Extensions (5 page)

To prolong my visit with Dad, I made up my mind to look for the picture of Sara and her sister. I got as far as the walk-in closet in Mom and Dad's bedroom, where boxes of overflow photos, letters, and yearbooks had been stored since I was a kid. I opened one and saw two or three alternate poses — the best photos had gone in an album — of Mom looking radiant holding me as a big bald baby. I had to get out of there right away, so I deserted Dad again and went back to my apartment.

The next time I saw him was registration night. After supper at Wendy's, he decided to accompany me to the college, so he would have a new sidewalk to pace while he smoked his cigar. As I was experiencing a sudden case of jitters walking into the building, he remained cheery outside. I felt conspicuous in a skirt worn for the occasion, a long batik wraparound that brushed the top of my sandals. As if I were taking this too seriously, the other registrants, all ages and sizes, hurried in and out in shorts, accustomed to the procedure. I suspected they were all more studious than I was. Other than the
RCMP
depot, the last exams I had taken were Grade Twelve departmentals. But I had been accumulating black book time for these classes, so I was not about to throw my bonus hours away. My B.C. history prospectus covered three single-spaced pages of reference material and I suddenly wished I had signed up for English as a second language. When I came out, Dad was irritating. He was singing “Up a Lazy River” and held out his hand to see my book list.

“I guess courses don't change that much. You might have to buy one history book. I think we've got most of the others.”

“Show-off. I know what you're thinking.”

“I don't even know what I'm thinking.”

“You're thinking I should have taken a course like this a long time ago.”

“Why would I think that?

“Because it's true.”

He lit another cigar and we set off into the soft evening air. When he continued singing, I decided not to hold my own insecurities against him. He hadn't sung like this for a long time.

The following Wednesday I sped straight from work to my history class. The enrollment was small, composed mainly of visible minorities. At work we had to classify people according to race, and my mental pen noted them automatically. I ended up sitting next to a young guy probably in his early twenties, a mixture of Caucasian and Black, who smiled as if he knew me. I wondered if I had ever picked him up. No, he appeared too genuinely friendly to be a shit rat — you get to know their type.

“This your first course?”

That's getting personal
, I thought as I answered: “For a while, anyway.”

“I mean with Barnwell. You ever had him before?”

I shook my head just as Barnwell walked in and introduced himself. Early fifties, small and slight, with long curly hair like Howard Stern. As soon as he opened his mouth, all heads straightened to attention. For the next hour and a half his booming voice brought the Haidas, Captains Drake, Cook, and Vancouver to life. His lecture made me think of the Disney films I saw as a kid where a paintbrush creates an entire scene with a few brushstrokes. I noticed my neighbour taking detailed notes. At the end, he turned to me with a “So how did you like him?” grin and I spoke without thinking: “Will you be coming to all these classes?”

“I never miss Barnwell.”

“Would you mind doing me a favour? I work shifts and might have to miss a class. Would you share your notes with me if I do?”

“You a nurse?”

I nodded because I could see this guy putting up his hands and joking, “Anything you say, officer,” if I told the truth.

“Sure, any time.” He stood up from the desk and towered a good four inches over me. I was not expecting that.

I thanked him and walked ahead since he seemed to be waiting for me to go first. At the door I turned back to say: “You're right. He really is good.”

Next day I was off to a bad start at work. Walking from the locker room to the cars, I came face to face with Ray Kelsey. He was at the main desk getting some information about one of his clients in cells. I had not seen him since he showed up uninvited at Mom's funeral.

“Hello,” I said, rushing past him. I tried to keep the sound of my heart drumming against my bulletproof vest as background accompaniment instead of a solo.

“Hi, Bella.” He gave me a big crocodile grin showing all his treacherous capped teeth. He was tanned, and handsome as ever in his lawyer's suit. “How ya doin'?”

Cut the street talk
, I said to myself. “Very well.”

“Your dad? He's okay?”

“Fine.” I was not about to share Dad's welfare with Ray, so I left it at that.

It was clear Ray wanted to chat, but his phone rang from his pocket, rescuing me. I fluttered my fingers at him and hurried on. His eyes followed me with a confused look. I heard him speaking sharply as I walked away — probably Blondie wanting him to pick up some nail polish on his way back to the office. I found my cruiser as fast as I could and exited the parking lot as if I'd been called out on a high-speed chase.

In sight, in mind. Thanks a lot, Ray, thanks a lot, Retha. You've joined forces to ruin my life. For a second I saw my mother as the little blonde co-conspirator sitting in Ray's office. I had counted on them cherishing me forever, and they both dumped me. I held back the tears until I was alone in the car writing up the file from my first B
&
E of the day. When I left, the female whose house had been burglarized was still wailing over her stolen jewels.
Get a grip, woman
, I felt like saying.
You can get more of those gold bangles when your sister goes to India next
month, just as your husband said
. I had to get used to losing an engagement ring myself. Instead of the one Ray Kelsey almost bought me, I ended up with my mother's.

I put the plastic bag containing the woman's cheap jewel case in the trunk. I had taken it simply to give the woman some hope, though I knew no clues would result from it. People felt better when you mentioned the word “fingerprints,” but they didn't realize how difficult it is to get a good print from a crime scene; you must get the points to connect on six or seven circles of the print and the clearest surface is glass or metal. Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if this case was a set-up. The suspect had left an upturned crate under the open window of the Hindu prayer room, where, for security reasons, the woman had moved the jewels from the master bedroom just the night before. She had no insurance, so she probably did not stage it herself, but I didn't rule out the husband. He seemed like the moocher type who might come up with the idea of fencing his wife's jewellery. No proof, of course.

As I wrote up the file in the car, tears plopped like summer raindrops. I blotted my eyes and the paper with a tissue. I don't know how long I sat there with my chin bobbing uncontrollably, but I pulled myself together when I saw a P.C. approaching from the other direction. Dave drove up, rolled down his window and said “Denny's?”

I nodded and he cruised on. Usually I looked forward to breakfast with the guys. I enjoyed being the only female on our watch. Not that I wasn't comfortable with female members, but I liked knowing what men thought when they were together — I didn't always like what they thought, but I liked knowing. This morning I did not have much of an appetite when Dave, Jake, Sukhi, and Emile squeezed further into the booth to make room for me. Dave had hot chocolate, the other three ordered coffee, and as soon as I sat down, the waitress arrived with platters of eggs and pancakes. She looked to me for my order.

“Toast and coffee, please.”

“You okay?” Dave asked. “You seemed a bit shaky back there.” Dave was a big guy, a Mormon. We called him Rudder because he insisted on taking the steering wheel if anyone drove with him. He also believed he was ordained to steer everyone in the right direction, including his wife and four kids, and all the lawbreakers he picked up. I pitied anyone who had to listen to one of his sermons from the back seat.

Emile was the brains of our group. We called him Mr. Know-It-All because he did. Ask him a simple question like the difference between condominiums and co-op housing, and he would go on for fifteen minutes. We learned to ask him things at the beginning of a meal and not when we were running out of time. He had an anthropology degree from Concordia and, as a native French speaker, he delighted in correcting our English. He was the one we consulted about the Criminal Code whenever doubts arose. At least I did. Dave and Jake believed they knew it all too.

Sukhi was my favourite partner. His full name was Sukhwinder Ahluwalia. He was slight, strong, quiet, and alert with the best sense of humour of all of us. If we took calls together, we often burst out laughing before we got back to the car. It could be anything that got us going — the person's hair, something that was said, even the wallpaper. I remember the first time it happened. We were called to a Sikh household and I commented later about how rambunctious the little girl was.

“That was a boy,” he smiled.

“No, the little one, the one in white pyjamas with the bun in her hair tied back with lace.”

“That was a boy,” he insisted. “I had one of those myself.”

I had cracked up, as much with embarrassment as anything, and when Sukhi joined in, it started a long series of laugh attacks. Last year he got engaged to a girl his parents had picked out for him. Conveniently, he was madly in love with her.

In spite of their quirks, these guys felt like the brothers I never had. They knew something was bothering me and each comforted me in his own way.

“You should eat more than that, Arabella,” Dave said, “or you're going to get a headache. Have a bowl of porridge.”

“Porridge would just make her hungrier an hour later,” said Jake.

“It's a good start to a day. I make sure my kids have it before they leave for school.”

“Yeah, and I bet they have pop tarts on the days you're working.”

Emile explained: “Porridge
is
the perfect breakfast. Especially eaten with plain yogurt. You get your fibre, vitamins, and minerals.”

“If she gets hungry before lunch, she could take a bagel with her,” said Dave, finishing the last of his pancakes and syrup.

“As long as it's a multi-grain spread with peanut butter instead of cream cheese,” smiled Emile, taunting us now.

“Anything would be better than these sausages today,” said Jake, pushing his plate away. “They taste as if they've been cooked in axle grease.”

“Hope it's a Volvo axle,” said Sukhi.

I caught his eye and we exploded. Everyone did, including Jake. By then, breakfast was over and the waitress arrived with our bills. When Jake explained about the sausages, she tore his up.

“Thanks, guys,” I said. They knew what I meant.

Back in my car I cleared for a file with Sally the dispatcher.

“Two bravo fourteen stand by to copy a priority. Son attacking mother with knife.” She gave me an address in the Edmonds area. “Complainant's surname, spelled Delta Echo Alpha November; Given name Wanda, common spelling.”

“Copy. I'll be responding Code Three.”

“I'll be sending two bravo six for cover.”

“Copy.” I turned the siren to wail and wheeled out of the parking lot. The address was in a slummy neighbourhood I knew all too well. In fact, I'd attended a call last year at this very address. Wanda Dean and her son had hysterical fights regularly; her first reaction was to call the cops. Last time the boy said he would only talk to me alone, and since he didn't pose a threat, Sukhi went and sat in the cruiser. I started writing up the file in my mind as a woman stood waiting at the door for me.
Complainant greeted me in state of agitation
.
Race: Aboriginal/
Caucasian
. Emile pulled up just as I was entering the house.

“He threw down the knife and now won't come out of his room. He don't listen to nothing I say.” Wanda was probably in her thirties and still pretty despite the alcoholic's puffiness that generally precedes skin and bones. Her hands were shaking as she took a drag on her cigarette. I sensed Wanda was overreacting as usual, and waved Emile away.

I stepped inside to a thick, stale, sour smell — years of dirt and smoke layered on every surface. Something like a cheap motel, only worse, because cooking odours were mixed in. Piles of newspapers lined the entry and corridor down to a closet whose doors were held permanently open by an avalanche of old clothes, shoes, and broken toys. A thought struck me: a leaky ceiling could turn this passageway into a papier mâché tunnel — the kind you see on model train sets. I reminded myself to e-mail Gail and Monty and tell them the novelty of being in other people's homes had definitely worn off. “Where's the bedroom?”

She led me through the living room, the sofa's back and arms stained from greasy heads, its cushions littered with potato chip crumbs and torn bags. Across the partition to the kitchen another woman and young boy were standing among the ruins of a week's meals.

“They'll tell you what he done,” Wanda said, waving her arms in their direction. “He took that knife and started swinging it around and said he was going to use it on me.” She picked up a bread knife from the top of the partition; it too was caked with some kind of matter. The two witnesses nodded enthusiastically.