Bone Dance (15 page)

“Are you still in touch with your Little Sister?” Michelle's voice softened, and she reached across the table, covering Janet's hand in hers.

“No,” Janet slipped her hand away from Michelle's. Using
both damp palms, she batted back the hair that had fallen in her face. The hair was easier to wrangle than the waves of depression that had enveloped her when Ashley had been excised from her life. “The adoption official claimed that she needed a fresh start.”

“That must have been very difficult for you, after all you did to help that child.” Michelle's tone implied that this was a question, not a statement.

“Well,” Janet forced a short laugh, “that's when I decided that I could probably do better than a lot of the single mothers out there—like Ashley's mother, for example.” If she told the truth, Janet would have to admit that she had made the decision to abandon her ideal of a two-parent family in a period of anger and frustration.

“I've noticed that you give Crystal a lot of special attention. I'm worried that perhaps you're being drawn into her family's difficulties.” Michelle's steady gaze appraised her.

“She is a great kid, but what more can we do? We've sent over food baskets, made sure all the kids have visited the ClothesLine, alerted Children's Aid.” Janet paused. “I can tell you one thing—it makes me count my blessings, knowing that I'll be able to provide a better life for my baby.”

Michelle's face broke into a warm smile. “I think that's a very healthy attitude, a good sign that you're moving ahead with your own life. If we're lucky enough to have you return as a volunteer after your baby's born, you need to remember that our focus here is on group programs. We all have our favourites, of course, but we need to treat all the children equally. So no more little gifts for Crystal, okay? Besides, it's against Centre policy.”

“Of course, sorry if I caused a problem. That wasn't my intention.” Janet wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple.
“And I honestly can't make any promises about returning.”

Michelle stood and went to the cupboard to the right of the sink. “Everyone at the Centre wishes you the very best, Janet, and though it's not much, we'd like you to have this.” She set a brightly wrapped parcel in front of Janet. Michelle checked the time on her watch, “Well, the kids'll be arriving soon, guess we'd better get back out there. I'm really grateful for your contribution here, Janet. Thanks again.” Michelle swept out of the kitchen, stopping to confer with another volunteer.

Relieved to have the interview concluded, Janet opened an upper cabinet and started to count out the correct number of plastic juice glasses, setting them in neat rows on a scratched brown tray. That went well, she thought. The baby monitor was an interesting choice for a gift.

Shortly after four o'clock, Crystal lugged her baby sister into the building. The kids clustered around as she set the car seat on one of the plywood tables. Without letting her friends crowd the baby or maul her with their germy fingers, Crystal supervised the infant's unveiling. She unzipped the worn, soiled bunting bag and slipped off the greyed-white knit cap so the others could admire the baby's full head of frothy blonde hair.

Crystal's mother had entered the Centre with them but hung back at the double doors to the gym. She was a fair-haired, child-sized woman, probably younger than Janet, but she looked ancient, malnourished, defeated. A fresh bruise was forming along her left jaw-line. A mottled yellow-green semicircle decorated her lower right eyelid. A black cloud hung over the woman as staunchly as the bouquet of cigarettes, stale laundry and beer that enveloped her. Michelle approached Crystal's mother, inviting her to join them in the kitchen for a coffee or a juice. Declining, the woman mumbled, “I'll be outside havin' a smoke,” and bolted for the front door. The
director and Janet exchanged looks. Michelle sighed and returned to her tiny cell of an office. Janet cleared tables of the muffin, milk and banana remnants from the afternoon's snack, wiping them down in readiness for the crafts volunteer.

The blast of a whistle diverted the group's attention from the baby. The kids were ready to blow off some steam and clamoured around as Henry, a student from the university, set up the basketball drills. Crystal whispered a reassuring phrase to her dozing sister, popped in the soother and ran to join the game.

Looking around carefully, Janet ensured that all was in order. Her duties were complete, and it was time to head out. With a last look at the happy faces of her flock, she slipped unseen out the back door into the afternoon's cold, early dusk.

Once the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign had been extinguished, Janet picked the baby up and cradled her in her arms, rocking back and forth.

Their Air Canada tickets were open-ended, so Janet was amazed that the last-minute seat assignments had found them alone in the forward row. Doc Weatherly's letter confirming her obesity had entitled Janet to a second seat free-of-charge. The infant's car seat was belted into the third. Most of her anxiety had evaporated once the plane was airborne. Everything would be perfect if only the briefcase containing the bearer bonds, cash and their new identity papers were closer at hand. A helpful flight attendant had stowed it in the overhead compartment during pre-boarding.

Slightly more than an hour ago, Janet had been tossing trash. It had taken no time at all to drive home, change her daughter into her homecoming outfit with the sparkling new snowsuit,
and summon a taxi. On impulse, Janet had raced back upstairs, grabbed the mobile from the guest-room window and stuffed it into the outside pocket of the waiting suitcase. She'd left the keys to the house and the Camry on the kitchen counter for the new owner.

Now they were en route to Vancouver, where she had a car waiting to take them over the border into the American Northwest. This was a region with a hundred small, isolated towns accustomed to a steady influx of new residents running from some previous life, starting fresh, vague about their origins.

The baby's blue-black eyes held her gaze. Janet experienced a jolt of recognition—this same quizzical look had passed between her sister-in-law and nephew in the delivery room. She stroked and snuggled. She pressed her lips against her daughter's forehead and cheeks. Janet used the pad of her thumb to track a path from the bridge of the infant's nose up through the tangle of golden silk over the soft tissue of the fontanelle to the nape of the baby's neck. She manipulated her index finger so the child would clasp it tightly in its tiny fist. Tears leaked out the corners of Janet's eyes, flowing over fine lines—the foremothers of crows' feet.

“Faith,” Janet murmured, “Faith will be a fine name, my girl.”

Susan C. Gates
is a recovering public servant, a reformed banker and a volunteer with two organizations serving children. She shares her Ottawa home and varied music collection with two discerning Shih Tzus, Molly and Murphy. An earlier version of this story received an Honourable Mention in the 2001 Capital Crime Writers Contest
.

The Saga of a Rock Wannabe

He purchased a car like his hero's

But he never would let me get in:

“You are much too old for this beauty.”

Ooo, the chill in my haemoglobin.

His black leather pants almost killed him

As he sucked in his low hanging gut,

He told his young pals “That's my mother,”

And made fun of my widening butt.

He was always away on a club date

Getting “Satisfaction” in some sleazy bar,

And refused to discuss his big problem

This dream that he'd be a big star.

When I was finally able to tell him

How his delusion affected my life,

How he was only heading for heartbreak

His dismissing words cut like a knife.

Now the look in his eyes was pure madness

As he told me to pull in the claws.

“Your job is to look after my needs

And not constantly whine about yours!”

The next morning he jumped in his sports car,

Taking off in a great whirl of dust,

To chase his past youth like a demon,

To be like Mick Jagger or bust.

Making light of my worries was wrong, Hal,

So I've set up a big concert for you,

You'll be rocking with the devils in Hell, Hal,

'Cause the brakes on your car are cut through!

Joy Hewitt Mann

You want me to steal a car?” I placed my cup and its bone china saucer on the desk that separated me from the Boss. All without my hands actually shaking.

“Ms. Caine, please.” The Boss spread his hands. “Not just any car. A collector's item, a cultural icon about to be shabbily used.”

“I don't want to argue with you, but I'm a grifter, not a car thief.”

“My people are otherwise occupied, and in any case, I prefer to use someone who owes me a favour.”

“Tommy didn't actually kill anyone,” I pointed out.

“If he had, I would simply have collected my percentage and . . . persuaded him to return to his own lucrative line of business. But your brother only pretended to be a killer, and took money to perform that service, money that should legitimately have come to my people—you can see how I can't allow that.”

Sure I could. Anybody could. Except Tommy.

“Do you know where your brother is?”

“For all I know, he's sitting in his apartment watching
Voyager
reruns,” I said.

The Boss narrowed his eyes, his cup of coffee held halfway to his mouth.

Here it comes, I thought. In real life, no bad guy can take
your word for it that you don't know anything, they always have to torture you to be sure.

Not that I'm calling anybody in the Firm a bad guy, you understand.

Still, I wasn't as frightened as you might think. Usually, in this kind of situation, women have more to worry about than being tortured and killed. They have to worry about being raped, tortured and killed. But the Boss had three daughters, and it was well known that he disapproved, some said violently, of any kind of molestation of women. So rape wasn't on the cards. The Boss was a gentleman, he'd just kill me.

Maybe I could come back and haunt Tommy.

Finally, the Boss nodded. “Since your brother is unavailable, you will have to obtain this automobile for me.”

I tried my best to agree without looking like I was thanking him. The Boss didn't need to spell out that the killing option was still on the table. Like he didn't need to spell out that he'd let my family operate in his territory for years without even asking for a percentage. The Boss was what social historians call a benign despot. He had all the power, but he was usually fair and equitable about how he used it. In the past, people had made the mistake of thinking that fair and equitable were synonyms for soft and easy. No one made that mistake any more.

Two men in spiffy suits dropped me off at my place. My answering machine was blinking, but at the moment what I needed to do was stand in my living room and call Tommy every name I could think of while kicking the sofa. I repeated a couple of the names for good measure.

Who would have thought that not being a hitman could get a person into so much trouble? Certainly not my brother. No, as Tommy Caine would put it, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

That's what Tommy usually says. And, as usual, he was getting away with murder, metaphorically speaking, while big sister Lillian was called on the carpet. Story of my life.

Don't get me wrong about Tommy. His heart's in the right place, and he's honest-to-god not as thick as he seems. After all, on the surface, pretending that you're a hitman specializing in the removal of awkward spouses is a pretty good grift. And, again on the surface, foolproof. Even if the mark realizes she's been taken (it's more likely to be a woman, men usually manage to kill their spouses themselves), what are they going to do, go to the cops?

Still, I was well aware that I had no time to waste being annoyed with Tommy. The Boss had given me a week to work in, but what I'd told him was true; I'm a con artist, not a car thief. I stuck on my latest blues CD, hoping the music would relax me enough to come up with a plan. By the third song, I found myself smiling. Ah, for the days when my biggest problem was a cheating boyfriend! I almost laughed when I found myself singing along with the chorus of the seventh cut, “Move over honey, let me drive”.

That's what I needed, some way to get the owner to give me his car and let me drive. Some way to persuade a shrewd operator—strictly in the business sense—to give me his vintage Aston Martin. And not just any Aston Martin, but the car actually driven in
Goldfinger
by James Bond himself, Mr. Sean Connery. Hmmmm.