Touching Strangers Page 6

  “Miss Haggerty,” he said, panting. “Nobody break into apartment.”

  Martha cradled Nuggles’ corpse in her arms as though shewere nursing a baby, and rocked it back and forth. “What kindof ship are you running here, exactly? Yesterday you break intomy car and fuck up the wiring, and today someone breaks intomy unit and murders a poor helpless animal. I should call theproperty manager, or maybe the authorities.”

  Mr. Böröcz leaned against the chair and wiped his neck. Hewas sweating profusely now. He could feel the clam chowderhe’d eaten for lunch sloshing around in his belly. “Relax, MissHaggerty. Don’t call authorities. Your car—it don’t stop honking! The alarm. It go crazy! Make angry all the tenants. Mr.Pazienza, he fix!”

  “Yeah, so you said. Very convenient if you ask me. Andwhat about my poor kitty? I want to see some justice.”

  Mr. Böröcz let out a weak, defeated chuckle. “I thinknobody kill your macska—your, uh, cat. Nobody is killer thisbuilding. I very careful, very careful.” He held out his hand andoffered, “Maybe he sick.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth tospeak, then stopped herself. She spun her dead cat around again,looked at it, and frowned. Then she looked back up and cranedher neck to see past him into his apartment, scanning his surroundings for a vile of rat poison or Easter lilies or some otherevidence of feline murder.

  Sensing a lull in her mania, Mr. Böröcz said, “He sick before,yes? He have AIDS.” Suddenly he remembered the day before,when he saw the cat feasting on dead baby birds, but he decidednot to mention it.

  “Mmhmm,” Martha uttered, gulping back a sob. “He hadkitty cat AIDS.”

  Mr. Böröcz managed a sympathetic smile. “Maybe he diefrom that. He probably in heaven now; dancing, dancing.” Hewaved his arms around and fluttered his fingers. “He happy.”

  Martha’s eyes glistened. “I want to bury him. Under the lawn.I don’t care if it’s allowed or not. He loved to play out there.”

  Mr. Böröcz nodded and stood up. He saw the opportunityto end this exchange, and was determined to take it. “I will talkto property manager. Maybe we can bury.” He began to closethe door.

  “Okay. Thank you.” She sniffed and walked a few pacesdown the hall, then turned and said, “By the way, your toenailsare bleeding.”

  He looked down. The three nails he’d clipped were leakingblood onto the carpet, and the other two were discoloured somehow, streaked with reddish brown. Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? Had he been that absorbed in Maury Povich’s paternity tests?

  He closed the door and walked on his heels to the bathroom;sat on the edge of the tub and ran the tap. His blood turned thelittle pool of water pink, and the sight of it made him queasy.

  “Szuka!” he swore, then belched. The clam chowder gurgled noisily up his esophagus.

  *

  It took Everett Riske an hour and twenty minutes to drivefrom his four-bedroom home in Newmarket to his daughter’sramshackle apartment building in east-end Toronto. There hadbeen an accident on the 404 involving a tow truck and anO.P.P. squad car, and traffic had stalled completely as two moretow trucks and five more O.P.P. squad cars eventually arrivedat the scene.

  The drive had been especially torturous for Everett becausehe’d made the mistake of buying an extra-large coffee from TimHortons before getting on the highway. Now he desperatelyneeded to go to the bathroom, numbers one and two.

  He pulled into one of the two visitor’s parking spaces andpractically ran through the front doors into the foyer, andsqueezed his thighs together as he scanned the tenant list forSamantha’s buzz code.

  CORDIC/RISKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24783

  The speaker made five boopy-beepy noises before a cageymale voice said, “Uh, hi?”

  “Hi, is this Aaron? It’s Mr. Riske.”

  “Oh, hello sir,” Aaron said in a sturdier, more respectfultone. “How are you?”

  In no mood for an exchange of pleasantries over the intercom, Everett said, “Can you buzz me in? I really need to use thebathroom.”

  “Oh, yeah, umm. Right away, sir. Sorry.”

  The door buzzed and Everett zoomed through it. Pushed theup button and cursed softly when the elevator door didn’t openright away. He looked around for a security camera and, not seeing one, pressed his hand against his crotch. Ten seconds later theelevator door opened and as he raced in, he almost crashed intoan unkempt young man in a large Yankees jersey that hung downto his knees.

  “Look out, pops,” the hooligan said as he whizzed by.

  Everett ignored the remark and pressed the button for thefourth floor. The elevator smelled strongly of fried chicken and skunky marijuana, so he didn’t feel bad about breaking wind afew times on his way up.

  Of course he knew his daughter lived in unit 404, but evenif he didn’t, he would’ve known which door was hers by themultiple locks. He knocked three times and heard her say, “Justa minute, dad!”

  “Okay, honey!” he called back, his bladder swelling andbowels churning.

  Raising Samantha had been a challenge for Everett and hiswife Marlene. She’d been an unusual child: cold, obsessive, andoverly suspicious of everything, including her own easily bruisedbody. It was no surprise to him she’d grown up to exhibit suchextreme neuroses. The signs had all been there. Early on, there’dbeen the constant complaints about ear aches and upset tummies;the obsession with digging the dirt out from under her fingernails; the sudden development of the exact symptoms as thepatient on the previous night’s episode of E.R. Then there wasthe time her mother, Marlene, found those mason jars of urinestashed under her bed; or worse, the Thanksgiving she’d silentlydug a mole out of her arm with a paring knife in front of theirentire extended family. She’d bled all over her plate of turkey andstuffing before anyone took notice.

  The mole incident, which happened when Samantha wasfifteen, had been the final straw.They insisted she see a therapist, and in a span of six months she ended up seeing four.The first three happened to be men, and Samantha claimed tonot trust any of them. She classified them, respectively, as“scary”, “stare-y”, and “weird”.

  Finally she was paired with a Dr. Melissa Morgenstern—ashort, unassuming spinster with limbs like twigs and round owllike eyeballs. Samantha didn’t appear to be afraid of her—in factshe claimed even to like her—but was careful with what sheshared. Dr. Morgenstern was always going on about how to getSam to “come out of her shell”.

  “She’s not a fucking hermit crab, lady,” is what Everettwanted to say to her, whenever she spouted that kind of clichénonsense, but of course he kept his mouth shut.

  As their sessions progressed, Dr. Morgenstern determined,with the limited information she had to work with, thatSamantha fluctuated between moderate and severe hypochondriasis, and believed it had been triggered by some traumatic eventin her past, perhaps one involving a man or men.

  Everett didn’t like the way Dr. Morgenstern’s gigantic eyeszeroed in on him during these discussions, nor did he care forher brash, accusatory tone. He loved his daughter more thananything. He’d never do anything to hurt her, and wouldcheerfully murder anyone who tried. For Dr. Morgenstern toeven suggestwhat he thought she was suggesting was enoughfor he and Marlene to pull Samantha out of therapy altogether.Besides, she’d made a new friend at school—a shy blond kidnamed Aaron Cordic—and since then she’d settled down quitea bit.

  His train of thought was interrupted by a sharp pain in hislower abdomen, which actually caused him to lean forward andrest his hand against the door. He needed a toilet immediately orhe was going to have an accident.

  He knocked feebly on the door. “Come on, Sam, open up.I’m dying out here.”

  “Coming!”

  He heard someone remove the latch-chain, followed by theclick, clack, clock of three bolts unlocking in turn, and the doorswung open.

  Samantha stood in front of him in
a bulky hooded sweatshirt,thin purple pyjama pants and a pair of googly-eye slippers, witha gauzy mask covering half her face.

  “Hi Dad!”

  “Hey Sam.” Everett had seen his daughter in other versionsof this outfit before—every time he came to visit her, in fact—but it didn’t stop him from hoping to see her answer the door injeans and a T-shirt one of these days.

  He stepped inside and she stepped back. He would’vehugged her but he knew she wasn’t into that. Aaron appearedbehind her and smiled.

  “Hi, sir,” he said.

  Everett’s heart broke a little when he saw that it was Aaronwho was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with his mask hanging ona string around his neck.

  “I need to scoot to the bathroom, if that’s okay,” Everettsaid as he crouched to untie his shoes. “Emergency.”

  “Of course, Dad,” Samantha said. “You know where it is.We’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

  The bathroom was so white and pristine it almost sparkled.It smelled of cucumber and disinfectant. Everett turned on thetap to conceal any embarrassing noises he might make, sat downon the toilet, and marvelled at his surroundings. He wonderedhow it was possible to maintain this level of cleanliness in a placeof excretion and defecation. They must scrub the place downfour, maybe five times a day.

  When he was finished he stood at the sink to wash his hands,and was struck by the sight of his face in the mirror. In this setting, under the hot vanity lights, his face was spotted, wrinkledand grimy—a vision of slowly decaying human tissue against abackdrop of pure whiteness. It made him feel ill. He lookedaround for a towel with which to dry his hands, but found nothing. He used Kleenex instead, which tore and crumbled to bits inhis wet palms. He picked the pieces off one by one and flushedthem down the toilet before joining his hosts in the kitchen.

  “I noticed you don’t have any towels in the bathroom,” hesaid, taking a seat on one of the high, uncomfortable stools.

  Aaron said nothing and grinned like an idiot in his general direction.

  Samantha gulped down a glass of red juice, then said, “Dad.Bathroom towels are bacteria timebombs. They’re the easiestway to get a staph infection. I’ve told you this.”

  Everett cleared his throat. “Oh, right.”

  Aaron clapped his hands together. “Who wants lunch?”

  “How’s Mom?” said Samantha. Everett was pleased to seeshe hadn’t put her mask back on after drinking her juice.

  “Oh, fine, fine,” he said, eying the fridge. He guessed hewasn’t going to be offered a refreshment. “She’s taken upyoga.”

  Samantha wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.“Yuck. Wait. At home, or at a yoga studio?”

  Everett hesitated. “Studio.”

  “Yuck.”

  Aaron hopped off his stool and opened the fridge. “Anybodywant scrambled eggs?”

  Everett said, “Sure, I could eat. Can I have a glass of water?”

  Samantha twirled her finger around the string attached to hermask. “Yoga studios are vaults of methane and B.O. I bet theyreek.”

  Aaron placed a mug of water on the table in front of Everett.“There you go, sir.”

  “Oh, thanks.” He took a sip. It was lukewarm and tastedsomewhat metallic. “Is this tap water? Tastes a bit different in thecity, I guess.”

  “Oh, that’s not tap water,” Aaron said, his face buried in the fridge.

  “It’s reverse-osmosis, Dad,” Samantha added. “All the impurities have been taken out. Doesn’t it taste so much fresher?”

  Everett endured another sip. “Mm, yes. Delicious.”

  Samantha smiled. “I also put some Echinacea powder inthere, so it’s good for you!”

  Everett smiled back. She looked happy. “Excellent.”

  “Do you want cheese in your eggs, sir?” Aaron asked.

  “Sure, why not.” He turned to Samantha. “I imagine youonly buy free-range organic eggs or something, right?”

  Samantha’s eyes popped. “Are you joking? Who knowswhat kind of crap free-range chickens eat. Bugs, stones, bits ofpoo. Nobody’s monitoring their intake.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I like my chickens like I like my medicine cabinet,” Aaronsaid as he cracked an egg on the rim of a frying pan. “Loadedwith antibiotics.”

  “Huh.” It was all Everett could think to say. He was disoriented by their doctored logic.

  The scrambled eggs turned out to be delicious. Aaron wasquite the cook. Everett asked him about his job at the bathroom supply store, and whether he made enough money to get by.Aaron said yes, but Everett got the feeling it wasn’t true; that he’donly said it to stop him asking questions. They moved on toEverett’s job—he was the owner/operator of a successful chainof British-style pubs—and laughed about the new phrases his p arrot, Pirate, had learned to say (“Quiet please”, “No more crackers”, and “Story of my life”), before getting into the recentstring of illnesses that had stricken a number of tenants in theWardian Trust Arms.

  “One guy was carted out on a stretcher,” Aaron said. “Rumour has it he’s been quarantined at East General. He mighthave some kind of superbug.”

  “Really.”

  Samantha nodded.

  “Well, you two are pretty careful. And healthy. I’m sureyou’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not healthy,” Samantha said.

  “What do you mean? You look healthy to me.”

  “Well, I’m not. I think I have whatever it is already.”

  Everett scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sam.” He turned toAaron. “You’re both healthy as horses.”

  Aaron scrunched up his face. “Are horses healthy? Is that an expression?”

  “Listen,” Everett said, standing up. “I better get going. Yourmother and I are playing cards with the Halversons tonight.”

  “You might want to wear gloves,” Samantha said. “At ourChristmas party in ninety-two, I saw Mr. Halverson come out ofthe bathroom without washing his hands.”

  “I don’t know, Sam. He’s a butcher, for God’s sake.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it more disgusting.”

  Everett knew this kind of talk could go on all day, so hedecided to shut up. “It was good to see you, Sam. We miss you.Here.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fat, lopsidedenvelope, and handed it to her.

  She took it. “What’s this?”

  “It’s just . . . nothing. Don’t worry about it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course not, Dad. I never said I was.”

  Everett let out a feeble chuckle. “Well. See you soon, I hope?”

  “Anytime.”

  “Later Mr. Riske, sir,” Aaron called from down the hall. “Always good seeing you!”

  “All right then.”

  As soon as the door was closed, he heard Samantha lock allthree bolts in quick succession. Walking into the elevator, he wasfilled the same blend of emotions he always felt after seeingSamantha: love and sadness and worry for his troubled little girl.

  He hoped three-thousand dollars was enough to get her byuntil his next visit.

  STAGE 3A: LOCALIZED TRANSMISSIONS

  With Aaron stationed at the kitchen sink, washing the lunchdishes and listening to The Beach Boys, Samantha wentto the bedroom and put the envelope her dad had given her intoan empty slot in her desktop organizer. Then she took off all herclothes, sat at her desk, and fired up her laptop. As she waited forher settings to load, she heard Aaron belt out, “The world couldshow nothing to me, so what good would living do me?”, his voicecracking as he strained to reach Carl Wilson’s pitch.

  Once everything had loaded, Samantha opened a blankWord document and wrote:

  Dear Luca tenant in 106,

  You don’t know who I am but you deserve to know thatyou’re living in a pestilential swamp of dise
ase danger zone. The previous tenant in what is now your unit died and rotted for daysbefore being discovered, and I’m worried that I don’t think it wasproperly cleaned and sterilized.

  Given the pandemic recent string of illnesses that has befallena number of tenants in our this building, I think it would be wiseof you to get the hell out of here abandon the premises as soonas possible.

  Sincerely,

  Your Secret Admirer

  Concerned Citizen

  Her heart thumped faster in her chest as she typed ‘SecretAdmirer’ then deleted it. She found herself typing and deletingthose same words over and over, just for the chest-tighteningthrill of it. Aaron could walk in and catch her writing them at anymoment. She thought about typing ‘Come over and fuck me’, just to see how it would feel, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.She already felt guilty enough, especially since she’d promisedherself last night that she wouldn’t think about him anymore.The problem was that the guilt was part of the turn-on.

  She saved the file as ‘dumb_letter.doc’ and printed it out.Folded it in half and stuck it inside her copy of The Plague. She’dhave to wait until Aaron had gone to work before she coulddeliver it.

  Swivelling in her chair, she caught a glimpse of her unrulymane of hair in the vanity mirror on her desk. She gathered aclump of it in her hands, wound it around itself, and stuck abunch of bobby pins in it, forming a spiky, uneven bundle ontop of her head.Then, on a whim, she opened a web browserand logged into her Facebook account. She was curious to seeif she could find Luca on there. She had no idea what his lastname was, but how many guys named Luca could there be inToronto?

  It turned out there were thousands. None of the pictureson the first four pages of profiles looked familiar, so she gaveup and checked her news feed: nothing but dull vacation photos, links to special interest blogs, and detailed posts about whatpeople had for lunch.She sighed and went to her own profile,which she hadn’t updated in weeks.Apparently she’d beenpoked by Zack ‘Lick My Nine’ Pike, the perma-high drugdealer from 608. She gulped down a wad of momentary revulsion, then wondered if Zack would have Luca on his friendlist. It was possible. She clicked on Zack’s profile, but his friendlist was only visible to those who were already his friends. Shecould always add Zack as a friend, check out his list, and deletehim later. He probably wouldn’t even notice. She clicked thebox that said +Add Friend and decided to check back in anhour or so.