Fauna (29 page)

Edal stops. “Did you hear something?”

He nods. “Probably rats.” No sense spoiling things.

The next clutch of green bins is the ripest so far, radiating a gag-reflex fog of spoiled meat. Guy holds his breath, widening his eyes at Edal. She puffs her cheeks out in reply, jogs ahead a ways before gulping for air. “Next time, I choose the route.”

“Next time?” He smiles. There’s just enough light to make out her response—her small mouth mirroring his, the seriousness in her gaze. He should say something. Either that or keep quiet. Women like a man who listens—he’s sure Aunt Jan told him that. But does it count as listening if the woman says nothing? If she holds stock-still and watches you through her wide-set eyes?

The voice, when it comes, belongs to neither of them. A high cackle reminiscent of the funhouse, it shatters the
uneasy peace. A night-blue Dumpster looms between them and the source—the cackle peaking, breaking off with a harsh, skipping hiss. Guy holds a finger to his lips and motions for Edal to follow him. At the Dumpster’s rusted corner, he reaches back and, after several suspended seconds, feels the shock of her hand in his. He draws her up alongside him to see.

There must be a dozen of them, the nearest perhaps three paces from the tip of Guy’s boot. He does his best to count while they’re holding still, staring back at him. Eleven, twelve—a baker’s dozen, all told. Twenty-six ears like white letter
Us
upturned, twenty-six eyes like cherries lit from within. It’s the same face over and over: eyes set in a band of black, white brow and snout, dark knob of nose. A clown’s face, funny and frightening in one.

The scene is one of reeking plenty. Between the Dumpster and the Precious Pearl’s back door, a trio of green bins lie tipped and gutted. One by one, the raccoons sit up tall, showing their moulting bellies, their dark and dangling hands. Guy breathes shallowly, his attention torn between the diminutive crowd before him and the hand still clasping his own.

When one of the larger raccoons relaxes back onto all fours, the others seem to take it as a signal: yes, we’re being watched, but the watchers mean us no immediate harm. Soon every one of them is back at work, feeling through the muck. One touches a lump of broccoli to its nose. Another plucks up a crab claw and squeals. Guy glances at Edal. Her lips are parted, her gaze soft—a movie-house expression of uncomplicated delight. He gives her fingers a squeeze, and she squeezes back.

“See that big male?” Her whisper sends a small thrill through the group. “Over by the drainpipe, the one with the fish head?”

The animal in question sits off on its own, gnawing a pointed, silvery skull.

“How can you tell it’s a male?”

“Size. And their faces are wider. Broader snouts.” Her brow furrows. “It’s weird, him being here. Mature males keep to themselves as a rule.”

Just then a slighter specimen locates treasure beneath a leafy mound. It tugs hard, dragging a slippery mass into the open, forgetting to respect the corner claimed by the big male. The growl could be a German shepherd’s. The young raccoon spins to face the threat, the big male dropping forward, scooting the fish head back between its hind legs. Arching its spine, it lowers its chin to the pavement, flattens its ears and screams. The other turns tail, a banded, quivering target that urges the male to spring. The bite is real enough—the resulting yelp makes Guy wince—but the male lets go almost at once, allowing its victim to scramble away.

“Tough guy,” Edal says softly beside him. And then she takes back her hand.

It helps a little that she uses it to point. Beyond the furthest bin, a raccoon is scooping its forepaw deep into a glinting jar. It draws out a handful of something dark, holds it not to its own mouth, as Guy expects, but to the mouth of another—an undersized creature that initially appeared to be part of its haunch.

“See it?” Edal says in his ear.

He does now. Not a kit but a kitten. It’s harder to make out than its boldly marked adoptive mother, but Guy knows a tabby when he sees one. Even without the beautiful white belly and paws.

The raccoon digs again into the jar and holds out the takings, but this time the kitten tries to sit up and copy its mother. It fumbles like a toddler in oven mitts, knocking over the jar and rolling it against the raccoon’s foot. The mother burbles—a soothing, frog-pond sound—and offers the handful again.

As the kitten nuzzles deep into the cup of the raccoon’s hand, Guy flashes on the horses at Riverdale Farm, the way they mouthed the carrots he held out to them, closing their giant eyes. He used to love the little city farm. It’s only the far side of the footbridge; why does he never go? He resolves to mention it to Edal, ask if she’s ever been.

The kitten’s tongue is tiny in comparison with a horse’s, rough and persistent—just right for licking a raccoon’s nimble digits clean. At last it lifts its greasy face, turning it up into a cut of light from the caged bulb above the kitchen door. Its eyes are golden, fastened on its guardian, charming the next mouthful from the jar.

It’s the last mouthful of the night, at least from that particular source. The door of the Pearl sounds a hard click, an alarm that ripples across every stooped and furry back. Light sweeps over their bristling forms as a kid of maybe thirteen fills the door frame, his ankle-length apron stained like a surgeon’s gown. He shrieks—a boy’s best effort at a yell—and the raccoons scatter, wheeling and humping away. They’re gone in seconds, flesh turned to shadow, leaving their mess behind. The adoptive mother is the last of them to disappear, herding the skinny kitten into the night.

The kid glares at Guy and Edal.

“Hi—” Guy begins, but the kid looses a line of rapid-fire
Cantonese, digging violently in his apron pocket and producing a pack of cigarettes. Guy recognizes Export Plain, Uncle Ernie’s brand. Uncle Ernie never shook his smokes like that, though, like they were proof of a crime committed, or a hint of retribution to come.

“Guilty by association,” Edal says quietly. “Come on.”

The kid ups his volume as they turn to go, Edal hurrying her stride comically in response. Guy overtakes her, breaking into a jog, and she lets out a little yelp, a puppyish sound that trips a rush of boyhood in his veins. She’s beside him in moments, arms pumping, and then she’s off.

There’s something wild in the way she runs, a wiry abandon more compelling by far than grace. Guy has his work cut out for him catching up. The tarred length of the alley sounds in his bones; blood beats in his neck, runs like a thaw in his extremities, threatening to flood. When he draws flush with her, she’s smiling, showing her teeth. It’s all he can do to match her, breasting the invisible ribbon at the alley’s end by her side.

They pull up hard between two parked cars, Guy planting his feet side-on like a star forward, feeling the shudder in his teeth. He throws out an arm as a brake for Edal, but she never meets it, seeming to stop as she started, with a spring.

“Not bad.” He bends, hands on his knees, breathing hungrily through his open mouth.

She’s walking a ring around him, winding down. “I’d’ve beaten you in another quarter block.”

He laughs. “Less.”

Still she circles him like the second hand on a clock, moving in and out of view. He straightens, runs a hand
through his hair. “Hey, how come you know so much about animals, anyway?”

The question stops her cold. “I don’t,” she says after a moment.

“Sure you do. The raccoons, the hawk.”

There’s a sudden stiffness about her. “I grew up in the country.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“North.”

“Where north?”

Again she hesitates. “Up toward Owen Sound.”

“Owen Sound.” He should probably leave it at that. “I’ve never been. I hear it’s nice.”

She lets out a snort, a sound harsher than he’d have thought her small nose capable of producing. “Yeah, well.” She turns, orienting herself toward the lights along Gerrard. “I should be going.”

“Oh.” Guy feels his face fall. “Okay.”

“See you.” A tight over-the-shoulder smile.

“Yeah, see you.”

She doesn’t exactly run, but he can tell she wants to. She can’t wait to get away.

It happens naturally enough, Kate and Lily leaving at the same time, standing at the gate with Billy swaying on his feet between them.

“The cats’ll be pissed,” Kate says as Lily leans in to work the padlock. “I should’ve been home to feed them by now.”

Lily draws open the gate and the three of them slip out into the empty street. “What are their names?” She turns to lock up.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Come on, they can’t be that bad.”

“I didn’t name them.”

“Name them what?”

Kate shakes her head. “Smoke and Fire.”

“Jesus, did you hear that, Billy?”

“I know, I know. It suits them, though. Smoke’s grey and fluffy, and she generally takes her time. She’s only got one eye, but she’s still the one in charge. Fire’s a little on the skittish side. He’s—”

“Let me guess, an orange tabby.”

“I’m afraid so. They were littermates. They’re pretty much inseparable.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Where there’s smoke …”

Kate closes her eyes. Lou-Lou and her corny lines. “Yeah, well, like I said, I didn’t name them.”

Who did?
It’s the obvious response—the one Kate both hopes for and dreads—but Lily takes a tack of her own.

“Can I meet them?”

“Meet them? Sure.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight?” Kate’s heart is suddenly clumsy, knocking wildly in her chest. “Okay.”

The walk calms her. It helps keeping her eyes forward, swinging her limbs. Chinatown’s quiet for a Friday. Neither one of them speaks, yet an easiness settles in the space between them, as though they’ve known each other far longer than a
handful of days. Billy’s presence helps, just as it did when they stood together watching him swim.

“How’s Billy with cats?” she asks as they turn onto Withrow.

“Don’t worry.” Lily lays a hand on his rump. “He’ll be good.”

Yard after pretty little yard. What if the wilderness really did take it all back one day? Imagine all these gardens trampled. Roofs torn open by gleaming tusks, cars strangled, concrete heaving and splitting apart. Would Smoke and Fire turn feral and attack her, or would they spare her, the way Mowgli spared Messua, the human who had shown him love?

“That was some story Guy read tonight,” Kate says.

“Yeah, freaky.”

“He do that often?”

“Every night this week.”

“Huh.”

“I like it,” Lily adds after a moment.

“Yeah, me too.” She glances up to find they’ve reached the house. “Well, here we are.”

Lily stops on the sidewalk and stares. “This is your place?”

Kate sees what she always does: a simple two-storey row house, the lucky end spot in a line of four. Only maybe it’s not so simple, not through the eyes of somebody who sleeps outside. She looks again, noticing the brick path Lou-Lou laid down with a river bend in mind, the blooming lilac, the painted porch with its clapped-out wicker chairs. “Yep,” she says brightly, “this is it.”

Lily follows her wordlessly up the path, standing on the steps while Kate unlocks the door.

“Come on in.” Kate steps inside and slips off her shoes, setting her bag down on the heavy hall stand. It’s one of Lou-Lou’s better garbage-day finds—scratched and pallid when she dragged it home in the hatchback, now a dark cinnamon colour, glossy to the touch. She glances up to see Lily still standing at the threshold, looking terribly young. “Come in. You too, Billy. Both of you.”

“Should I take my shoes off?”

“Only if you want to. Come through to the kitchen, I’ll make us some tea.”

Kate busies herself with filling the kettle, warming the pot. Cups and saucers is what Mummy would do, and Lily might think it’s fun—or it might make her feel out of place. Better to go for a hybrid, teapot and sugar bowl, milk carton and mugs.

She turns to find Lily seated at the kitchen table with Billy gathered close against her. Their eyes meet briefly before Lily glances away. “You live here by yourself?”

“Uh-huh. Just me and the cats.” Kate takes a breath. “I inherited it.”

Who from?
is what most people would say next, but again Lily shows herself to be anything but. She nods and rests a hand on Billy’s head. It makes sense in a way, given the closed book of her own past. She won’t ask. It’s up to Kate to give the information away.

“It used to belong to my—”
Housemate
. She comes within a hair’s breadth of letting it slip. “—girlfriend.”

Lily looks up.

“Lou-Lou. Louise.”

No response beyond the unbroken gaze.

“She was older than me. She turned forty not long before … I’m—” She has a sudden urge to lie, call herself twenty, even nineteen. “I’m twenty-two. It was never a problem between us,” she adds hastily. “She never mothered me or anything like that.”

Lily nods.

“We met at the clinic, back when I was still working in Emerg. It was when she brought Smoke in with her eye.”

“What happened?”