Under the guiding hands of time
Change inevitably comes.
Sometimes it eases its way into our lives,
Other times it erupts volcanic.
Either way,
It makes its presence known.
12 -- By Any Other Name
Stacey tried to remember his name. What was it? – Stan? – Norm? Did it matter?
She fought back the tangled sheet and climbed out of bed to meet him at the door.
“Take it easy, honey,” she said. She was taller than he was, which made her feel maternal as she leaned in for a kiss.
“I’ll call you next week,” he said.
Dan – that was it!
“See you then, Dan.” She closed the door behind him, setting the chain-lock before falling back into bed.
She barely heard his steps on the stairs or the thud of the front door closing. Masha, though, was another matter. Her persistent landlady would not be ignored.
“Stacey!”
Stacey wrapped the pillow around her ears. It was no use.
“Stacey, come down for tea.”
She reached into her nightstand for the money. Two hundred dollars. Stan/Norm/Dan might not be a wealthy man, but at least he wasn’t cheap. He hadn’t tried to nickel and dime her to death like most of the working class guys she dated.
He’d paid her in twenties. She took one from the roll and pulled a ten from her purse. Thirty dollars – that should shut the old cow up. She tucked the rest into an opening in the lining of her purse, just in case Masha went snooping before she could make it to the bank.
Masha was strict about the house rules. No falling-down drunks – do them in the alley, ladies; don’t bring them home. No discounts – stick to the hundred-dollar price. It’s a bargain for clean girls. The skanks down on Jarvis charge one-fifty.
And, most importantly, no holding back. Masha didn’t charge much in rent – a token amount for groceries was all – but she was firm about her thirty-per-cent fee.
Stacey didn’t know whether the other ‘tenants’ ever held back. Frankly, she didn’t have the nerve to ask any of them. Masha had thrown one fellow out in the middle of the night last December for holding back ten bucks from her fee.
It was the principal of the thing, she’d said. You had to be able to trust the people you lived with.
From the start, Stacey’d made a practice of charging anywhere from one-fifty to two hundred. She was a good-looking girl and could usually get away with it, even though most guys did try to talk her down. The one thing she’d learned from Masha was how to stand her ground.
She never gave a discount, and she never reported more than a hundred to her landlady.
“Coming, Masha,” she hollered down the stairs. “Just let me clean up.”
Before she could make her way to the communal bathroom on the second floor, the Unit B doorbell rang. Stacey ran back to her room and threw on the clothes that were piled on her chair. If it was one of her fellows, Masha might send him up to Clara’s room. She had a habit of doing that.
Stacey had to look out for her own interests. She wasn’t hooking for the good of her health. She was saving up for her own place – for a new life.
She’d pop downstairs to see who it was, and if it was one of her guys, she’d tell him to come back in twenty minutes, after her bath.
***
Darren Bigelow rode to Toronto in Leda’s Honda. He didn’t say much, answering questions in monosyllables until Leda gave up and lapsed into silence.
Helen Strachan followed in her Jeep. She stuck close to the Honda on the back roads that ran parallel to Highway 400.
Darren’s silence was comfortable for Leda Maguire. Just the same, it was a relief when they hit Newmarket and were within a few minutes of the city proper. A quick jaunt down the 404 led them to the Don Valley Parkway. Traffic was steady – within twenty minutes they were in the downtown core.
“Have you ever been there?” Leda asked.
“No. Stacey emailed me the address, but then I never heard from her again.”
“So you’re not even sure if she’s still there? What’s the plan if we don’t find her?”
Darren shook his head. Like many young people, he seemed incapable of looking that far ahead. He muttered something that sounded like “dunno” and settled back to his survey of the passing buildings.
Leda made sure Helen’s Jeep was still visible in the rear view mirror before signalling a right turn off Davenport. Stacey Bigelow’s last known address was a few blocks north of the main street, in a working class neighbourhood that had once been elegant. It was originally designed and constructed by the same immigrant workers who built much of the city north of Bloor Street.
The houses were a mix of detached and semi-detached, with narrow, brightly painted fronts, large porches and surprisingly roomy backyards that extended behind the structures. Most were three storeys above ground, with the occasional two-storey home thrown in.
They were meant to house single families, and had been built using top grade materials leftover from other projects. Leda knew the houses were surprising on the insides, many having been decorated in marble and fine woods.
Most, though, had been converted in recent years to multiple family dwellings. Number 244 was no exception. It was a three storey semi-detached, connected to its neighbour, number 246. The sprawling shared porch was divided in half by a plywood screen.
244 had three doorbells labelled A, B and C, indicating it had been split into three distinct living units. Stacey’s address was 244B, so Darren pushed that button.
A moment passed. He rang the bell again.
“It’s three o’clock on a Monday,” Leda said. “Your sister might be at work.”
Darren knocked before ringing the other two bells. The doorknob, when he tried it, was firmly locked.
They were about to leave when the door opened.
“Yes?” A dark-haired woman in an African dress and a necklace of polished stones peered at them. “What can I do for you?”
Her accent was mildly Eastern European, but Leda couldn’t place it.
“We’re looking for Stacey Bigelow,” Leda said.
“Who is it, Masha?” a woman’s voice called from upstairs. The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. She was taller than Masha, and thin to the point of concern, although her face still had a youthful softness. Other than being generally unkempt, she was a pretty girl.
“Hi, Stacey,” Darren said.
“Darren!” Stacey pushed past Masha and threw her arms around her brother’s neck. “How did you get here?” A mass of short, loose curls stuck out at every angle. As tall as her brother, she gave the impression of having just woken.
Helen joined the group on the porch and introductions were made.
“I don’t have a proper living room,” Stacey said, “or I’d invite you in.”
“Nonsense,” Masha said, pulling the door open widely. “Come into my kitchen. We’re all one family here.”
“Thank you, Masha.”
They followed the landlady into the kitchen, which was cluttered with the sort of knick-knacks one would expect in a fortune-teller’s den. The room was otherwise clean and featured gleaming marble countertops.
“We can’t stay long,” Helen said.
“Let me make tea,” Masha said. “Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea is fine,” Leda said. “Thank you.”
Darren took a seat near Leda, not saying much, but studying his sister.
Stacey’s initial enthusiasm at seeing him had been replaced by an undercurrent of anxiety. She avoided eye contact, seeming embarrassed.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said.
“I sent you an email.”
“My computer died awhile ago. I have to replace it.”
“I’m not going back,” Darren said.
“Where will you stay?”
“I could crash on your couch.”
“I don’t have a couch,” Stacey said.
“Then on your floor. Just till I find a place.”
“What about school?”
Masha lifted the steaming pot and poured water over five cups.
“I have an extra room,” the landlady said, “on the third floor. It would be nice to have a man in the house.”
Stacey’s eyes widened. She quickly recovered and shook her head.
“Thank you, Masha,” she said, “but it wouldn’t work out. Darren can’t stay here. It’s too crowded and noisy. He wouldn’t be able to study.”
“I need to talk to you, Stacey,” Darren said. “Can we go to your room?”
“My room is a mess. We can talk on the porch.”
Darren followed his sister. She grabbed a jacket from a peg in the foyer and slipped on a pair of weather beaten shoes. The snow was gone, but the city air was still cool.
“What’s going on, Sis?” he said. “You know I have no place else to go. Let me stay for a night or two.”
“What happened?”
“You know what it was like. It got worse after you left. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What about Aunt Sue? Couldn’t you move in with her till you finished school?”
“And have him pounding on her door every night? No thanks. I couldn’t put her through that. Besides, I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Darren. I’m glad you came. But it’s not going to work. Trust me, you can’t stay here.”
“Thanks a lot. I guess it’s true what they say: strangers will always help you more than your own flesh and blood will.”
“Don’t be like that, Darren. I can’t explain right now. We’ll talk again later. We can meet someplace. I’ll give you my number.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Where will you stay tonight?”
“Like you give a damn.”
Darren stomped off the porch, leaning with arms crossed against Leda’s Honda.
“Tell my friends,” he said, “we can leave anytime.”
_______________________________
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 13 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!
Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
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