Old Flames, Burned Hands Page 20

  Tilda looked out over the park. A picture postcard of young couples walking hand in hand. “You honestly believe that?”

  “I do. Hell, I’m surprised it took you this long to do it.”

  “You think I’m a skank?”

  “No. You’re a musician. You’ve been on the road, on tour, surrounded by other musicians. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before, that’s all.”

  Tilda squared her friend with a sharp look. “You’ve cheated before?”

  “I told you about Frankie, remember? But there was someone else a couple years ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Does it matter?” Sarah watched a dog patter by. “Let me ask you something; do you think Shane has ever cheated on you?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “No. Never.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I just would,” Tilda sighed. “He’s not good at keeping secrets. No poker face.”

  “Maybe,” Sarah conceded. “But I doubt it. He’s a good looking guy. I’ve seen women bat their eyes at him.”

  “So what if he has? Does that mean I’m owed a fling? Or it excuses what I did?”

  “No. It just means you’re both human and everybody needs to get off their high moral horse about it.”

  A Frisbee whizzed over their heads and bounced off the trunk of the elm tree. A young man with tattoos across his neck ran after it. “Sorry,” he said and ran off again.

  Sarah stretched out on the cool grass. “So who is this mystery man?”

  “Just an old boyfriend,” Tilda said. “Not someone you know.”

  “Must be a really old beau if I don’t know him. Do you love him? Or is this just an itch being scratched?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Wrong answer. This is an itch. Scratch it and then wise up. Move on.”

  “I never stopped loving him. All this time…” There was more but wrapping words around it was too hard and she fell quiet.

  Sarah groaned. “Jesus, Tilda. Where’s he been all this time? Why weren’t you with him before?”

  “Like I said. Complicated.”

  “He’s married.”

  “I wish it was that simple.”

  Sarah sat up, stymied for a response. They watched the people strolling past them and then Tilda saw her friend check the time on her phone. “You better get back. Thanks for letting me bend your ear.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Dunno. I don’t want to go home.”

  “You’re welcome to bunk with me for a few days if you want. Let this cool over before you go back.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet but it wouldn’t fix anything.”

  Sarah brushed the grass from her palms. “You want my advice, go home and fix this. Shane will be devastated. Men don’t do well with this. He’ll moan and yell and crucify you with guilt but eventually, he’ll come to accept it. And there’s nothing you can do but take your punishment. There’s no shortcut here. But you both have too much at stake to let it fall apart over something like this. Take your lumps, be patient and fix this.” Sarah leaned in for a hug and got to her feet. “Love you,” she said and walked away.

  Tilda waved back. “Ditto.”

  THERE is something about Kensington in summer that draws the crazed and deranged to it like blowflies around a carcass. A bedraggled blowhard stood in the middle of the street, blocking traffic and venting his personal tragedy to the cars honking at him. “Look at my life!” he screamed. “Somebody’s gotta pay!”

  After the park Tilda had wandered east, mulling over the problem. By the time she reached the market, a plan had started to take shape. She’d arrange for Molly to go a friend’s house, cook up a fancy dinner for her husband and have it out with him. The plan was simple; tell Shane everything. About Gil and his return, about the coven and the whole mess she had tangled herself up in. It would sound crazy, just blurting it all out in a spew of events but she didn’t care. Gil wouldn’t like it either, revealing his secret, but she couldn’t afford to keep secrets anymore. Not from Shane. She was sick to her stomach with secrets. The only way out of this mess was to flush it all into the antiseptic light of day.

  As difficult as that would be, the harder part would come after that. She would have to be honest with Shane and admit that she still loved Gil. Had, in fact, never stopped loving him. But here was the kicker; that didn’t mean she no longer loved Shane. That hadn’t changed. She loved them both and she couldn’t cast Gil out of her life now any more than she could leave Shane for Gil.

  The clarity of it almost stung, and Tilda realized that she hadn’t been honest with herself either. Caught in a trap, assuming that it had to be one or the other. She loved them both and the truth was she wanted both. Selfish, greedy and maybe even vain but there it was. Why couldn’t she have both men in her life? Why did it have to be one or the other? It wasn’t like she had fallen out of love with her husband or that her marriage had failed. The circumstances were beyond strange and that meant that any resolution would have to be equally strange.

  What if they could work it out? Shane would reject it at first, dismiss it as crazy and refuse to play along. But Shane wasn’t obstinate or prideful. He was actually very empathetic, easily seeing both sides of an argument. Given the option of dissolving their marriage or simply making a little room for someone else, Shane might come around. He might want to take a lover in that circumstance and her heart nettled with jealousy at the mere thought but she could deal with it. Neither of them were starry-eyed kids with rigid ideals of love and fidelity anymore. The idea of compromising, of adjusting to a new reality rather than blowing it all up, seemed tangible. It would hurt, it would be difficult, but it wasn’t impossible.

  It could be downright European of them.

  The lightbulb moment of compromise cheered her for a moment, basking in its optimism before it dissipated like any other happy moment. As her mood sifted back down to earth, so did her gaze until it snagged on a handbill pasted to the side of a trashbin. A photocopied missing persons poster showing a blotchy picture of a young woman. A homemade one, not the official kind the police issued. Tamara Mladavic, age 22. Last seen in early May. The contact info consisted of a single phone number. The woman in the picture didn’t smile, a street-tough attitude in her posture.

  There seemed to be more and more of these missing persons notices all the time. Small town kids from across the country drifting into the city only to live under a bridge or join the hidden caste of homeless. A shadow society that everyone drove past on their way to somewhere else. 22 year-old Tamara was just one more unwashed face added to that shambling crowd and now she was gone, missed only by a very few. Missed by someone who cared enough to look for her. She could have been the young woman in the boiler room. These were the people the coven preyed on. The powerless and the faceless. Who would miss them besides others of that same ghost class? Those perversions could feed with abandon and no one would be the wiser.

  “God damn you.”

  Tilda startled. The old religious woman hovered nearby, her face shaded under a straw hat. An immense silver cross dangled from a chain around her neck, like some born-again rapper. Clutched in her white gloved fist was the homemade cross, fashioned out of pineboard sticks and duct tape. “God damn you,” she said again.

  Tilda froze. The same woman she and Gil had run into fleeing the scene of the Porthole. She had cursed Gil that time but now her curses were aimed squarely at Tilda herself.

  “What do you want?” Tilda snapped. She was not in a tolerant mood.

  “You damned.” The old woman clucked her teeth in schoolmarm disapproval. “Like that other one. Lake of fire. You and him. Burning.”

  “Please. Go pull your schtick on someone else.”

  “Him and the others.” The woman wagged her chin to her left, as if those in question were just around the corner. “I see them. In the dark. Bad people.”

  Tilda straightened up. “You’ve seen them?” />
  “They think I can’t see but I see.” The woman nodded, then pointed her wooden cross at Tilda. “You one of them now. God damn you.”

  “I’m not one of them,” Tilda barked. The old woman flinched and swung the cross up, slapping it across Tilda’s arm. Her hangdog face withered in disappointment, clearly expecting Tilda to burn at its touch.

  Tilda snatched the cross away, snapped the flimsy thing in two and threw the pieces to the ground. “Stay away from me.”

  SHANE MUST HAVE FORGOTTEN to latch the sidedoor when he left. It was unlocked when she came home. Tilda dropped the groceries onto the table and splashed cold water over the back of her neck to dispel the scorching walk home.

  Molly would be home soon. She’d ask the girl to call Zoe and ask if she could have dinner with them. If Molly asked why, she’d simply say that she and her father needed to talk. Molly would leave it at that, having no interest in her parent’s problems.

  Then she’d start dinner. Seafood paella, Shane’s favourite. A bottle of red to chip away the glacier that would inevitably ice across the table between them. It was a lame ploy, trying to soften him up with a nice meal but she couldn’t think of any better tactic. Sometimes clichés worked.

  She unpacked the vegetables she’d bought, tossed the seafood and chorizo into the fridge and put on some music. The Rattlesnake Choir seemed to fit her mood. Just forlorn enough to keep her motivated without breaking down entirely. She opened the bottle of wine, poured half a glass and started to prep. With her hands busy, her attention focused on a singular task, a small measure of relief came to ease the churn of thoughts in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, this was going to work.

  The twang and lurch of the music abruptly stopped. Tilda turned to find Shane killing the power to the kitchen stereo unit. “You scared me,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come home.”

  A second glance told her that he hadn’t left the house at all. He looked dishevelled and distracted as if he’d just woken up. His eyes were bloodshot. She assumed he’d been crying but the minute he spoke, it was clear that he’d been drinking. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Getting dinner started. Are you all right?”

  “Terrific.”

  Tilda dried her hands. “Shane, I’m going to make dinner for the two of us. Molly’s going to go to a friend’s house for a while and then we can talk. Okay?”

  Shane leaned back against the wall. He didn’t seem angry or even upset. Defeated maybe. “Don’t bother.”

  “I know this has been rough but—” She grasped at some way to placate him without igniting another powderkeg. “We’re going to talk this through, okay? Just let me get Molly sorted and out the door.”

  He guffawed, as if she’d said something funny.

  She turned the music back on and went back to the sink. “Why don’t you go lie down for a little while. Just don’t drink anymore.”

  The music cut out again. Shane ripped the unit from the shelf and hurled it into the wall. It clunked to the floor, leaving a broken pockmark in the sheetrock. It was turning out to be a red letter day for masculine assertions of power. “You don’t get a say anymore. Turn off the water.”

  She turned the faucet. This clearly wasn’t going to go as planned. She looked at the mess on the floor. “Feel better?”

  “Nope.” He stepped into the hallway, waving at her to follow. “This way.”

  She followed him out to the foyer. Shane wagged his chin at the big suitcase waiting at the front door. “I packed your things.”

  Tilda blinked at the luggage. He couldn’t be serious. “What for?”

  He sighed, as if too tired to explain. “You’re leaving.”

  “Okay.” She levelled her tone, needing to talk him down from the ledge. “Before we do anything drastic, we need to talk this through.”

  “No, we don’t. You have to leave.”

  “You’re kicking me out?” she sputtered. “You can’t do that.”

  “This is how it works.” He swung the front door open. “Cheaters leave. The cheated stay.”

  “This is ridiculous. We haven’t even talked about it.”

  “Jesus, Tilda. You always wanna talk when it’s time to act.” He kicked open the screen door, snatched up the suitcase in both hands and hurled it down the porch steps. “Go.”

  “Oh, cut the melodrama, Shane, and be an adult for once.”

  “Stop. You can’t talk your way out of this one. Just leave.”

  She couldn’t move, her feet frozen to the hardwood. A sickening sense that if she walked out that door, she wouldn’t ever be coming back.

  “Mom?”

  The timing of it. Molly stood at the bottom of the stoop, plucking the earbuds from her ears. She looked at the suitcase on the flagstone walk then up to her father. “What’s going on?”

  Shane looked at his daughter then back to his wife. “You wanna explain it?”

  The thought appalled her. She still couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Molly waited for an answer, the earbuds dangling from her hand. “So this is it, huh? The big break-up? I’m surprised it took this long.”

  Shane stared down at the slat of the porch floor and didn’t say anything. Tilda gasped for oxygen. The cat slipped past both of them and nuzzled the girl’s ankle. The whole family assembled.

  Molly picked up the cat and nudged the suitcase with her foot. “So? Which one of you is leaving?”

  Like duellists waiting for the other to blink, neither adult moved. Tilda felt her chest about to burst open all over the porch. Walking out seemed impossible but standing here was too excruciating to endure any longer. Her heels unglued from the floor and she walked past Shane without looking at him.

  Stopping at the bottom of the porch steps, she couldn’t even look at Molly. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain this right now.”

  “I’m not asking.” Molly pulled the telescoped handle of the suitcase so her mother could roll it away. “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call me later. Let me know where you are.”

  Tilda took hold of the suitcase handle and kissed Molly’s cheek. Then she walked away.

  SHE considered going to Sarah’s place to take her up on her offer. For all of ten seconds. Taking a cab west, she rolled the big suitcase down the byzantine alleys to the grey brick building behind Chinatown. The door was locked but the key had been returned to its hiding spot so she let herself in. Clicking the door shut behind her, she called his name but there was no response. Was he ever here?

  Groping her way to the central table, she found the matches and struck one. No candles on the table but there was a kerosene lantern with a note sticking out from its base. She lit the wick and the lantern’s light pushed the shadows back and she read the note.

  Running low on candles. Try this.

  G

  She smiled at his note, at the banal message jotted there.

  She dropped onto the couch like a dead weight. She hadn’t slept in a day and the fight with Shane had exhausted her. Tucking her feet up, she laid her head down and closed her eyes. Just a few minutes of rest and then she had to figure out what she was going to do.

  When she opened her eyes, Gil was sitting on the floor with his head tilted back against a cabinet. Tilda pushed herself upright and shivered, a chill ripping down her. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Watching you sleep.”

  “Don’t. It’s creepy.” She stifled another shudder. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “An hour.” He rose and retrieved a blanket from a chair and draped it around her shoulders. Then he took his place on the floor again. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  He inched closer. “Why?”

  “Shane knows. We had a fight.”

  “Ah.” he said. “I’m sorry. How bad was it?”

  “He kicked me out.”

  “Ouch. Are you ok
ay?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Stupid question.”

  Gil crawled forward to kneel at her feet. He slung his arms over her knees. “I’ve been thinking. About us. About what to do.”

  “I can’t think about that right now.”

  “We should leave. Get out of this city.”

  “Leave?” Her eyes wide with incredulity. “And go where?”

  “Anywhere.” His hands gripped her tighter. “We could go west, out to B.C. Or south, down into the states. Some place where the coven won’t dare come after us. Then we can be together. Just the two of us.”

  Tilda rubbed her temple, feeling a headache settling in. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “No. I can’t just abandon my family.”

  His eyes lit hopeful. “Molly can come visit us.”

  “Gil, stop. You’re asking too much.”

  His face clouded. “Shane. You still love him.”

  “Of course.”

  She felt him retreat by an inch. She touched his chin. “This is complicated, Gil. You gotta understand.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, peevish and dissolute.

  His hand closed over hers. Tilda looked down at his raw knuckles. The blue veins spidering under the white flesh and the bruised colour of his fingernails. She pulled her hand away.

  He tilted his head, trying to lock onto her eyes. “What is it?”

  “Those things last night.” Tilda shuddered at the memory. “They killed those two people.”

  Gil’s hand remained in her lap, waiting for hers to return. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “They were just kids. The same age as us when we met. And those monsters tore them to pieces.” Her eyes rose to his, painted in cold horror. “And you took part.”

  This time his eyes broke away. “I didn’t have a choice. Not without making them suspicious. They might have found you.”

  “I know but still… those kids are dead. I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.” Tilda launched off the couch. “This is what you do. You feed off people.”