A
ri Greene had a vague memory of this highway, a three-hour drive north to the town of Haliburton. The last time he’d been on it was when he was on a bus taking him to summer camp, a pimply fourteen-year-old on a partial scholarship that allowed him to stay for one month at a camp where the rich kids got to stay for two.
This morning it had taken him almost an hour to drive through the seemingly endless suburbs that surrounded Toronto, and then he spent another hour cutting through rolling farmland and scrawny small towns. At the start of the third hour, as he approached the town of Coboconk, there was the first hint of the great Canadian Shield, the granite rock that blanketed the northern half of the country.
His fondest memory of that summer at camp was the feel of the hard granite on his bare feet. There was one night when he’d sat on a rock late at night with a girl named Eleanor, holding her hand, watching the stars, kissing for the first time.
At Coboconk, he turned left on Highway 35. The wind and driving snow seemed to crank up a notch, as if to say, “Welcome to the North.”
Soon the traffic ground to a halt, a long line of cars backed up because of some road construction. It took half an hour to get through, and ten minutes later he pulled into the well-plowed parking lot of a ramshackle building nestled just below a ridge of tall hills. The name
HARDSCRABBLE CAFÉ
was painted in faded block letters across the front door, and the lot was less than half filled with pickup trucks, SUVs, and snowmobiles, all facing the front door, a bit like horses tied up to a hitching post outside a saloon.
Greene put his shoulder to the door of his car and stepped out. The wind tore straight down on him, wrenching the door from his hand and slamming it shut. He lowered his head and made his way inside.
The restaurant was a simple, spotlessly clean affair, a large rectangular room with a dozen square tables covered with plastic tablecloths. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photos of early settlers sitting on their farm equipment or, in one, everyone in town welcoming soldiers back from World War I. Hanging over each table were handmade Christmas decorations. Groups of men in bulky clothing filled only a few of the tables.
Everything about the place was dead normal, except the smell. The aroma of freshly baked bread permeated the restaurant, giving it an unexpected warmth. Greene found an empty table in the corner.
A few minutes later a young woman wearing a white apron appeared. “Sorry to keep yous waitin’,” she said. “I’ve been runnin’ all day. Lakes are frozen solid, and all the snowmobilers’re out.”
She flipped over her little order pad. “Here’s our fresh special,” she said, reading. “Tomato soup, made with homegrown tomatoes and other vegetables.”
“The bread smells good,” Greene said.
“Everyone loves our bread.” The young woman smiled for the first time. Her teeth were jagged, yellowed. Greene noticed a cigarette pack bulging out of the back pocket of her jeans. “Ms. McGill makes it every morning.”
Greene smiled back. “Give me the special.”
He took his time eating. Gradually the restaurant emptied out. He picked up the local weekly paper, the Haliburton
Echo
. An article caught his eye. Last Friday night two teenagers went through the ice on their snowmobiles near the town bridge. The police fished them out,
but on Saturday night they went through again on the other side of the bridge. This time the local constabulary didn’t get them in time.
When Sarah McGill, Brace’s first wife, emerged from the kitchen there was only one table left—a group of snowmobilers who’d come in soon after Greene arrived. McGill’s hair had mostly grayed, and she wore no makeup, but there was an elegant beauty to the woman that time and hardship seemed to have been unable to dent. Kind of like granite, Greene thought.
Her mere presence might have been a signal to the men that it was time to leave. As if on cue, they rose up from their table.
“Food’s better than ever, Ms. McGill,” a man with a bushy beard and big, friendly smile said as he zipped up his oversize coat. It seemed that everyone called her Ms. McGill.
“Jared, you say the same thing every time,” McGill said, letting out a deep, confident laugh. She touched him comfortably on the shoulder.
“You’re going to have to stay open Mondays. Six days a week isn’t enough.”
McGill swept her arms around the room and pointed to some of the empty tables. “Not with that damn road construction,” she said. “That crew’s twelve months behind. At this rate I’ll have to close more days, not less.”
The men left. McGill had a dish towel slung over her shoulder, and she pulled it off as she began to work her way through the restaurant, wiping down tables with the efficiency of a woman who’d spent a lifetime cleaning up after people.
Greene thought of the notes he’d read about Sarah McGill. Born in Noranda, a small mining town up north. Her father was a mining engineer, her mother a grade-school teacher. She was an only child who studied natural sciences at university and won a scholarship to do graduate work in England. At a Canada Day celebration in London she met a young journalist, Kevin Brace. They returned home together, got married, and promptly started having children. When their youngest was six years old, Brace left.
Brace’s story was more complex. His father, the child of a wealthy Toronto family, had no interest in working. Instead he spent most of his time whoring and drinking. He married Brace’s mother when he was forty-three, and Kevin was also an only child. To his father he was more of an inconvenience than anything else.
One night when Kevin was twelve, his father came home drunk and angry. He tried to attack Brace’s mother, and Kevin confronted him. His father cut Brace’s cheek so badly Brace had a permanent scar. He grew a beard as soon as he could to cover it up, and never shaved it off.
Brace’s father was hauled off to the Don Jail. The next morning he was found dead of a coronary. When his estate was probated, there was nothing left but debt. The big house Brace grew up in was sold. He and his mother moved into an apartment above a grocery store on Yonge Street, where he lived until he won a scholarship and went away to university.
Greene watched McGill work: Take the salt and pepper and put them on a seat, wipe the table, put the salt and pepper back in the middle. Pull out four forks, knives, and spoons from a metal tray she carried with her; make four place settings. Wipe the seats. Put the seats back. Grab the cutlery tray and move to the next table.
When she got to Greene’s table, McGill seemed surprised that a patron was still there.
“We’re closing now,” she said, whisking a hair from her forehead with the back of her forearm and nodding toward the young waitress at the cash register. “Charlene will cash you out.”
“The food’s wonderful,” Greene said. “You make everything yourself?”
For the first time since Greene had seen her, McGill stopped moving. She let out that attractive, deep laugh again.
“No one’s going to come halfway across the county to eat canned soup.” She promptly started wiping down the table beside Greene.
Greene didn’t move.
“I’ve been up since before five this morning,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but we really are closing.”
“Mrs. Brace, I need to talk to you,” Greene said quietly.
Hearing her married name, McGill went rigid. She kept wiping the table.
“I’m Detective Ari Greene. I’m with the Toronto Police,” he said quickly. “Here’s my badge.”
McGill flipped her towel over and wiped the clean table again. She didn’t look up.
“It’s about Kevin,” Greene said.
McGill kept her eyes focused on the table, giving it an unnecessary third wipe. She grabbed the salt and pepper shakers and slammed them down. The salt skittered out of her hand and fell on its side, spilling a trail of white across the plastic cloth.
“Shit,” McGill said as she grabbed the shaker to right it. “Shit.”
T
he streetcar heading west along College Street was nearly empty when Daniel Kennicott got on it. He could have flashed his badge for a free ride, but instead he dug into his wallet and fished out the $2.75 fare. He counted four other riders, each sitting alone by a window seat, as he made his way toward the back of the car. It felt good to sit down, even if the plastic seat was hard and cold.
As the streetcar traveled out from downtown, speeding past the emptied streets, the lights of the city core faded. As soon as they crossed Bathurst Street, a cavalcade of lights suddenly illuminated the streetcar. Up ahead, the road was jammed with cars, the sidewalks teeming with people rolling in and out of bright restaurants and cafés. They’d arrived at the edge of Little Italy, one of the city’s thriving nighttime entertainment spots.
Kennicott reached for the wire cord above the window and gave it a perfunctory pull, indicating he was getting off at the next stop. A block west of Clinton Street, where the tracks bent north, he got off. Music spilled out from the half-opened windows and doors of the restaurants that lined both sides of the street. He looked in the window of the Café Diplomatico, a popular spot on the north side. It was packed with excited diners and waiters in white aprons rushing about. The sound of laughter and the smell of freshly baked pizza wafted out onto the sidewalk.
He crossed Clinton and ducked into the Riviera Bakery. It was mercifully empty. The smell of moldering cheese mixed with a hint of brewing yeast. The old Italian woman behind the counter gave him a smile.
“We still have two left,” she said, pointing to the standing refrigerator behind him. “Fresh.”
Kennicott turned and opened the glass door. On the bottom shelf, two plastic bags of pizza dough were stacked on top of each other. He fished out the one on the bottom, selected three kinds of cheese—Romano, mozzarella, and Parmesan—a plastic container of marinated red peppers, and a package of pepperoni. Back at the counter, he picked up a jar of artichoke hearts and pointed to a white pail of olives.
“A small tub, please,” he said.
The woman nodded. “We have fresh prosciutto for Christmas,” she said. Without waiting for his reply, she reached up and pulled down a hanging piece of meat from a long row overhead.
“Here,” she said, cutting off a slice for him. “Better on your pizza than old pepperoni.”
Kennicott slid the thin slice into his mouth. The sting of the sharp meat felt good. “Twelve slices,” he said, reaching for the pepperoni so he could replace it in the fridge.
The woman put her hand on his. “Is okay,” she said. “I put back.”
Out on the street, plastic shopping bag in hand, Kennicott found himself standing behind a man and a woman at the traffic light. Even from the back, he recognized her. He noticed they were holding hands, and looked away.
“Daniel,” a female voice said.
Jo Summers, her hair, as always, tied up above her head with the same hair clip, had turned around and seen him.
“Hi, Jo,” he said.
The man beside her swiveled to face him. He was dressed conservatively, his thinning blond hair neatly combed. Kennicott put him in his early forties. A big smile on his broad face.
“This is Terrance,” Summers said, offering no further explanation.
Terrance disengaged his hand from Summers’s and gave Kennicott a firm handshake. “Really nice to meet you,” he said.
“We went to law school together,” Summers said. “Daniel was smart enough to get out of practicing.”
“Really. What do you do?” Terrance said. His smile somehow seemed to grow even wider. Kennicott had a sudden urge to say “I’m a bond man,” just like Nick in
The Great Gatsby
.
“Nothing that interesting,” Kennicott said. “Just trying something new.”
Kennicott looked over at Summers. He expected her to tell Terrance he was a cop. But instead she reached out and touched his shoulder, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re sick of telling the story.”
Some people came up behind them, and Kennicott noticed that the light had turned green.
“We’ve got a reservation at Kalendar at eight,” Terrance said, glancing down at his watch. “They’ve got a new chef, and you know how hard it is to get in there.”
“I’m heading this way,” Kennicott said, tilting his head north up Clinton Street.
“Really great to meet you, Dan,” Terrance said as he turned back toward Summers. She caught Kennicott’s eye for just a moment before heading across the street. Terrance put his arm around her shoulders, and Kennicott watched for a moment to see if she put her arm around him. She didn’t.
I
t was not the cold that bothered Mr. Singh about the Canadian winter. After all, he’d endured many frigid months when he was stationed in the mountains of Kashmir. And he’d learned to accept the inconsistent temperature of winter in Toronto—how one week the city would be in the grip of a freezing cold spell, and the next all the outdoor natural ice rinks would melt away.
No, the winter temperature was not what bothered Mr. Singh. It was the winter darkness he found difficult to get accustomed to. In late September the light would begin to slip away from the sky, and by the middle of October he’d wake in darkness, travel through the city in darkness, and begin his day with his deliveries at the Market Place Tower in darkness. It was most somber.
But this morning, for the first time in months, as Mr. Singh left home there had been a hint of brightness in the sky. When he arrived at the Market Place Tower, the lobby was lit up with the rising sun. A welcome sight.
Tomorrow was Saint Valentine’s Day, a peculiar Canadian custom. Even Mr. Singh’s own family was not immune to it. Last night when the grandchildren were at the Singh home, his little granddaughter Tejgi asked him at the dinner table, “Grandpa Gurdial, what will you give Grandma Bimal for Valentine’s Day?”
“It is not necessary to give Grandma a Valentine’s Day present,” Mr. Singh explained to the child. “She is well aware that I love her.”