Sundowner Ubunta (6 page)

Edward listened to me intently, taking in all the information and all the implied meanings of every word, and then asked me to take a seat, saying he’d see what he could do. About ten minutes later, he called me up to the desk and said he’d been able to arrange a short consultation and treatment for me in twenty minutes. I thanked him profusely and returned to my seat to further study Matthew’s yearbook, which was becoming as familiar to me as a family photo album.

In exactly twenty minutes, I was called up to the desk by Edward, then led into the inner sanctum of the clinic by a young woman whom he introduced to me as
his
assistant, Sasha. As we gently floated down the white-walled, white-carpeted halls of Dartmouth Wellness Clinic, I noticed engraved door plaques bestowed each treatment room with a name like Serenity Palace or Peaceful Stirrings. I was told to enter Gentle Rain, doff my clothes and lie naked on the table, tummy down with a towel over my butt (not in exactly those words).

Two minutes later, there was a knock on the door, so unobtrusive I almost did not hear it.

“Come in,” I called from my prone position on the massage table.

For the next few minutes a faceless stranger who identified himself as Dr. Dartmouth-I guess he got a doctorate in…some-thing?-went about the well-rehearsed machinations of putting me at ease, identifying my massage needs and gently beginning the treatment by working gently on my back with big hands 27 of 170

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warmed with heated oil.

“Edward tells me we went to school together,” the massage doctor slipped into the sparse conversation as his magic fingers moved to my lower back. “I don’t recall the name.”

Of course I never attended Mount Royal Collegiate with Allan Dartmouth, but I was counting on the fact that most people don’t remember half the people they went to school with. “Yeah, it’s hard to remember so long ago. Can you believe it’s been almost twenty years since we graduated? I think we were a year apart though. I’m a private investigator now.”

“Really? Isn’t that interesting?” I think so.

“I’m looking into finding one of your classmates.” Dartmouth and Matthew had been on several sports teams together, so I knew they knew each other and were probably friends. “Matthew Ridge.”

I felt a sudden pressure change in the hands kneading my skin.

“Oh, Matthew, yeah.” I felt the words expelled above my bare back, carried on a puff of cooled breath.

Not getting off that easy, buddy. “You were his friend, right?”

He was at my thighs now and pressing hard. “That feel alright?”

“Yes.” It was about then that I realized how exposed I was to this man and that it probably would be in my best interests not to push him too hard if he didn’t want to talk. Why didn’t you just keep your clothes on, Quant? (I’d given myself that particular advice once or twice before.) “You knew Matthew pretty well, right?” I ventured again.

“Yes. He and I knew each other. Why are you looking for him?” He was bending my right leg at the knee, lowered it, and began pulsating the pad of my foot. Hard. “You okay?”

The electrical shivers that were coursing from my toes to a spot right behind my eyeballs were telling me no, but I could tell this guy knew something but was hesitant about spilling it, so I had to stick it out.

“Fine, I’m fine. Feels good.”

“Gooooood. I’m glad,” he said in what might have been meant to be a comforting tone, but I was hearing something else, something faintly sinister. Maybe it was my imagination.

“You have any idea what happened to Matthew after grade ten? His mom would like to find him. She hasn’t heard from him since then.”

“He got sent to reform school or something like that, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. Did you spend time with him at all that summer, before he got into trouble?”

“Turn over now, please.”

I did as he said and caught his eye as he began to work on my chest. He looked at me a little too long, judging my intent I guess, before answering. “Not really, no. We were kids though. We got into all sorts of trouble back then. No big deal. I guess Matthew got caught and was sent off.”

“You ever see him after he got back?”

“Absolutely not!”

I stared at him, registering his surprisingly vehement reaction with my eyes.

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“I never saw him again,” he quickly added, calmer. “The summer passed; I went back to school; Matthew didn’t, things changed. Our time is done now.” He pulled away, turned to wash his hands at a sink then used a soft, white towel to dry off. “Do you ever see Sally Munroe?” he asked, his back still to me. “Everyone knew her, being class prez and all.”

Trickster. “Sally Munroe was the vice-principal,” I answered back. “Remember?”

He turned slowly and gave me a stiff smile. “You pay at the front.”

This was getting to be an expensive day.

My last call of the day was to St. Paul’s Hospital, on an impoverished, crime-ridden block of 20th Street, where, after dark, security guards with flashlights are available to escort visitors from the front entrance of the hospital to the door of their car. But I was safe; it was mid-March, and the sun wouldn’t drop until close to seven-thirty.

I found a spot for the Mazda on Avenue P and made my way up a hillock, cut through a parking lot, passed by the Emergency entrance, and walked up the sidewalk that followed the semi-circular driveway past a Jesus statue on the centre lawn area to the front vestibule. From making a few phone calls, I knew that Kimberly Enns was a nurse in the Palliative Care unit. I also knew that she probably had better things to do than talk to me while she was on shift, but at least I could make face-to-face contact and set up another time to talk.

On the fifth floor I exited the elevator and checked the signs. Surgical Unit to the left, Palliative Care to the right. I passed by a large sitting area meant for patients and their guests, but today it was mostly patients, many in wheelchairs with IV poles at their sides and glum looks on pallid faces. My heart did a little rat-a-tat-tat in my chest. I don’t hate hospitals as many people do, but they are the one place where I seem unable to control my emotions; a whole host of erratic feelings float through my body like unbidden ghosts I’m unaware of until they show themselves and surprise the crap out of me.

I slowed my pace and locked my eyes on the swinging doors that separate the Palliative Care Unit from the non-dying rest of the world. I experienced a pang of sadness at how it must feel to come to this place to visit a loved one whose life is ending, and I was glad that today that was not the case for me. I inched open one of the doors and was immediately embraced by the overwhelming solemnity that lives in those halls. The place doesn’t even smell or look like any other part of the hospital; it’s just…different.

On my way to the nurses’ station, I passed a quiet room, a chapel and a room that looked like everyone’s grandma’s sitting room with flower-patterned couches, doily-covered tables and a decades-old television set. Everything my eyes settled on-every piece of furniture, artwork, coat rack, chair-had a brass plaque attached to it that read: “In memory of….” From the bedside of a patient receiving a bit of music therapy, I heard the peeping warbles of a piccolo, and I smelled the unmistakable scent of lasagna being fresh-baked in an oven. It was calm, almost pleasant…but not.

I stepped up to a counter half-way down the hallway and looked about expectantly.

“Look at this little guy,” came a woman’s voice from behind me.

I turned around to find a nurse-I could tell by her lavender-hued smock and name tag-holding a puppy up to my face, seven or eight weeks old at most-the dog, not the nurse-and some mixed breed of adorability.

“Oh my gosh,” I enthused, rolling my fingers over the wriggler’s head. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Darlene’s dog, Petunia. It’s her day off, but she brought her in for a visit.”

“That’s just terrific,” I said, nearly overwhelmed by some of that erratic emotion I experience in 29 of 170

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hospitals. God help me if I saw a Sasktel commercial about families reaching out to each other through the magic of telecommunication.

“Can I get you something, or help you?” the nurse asked as she nuzzled with her furry charge.

“I’m looking for Kimberly Enns? I think she’s working today?”

“Oh sure, she’s in the kitchen having tea.”

I looked at her blankly.

The nurse smiled kindly and walked me about ten steps to a doorway that led to a kitchenette and the cheesy smell of lasagna.

Kimberly Enns, noticeably pregnant, was wearing a pink smock with a happy looking scarf pinned about her neck. She was-as were all my subjects that day-in her mid-thirties. She had a kind, round face and a head full of natural brown curls. She was sipping at a mug of something hot and she was alone at a round kitchen table.

“Hi,” I said in a half whisper, not knowing what the decibel protocol was in this place. “My name is Russell Quant. You’re Kimberly, right?”

She gave me a nice smile and nodded. “Yes. Can I get you some hot tea or Cup-a-Soup or something?”

Her left hand was resting casually over her budding stomach, in the way of many mothers-to-be.

“No, thank you. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes though. Do you have the time?”

“Sure, have a seat. I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. What family are you with?”

I lowered myself into one of the mismatched chairs around the table. “Actually, I’m not here for a patient. I came to see you. I’m a detective.”

This often gets people between the eyes for a minute or two. I kind of enjoy the reaction.

“I’m sorry…what?” She let out a short laugh as if embarrassed by mishearing me.

“I’m a detective, and I’m looking for an old classmate of yours, Matthew Ridge. I believe he was your boyfriend for a while?” I got this from one of Matthew’s track teammates.

Kimberly blushed a shade that matched her smock and put down her mug on the surface of the oak table donated in memory of Grace Froesal. “I…I…yes, I guess that’s right. We did go out in high school, but that was, gosh, how long ago…grade nine or ten or something like that.” Kimberly was now married with a couple of kids, and I knew, regardless of the circumstances, discussing an old boyfriend or girlfriend can be an awkward thing for almost anyone. “You’re looking for Matthew…why?”

“I’m working for his mother. She lost touch with Matthew several years ago, but she’d really like to reconnect with her son.” I was playing hard on the mother-son thing. If anything would convince a pregnant mother to help me out, this would be it. “Anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.

Or if there’s a better time to do this…?”

“I don’t know where he is now, that’s for sure,” she told me.

I nodded. That would be too easy. I gave her a hopeful, near pleading look. “Anything?”

She searched my face with pretty eyes and must have decided I was okay. “We did date, for most of a school year…I think it was grade ten, yeah, I’m pretty sure. My parents were furious with me, and of 30 of 170

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course, that made it all the more exciting,” she said with a chuckle, rubbing her belly. “It wasn’t serious or anything, but I did feel like he was able to talk to me about things he couldn’t talk about with his friends, the other guys I mean, and certainly not with his parents. He didn’t get along with his parents very well. I think that was part of the reason he always got into so much trouble, to make them mad, or maybe make them notice him. Well, that and…well, I’m not sure, but I think Matthew had some demons. Not that he ever told me exactly what they were, but I could tell.

“He was inconsistent, y’know? A real conflicted soul. Like he loved team sports and hanging with his buddies, and for a while he’d go along with everybody else, play by the rules, but then he’d just go off and do something really stupid, be all rebellious.”

“Like what?”

She shifted her head to one side. “There was a volleyball coach Matthew really liked. And the coach liked him too, cut him slack lots of times when he was late or didn’t perform. I think he knew Matthew was a natural, that he could have been a great athlete if he’d only straighten up and focus. I remember this one time, Matthew completely lost it during a game. He stood right there, in the middle of the court, in front of everyone, and screamed at Mr. Slavins until the coach had to throw him out.”

She sipped at her tea as she accessed more long forgotten memories. “He wasn’t a bad guy, not really, but a lot of people thought he was. And I don’t really blame them. He did do bad stuff. He could be a bully. He drank, smoked up. A bad influence my parents would say. And yeah, he had that adolescent rage, that streak of bad boy in him that so many young girls find compelling. I sure did,” she said with a small smile. “I’d tell my parents he was a star athlete. But they knew better.”

“Do you remember him getting into trouble with the police?”

She wrinkled her brow a bit. “I sorta do, but I wasn’t around when things got really serious. I moved.”

“To another school?”

“Well yes, and to another city. My father got a job in Regina and our family moved there for a few years; that’s where I graduated from high school. I moved back here after that. Saskatoon was where my friends were, but Matthew was…well, I don’t know where he was. We’d broken up before I moved and well, that was it. By the time I came back to Saskatoon he was gone. I really can’t tell you more than that.”

I handed her a card, thanked her for her time and wished her luck with her pregnancy. On my way out I stopped at the flower shop on the main floor and arranged for a single white rose to be delivered to each occupied room in the Palliative Care unit.

It was nearing seven o’clock when I returned to PWC. I knew full well my dogs would be peeved with me for not rushing home to feed them (although they are well used to it), but I’d been away from the office all day and wanted to check my messages to see if any of my queries thus far had unravelled any loose threads. Sometimes that’s the way it goes in the detecting life: when you don’t have much to go on, as was the case here, all you can do is start hunting for the beginning of a thread on a spool, then run with it.