Part 10 (2/2)
I stood at the door, my hand resting on the doork.n.o.b.
”It was a rough night, that's all,” she added, laying her hands on my shoulders and turning me around. ”My words aren't coming out right. Sit down. I'll make us some coffee.”
”I'll have tea.”
Her eyes were dark, mascara smudged into the hollows.
”You don't look so good,” I said.
”Tell me about it.” She gave me a hug and lowered me into a chair.
Edite smelled of unwashed clothes and tobacco. ”When do you need to be at school?” She plugged in the percolator, then loosened the belt of her robe and tied it again, cinching it at her waist. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled under her robe. I could trace the outline of her nipples. The word high beams came to mind-that's what Manny would have called them. I looked away.
”A boy needs a healthy breakfast. Just give me a minute,” and she shuffled into her bedroom. I scanned all the magazines and newspapers, the books she had piled on one of the chairs and along the kitchen wall on the floor. I took deep breaths, tried to match my breathing to the percolator, which had begun to pop and wheeze. Every so often she would yell or curse, like she was tripping over things. It'll all be okay. James working for my father doesn't have to change things. Edite hopped into the kitchen on one leg, holding her toe with her hand. Her hair was pulled back by one of those Alice in Wonderland headbands, her face all red as if it had been scoured with hot water. She poured coffee into two mugs, the grounds swirling on the surface. ”s.h.i.+t,” she mumbled.
”It's okay, coffee is good.”
”Isn't that what you asked for?” She stabbed at the sugar bowl, managed to chisel off a couple of chunks, which she plopped into the mugs.
”You should put some grains of rice in the bowl. Rice-A-Roni even.” She looked over at me. ”The sugar bowl. My mom says it sucks up the humidity.” The lines on Edite's forehead vanished with her first sip of coffee. ”The humidity gets sucked up and the sugar stays loose.”
Edite sat back in her chair and licked her spoon. ”How about the rice?”
”What do you mean?” I said.
”The rice ... how do you make sure the grains of rice don't fall in your coffee?”
I had never thought about that. We'd always had rice in our sugar and I just thought everyone did the same thing. ”I guess you have to be careful. Mom has a sugar dispenser she bought at Kresge's.”
”Your mother thinks of everything.” Edite brought the spoon down from her mouth and twirled it in each mug. I wasn't going to say anything about sharing spoons. We didn't do that either. She stared out the back window. Her collection of Red Rose animal miniatures had grown to twenty-three. Some were doubles my mother didn't want. Edite's were lined up on the windowsill, a way of keeping count of her time here, I figured. It was her favourite part of being in Canada, she had said, the tea that comes with figurines.
”What's all this?” I asked, pointing at the stack of papers on the table.
”I was up all night poring over doc.u.ments, psychological a.s.sessments, interviews with people who were friends or worked with some of the men accused of killing the Jaques boy. I'm helping out one of the reporters. I have a couple of police friends that are slipping me some juicy bits. It's hard to get this information. Everyone in our newsroom is just too polite so they asked me to use my American know-how to dazzle a few answers out of them.”
”Who are the reports about this time?” She'd kill me if she knew I had shared that secret information about Saul Betesh with my cla.s.s. There was a pact between us-a pact I felt guilty for breaking-that allowed her to share information if I kept it to myself. I still needed to ask for it, though, like poking a bug to get it to move.
”One of the accused, this Werner Gruener, came to Canada from Germany when he was seven. He grew up in a small town.” She whispered it like it was a bad thing.
I sipped the coffee. It was strong and bitter, despite the sugar, and I was tempted to ask for a smoke too. Manny had been smoking since he was ten, and I knew Ricky smoked in secret, though every time I asked him he denied it.
”His parents were very religious.” Edite pointed at me. ”Always a problem. Anyway, he grew up with a head filled with good and evil and thoughts of eternal d.a.m.nation.” She laughed. ”h.e.l.l, you know about that.”
f.u.c.k off, I wanted to say, wanted to run out of her apartment, maybe kick over a chair on my way. But I nodded instead. Edite dug under some magazines and old newspaper. She pulled out a clipboard and flipped a couple of pages over.
”His father left them when Werner was eleven years old, took off somewhere, just disappeared. Shortly thereafter, his mother had a mental breakdown. He was thirteen. No, fourteen.” Edite tapped the report before she laid the clipboard on the table. I reached over to see it for myself. Her hand swooped down and pinned the clipboard to the table. I tucked my hand under my a.s.s, as if she had slapped it.
Edite picked at a fleck of tobacco that clung to her lip.
”Did he help murder Emanuel?”
”Well, he opened the door. Ran down two flights of stairs when he heard the doorbell and opened the door for his friend Saul Betesh and the boy, Emanuel.” She laughed again, a smoker's laugh.
”What's so funny?”
”This Gruener guy was p.i.s.sed because all the knocking interrupted his favourite show, Three's Company. He heard the knocking just when Jack was trying to juggle two women on the same date. According to the report, he kept repeating he missed the best part.”
Edite reached back to the counter and brought the percolator to the table. I tried to read the report upside down. She poured herself some more coffee-tar black-and was about to do the same for me. I placed my hand over my cup.
Edite got up and leaned against the kitchen wall, her coffee and a cigarette in the same hand, and looked out the window.
”What do you and James talk about?” I said.
She brought her mug to her mouth. I could hear her gulp. She looked over her shoulder. ”He's trying to make ends meet. He's determined to take care of Agnes.”
”Why can't she come here?”
”I offered. She said she wanted to stay with James.”
”Why?” I asked.
”Why does she choose to stay or why does he want to take care of her?”
”Both.”
”She's had it rough and so has he. He says she's the closest thing he's got to a family.” Her voice sounded like it was going to crack. ”That's why the baby- My head's pounding,” she said, before plopping herself back down on the chair.
”Can I get you something?”
”I want you to listen to me,” she said. ”James is a good guy. A bit rough but he means no harm. He won't hurt you,” she whispered, before kissing her finger and plinking me on the nose with it. ”Jesus, I'm tired. I didn't sleep very much. I was out all night looking for him.”
”Who?” I asked.
”My Johnny,” she said.
”I thought you said you spent last night-”
”What?”
”You told me you were looking over the reports.”
She pressed her temples, made small circles with her white fingertips. ”I'll go back to bed. I'll just have a refill and a smoke.” But she never moved toward her bedroom.
”I better go,” I said.
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