Striking Out (6 page)

The next morning’s papers were full of the anti-racism demonstration, which had turned ugly. Some skinhead counter-demonstrators had crashed the event, and there had been fights. I was glad T.C. hadn’t been there, after all. Later on, the skinheads swarmed Yonge Street and broke a few store windows. The
Planet,
predictably, reacted as if it had been a full-blown riot.

Inside the paper, Nick Matas, the city columnist, had written about race and the police, too, and his column read as if it had been dictated by Josiah Brand. I called him, but he wasn’t in, so I left an irate message on his voicemail, pointing out that not all police are racist. I ended up sounding like some right-wing fanatic, but I was too angry to care.

I had errands to run, and some stuff to bring to Andy, so I decided to take the car and try to find a cheap parking lot in the general vicinity of the hospital. When I went back to the garage, I found Maggie holding court for some of the neighbourhood cats, including Elwy, whom she insists on calling Bow-Tie, after the markings on his chest. The cats like Maggie because she sometimes buys them sardines. The strays scattered as I approached, but Elwy stayed, taking place of pride on her lap.

“I see my old fleabag is two-timing me again,” I said.

“Oh, he’s a good boy,” Maggie said, stroking the top of his head just the way he likes it. “He’s got enough love to share.”

Clearly, she was having one of her good days.

“I’m sorry, I forgot about bringing you books.”

“T.C., told me about your friend,” she said. “How is he now?”

I told her all about it, probably babbling a bit. She just listened until I wound down.

“He will be all right,” she said, firmly.

“Well, I guess so. He was lucky, I suppose.”

“Luck happens to people who deserve it,” she corrected me.

“He deserves it,” I said.

A big old grey dog came loping down the alley, nose down and tail wagging with the joy of discovery, his legs moving slightly offline. Maggie cringed. Elwy hissed and jumped to the fence. I reached out and grabbed the hound before he got to them, and he immediately began to sniff. I sidestepped the nose, laughing.

“Dibdin, come here,” called his owner, a chunky, cheerful woman in early middle age, dressed in crisp Bermuda shorts and sensible shoes. She carried a large leash, and was a bit out of breath. “Dibdin, behave yourself! Naughty dog. Heel. Heel!”

She caught up with him and grabbed his collar.

“I’m so sorry.” she said, in a British accent. She clipped the leash to his collar. “He’s not dangerous, actually. He’s just got a bit of a mind of his own.”

“No problem.” I said, giving the animal a pat. He turned to gaze soulfully at me as his owner dragged him away.

“What a face,” I laughed. “See him making eyes at us?”

“I don’t like dogs.” Maggie said. “They scare me.”

“Well, I can see why, living the way you do, but he was, pardon the expression, a pussycat.”

“My husband, Jack, had dogs.” she said. “Big mean ones. Dobermans he let out at night. I couldn’t even go for a walk on our own property after dark.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“I like cats.” Maggie continued, smoothing Elwy’s fur. “They’re independent, like me. Right, Bow-Tie?”

“You’re going to make me change that cat’s name,” I said. “He’s going to develop multiple personalities.”

“Maybe he already has.” she said. “One for home and one for the alley. When I lived in Milwaukee, I had a cat. She was a pretty little Persian, used to sleep on a pillow and let me brush her, but she got out one night.”

“Ran away?”

“Dogs killed her. Tore her to bits.”

“Oh.”

“I felt like that cat, then. I was pretty and petted, but I wasn’t ever allowed to stray. Now I’m an alley cat. Like Bow-Tie. Tough as a boot, living on my wits.”

“Don’t you ever just want to come inside? I’m sure you could apply for housing.”

“No name, no pack drill, my father used to say. If you don’t have an address, no one can find you.”

“Do you ever wonder about your children?”

“Sometimes. Especially my daughter.”

“You were close?”

“She was my first. She’s the reason I stayed as long as I did. Once she was safely away from home, there wasn’t any more reason to be there.”

“They must wonder about you. Whether you’re alive. Do you write them?”

“Letters can be traced. I called my daughter just after I left, when I was still on the move, and told her it was the last time she would hear from me.”

“And your sons?”

“The boys are their father’s sons.”

She was speaking in a flat voice that betrayed none of the emotion the memories must have evoked. It was as if she was telling someone else’s story.

“Except for Johnny. My youngest. He wasn’t like the other two. He was sweet. But I knew Jack would look after him. I couldn’t wait for him to grow up, too.”

She smiled a bitter smile.

“I was lonely. I was forty-four years old, and all I could see ahead of me was a life full of more of the same loneliness.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him for a divorce?”

“Oh, you didn’t ask Jack for things. That just gave him an excuse to say no. Anything I wanted I had to take. So, one day, I just took my life back.”

“Don’t you ever regret it?”

“Never. Not for a moment.”

“Why did you come here? You said you were from Milwaukee.”

“But I grew up in Manitoba. I’m Canadian.”

“Still, wouldn’t it be easier to live somewhere warmer?”

“They’re kinder to people like me here.”

Which still didn’t explain how she ended up on the street, but I decided not to go after her on that again.

“I’d better get off to the hospital,” I said. “I’ll get those books to you later.”

“No rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

I had to stop at The Bay on the way to the hospital to get pyjamas for Andy, who doesn’t own a pair. All the ones with buttons in the front, which he needed because of his bandages, looked like something my father would wear. I picked a pair in broad navy-and-white stripes with not too much polyester in them. I had brought from home the backless leather slippers his mother had given him the previous Christmas, completing the old fart image, and his old terrycloth bathrobe.

Before leaving The Bay, I stopped off in the candy department and got chocolate-covered cherries. If he didn’t eat them, I would.

When I got to the hospital I found Andy propped up and reading the paper, ignoring his mother, who fussed around his bed with dozens of flower arrangements.

“Look at this, Kate.” she said when she saw me. “Look at all the flowers he’s received.”

“I was afraid he’d died by the look of them,” I said. Andy shot me a plaintive look over her head. I said good morning to Mrs. Renwick, then kissed Andy’s scratchy cheek.

“You going to keep the beard?” I asked.

“I might. You like it?”

I made noncommittal noises.

“There’s nothing to shave for in here,” he said.

“If you get as many visitors as you have flowers, you might need to look your best.”

“You see?” Mrs. Renwick said. “I think Kate’s right. You have such a nice face, dear. It’s a shame to cover it up in fur.”

“Who are all the flowers from?” I asked her, before Andy could growl.

“From the Police Association, from the mayor’s office, from his friends in the homicide squad, and some are just from strangers who appreciate the job he’s doing. Isn’t that nice?”

I picked a card from some red and white carnations.

“‘Thanks for clearing the scum off the streets.’ Charming. Who are Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Scott?”

“Never heard of them.”

I picked another card out of an expensive-looking bunch of exotic lilies. It had a note from a woman who had seen Andy’s picture in the paper and who enclosed her phone number, in case there was anything she could do to help.

“Keep the beard,” I said, shoving the card back into the flowers. Andy smirked.

“Oh, Kate, you don’t mean that,” his mother said.

“I’ll shave in a day or two,” Andy said. “When I can use my right arm a bit better.”

“I could shave you, if you like,” I suggested.

“I don’t like. And I don’t like the flowers. Get rid of them. Give them to people who haven’t got any.”

“That’s a nice idea,” I said.

“I’ll just keep the cards,” his mother said. “So you can send thank-you letters.”

Andy looked alarmed.

“That’s a lovely thought, Mrs. Renwick,” I said. “Would you like to write them? You would do so much nicer a job, and I think people would be happy to hear from you, don’t you Andy?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

“Well, it would give me something to do,” she said. “Do you think they sell cards in the gift shop downstairs?”

“I could go look, if you like,” I said.

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll go myself. And maybe I’ll have a cup of tea while I’m down there.”

“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands.”

“I’ll talk to the nurses about distributing the flowers, too,” she said, on her way out of the room.

Andy put out his hand. I took it.

“Thank you,” he said, kissing my palm. “She’s been driving me crazy all morning.”

“She’s just relieved you’re all right,” I said. “So am I.”

“But you don’t twitter around about it.”

“I’m not the twittering kind,” I agreed.

“Good thing. What’s in the bag?”

“Clothes. Pyjamas so you can get out of that backless number and stop scaring the nurses with your middle-aged bum.”

I pulled them out.

“Don’t start,” I said. “They were the best I could find.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“But I could hear you thinking.”

“Besides, what’s wrong with my bum?”

“It’s a nice bum, for an old guy,” I said.

“But not as nice as the ones you see in the locker room.”

“You know I don’t even notice the guys in the locker room. I’m too busy working.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“I’m as oblivious to all those firm young buns as I am to the sculptured biceps and washboard stomachs and . . .”

“And what else did you bring me?” Andy interrupted, quickly.

“Bathrobe and slippers for your constitutionals down the hall. And chocolates for a reward.”

“I’ll have one now,” he said, grabbing for the box, which I held out of reach.

“Change into the pyjamas first, then you get the reward,” I said, pulling the curtain around the bed for privacy.

It was painful to watch him pull himself into a sitting position, then swing his legs off the bed. I helped him out of the hospital gown and into the pyjamas. After we got the bottoms over his legs, he stood beside the bed to tie them at the waist, obviously shaky. I fought the temptation to hold him up, but stood within reach while he recovered his composure.

“I could use some help getting back into bed,” he said, casually. I found a little stepstool under the bed and slid it over to him, and together we got him back and lying in a half-seated posture again.

“Thanks,” he said, eyes closed.

“Do you want me to crank the bed up some more? Or down?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” he said, more sharply. I sat down in the chair next to his bed and waited for him to speak.

“I read the paper this morning. Your paper.”

“So did I,” I said. “I’ve already called Nick Matas.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t in. I left a message on his voicemail, taking exception with his column.”

“I don’t get how these guys can look at what we’ve got in this city and call it racism.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Toronto isn’t Nazi Germany. It isn’t Alabama in the fifties. It isn’t even downtown Detroit right now. Don’t they realize the difference?”

“I’m not going to defend Nick Matas here, Andy, but I don’t think he’s saying that.”

“Well, maybe you can enlighten me, then.”

“I’ve come to believe that degree doesn’t really matter when it comes to people’s perceptions. I think that someone called ‘nigger’ in the schoolyard or ‘Paki’ in the subway doesn’t say, ‘aren’t I lucky that there’s no lynching in Canada.’ I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Come on, Kate. Look what we do in this country. We’ve got multicultural policies and equity-hiring legislation. We spend half our time worrying about political correctness. You can’t say we’re not trying. And I don’t care what you say, they’re a lot better off here than they would be in lots of other places.”

“Of course. But I just try to put myself in other people’s shoes sometimes. And when I do that, and when I hear you say ‘they,’ lumping people together because of race, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“For God’s sake, Kate, you’re not calling me a racist now.”

“No. I don’t think you are. I think you’re a good, decent, compassionate human being trying to make the world better for other people, but what if all of us white liberals are just not getting it. If I imagine myself as a black or an Oriental listening to this conversation, maybe I’d feel like it was the same old story—whites defining my life for me. Maybe I’d want to take some of that control over my own life back.”

“What do you want me to do? Turn on my own partner for saving my life? Say he shouldn’t have shot that poor unfortunate person of colour who had just blown a hole in my chest?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You know I’m not saying that.”

I looked at Andy. His face was as pale as the sheet he was lying on.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The last thing you need right now is an argument.”

He opened his eyes and smiled.

“No, it probably does me good,” he said. “But let’s postpone it until after my next pain shot.”

I pulled open the curtain and looked out, wondering how loud we’d been arguing. No one was staring at us, anyway.

“Besides,” I said, “your mother will be back any minute.”

“Don’t worry about that. Old Mum likes a good fight.”

“Especially ones between you and me. I don’t think I’ll give her the satisfaction.”

“Spoilsport.”