Little Boy Blues (7 page)

“Holy crap,” he said.

“So I’ll let you know as soon as we get this thing under control. If all goes well, we can get back for Saturday or Sunday.”

“I don’t know why you’re so grouchy.”

“Who’s grouchy? Do you know anything about post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“What I read in the paper.”

“Don’t push me, P. J. What about missing kids? Do the cops do a good job in that area?”

“Depends on what cops, I guess. The Mounties have a special section to deal with them. You want me to find out who to talk to?”

“Sure. Got any contacts in the media in Sydney?”

“No, but I can ask around. Lots of people from the East
coast in this business. Plus I can chase down the missing kid angle for you.”

“Great. But what I really need is for you to feed Mrs. Parnell’s birds and cat. And also to make sure they’re not left alone together. So the cat has to stay at my place.”

“Feed the cat? And
birds
? Can’t the building super do it?”

“Nope. He’s on vacation. The replacement’s run off his feet.”

“I am too. Remember Nicholas Southern and the …”

“Right. So I really appreciate you doing this for me. I’ll drop off the keys to Mrs. Parnell’s place and mine on our way out of town. You’ve got my cellphone number, but I’m sure we’ll be out of contact for much of the trip. Don’t worry about calling me, I’ll call you.”

“Wait.”

“Thanks, P. J. You’re a bud.”

• • •

“For the last time,” I said, “no way.”

“It is simply not your decision, Ms. MacPhee.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“If you don’t like it, stay here and attend to your business. I’ve got my marching orders.”

“Look, Mrs. P., it is an eighteen to twenty hour drive to Sydney. We are not going to drive in your twenty-five year old car, and that’s that.”

“Nonsense. My garageman tells me he’s got the old girl purring like a kitten today.”

“Yeah right. So maybe he’ll volunteer to drive it then.”

“Have faith, Ms. MacPhee.”

“Really? And what happens if Alvin has an episode in the middle of nowhere, and the car breaks down?”

“We will find a way.”

I’d already exhausted my opinions on the notion of Mrs. Parnell pelting across country in the ancient LTD with Alvin as a ticking time bomb in the passenger seat and me snarling in the back seat. It reinforced what I already knew. The woman could be unbelievably stubborn.

“I have a better idea,” I said.

“What is it?”

I took a deep breath. “The Buick.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” she said. “I’m packed, and you’ve got young Ferguson’s kit-bag ready.”

At least she could have put up the semblance of a fight.

“Fine,” I said. “Can you arrange hotel reservations? I have a few urgent things to take care of.” That was code for doing a bit of laundry, washing my hair, picking up some cash, figuring out which files couldn’t wait until I got back and throwing my toothbrush into a satchel.

“I’m on the job,” she said.

“The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back. Let’s get cracking.”

“Now?”

“Two hours to get ready and drop the keys to P. J. and to let the traffic on the Queensway clear up.”

“Excellent.”

“And, one more thing.”

“Name it, Ms. MacPhee.”

“I am absolutely the only driver.”

“Victory will be ours,” she said, “however long and hard the road may be.”

The trip to Sydney had shades of the lost weekend about it, without the light-hearted fun.

I felt a twinge about commandeering the Buick, but I believed Stan would understand it was almost a matter of life and death. If he didn’t, Edwina would make it clear to him. The plan was to drive straight down to Sydney, deposit Alvin, assure his well-being, get him an appointment with an appropriate therapist and then turbo straight back home to normal life. I would be the only person to touch the steering wheel, so what could go wrong?

We clipped along the 417 toward Montreal, making excellent time, slowing briefly to join the Friday night crawl across the top of the city on Boulevard Metropolitain. From the soft snores coming from the passenger seat, I figured Mrs. P. was dozing. Alvin lay limply in the back seat. I hoped he was asleep, for his own sake. As for me, I tried not to think what could have happened to a boy like Jimmy, last seen standing by the harbour. Except for stops every two hours for coffee and bathroom breaks, the Buick shot through the hot summer night. It gave new meaning to the word boring. You don’t hear a slogan that says “See Canada by Dark”, and for good reason. I kept busy hoping we weren’t heading straight towards a funeral.

At around four in the morning, I pulled into an all-night gas station outside Edmunston, New Brunswick, and prepared to
limp stiffly to the ladies room. Mrs. Parnell headed in first. Rank has its privileges. Alvin teetered to the men’s. I offered to pick up the refreshments.

When I got back to the car with a Coke for Alvin and coffee for Mrs. Parnell and me, I found she had managed to get herself into the driver’s seat. She proved impossible to dislodge, even when I put down the coffee and gave it a real good try.

Sometimes we have to yield to a higher power.

“Let’s see what this baby will do,” Mrs. Parnell said.

Alvin perked up in the back seat.

“Pedal to the metal, Violet,” he said.

Normally, I would have bitten his head off, but I was glad to see him looking like himself. I hung on.

As it turned out, the Buick could get up to one-fifty without so much as a shimmy. I told myself Stan had it coming after all the times he’d put fake dog poop in my briefcase before important court appearances. On the other hand, I didn’t feel entirely ready to die. It took a certain threat level in my voice to get slowed down to well over the limit.

“And don’t encourage her,” I said to Alvin. “We need to be alive to help your family.”

“Ms. MacPhee, cut the boy some slack.”

“Slow down, or the only cutting will be with the jaws of life.”

“Lovely machine, this. Reminds me of the good old days.”

“Watch the road, Mrs. P.”

“Personally, I would prefer something with a bit more horsepower.”

Mrs. Parnell had the cruise control set at one-forty, and I had a hard time keeping my eyes off the speedometer. Alvin was leaning forward, asking excited questions about World War II.

“Mrs. P., I know we agreed to drive right through, but it’s better if we take shifts.”

“That’s what we’re doing. You had your shift and now it’s mine.”

“Yes, well.”

“Close your eyes, Ms. MacPhee.”

“Why don’t you pull off at the next rest stop, and I’ll get in the back. You two can enjoy war talk, and I’ll get some sleep, then take over driving again.”

“Superb idea, Ms. MacPhee. Why wait? I’ll pull off right here.”

Highway act. Schmighway act. Mrs. Parnell is above all that mundane stuff. I had to admit the Buick had great braking capacity. I settled in the back seat and positioned myself to keep an eye on them.

“Dear boy,” Mrs. Parnell said, “we can relax now.”

They could chatter on about Dunkirk and Dieppe. I was in charge of worrying about what we’d find when we got to Sydney. And what the hell we were getting Alvin into.

• • •

I opened my eyes to a thunderous roll.

“Keep your heads covered.” I dived for the floor of the Buick.

Alvin said, “It’s just music, Camilla. Shostakovich is the dude to set the mood.”

I stared out the window, stunned by the sight of a Nova Scotia road sign. “What happened to New Brunswick?”

“You slept through it. And you snored,” Alvin said. “I’d get something done about that if I were you.”

“I slept through an entire province?”

“One and a half. New Brunswick and now a chunk of Nova Scotia,” Mrs. Parnell said. “You must have been exhausted.”

“I wonder why that would be. But I’m awake now. So I guess it’s time to stop and switch drivers.”

“No point, Ms. MacPhee. We’ve broken the back of the journey. We’re almost to Cape Breton. One final push over the hills.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you two put something in my coffee?”

“You wound me, Ms. MacPhee.”

“Every minute counts,” Alvin said. “Look Violet, the Canso Causeway.”

“Be sensible. You shouldn’t drive all those hours straight.”

“
Au contraire
, it’s a wonderful idea. Reminds me of the war.” I knew what she meant.

• • •

We arrived at the Ferguson home less than five minutes after the Buick shot past the Sydney city limits sign. Mrs. P. and Alvin were elated. I was thirsty after too many bags of pretzels and irritable from seeing my life flash by on the 105 through Cape Breton. The black clouds gathering overhead fit my mood.

Alvin’s family knew we were coming thanks to the miracle of my cellphone. As we pulled up to the Ferguson home, several people exploded out of the front door. For added drama, the neighbours appeared on their front porches and applauded. I spotted Donald Donnie MacDonald and Loretta waving. I gripped Alvin’s elbow and propelled him forward. I felt him wobbling. “Pull yourself together, Alvin.”

Alvin kept his mouth shut, which I thought might be a
good thing. On the other hand, Alvin’s mouth had been shut for the entire last leg of the trip, and that was anything but normal. I wondered whether he was slipping. I didn’t want to try to explain that to his mother.

The four people who had stampeded from the house stopped and stood on the lawn, composed like a formal portrait. Every one of them was handsome enough to make you blink. A man and two youngish women, all of them obviously carrying the genes of a tall silver-haired woman. I pegged her on the high side of sixty with the kind of features and carriage that could make Lauren Bacall chew her nails in envy. The younger women flanked her. Their hands hovered at her elbows.

A least a half-dozen small children darted in and out. There were those genes again. Slightly slanted sooty-blue eyes, dark eyelashes, crisp chins and cheekbones you could cut bread with, plus the unfair advantage of glowing ivory skin against nearly black hair.

I tried to figure who was who. Tracy was easy. I recognized her voice. The woman closer to my age must have been Frances Ann. Frances Ann had a bunch of kids and was some kind of health administrator.

The only man in the group stepped forward and spoke. “Do you always have to think of yourself, Allie?”

Mary Frances said, “Knock it off, Vince.”

I looked around. No one else seemed to find this in the least bit unusual. Alvin’s earrings jingled. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Vince said, “We’re all sorry. So don’t start with the bullshit.”

I stepped forward in case Alvin landed in a heap on the grass, but he braced himself. “Camilla, meet my brother, Vince.”

The deep blue eyes narrowed.

Ever since Alvin got pneumonia in my service, my name has
been mud with the Ferguson clan. It wasn’t enough they had shot my phone bill into the next galaxy for the last twenty-six months, but they got to pretend I was the bad guy too.

I gave Vince my best bonecrushing shake before he could whip his hand safely behind his back. “Glad to meet you.”

Vince kept his mouth shut. “Ma,” Alvin bleated.

Mrs. Ferguson opened her arms and Alvin fell into them. The rest of the gang surrounded them protectively. Except for Vince.

Alvin was hugged and kissed and patted. Three beautiful women cried. Alvin blew his nose.

“You have to meet Violet,” he said.

I guess everyone had heard good things about Mrs. Parnell. They did everything but bear her on their shoulders into the house. When the front door slammed behind them, I found myself standing alone on the lawn as the clouds burst. Donald Donnie and Loretta lit cigarettes and watched with interest. I nodded grimly when they gave me the thumbs up.

Tracy must have taken pity on me. She stuck her head out the door and said, “Ms. MacPhee? Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea with us?”

• • •

The Ferguson home was large, airy and smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon. The three-story house, probably built before the nineteen twenties, sat on a tree-lined street with a wide sidewalk on one side and a park on the other. It featured a bit of gingerbread trim, a neat lawn, a few dozen Siberian irises, plus a porch swing.

The entrance way was soothing faded blue, last painted who
knew when. A row of hooks held the rain gear neatly in the hallway, and the well-placed water-colours on the wall spoke of organization. On the telephone table sat three Daily Missals in a stack. I saw nothing to indicate that Alvin’s unique temperament had been nurtured within these walls.

We were herded into the living room, where Alvin remained the centre of attention. “Come on in, Allie.”

“Sit here, Allie.”

“You want something to eat, Allie?”

“Can I try on your earring, Uncle Allie?”

So much for Mrs. P.’s notion that the family was the source of his problems.

It took less than a minute for a giant earthenware pot of tea and a plate of shortbread cookies to appear. Alvin got freshly sliced homemade white bread and butter. Of course, the anxiety about Jimmy was reflected in the frenetic movements, the race to grab the telephone at every ring, the outbursts of tears, and the hushed conversations with other Fergusons who were out combing the hills for Jimmy. I couldn’t miss the muted hostility toward me, but I felt this would be a pleasant place, as a rule.

I guess if you have seven kids and twice as many grandchildren, you’d need two sofas and four large comfortable arm chairs. Books and magazines occupied most surfaces. I spotted an entire collection of P. G. Wodehouse in tattered orange covers and shelves of green-backed Penguins. Plus hardcover novels by Alistair MacLeod, Linden MacIntyre, Lynn Coady and Ann-Marie MacDonald. Giller stickers glistened on book jackets.

The graduation pictures took pride of place over the sofa. High school, university, grad school too, judging by the variety of gowns. Vince made it three times, including one
that must have been a Ph.D.