Old Flames, Burned Hands Read online

  Tilda glanced at the clock. “What time’s your mom’s appointment?”

  “Ah, damn.” Sarah shot out of her chair and flung her bag onto her shoulder. “I should be back by four but you never know with her doctor.”

  “Don’t rush back here. I’ll close up today.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Go.”

  Sarah squeezed her shoulder on her way to the door. “I’m so glad you’re here. Love ya.”

  With that Sarah was gone and Tilda folded the pizza box into the blue bin. She checked the schedule, wondering if she had time to fix the tempermental printer before the next client showed. No one wanted to be worked on by toner-stained hands.

  The surf tune wound down and an old Blue Rodeo song drifted up and Tilda felt her guts clench up tight. She dialled the radio back to the previous station. The host sleepwalking through an interview with some drip of an author droning on about his latest book. Dreary and dull but safe, without the risk of getting snagged on some song.

  God bless the CBC.

  MUSIC, as it turned out, was difficult to avoid. Every shop she stopped in had music throbbing underneath, so bland and constant it became white noise. Walking home was a sonic gauntlet as every business seemed compelled to pump music through their doors or amp it outside through speakers. When had this become the norm? Why did every business insist on providing a cloying soundtrack for her shopping experience? Why did paying for any purchase require shouting over a dance beat or the goddawful torture of Auto-Tuned vocals?

  It wasn’t that she suddenly hated music or shunned it altogether, she simply needed a break. What she wanted now was a little silence to clear her head but that, it seemed, was too much to ask. Silence was a pox that the world would not tolerate, filling every empty space with music or chatter or tawdry sound effects. Any quiet pause in a conversation saw one or the other conversant blather on in a panic to fill the dead air.

  Had it always been like this? Even walking home through the park, there was music from three different blasters among the picnicking hipsters or a heavy bass rumbling from cars trawling along Queen. This constant, incessant music, and if music was absent, then jackhammering or honking. Not a shred of silence anywhere. Was it any wonder there were so many crazy people in this city?

  Tilda’s eye caught sight of a missing persons poster plastered to a lamp stand near the playground. A young man last seen three weeks ago in the park. These homemade missing persons posters had become common in the last few years. A runaway kid or refugee from another city living in the park. Tilda wondered if the noise had simply gotten to this young man, driving him out of the city without notifying his friends.

  Home should have been an oasis of quiet but that was not the case. Not with a teenager at home who seemed to think that every radio, computer, sound system or television was there to be switched on, dialled to full volume and then forgotten about as she moved on. Tilda marched from room to room, turning off every squelching device. Molly was in the den, flopped upside down in a chair with the phone to her ear. The TV flickering and the stereo booming overtop.

  Molly flipped upright as her mother switched it all off. “Hey!” Molly flattened the phone to her chest. “What gives?”

  “It’s too loud in here.” Tilda marched out of the room. “How can you talk on the phone with all that noise?”

  “Jeez Louise. Who peed in your cornflakes?”

  “Don’t be rude.”

  The girl’s jaw fell open. “Me?”

  When she marched into the kitchen, she heard the stereo flip back on but the volume was toggled back a notch. Small mercies, she thought as she opened the fridge and then pondered the workaday torture of what to make for dinner.

  Working full days, dinner proved to be another pillar of routine that needed tweaking. Tilda was rushed getting it ready, late getting on the table. She thought of asking Molly to help with the prep, since she was the first one home but that was a fool’s errand. The girl was repulsed by domestic chores, often refusing to perform what she termed ‘woman’s work’.

  When she finally sat down to eat, a deep exhaustion settled in so heavy that it was difficult to keep up with the dinner conversation. Not that there was a lot to speak of. Shane inquired about their day, politely nodding as he listened but impatient to be asked in return how his day had proceeded. What followed was a longwinded saga of suffering a sea of idiots who, to all empirical observations, had nothing better to do with their time than to find ways to waste his. It was a running theme with Shane, waxing over the ineptitude, foibles and calamities of his co-workers with an almost poetic sense of grace. Sometimes, after a few beers, he would scale it biblical and often describe his workday as Job-like in its testing of his patience. Wife and daughter both listened without interruption, knowing that any question or request for clarity on some point would only prolong his discourse .

  With his oration complete, Shane looked at Molly. “So honey, what’s going on with your friends these days? Any new kids in your social circle?”

  “There’s this new kid at school. He’s from, like Bosnia or Botswana or Butt-something. Doesn’t speak a word of English, he’s in a wheelchair and he’s got, like, this nasty drooling problem. And poof, suddenly he’s everybody’s new B.F.F.” Molly blurted out in a rapidfire cadence. “But then these underprivileged kids, like in a gang, they rolled him for his lunch money.”

  Shane scowled. His idea of keeping the lines of communication open with his teen was to fire direct questions at her concerning peer pressure, drugs, eating disorders and the perils of teen sex. Molly used to meet this line of questioning with stony silence but had recently begun fabricating elaborate tales designed to offend him. “Well, good for you, honey. Even Botswanian Bosnians need a friend.”

  The clink of forks against plates filled the silence. Shane looked at Tilda “You okay, sweetheart?”

  Tilda nodded slowly, as if her cranium was weighted down with lead ballast. “Just tired.”

  “The new job not agreeing with you?”

  “No. It’s good. Just need to adjust is all.”

  “No kidding,” Molly snorted. “Dinner’s stone cold.”

  “You know,” Tilda said, dropping her hand over her daughter’s arm. “I was thinking you could start helping with dinner now. You’re the first one home now, maybe you can start the prep.”

  Molly’s jaw hung open, exposing a mouthful of half-masticated food. Then she laughed.

  AFTERWARDS, Molly barricaded herself in her room and Shane withdrew to his woodshop in the basement. The burr of the tabletop router vibrated through the floor as Tilda cleaned the kitchen. Her somnambulist attendance at dinner brought a second wind and once she was finished with the dinner mess, she fetched up a garbage bag from under the sink and went out the backdoor to sweep up the mess in her studio.

  Garage, she reminded herself. The studio was gone. It’s just a garage now.

  Crossing the unmowed yard with the broom in hand, something didn’t look right. The garage door was ajar. It should have been locked, something she always double-checked given the equipment inside. A habit that hadn’t changed even now, with all of her gear stripped out. Had Shane been in here?

  Stepping inside, she hit the switch plate. The interior looked as she had left it; stripped and bare save for the ratty couch and wooden chair. One small thing out of place. On the bench where the mixer used to be lay a guitar.

  Not one of hers, she could see that immediately. An old six string, hollow body. Moving closer, she saw that it was a Hummingbird. Not her old one but close. The colour was right, sunburst, but the fretwork was rosewood, not the ebony of her old instrument. She took it up and ran her thumb down the strings, surprised to find it tuned.

  Where had it come from?

  She turned around, scanning the empty space as if the guilty party was still present. Bare walls and a dirty floor, nothing more.

  Shane, she thought. Who else would have put it here? But wh
at did it mean? Was this his way of telling her that he didn’t agree with her decision to quit music entirely? No one had been more encouraging and supportive of her pursuits than her husband. Of course it was him. It was oddly sweet, this gift with no accompanying note or hint during dinner. Time for her to surprise him.

  Hurrying back into the house, she heard the whirr of the sander and tiptoed down to the basement. Shane had his back to her, bent over the table. She worked the frets, picking out a flamenco flourish.

  He spun around, blinked a few times in confusion. “Hey. I thought you sold all your stuff.”

  “I did.” She blew a kiss. “Thank you for this.”

  “What?”

  “This.” She raised the instrument. “This was sweet of you. But just so you know, you could have just told me straight out that you thought I was making a mistake. You didn’t have to go buy me a guitar.”

  “Buy you…?” Shane slipped the safety glasses from his nose. “Honey, I didn’t get you a guitar.”

  “You left it in the studio for me to find. It’s very sweet.”

  This time he didn’t blink. “Tilda, I didn’t buy you that guitar. Where did you find it?”

  “THE LOCK WAS JIMMIED.”

  Tilda stood in the grass holding the suspect instrument in her hand as Shane examined the lock on the garage door. He ran a finger down the splintered wood of the doorframe. “Here. You can see where somebody dug into it with a knife and popped the lock.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “Dunno.” He shrugged and stepped into the garage. “Was anything stolen?”

  “There’s nothing left to steal.” Tilda stayed close to him in the cool space. “Besides, they didn’t steal anything. They left something behind.”

  “What kind of thief breaks in only to leave stuff?”

  “Santa Claus?” She set the guitar down onto the bench and popped on the swing lamp, taking a closer look at the thing. “Maybe we got a dyslexic burglar.”

  He stood at her elbow. “This isn’t your old guitar, is it?”

  “No. It’s the same make, maybe the same year but it’s not mine.” She examined the neck, peered through the strings at the label inside the body. Nothing personalized, nothing unusual. “This is nutty. Who would do this?”

  Shane snapped his fingers. “Some crazy fan of yours.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s happened before. You remember that weird guy, McFly? He was practically stalking you.”

  She’d forgotten all about him. Kevin McNab or MacInnes. Mac-something. He used to attend every show, bring her gifts and write her letters. Bad poetry scrawled inside homemade cards. Shane used to refer to him as Marty McFly, and he wasn’t far off the mark. “That was years ago,” she said. “And he was harmless.”

  “Maybe he’s at it again. Did you check inside the body? Maybe he left you more shitty poems.”

  “He never came around the house. It’s not him.”

  Shane took up the instrument and shook it, as if she hadn’t checked it properly for a clue. “Then it’s someone like him. A stalker.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” She examined the damaged doorframe. “I haven’t played a show in over six months. Or put out anything new. Hell, I would have welcomed a stalker-fan then.”

  “That’s not funny.” He set the guitar back down. “We’ll have to replace that lock tomorrow.”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “What’s the point? There’s nothing left to steal.”

  “I don’t want your fanboy bringing you more surprises. Or before you know it, he’ll replace everything and we’ll have a garage full of crap again.”

  “Crap?”

  “That’s not what I meant, honey.” He killed the light and they stepped back into the yard. The Hummingbird was left inside. “Doesn’t this worry you?”

  “Of course.” She folded her arms. “Should we call the police?”

  “What are they gonna do? I don’t want to wait five hours for some cop to show up only to tell us there’s nothing he can do.”

  He followed her back inside and together they went through the house, setting the dead bolts and locking every window.

  THE mystery guitar remained in the garage, untouched and unplayed. Aside from its strange appearance, Tilda had no interest in it. She did, however, purchase a new lock and spent an hour replacing the old one on the garage door.

  Work remained busy as she took on more of Sarah’s duties and began learning some of the basic bookkeeping. Grateful for the relief, Sarah seemed less tense than she had in months. During a slow stretch between appointments, Tilda wrote up some classifieds ads on Craigslist to sell a few last pieces of gear.

  With that accomplished, she wandered over to her Facebook page and skimmed through her friend’s updates. The mystery instrument was still nagging at her and she wondered if Shane’s hunch about her old fanboy was true. If only she could remember his last name. Was it McNab or MacGivens? She searched both names but the Kevins that popped up looked nothing like the man she remembered. She tapped her nails on the desk, wondering if any of her friends remembered him. She clicked up the pages of a few friends and began searching through their list of friends. A blur of profile pictures scrolled by and then bingo. Kevin McQuibbin. A horse-faced man throwing up a Vulcan hand signal. Clicking the thumbnail, she scanned through his details. Her old fanboy was living out west in Vancouver, working for a marketing firm. He was married and had three children.

  Crossing his name off the sole list of suspects in her head, Tilda frowned. Who did that leave? She had no idea. For a moment she wondered if Molly had done it, playing some prank on her but quickly shunted the notion aside. The girl was insulated in a bubble of her own world and, despite being told, Tilda didn’t think her daughter was even aware of her decision to quit music.

  So the mystery was backburnered as the days rolled forward with Tilda trying to keep pace with the new routine. She was forever looking up at the clock and wondering where the hour had gone, the day. Her first week and already she was chomping at the bit for the weekend to hurry up and arrive. She had become a statistic, another parent struggling to balance work and family, exhausted by both.

  Friday, Shane had plans with people from work and Molly was staying over at a friend’s house. Tilda had no plans but relished the thought of not making dinner and having the house to herself to do whatever the hell she wanted to. In all likelihood, that meant she’d be asleep in front of the TV by ten ‘o clock.

  “I need a ride,” Molly announced as Tilda staggered in the door.

  “I thought Zoe’s mom was picking you up?”

  “Their car’s in the shop. And I’m late.”

  Tilda sighed and kicked off her flats. “It’s only five-thirty. Can’t you take the bus?”

  “No,” the girl bristled. “I got my bag and I’m bringing all this food.” She chinned at two plastic tubs on the counter, loaded with cookies. Molly had recently discovered baking and, Tilda had to admit, she was getting pretty damn good at it. Even if it was woman’s work. The kid’s caramel toffee snaps were deadly. “Please.”

  Tilda sighed once more and scooped the car keys from the bowl on the hall table.

  TURNING onto Harbord Street, Tilda clamped her molars together. Whenever they were in the truck, Molly commandeered the stereo like it was her birthright and became a complete radio fascist. Tilda had no one to blame but herself. When Molly was little, Tilda would play songs they could sing together, fun stuff like Yellow Submarine or Ring of Fire. As her daughter grew, she’d craft playlists for car drives, slyly guiding her daughter through a history of music from big band swing to rockabilly and Motown to New Wave. She got a kick out of hearing her six-year old shout the chorus to Sheena is a Punk Rocker or croon along with Sam Cooke. Like most parental contrivances, this too came back to bite her in the ass as Molly felt it was her godgiven right to wield the tuner with an iron fist.

  Molly toggled t
hrough the stations, a rolling sample of dance music or cloying pop tunes before settling on one and leaning back in her seat. And Tilda almost drove off the road as an early 80’s anthem thumped up through the cab like a swarm of angry ghosts. To make matters worse, her daughter sang along.

  Why is the bedroom so cold?

  Turned away on your side.

  Tilda stabbed the power button, killing the radio.

  “Hey!” Molly startled as if slapped. “I was listening to that.”

  “I hate that song,” Tilda muttered.

  “I don’t care.” Molly flicked it back on, cranked the volume. “I love this tune. You should be happy I like one your old fogey songs.” Molly, like every young person before her, adored the tragic gloom of that old standby. Who didn’t, really?

  Tilda’s cheek clenched as she bit down and her foot stomped the pedal, racing to Zoe’s house just to end the torment. When the chorus returned, something snapped. She killed the radio a second time and when her daughter reached to turn it back on, she barked.

  “Leave it.”

  Awkward. Molly flung herself out the door when they pulled up before a semidetached Victorian on Roxton Road. “Have a nice time!” Tilda called as her daughter stomped away with her bag and trays of cookies. Molly didn’t even look back.

  LEFTOVER biryani in front of the TV. With the weight of the week pressing down on her, Tilda forced herself to get up before she nodded off. The television winked out and the house became silent. The odd creak or tick of an old home. “Run a bath,” she said to no one. “Before you pass out completely.”

  The glass of wine balanced on the side of the tub was cornball but so what? The house was empty and she damned well wanted one. Once the tub was full, she let her clothes drop to the bathroom floor and slipped into the water, bracing against that odd inbalance of scalding water and cold porcelain against her back. Sinking to her chin and looking at her toes, she mused over the idea of falling asleep in a hot bath. Soothed to death as her nostrils dipped below the tideline and she drowned. Was that even possible?