Girls Fall Down (14 page)

So he didn't feel so bad by the time he got home, a light snow drifting around him. It wasn't, in the end, what he would have called a bad day. It was just that he was tired, that it was too complex to absorb all at once.

He picked Queen Jane up from the bed where she was sleeping and carried her against his chest to the couch, lay down with the heavy grey cat curled under his chin, her claws hooked into his shirt at the shoulder. It was not very comfortable, and he got tufts of cat hair in his mouth when he breathed, but it was easier than trying to move her. He would get up soon and make dinner; he would spend the night at home, working in the darkroom.

He remembered, then, Susie's piece of paper. Queen Jane stretched on his chest and pushed one paw against his throat, making him cough and sit up; he rearranged her into his lap despite her cries of complaint. He could run over to the rooming house easily; it was only a few blocks away, and maybe a good time to catch people at home.

There was something to be said for getting it over with. Being able to tell her that he'd tried. Of course there was also something to be said for not trying at all, for keeping his distance from the whole situation, that dangerous maze of emotion and memory.

But he put on his coat and walked up Bathurst Street to a squat, cramped building, decaying white plaster on the front. There were a dozen doorbells of various types and ages fastened to either side of the door, some with names or numbers written in chalk underneath, some with scraps of paper pasted onto them, the letters faded into illegibility. One had a red painted arrow pointing to it, with the words DOSE'NT WORK alongside. The door itself was locked. He chose one button randomly, pushed it and waited for a few minutes, but there was no response.

Under the bells, also in chalk, someone had written BSMT APTS, and added another arrow that seemed to point south down the street. Presumably it was intended to direct people – assuming anyone ever came here – to the narrow laneway that ran by the side
of the house. Alex went down the front stairs and followed the laneway to the back, where he found another door, heavy steel and painted green. This one wasn't locked, and he pushed it open and walked down a flight of stairs into a narrow corridor that smelled of cooked cabbage and damp rot. There was a row of apartments on either side, the chain-locked entrances just a few feet apart, and a sheet of drywall and a hammer lying in the corner as if the rooms were in the process of being subdivided into even smaller units.

He knocked at the door marked
#15
. A bare-legged girl in a T-shirt peered around the chain, shouted, ‘Foreign student visa!' and slammed the door again. At
#13
there was no answer, though he could hear a television playing inside, canned applause, probably a game show. He was standing in the corridor considering his next move when he heard a chain lock rattle open, and a young man with dreadlocks wrestled a bicycle out into the hallway.

‘Hey, man,' he said, nodding to Alex in a vaguely friendly way.

‘Hey,' said Alex. ‘Do you think you could help me?'

‘You here about the election or something?'

‘Is there an election?'

‘Beats me. But I sometimes think I should take more of an interest, you know? Getting to that age where I should take responsibility?'

‘No, the thing is, I'm looking for someone who used to live here.'

‘Oh, well, I couldn't do much there, I just moved in a few months ago. But you should talk to Mrs. Nakamura in
#8
. She's been here, like, forever.'

‘Okay. Thanks.'

‘No problem. Let me know if there's an election, eh?' He dragged his bicycle up the stairs, dislodging the chunk of wood so that the door swung closed, and Alex wondered if he was locked in now, but decided to try Mrs. Nakamura before looking for an escape route.

There was a mat outside
#8
, a pair of red slippers placed carefully side by side. Alex knocked, and heard movement, and then the door was opened by a diminutive woman in a faded floral smock, her hair tied tightly back.

‘Come in!' she said, with a wide smile. ‘Please come in!' She pulled the door open wider.

‘It's all right,' said Alex. ‘I just need to … '

‘No, no. Please come in.' She tugged gently on his arm, and he found himself inside the room, which was windowless, dimly lit by a single desk lamp. ‘Sit down. Sit here.' The woman moved him towards a folding chair.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a bare and very neat space, a little writing table at his elbow. There was a larger melamine table against the wall, an old but spotless toaster oven and a radio sitting on it; a cot nearby, with a red blanket tucked tightly around the corners. There was a can of tuna and part of a loaf of bread on the toaster oven, and half the wall was covered with large colour posters of tennis players. In the centre of the room, and taking up much of the space, was an ironing board, and once he was safely seated the woman returned to it, and resumed her task of meticulously, slowly, ironing a piece of junk mail.

‘You have to be careful with the mail,' she said brightly. ‘In these days. I always make sure to iron. Then it's safe. You agree? I hope you take precautions. Is that right?'

‘Ah,' said Alex. ‘I don't get much mail.'

‘I always make sure. Now, can I help you? You're from the city hall?'

The basement was overheated; he was already uncomfortable in his winter coat. He took his cap off and held it in his lap. ‘No, I just wanted to ask about someone who lived here a few years ago.'

‘You're from immigration? Nobody here has any problems with immigration. All the papers are in order.'

‘No, no. It's just for a friend.'

The woman finished ironing the envelope, picked it up and set it neatly on the corner of the desk, then pulled over another chair and sat down near Alex. ‘Let me ask you, did you hear the weather report on the radio?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘They said there could be a blizzard. I'm very worried about that. I was thinking that the power might go off.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘If there's a blizzard, and then ice on the power lines. The power could go off. I've been very worried. I tried to call my son, but he said
he didn't have time to buy me a flashlight. But, you know, he goes to this church? All the way up at Finch? I would think if he could get all the way up there he could buy me a flashlight. Don't you think?'

‘I just wanted to ask you about someone,' said Alex.

‘I know. It's so good of you to come to talk to me. I called my son, you know, and I said, if you could buy me some Ritz Crackers, if the power goes off, I could put the tuna on them, and it would still be a meal, right? But he isn't very kind.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Look, look at this.' She reached into a shoebox on the small table. ‘I wrote him up this list.' She found a piece of lined paper and held it out, under the lamp. Alex looked at the large shaky letters, spelling out CRACKERS RITZ. ON SHELF WITH COOKIES. Underneath, she had done a rough drawing of a Ritz Cracker and coloured it orange. ‘I just thought if the power goes off I could put the tuna on them,' she said, her voice beginning to shake.

‘I really don't think the power's going to go off.'

‘But it did one time before. If there was ice on the lines.'

‘I'm pretty sure that was different.'

‘Or if the terrorists, you know. In these days, you can never be sure. If I had a flashlight it would be better, but he isn't kind to me.'

‘I'm very sorry. Could you maybe just look at a picture and tell me if you recognize someone?'

‘Of course, of course.' She reached out and clutched Alex's hand, and he started in alarm. ‘My husband died three years ago this day,' she said. ‘We were married for forty years. We were so happy.' He saw tears forming in the corners of her eyes; with her free hand she took a tissue from her pocket and wiped at them. ‘He fell down with a heart attack and died instantly. My son wanted to say something at the funeral, but, you know, I wasn't sure. But you know I talked to the Metropolitan, you know, the police, and they said after a couple of years it's okay to let him into the house again, and it was ten years by now, and the police said after a couple of years I could let him be in the house, you know, not to stay here but to come in. But I didn't know about a speech at the church.'

‘I'm sorry,' repeated Alex helplessly.

‘I have such problems in this life,' she said, gripping the little ball of tissue. ‘He is not a good son.'

‘Please,' said Alex. ‘Could you just take a quick look at a photo? Please?'

‘You can help me,' said the woman, her face lighting up. ‘Maybe, I think you can help me.' She ducked her head down, opening a drawer in the little table; her black hair parted knife-sharp in the middle, fragile and dry. ‘If you wrote a letter to the city hall,' she said, bringing out another piece of pencil and a paper and pushing them towards Alex. He tried to move them back towards her, but she picked up his hand and wrapped it around the pencil. ‘About the problem of the power.'

‘I don't know … '

‘I can see you have an education, of course. My son, he never took advantage of an education. But you are a good boy to an old lady, aren't you?'

He angled the paper under the desk lamp and wrote
Dear Councillor
, then couldn't remember where the ward boundary lay or who her city councillor would be, so he left the salutation as it was.
Mrs. Nakamura is afraid the power will go o
ff. He put down the pencil.

‘You tell them what I need,' she said; and this opened up such an expanse of possible longings that language was helpless. Dear Councillor, he thought. Mrs. Nakamura needs your love. Mrs. Nakamura needs her life redeemed. Mrs. Nakamura and I are waiting for rescue.

She wants a flashlight and some Ritz Crackers
, he wrote.

‘Draw for them.'

The pencil was not very sharp, but he outlined a rough sketch of a flashlight, and then added a box of crackers beside it, concentrating on the detailing, adding a little cross-hatched shadow, so he wouldn't have to look up and meet her eyes.

Your assistance would be greatly appreciated
. He added the date and address at the top of the page, and signed it
Alexander Nicholl Deveney,
the full name he never used.

The woman picked up the piece of paper and studied it, folded it carefully twice and put it in her pocket.

‘You are kind,' she said. ‘I'll take it to them tomorrow. It's better than the mail. In these days.'

‘Yes. I'm sure it is.' He reached for the snapshot and put it on the table between them. ‘Do you know this man?'

‘Oh yes,' she said. She opened the shoebox again and took out a sheet of graph paper, then took a small pair of black-rimmed glasses from her pocket and put them on.

‘Yes. He is here on the chart.' She stared at the graph paper, then put her finger on one line and turned it to Alex. He saw numbers, Japanese characters, and English words here and there that he recognized. SAD MAN, said the words she was pointing to. PROBLEM IN SINK.

‘He lived in
#5
upstairs. But he left a long time ago.'

‘Do you know where he went?'

‘No, I'm sorry. He was a man who had a lot of difficulties. Was he your friend?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘My son is also a man with difficulties, but I don't understand them. I don't understand why he behaves that way. And he goes to that church up at Finch. Your friend, is he getting treatment for his problems? Are they taking good care of him?'

‘I don't know where he is.'

‘Oh. That's very bad. You will have to hope and pray.' She took his hand again. ‘I will say a prayer for you.'

‘That's okay. I don't really … '

‘I will say a prayer for your friend as well.'

‘Yes. Well. Thank you. I think I should go.'

‘Did you hear anything about the weather report? They were saying a storm tonight. I just worry about the ice on the lines.'

‘I'm sure it will be all right. Honestly.'

‘The Metropolitan said I could let him into the house again after a few years.'

Alex stood up. ‘I do have to go. I'm terribly sorry.' He took a step backwards towards the door. ‘I'm sure the power won't go off.'

‘Thank you,' said the woman, her eyes filling again with tears. ‘It's very kind of you to come to talk to me. It's truly very kind. I'll pray for you and your friend tonight.'

‘Yes,' said Alex, and backed out the doorway, turning to move quickly down the corridor, and up the stairs in two long steps. The door opened from the inside, and he pushed the piece of wood back into place, not sure if he should do this or not but thinking somehow that it was better to leave everything as he had found it. The cold air was sharp against his skin, and he pulled on his cap and stood on Bathurst Street, taking deep breaths.

It would be a pathetic report to take back to Susie, but she hadn't expected much from him anyway.

He turned onto College and walked back towards his apartment. A streetcar drove past, a small child pressing her face against the window in a comic grimace; the door of a café opened briefly, and he heard laughter, and the sound of an espresso machine. When he got to his block, he saw the man who was being held hostage by terrorists sitting in a doorway, and reached into his pocket for change.

‘Excuse me, sir,' said the man, who had his arms wrapped around his legs, against the cold. ‘Would you happen to have … '

‘Sure,' said Alex, and gave him a handful of coins.

‘Thank you very much, sir. I wouldn't ask, but … '

‘It's okay. I know.' ‘It's a bad situation, sir. They're upset that I have the knowledge. They don't want me to have the knowledge, about the people falling out of the air.'