Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell
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she knocked on the shiny black door, she noted a patina of small handprints on the lower half. Maintaining a pristine house and a happy toddler were mutually exclusive goals. She smiled. Invited to enter, she stepped into the kitchen, which was immediately to the left of the front hall. The entryway’s cream-painted wainscotting continued in the kitchen. The glass-fronted cupboards with old-fashioned brass knobs, green slate floor and green granite countertops gave the room a warm country kitchen appeal. Elizabeth, bibbed and waiting, sat in the high chair beside an antique pine table.
“Hi Howis, hi Tee.” Elizabeth accompanied her greeting with a barrage of spoon-banging on her high chair tray.
“Sorry if I’m late. Sometimes time escapes me when I paint.”
“Elizabeth napped longer than usual. We haven’t started yet,” Candace said.
Clean chinos and a pressed blue button-down had replaced the baggy jeans and stained T-shirt. Candace had made an effort to return to her “take charge” persona, but the tight lines around her mouth and raised shoulders told another tale.
Impatience gripped Hollis. She knew that Candace would feel better once she told what she thought had happened to her brother. Unspoken fears stripped away your confidence and your equanimity like piranhas moving in for a kill. If only they could bypass all the domesticity and get on with the story.
“Grilled cheese sandwiches, carrot sticks, applesauce and tea okay?” Candace asked. She cut bread into strips and handed them to the child, who abandoned her spoon to scoop them up with pudgy fingers. “I’ve pretty much given up gourmet delights for the duration. I did try her with smoked salmon and capers, both of which she adored, and sushi, which she didn’t. Probably just as well. If the experts suggest pregnant women give up sushi, I’m sure children should avoid it too.” She was babbling.
“Anything I don’t prepare for myself is wonderful.” Hollis munched a carrot stick and watched Elizabeth mash the bread on the tray before she dropped it to MacTee, who snatched it in midair.
“That should keep her entertained if not well-nourished,” Candace said. Candace’s cell phone shrilled as she motioned for Hollis to sit at the table.
After she flipped it open and said hello, a range of emotions that Hollis identified as relief, anticipation and anger sped across Candace’s face. “No, this is not a good time to call. I don’t give to charities that phone.” She clicked the phone shut. “Damn. I hoped it would be Danson.”
“I thought about Danson. I remember his intensity when he talked about lacrosse. You said he had other passions—what’s he doing that worries you so much?”
Candace gave Elizabeth a bowl with raisins and chopped apricots along with more cutup bread before she spoke. “You’re right. Danson reacts with passion when he loves or hates something. Even as a little boy, he fixated on issues, particularly injustices, and always wanted to take corrective actions.” She grimaced. “You may think it’s weird that he’s an adult, and we’re so close. But there’s a reason—I feel responsible for him.”
Responsible—an odd word to use to describe a relationship with a functioning adult man. “Why is that?”
“I’m more like his mother than his sister. Poppy isn’t maternal. I’m glad she had us, but given her personality, it surprises me that she did. I’d say she’s never visualized herself in a traditional mother role. One small example—from the get-go, she insisted we call her Poppy. She’s never married, never lived with a man.”
Speaking of men, there were no signs of one in Candace’s apartment, nor had Hollis ever heard Candace mention Elizabeth’s father. Maybe single parenting was genetic, or maybe, if that’s what your mother did, it was what you did. Interesting idea. Not that she could ask. That sort of information had to be volunteered.
“Poppy always provided for us, by hook or by crook.” Candace frowned. “I’m not sure she always draws the line between the two and, however politely I inquire, she won’t discuss her financial affairs. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The day she and Danson came home from the hospital, she passed him to me.” She paused, widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “I was seven.”
“You cared for him by yourself?” Where had the social service agencies been?
“Not exactly. To give you the background, Poppy was fifteen when I was born. My grandparents opposed her decision to keep me. When she insisted, they decided they didn’t want her living with them or even staying in the same community. Unwed mothers weren’t part of their world.” Her lips drew down. “I never got to meet them. They died when I was five, and unfortunately Poppy hadn’t reconciled with them. To give them their due, they weren’t prepared to allow Poppy and me to suffer real hardship. They paid Adele, a housekeeper who’d worked for the family, to step into the breach and care for me while Poppy finished school.”
“Times were different then,” Hollis said. How would her mother have dealt with a similar situation? She felt sure her mother would have chosen abortion. It said something for Poppy that she’d made a decision that was long-term, life altering and took strength, particularly if you weren’t a maternal sort of person.
“To continue my story, seven years later, when Poppy became pregnant again, she persuaded Adele to return. By then, the woman was over eighty and couldn’t lift or bend. I did those jobs.”
“You must have been a responsible kid.”
Candace pursed her lips. “I would have preferred to have been just a kid, but I didn’t have a choice. Anyway, now you know why I think of Danson as my baby. As for his personality—from day one he was a crusader. Always on the side of the underdog. In the Middle Ages, he would have galloped off to battle the Infidels.”
“We need those passionate people, or society would never change.”
“I wish Danson wasn’t one of them.” Candace’s lips tightened. “Oh, God, if only Danson was an ordinary guy.”
“Danson coming?” Elizabeth said. She smiled at Hollis and repeated, “Danson coming,” hopefully.
“No sweetie, not now.” Candace teared and gulped. “Maybe soon. Eat your raisins.”
Elizabeth’s smile disappeared, but she obediently bent to her time-consuming task, picking up raisins one by one.
“Tell me about his passions, the ones you think are dangerous.”
“Give me a minute,” Candace said, struggling to maintain her composure. Once she’d taken several deep breaths, she continued. “Let me set the scene. One Saturday evening three years ago when Danson and Angie Napier, the love of his life, were sitting in an outdoor café on the Danforth planning their wedding, Angie was killed when she was caught in the crossfire between two gangs. Later, Danson discovered Angie’s killer had been convicted of another crime, deported, returned and, within months, killed Angie.”
“How could that happen?”
“We deport criminals to their home countries after they serve minimum time in our prisons. They reenter Canada with phony passports. They’re mostly men, and frequently they commit more crimes. Our immigration officers don’t do a great job.”
“How does that connect to Danson?”
“Since that terrible Saturday, he’s waged his own crusade. He track downs the men or women who’ve been convicted, deported and slithered back into Canada.”
“Are there many?”
“The numbers would horrify you.”
“How does he locate them?”
Candace toyed with the knife with which she’d cut up the bread. “I haven’t asked many questions. The more I know, the more I worry, and I do enough of that. I gather it’s mostly through the street grapevine. That’s why he works as a bouncer; he gets to know people and hears things.”
“You said passions.