Striking Out (10 page)

Trudging along the Danforth, in and out of air conditioning, I found a couple of variety stores where they knew Maggie. One was friendly, the other not, and neither had seen her since Tuesday. I didn’t bother trying in the educational toy store or the Temple for Hair organic beauty salon.

I went as far as Pape on a hunch, to the public library tucked in between a hardware store and a dry cleaner’s. It’s an architectural joke, made of brick, stone, and stucco with Tudor trim, painted white and blue. A recent renovator with post-modern pretensions stuck on a few gabled windows, just to really mess things up. I walked up the wheelchair ramp, in the front door, and through a security gate to the main room.

The man on duty at the front desk was a pale, pudgy, youngish man with thick glasses, large ears, and a disconcerting twitch. He introduced himself as Mr. Harcourt. No first name, librarians. Like doctors.

“I am head of Adult Services,” he said, his eyes fixed on a point just below my left ear. “How may I assist you?”

“I’m looking for a homeless woman who lives in this neighbourhood. I know she likes to read, so I thought she might have come in here sometimes.”

“The less fortunate are welcomed here, so long as they do not behave in a disruptive fashion.”

I described Maggie to him.

“I don’t recall anyone fitting that description,” he said.

“How many people use the reading areas?” I asked, wondering if he would have noticed her.

“I don’t have those figures available at my fingertips.”

“Just a ballpark,” I said.

“Beg pardon?”

“An estimate. Are there a dozen people a day, or twenty? Two? A hundred? More?”

He cleared his throat.

“Actually, I’m busy with administrative duties most of the time. I don’t have the opportunity to mingle with the public.”

More probably, the public scares him to death, if his discomfort with me was a clue. I could read the guy’s history just by talking to him. A nerdy childhood. His only refuge had been the library, and here he’d stayed ever since. I tried a new tack.

“Maybe I could talk to someone else. Somebody who does mingle.”

He looked both annoyed at my demand for a second opinion and relieved that he could pass the buck.

“Mrs. Winthrop might know,” he said.

He picked up the phone and punched in several numbers, waited for a few impatient moments, then put down the receiver.

“Not answering. I’ll have to take you to her,” he said, lifting a flap in the desk. “Miss Burgess, please take over.”

“Walk this way,” he said, reminding me of the old joke. I stifled a giggle and followed him to the back of the building, past the stacks, the study carrels, and the couches in the periodicals section to the information desk. No luck.

“Mrs. Winthrop fills many roles at Pape Branch,” he sighed. “She is officially our reference librarian, but she often can be found in Boys and Girls. I expect that’s where she is now.”

We found Mrs. Winthrop in the second-floor children’s department, on her hands and knees helping some little ones choose books in a corner of the room. She was a black woman with a few strands of grey in her hair, which she wore pulled up in a bun. Harcourt cleared his throat to get her attention. After making sure her charges each had a book to read, she excused herself from them. I liked her attitude. In this case, the grown-ups could wait. The officious Mr. Harcourt introduced us and then, his duty done, left. She shook my hand warmly and as I explained my problem, concern showed in her eyes.

“That lady comes here, I believe,” she said, light island inflections gentling her voice. “I have seen her many afternoons in our reading area.”

“Did she have a library card?”

“I don’t think she did. Whenever she left for the day, she returned her books or magazines to the proper place in the shelves. I noticed that, because it was so considerate. Some of our patrons leave things in a terrible mess, you know.”

“I can imagine.”

“But not her. She showed respect,” she said. “Let me show you where she likes to sit.”

She spoke to the children again, then we went back down the stairs to the main library.

“We have many people like her in this difficult time.” she told me. “Unemployed people come in every day, all day. Read the papers. Read the magazines. No place else to go. Thank the Lord for libraries. Here’s where she liked to sit.”

We were in a pleasant nook made up of several couches beside a large window. There were newspapers and magazines on display racks, and plants lined up on the windowsill. There were three men and one elderly woman reading there.

“Do you know anything about her tastes, Mrs. Winthrop?”

“Esmé, please. Call me Esmé. I don’t care for formality.” she said. “We talked about short stories one time, when she was reading Alice Munro. She said she liked them because she could just read one, and have something to think about for the rest of the day. I think she was a very thoughtful person.”

“From what I know, I think you’re right.”

“I remember the first time we spoke. It was because she was looking for a children’s book she remembered.
Paddle to the Sea
, it was called. She told me that stories from her childhood were a comfort to her. She talked as if she had raised children, too. Is that right?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“What are those children thinking, that they don’t look after their own mother?”

“I think it’s her choice,” I said.

“It’s a real shame.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, it’s been some few days now.”

“I’m afraid something may have happened to her.” I said, hoping for, no, desperate for, some reassurance from this woman, who seemed to have so much of it to give.

“It’s a worry.” she said. “But I’ve seen it before. People appear for some months, then they go away. But, often times, sure enough, a little bit later, here they are, back again.”

She smiled.

“We’ll just pray to the Lord that’s what happened this time. There she will be, back again. You can’t know the reason for someone like her.”

“You’ll watch out for her, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“May I leave my number with you?”

“Yes, give it to me, and I’ll put it somewhere safe.”

I thanked her and left the library, feeling better than I had in days. It was nice to meet Esmé, and to know she was around for the Maggies of the world. I checked my watch. I’d have to hustle to get Andy his lunch.

I found Andy in the lounge by the elevator, drinking coffee with Jim. I stuck my head around the door and held up my bag full of contraband.

“Pssst! I have zee parcel,” I said. “What is zee password?”

“The password is give me the damn food.”

“I sink perhaps you are not zee person for whom zee parcel is intended.”

“The password, damn, what’s the password?”

He looked to his partner for assistance. Jim shrugged.

“Perhaps something about the beauty of the bearer,” he suggested, gallantly.

“There are emeralds in the eyes of my beloved,” Andy tried.

“Close enough,” I said. “Do you want to picnic here?”

“Too public. Let’s go back to my room,” he said, getting to his feet. He grabbed the handle of his pump and whistled. “Here, Rover, that’s a good boy.”

“I’ll be getting along,” Jim said.

“Don’t,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of food.”

The three of us went back and settled in. I pulled a chair over from the other half of the room, which was empty.

“Your roommate gone already?”

“Checked out this morning, lucky bugger.”

“You’re almost there,” I said.

I opened the bag and spread out the food on a newspaper at the foot of the bed.

“Here we go: two falafels, extra hot sauce. Two barbecue pork buns, two curry beef, and a couple of fried yam thingies. I also have a beverage and some cleverly concealing plastic cups.”

I closed the door and pulled three beers out of my purse.

“I had a hunch you might be here, Jim.”

The three of us chose our favourites and dug in, Andy making little moans of enjoyment. Fifteen minutes later, there was nothing left but grease spots and belches.

“See the paper today?” Andy asked.

“I skimmed it.”

“Did you get to the occupying armies part?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, that’s going to help a whole lot on the streets, isn’t it,” Jim said.

“I don’t think he was saying that that’s what the police are,” I said. “I think he was just explaining that that’s how people think of them in some neighbourhoods. You can’t kill the messenger.”

“Whether he’s right or not, he’s got to be world-class stupid to say something like that,” Andy said.

“I guess your chief set him straight,” I said.

“Don’t get us going on the chief,” Andy said. “He’s as stupid as the other guy.”

“And he’s just making it worse for the guys who count, the guys on the front line in those neighbourhoods,” Jim said.

“Ah, by the time you and I get back to work, it will be cooled out again.” Andy said.

“Do you want to hear my news?” I asked.

“I doubt if we can avoid it.” Andy said.

I quickly filled in Jim on Maggie’s disappearance.

“Then yesterday, I didn’t have a chance to tell you, Andy, because you were so obnoxiously bad-tempered and self-absorbed, I went to see Moira Bell at the drop-in centre.”

“I know Moira Bell.” Jim said.

“We both met her about five years ago,” Andy said, pointedly.

“Right. The case with the vagrant.” Jim said, too quickly.

“Guy solidarity’s so cute.” I said. “Anyway, the point here is that she suggested some places I could look for Maggie on my own, since the cops won’t help. Do you know two guys named Martineau and Brewer?”

Negative head shakes all around.

“They are living, breathing examples of why you guys get called pigs. Aside from flinging around gratuitous insults to women, children, and blacks, they refused to take anything we said seriously.”

“What did Moira say?” Andy interrupted. “Does she think something might have happened?”

“Actually, no,” I admitted. “She thinks Maggie probably just moved on. But I think it had to do with the guy in the laneway. The guy in the suit. I think he scared her away.”

“What guy in the suit?” Andy asked. “He’s new.”

“I’m trying to tell you. Yesterday, T.C. and Anthony talked to a woman from the next block over whose house backs on the lane. She saw a man in a suit arguing with Maggie just before she disappeared.”

“And who do you and your young friends think this mysterious man in the suit might be?” Andy said, with unnecessary sarcasm. “Is there a working hypothesis you’d care to share with us?”

“For a start, it could have been one of those anti-abortion creeps who have been hanging around.”

Andy looked dubious.

“Well, the blood found around her chair was probably thrown there by them, since she lives behind Dr. Sachs’s house. Or he could be some perverted killer. It could be her husband, even, although the lady said he was young. Except she’s older, so she might see a middle-aged man as young, if you get what I mean.”

“Why should you start making sense now?” Andy said. I pulled his ankle hair.

“Ow! Stop harassing me. I’m an injured person.”

“So am I,” I said. “You’re injuring my feelings.”

“There’s not much to go on, Kate, seriously.” Jim said. “With all respect.”

“Thanks for the respect, anyway.”

“There’s no sign she was abducted.” he continued. “She probably just moved on, like Moira said.”

“The boys went through her stuff and found old family pictures. She would never have left those behind willingly. And, the old lady also saw a man she called ‘rough-looking’ who was bugging Maggie.”

“So? Maybe she split because he hassled her.” Jim said. “There are innocent explanations, too, you know.”

“But it’s frustrating because nobody seems to care about her because she’s a homeless woman, a bag lady. I don’t think that’s fair.”

“No, it’s not that nobody cares because she’s a bag lady,” Andy said. “It’s just that we know from experience that people like Maggie don’t necessarily stay put. As for the guy in the alley, he could have been anyone. Until you can produce some evidence of violence, the police have a lot more pressing matters on their books. That’s all, honey. You just have to calm down.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “It’s just that . . .”

“How about a game of crib?” Andy said quickly.

“What, three-hand?” Jim said. “Sure.”

“Make it two-hand,” I said. “I’m going to go grab a smoke before I go nuts. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

I grabbed my bag and went down to the main floor to stand outside like a felon with the others, a surprising number of them wearing medical uniforms. I averted my eyes from the patients puffing away in their wheelchairs, intravenous bags suspended from poles. Are they out of their minds? Who am I to talk?

Cravings erased, I butted out before I was halfway done. I got back to Andy’s room and found them so engrossed in their game that they barely looked up.

I sat in a chair by the window and watched for a while, but crib doesn’t make it as a spectator sport.

I dug the
NOW
magazine out of my bag and flipped through it. I skimmed the news briefs and municipal news in front, skipped the sports column, and headed towards the reviews that make up the bulk of the tabloid. As usual, I was baffled by the music ads, which made me feel ancient, although I was quite taken by some of the band names. The Pardon Beggars seemed a particularly Canadian group.

I checked out the movie and restaurant reviews: Thai was in, then out, now seems to be in again. Who can keep up? Who cares?

The boys were making it best two out of three, so I kept on flipping, back to the classifieds that give the paper its unique and hip flavour.

I skipped the lovelorn notices and SWFS who like romantic walks in the rain and got right down to the business personals—the “filth” the Greek waitress had been on about.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “Here’s something you might like. Here’s a ‘gigantic breasted 52DDDD dominant goddess’ who seeks slave to lick her boots and suck her heels.’ How’s about it?”

“Sorry, we’re busy right now,” Andy said.

“No, I guess you’re not really submissive types. What about Niki and Casey, then? They’re ‘Rich sorority girls 18+’ who want to be your sex slaves. ‘Spank me, sir!’ That’s what they say, right here. Well, some of what they say.”

“Got any offering to play cribbage in the nude?” Jim asked.

“No, but there are ‘2 Hot Big-Titted Sisters’ who want to dust your house or office topless.”

“Bet they don’t do windows,” he said.

“For the right price, I expect, they’ll do most anything,” I said. “Oh, look. Here’s an ad for Toronto’s raunchiest gay connector service, with the motto ‘No Holes Barred.’ Do you vote for that, or ‘Up the Ass with a Touch of Class’?”

“I vote for you shutting up,” Andy said, “Fifteen two, four, six, and a double run of four makes sixteen. You’re toast.”

Just for that, I wouldn’t tell them about “My butt is like a muffin, it needs to be buttered and jammed.”

I finally got tired of the tawdry and flipped back a few pages. There was an ad in the announcements section, from a woman with a good eye for a marketing niche: “Haven’t Come Out Yet? Family Wedding or Corporate Function coming up? Stunning, Sophisticated, Attentive blonde female will make YOU look good.”

Admiring her initiative, I read the next ad: “REWARD: $5,000 for information about the location of Mary Alice Gabel Carlson, born 1938 in Wawanesa, Manitoba. Call AdWatch 5777.”

Great name, Wawanesa, Manitoba. I had a classmate at university from Wawanesa. Dirk Lingenfelter. I looked at the ad again. Mary Alice Gabel Carlson. Mary Alice Gabel. M. A. G. Mag. Maggie.