 The backpack was red. Not “orangey-pink” or whatever stupid colour combination term Dave ever said it was. It was blood red. Or scarlet. The colour of a knight’s cross. Period. You couldn’t miss it anywhere. Even while in the woman’s washroom stall at the London bus station. If I had any brains, it would have been hanging up on the door hook while I did my business. But I left it on the floor, giving it ample opportunity to be taken by some jean jacketed degenerate. An enabler, me. I could only get my knickers up to where my money belt was below my stomach and not flush as I tried to run after whomever took it. Didn’t wash or make sure my make-up and wig were on properly either—stupid. When I ran, I scratched my arm on the yellow, wall hanging sharps container by the exit door. Guess that could have been retribution of some kind, being in the company of the lowlifes and their own doper disposal units. By the time I got out to the sitting area, it was a cold desert. Only some woman tapping on her phone while her kids ran around and a college kid with a “MOHAWK COLLEGE” branded jacket tapping on his phone were there. I looked over to the ticket booth. A younger woman was behind the glass, texting on her phone too. Life amongst the plague of the zombies that were lost in their screens. She seemed to be the only one worth approaching, and I walked up to the talk-back microphone. “Excuse me, did you see anyone go past?” She looked up at me and her mouth went to the microphone and the amplified voice hit me back in the face. “Many people.” “Someone stole my backpack in the girl’s washroom. Did you see anyone run by?” Her face broke only a bit. “What colour was it?” “Red.” “Red…red. Red…no…sorry.” I knew was just talking to the walking dead. “It’s fine,” I said. “Thank you.” She said something else I didn’t catch as I turned. Waste of time. If you realize you’re swimming in the sea of losers, you know it’s time to head to shore. That was what the plan was, anyway. Dave already told me to get out the day before, saying that “he just couldn’t handle all the lying.” I never bothered to remind him about the time he lied about his porn nights with Mitch and his metal band buddies. We were done. Took my two changes of clothes, all the make-up, toothpaste and toothbrush, some pads and wax strips, and my copy of Dr. Kepler’s Supernova: Your New, Fixed Life in Eleven Chapters. That was it. I did leave five hundred dollars from the benefit on the dresser. Figured I owed him that. The rest of the benefit I put the money belt under my shirt. One of my smarter moves. I didn’t have to worry about money. The clothes and hygiene products could be replaced. But Dr. Kepler’s book was in my backpack. It wasn’t just something that Mr. Shakespeare or Ms. Wollstonecraft had wished they’d written—no one could write so clearly and so well on how anyone could really make a dent in their existence, especially me. It was my copy. Well worn, with the cover creased and spine bent, it was that pocket bible or the Chinese chairman’s little red manual that was yours. If it could be recovered, it needed to be. I forgot I had the print-out my ticket in my pocket. I took it out, saw the time the bus left: 8:30 PM. London to Hamilton direct, switch there, Hamilton to Grimsby, then to St. Catharines. Not home but an end point. Could likely bunk with one of the guys with the band Carcass. They said they had a crash place in the downtown. Even if they heard the news of me, I could pay them off. Bands always need money. I looked at the departure board. 6:45. I had time to see if I could get the book back. Someone tapped me on my back and I jerked. It was one of the woman’s kids that were sitting in the waiting area. A young boy in a full snowsuit and black boots. I took him for about six. “Went that way.” I wasn’t sure what was said. “Sorry?” “That robber guy. Ran there, over the street, round the corners, and I think to that building. Seen him by there once with mom.” I saw where his finger was pointed. Outside, in the dark, across York Street, northwest, an apartment building behind a store front. “You sure?” “Oh yeah,” he said. “Had a red thing in his hands.” His mother came to get him and take him back. I said thank you to the squirt. The mom shot me a dirty look. I wanted to ream her for being a stupid, cell phone-addicted, absentee parent, but if she recognized me, I’d have heat I wouldn’t need. Night had already set in and the temperature well down past minus ten. That was fine. People always bitch and complain about the cold. If it’s so bad, go buy property in El Salvador. No cold there. Just watch out for the gangs. You bundle up right or take up ice fishing or get yourself a ski lift pass and you can get a hang on winter. To be truthful, it was good that it was so cold. My make-up could say set, and the jacket, vintage red haired wig, and cloth hat were great binding armour. I debated heading towards Richmond Street. Downtown, a terrible place to get spotted. I started walking the other way, eying that building the kid pointed out, before I came to the electrical pole on the corner of York and Ridout. It had another one of those posters of me taped to it: This is Miranda Patterson SHE FAKED CANCER AND LIED TO PEOPLE She made money for her “treatments” If you see her, call or text-- YOU WILL BE REWADED God. “Rewaded”, right? The hounds were out but they were drunk. Above the wording was a picture duo of me: one from my high school yearbook in St. Catharines and beside it was a picture from the benefit concert Dave organized at Call the Office. I looked horrible, all pale and thin, wearing that head scarf and those baggy rags. Getting those infinity symbol tattoos on my right-hand knuckles was a real low point. Had gloves for that now. What could I say? That one day I felt something on my right breast, went to the walk-in, the jack-off doctor told me he wasn’t sure what it was and told me to go to University Hospital. I would have but I told Dave first. He got emotional since his favourite aunt died from brain cancer the years previous. Said he would help. He knew I was broken and that my parents threw me out and weren’t speaking to me. Can’t blame him, can’t blame anyone. But Dave was an enabler too. There was no point on staring at the signpost. I’d gone all day without anyone spotting me and walked again, staying on the south side of York, staring down the apartment, then crossing at Ridout, waling up to King, then left there. I finally got to the front entrance of the edifice. The Alhambra apartments. Red brick and ten stories high. A soup can full of cigarette butts, one green bong, and half a dozen empty Busch cans decorated the stoop. God knew how many welfare champions took refuge in there, likely including a backpack five-finger superstar. There was no way to go in and no one would give me any access. My stomach rumbled and I trudged away from the building, still angry. The tongue craved a smash burger or some poutine, but I saw that there was a shawarma shop on the Ridout-King corner. I hadn’t had one in forever and felt no one would recognize me there. It was warm inside with moisture dripping down the windows. The young man behind the counter was programming some chanting song on the house mini system. I walked up to the counter. “Could I please get a falafel sandwich and a water bottle?” He nodded and set about frying the falafel scoopfuls. Normally I’d have gotten a chicken shawarma and even a pop, but I didn’t want to risk any attraction. Even when you think no one with notice you, you can get scoped out. I figured a regular menu order could be an open red flag. He asked me about the toppings and if I wanted it spicy. I pointed everything out and he put the wrap together, squeezed it tight, and bundled it in wax paper before setting it on the grilling iron. I kept looking behind me, but no one came in. He then bagged the sandwich and gave me my water, charging me a ten even. I paid him and left him a tip. He smiled and said, “Thanks.” No one came into the shop, so I felt safe enough to eat there. The falafel was good and the water washed it down well enough, but I still couldn’t figure out to get inside the apartment. What if you got in and got spotted? What if you got in and find nothing? What if you got in, found your bag and the book, and missed the bus? What did Dave say…think of a hundred mistakes you can make and weigh them all out. Good tip. The thoughts ended when a can came down on my table. I was startled. “Do you want this? I can’t sell them and I don’t drink.” It was the counter man. The can he set was a Grand Distiller’s Peachy Keen peach seltzer. I’d seen them at the bar with Dave. The can was handsome enough in white-and-pink-and-orange. Inside was, according to the label, fizzy water, some non-concentrated peach juice, and Grand’s own vodka. “Oh…uh, sure. If you don’t.” He left it for me and walked away. I said thanks and looked at it again. I hadn’t drank since the day I found the lump since you weren’t supposed to be boozing while under cancer treatments. The counter man disappeared in the back, and I was left alone. The curiosity was there so I cracked the can and took a sip. The taste was nothing to write home about. The peach flavour was all syrup and there was a bitter bite in the carbonation. I didn’t like those weird beers and canned mixed drinks Dave brought home. This stuff wasn’t much better. But soon I had half the can down. That’s when my mind loosened. That chanting music began to sound very nice and the final bits of the falafel were caviar-grade. Whatever was in that seltzer ballooned my head up enough to at least go back outside and straight to the Alhambra. My exhale in the night air was real fog. When I got to the door, I figured I could say I was just inside at a friend’s on the third floor and didn’t have a cell phone to let me back in to get my bag. That last part was true too—I had no cell phone at all. That’s when the old bat showed up. I could here some scraping sounds coming down the sidewalk through the slush and salt, against the concrete. I stepped off the stoop and saw an old woman pulling a wire shopping cart behind her. She cussed “shit” and “sonofabitch” as she went. The cart was full and she limped, dragging it through the sidewalk slush. Turning to the Alhambra, she was trying to come up the stairs. I felt my good Samaritan instinct coming back and went to help her. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Goddamned winter shopping. Should have gotten a cab.” Another bellyacher. I knew where this was headed. I got her to the door and she went to push in her entry code. Then she turned back to me. “You think you could help me get these to my room? I can pay you.” I looked back at her. No further need to make up get-in stories. “One hundred percent.” I got the cart inside and she led me at a snail’s pace to her first-floor apartment at the end of the right corridor. The hallway had the reek of reefer and cigarettes. I could have gotten cancer just being there. Further down was a floor mat that had “Grace’s Space” embroidered on it. She got her keys and unlocked the door. I took off my shoes and followed her in with the cart. The apartment was a sardine can of a couch, TV and its stand, a buffet, a coffee table, and some sitting chairs. The kitchen was a tight laneway beside the main sitting area, bordered by a wall, and behind it was the restroom. The bedroom was way in the back behind the TV stand. How she ever got her groceries in was a miracle. When I went to take the loaf of bread out of the top of the cart, she motioned me not to. “Oh, just leave it. I’ll put it away soon. Go and sit.” Now I was stuck with the old bat, but I didn’t feel the need to go anywhere right then and I sat in one of the easy chairs. She took off her coat and shoes, then went to the kitchen. I looked around the sitting area. There were some framed pictures and a certificate hanging on the wall from the Rotary Club congratulating Grace Emery for her years of service. This was Grace’s space. She finally came back and handed me a hot cup and a twenty-dollar bill. I took the cup but pushed on the note. “Oh no, I can’t…” “Take it,” she said. “I’m pensioned.” I took the cash. The cup smelled of coffee but had a taste of another ingredient. Drambuie or a crème-de-something. “Hope you like that,” she said, sitting on the couch. “My own concoction.” I said it was good and it was. Better than the seltzer. “I’m Grace,” she said after her sip. “Hannah. Hannah McCaslin.” Grandma’s maiden name and the name I wish Mom and Dad had named me. I’d rehearsed and was ready for anyone to ask at any time. “Glad you came along,” the old bat said. “You saved my night. It’s my birthday. I wasn’t supposed to go out, but I got ambitious after I realized my kitchen was Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.” I forced a laugh and said a big happy birthday wish to her. The old bat needed an audience. “You going out tonight?” “I’m leaving,” I said. “On the bus?” “Oh yes. Thought I’d swing by this place to see if…” “Where to?” “Windsor.” “Going to school there?” “No. Have job at…” “Got a man?” The old bat kept cutting me off while prying into my personal life. Typical. “Not yet,” I said. “You’re whip-smart. Save your money and time. You okay though? You look pale.” That’s when I got worried. All the booze I’d had might have caused me to sweat the make-up off. “Uh, no. Lack of vitamin D these days.” She shrugged. “Probably that albino light you’re under. My husband and son can get a better bulb when they come over.” “They’re coming over tonight?” “Supposed to come this afternoon. My son had to finish up a shift at the warehouse.” “Ah. What’s his name?” “Alec.” That’s when I knew it was time to go. The name “Alec Emery” sounded familiar. Did Dave know him? Did he come to the Call the Office benefit? No point in staying to find out. But then it was too late. The door opened and in walked a tall man in safety boots and denim work jacket. He carried a cake. “Oh hey Mom, I…” He saw me and then saw the cart. “Oh shit. Were you outside?” She huffed. “Needed groceries.” “Told you…” “I know you told me,” Grace said. “But I went out anyway. This nice young gal helped me.” His stare went to me. I tried to smile. Finally he held out his hand. “Alec.” I shook it. “Hannah.” “Thanks for helping her. She never listens to me.” “All good.” He put down the cake in the kitchen and moved the cart inside it to make the walk to the door easier. “Mom, we got a problem. You’ll have to come with me.” She looked at him funny. “Why?” “Sorry. You have to come with me.” He turned to me. “You too, Hannah.” She looked at me and then back to Alec. “What the hell are you…?” “Just get up,” he said. “The two of you.” I stood and mentioned I had to get going to catch the bus. “No,” he said. “Just a moment. Come with me and her. It’s critical.” It was the call to the guillotine, but I felt if I went along with the old bat and her progeny, I might find a way to exit along the way. That was priority. Grace couldn’t get up with any ease so I went over to her to help her to her feet. She hobbled again and I helped get her shoes on. If her bastard son was going to make a move on me, he would have to get through his beloved mother first. That was the rationale of the moment. Alec opened the door, saying, “Come on. It’s important.” Grace cussed him out while I helped her down the hall. He then went right to the end of the hall and opened door of the apartment at its end. I thought it might be his apartment, living on the same floor as his mother’s, but then Grace piped up. “What the hell is in there?” He motioned us to hurry and I led her in. Once we got to the doorway, Alec stood and flicked the light on. The apartment was filled with people, lined with streamers, and had a big table in the center with another cake lit with candles. No other furniture. Of course, everyone yelled, “Surprise!” It was for Grace and she glowed. My heart resumed beating at its regular rate. “Happy birthday, Mom,” Alec said. “From us.” Grace looked at me and I did what I thought was proper: I gave her a hug and she smiled. But while she went inside to be greeted by everyone, I scanned the room. Didn’t recognize a soul, thank God. Then I made my move to leave. Alec grabbed my arm. “You leaving?” “Oh I have to. The bus…” “Just stay, please. You’ve been a big help and we need you.” I felt there was still time and he didn’t look as if he was ready to lynch me. “Sure.” “Great!” We both went inside. He helped his mother to her cake and blow the candles out. Someone turned on some music. It sounded like a polka or waltz. That was fine—most parties played stupid dance or mumble rap songs. A few people smiled at me and I did the same back to them. No conversation though. That’s when Alec came back to me. “Come in the kitchen for a second.” I followed him in. The whole space was like the old bat’s but without any clutter. Just some folding tables with vegetable dip, chips, and coolers of beer and pop. In the kitchen, there were some grocery bags on the counter, a fridge, sink, and microwave, but otherwise bare. We were alone. “Look, thanks for helping mom today. It was great you came actually.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a recipe card. On it was some bullet points scribbled in blue ink:
“Could you give a talk? Like a speech?” It became clear: he wanted me to say some nice things based on the scribble points. “You can’t…?” “No,” he said. “Get nervous and I hate a lot of those fuckers out there.” “What about your dad? Grace mentioned…” “He’s been dead for years,” Alec said, stone cold. “She forgets that a bit.” That’s when I turned. I looked over the paper, then looked at him. He didn’t know who I really was. That was safe. But then I could see something on the counter behind him. It was a copy of Dr. Kepler’s book. Not my copy—the one there was too new. But it was the book. Not sure if was seeing it or more of the booze in the old bat’s coffee, but now I had some renewed chutzpah. “Why not?” He smiled. “Awesome.” He led me back out to the party and shouted. “All right, y’all. Get quiet.” The room went hush. “We are all here for Mom’s birthday and thankfully we got…” He turned to me. I almost whispered “Miranda” but caught myself and said, “Hannah.” “…Hannah here to say a few words.” They all looked at me. Had it been an hour before, I’d have been wetting myself. But I had them in the crosshairs of my eyes and took a step forward, touching my hat to make sure everything was safe in place. “Thank you, Alec. Well, we all know Grace. She’s one of a kind…and always in the best way, right?” That last bit got a laugh. “A talented, compassionate gal. A woman that made the Legion shine with her commitment to her friend…and to the Rotary club. Now she’s here…and what is she now?” I pointed to Grace. She looked a bit shocked. But I kept going. “She’s what you’d expect. She’s still a great friend. She was the best wife too, even when her better half had Alzheimer's. She kept going. Kept working. Kept being a good cook. Kept being a pal that could fix you that fancy coffee she likes. She kept being a mom. Oh, and she quit smoking and even went out today in the harsh weather to buy groceries to cook more AND make more fancy coffee…” I turned to Alec. “That’s the best. She’s still her. She’s still the Grace we all know.” I had them. “With that it’s her day. Everyone: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO GRACE!” Dr. Kepler would have been proud of me. He had that chapter on being a good orator to claim your own pedestal in life at a moment’s time and all the time. Probably his best part of the book. His name came back in my head and got me thinking straight again. The guests all had drinks and repeated my words back together, turning to Grace. There was a cheer and the old bat blew a kiss at me. I smiled but didn’t motion to catch it. Screw that. The old bat had gotten her due and I had to go. The party was now in full force. Everyone went to go around the old bat and I could be alone. I ducked back into the kitchen and saw that Dr. Kepler’s book was there. I grabbed it and tried to find a pocket to put it into. It was too thick. No matter. I had it in hand and went for the door. The hall was empty and the only spacious place around. I had no watch to check the time but knew I had to get back if I was going to make the bus. I would have too if Alec and his buddy hadn’t stepped out. “Oh hey, Hannah. That was so good! My mom’s in tears.” I smiled at the two. “So pleased. I hate to say it but I have to go.” “Oh that’s fine,” Alec said. His buddy was eyeballing me while Alec dug in his pocket. “Here.” It was two fifty notes. He was his mother’s son. Again, I tried to refuse but he put he held it out hard. I smiled and took them, thinking how much I’d made since I left the bust station. “Thanks again,” he said. “No,” I said back. “Thank YOU. Your mom too.” His buddy leaned forward. “Can I walk you out?” Alec realized we hadn’t been introduced. “Oh Hannah, Dallas. Dallas, Hannah.” I said “hi”. Dallas said “hi” back, then said: “Going to the bus stop? I am going too. Just to get something from the truck.” I said fine and bye to Alec, and he went back to the party, closing the door. I headed for the exit and Dallas came beside me, questioning me all the way out. “Going on a trip?” “Just to Windsor.” “Going to school?”, “Got a job?”, “Getting married?—the old bat’s questions all over again. I wanted to be gone quick. “No. Just work.” “Nice. Here…come on to the truck…” We out on the street. His blue Dodge was parked there, parallel with the sidewalk. He led me to the truck. “Got some hooch in the truck. Want a hit?” I wasn’t sure what “hooch” meant but as he led me the truck’s cab, I could see something on the passenger seat. He opened the door and a red backpack was on the seat. Wide open. Inside I could see a brassiere and socks. They looked familiar. I pointed to it. “Is that yours?” “Huh?” He looked. “Oh no. No. That was lying on the sidewalk when I parked.” “I think that’s mine. I lost my backpack.” “Oh, well, then take it.” I bent to grab it and his hand touched my head. “Love your hat.” He was trying to be smooth. I had to go. But then he tapped the hat saying, “Stick out here for a minute. Got a blunt for us…” “No, thank you,” I said trying to be polite. “Not my thing.” “Could you give me your e-mail? Are you on…?” “I really have to go.” I went to move with the backpack in hand but he tapped my hat again. The ogre came on strong and leering. He likely smoked up with Alec before they got to the old bat’s party. But his last tap was enough to knock off the hat. The wig went with it. The idiot froze when he saw my revealed head. “Oh, whoops…” I saw my head gear on the ground in the salt and snow. I felt the cold on my head and a slight breeze over my hair stubble. I went to grab the whole head piece. A few cars went by and I panicked. Dallas beat me too it. “Let me get that,” he said. He picked the whole unit up, brushed it off, and put it on my head. I stood there, my eyes going towards the Alhambra. “Thank you,” I said. He smiled. Then he picked my hat and wig off my head again, held it up, and put it back. Then he did it again. “This is kind of fun. Could do it all night,” he said. “I have to run, Dallas,” I said back. He stepped forward, towering right over me. He did the raising-the-wig-and-hat-up-and-back-down motion once more, grinning again. He looked down at my gloves. I thought he’d seen through them to see those bad infinity tattoos. “You that girl on the posters?” I thought I heard a noise in the direction of the terminal and then some shouts from the apartment party for the old bat. That was it. I snapped at him. Dave had played rugby and taught me a move to tackle from below the waist. I charged Dallas’s center and managed to knock him back. I wish had have known that his head wouldn’t parabola and hit the truck door frame. It did. He went down. He tried to stand back up but couldn’t. He fell down again. I couldn’t see if there was any blood about him. There was more noise from inside the Alhambra. That was the time to move. I gathered my knapsack, brushed myself straight, and felt I still had Dr. Kepler’s book. The fast walk back to the terminal was me huffing, short stepping, not looking back. It was exactly 8:20 PM. The terminal was even more desolate than before. There was a new person at the ticket booth that took no notice of me. I debated going to the women’s washroom to see if I looked okay in the mirror but went straight for the platform. The time had flown. The bus was loading and I got on, giving the driver my ticket to scan. I sat in the back by the onboard washroom. It was stupid, thinking if I huddled in the back no one would see me. Only one other person got on, the kid with the Mohawk College jacket. I crunched up on the seat and pretended to be sleeping. The bus finally pulled out and as it did, I saw a police car pull round the corner and turn towards the Alhambra. Dallas was probably there holding his head, with Alec next to him, both looking stupid and that they were duped by the local cancer faker girl. But they’d forget it soon enough and whatever happened to Dallas’s head would be corrected by a few stitches. I could feel a tinge of pain on my head. No one was looking and I took off the hat and wig. There was no blood. No real injury. Originally from Southampton, Ontario, James Burt lives and works in the Greater Toronto Area. When not marketing, teaching, and scribbling on whatever paper is available, he tries to keep up with basketball and rugby scores with fragmented success. Check out his recently published short stories in Peculiar Passages: Closed for the Season and Wunderlit Magazine. As well, follow him on social media for more writing updates.
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