Striking Out (8 page)

I parked the car on Gerrard across from the Regent Park public housing development the next morning, feeling faintly apprehensive, nervous about encountering experiences I couldn’t handle. SisterLink turned out to be a converted supermarket with the front windows painted over to a height of eight feet or so, for privacy.

I was surprised at the cheeriness of the place. The walls were painted in warm colours. There were bright posters tacked up everywhere, and more laughter than I would have expected. Women chatted on couches and in comfortable chairs or at tables with cups of coffee. Others used phones in cubbyholes against the far wall. There were a few muttering to themselves, or behaving otherwise strangely, but the rest were, well, ordinary.

Energetic staff members, black, white, Asian, and native, dealt with inquiries at the front desk, talked with the women, and worked in the kitchen, separated from the lounge by a long counter. The smokers were segregated behind a glass wall, of course, but their penalty box seemed as pleasant as the rest of the place.

Moira fetched coffees from the kitchen, then took me on a tour: the laundry room; the nurse’s station stocked with basic first-aid supplies and cases of tampons and condoms; a room with a TV and a library of battered paperbacks; the shower room; and a few quiet cubicles with built-in beds.

“The bedrooms aren’t exactly legal,” she explained, leading me into her office. “We’re not a registered shelter. But sometimes people need a nap. What am I going to do? We call them consulting rooms and hope that no one checks them too closely.”

She closed the door of her small, cluttered office against the general hubbub of the centre, but sat so she could see through the half-glass wall.

“Tell me about this woman,” she said. “How long have you known her?”

I took her through the story of Maggie’s arrival in the neighbourhood last spring, about her relationship with T.C. and his friends, and about my talks with her.

“Something or somebody scared her away,” she said. “That’s my quick answer, anyway. You just have to find out what.”

Moira was an attractive woman, with a kind of raw elegance I found disconcerting, considering her mysterious past with Andy. She was slim, rangy almost, with strong, competent hands and long legs. She was dressed in an oversized red cotton T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light blue skinny pants, and Birkenstock sandals. Her toenails were crimson.

Her greying hair was short and spiky, and she wore silver earrings that looked native in design. Her face, with no makeup, was lined, but no less beautiful for it. Her mouth was wide and good-humoured, and she looked me right in the eye.

“The God’s Law people, maybe,” I said.

“I doubt it. I’m pretty sure I know the woman you’re talking about, and she doesn’t scare easily.”

“So you know her. She comes in here?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the neighbourhood she’s sleeping in. If she’s the Maggie I’m thinking about, she roves.”

She gestured through the window to the lounge.

“Some women, like Daphne, over there by the bulletin board, are regulars. They live their lives in unchanging patterns. They’re the predictable ones. Daphne is here every day, without fail. If she didn’t show up, we would worry about her. She likes things to be the same, whenever she comes in.”

Daphne, who looked to be in her seventies, sat in a chintz armchair surrounded by a collection of plastic bags, which she kept rearranging, looking up occasionally to smile warmly at people around her with astonishingly bright teeth.

“She’s looking for companionship as much as anything, a place where she can let down her guard,” Moira said. “Your Maggie is different. She uses this place as a resource, not a refuge.”

“Interesting distinction,” I said.

“It’s a mistake to think of homeless women as all having the same needs. That’s why we hate the term ‘bag lady.’ Not only is it an offensive term, it lumps them all together into a category that can then just be shunted to one side. These are individual women with individual needs, and the sooner society realizes that, the sooner some of those needs will be met.”

She paused, then smiled.

“Sorry,” she said. “You probably don’t need that particular lecture.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Has Maggie been in here lately? Like in the past few days?”

“I haven’t seen her. We’ll ask some of the others later.”

“Where else would she go? There’s no centre in my neighbourhood.”

“If she’s scared of something, she’s probably left your neighbourhood.”

“I mean generally. What about basic needs? Like, where would she go to the john?”

Moira stifled a smile, which made me feel like a complete middle-class idiot. But I wanted to know. I wanted to know where they went to bathroom in space, too, all right?

“If you asked around, you’d probably find a local restaurant that let her use the washroom. Maggie is not unpresentable. She’s not a raver, she doesn’t threaten anyone. Lots of people help people who are down and out, you know. Not everybody treats them like pariahs. Come to think of it, there’s even a guy I’ve heard about in your neighbourhood. He runs some sleazy video store south of the Danforth, and he’s got an apartment at the back with a coffee pot always on for street kids and homeless people. She may have gone there. I’ll find out more, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t know if it will be any use. Maggie’s not a real social type. I know she showers here sometimes, does her laundry, but she keeps to herself. She’ll have a coffee and sit in the corner with a book. She takes books from our library, too, and even brings them back. But she keeps to herself.”

“Will you let me know if she comes in again? I’m really worried about her.”

“I can tell her that you’re looking for her,” Moira said. “I can let you know after she’s been in, but we can’t give that information without her permission.”

“But I don’t mean her any harm.”

“I don’t think you do necessarily, but how can I be sure?”

Seeing by my face that she had offended me, she continued.

“I’m sure you mean well, but I could be wrong. You could be spying for her husband, for example. Or you might think she was responsible for break-ins in your neighbourhood and want to turn her in. There are any number of reasons you could want to get in touch with her that would not be to her benefit. That’s why we leave it up to the women to decide. This is their haven, their safe place, and I will do nothing to jeopardize that. If that inconveniences you, all I can say is I’m sorry.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “You mentioned a husband. I think she was married, from what she said. To a rich husband, no less. And she had children. And her husband evidently abused her.”

“It figures,” Moira said.

“Is that typical?”

“A recent study showed that two-thirds of homeless women have experienced abuse or violence, but based on anecdotal evidence here and at other shelters, I’d put the number even higher.”

“Do you think that’s why they end up on the street? Aren’t there alternatives?”

“With no family or support backup, there’s no place for these women to go,” she said. “But that’s not the reason they end up here. In a lot of cases there’s also some other psychopathology. A lot of the woman we see have been in and out of institutions more than once. Some of them were turfed out in the latest round of budget cuts and are walking around with enough medication in them to stagger your average horse.”

“Do you administer the drugs?”

“No, we’re not equipped to handle that. We’ve got enough responsibility as it is. Besides, we’d rather not be known as a place that has drugs. That said, though, there’s nothing wrong with staff asking a woman if she’s taken her medication, or staff keeping an eye out for mood swings or suggesting that one of them go to the outpatient clinic. But that’s the limit. We have a nurse, too, who comes in once a week, for minor things. And we have doctors who will see the women if they need help. A dentist, too. And we provide legal advice and a mailing address for welfare cheques.”

“Does Maggie get mail here?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she said, standing up. “I’m sorry, but if you haven’t got any more questions, perhaps you’d like to meet some of the other volunteers who might know Maggie better than I.”

I stood, too.

“I’d appreciate that. And I think that you’re doing really wonderful things here.”

“The most important thing we provide is very simple.”

“And what’s that?” I asked. There was a knock at the door.

“Acceptance,” Moira said, then called, “come on in.”

A moon-round face poked around the door, smiling under a sequined baseball cap missing half its sparkle. It was followed by an egg-shaped body, in jeans and a happy-face T-shirt. A little stuffed yellow bird was pinned to her shoulder.

“Delivery!” the woman said, holding up an envelope. She handed it to Moira, then looked at me with frank curiosity.

“Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Fay. Who are you?”

“I’m Kate,” I said, accepting the enthusiastic handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Fay’s our courier and general all-round helper,” Moira explained.

“All round, that’s me,” grinned the woman, then did a model’s turn. “Get it?”

“Got it,” I said.

“We got another food donation come in,” Fay said to Moira, who was opening the letter. “So, what is it? A cheque, or what?”

Moira looked up from the page, still smiling.

“So, it’s none of your damned business,” she said.

“Hokey-dokey, chief,” Fay said, saluting. She started out the door. Moira stopped her.

“Fay, take Kate to meet some of the volunteers. She’s looking for a friend.”

I followed the yellow bird, pausing at the door to the office.

“If you see Maggie . . . ,” I began.

“I’ll let her know you’re worried about her,” Moira finished, firmly.

“Well, thanks again for your time,” I said.

“Any time. Just call. Oh, and give my best regards to Andy.”

She smiled a small but wicked smile.

“Tell him I hope nothing vital was damaged.”

Fay and I headed back towards the main desk.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked.

“A woman named Maggie. Do you know her?”

“Maggie? Does she wear a hat?”

“Whenever I’ve seen her.”

“An older lady, right?”

“I’d say maybe fifty, something like that.”

“That’s not her real hair, you know,” Fay said, conspiratorially.

I thought about Maggie’s bottle-black hair, which she wears pulled back or tucked under her hat.

“I didn’t think so. Does she dye it?”

“It’s a wig. She’s all grey underneath and it’s short. I saw her in the shower once.”

“Do you know her well?”

“She doesn’t talk. Not very friendly. Except to Evelyn.”

We were at the counter.

“Who’s Evelyn? Is she here?”

“Not today.”

“Is she a staff person? Or one of the, um . . .”

I didn’t know what to call them. Clients? Visitors?

“No, she’s a street kid, like me.”

“Does she come in regularly?”

“She gets her mail here. She’s here for the welfare cheque, for sure. Carrie will know. Hey, Carrie!”

A woman at the other end of the counter looked up, and signalled that she’d be with us in a minute.

“She’s a kid, you say. You mean she’s young.”

“Sure. Like I said, she’s my age. I’m twenty-three. Evelyn says Maggie’s kind of like her mum. She gives her advice and everything.”

“Fay, what kind of mischief are you up to now?”

The woman she had called Carrie, a native woman with long shiny black hair, had come down the counter to join us.

“No mischief, she’s just trying to help me,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Kate Henry, and I’m trying to find out something about a woman named Maggie.”

Carrie took my hand, then introduced herself.

“She lives quite near my house, over in Riverdale,” I said, “but she hasn’t been seen for a couple of days. Some of us are a bit worried about her.”

I saw wariness in Carrie’s eyes, the same wariness Moira had shown.

“I haven’t seen her in a while either,” she said.

“But Evelyn might know something.” Fay said. “I told Kate she’s the one who knows Maggie. Maggie always talks to her when she’s in here.”

“I just thought if I could find out a bit more about her, it would help me find her. Like where she was living before she came to our neighbourhood, for example.”

“Well, Evelyn hasn’t been around either,” Carrie said. “In the summer, they don’t come in as often.”

“Well, I guess I’m out of luck today, then. I’ve left my number with Moira, in case you hear anything.”

Irritated, and annoyed with myself for being irritated, I left the shelter. I did my banking, dropped off the dry cleaning, and went to the hospital. I bought a Shopsy’s hot dog, with mustard, onions, and hot peppers, from a vendor on University Avenue and stood in the shade outside the hospital to eat it before going in.

Andy was asleep when I got there, despite the large and boisterous family visiting his new Korean roommate, so I sat by his bed thumbing through an old
Maclean’s
from the patients’ lounge. Every few moments, an adorable little girl who looked to be about three poked her head around the dividing curtain to play peek-a-boo. I got tired of the game long before she did.

Finally, I pinched Andy to wake him up. He yelped.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You pinched me!”

“You must have been dreaming,” I said, “but since you’re awake, why don’t we take a walk? The exercise will do you good.”

He grumbled, but agreed. I got his robe and slippers out of his locker and tried to help him put them on. He preferred to do it himself, but let me take his arm, the one on the side opposite the handle for the vacuum pump that was his constant companion, and we hobbled out the door. As we walked, we passed other patients, some of whom greeted Andy, but he did nothing more than nod back at them.

“You could be a bit friendlier,” I said, after he’d left me to carry on a particularly trying conversation about the weather with the wife of the elderly Italian from the next room.

“Last time I checked, this wasn’t a social club,” he said, then pulled his arm away from me and marched off, the pump dragging behind, bouncing on one wonky wheel.

I took three angry steps towards the main corridor, but decided against it, took a deep breath, and followed him.

“What’s eating you?” I asked, falling into step.

“Nothing.”

“Something had to put you into this mood.”

“What mood?”

Right.

“I hate this place,” he said, accusingly.

As if I love hospitals, I thought. As if it’s my fault he’s here.

“Has Dr. Griffith been in today?”

“Yeah, him and his army,” he said. “He sailed through, ordered some more goddamn tests, and buggered off.”

“So that’s it,” I said.

“They won’t even talk about letting me out until tomorrow.”

“They probably know best,” I ventured.

“They don’t know squat,” he said. “I feel fine. I’m eating real food. I’m shitting real shit. I’m off the heavy-duty pain killers. I’m ready to get out of here. And the only people around are nurses who keep telling me that doctor has to make that decision. Meanwhile, doctor is going home to his dinner of filet mignon and fine wine, laughing at all of us poor buggers eating fish sticks and strawberry Jell-O. They’re probably all there. All the doctors having a party and laughing at their patients.”

I stopped, grabbed his arms, and looked him in the eyes.

“Are you through behaving like an eight-year-old?”

He tried to keep his anger going but couldn’t keep a straight face as long as I held his eyes in mine. Finally, we both laughed.

“I guess I’m through,” he said.

“Good. Because I’ve thought of a way to make you happy.”

“Please, Kate, not with the entire Kim clan just a privacy curtain away.”

“Not that,” I laughed. “But I can sneak you in some dinner. What do you want?”

“Oh, God, anything with spices in it. Anything with taste. Anything but anonymous meat and boiled potatoes. Anything but strawberry Jell-O.”

“I could probably make you some lime. It’s my fave.”

“And something to drink,” he said, ignoring me. “Bring me a Martini! With three olives. Four olives!”

He knelt, took my hand in both of his and kissed it.

“Make it four olives and I’ll marry you,” he said.

“I’ll make it three, then,” I said, pulling him up. He struggled to his feet, grimacing and pale.

“Maybe that’s enough exercise,” I said.

“I think I’ll go back and rest up for dinner,” he said, leaning heavily on my shoulder.

Luckily, Andy’s neighbour’s visiting mob had left, leaving only one, apparently his mother, who sat silently, hands folded in her lap, watching him sleep.

Andy had just got settled in bed when Jim and Carol arrived. Jim handed Andy a bag with the tell-tale Tim Hortons logo on it.

“Oh, this is delightfully different,” I said. “A cop bearing a gift of donuts.”

Andy peered into the bag.

“Wrong. Timbits. The elite homicide squad does not eat donuts.”

He pulled a glazed chocolate ball out of the sack before offering it around. I declined.

“Sorry, Kate, you have to have one,” Carol said. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“I got a call from Walt Stimac today,” Jim said. “The lab work’s all back from the shooting, and it supports everything we said.”

Andy stuck out his hand and Jim slapped it. Carol and I exchanged a relieved look.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Well, we have to wait for the official announcement from the SIU,” Jim said.

“And he’s promised to come to the cottage for two weeks,” Carol added.

“This is great news,” I said. “I’m happy for both of you.”

“What about you, Andy?” Jim asked. “Have they said anything about springing you yet?”

“I think this is where I came in,” I interrupted, quickly, leaning over to kiss Andy’s cheek. “I’m going to leave him in your hands. Don’t tire him out. I’ll be back by seven. Don’t eat too much dinner.”

“No fear.”

Gratefully, I left the room with a cheery wave and headed for the stairs. Free at last, free at last, good God almighty. I walked down to the lobby to avoid the elevators and their cargoes of despair.

I stopped at the Fillet of Soul on the way home, and banged on the kitchen door until Sonny, the chef, opened up. I arranged to pick up an order of ribs, yams, and black-eyed peas at quarter to six, then went home.