It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead Page 3

  When the others started telling him his mother would die, he believed them. But it didn’t spur him to focus his research. He gave up on it altogether. Gave up on his mother. Gave up on himself. And gave up on Jem too.

  “I’m so sorry, Althea. I loved your son. You do know that?”

  “I’m sure you did the best you could. He claimed to love you. I never understood it. Why he didn’t fall for one of the slender church-going beauties I set him up with I’ll never understand. They would have had my grandchildren, stayed home. Taken proper care of my son.”

  Here we go again.

  Jem grit her teeth. “You know that we planned on having a family. But he disappeared before we could.”

  “And you would have kept your precious career, let some nanny raise that child.” Althea drew a deep wheezing breath. “No wonder he left you.”

  “He was a paranoid schizophrenic, Althea. He didn’t wake up one day and decide to go. He was sick. It had nothing to do with me.” Or so she kept telling herself.

  “So they say. I have my doubts. Anyway, what does it matter now?”

  Jem cleared her throat. “Right. Okay then. I’ll be in touch.” She pressed the end button and chucked the handset onto the table. It slid across the surface and crashed to the floor on the other side.

  Jem shook her head. “Fuck.” She grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and headed upstairs, her feet filled with cement.

  She scanned the bedroom. All this time and his things were right where he left them, only disturbed long enough to dust around them when she bothered to dust at all. Daily drudgery loses importance, has no real value, when faced with daily dread.

  She sat on the floor and opened the bottom drawer of the highboy where Gerald kept his pants. Each pair remained folded, stacked, and at the ready. She pulled them out and made three short piles of denim and canvas and corduroy. Throw away pile for anything holey or stained. Only one of those — his painting pants. Donation pile for the shelter and some of her sandwich buddies. And a keep pile. Because she loved the smell of him on the fabric. Because stroking the nap of the corduroy made him alive in the room. Because she wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

  She sighed and rested a hand on the keep pile — the tallest. Come on Jemima, exactly what critical memory did worn khaki cargo pants and faded dungarees hold? All of the keep pile was shoved next to the donations. Time to get real.

  She took a long pull on the beer and set the sweaty green bottle on the hardwood. The potential for a water stain crossed her mind. That would have driven Gerald nuts.

  She smirked. Yeah, that’s what sent him over the edge. Not enough coasters.

  The first thing she pulled from the second drawer was his favourite sweater. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the itchy grey wool. A hint of patchouli still survived in the loose knit, mingled with four-year-old body odour. She lay back on the floor and hugged it into her chest. Tears dripped from her temples onto the oak.

  He wore that sweater often, but it was the day they moved into the house that always came to mind. She was still harbouring some bitterness that he’d won the fight to live in this antique neighbourhood, under this decades old leaky roof. Silence was her game while they unloaded boxes from the rented van that fall Saturday afternoon and shuffled past each other at the threshold. The chill in the air swept into their new living room through the open door. Or maybe the chill came from the tension between them.

  Gerald grabbed the last box and headed inside while she locked up the van. She stepped into the house and shouldered the door shut, clicking the brass deadbolt into place.

  In the living room he had set their small stereo on a box of books and attached his iPod. He stood with his back to her. The thumping sound of hip hop music jolted from the speakers, bounced off the walls, and shook the window pane. Then he pumped his hips three times and jumped, turned mid air, and landed facing her.

  He lip-synced the words to Nelly’s Hot in Here and danced like a fool, pretending to hold a microphone to his mouth. He pulled his grey wool sweater over his head, the white t-shirt he wore underneath bunching under his armpits. He swung the sweater above his head and hummed. “Take off your pants.” He mangled the lyrics, let his sweater go and it flew across the room, hitting Jem square in the face.

  She peeled his sweater off her head, her static-filled hair stuck to her cheeks.

  He undid his belt and slid it off, one loop at time. “Hot in here,” he mumbled and sashayed towards her, hips swaying side to side. He undid the button of his jeans and pulled down his zipper, tooth by tooth, one finger wagging her direction. “Off your clothes.” He grinned and rushed at her, tossed her over his shoulder and threw her on the couch.

  They made love right there, christened their new home with hip hop sex in front of the naked picture window. She was sure it had sparked more than one heart attack among the geriatric neighbours.

  Keep.

  we call him Chief

  “Morning Angus. Frank.”

  “Ruby, baby, you got anything with cheese?”

  “I do indeed. And turkey and bacon.”

  “Bacon?” Frank grabbed the sandwich before Angus got hold of it. “I haven’t had bacon in months.”

  She handed another sandwich to Angus. “Me neither. Years. I’ll make it for you more often, Frank. Maybe a BLT.”

  Was it was time to give up the vegetarian thing? She never could go straight vegan like Gerald. Cheese and eggs always beckoned. And lately the idea of a big juicy steak tempted her. What did it matter now? There was no one in the house to tell her horror stories of slaughterhouses or the inhumanity of veal farming.

  Ugh. Maybe she’d stick to vegetables a while longer.

  “Nice day, Jem. Got anything good?”

  “Jeremy, sweetheart. Where’ve you been little buddy?” She held out her arms and he fell into her, accepting a warm hug. The smell of his filth was still masked by too much cologne from his favourite pastime — hanging out in the perfume department in The Bay. She handed him tuna on whole wheat and an apple.

  “I been around.” He ripped open the parchment and took a huge bite. “Thought maybe I could find a cooler place to hang. You know,” he poked a finger towards Angus and Frank. “Find some younger dudes.” He continued to chew the first bite, then swallowed hard. “But nobody brought any food. And some Jesus guy kept hittin’ us all up for redemption. I don’t need no saving. I told him where to shove his bible.”

  She stuck a straw in a juice box and handed it to him. He finished it off in one long suck. When she first came around the park, she was shocked to find Jeremy living in the bushes. This slight young boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen. It was all she could do not the wrap him up and take him home with her. Until she learned he was a twenty-five-year-old strung out prostitute with a baby face. Instead of adopting him, she helped him get clean, took him to the free treatment program. He was ten months sober last time they talked. But he still hooked for what he called easy money. She doubted there was anything easy about it.

  “You keeping on the straight and narrow?”

  “Yes’m. I mean I think about it, you know. A lot. But shit nearly killed me. Not ready to be dead yet.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She scanned the park. Still not as full as usual. And the silent one sat in the same place, same stiff, straight-backed posture as the day before. Had he even moved? She wrinkled her brow and jerked her head towards him. “What do you think of the new guy?”

  “He’s freaky. Never fucking moves. How does anyone do that?”

  “Not sure. I can’t keep still for five minutes.”

  “We call him Chief.” Frank peeled a banana and bit half of it off at once.

  “Why Chief?”

  “You know.” Angus tapped her on the arm. “The big scary dude in the cuckoo’s nest that never talked. This guy ain’t big, but he hasn’t said a word in three days.”

  “Well, I think he’s harmless.” She glanced at Chief. “Did he eat his food yesterday?”

  “Nah. Some magpies pecked the orange apart and a couple of yeggs took the sandwich and tried to steal his kicks. Me and Frankie, we chased ‘em off.”

  Some of their slang had rubbed off on her. Kicks were shoes, got that. But what was a yegg?

  The first two months she had started this feeding venture, she only came to the park once a week. The rest of the time she drove around town looking for any gatherings of homeless. Everyone she encountered was wary of her. They didn’t turn down the food, but they eyed her with suspicion. She should have been worried for her safety, but at the time it never crossed her mind to be afraid. She was too busy looking for Gerald.

  Most of the people she met stayed in groups, the majority of them men. Some of them were down on their luck, a temporary blip in their otherwise normal lives. Some were there by choice. And some had mental health issues, talking to themselves and ranting to anyone who would listen. Or to no one at all. Sometimes she’d come across families with children, living in their car or under a bridge. All walks of life, all ages, a million stories. The one thing they all had in common was hunger. Nothing else seemed to interest them. That worked for her, got her close. But sandwich bribes didn’t net her any useful information about Gerald.

  On the seventh week she’d pulled up to the park and loaded food into the wagon. When she turned around, she caught sight of a familiar face.

  Gerald.

  His hair hung down to his elbows, matted in dread-like strands. It looked like he hadn’t cut it in the two years he’d been gone. His face was weathered and tanned and blanketed by a filthy beard. His clothes were torn and he wore a coat she didn’t recognize. But his ebony eyes were unmistakable.

  She called to him.

  He looked straight at her. Or maybe through her.

  She ran towards him, yelling his name, but he bolted. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and screwed with her coordination.

  He vaulted over sleeping bodies and jumped a short fence.

  She lost sight of him when he crashed through a copse of thick bushes. She pushed aside branches and leaves, fighting to get through the foliage. Then she heard splashing yards ahead. He was in the river. By the time she got to the bank, he was nowhere.

  When she got back to her van, two of the homeless men were standing at her wagon, doling out sandwiches and fruit to the other park residents. Angus and Frank. They’d been her favourites ever since. After that, she only delivered food to that park. What if Gerald came back? What if it wasn’t him at all? Maybe she’d lost her mind right alongside him.

  “Jem? Jem, you listening?”

  She focused her eyes. “Sorry Frank. No, I wasn’t.”

  “I was sayin’, maybe you should bring us some steak and potatoes one day, hey? Maybe a little apple pie and a nice Chianti.”

  “And some fava beans?” She slapped him on the back. “Keep dreaming, big boy.”

  She dragged the wagon around the park, handed out food and chatted with the residents. Chief’s stare bore into her at every turn.

  When the wagon was almost empty she approached him from the side.

  “Morning. How are you today?”

  Nothing.

  She sighed. “I hear someone stole your breakfast yesterday.” She picked up the last two sandwiches and sat on the grass in front of him. “You’ve got to be careful. Keep your stuff safe.” She held one sandwich up in front of his face and reached toward him with the other.

  He flinched.

  “I’m going to tuck this into your coat. Then no one will take it from you. Okay?” She touched his coat.

  He grabbed her wrist, his eyes blazed.

  She froze.

  He took the sandwich with his other hand without releasing his grip on her. Then nodded once, and let her go.

  “Okay then.” She swallowed, willing her heart to stop racing. She placed the other sandwich in front of him. “Here’s one for right now. I hope you’ll eat it. It’s got bacon.” She looked behind her, then leaned a few inches closer. “I understand it’s Frank’s favourite,” she whispered. “But don’t worry, he’d never steal from you.”

  She loaded the wagon into her van and slid into the driver’s seat. Across the park, Chief sat stock still, like a feral animal ready to pounce. She started the van and pulled away from the curb.

  Well that was a stupid move. He could have killed her on the spot. But he didn’t. And maybe she broke through his hard shell, even if only the crusty top layer.

  Cord Fitzbottom

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Jem grinned, one hand on her hip. Did she just flirt with him?

  “I’m sorry?” Finn stood at attention on her doorstep, ready to deliver his weekly update, two thick accordion files under one arm.

  “Never mind. Come on in.” She walked ahead of him. “Coffee?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Sure.”

  She pulled mugs from the cupboard above the coffee pot and glanced back at him. “Pretty casual today. Never seen you in jeans. You’re usually all buttoned down.”

  “It’s my day off. No need for suits and ties.”

  She spun around. “Why are you updating me on your day off? Don’t you put in enough actual working hours on this case? I’m sure your wife is thrilled.”

  “She doesn’t care.”

  She let her gaze rest on his lips. “I’d care.”

  He set the accordion files on the floor and dropped into a chair. “She left me.”

  “What? Oh, Finn. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He didn’t even look up, just pulled folders and papers from one of the files.

  She squinted. Guess it paid to be a cold fish in his line of work, emotions always in check.

  He glanced up at her and paused. “Jem, it was more than two years ago. It’s all good.”

  “Oh. Did I know that?”

  He smiled. “I doubt it. Not exactly the kind of conversation I have with a woman when I’m investigating the disappearance of her fiancé.”

  “No, I guess not.” She looked him up and down. “My God, are you wearing flip-flops?”

  “Sorry. Would you prefer if I only came in a suit and proper shoes?”

  Was he serious? “Hell no. I like you like this. You look so… civilized. Downright normal in fact.” Except that every sinew of his lean frame was visible beneath his clothes. She mentally slipped his cornflower blue summer-weight sweater over his head and admired the cut of his biceps, the lump of muscle that ran from his neck to his shoulder. She imagined six-pack abs and perfect pecs. Her face flushed and she set a cup of black coffee at his clothed elbow, then turned away and waited for her cheeks to cool.

  When she turned back, he had spread files and papers all over the table. It seemed a hot mess, nothing in order, a random scattering of information. Sane Gerald would have been appalled.

  She sipped her coffee and scanned the case files, then pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “So what have you got?”

  “Not much more than before. Except for the autopsy results.” He slid a file from under some papers and flipped it open.

  Jem’s stomach churned. She turned her head and closed her eyes. “Are there photos?” She held her breath.

  “Yes, but I left them at the precinct. You don’t need to see that.”

  She exhaled. “Nope. Thanks.”

  “Okay, are you ready? Do you want to know?”

  She wasn’t sure what the answer was. How could you ever be ready for this? “Yes. I think so.” She chewed her thumbnail. “No. No, not yet.”

  She pulled a bottle of brandy from the cupboard and free-poured into her coffee, then held the bottle towards Finn and raised her eyebrows.

  “No thanks.” He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Jem, it’s not even eleven.”

  “You’re judging me?”

  “No. Of course not. I apologize.”

  She drank half the mug and then sat again. “Okay. Now.”

  “He died of a gunshot wound to the chest.”

  She blew the air out of her lungs. “Right. You said before that he was shot.”

  “He had been beaten. But there were a lot of healed scars, lots of remodeled bone, so he’d suffered a few breaks. In fact, it looks like he’d taken some abuse for a while.”

  She leaned her elbows on the table cradled her cheeks in her hands, fingertips tapping her temples. “The only thing I knew he’d broken was his arm. The one and only time he went skiing when he was in university. Who did all that to him?”

  “We don’t know.” He flipped the paper over. “No food in his stomach, and he was thin. Emaciated.” He ran his index finger down the page. “They tested his hair for drugs. He was clean.”

  “You mean coke, heroin, that kind of drug?”

  “I mean anything. No illegal substances. And no antipsychotics. The medical examiner said that only means the last three months. He has no idea before that.”

  She took a long swig of coffee. “Do you think he could have survived, alone on the streets, without his meds? For four years?”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely. The police psychologist agrees. He’d have been too far gone. Easy prey for any number of thugs and other street people. Which might explain some of the damage to his body.” He closed the file and tossed it aside.

  “The Montreal police have traced his steps back twelve months. They got a tip from a worker at a homeless shelter. He said Gerald told him he’d been staying in a treatment facility for six months, been on meds the whole time. Was doing well. He left there four months before his death. Stayed in the shelter once in a while, when it rained or on colder winter days.”