Читать книгу To Die in Spring - Sylvia Maultash Warsh - Страница 14

Wednesday, April 4, 1979

Rebecca bent over a stack of patient files on her desk. This was the part of medical practice she could have lived without. Paperwork. She could spend hours filling out forms — insurance forms, Workman’s Compensation forms, disability claim forms. Referrals had to be written for patients she was sending to cardiologists, internists, allergists; charts to be updated with the morning’s lab test results.

She was expecting Iris to interrupt her upon the arrival of her first patient of the afternoon. But it was 1:15 p.m. before Rebecca surfaced from her papers and realized Iris was overdue.

She stepped out of her office and glanced at the empty waiting room. “Did Mrs. Kochinsky cancel her one o’clock appointment?”

Iris looked up from her papers, her spectacles part way down her nose. “I haven’t heard from her.”

Rebecca’s eyes were drawn to the violent energy in the Van Gogh on the wall. “She usually calls if she can’t make it.”

“I’ll give her a ring,” Iris said, opening Mrs. Kochinsky’s file. She dialed the number.

Rebecca watched her face go blank listening to the futile rings. Maybe the American cousin had arrived for his visit, Rebecca thought. Maybe she’d lost track of time.

Since she always saw Mrs. Kochinsky for an hour, no patients were scheduled before two. But her two o’clock patient arrived at one-thirty and it was fivethirty before the procession of patients let up. She had been distracted all afternoon, but it wasn’t until a perceptive patient asked her how she was feeling that she realized something was bothering her. Now, with a moment to herself, she thought of Mrs. Kochinsky flying into the office yesterday, breathless and erratic. It was only the second time she had seen the poor woman since resuming her practice. Had Mrs. Kochinsky’s mental health degenerated over the winter? There was no immediate family to call. Her sister had been taken to the nursing home.

She approached Iris’ desk and handed her the last patient’s file. The waiting-room was empty. The Van Gogh roiled above the upholstered mauve chairs.

“Am I finished?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No word from Mrs. Kochinsky?”

Iris shook her head.

The phone rang. “Dr. Temple’s office,” said Iris.

After a moment of listening, she turned to Rebecca. “It’s Mrs. Morgan. She wants to renew her prescription for cardizem on the phone.” One winged eyebrow climbed in disapproval.

Rebecca took the receiver. “Mrs. Morgan? Was that Dr. Romanov’s prescription? Is your angina acting up, then? You’re on 60 mg. No. You’ll have to come in so I can check you over. Well, I understand, Mrs. Morgan, but I can’t prescribe the drug without examining you. I’ll give you to Iris and you can make an appointment.”

Rebecca fell into the other chair behind the partition and peered over the test results of Mr. Batner’s blood sugar, Miss Chow’s urine.

“You look bushed,” said Iris after hanging up.

“Better skip the jogging today.”

“I just walk around the block.”

“Better watch yourself. You don’t want to get any of those knee injuries.”

“I’m not jogging. I’m not even running.”

“Keep it that way,” she said. “I need this job.”

Rebecca gave her a crooked smile. But she was tired. Automatically she took out some charts and began to update them with the latest test results.

Iris went back to filling in the day’s health insurance chits. She had taken off her tailored grey suit jacket and sat demurely in a white silk blouse. Rebecca was grateful Iris was still interested in working for her — she didn’t need the money judging by her wardrobe and regular visits to an expensive hairdresser.

After twenty minutes, Iris looked up over her glasses. “I know what’ll put some colour back into those cheeks. What do you say we go for some Chinese.”

Rebecca grabbed her gabardine jacket and locked up. They made their way down the stairs.

“Parents coming home soon?” Iris asked, her patent leather heels clunking down the steps behind Rebecca.

“They’ll be back next week for Passover.”

She pushed open the back door of the converted house. What little yard had existed was paved over with asphalt. Iris’ Buick and Rebecca’s Jaguar coupe stood in the waning sun. Behind the buildings opposite, a common laneway of cracked cement ran between rows of garages; their wood, grey with age, leaned in various stages of decay. Rebecca’s heart dipped at the sight of the backsides of these houses, always shabbier than the fronts, always the last resting place of things that had outlived their usefulness. The houses, made up like dowagers on the street-side, with lace trim and correct sashes in place, sagged in the rear, so to speak. Rusting tools lay where they had fallen, wood buckled from the sun. Last year’s chrysanthemums, desiccated, pathetic, crumbled sideways in overturned pots.

“Do you ever watch The Fonz?” Iris said as they stepped onto the sidewalk of D’ Arcy Street.

“The what?”

“You must’ve heard of ‘Happy Days.’ It’s on Tuesday nights. My kids watch it every week. The Fonz is this high-school drop-out with an unpronounceable name. He wears a leather jacket and does this funny thing with his thumbs.” She demonstrated, making fists and sticking both thumbs up in the air.

“Is that the one that’s set in the fifties?”

“That’s the best part. Remember the clothes? Those tight sweaters! Well, you were younger than me — I was in my twenties. They’re too happy — I know things weren’t as good as that — still, it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling watching it.”

Maybe that was what Rebecca needed. A TV show with a laugh track. Couldn’t hurt.

The evening sun warmed Beverley Street. They passed Lambton Lodge, the mansion built by George Brown, brick-solid with its mansard roof and the windows set in. What one would expect from the founder of The Globe and a Father of Confederation. Looking up to the third storey, she wondered in which room he had died from that gangrenous wound. The violence was out of place; he’d been shot elsewhere by a disgruntled employee and carried to this gentler street to die. Lambton Lodge. Even the name was soft. It was a private school now, with trendy awnings.

They walked up Baldwin Street past the narrow painted-brick homes, their chain-link fences protecting dollhouse lawns of drab brown grass. One bore a single ragged tree; another grew patio stones end to end. The house on the corner had been painted apple green and converted into the Sun Yat Sen Chinese school.

Spadina Avenue swarmed with evening traffic. It was still bright daylight but the pedestrians on the other side were faceless in the expanding distance.

“There’s the El Mocambo.” Iris pointed north to the tavern. Its stylized palm tree sign was a neighbourhood landmark. “Did you see the picture in The Star — Margaret Trudeau hobnobbing there with the Stones? In a tavern, no less. Now that girl’s got a social life.”

Rebecca smiled at her immaculately groomed friend and turned her attention to the street. The heat rising from the cars made the air fluid. They walked toward the push-button stop-lights where even inveterate jaywalkers waited. Trying to cross the six lanes of the street without lights was a quick route to eternity.

They began to walk on the green light, but halfway across the light changed and Rebecca dashed forward. Iris trailed behind, gingerly stepping between the streetcar tracks in her elegant heels, until she reached the other side.

A truck driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey, lady, want me to get behind and push?”

She struck a pose at the edge of the road, hand on her hip, and yelled out, “That depends on what you’re going to push with!”

In the Spadina Garden restaurant Rebecca picked at her meal of spicy cashew chicken in a restless silence. In restaurants lately, the food on the menu always seemed so appetizing, until it arrived. She would take a few bites then realize she was going to gag if she ate anything. She spent the rest of the time pushing food around on her plate, hoping no one would notice she wasn’t eating. But she couldn’t fool Iris.

“No wonder I’m getting fatter,” Iris said. “I keep finishing your meals.” Once it was established that Rebecca was not going to eat what had arrived on her plate, Iris speared her fork into the chicken pieces across the table.

Rebecca tried to smile. “Maybe you need to walk around the block with me.”

“Maybe you need to eat more.” She observed her friend across the table. “You seem distracted.”

Rebecca glanced from Iris’ upswept blonde hair to an old Chinese woman walking past the window. “I’m wondering what happened to Mrs. Kochinsky.”

Iris jabbed her fork into the air. “If we worried every time a patient missed an appointment.... You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been looking pale lately. And you’re not eating....”

“I’m alright,” she cut her off.

Iris’ grey eyes turned away quickly.

Rebecca leaned forward and softened her voice. “I appreciate your concern, Iris, but I’m alright. Really. It’s just going to take time.”

She lifted her finger in the air to attract the attention of the waitress. “Cheque, please.”

Rebecca threaded her sports car in and out of rush hour traffic like an agitated teenager. She usually avoided Bathurst Street if she could but it was the fastest way to Mrs. Kochinsky’s house. A truck honked as she cut in front. The little red Jaguar XJS had belonged to David; he had been the one with a sense of panache. She never cared one way or another which car she drove as long as it got her there. Hers had been one of those beige Oldsmobiles that faded into the traffic, but when he died she had surprised herself by selling hers and keeping his.

Her father liked GM cars. He had driven a long line of Chevys till he could finally afford to buy himself an Olds. His pharmacy had thrived because he never lost his sense of humour and customers enjoyed dealing with him. Rebecca’s mother took care of the buying and kept the books. All in the family. Now that they had sold the business and retired, Mitch and Flo Temple had become snowbirds, migrating to California for the winter. They were finally wending their way home next week, thank God. Rebecca missed her father’s bad jokes, her mother’s strength and common sense. None of them felt in any condition to cook for Passover this year. David’s death had sapped everyone’s spirit and energy. So Rebecca had ordered a kosher dinner from a reliable caterer, mostly in deference to Susan and her Orthodox husband who were driving in from Montreal with the kids. Rebecca wished she were closer to her sister. She could’ve used a friend these past months. Not that Susan didn’t try. She had offered herself as a shoulder to lean on, a phone number at night if Rebecca wanted to talk. But Susan had plenty on her plate already — three kids weren’t enough to take care of? At least her husband wasn’t too traditional to help out. Just traditional enough to require paper plates for the Seder since Rebecca’s kitchen wasn’t kosher. That was all right, they all liked him. But Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to call Susan when she needed to cry at night.

Rebecca pulled into the driveway beside Mrs. Kochinsky’s duplex. Daylight clung to the street in that long moment before dusk turns it blue. The building, like all the others along that stretch of Bathurst Street, looked quite respectable for forty or fifty years old, the exterior in good repair. She sat in the car a moment, restrained by the thought of the surprised Greta Garbo face when she opened the door.

“Is it really Wednesday already?” Mrs. Kochinsky might say. “I lost track of time.”

Maybe she was out on the town with her cousin from the States. Had he been the one who’d sent the photo Mrs. Kochinsky had flashed before Rebecca’s face? Apparently she’d only met him once, when he was a boy in Poland. They had exchanged some letters when she lived in Argentina but they had lost touch. Then the sudden phone call. Maybe he’d arrived, and in all the excitement of catching up, she’d forgotten what day it was. It happened. If that was the case Rebecca would admonish her gently and go away relieved. But she had to check and make sure her patient was all right.

Carrying her black medical bag, she climbed the steps to the wooden front door. She lifted the brass lion’s head knocker and clanged it twice. There was no sound of stirring from inside, no one preparing to open the door. She turned the knob and was surprised to find it moved easily. As soon as she opened the door, her heart reeled. Inside the small vestibule, the door to Mrs. Kochinsky’s apartment stood ajar. The glass panel, still covered by a sheer curtain, had been smashed, leaving a jagged hole. She pushed the door open and called out, “Mrs. Kochinsky?”

The place had been ransacked. She ought to leave to call the police rather than risk meeting the intruder face to face. She stood very still on the threshold, listening. The silence hung in the air. Only the desultory hum of tires on Bathurst Street and her own ragged breath interrupted the quiet. How could she leave without checking her patient?

“Mrs. Kochinsky? It’s Dr. Temple.” Nothing.

From the dimness of the entrance hall she could see coffee tables on their sides, ornamental cushions, vases, framed photos scattered on the floor. The kitchen lay straight ahead at the end of the hall; to the left, the living- and dining-room. Stepping over the shards on the floor, she moved forward, then stopped.

The muscles in her neck suddenly tightened. Adrenaline leaped through her chest. Mrs. Kochinsky lay crumpled, near the fireplace, like a pile of cast-off clothes.

Rebecca ran around an upturned chair to reach her, called out her name for a response. There was none. She kneeled down, her heart pounded against her ribcage. The woman’s face had turned a dark congested purple. Her eyes bulged. A line had been burned across her neck, tell-tale contusions and abrasions left by a ligature. A rope, a cord, something solid wielded by someone strong. Rebecca placed her fingers flat against the woman’s carotid artery. The neck and jaw were slack, the skin clammy. She shuddered at the unnatural angle of the lifeless head. The bastard had pulled so tight he had broken her neck. Crushed her like a bird. Rebecca closed her eyes and suddenly there was Mrs. Kochinsky, terrified in her office yesterday. Yesterday. A quiet panic took hold of Rebecca. The woman had run to her for help. Mrs. Kochinsky had trusted her. Rebecca could almost hear her: I know you care, that’s why I keep coming, I put myself in your hands. She looked down at her hands. She was responsible. And what had she done? Soothed her with words. Bathed her with platitudes while blinded by her own diagnosis of paranoia. No. Mrs. Kochinsky was paranoid. Wasn’t she? All those times men had chased her across her nightmares, all those times Rebecca thought her patient was viewing things through her own distorted lens, perhaps it had been Rebecca misinterpreting, denying. Perhaps Mrs. Kochinsky had seen exactly what was there. Rebecca could hardly fathom it. She had been convinced of her patient’s paranoia. And yet the woman was lying dead at Rebecca’s feet.

She stood up wavering, numb with an old pain. Her last memory of David’s face flashed by, white against the white sheet, his mouth loosened at the jaw, foreign, his body empty of him, the emptiness taking her over. She felt it wring her heart the same way, the old squeezing inside her chest. Surprising how much she cared for the old woman. How the bond between them had grown stronger when David died, each understanding the grief of the other. And she needed Rebecca so much; she said Rebecca helped her stay alive one week to the next. Then why was she dead? Why was she lying there in her pyjamas, fallen awkwardly on her side, arm beneath her back? Stay calm, thought Rebecca. Look carefully. Piece it together. There must have been a struggle. Rigor mortis still clamped part of the body tight but had released the small muscles. Mrs. Kochinsky had been dead all day, maybe all night. She seemed much smaller now than when she was alive.

A pale light filtered through the brocade curtains of the front window, creating murky twilight an hour early. Rebecca realized the chandelier in the diningroom was on. Last night. He’d come last night. But who? She glanced around the littered apartment. Could she be sure it wasn’t exactly what it appeared? Why couldn’t it have been a burglar? Maybe instead of the Argentine death squad Mrs. Kochinsky anticipated every day of her life, it had been a thief caught in the act who had played out her worst nightmare. Was it impossible that she had fled persecution on two continents only to find meaningless death on the third? Yet would a thief come here? The woman was not rich. If they were looking for saleable goods, any of the houses on the winding, genteel streets off Bathurst would have yielded more.

Hovering at the edge of the living-room, Rebecca realized the side door to the apartment was open. It led to a short hall and the back staircases, one upper, one leading to the basement, then the door to the outside. This must have been the way the killer got out. He would have ended up in the laneway at the side of the house. No problem escaping unseen.

On her way to the phone in the kitchen, Rebecca passed the bedroom: everything Mrs. Kochinksy owned lay scattered on the bed and floor — cosmetics, clothes, shoes. On the dresser her leather purse resembled a dead animal, its insides pulled out. The wallet sat open, presumably empty. A robbery? A good imitation?

Rebecca stood on the threshold of the kitchen, looking for the phone. The receiver hung from the wall. Mrs. Kochinsky must have run in here, trying to call for help. The killer had torn the cord out of the wall. Then he chased her into the living-room. Trying to piece it together was giving Rebecca the creeps. He may have been gone, but the aura of his presence was strong; an evil cloud filled the apartment, it smelled of him.

Rebecca didn’t want to disturb any evidence. Turning left, she stepped through the dining-room and continued into the den. Through the windows, the small backyard and garage were fading into the dim evening. The room itself seemed untouched. She found a desk in the corner. On it a phone sat beside a chocolate box filled with bills and receipts. Some papers lay to one side. The detritus of daily life. Garbage now that the inhabitant was dead. How much correspondence with art supply houses and galleries had she thrown out when David had died. All his notebooks. Wipe the slate clean. Start afresh. The clichés sounded right, but they didn’t work. Envelopes for David Adler still arrived with regularity at the house. Each time she dropped one in the garbage she saw his face white against the sheet.

Using a tissue from her pocket, she draped the receiver before lifting it and dialed 911. This line had not been disconnected. The dispatcher said that police and ambulance were on their way. Rebecca wondered how quickly they would arrive, considering there was no medical emergency. While she was relaying the information, her eyes fell on the papers near the phone. On top was a card printed in Spanish outlined with a black border. She used her high school Spanish to decipher the announcement of the death of Carlos Velasco, son of Isabella, to be buried in Tablada Cemetery, Buenos Aires, in February 1977. What was this doing in a pile of current mail?

The past few years had not been good to Mrs. Kochinsky. First her husband died, then during the vulnerability of her widowhood, the regime pursued her into the torture chamber in order to catch the son who produced plodding but graphic song lyrics about bloodthirsty generals and death squads in uniform. The death of Carlos Velasco may have been history, but the card had just been received. Why else was it keeping company with Mrs. Kochinsky’s latest hydro bill? It was like a voice from the past. The expression stopped Rebecca cold. A voice from the past. Rebecca remembered the cousin and the photo of the duck. Suddenly she wished she’d gotten a better look at the picture when Mrs. Kochinsky had waved it around in the office. It hadn’t been among the papers near the phone in the den. The purse. Mrs. Kochinsky had brought it out of her purse.

Rebecca tiptoed toward the bedroom as if her steps would disturb someone. She could see everything from the doorstep of the small room. All the drawers from the white dresser stood open, the clothes from inside dumped in heaps on the peach broadloom. On the nightstand, strangely untouched, lay a grey doll in a striped dress, a crude shabby thing for someone as elegant as Mrs. Kochinsky. The police would be there any minute. She took wary steps toward the emptied purse on the dresser. She touched nothing but scrutinized the papers lying nearby. A few things had fallen to the floor. A chequebook, a recipe, some store receipts, a shopping list. The picture wasn’t there. Crouching in a clear area at the foot of the bed, she gingerly lifted the bedskirt. There was nothing underneath. She didn’t want to disturb evidence but she had to know. She poked her foot into the clothes on the floor. She inspected the piles of shoes in the closet. Nothing. It was as clear as day to her now: whoever had killed Mrs. Kochinsky had taken the picture. The inexplicable photocopy of the duck was missing.