The Vanishing Track (2 page)

“What's wrong with her?” he asked when they were in the hall.

“She's just having a nap,” said Adelaide. “So should you, young man.”

“I'm not tired,” said Sean, quietly.

Adelaide looked down at him. “Okay then, how about a snack?”

Sean nodded and Adelaide led him down the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the kitchen.

“Can I eat in here?”

Adelaide looked at him. “Sure,” she said. “But it's our secret, okay?”

She moved about the kitchen, making a peanut butter and honey sandwich and pouring a glass of milk. She served him at the small table by the window that overlooked the side garden. Sean could see Jacob, their gardener, trimming the lawn. He took a bite of the sandwich and drank from the glass of milk. Adelaide sat across from him at the table and regarded him.

Sean looked around the kitchen. “I like eating in here.”

“Well, you mustn't tell your mother or father.”

“Is this where you and Jacob eat?”

“Sometimes.”

“We eat in the dining room.”

“I know, dear. Now eat up.”

“I like eating in here better.”

Adelaide took the plate and glass from him when he was finished and put them in the dishwasher. “Now, Sean,” she said, “please go back to your room and play quietly while I prepare dinner. Would you do that for me? And please don't disturb your mother . . .”

Sean nodded and went back up the back stairs and down the long hall, past his mother's room. He had no desire to step back into that space, with its darkness and strange odor that prickled his nose. He went to his bedroom, where he set up his cars and created a huge accident.

SEAN OPENED HIS
eyes and started awake, half rising from the picnic table. Overcoat Man was still lying beneath the tree. A wash of adrenaline pounded through his system. He settled back down, feeling his stomach rumble. He'd made some sacrifices in the pursuit of this recently discovered higher calling. Like regular meals and a clean bed.

Sean watched the park for another hour. A group of teenagers made their way onto the ball diamond. These weren't the crack dealers or dope pushers that Sean was accustomed to seeing at Oppenheimer, but a group of clean-cut kids—mostly boys, but a few girls—who had been playing baseball in the park for the last few weeks. Local kids who were part of a formal “reclaim the park” effort, spearheaded by the Business Council and the Vancouver Police. Two uniformed officers stepped from a cruiser across the street. They joined the game, gun belts and all.

It was nearly five o'clock when Overcoat Man woke and sat up under the cherry tree. His face widened in a yawn, then he wiped his nose on the arm of his greasy coat. Sean was about to stand and move closer when the door behind him opened and a young woman walked purposefully across the field to where Overcoat Man was resting. Sean had seen her before—she was a street nurse. She wore blue jeans and a sweatshirt that zipped up the front and a bright orange backpack. She hunched next to Overcoat Man.

Sean watched as the two of them talked. He stood and stretched, then walked back to the community center and leaned against the sun-warmed wall. The woman took out a small bundle from her pack and handed it to Overcoat Man. He looked at it as she spoke to him, slipping it into his tattered pocket. She put an arm on his shoulder and Overcoat Man smiled. She stood and walked to the far side of the park where she knelt by another man sleeping near the playground. Overcoat Man stood and arranged the contents of his cart. Time to get busy, Sean thought.

Umbrella Man had been the first. Dumpster Girl had been his second. She seemed to move through the streets around Ground Zero with satisfying regularity. Sean had seen her there often, and thought at first that she was a whore who used the place to turn tricks. But he never saw her with a john, so he decided that she must rent a room when she could, and sleep on the streets when she couldn't. He followed her one morning when she left Ground Zero early, making her way through the alley behind the landmark red-brick building, stopping to flip open the lids of dumpsters as she went.

She carried a dark brown duffle bag over one shoulder, into which she put various bits of rubbish as she went. Sean stood at the mouth of the alley and watched her, and when she had reached the far end, he quickly made his way through the wet, garbage-reeking gloom to emerge on the street at the far end. He saw her heading for the next alley across the street, and so he crossed through traffic, a taxi's horn blaring at him, and reached the other side in time to see her open the lid to another bin and disappear up to her chest inside. Dumpster Girl couldn't have been much older than he was, Sean guessed, but she looked twice his twenty-four years. She was scrawny, dressed in tight blue jeans and a baggy, blanket-lined jean jacket. Sean watched from the alley as she pulled herself from the dumpster carrying a keyboard, which she tucked into her bag.

With Umbrella Man, he had chosen to make his arrangements during the night when the peddler was sleeping. With Dumpster Girl, he wanted to make the arrangements when she was awake. It would be more challenging. People on the street were wary of one another at night. But Sean thought he had an ace in the hole with Dumpster Girl.

It took him three days before he could play that card. For three days he followed Dumpster Girl, learning her habits. Every morning around eleven she made her way to Carrall Street where she panhandled for spare change, and when she had enough, she would go into a small café and buy lunch. It seemed to Sean that it was the only meal she ate all day. On the third day of observation, he approached her just after she had settled in to panhandle.

“Hi,” he said, crouching down beside her. “How's it going?”

“I'm just getting started,” she said, jingling the change, holding a Styrofoam cup out to a passerby.

Sean smiled. “I mean in general. How are you keeping?”

“I'm pretty good,” Dumpster Girl said.

“Good haul today?” he asked, nodding toward the bag.

“Why?”

Sean held up his hands in a defensive mode. “Just curious.”

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

She looked him up and down. “Naw, too skinny for a cop. What do you want?”

“Just to be of help is all.”

She regarded him coolly. He could see that one of her eyes didn't track with the other.

“You from the Community Advocacy group?”

“I'm new there. My name is Sean.” He held out his hand.

She looked at it. His nails were dirty, and he had a cut on his thumb, but otherwise his hands were clean. She reached over and shook it. Her grip was strong, her hands dark with the stains of her trade.

“I'm Peaches.” She smiled. “That's what they call me, anyway.” She held the cup out to someone who dropped a nickel in it. “What do you want with me?”

“Look,” he said, “I'm new, so you tell me.”

She looked into her cup. Fifty-five cents so far. She jingled the coins. “You could buy me lunch.”

Sean looked at her cup. “Yeah, you don't seem to be doing so well.”

“You're cramping my style,” she said.

They ate lunch at the front counter of the Esquire Grill, looking out onto Hastings Street. She had soup and a sandwich and coffee. Sean just ordered coffee.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

She took a bite of her sandwich and began to talk, then paused and began again. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Where are you from?”

“Saskatchewan.”

“Wow, you're a long way from home,” said Sean, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah. I've been on my own since I was sixteen.”

“Run off?”

“Sorta. My mom was a drunk. Dad was never around. Better on the streets than at home. I tried Saskatoon for a year, but fuck was it cold there. I got enough for a bus ticket and came here.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Peaches?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you hook at all?”

She sipped her coffee. “I did a little,” she said, looking around her. “You know, when I first got here. But I got beat up pretty good by my bastard pimp. I got into a shelter after that.”

“Did he come after you?”

“Yeah, once. After I left. Threatened to kill me. But I got out of the area for a little while. Stayed over in the West End for a few months and he seemed to forget about me.”

“You don't see him around no more?”

She shook her head as she finished her sandwich.

“So listen, Peaches. Where do you stay?”

“I got places,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Inside?”

“Some.”

“Like where?”

“I go to the women's shelter sometimes. But I hate that place. Fucking bitches always beating each other up over stupid shit. And I can't sleep 'cause of all the fucking noise, you know what I mean?” Sean nodded sympathetically. “I stay at some of the hotels when I got the money. I sell stuff I find. Good stuff. People throw it away, I find it, clean it up. I can get some good money for some of the shit I find.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, like last week I got five bucks for a computer monitor. Still worked really good. And today I found a keyboard. I think I can get a couple bucks for that. I got a couple of places that leave things for me, too, you know, like food and clothing.”

“People looking out for you. That's good,” said Sean.

“Some. Most don't give a shit. They walk by all dressed nice, and I can tell they don't give a shit about me.”

“It's like they look and don't even see a person . . .”

“That's it exactly,” said Peaches, nodding, looking at him now with real interest.

“I know.”

“How could you know?” she said, her smile fading.

“I know. I work now, you know, for the Community Advocacy group, but I've been on the street too,” he said.

She nodded.

“So I'd like to check in on you from time to time, Peaches. Would that be okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Where can I find you?”

“I'm usually in Carrall Street most days around lunch,” she said.

“I want to look in at night too, Peaches. It's a dangerous time to be on the street. Where do you usually sleep?”

She looked at him and he could tell that she was deciding if he was trustworthy. Finally, she said, “There's an alley off Pender, just around the corner. There's a park there, with a fence. There's a spot not too many others go to.”

“I know it,” said Sean. “Behind the Lucky Strike.”

“That's it. Look, don't tell anybody about it.”

“I won't. It's our secret.”

“Okay. Well,” she said, standing up, “thanks for the food.”

“No problem. It was my pleasure,” he said with a broad smile.

“You're nice,” she said. “You really seem to care. Thanks.”

“I do care,” he said, standing and extending his hand. She took it.

“See you around,” she said, hauling her bag out the door.

“See you.”

Then he went to the bathroom and washed his hands for two full minutes.

And he
had
seen her again, two nights later, when he came to make the arrangements.

“Peaches,” he said into the darkness. He was squatted down in the alley, next to the small park adjacent to the Lucky Strike Hotel: Ground Zero.

“Peaches,” he said again.

She woke slowly. She had her duffle bag next to her, and was sleeping on a large sheet of rain-darkened cardboard. She had several tattered woolen blankets over her, and a frayed piece of blue tarp for protection against the light rain that fell.

“Peaches, it's Sean.”

“What time is it?”

“Three
AM
.”

“What do you want?”

“I've come to check on you.”

“I'm fine.”

“It's my job, you remember?”

“I remember. Now let me sleep.”

“I need you to wake up so I can ask you a few questions.”

“Find me in the morning.”

He reached out and nudged her.

“Hey, fuck off, okay?” she said drowsily.

He nudged her again, a little harder. She turned over, her eyes open. “What the fuck is wrong with you? The other one never does that.”

“The street nurse?” he asked.

“Yeah. With the health people.”

“I'm not a nurse, Peaches.”

“What the fuck do you want that can't wait till morning?”

He reached into his backpack, rummaging for something, his face opaque, and said, “We need to make some arrangements to get you off the street, Peaches.”

IT WAS A
learning experience. Each day was a new lesson. How to move like them. How to abandon any sense of time, as they did. Sean Livingstone was growing.

Overcoat Man was on the move, heading south away from Oppenheimer Park. Sean felt in the pit of his stomach that now was the time. Sean followed him for ten minutes as Overcoat Man maneuvered through the Downtown Eastside. When Overcoat Man stopped to wait for the light, Sean quickened his pace a little to catch up with him. They were across the street from a park with a ball diamond with bleachers.

“Give you a hand?” he asked, stepping up beside him with a wide, affable smile.

“Don't need one,” said Overcoat Man.

“I'm heading across anyway. Let me make sure you get all your stuff over in one piece.”

“Don't touch my stuff,” said Overcoat Man.

“I won't, friend. It's okay, I'm from the Community Advocacy Society.”

“No you ain't.”

“I'm new.”

“I got a visit from the lady already. I don't need anything.”

Traffic had thinned and Overcoat Man started to cross. Sean kept up with him. Several cars blew their horns at them and Sean just waved and smiled. “Made it,” he said good-naturedly when they reached the far side. “Can I get you anything?”