CANADA 1994
 
 

Caitlin Warren was agitated. 

Just to ensure her solitude, she reserved this secludedtable near the wood-burning fireplace in downtown Toronto’s Rooftop Pub—theflames feathering the logs warmed her and gave her a sense of peace—butnow the presence of the old man violated her space.  Caitlin staredblankly at the steaming mug in her hand.  She was tired and wantedto be left alone. She resented his intrusion.  She didn’t know him.Even if the bar was filled with after work customers, that didn’t givehim the right to plunk himself down in the one free chair at her table. 

Unconsciously, she leaned further back into the firesideshadows as if to disappear. Ferns dangling from overhanging ledges andgiant foliage reaching up from nearby patio planters shaped a natural protectionfor her retreat.  Yet, from here, she could see everything.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” 

Like a radio fading in and out, vestiges of a soft tenorvoice broke through the old man’s hoarseness.  The flashes of vocalresonance and dignity trapped inside his geriatric flesh pricked her conscience.Bepolite to your elders.  She sighed and gave in.  “A rum toddy.”

A smile gentled his sharp features.  “A good Navydrink for a wintry day.”  He turned and motioned to the waiter, “I’llhave what she’s drinking.”

Caitlin wished the lyrical piano sonata playing in thebackground possessed the power to carry her away to the enchanted timeand place that must have inspired the composer.  She really didn’tfeel like talking, to anyone.

“Liszt’s Liebestraum, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” she answered without thinking. 

Again, he smiled, as if he expected her to recognize thecomposer.  Again, his assumption ruffled her resentment.  Suspectinghe might be mocking her, Caitlin studied him warily. 

Sparse eyebrows brushed bony hollows sheltering his weatheredgreen eyes, and grizzled sprigs sprouted from his balding head.  Despitehis age, he was a stolid, straight-faced man who, once seated, grew instature.  His long torso created the illusion.  He wore a tweedjacket, wool vest and flannelette shirt—more to insulate him from the severeMarch winds outside than to be trendy, she guessed.  She could picturehim in a faculty club—with pipe in hand, the raspy-voiced realist in thethick of dreamy-eyed philosophers. Maybe he’s lonely, Caitlin concededto herself. 

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” he said, suddenly contrite.

Nylon silk rustling against Caitlin’s left shoulder distractedher and prevented her from replying.  She glanced up in time to noticea dark-haired girl tittering in her companion’s ear.  A garlicky odortrailed them. 

All at once, her uninvited guest pushed himself away fromher table and rose from the chair.

Caitlin’s attention swung back to him.  He hurriedlypulled out a Time magazine from the paper bag he had retrieved fromthe floor and thrust it toward her.  “There’s an article here I’dlike you to read.”

“Why, I...” 

Suddenly, the dark-haired girl fell tipsily into theirtable, knocking the old gent back into his seat.  Giggling, she drunkenlydraped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. He awkwardly tried to pull away.  She freed her left arm and brushedhis right cheek with her hand.  He grimaced.  She pushed againsthis shoulders for more support and lost her balance again.  As theireyes briefly connected, she ensnared his startled expression with a witheringsmile.  Her companion then grabbed her, roughly, and hauled her toher feet.  With profuse apologies to Caitlin and the stranger, hedragged her away.

Caitlin shook her head.  “That was rude. I don’tbelieve...”

The ghastly change in the old man’s face stopped her mid-sentence.His eyes rolled.  He clutched at his throat, gagging.  Foamyspit began gurgling between his lips before a strangled silence engulfedthe distance between them. 

“OmiGAWD!” 

She wasn’t aware of her outcry as she jumped out of herseat and rushed to his side.  She assumed he was choking and thumpedhim on the back.  Immediately he stiffened, took a spastic convulsionand fell sideways out of his chair.  While she cleared some room onthe floor for his flailing body, the waiter helped to restrain him, butthe arms he held suddenly went limp.  She crouched down beside hisfallen body and, with very gentle fingertips, probed for a pulse on hiscarotid artery. 

“I can’t feel any pulse!”

The waiter laid the old man flat—face upward—tipped hishead backward, cleared his mouth and pinched his nose before blowing airinto his lungs.  The old man’s chest rose and collapsed.  Thewaiter counted to five.  Again, his lips sealed the stranger’s mouthas he blew into his lungs.  His chest heaved—the waiter withdrew hislips—his chest fell—and the waiter inhaled taking the unconscious man’snext forced breath.

Under the tips of her two forefingers, Caitlin could feelhis throat pulse give one feeble flurry.  She waited for another flutter. 

“Come on,” she muttered.  When it didn’t come, shepressed her fingers more firmly against the artery beside his Adam’s Applein case she was missing it.

“Come ON!” she pleaded.  “You can do it!”

“Forget it.  You’re wasting your energy.”

Dazed, Caitlin turned to the brusque voice by her elbowand confronted intense brown eyes in a taciturn black face. He seemed toscan her brain and drain her mind.  She mentally fought the intimidationhis unwavering gaze induced.  When his attention pulled away fromher and fixed on the dead man’s mouth, she watched this newest player leanover to run his black forefinger deftly along the inside of the dead man’slower lip and press it down against his chin.

A scent of garlic hovered over the body.  Caitlinpresumed the old gent had strangled on his vomit.  The sudden thoughtappalled her.  Here she was looking at the body of a man, who hadjust died a horrible death, yet she was already analyzing it, as if shewere oddly removed from the event.  How could she feel so detachedfrom such a terrible thing? 

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