Jamie 

 

Within three seconds of meeting the guy, Amanda knew in her bones she hated him. It wasn’t his alert, evasive eyes, or the weird floral smell that tried to mask something fetid, like baby powder on an unwashed body. He must have just woken up, in rumpled sweats, and it was well past noon. 

 

“What is it?” he said, with the door barely open a crack but just enough for her to take it all in. The cold voice, that’s what set her creep meter off. She was never wrong when that alarm rang in her ears. 

 

“Mr. Reynolds?” she stood as tall as her 4 foot 11 frame allowed. Amanda knew full well what his name was, she just wanted to fuck with him a little. She was ready to kick her way in, her purple laced Docs where itching to, but she kept cool, her hands clenching and unclenching deep in the pockets of the jacket she wore like armor. For the thousandth time, she felt the folded piece of paper she now knew by heart. 

 

“Rycroft,” he corrected her, biting off the second syllable with a dry tongue against his teeth. She got a stale whiff of booze and nicotine on his breath that almost brought tears to her eyes but she didn’t blink, didn’t break her gaze though he avoided looking directly at her, he looked past her, at the busy street of traffic and people running to get out of the rain. “You aren’t with the police, are you? I already told them everything. I have nothing further to say.” His accent was fake posh, snobbish, mismatched with his ragbag appearance and the depressing, dark apartment building. “You aren’t another one of those pushy detectives come back to further annoy me?”

 

“Do I look like a cop?” 

 

Now he looked at her fully, surveying her. His eyes, milky blue gray, distrustful, told her that her dislike was mutual. She saw the judgement cloud his expression, and this spurred her on. If you wanted to goad Amanda to action, all you had to do was be a condescending prick. She was used to men, and their way of patronizing her, underestimating her because of her size and her age. Big mistake. She pushed on. “Listen, Mr Rycroft (this she said with emphasis) my name is Amanda Hallsy,” he did not seem to register the last name. “I’m Jamie’s sister?” 

 

“What of it?” Those eyes. That voice.

 

“Jamie was here, living here, we talked on the telephone—”

 

“He still owes me for the long distance,” Mr Rycroft said, “You can see the Sprint bill for yourself.”

 

“—we talked on the phone,” she continued, “I know he was staying here before—”

 

“Before he took off? Left me high and dry with his rent gone unpaid? And what about what he stole from me?” 

 

That was just the thing. Amanda was convinced her big brother didn’t just up and go, not without calling her, not without letting her know where he’d be. He’d never make her worry like this—and she was freaking out, absolutely fucked up since she got the call from  Saint Catherine’s  precinct detective two weeks ago, saying not only that Jamie allegedly booted off, but that he was being accused of possible theft from this piece of shit Rycroft, who tried to say Jamie nicked a boom box and fifty bucks in cash—and this really pissed her off, because her brother was no thief, not even when they were practically on the streets, he was a good kid, he was the smart one in school, when he could go, he never got in trouble, didn’t do drugs or even drink, and he’d never steal from this old fuck or run away without calling her. Jamie was all she had in the world. It was just the two of them, had been for years, and there was no way in Hell he’d do this to her. 

 

Before he left for his new life at school, she had told him how scared she was for him. AIDS was everywhere. Mad Cow Disease. Desert Storm. The world was full of horrible people.  He knew that she would worry. 

 

He would not leave her like this. 

 

She said as much to the detective, who said they had to look into the petty larceny because it was reported, but she should try to understand that Jamie was a 19 year old, an adult,  adults take off all the time, from every province, he’ll probably turn up, sooner or later. But he didn’t turn up. He didn’t call. She felt convinced the cops really didn’t give a shit, not really. Another gay kid runaway, probably half way to New York, or L.A., Detective Levesque insisted.  Jamie didn’t even have a passport. She called the precinct desk every day for two weeks. Nothing. Finally, they mailed her a copy of a fax, a list of the things Jamie had left at his last known address, a furnished room in Rycroft’s flat. Lyman Avenue in the old city. She still had the fax in her pocket, she found herself touching it like a talisman on the four hour bus ride from Quebec, she was doing it now, reflexively, as she stood on the doorstep that was the last place Jamie was known to be. 

 

What made her suspicion burn was something listed on that inventory made no sense at all, meaning that Jamie could not have run away. Could not. Described as: a large green bound art book with drawings. Amanda knew immediately that was his sketchpad, the one thing he would never, ever let out of his sight. That sketchbook held all his ideas, designs he was going to make into amazing clothes. That portfolio got him a free ride at the Institute, it was the only thing he had of any real value, to him anyway. She could picture him, the hours he spent huddled with his drawings, lost in his own thought process, it was the only time when his restlessness was focused, the only thing that kept him still for more than ten seconds. The book was everything to him. No way he left it behind. If it was on the list the cops made of his belongings after he supposedly took off, something was wrong. She had to see for herself. 

 

“Listen, Mr. Rycroft, I just want to pick up my brother’s stuff. If you’ll let me in, I can get in and out and be out of your hair for good. Just let me in,” he didn’t open the door a millimeter further.  She pulled out the fax.  “I have a list of his things, you can check it if you want, I won’t be any longer than it takes to grab what’s on the inventory—look I even brought a suitcase—” he glanced at the battered duct taped old tan Tourister she had lugged all the way from the Metro stop. Rycroft sniffed. She tried to appeal to any shred of kindness he might have, smiled her most girly smile (secretly hating herself for such obvious subterfuge, when her foot still begged to kick him in the grapes), 

 

HIs only response was a weak twitch of his unshaved upper lip, more of a mirroring reflex than an actual smile. No kindness here. This bitch would have closed the inn door to Mary. 

 

Fine. 

 

She’d try to be more street, intimidate him a little. She stood up taller, squared her stance. You going to let me in, or do I gotta push my way in?” Rycroft was not intimidated.  Didn’t move. Now she was irritated. “Come on. I’m freezing my tits off out here in the rain.”

 

Nothing.

 

She tried another approach, introduced a hesitancy into her tone, as if it was just now occurring to her. “I can call my friend Detective Levesque,” she reasoned, “I’m sure it’s my actual right to claim my own brother’s things since he’s gone missing. I’m sure the cops will change your mind—” this got his attention, he was listening. Then she knew what to do, if he was the kind of man she figured him for.  She pulled some cash from her jeans pocket, and though it nearly killed her she held out a twenty dollar bill, half of all she had. “Take this toward what you’re owed. When Jamie comes back, I promise we’ll settle your accounts.”

 

Rycroft stood in the doorway, still wary, but ready to yield. He practically licked his dry lips over seeing the bill she held out. Jamie, in their last phone call, had called his landlord “a weird old guy, but harmless.” Amanda wasn’t so sure about that. Even though he was the older one, Jamie was in many ways such a baby, naïve, trusting. Too trusting. All he probably considered was he needed a cheap room close to the fashion institute. So he lived here, it was as good as any other place. And he thought Rycroft was safe. Amanda was the cynical one. No one was totally harmless. Not anyone. From where she stood, the dude looked plenty capable of doing dirt, and the nagging idea she had nursed all the way across the northeast took new life—this guy knows more about Jamie than he lets on. 

 

Rycroft snatched the twenty which disappeared in a back pocket. He took a half step back to open the door to the exact degree required to allow entry for her and her suitcase, she had to get uncomfortably close to him as she passed in. 

 

 

Inside was just as bad as the outside had promised. He showed her into a small sitting room, resuming the posh act with all the dignity of a duchess, waving a hand beckoning her to sit. She didn’t fancy the settee by a feeble electric fire, or the greasy looking recliner where he obviously sat when he watched the small TV set, a portable black and white that even now had some game show with the sound off. The contestants’ cheerful faces did not belong in this cheerless place. A cigarette still smoldered in an overflowing ashtray, the whole room bathed in yellow nicotine. She guessed the windows hadn’t been opened since the moon landing. 

 

Jamie lived here, she thought. What a shithole. Something deeper than sadness crept over her, thinking of it, thinking of all the shitholes they’d lived in as kids, constantly moving to stay one step ahead of the landlord, living out of boxes they never unpacked, their mum running any scam she could to keep the lights on until she finally saw herself out with a speedball and a needle in her arm. Home was a long succession of roach traps leading to this sad apartment on the wrong side of Saint Catherine’s. Thoughts like this made her feel sometimes that they were cursed, their doomed little family, and now it was just the two of them, her and Jamie. She was not about to let him go without a fight. 

 

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she demurred his offer to make herself comfortable, somehow managing to keep her face neutral, willing herself not to scream. “Could I just see Jamie’s room? I should get his stuff, get out of your way.”

 

He motioned to a smaller nook just off the sitting area, its windows hiding behind shut shades, and in the darkness she could just make out a square table, a set of odd  chairs.

 

“Just beyond the dining room,” Rycroft nodded. “The police told me to leave everything as is, so it’s about time you come along I s’pose, though I had half a mind to chuck it all out in the bin.” 

 

On the table, she recognized the sewing machine, the second hand vintage Singer that Jamie had bought for three bucks at Goodwill, a total piece of junk with a busted bobbin and something else wrong with it, but he got it going with the patience of a monk. She remembered him working all hours, hunched over the machine, working fabric, guiding it as he stitched a seam, in his own world. He could be at something for days. You couldn’t talk to him. He lived on Coke Classic and Nicorette. He’d come home with another bag of discard scraps, odds and ends, old clothes, in a few hours alone in his room, he’d have made a piece of wearable art. Out of nothing, crap other people had thrown away, Jamie could spin gold. Genius. At least in Amanda’s eyes, always. She envied him his talent. It was an escape. He could make wonderful things in a shitty world full of shitty people. And he made clothes for her. Maybe they were the poor kids, but she walked the neighborhood in deconstructed couture, and no one messed with her. That’s how his clothes made you feel. Fierce. 

 

She touched the hard canvas material of her jacket, the feel of it grounding herself back to the moment.  Rycroft still hovered a few steps behind her. She let herself linger, studying the piles of fabrics, projects, patterns, a glue gun, the busy chaos of an artist, before moving on---but something she noticed, something she did not now fully understand but would, soon enough —Jamie had one decent pair of scissors, dedicated to making clothes, you could NOT use them to trim your bangs. He kept them in a clear plastic toolbox thing, along with all the other needed mysterious stuff she was never allowed to touch. Spools of every color thread spilled out of their drawer. 

 

 The toolbox was there, open, its contents in a jumble. But no scissors. Why—

 

“Right through here—” the landlord’s hand on her arm.

 

His voice, too close. Even through thick cloth of her sleeve, her skin chilled at his touch. He stepped ahead, swept away the piece of fabric, a faded oblong of a sad floral print that acted as a curtain separating off the tiny alcove. 

 

If she was sad before, her heart wept at the windowless closet-- a still unmade mattress on the floor shoved against a wall, the thin pillow and blanket. Two trash bags with her brother’s clothes.  Assorted objects scattered on a kind of low bureau. Things she remembered from the list: student ID card for the Institute. 4 dollar bills, one loonie, two quarters, a dime. A packet of condoms. A plain silver ring he still wore sometimes, a gift from his first boyfriend, a kid from the old neighborhood whose name she couldn’t remember. So like Jamie to keep it. He was sweet, nostalgic even though the past was nothing rosy. The had moved so many times when mum was running that there was no time for making boyfriends. She hoped maybe now things could be different, maybe they each had a chance, to make new lives, make friends. Maybe they weren’t doomed. Glancing back at the ID on the bureau, her eyes teared up at his photo. How handsome. Such a trusting, open face. Amanda’s thought shouted in her head: “Where is he? Where is Jamie? WHERE IS JAMIE?” 

 

Rycroft cleared his throat with a phlegmy cough. “I’ll just go put the kettle back on the gas. Will you be wanting a cup?” His impatient tone said that the invitation was just part of a performance. He wanted her gone. 

 

No more than she wanted to be gone. She couldn’t wait to take a huge gulp of cold air the minute she got back outside, she wanted to get the smell of this place off her as soon as she could get Jamie’s things and get going. “No, thank you,” she mumbled, playing the part of an afternoon guest come to visit and pass the time. She doubted anyone ever came over for tea, or anything else, not this place where the dampness seemed to seep in through the walls.  

 

“Suit yourself.”  

 

She listened for the clunking tread of his feet to fade away before she let her shoulders relax. Amanda got the suitcase open, laid it out on the mattress and got to work. Her brother had precious little in the way of belongings. All he had was going to fit inside. He must have worn his one pair of old boots,  and of course, his jacket--a version of the one he’d made for her, but his was pierced with safety pins, hundreds of them. God, he was sick in that jacket. For a guy who made clothes for other people, he didn’t have much else for himself besides that.

 She was debating with herself about the sewing machine, what to do, if she should just leave it—Jamie would  kill her, when he came back. But the dark angel in her left ear whispered again: 

 

You know.

 He isn’t coming back. 

 

She was already slipping into past tense whenever she thought of him, some part of her seemed to understand that she was now completely alone in the world. 

 

No. No fucking way. She wiped tears off her face. “Knock it off,” she said out loud. Amanda was always the gloom and doom one, so ready to react to some calamity. Who could blame her? She’d been in a fighter’s stance, ready to take the first blow, ready to punch back, ready to kick, since she knew how to walk. In so many ways, she was still that little girl. 

 

Pull yourself together.

 

Detective Levesque was right about one thing. Jamie was an adult now. Free to go wherever he wanted. Maybe he met a man, flew off on some wonderful adventure. When he came back, he would be full of stories, he would talk in that way that was a rush of words, his restless hands moving like crazy. He would tell her he was sorry, for worrying her this way. He would promise never to do it again.  And she would forgive him. 

 

Thinking about the detective, she once again remembered the paper in her pocket. She pulled it out, smoothing its creases from being folded and unfolded about a thousand times. She ticked off the list, looked at the crap stuffed in the suitcase, matching item against item. No sketchpad. It was on the list, it was here when the cops did their inventory after Jamie was gone, so it should be here. It had to be here. It couldn’t just—

 

Under the mattress. Maybe he hid it. It didn’t make sense that the detectives would put it back after listing it, but she wasn’t entirely rational, not at this point. She had to find it, because there was no explanation for it missing now, unless—a vague outline of that idea formed itself again in a small corner of her mind, but she shooed it away like a cobweb—she pulled the mattress from the wall, lifted it, her hand searching the floor, not finding it—but something else. 

 

She held Jamie’s scissors, the special scissors for cutting out clothes. Her hand shook as she felt the cold metal. The scissors, she realized, were not on the inventory. Not present when the cops pulled apart the room, certainly not carelessly hidden like this as if they were waiting for her to find them--- and certainly not covered in blood so dark it was nearly black.

 

From the nearby kitchen, the kettle began shrieking, but no one took it off the flame, its cries filled the flat, wailing in Amanda’s brain--

 

She could not hear the dark angel at her left ear, screaming her brother’s name.