Little Boy Blues. Mary Jane Maffini
in gear and get down here yourself.”
• • •
“No wonder young Ferguson’s so upset,” Mrs. Parnell said.
“It explains a lot.” I followed her into the living room.
“Imagine, his brother is missing and doesn’t have the intellect to deal with danger effectively.”
Mrs. Parnell looked fondly towards her black leather sofa, where Alvin was curled up under the zebra throw. “We have to do something.”
“Donald Donnie MacDonald said a near-drowning accident caused Jimmy’s brain damage. He said Alvin was there. If that’s not traumatic, what is?”
Mrs. P. splashed herself a healthy dose of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. “It would be. The symptoms often show up long after the event. Then something triggers the memory, and it’s more than the lad can deal with.”
“Okay. First we get him home. Then we figure out what’s going on in his head.”
Mrs. Parnell stood, silent, staring out her window, at the long view down the Ottawa River toward Parliament Hill.
“Some of these boys never recover. The hospitals were full of them, you know, after both the wars. Wasted young men.”
“That won’t happen with Alvin. He’s resilient. Look at how he bounced back from all our problems last winter.”
Mrs. P. picked up the photo again. “I believe you are correct, Ms. MacPhee. I think this beautiful boy is the key to our understanding. If this accident is the root of it, young Ferguson obviously never had any help to deal with the trauma.”
“Kids often don’t talk about things. Let’s give the family the benefit of the doubt and find out what happened before we court martial them.” I didn’t want to inflame the situation by mentioning that Alvin was not the easiest person to understand or by suggesting his family might find him as baffling as I did.
“You are right, Ms. MacPhee. That is the honourable thing to do. But I believe in the end, it will be left to us to find out what young Ferguson’s problem is.”
I hate it when she’s right. “We have to call them and tell them he will be home as soon as possible. As I said, it’s better if you make that call, Mrs. P.”
She folded her arms.
“We have to,” I said. “What if they get news, good or bad, and can’t reach him? That would certainly compound his problems, wouldn’t it? Don’t be surprised if you get collect calls. And you’d better give them my cell number too, for emergency only.”
“I suppose we have no choice. We must keep the channels of communication open to the front.”
“Right. And another thing, whatever the problem is, Alvin’s in no shape to travel by himself. He can’t go on a plane like this by himself. And as you say, his family will be way too distracted to worry about him. I’d better go too.”
• • •
First things first, I thought. Before I headed out, I called my doctor and left an urgent message. The next message was for my travel agent asking about booking the most direct flights to Sydney. I left Mrs. Parnell’s number with her. While waiting for the beep, I had a brainwave. Leonard Mombourquette’s family were from somewhere in Cape Breton too. I was betting he’d have the connections. It’s a gene-pool thing. Worth taking a few more digs about me and Stan’s Buick. I tried to reach Mombourquette at his Ottawa Police Services extension and at his cellphone number, but he was holed up somewhere. I left messages asking him to get a line on Jimmy Ferguson’s disappearance. In the meantime, I had places to go and people to see.
• • •
I needed to know I could get back home fast in an emergency, so I took the Buick. Bonus, it had air conditioning. I wouldn’t have been much good to anyone poached. Stan would understand.
I buzzed down to Elgin Street and, despite the afternoon holiday crowds, I found a parking meter. I headed into the inferno that was Justice for Victims and snatched up my briefcase. I jammed the more pressing files into it. If I was going to be unavailable until we got Alvin settled, I could at least pay the overdue bills.
Miraculously, my cellphone rang. My doctor was happy to confirm what I thought: that Alvin should get professional help as soon as possible. “But don’t hold your breath,” she said. “It takes a while to get in to see someone. Unless you think he should check into the psych ward.”
I was hardly qualified to make this decision. “No,” I said. “He’ll be better off with me and with his family. He can probably get in to see someone faster in Sydney. To be on the safe side, can you try to get him a referral here for when we get back?”
• • •
Since the Buick was already on the road, and I still had Alvin’s apartment keys in my pocket, I decided to whip over to Hull and collect a few essentials for him. Somewhat belatedly, it had crossed my mind that we should pick up his health card and ID. Not to mention toiletries and clean clothes. That way if we got him a last minute flight, we’d be off in a flash.
I parked the Buick with due care and consideration and bolted into Alvin’s apartment. I ignored the Thinker, Winker, Blinker and Stinker and tried to keep my wits about me. Where would Alvin keep his documents and ID? Okay, he had a cabbage rose in the toilet. So, not there. I checked the fuschia fridge. It was well supplied with neatly organized oil paints, brushes, acrylics, watercolours and other artist’s gear. I noted the inside of the fridge was the only comfortable spot in the apartment. No sign of Alvin’s ID and health card. Fine.
I found nothing in the kitchen except spices and condiments and the makings of small, neat meals.
I headed for the bedroom. Feeling a bit guilty about ignoring the tangle of sheets in Alvin’s room, I rummaged through the dresser drawers. Because it was Alvin’s, I started at the bottom drawer, assuming he’d do everything in reverse. I was right. I turned up nothing of note, unless your interests included underwear in exotic patterns.
The second drawer yielded socks, in every colour you could imagine, neatly lined up following the spectrum. Who knew Alvin had such a rich inner life?
The top drawer held hundreds of postcards, packed together with elastic bands, neatly, as I had come to expect. Most had a telltale Cape Breton tartan design, a piper, or a panoramic shot of some part of the Cabot Trail. Lobster shots figured prominently. Some of the lobsters wore tams at jaunty angles. Others played bagpipes or lounged on beach chairs or were winning big at the casino. No accounting for taste.
I riffled through the postcards, which contained innocuous messages, written in uneven letters. I kept hunting. It would be just like Alvin to hide his documents behind a partly-dressed lobster.
Nothing turned up. I tucked the postcards back in the drawer.
I was hot and bothered by the time I located Alvin’s brown and gold Quebec medical insurance card along with his other IDin the inside pocket of that damned leather jacket. Alvin looked like a deranged raven in the photo.
I grabbed theID, some underwear and socks in electrifying shades, a number of blackT-shirts, the blue-striped pyjamas, the toothbrush and Crest and stuffed them all into his kitbag. I decided to take the leather jacket in case it got cold in Sydney. I added a few basic art supplies, watercolour pencils and a notebook, to keep his mind occupied on the trip down East.
I hesitated as I walked by The Stinker. Then I headed back into the bedroom, where I made Alvin’s bed. While straightening the sheets, I found one of his missing earrings. The others turned up under the bed. Alvin must have been spinning like a bad stock.
I had a clear conscience by the time I locked the apartment door and slung the kit-bag over my shoulder. On the way out I noticed the row of mailboxes in the front foyer. A small key on Alvin’s key chain opened his mail slot.
The mailbox contained