Extensions (48 page)

ON THE DARK TARMAC, raindrops conveniently masked my tears. Four other members were boarding the twelve-seater, each of us with Tim Hortons coffee, and all but me with a muffin. I still had no appetite. They were on their way to Edmonton via Calgary to take a course together, so after the usual small talk, I left them alone and opened my notes.

For all the sleep I got in my off-limits apartment, I could have gone to Warren's and taken a chance on a new adventure. How did I keep messing up? Given more opportunities than most, I always seemed to blow them at the last minute. Men aside, the unsolved Kubik case niggled at me constantly, and here I was on my way to collect critical evidence in a sex assault file. Would I lose my edge again?

The sound and vibration of the small plane's engine put an end to self-recrimination and concentration. My eyes clamped shut on the ascent and reclaimed the sleep they had missed in the night. No sunrise over the Rockies for me. I first saw daylight as the plane coasted into the Calgary airport. The pilot announced that it was minus twenty-five outside, but the number meant nothing until I stepped into the prairie air. Dad had advised me to dress warmly, and I had on a thick turtleneck, pea coat, scarf, and high boots, but it was my bare legs under dress pants that felt the cold most. Mom and Dad had brought me to Alberta a couple of times as a kid, once for the Calgary Stampede, and once on a trip to Red Deer and to Gull Lake where Sara and Grandpa had owned a cottage and Dad and Janetta spent their summers growing up. Both were in July; this was February. Snow covered the foothills and frost coated the airport buildings and roofs of the sprawling suburbs. Behind me, the four members came down the metal stairs noisily, reacting to the cold in unquotable language. At least the crisp air woke me up and dried my damp cheeks.

It was ten-thirty Calgary time. The interview with Robin Basa was scheduled for noon at the city police station, where rooms were made available to us. I was booked into a downtown hotel with shuttle service that would get me back to the force plane tomorrow morning at ten on its return from Edmonton. Wayne told me to cab it anywhere else I needed to go during my twenty-four-hour stay.

Before looking for the shuttle, I found a pay phone and called Mona Mingus.

“This is Arabella Dryvynsydes. I spoke to you in January about our family connect — ”

“I remember who you are.”

“I happen to be in Calgary and am wondering if you'd have time for a short visit later today.”

Pause. “That might be possible. My stories finish at three, so you could come at three-thirty.”

“Stories?”

“
Days
,
All My Children, General Hospital.
I've got a bit of time before
Wheel of Fortune.
”

I thought of Dad and
Jeopardy!
and their shared
DNA
. She told me she was on the north hill just off 16th Avenue and gave me her address. I promised to be there on time.

“I've been thinking a lot about Mother's picture.”

“It's in my purse,” I assured her, then to give her time to produce her item for the barter, added, “and I'm looking forward to reading my great-grandmother's letter.”

Luckily my shuttle was at the curb and I hopped on. Half an hour later, I was checked into my hotel, thinking I should eat something. Not because I was hungry, but I didn't want a headache to complicate my agenda. The police station was only a few blocks from the hotel, they told me at the desk, so I set off on foot and found a Starbucks along the way where I warmed up and satisfied a few protein requirements with a jumbo pecan cranberry muffin and a cup of steamed milk.

The Calgary City Police headquarters were in a grey cement building about twelve storeys high. A friendly woman at the front desk led me to the interview room I would be using and did a routine explanation of the audio/video equipment; she said there would be someone in the adjoining room monitoring it as well. Before I had my jacket off or tape recorder out, the door opened again and a tiny young woman came in quietly. Standing next to her, I thought of Sara's expression “knee high to a grasshopper,” with me as the grasshopper. I shook her hand, thanked her for coming, and offered her a chair across the little table from me.

Robin Basa's appearance was Goth meets salon: choppy black hair with a maroon streak, diamond nose stud, dark purple lipstick, muted eye makeup. Under her black leather coat she wore a hot pink midriff-length sweater over a black tank top, black jeans rolled up to the calf, and pointed high-heeled boots. Several fingers bore silver rings, the only part of the outfit her customers would see under a white smock. I pushed my notebook to the side, turned on my tape recorder, and asked if she knew why she was here.

“Sort of.”

“We'd like to know more about the complaint lodged against Mr. Frank Naylor when you were his student in Grade Seven.”

She blushed. “Yeah, like, we never laid a complaint, you know.”

I nodded. “Why not?”

“My parents didn't want a spectacle or anything. They're, like, from the Philippines. Mom came as a domestic and brought Dad and me over a few years later. She wanted to bring my grandmother over, and uh, they thought a police record might, like, make them look twice at our family.” She made a nervous sound close to a laugh.

“Thank you, Robin. You've just told me a lot.”

“Uh, like what?”

“Like the fact that you haven't said you didn't charge Mr. Naylor because he was innocent.”

Her flawless skin turned pink again.

“I know how uncomfortable this is for you, and we really appreciate your courage in being here. But if a man did something that still makes you feel this uneasy six years later, don't you think he should be stopped from doing it again?”

She nodded.

“Tell me how it started.”

“He told me what a good artist I was. Like I should be encouraged to do more.”

Our Burnaby victim alleged that Mr. Naylor asked her to help design a poster for an upcoming volleyball tournament, and while she was at the computer he began stroking her hair. He told her what a beautiful strong body she had, that he would like to take pictures of her in shorts, then digitalize them for the poster.

I nodded.

“Like, he wanted me to stay after school to help with ideas for a poster,” Robin blurted out. “I was like, ‘Why me?' and he goes, ‘Because you're so artistic.'”

“And did you?”

“I was scared not to. My parents were strict. Teachers and priests, like, they were the highest.”

I wondered what her parents thought of Robin's look and lingo now. She must have broken out of her shell somewhere along the way.

“And then?”

“Uh, he said I was pretty, and then he goes, ‘When you get into art school, they'll want you to model.'” As she spoke, she smoothed her hair with the flat of her hand then fluffed it up from underneath using her fingers. I stayed quiet. “Like, my hair was long then and he would take it and roll it into different styles, and pretend, like, it was for the modelling.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“It grossed me out.” She gave a nervous shriek of a laugh. “I was shy. But I didn't want to fail my class.”

“How many times did this happen?”

“Three. He told me, like, what a beautiful body I had, and that third time he goes, ‘They will want to see your whole body, you know, for modelling in the art school.'” Her face was hot and alive with the thought. “And then he, like, started trying to take my blouse off.”

“Was the door closed?”

“Yeah, he always closed the door.”

“What did you do?”

“I was freaking out. But I was, like, frozen — you know?”

I nodded sympathetically. “Go on.”

“I was saved by the janitor. She opened the door to clean and, like, there we were. Mr. Naylor told her to come back later, that we were working on an art project. Yeah, he quickly bent over the poster and picked up a marker. But the janitor had seen enough and got me outta there real fast.”

“The janitor reported it?”

“Yeah, she called the police and my parents. Like, she had daughters of her own.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“Nothing. I couldn't speak. Too ashamed. Especially in front of my father. And like, I didn't want other kids knowing.” She lowered her eyes and pulled her arms tightly around herself, remembering.

I asked her if that was the end of it, and she said in her household it was. It was never mentioned, but her dad got stricter than ever, keeping her home after school like a prisoner. She ran away once and got in with the wrong crowd until she took her esthetician's course. The janitor stopped her later and said she understood about different cultures and would respect her parents' wishes about keeping it quiet. But the school board heard about it anyway.

“Is it any easier now talking about it?”

“Yeah. I've learned there are lots of creeps like that out there. Like, they're the creeps, not me.” Robin pointed dramatically with her finger away from herself, then to her thin little chest.

“Would you be willing to testify?”

She made a face. “My dad'd freak out.”

I patted her hands, which were now stretched out on the table. “Let's hope we won't need you in person. But I can't tell you enough how helpful you've been, Robin. You could be a hero to a few young girls.”

She smiled and combed the back of her hair with her fingers. Then she handed me her card. “Like, if you ever need a pedicure.”

I gave her mine and thanked her again before she left.

I sighed with relief. This should help snag the teacher who didn't show much originality in his tactics. I hadn't seen the other girl, but Robin's vulnerable size made him seem more despicable. Try it on someone as big as I was — except at that age, any girl in similar circumstances might react the same way. I turned off the tape recorder, jotted down a few notes, then talked to the guys in the next room about the interview. They gave me a
DVD
and
VHS
to take back to Burnaby. They told me it was a good job, leaving me hopeful for a change.

The midday sun had warmed the atmosphere enough to walk for a while; only my ears felt a sting. After a couple of blocks, I came to the Bay, the same white marble building as in Vancouver. Its familiarity lured me inside where I found a bargain bin full of woollen toques. I bought a black one. I could now continue my exploration of the city. Chinatown had caught my eye on the way over, so I turned back in that direction. It was only a few streets long and interesting enough — no, I wasn't comparing it to Vancouver's — but the bigger attraction was the bridge ahead. Lions carved into stone gazebos made me want to cross it. Mona lived on the north hill so I would see how far I could get.

On the middle of the bridge, I stopped. Standing under the stone lions gave me a personal perspective of Calgary. Forget spreading suburbs, skyscrapers filled with the country's wealth, and even revolving towers — they could be anywhere — but this vision of a powerful city rising out of the ice mist of the frozen river got to me. As if it had started small and was still stretching to reach the haughty little hill that would always be looking down on it. From now on, the word
Calgary
would conjure up this image for me.

At the top of Centre Street, I turned left and followed the scenic route along the brow of the north hill. Sixth Avenue did not come all the way through, however, and I soon had to leave the river vista and Crescent Road mansions behind to connect with it. Mona lived in a neighbourhood not unlike Dad's in Vancouver filled with working-class houses from the thirties, now worth half a million dollars. Many homes had been enlarged and gentrified, but Mona's was not one of them: a small brown stucco bungalow with white trim around the windows. I was five minutes early, so I walked once around the block before ringing the bell.

Mona's appearance did not match her drab voice, even when the two came together in a fleeting smile and an invitation to enter. She was about Janetta's age — early seventies — trim, and more agile than I expected. As with Janetta I sensed a casualness that would not have been there during her professional years. She would likely have never received a visitor in the mauve fleece jogging suit she was wearing now. Her hair was short, white — naturally wavy — her eyes pale blue, and her lips glossed in pink. She showed surprise that a newcomer like me would walk from downtown — or at least as much surprise as she could muster. She led me into the small living room, which was joined by an archway to a dining room with a left turn into the kitchen. All the furniture and ornaments had belonged to her mother, she informed me. Was she a younger, more functional version of Laura Owens with her shrine?

She gestured me toward the worn blue velvet sofa and asked if I would like a cup of tea. When I said yes, she brought in two full mugs, then came back with a creamer and sugar bowl. She stood while I added milk and returned them both to the kitchen, next time appearing with two plates, each holding half a buttered scone. The final trip produced a jar of marmalade and spoon: I was to spread my half with the marmalade so she could carry it back promptly to the kitchen. It appeared she had few guests, and even fewer trays.