Road Warrior, page 11
I picked up the framed photo of a smiling older couple standing close together, each with a hand resting lightly on a gangly young girl. “Are these your parents, Alex? They look nice.”
She came over and reached over to take the picture. “Yes,” she said, looking fondly at the couple. “They were very good to me. This is one of only a few pictures of us all together. They didn’t keep very many pictures. I stupidly thought they would be around forever, so I didn’t think about it much until it was too late.” She placed the photo gently back on the table.
“That’s a shame,” I said. Since the thought of her parents obviously saddened her, I thought it best to change the subject and commented on the pine table. “That’s an unusual design,” I said, running my hand over the smooth surface. “The lathe work on the legs is quite spectacular.”
“Thank you,” Alex said proudly. “I made it myself. I told you I love woodworking.”
“Wow, you are very skilled,” I remarked. “Have you ever thought of making these for sale?”
“Maybe someday,” she said thoughtfully. “I haven’t had much time over the years to do more than experiment and make things for friends and family. Come see the other rooms,” she said as she pulled me along. “I made the bedframes in both of the bedrooms.”
The middle room was simply furnished with a small four-poster bed. I could see Alex’s handiwork with the lathe once again. The backboard was pine, burnished to a sheen, and the upper corners were fluted into leaf shapes. A large carved rosette had been etched into the centre of the board, and an old-fashioned floral quilt completed the effect. To the side were a small table and one chair with no carvings, in simple Shaker style.
“Beautiful work, Alex.”
“Thanks, Abby, but I’ve saved the best for last,” she said as she eagerly led me down the hall. “Come see the room that I’m preparing for the adoption.” Alex ushered me past the door to a tiny bathroom, and into the last bedroom.
Opening the door, she said, “I’m hoping for a young child, but you can’t be too fussy, unless you try to adopt abroad, so I haven’t done too much yet.”
The room was painted a pale yellow and had a large window to the south. It was graced with a simple twin bed frame with a backboard adorned with ornate scrollwork. I could tell, even with my limited knowledge, that she was gifted with a jigsaw and a Dremel tool. Fanciful loops and curlicues made up the edge of the board, and in the centre was a carving of two children walking hand in hand towards a sunset. “I’m so impressed,” I said. “You are multi-talented!”
“My father helped me make that one when I still lived at home. I moved it here when they passed. It’s one of the few things I kept from the house—that and the tools downstairs, although I’ve updated a few,” she said quietly, apparently lost in thought, then she brightened. “I have to get a new mattress and bedding, but I thought I would do that once I have a sense of the age and personality of the child. If he or she is older, perhaps they will pick out what they want. I hope they like the backboard. For me, it’s a memory of happy times with my dad.”
“What a wonderful way to bond with your father,” I said, privately thinking that the “gift” I got from my dad was my rebelliousness and independent spirit. But that’s another story.
“I don’t know much about adoption,” I said as she closed the door and we headed downstairs.
“Oh, it can be a long process,” she said. “They want to make sure you will be a suitable parent and have the means to provide a good home. Believe me, I’ve filled out a tree’s worth of paperwork. I’m very excited though; I have a second interview with the adoption agency. Eventually, a social worker will visit the house to see if it’s safe and if it’s enough space. I still have some work to do on that. The whole process can take a year or more, but I’m content to wait.”
“I admire you,” I said. “I don’t have that kind of patience, and I am pretty sure I’m not parent material. I’d worry too much. Look at Maria, she is in agony right now.”
She nodded. “I’m willing to take the risk, but you’re right; I’m not sure I would be able to stand losing a child, once I had one. It would make me lose my mind. Poor Maria,” she echoed, shaking her head sadly. “I wish … I wish I could do something to help.” Then she shook her head and continued, “I haven’t finished the grand tour. Do you want to see my workshop?”
“Sure,” I said as she led the way to her basement. “This house is much bigger than it looks from the outside. You’ve set it up well.”
“Thanks, but look down here; I’m most pleased with my workshop. I’ve organized it so that there is every safety device possible and that each machine is locked when not in use. Who knows—maybe, over time, I can teach my child some carpentry skills.”
“Well, the bedroom furniture looked amazing!”
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a small open landing with two doors at either end, leading to the front of the house and to the back. There were a few items of laundry hanging on a makeshift clothesline strung across two metal poles firmly attached to the ground. One was located at the end of the stairs, perhaps supporting the floor—it looked that solid—and the other was across the room at the wall. “Sorry about that,” Alex said as she quickly pulled down the items and laid them on a shelf. “I like hanging my laundry when I can.”
“I get that, easier on the clothes and the environment.”
She smiled. “We are of like minds again,” she said as she opened the door leading to the front.
“Here it is,” she said proudly.
“Wow,” I gasped as I looked around the space. Along one wall hung a series of tools, each neatly outlined with marker. Below the tools was a long workbench with a variety of machines, mostly bolted to the surface of the bench. I recognized a band saw, some clamps, a Dremel tool, and two lathes. The front window-well was flanked by shelving covered with neatly arranged bike parts, more tools, jars of nuts, bolts, nails, and screws, and a Bose sound system. On the other side of the room were Alex’s bike stand, a wheel-truing stand, and a small stool.
Alex’s current project, a semi-complete dresser unit, stood in the centre of the room. On the workbench was what I presumed would be a decorative backboard for the dresser. It was roughly worked with the same curlicues that were on the backboard in the future child’s room.
“That looks lovely,” I said. “Wow, you’ve got a gearhead’s dream down here, what with this mix of bike and carpentry tools. What a beautiful workshop! And that’s a neat little sound system you’ve got there too—I’m jealous!”
She nodded, gesturing toward the dresser. “I still have to do more work on the drawers, and then I’ll mount the backboard and paint the whole thing in an antiquing wash. I use the least toxic stuff available.”
She walked over to the sound system. “Do you like Van Morrison?
I nodded.
“Me too,” she said. “A bit old school these days and somewhat misogynist, but he’s got such a great voice. She pushed a button and his song, “Moondance,” filled the room. “We’re almost done.” She spoke a little louder as the music filled the space and beyond. “I’ll just show you this crazy back room.” Leaving the door to the workshop open, she walked over and opened the door at the other end of the centre space.
Over her shoulder, she said, “I can’t decide whether or not to take out this winepress when I renovate this space.”
The back room was unfinished, but held the washer and dryer, furnace, hot water heater, a deep set of storage shelves laden with boxes and bins, a sink, and a toilet. “Look!” she said, pointing behind the furnace. “Isn’t that crazy? Must’ve been here before this heating system was put in.”
Looking where she pointed, I could see in the corner a circular cement form rising about three feet up. In the centre was a barrel and halfway down was a spigot.
“That’s cool,” I said. “Would you make wine too? You seem to be able to do everything else.”
“I don’t think so,” she laughed, “but it’s a nice piece of history and a conversation piece.”
She turned to the other corner at the back of the room. “And, look at this,” she said. “It’s even weirder.”
In the back wall was a steel door. When she opened it, we were faced with a layer of clear plastic behind which were compacted dirt and rocks. “This must’ve been a stairwell to the back at one time,” she said. “The third of the yard closest to the house is covered in cement, so you can’t see any evidence of old stairs there.”
She continued, “My neighbour still has a stairwell covered by a steel grate. He says the old guy who lived here cemented over the backyard because of leaking. With the backyard so small, I can see why he wouldn’t want a stairwell taking up space, but I don’t understand why he didn’t brick up the wall here. I think I’ll have this cemented up when I redo this space. It’s still kind of damp down here. I might need to do some waterproofing and dig all the stuff up outside first.”
“It is weird,” I said. “But, as for the damp, I’d say this is pretty dry for a Toronto basement. Anyway, it’s a good idea to brick the door. Interesting room, Alex.”
“That’s it,” she said grinning. “End of the tour.”
“Well, this is an amazing house. It’s got a good blend of cultural character and practicality, and you are super lucky to have a house in Little Italy. It’s a great neighbourhood—almost as good as Kensington Market,” I said, grinning.
She grinned back. “That’s high praise. I haven’t been here long enough to argue the merits of the two downtown neighbourhoods, so I’ll have to take your word for it. Come on,” she said, as we walked out of the room and she closed the door. “Go on back upstairs. I’ll just shut off the music and we’ll have a nightcap.”
After we settled in the living room, each with a snifter of brandy, we discussed bikes and our jobs for a while. At around ten-thirty p.m., I realized that I was starting to fade again. Putting my glass down, I turned to my new friend. “This has been a perfect evening, given the circumstances. You even took my mind off Thomas for a little while, but now I’ve got to go. I’m getting so tired.” Standing up, I continued, “Thanks so much for dinner and for showing me around your very cool house.”
I found myself interrupted by the sound of loud laughter. “Who’s that?”
“Oh,” Alex laughed, “That’s my neighbour. It was startling when I first moved in but now I don’t even notice her anymore. The walls are so thin in these old row houses, you can hear everything—except in the basement where the stone foundation blocks the sound better. It’s a good thing she and I get along well.”
“It almost sounds like she’s in your house,” I said as I got my gear off the hooks in her front hall. “Come to think of it, I have a distant memory of that in my old house just south of here in Little Portugal. It didn’t bother me, but it drove my mother crazy. Our neighbour’s son used to play loud music and it shook the whole house. My mother jokes that she had to pay him to keep it down when people were coming by for viewings when it was for sale.”
“That sounds funny now, but I guess, at the time, it wasn’t so funny for your mom.”
“No, I guess not. She definitely likes it quiet. Her place in north Toronto is silent when she isn’t playing new age chimes or the sound of ocean music or some such.”
“She sounds pretty different from you.”
“You could say that,” I said as I pulled on my jacket and donned my helmet.
“Anyway, thanks for coming over. I hope we’ll see you on Tuesday at the community centre, but don’t worry if something gets in the way. We’ll be fine even though we’d miss you.”
“Thanks, Alex. Keep your fingers crossed. Those kids need consistency in their lives. It takes time to build their trust. They’re so used to being let down that I don’t like to miss the class. It says a lot that you have built up their trust so quickly. I’m almost jealous about that too,” I said, half joking.
“I love those kids.” She sighed. “I do hope Thomas shows up unharmed. Goodnight Abby.”
“Night, Alex,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks again.”
She smiled and closed her door.
Enough time had passed between drinks that I was feeling confident in riding. Hopefully it wasn’t false courage, I thought, as I hopped on my bike for the quick ride home.
When I got home, the outside light at the back of the building was knocked out again. Fortunately, I had a very bright front light for my bike. I let myself in and, left my bike in the hall, and checked my office phone vainly for messages. No news probably meant nothing had changed, I thought. I decided to wait until tomorrow to bother Maria’s household again. I was surprised I hadn’t heard from Dave, but I guessed he’d been busy chasing leads.
Closing the door to my office, I grabbed my bike and dragged it upstairs. I hung it in its rightful place, and then took a good look at it, thinking that I would have to find time to wash my workhorse very soon. Suddenly, I realized that I was talking aloud to my bike about how I would wash it and take care of its aches and pains. I laughed at myself and instead started telling myself how crazy I was. I wasn’t sure which conversation was better.
Bed beckoned and sleep took over as soon as I hit the pillow. I slept like the dead.
In my dark chamber, I grimace as wryly as is possible with a gag in my mouth. I am so uncomfortable and numb that sleeping as deeply as I did that Saturday night after visiting Alex’s house is impossible. I am able to drift off in fits and starts, but it never lasts long. I’m brought back by either my discomfort coupled with fear and frustration, or by some noise breaking through my dreams.
I heard the news on the radio in the early part of the night. The Amber Alert is still active, and they are still broadcasting little updates, none of them promising, and various opinions by “experts” in the field of lost or abducted children. All of this makes me more anxious. Occasionally one of these so-called “experts” makes a crass point like, as long as they have not found a body, there is hope, or some such thing. It doesn’t give me comfort as I lie here in the cold, fuming over my uselessness.
Despite the relatively loud radio, I can still hear Alex’s neighbour walking around and talking in her kitchen. It is true; the walls are paper thin. And yet, what Alex had said also seems true—the sound is slightly more muted in the basement, probably because the foundations are made of sterner stuff than plaster and lath. On and off, I struggle against the ropes that bind me, to no avail. All I’ve succeeded in doing is rubbing my wrists raw and adding to my general feeling of pain and despair. I am stuck here, trussed and silent. Whenever I can, I distract myself by continuing to replay the events that preceded my lunchtime errand to Alex’s house. I remembered my Sunday “off” from fish duty started with a run up to Maria’s place.
CHAPTER 17: SUNDAY
FROST NIPPED AT MY NOSE AND THIN PATCHES of ice forced me to pay close attention as I rode up the Humber Trail on my way to Mississauga. Even though the sun was struggling to burn through the cold mist that hovered over the river, this promise of the winter cold to come must have kept people inside, because the path was empty. I came across only two intrepid dog walkers and visualized the less hardy folks snuggling into warm blankets with only their noses exposed. Fortunately, the exertion of riding kept me cozy too. Of course, it helped that I had fortified myself earlier at Overdrive. My order—a quadruple macchiato and two bourekas—had earned me a skeptical eyebrow raise from Veronica, but now the sugar and caffeine had me pumped.
Mario was, yet again, deeply in love and had stayed over at his new boyfriend’s place. “More power to him,” I said to Veronica as she passed over my drink. As it was early and quiet, we chatted for a minute or two longer.
“Yup,” she replied. “The poor boy is all starry eyed, but,” she shrugged, “he’ll get over it—he always does.” She gave me a sardonic glance. “Kind of like you, Ab, when you have a new beau, only you’re more pragmatic from the start.”
“Ronnie, you’re such a cynic,” I said.
“Someone has to keep her feet on the ground,” she laughed, but then she turned serious. “Give Maria a big hug for me,” she said as she stuffed a bag with some treats and a container of matcha tea powder. “Here you go, for everyone up there. Make sure you share.”
“Thanks. I know they’ll gobble them up and Maria will appreciate your gift.”
A lone customer walked in, and, while he looked over the coffee beans, I gave Veronica a quick update, asking her to pass the info on to Mario. Then, stuffing the rest of my last scrumptious, warm, and crumbly boureka into my mouth, followed by a caffeine chaser, I bid Veronica adios amiga and hit the road.
At the beginning of the Humber trail I had to dismount and execute my annual walk over a particularly inviting layer of ice—I loved the crackling sound my footfalls created in late autumn when air pockets formed below the thin ice. It was a ritual for me to find the perfect crackle. Once I heard the satisfying sound, I got back on my bike and rode non-stop the rest of the way.
With so few folks up and about, I imagined that I was in the Tour de France and booted it up the trail and along the quiet city streets. I made it to Maria’s place in an hour, a little sweaty, but pleased with myself. The cobwebs were long gone as I rode past the empty police car stationed outside her house. Only one lonely CBC van was parked across the street. Obviously, they had nothing new to report, I thought as I locked my bike on the porch. I’d ridden my Cervélo as a treat and assumed it would be safe with the police presence.
I was vetted and allowed in by the on-duty officer. “Your mother and Mrs. Goncalves are in the front room waiting for the detective to arrive.”
