Funny how his entreaties work while mine fall on deaf ears.” Terry angrily walked in circles. He kicked at a newspaper box, sending it into a pirouette before it landed back on its legs again.
“I need you!” He turned on Cathy. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Cathy looked up, cigarette smoke rising up through her hair, a tear running down her cheek.
“Oh shit!” Terry said, looking down Bloor Street. “Who’s that?” Hydro Towers
Mary staggered to one side, then grabbed onto Hank’s arm.
“Steady girl.” He swung his arm around her shoulder, his fingers straying over the straps of her dress.
Mary laughed, her face falling into Hank’s chest. “It’s these shoes,” she said.
“It’s the gin,” Hank responded with a laugh, slipping a finger under one of her shoulder straps.
“Listen!” Mary looked up at the hydro towers above them. “You can hear the electricity in the wires.”
“Electricity doesn’t make any sound,” Hank replied.
“What’s that sound then?”
They both listened.
“Hell, I’ve never noticed that before.” Hank laughed.
“I wonder if it’s in code.” She began to giggle.
“Quiet,” Hank said. “I think I can make out what it’s saying.” Hank’s finger slipped along the strap over the edge of Mary’s shoulder.
Mary could barely contain her laughter.
Hank smiled. “It’s asking who the good-looking blonde with the great knockers is.”
Mary broke out laughing, falling into Hank’s arms. He bent down.
Their lips met. His finger slid under the edge of her dress and tapped on her nipple.
“You sex maniac,” Mary whispered into his mouth.
Their tongues met.
“I hope you have air-conditioning,” he said.
“I have fans.” Mary slipped out of Hank’s arms. “It’s not too bad if you open all the windows. Bloody landlord won’t put in air. Anyway, I’m on the rag so there won’t be any tonight.” She laughed and punched Hank playfully on the arm. “But if you’re a good boy, I-”
“That’s all right,” Hank said, rubbing Mary’s shoulder as if he were trying to warm her up. “I’m not in the mood. The heat. We could talk.”
“Not about my ex again,” Mary moaned, slipping back under the wing of his long arm around her shoulder. “I don’t mind going dow-” Hank placed his finger gently on her lips.
“I can wait. They say that the greatest spice to a meal is appetite.” Mary laughed. “You are sweet.”
“And I’m curious,” Hank said. “It’s like a mystery novel. You’ve told me the ending but I don’t know how you got there. You’re husband walked out one night and didn’t come back. Why would he do that?”
“He went out for cigarettes. Or the paper. Or a quart of milk. Isn’t it always the same story?”
“You had a fight? Am I right?”
Mary nodded. She pulled the strap of her dress back over her shoulder.
Hank laughed. “What was the fight about?”
“We were always having fights. It was what we did best.”
“It must have been a pretty serious fight if he didn’t come back.”
“I don’t remember. Maybe it was about money.” Mary took a package of cigarettes out of the small bag that hung over her other shoulder. “We never had enough. Bill was a professional hockey player. I guess I never told you about that. He was always coming home with bruises and cuts.
Most of the time he was so hurt he couldn’t get it up. Played for the Toronto Toros. What kind of name is that, eh? Toros? Like the team was Mexican. We were always moving around from town to town. I guess I’ve been in every bus station from Tulsa to Hamilton. He got cut the winter before. I don’t mean injured. He got fired. We’d pretty well gone through all his money. Terry was only about five or six at the time. He adored his dad. But Bill couldn’t find any other work.” Hank took a lighter from his pocket and lit Mary’s cigarette.
“He was a fringe player,” she continued. “And those long bus trips with the team can be boring. All the players fooled around, or drank, or both. Bill was good-looking so it’s not surprising that he had a little something on the side. Well, I forgave him that. I was no angel myself.
But when we moved back to Toronto to play for the Toros, I thought we’d be able to put down roots. But Bill was just fodder for the cannons.
After one season they didn’t need him anymore. Twenty-nine years old and at the end of his career and I was still a kid myself. I was fifteen when we got married. I was so naive. Marrying a hockey player-well, I thought I’d struck gold. Turned out to be fool’s gold.” A cloud of smoke billowed out of Mary’s mouth and disappeared into the night.
“We were always at each other’s throats.”
Mary leaned over and kissed Hank on the lips. Hank brushed Mary’s hair from her smile.
“What happened that night?”
“Bill lost another job. Working for the township. I got him a job with the parks department, cutting grass, marking ball diamonds. They let him go. He said the job was boring. I found out later that they caught him in a park under a tree, sleeping. He was probably drinking. He accused me of fooling around on him with this guy Jimmy that got the job for him. I wasn’t fucking Jimmy. He was just a friend. But Bill was so bloody jealous. Or else he needed to blame someone like he always blamed the referee when he had a bad game. Anyway, I accused Bill of messing around with Joe Mackenzie’s wife, June. She was always in the Zig Zag picking up someone. June and I were old school friends. It was no stretch to imagine that June and Bill were doing the horizontal tango.
Not that I cared. But I couldn’t stand the idea of him spending money on her, money that was rightfully mine.”
“Did he hit you?” Hank asked.
Mary looked up at Hank and smiled. “Why would you ask that?”
“He sounds like the type.”
Mary shook her head. “No, he never hit me. Not that I would have blamed him. I could be a real bitch. Bill was an enforcer when he played hockey, but with me he was a little teddy bear. He would just whimper.
God, I hated that. Drove me nuts when he’d start whimpering. I could have handled the occasional slap, but being around him when he sulked drove me through the roof. We had rent to pay and he’d be sitting at the kitchen table sniffling away, whining about the tough breaks he’d had. A rough tough hockey player crying like a baby. I felt like hitting him. And I did one time. He let me. Said he deserved it. I think he liked being slapped, but I never had the heart for it.”
Mary put her arm around Hank’s waist and leaned on him, her head against his shoulder as they continued to walk toward her apartment.
“Sometimes I just get so tired,” Mary said. “I want to forget everything. Just throw my cares down a deep well and start over again.” Mary stopped and moved away from Hank.
“Who’s that?”
“Where?” Hank asked.
“In front of my door,” Mary said.
Leem’s Nursing Home
The old man dragged himself up so that he was sitting up in his bed.
Sam Kelly pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. Light filtered through the sheer curtains, exaggerating the lines on the old man’s face.
On the wall opposite the window were a series of pictures, some of police officers, one of Jesus Christ. There was a plaque with a set of fire regulations. The detective looked at the old man. God, he must be a hundred years old.
“Kids put me here,” the old man muttered, a drop of spit running down his chin. There was a gap in his smile where his words seemed to whistle, giving the impression that the old man lisped.
“Seems like a nice place, Ed,” Sam looked around the sterile room, swearing that he would never allow anyone to put him in such a place.
“It’s my old beat,” the old man said, gesturing with his head to the world outside. “Kinda funny, ain’t it? I look out the window here I can see myself in the squad car passing along Bloor, never imagining that I’d end up here. Who the hell thinks they’re going to get old? I don’t know what we think we’re going to turn into, but this isn’t it. And now someone from the force shows up. I thought you fellas had forgotten all about Corporal Kaye. Hell, why should you remember? That’s what you realize when you get older. Old people forget because there ain’t no reason to remember. The history books don’t tell the story. The story is too big with too much pain. Eventually we’re all forgotten. My world is dead, Detective, on a slab in the coroner’s office.” The old man’s thoughts drifted away. His eyes glazed over for a brief moment. Then he was back. “Don’t get many visitors. The kids never show up, but I can’t blame them. They got their own lives. My grandson, Jeremy, doesn’t like the smell in here. He hates the smell of bleach and the smell underneath-me, rotting.” The old man coughed, then cleared his throat and swallowed. “But he comes anyway. He’s a good boy. Once a month he shows up with magazines and chocolate bars. I don’t read them. Teen magazines, the latest gossip on the latest one hit wonder. But 69