The Best Thing for You (8 page)

“No,” I say, waving off whoever it is in the washroom doorway. I’ve got my head in the sink again. My day hasn’t even started. When I straighten up, I see it’s Calvin. I spit once more, on purpose, and grab the tap.

“That was terrible,” Calvin says.

The soft clean stream from the low-pressure faucet is annoying. I cup my hand, scoop water around the basin, try to clean up
faster. I duck my head to drink and rinse my mouth. “Morning sickness,” I say briskly, ripping off a waffly piece of paper towel.

“Well, sure. You should try Gravol.”

“And you would know?”

“You are so fucking unfriendly,” he says.

We stare at each other.

Later that morning a child’s screaming pulls us into Reception, “
CALVIN
,” he’s screaming. His mom is trying to hold him but he’s a big boy, maybe seven, big and kicking, trying to twist away from May, who’s kneeling beside them, “
CALVIN
CALVIN
CALVIN
,” he screams.

“There you are,” May says.

“Hey, Davey,” Calvin says. He takes the boy from his mother and carries him back to the examining room, bouncing him a little the way you do with a baby. The boy has his head on Calvin’s shoulder and his little arm around his neck.

“He likes Calvin,” the mother says apologetically. She glances at me, then May.

“Everybody likes Calvin,” May says. She smiles at her feet and I think, Oh.

At noon she takes two cans of tea out of her lunch bag and hesitates. “I’m afraid to give you this after the last time,” she says.

I touch my can to hers, a mock toast. “Liam and I want you to come over for supper, you and your husband. How’s Saturday?”

May puts two fingers to her temple and stares at the tabletop. “Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.”

Calvin comes, hesitates, pulls up a chair. “Friend of yours?” I say quickly, meaning the child from this morning.

“Autistic. May thinks he likes my voice.”

“The reverberation,” May explains, tapping her chest.

“When my son was a baby we couldn’t put him down unless his dad sang him a lullaby first,” I say. “When I did it, he would
just scream. To appreciate the perversity, you have to have heard Liam sing.”

“He’s that bad?” May asks. I cover my eyes, shake my head.

“Can you sing?” Calvin asks.

“I sang in a punk band for a while. Put myself through a couple of years of school.”

“But does that answer the question?” May says doubtfully.

I sip my tea. “Am I being friendlier?” I ask.

“Somewhat friendlier,” Calvin says.

May stands up. “Can I get back to you about Saturday? I should just check it out with Jupiter.”

Inadvertently, I look at Calvin.

“Jupiter, my husband,” she says.

“Jupiter,” Liam says.

“I’m telling you now so you won’t laugh when I introduce you. They’re Taiwanese, okay?”

“I might still laugh, though,” my husband says gravely.

Upstairs our son is playing
CD
s, turgid and feedbacky, much guitar. The bass seems to drip from the ceiling. “I’m afraid to ask him to turn it down,” I say, because he’s had a lousy first week of school, cumulative troubles. I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I know that
song.
”

Liam nods. “Schubert.”

“Are you going to wear that?” I ask. Black pants and a black silk shirt, open at the throat – matte, but still. “You look like a dance critic.”

“That would be a euphemism?”

“May’s the only person at the clinic who doesn’t seem to be judging me because I’m new. I just want to make a nice impression.”

Upstairs, Ty bumps the volume another notch. “Mercy, grace, faith, hope, charity,” Liam says. “We should have drowned him before his eyes opened.” He goes to the foot of the stairs. “What the fuck is your problem?” he yells up into the din.

In the kitchen, I check the food: pots of curry and rice, dishes of nuts and condiments. “Should Ty eat with us?” I ask when Liam comes back.

“Okay, yes,” Liam says, like he’s been expecting this. “Yes, because I am not just going to let him turn into this thing he wants to turn into. If we let him eat in his room we’re sending these terrible messages, that it’s okay to be anti-social, that he’s not welcome, maybe even that we’re afraid of him, of letting these people meet him. If he starts to think we’re afraid of him all hell is going to break loose.”

“He had one bad week.”

“He’s not the one that got arrested.”

A pot on the stove spits and seethes. I turn the burner down. “Are we being too hard on him?”

“You mean me.”

“I do, actually, yes.”

We’re looking at each other, squaring off for round one, when the doorbell rings. Liam clears his throat. “Settle down,” I tell him.

“Doctor,” May says, when I open the door. Grinning, she hands me flowers. Her husband has a brush cut and round glasses behind which his eyes are tiny as raisins. He’s grinning too. He hands Liam a bottle of wine, looks at the ceiling, and says, “Wow.” He means the noise.

“You have kids?” Liam says.

“Is that what that is?”

I say, “He’s had a bad week.”

“Jupiter, my husband,” May says, and we do introductions.

“Jupiter,” Liam says, shaking his hand.

“Pretty good,” he says to May, cocking his head at Liam.

“Really good,” May says.

“My name,” he explains. “You didn’t react at all.”

“Kate warned me.”

Jupiter laughs. “There was a vogue for it in the late sixties, okay? I know a tax accountant named Pluto. I used to go by Jay but in law school my mentor told me I should use it so people would remember me.”

“Wow, you had a mentor,” I say, moving us into the kitchen.

“We all got assigned one,” Jupiter says.

“Law school.” Liam’s pouring wine, keeping his voice even. “What kind of law?”

“Civil lit.” We listen to the seepage from Ty’s music, an icy, thrashing crush, like a speeded-up record. “What do they call this stuff?”

I say, “Jungle.”

Liam says, “Schubert.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting your son,” May says.

Liam hands her a glass of wine. “You’re a brave woman.” We all raise our glasses. “Crime,” Liam says.

Jupiter and May touch glasses. “Crime!”

“Settle down,” I say.

We lay places in the kitchen, where it’s warmer and friendlier than the dining room. The dining room is also where Ty had his interview with Officer Stevens. “Is it true, what you told Calvin about being in a punk band?” May asks.

“Who’s Calvin?” Liam wants to know.

“Kid at work. Yeah, it’s true.” I stop, uncomfortable.

“Always the quiet ones,” Jupiter offers.

“The first time I saw her,” Liam says, setting a fork down, “at this party, she had a Mohawk hairstyle and war paint. Like, red
and black slash marks here.” He touches my cheekbone with his thumb. “And this ripped-up dress, and safety pins through her fingertips, the soft part, the pads.”

“Painless.” I shake my head. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Kate, no,” May says, looking concerned.

“She was with these two other guys dressed similarly. I later learned this was her band.”

“We had this idea of sending up traditional Native American costume,” I say apologetically. “I don’t know what we were thinking. It was very rude.”

“I ask around, I find out she sings, she plays guitar, she’s honours pre-med. I fall in love.”

“Love,” I say. “You stalked me.”

“It worked.” Liam rolls the stem of his wineglass between finger and thumb. “Smokin’ good wine, Jupiter, by the way.”

Jupiter bows.

“Stalked me,” I say.

“I had a case not long ago,” Jupiter says. “Now, you tell me what you think. Here is this young woman, single, living alone in her apartment. She has a job, has some regularly scheduled activities on evenings and weekends – a fitness class, some volunteer work. Her routine is pretty predictable, okay? Next door to her is a retired man, widower, nice guy. They say hello coming and going, he shows her pictures of the grandkids. He gets to know her schedule and takes to sticking his head out the door when she leaves in the morning. Same thing when she comes home at night. Doesn’t phone her, doesn’t knock on her door, doesn’t follow her down the street. Twice a day he goes a little out of his way to say hi, that’s it.” Jupiter pauses. “Question: is he stalking her?”

“No,” Liam says.

Jupiter looks at me. “Well, I mean, no,” I say.

“All right. Now, imagine the man a little differently. This is a younger man, university student, also single. Big guy. Very good-looking.” May, who has obviously heard this before, is lifting up pot lids and smelling the food. When she sees me watching her, she gives me a thumbs-up. “Exact same behaviour as the first man. Instead of the grandkids, he shows her pictures of his horse. Gradually she starts looking forward to seeing him there in the hallway every day.”

“All right,” I say.

“They fall in love.”

“All
right.
”

“Is he stalking her?”

“No,” Liam says.

I put my hands on my hips and squint at Jupiter, mock-tough, half-smiling. “What’s your point?”

“Last scenario. Same, identical situation. Only this time the man is paranoid schizophrenic. He’s on permanent disability. Rarely leaves the apartment. He’s taking his meds but sometimes she hears him talking to himself, he wears the same clothes every day, he seems nervous of everyone except her.” I start placing plates on the table, now that I know what’s coming. “Is he stalking her?”

“Yes,” Liam says.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You’re going to walk right into that one?”

“Walk into what?” Liam says. “It’s totally different. There was no reason for her to be afraid of the first two. Here, a reasonable person would be apprehensive. How does she know he’s not going to have some kind of – episode?”

“Hey, May,” I say. “As a woman, wouldn’t you have been a little apprehensive about the second guy, the cowboy? Jupiter said he was big.”

May nods. “Big, yeah. Big can be intimidating.”

Sheer nonsense, of course. Calvin, for instance, is big. So what?

“You had the man?” Liam asks.

“I had the woman. She couldn’t get any kind of criminal charge brought, so she wanted to sue for infliction of emotional suffering.” Jupiter looks at me. “My point is, you can make the same act right or wrong just by changing the variables. There’s no such thing as an evil act, murder as an act or stalking as an act. The evil lies in the person who’s doing the act, and our perception of that person.”

“So you’re saying Liam didn’t stalk me?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Jupiter says. “That’s my party story. You just gave me a lead-in.”

“I didn’t exactly stalk her,” Liam tells May.

“So on your theory, the victim’s identity is also relevant.”

Jupiter, chewing pappadum, nods frantically. “Sure, crucial.”

“If she’s very ugly, for instance.”

“Okay, I know where you’re going.” He makes a stop sign with his hand.

“Not exactly?” May asks.

“I went to see her band a few times.”

“Twelve times,” I say. “In one month. Plus he hung around outside my house a lot. Look, all you’re talking about is motive. Same act, different motive, depending on the individual. And to determine motive, you rely on stereotypes. No, piss off.” Liam’s trying to stick a pappadum in my mouth. He and May are laughing at me. “If he’s schizophrenic, we assume he’s motivated by a desire to harm. That’s like saying if the victim’s ugly there’s no
harassment, because who would be motivated to harass a dog?”

“So how do you want to get at motive?” Jupiter asks. He’s not laughing. He’s interested. “Hate crimes, for instance.”

“Like stalking isn’t a hate crime?” May says.

“It’s a love crime,” Liam says.

“That’s disgusting,” I tell him. “I was scared of you.”

“I know,” he says, so only I will hear.

May makes busy, stirring one of my curries. “I love being a nurse,” she says. I realize we’re embarrassing her. She’s a tidy package, May, in her black tights and black cord jumper and stretchy denim headband, with her smart talky husband, and I want her to be my friend.