Julian (16 page)

Rawlins was sitting on the verandah when I got back to the house, his chair tipped back against the wall. He was barefoot, unshaven, his sandy hair rumpled. He held a guitar across his body, his flat pick dancing across the strings, his left hand sliding up and down the neck as his fingers skipped over the frets. In a deep mournful voice he sang a My-baby-done-me-wrong-but-I-love-him-still kind of song. I almost asked him if he knew Marika.

With a final strum he ended the song and said, “Julian. How goes it?”

“Hey, Rawlins. Practicing for a gig tonight?”

“Just whiling away a hot, lazy afternoon. Come on in and have a cool drink.”

His kitchen was a tight nook with just enough space for a table and two chairs and a window looking onto the
backyard. He pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and poured two tumblers full. I drank my glass half empty before setting it down.

“Ahhh,” I said.

“Been doing thirsty work?”

“I guess so.”

Rawlins got to his feet. “Before I forget, I’m gonna be gigging for a while in Kentucky. There’s a big bluegrass festival down there. So I’ll give you the rent now.”

He disappeared into his bedroom. I heard a drawer open and close. He came back with a wad of bills held together with an elastic band. He plunked it beside my glass and sat down.

“Do you like travelling around and performing?” I asked.

“It’s a living. It’s hard sometimes, with the late nights. Crawling out of bed to get back on the road in time to make the next gig. But it’s easier than it used to be. Back in the day I was an awful man for the drink. And sometimes the guys in the band get on my nerves.” He laughed. “And vice versa. I’ve been playing for so many years it’s in my blood I suppose.”

He took a drink and put down his empty glass.

“Is it lonely sometimes?”

“Oh, yeah, it is that. There are always people around, but when you get right down to it, sometimes you can be lonelier in a crowd than when you’re by yourself, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.” I thought again about the song Rawlins had just sung. “You must have met a lot of people over the years.”

Rawlins nodded, squinting a bit. He’d caught on that I was headed somewhere.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” I said.

He smiled. “You look dead serious all of a sudden. Go ahead.”

“It’s about girls—er, women. Do you have much experience with women?”

His mouth twitched, hiding a smile. “Not enough to write a book. I’m not a player, if that’s what you mean.”

“To be honest, I don’t know what I mean. I … read this story—I read a lot—about a young woman who goes out with this guy for a while—well, a long time—and he starts treating her bad—a bit like that song you were singing, maybe worse—but she doesn’t leave him. Her friends tell her she should, but she makes excuses for him.”

Rawlins got up, went to the fridge and retrieved the iced tea. He refilled our glasses and set the pitcher on the table before sitting down again.

“You can’t figure out why she stays with him,” he said.

“No. Why would she?”

“That question’s been around for a long time. I must know a couple of dozen songs on that theme. Bet there’s a hundred books about it, too.”

“I get it that she loves him,” I said. “What I don’t get is, how could she? And does he love her? Can you love someone and treat her like crap? None of it makes sense to me.”

He chuckled but his laugh had a bitter edge. “What you call sense doesn’t have a whole lot to do with it. This, um, story you’re talking about. Does the man hit her?”

“Not sure. Maybe. But he’s verbally abusive.”

Rawlins chuckled again. “ ‘Verbally abusive.’ Sounds a
lot nicer than ‘He calls her names, insults her, swears at her, tears her down,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Julian, here’s something you can take to the bank. A man who rips a woman apart with words is a breath away from throwing a punch. As for the woman in your story, I’ve known—still know—women like that, including my own big sister. They defend the man who mistreats them. ‘He didn’t mean it. He said he was sorry, he was upset. He’s having trouble at work. It’s really my fault, I made him angry.’ The list of excuses is endless. ‘Deep down I know he loves me’ is the worst.”

Rawlins’s face had coloured and his mouth was pinched to a thin line.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

He recovered quickly. Cleared his throat. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

“Well,” he drawled, “if you ever find the answer, let me know.”

Sleep played hide-and-seek that night, hovering out of reach for a long time. A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the maple behind the garage before slipping through my window screen, a cricket cheeped rhythmically—all sensations that would usually send me off to slumberland in minutes.

But Marika kept me awake, leading my thoughts around in circles. Her behaviour mystified me; maybe that was why, earlier in the evening, I had held back from sending my report along with the supporting photos to Curtis. Plath
had thumbed his nose at the peace bond; that should have been the end of it as far as I was concerned. Yet the woman the court had ordered him to avoid had spent over an hour in a theatre with him, romancing in the dark. Then again, Marika seemed like a person with no confidence, with no strength to stand up to Plath. One look at her, with her cowering manner, her way of shrinking inside herself, made her a candidate for intimidation and domination. A guy like Plath could bend her like a green twig.

Yet again, what did I really know about either of them?

I looked at my bedside clock. Three a.m. I told myself I should definitely, as soon as I got up in the morning, write that report.

But that wasn’t what I did.

T
HE NEXT DAY
found me loitering beside a hot-dog cart in front of the Sidney Smith building, where Marika took her class in the history of science. I had swung by Grange Park right after work and hung around as long as I dared without seeing Ninon, then made a dash for the university. The sky had cleared overnight, and the weather had cooled to a pleasant temperature. I tried to ignore the tempting odours of roasting sausage and fried onions as I watched students stream in and out of the building. Spies must have discipline.

Marika appeared. Wearing jeans, a powder-blue silk shirt and leather loafers, she hastened through the front doors with the crowd. When she made the bottom of the stairs I stepped in front of her. With her head down, she almost crashed into me.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Marika Rubashov?” I said, keeping my voice low.

She stopped, looked left and right. “What—who—?” she stammered.

“Sorry to startle you. My name’s Paladin. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

Before she could reply, I took the initiative. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”

Her eyes squinted with suspicion. “What do you want?”

“I’ll explain. Why don’t we go to the Arbor Room?”

I hoped if I got her on familiar territory with a lot of people around she might feel less threatened. Her eyes flicked side to side, as if seeking help in the throng of bodies moving around us. She held her backpack against her chest, shoulders pressed inward.

“I’m a friend of Jason’s,” I lied.

She met my eyes, briefly, then looked down again. “I don’t remember him mentioning anyone named—whatever.”

“I won’t take up much of your time. But we need to talk. Really.”

“What about?”

“Let’s go to the Arbor Room,” I repeated, “and I’ll explain.”

She relented. Fifteen minutes later we were sitting at a table in the café. I had bought drinks for us. Marika seemed a little less wilted but still wouldn’t meet my eyes. She stared at her hands. I took a hit of my coffee and began.

“Okay, here it is. I know about Jason and the peace bond.”

Her head snapped up, as if I’d hit her. Her chin dropped. A pink flush bloomed in her face.

“How do—”

“Let me finish. Like I said, I know about the bond. I also know Jason violated it.”

“How could you know—whether he did or didn’t?” Her dark eyes flashed with anger and her voice rose a notch. “And what business is it?—you’re lying—what’s going on here?”

“Please keep your voice down.”

She reached for her backpack on the chair beside her and planted her hand on the tabletop, moving to get up. But I was holding up my cell, the screen bright with the photo of her and Jason kissing on Bloor Street.

Panic crashed over her. She gasped and dropped back into her seat, shaking.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Your parents hired a lawyer to make sure Jason didn’t harass you anymore. They didn’t trust him to honour the bond. The lawyer hired me.”

“And you—what?
—followed
me? Where? For how long? That’s sick!”

“Marika, I’m on your side here. I was hired to find out if Jason is bothering you.”

“You’re the one who’s harassing me! Invading my privacy. This is—this is humiliating!”

“If you’ll just let me explain—”

Her eyes widened. “I see what you’re after. It’s blackmail, isn’t it? You bastard!”

The whole thing was coming apart. Trying to warn Marika had been a bad idea. I gave it one last shot.

“Think about it for a second, will you? I could have sent the photos to the lawyer yesterday, after I saw you at the theatre. But I held off. I didn’t feel right about it. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Yeah, sure, so you could—”

“I don’t want anything from you!” I almost shouted, my patience frayed.

She pressed her lips together, red-faced and seething. She took a deep breath.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because by talking to you I’m putting my job on the line.”

She took a drink of cola, her brow creased. “So you know everything.”

“Everything? No. I know you met with Jason and spent an hour and a half at the movies with him. I know you were … romantic. That’s all. I can draw conclusions, make some guesses, but seeing you and him together changed things.”

“How?”

“I was hired under a certain understanding, which turns out to be false—maybe. So I have to ask: has Plath ever physically abused you?”

Her eyes dropped and her shoulders slumped. “Never,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Sure, we’ve had fights, but he’s never been that way.”

Was she lying? Probably. Her instinct would be to protect Plath. Or was it resentment that a stranger had barged into her personal life that made her seem furtive?

“So why did you swear out a peace bond on him?”

This was the ultimate question. The answer would clear up everything, I hoped.

In the same low voice, she replied, “I didn’t.”

I picked up my mug of coffee and took a slow drink, putting two and two together. If she was telling the truth,
her answer shone a bright new light on the whole Rubashov family dynamic.

“Your parents?”

Marika nodded. “I mean, it’s true I swore out the bond, but my parents—my father, to be exact—made me.”

“But why?”

“Because he hates Jason. He never accepted him. Jason is from the wrong neighbourhood. He only made it to community college. It’s the old, tired ‘He’s not good enough for my daughter’ thing. Jason wants me to stand up to my father but I’ve never been able to. It’s pretty much the only thing we argue about.

“One night—I can’t believe I’m telling you this—Jason got drunk and came over to the house. He stood under my window, yelling for me to come down and go away with him. He was being an idiot, I know that, but he was upset. My father burst out of the house and confronted him.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Oh-oh is right. They got into a slanging match, hollering louder and louder. I ran down to the driveway to make them stop. They were standing toe to toe. I screamed at Jason to go home and pushed between them. Jason shoved me aside. I fell. That stopped them both. Jason stood there with his arms hanging down at his sides, bleary-eyed and confused. He was so drunk he could hardly stand up. I finally persuaded him to go home.”

Marika picked up her cola and drained it.

“The next day my father said he was going to the police. He made me go with him. I think he was glad, in a way, that he finally had something on Jason. He forced me to tell the cops that Jason had pushed me down—which is
assault, he said. And he made me press for a peace bond. It’s not fair. Jason didn’t mean it.”

I felt like I’d heard it all before—because I had. Marika was saying word for word what Rawlins had described.

“Are we done now?” she asked, spitting out the words. “Are you satisfied?”

I didn’t reply.

“The next time you go butting into someone’s life, maybe you should get your facts straight,” she said.

I sighed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Are you going to send the photos to this lawyer my parents went to?”

“I don’t know. He was hired by them and he has to answer to them. I’m obliged to report to him. I have to tell him something.”

She forced herself to dial back the anger. “Can’t you just forget about what you saw? If you tell on us, Jason may be arrested.”

“It’s possible.”

“He’ll have a record! It’s hard enough to get a job in this city!”

“I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise. Maybe you can work this out with your father. Get the bond lifted.”

Her eyes flared again. My answer hadn’t satisfied her.

“You don’t know him. He’d never admit he was wrong. Are you going to keep following me? Because if you do, I’ll go to the cops.”

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I’ve got no more to say.”

She rose to her feet. Her next words were like acid thrown in my face.

“You know what, Mr. hot-shot investigator? Maybe the peace bond is on the wrong person. Maybe it’s my father who deserves it. Or you!”

“Marika, how did you get the bruise on your arm?” I asked.

“You’re so smart, you figure it out. Now piss off,” she hissed. “This conversation is over.”

Then she stomped out of the café.