It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (4 page)

“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.