter, plugged in, getting itself charged. Aligned on the counter were toothbrush and toothpaste and some spray deodorant. And on the floor, in a corner, a small pile of dirty clothes. Enid gazed upon these with some tenderness. She saw shirts, underpants, socks. And decided that her lodger slept in his underwear. She imagined him, for an instant, asleep in his bed, beneath the quilt she’d provided, lying on his back, head to one side, one arm uncovered, his hand resting palm up, fingers open.
Enid turned the light off and returned to the living room.
Here she listened for a moment for his truck, but heard nothing. Then she lowered herself into the basket chair and studied the photograph.
It was a picture of a child with long blond hair, wearing a blue sweater. She was very young—about ten, Enid estimated. The photo was in a sturdy brass frame and there was a retractable wing in the back which, when extended, as it was now, permitted the frame to stand upright. Enid leaned closer. There was something about the child’s hair, and the sweater, which had a shawl collar, that spoke of an earlier decade. She looked straight into the camera, not smiling, creating in Enid a terrible sadness. There was in her contemplation of this child more genuine grief than she ever experienced at the funerals she attended. Did that mean, she wondered, that this child was dead?
Late that afternoon Alberg became aware that Jack’s truck was back on the side street, and that Jack was behind the wheel. Alberg watched him for a while. Jack had a coffee mug, and a thermos, and every so often he turned on the motor to get warm.
Alberg put on his jacket and walked out of his office and down the hall. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Isabella, and he went outside, walked to the corner, and around, and up to Jack’s truck. He approached the driver’s side window and gestured to Jack to roll it down.
But Jack didn’t roll it down. He started the truck and drove away, slowly.
Alberg stood in the rain feeling like a fool. And felt his anger growing.
He walked back inside, where he phoned Cassandra and learned that her car was ready, so she wouldn’t need a ride home.
“I’m going to stay here for a while, then,” he said, riffling through the diminished stack of his paperwork. Maybe he could actually finish it off. He hung up, put on his reading glasses, and set to work.
Half an hour later there was a tap on his door and he looked up to see Sid Sokolowski.
“Five minutes, Staff. That’s all I need.”
“Come on in.” Alberg took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then tossed the glasses onto the desk.
The sergeant settled heavily into the black leather chair across from Alberg and rested his huge hands on his thighs.
“I think you oughta know,” he said, “I’m considering early retirement.” He shifted his weight, causing the leather to creak.
Alberg sighed. But he wasn’t entirely surprised. “How early?”
Sid hesitated. “End of March. “
“Jesus, Sid.”
“Yeah. Well it’s not definite. But I’m considering it.”
“This got something to do with Elsie?”
Sokolowski turned upon him a look of pure misery. “Yeah.”
“I almost quit myself once,” said Alberg, surprising himself. “For the same reason.” It was probably the most personal remark he’d
ever made to Sid.
“I haven’t totally decided yet,” said Sokolowski.
But Alberg figured that he had.
He didn’t look forward to acquiring a new sergeant. The dynamics in the detachment would change. This could be good, or it could be bad, depending on what kind of a new guy he got.
His phone rang. “Alberg,” he said, and listened. “Gone?” he said into the phone. “What do you mean, gone? When?” He listened some more. “What the hell do you mean, you’re not sure?”
Sokolowski lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
Alberg hung up, shaking his head. “Christ,” he said. “It’s Eliot. He’s run off. With another kid.”
Sokolowski stirred in his chair. “How the hell did that happen?”
“There was a commotion,” said Alberg. “His roommate hung himself. Eliot found the body. And some idiotic laundry truck driver had left the gate open.”
Slowly, Sokolowski shook his head. “That kid’s a goner,” he said flatly. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“What makes you think I want to do anything for him?” Alberg snapped.
The sergeant just looked at him. After a while he got up, heavily, and went to the window to peer outside. “We better keep an eye on the house,” he said. “In case he tries to come home.”
Chapter 17
ELIOT DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER deciding to escape. As soon as he’d told them about Dick everybody in the front office rushed away, all except one woman who immediately got on the phone to someone. Alvin’s eyes were having no trouble at all staying focused. They were riveted on Eliot’s face like they’d been glued there, and he was hanging on to Eliot’s hand like—well for dear life, that was how. Eliot had never examined that phrase before: “dear life.” He liked it. Dear life. Precious life.
“Come on,” said Eliot, and he turned, opened the front door—and off they went. It felt like the sun ought to be shining, but it wasn’t.
They hurried down the steps and along the driveway, then angled across the grass until they got to the fence. On the other side was the busy four-lane street Eliot had watched from the barred window in the fireplace room, but he knew that farther along, the fence disappeared into a wooded area, and here they might be able to climb over it without being seen. He was trying to work out in his head which of them should climb it first when they came upon the gated entrance to the driveway. Incredulous, Eliot saw that the gate was standing open. They walked through it and onto the sidewalk.
“What now?” said Alvin. He was breathing laboriously, and Eliot reminded himself that they’d have to walk slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“We gotta get some money,” said Alvin. “We’re gonna need food and stuff. You got any money?”
Eliot shook his head.
He imagined tiptoeing into the hospital room in Sechelt where Rosie lay, bandaged and sleeping. He imagined Rosie opening her eyes and seeing him standing there. And starting to scream.
“Clothes, too,” said Alvin. “Shit. I feel real good.” He was standing on one foot, the other lifted in the air. Eliot thought he looked like a duck: a short, squat, black-haired duck.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna get any money,” he said, “unless we steal it.”
“Nah. We don’t gotta steal.” Alvin looked up and down the street. “I know where we are. Come on.” He struck off along the sidewalk, heading south, and Eliot followed, reluctant. “See, this is what we do,” said Alvin, trudging. “We gotta get off this main drag first, up there at that stoplight, see?” He pointed, and Eliot nodded. “We cross the street there and we go along that big parkway for a while and then we cross it and go through a bunch of neighborhoods and we end up at a big shopping mall.”
Eliot was skeptical, uneasy about putting his fate in the hands of a kid who probably wasn’t right in the head. “What’s the point of all that?” he said irritably.
Alvin said, “First we’re looking for cans, right? And bottles. Not beer bottles, pop bottles. And cans. And when we’ve got all we can carry, we go to a store and cash them in and we buy something—so the guy has to give us a bag, see? And then we go get more, until the whole bag’s filled up.” They had reached the stoplight, and Alvin pushed the button for the WALK light. While they waited, Eliot heard him panting.
“Are you sure you’re up to all this walking?” he said.
Alvin looked up at him. His face was pale and damp, and his hair was all over the place like usual, but his eyes were still focused.
“How old are you, anyhow?” said Eliot.
“Ten.”
“Shit,” said Eliot. Alvin was shivering a bit in his gray sweatpants and sweatshirt. “We gotta get you a jacket. We’re not gonna be able to do that with pop can money.”
“Yeah, but, see, after we get us enough to buy stuff to eat, then we go to the mall I told you about, there’s a Sky train station there, and we beg.”
“Beg?” Eliot was horrified.
“Panhandle. Yeah.” Alvin looked him over. “Not you, I guess. You look kinda, you know, unfriendly.”
“Do you do this a lot? Begging?”
“Not a lot. Sometimes. Come on.” They started across the street.
“We have to get us a plan,” said Eliot. “A long-range one. Like, where are we gonna go, and stuff.”
“Yeah,” said Alvin. From the opposite sidewalk he continued west, along the edge of another four-lane street, his eyes searching the ground. “I’m not gonna go home, that’s for sure.” He spotted a can, then another, picked them up and pushed them into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“I think I’m gonna go to Nova Scotia,” said Eliot. But could he really leave, with Rosie still here?
“Wow,” said Alvin, scanning the ground. “Can I come?”
Eliot reached down and picked up a dented ginger ale can. “Hitchhiking. That’s how I’ll do it.” And how could he ever be sure, now, that she was really going to be okay?
“You could maybe wait for spring,” said Alvin generously. “You don’t wanna get stranded in the middle of the mountains someplace, not in the wintertime.”
“Yeah, and what the hell am I gonna do from now till spring?” said Eliot.
“We can live on the street.”
Eliot stopped.
The traffic was whizzing past on his right, and on the left a bank of blackberry bushes grew out of a thicket of brown grass. The space between those bushes and the road was about ten feet wide and all kinds of stuff had been tossed there from passing cars. He and Alvin had all along been stepping over beer bottles, some smashed to pieces against rocks or other bottles, and cigarette ends, and various pieces of garbage and litter. And, occasionally, pop bottles or cans. Alvin had stuffed several into the waistband of his sweatpants and was now having difficulty leaning over. Eliot wasn’t able to get them into his jeans pockets but there were two in each of his jacket pockets and he had wrapped his arms around another four.
“What street?” Eliot said numbly. But he knew what Alvin had meant.
Alvin turned around. “It’s not too bad. The hard part’s staying away from the do-gooders. They’d have us back inside quick as a wink.”
“ ‘Quick as a wink’?” said Eliot, and he had to smile.
“Seriously,” said Alvin. “We can do it.”
“We better find a place that’ll take these now,” said Eliot, juggling the cans in his arms.
They walked along next to the road, looking for a crosswalk.
Eliot said, “Do you think you can get enough money panhandling to pay for a jacket?”
“Yeah,” said Alvin, panting, and Eliot slowed his pace. “A secondhand one. I know a thrift store we can go to.”
Eliot plodded slowly along, glancing from time to time at Alvin. “Is there something wrong with you?” he said finally. “Like, do you have asthma or something?”
Alvin, trying to keep the cans in his waistband from falling into his pants, loo
ked at him in alarm. “What’s that?”
“Never mind. It’s not serious,” said Eliot quickly. “But you shouldn’t, you know, you should take it easy.”
“Yeah,” said Alvin cheerfully. “Okay.”
Eliot, looking across the road at houses lining streets that rose up a steep hillside, said, “Are we in Vancouver?”
“Nope. Burnaby.” Alvin looked at him curiously. “Where do you live, anyway?”
“Sechelt.”
“Where’s that?”
“You take a ferry,” said Eliot vaguely. They came to a cross street, and waited for the light to change. “Where do you live?”
“Vancouver. East Van.” Alvin suddenly took hold of Eliot’s arm, and Eliot was amazed, it was as if somebody had turned on lights in Alvin’s eyes, which weren’t black at all, as he had thought, but a warm dark brown. “I got a better idea,” Alvin whispered. “We’ll cash in these cans and we’ll spend the money on bus fare to my house. And then we’ll steal. Like you said.”
Alberg found himself in his car, driving. It was dark by this time, although still only early evening, and his headlights were poking a tunnel of light through the blackness, illuminating the rutted track that led through the trees to the Gardener house. It was still raining, and the Oldsmobile splashed through puddles as it lurched along.
Alberg pulled up where the lane looped, and let the headlights fall upon the darkened house. He didn’t think Eliot would come back to this house, which had never been home to him. But the boy’s escape had created in Alberg an irresistible need to come here again.
He got out and looked at the place, a small two-story structure whose windows threw his headlights back at him, glinting dully, revealing nothing of the interior.