Jeremy squealed and clapped. “Oh
my, oh my. No fruit?”
“Fruit too.” She leaned into the van and
pulled out two reusable grocery bags. “You want to hand out the oranges for
me?”
“Can I have another brownie?”
“If there are enough, you can.”
“Deal.” He tucked his food into the side
pockets of his oversized jacket, gathered up the bags and traipsed through the
park distributing fruit to the other residents. He chatted with each of them, his
hands doing more talking than his mouth. He made a wide berth around Chief.
She pulled a smaller bag from behind the
now-empty box, closed the van and crossed the park. Chief sat at attention in
the shrub, his face an emotionless mask.
“Good morning. How are you doing today?”
He answered her the same way he did every
day. With silence.
“Well, I’ve had better days.” She sat cross-legged
in front of him and rolled down the edges of the bag. “Tuna on rye today, and
an orange. I already cut it in wedges so you don’t have to peel it.” She set
those in front of him and unfolded the parchment to reveal his breakfast. She pulled
the straw from a drinking box of chocolate milk, released it from its
cellophane wrapper and poked it into the silver hole. She set that next to the
sandwich.
He eyed the food and glanced at her. He
inched one arm out from its protected spot under his armpit, picked up one half
of the tuna and took a small nibble. He chewed once, then followed right away
with a bigger bite.
Until now he would wait until she walked
away before he’d start eating. A sign of trust perhaps? Or was it only because
he was as hungry as the rest of them? At least the need for food, the will to
survive, outweighed his silent posturing. Definite progress.
She scanned the park while he chewed and
swallowed. Most every resident was fixated on the drama of her interactions
with Chief. He’d made quite the impression on all of them. Had they set aside
their wariness and become as concerned for him as they were for each other? She
had proven he was not a threat. But she still had no idea who he was or why he
was there. Or why he wouldn’t speak.
“Do you have family?”
He stopped sucking on the milk and turned
to stone.
“Mine are dead. All of them.”
His eyes went cold.
She should shut the hell up. Not press too
many buttons at once. But she needed to talk to someone. Her friends had all
but abandoned her in the past two years. She couldn’t talk to Althea about
anything. Cecilia just wanted to get her laid. There was Finn. But she didn’t
want to talk case files and fingerprints. She needed to just talk. To someone.
Anyone.
“Dad died when I was a kid. Eighteen. Okay,
maybe that’s not a kid, legally speaking. But I still needed my daddy, you
know?”
Sucking sounds filled her ears. Chief drained
his milk box, the wonderful noise of the last drops being pulled through the
straw like music in the air.
“Here, I brought you another.”
He took care in pulling the straw free of
its tether and poking it through the hole. Then he sucked on it until the same
end-of-milk sounds came.
Jem held out her hands and he placed both
cartons in her palms. She set them beside her. “Do you like brownies?” She
handed him a small parchment wrapped package.
He took a bite from the corner and glanced
at her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. But there was silent appreciation.
“So, I was telling you about my dad. He had
a heart attack. At the kitchen table. Forty-two years old.” She stared past
Chief’s head at a lone blue blossom in the bush. “I was working at the time,
summer job before university. Mom found him. He was crumpled on the linoleum,
fried egg and bacon all over the table and floor. He’d pulled his breakfast
plate off when he keeled over. I always thought it was his way of saying, look,
the bacon did it. I was killed by bad breakfast choices.” She smirked and
looked at her hands. “He was you know. Bad food. Bad cholesterol.
my, oh my. No fruit?”
“Fruit too.” She leaned into the van and
pulled out two reusable grocery bags. “You want to hand out the oranges for
me?”
“Can I have another brownie?”
“If there are enough, you can.”
“Deal.” He tucked his food into the side
pockets of his oversized jacket, gathered up the bags and traipsed through the
park distributing fruit to the other residents. He chatted with each of them, his
hands doing more talking than his mouth. He made a wide berth around Chief.
She pulled a smaller bag from behind the
now-empty box, closed the van and crossed the park. Chief sat at attention in
the shrub, his face an emotionless mask.
“Good morning. How are you doing today?”
He answered her the same way he did every
day. With silence.
“Well, I’ve had better days.” She sat cross-legged
in front of him and rolled down the edges of the bag. “Tuna on rye today, and
an orange. I already cut it in wedges so you don’t have to peel it.” She set
those in front of him and unfolded the parchment to reveal his breakfast. She pulled
the straw from a drinking box of chocolate milk, released it from its
cellophane wrapper and poked it into the silver hole. She set that next to the
sandwich.
He eyed the food and glanced at her. He
inched one arm out from its protected spot under his armpit, picked up one half
of the tuna and took a small nibble. He chewed once, then followed right away
with a bigger bite.
Until now he would wait until she walked
away before he’d start eating. A sign of trust perhaps? Or was it only because
he was as hungry as the rest of them? At least the need for food, the will to
survive, outweighed his silent posturing. Definite progress.
She scanned the park while he chewed and
swallowed. Most every resident was fixated on the drama of her interactions
with Chief. He’d made quite the impression on all of them. Had they set aside
their wariness and become as concerned for him as they were for each other? She
had proven he was not a threat. But she still had no idea who he was or why he
was there. Or why he wouldn’t speak.
“Do you have family?”
He stopped sucking on the milk and turned
to stone.
“Mine are dead. All of them.”
His eyes went cold.
She should shut the hell up. Not press too
many buttons at once. But she needed to talk to someone. Her friends had all
but abandoned her in the past two years. She couldn’t talk to Althea about
anything. Cecilia just wanted to get her laid. There was Finn. But she didn’t
want to talk case files and fingerprints. She needed to just talk. To someone.
Anyone.
“Dad died when I was a kid. Eighteen. Okay,
maybe that’s not a kid, legally speaking. But I still needed my daddy, you
know?”
Sucking sounds filled her ears. Chief drained
his milk box, the wonderful noise of the last drops being pulled through the
straw like music in the air.
“Here, I brought you another.”
He took care in pulling the straw free of
its tether and poking it through the hole. Then he sucked on it until the same
end-of-milk sounds came.
Jem held out her hands and he placed both
cartons in her palms. She set them beside her. “Do you like brownies?” She
handed him a small parchment wrapped package.
He took a bite from the corner and glanced
at her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. But there was silent appreciation.
“So, I was telling you about my dad. He had
a heart attack. At the kitchen table. Forty-two years old.” She stared past
Chief’s head at a lone blue blossom in the bush. “I was working at the time,
summer job before university. Mom found him. He was crumpled on the linoleum,
fried egg and bacon all over the table and floor. He’d pulled his breakfast
plate off when he keeled over. I always thought it was his way of saying, look,
the bacon did it. I was killed by bad breakfast choices.” She smirked and
looked at her hands. “He was you know. Bad food. Bad cholesterol.
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