Factoring Humanity

This store was much more upscale than Bakka; someone had recently put a lot of money into renovating the old brownstone building that housed it, and the stone facade had been sand-blasted clean; most people drove skimmers these days, but many of the buildings still carried the grime of decades of automobile exhaust.

A chime sounded as Kyle entered. A dozen or so patrons were in the shop. Perhaps in response to the chime, a clerk appeared from behind a dark wooden bookcase.

It was Zack.

“Mis — Mister Graves,” he said.

“Hello, Zack.”

“What are you doing here?” He said it with venom, as if any reference to Kyle was distasteful.

“I need to talk to you.”

Dismissively: “I’m working.”

“I can see that. When’s your break?”

“Not until noon.”

Kyle did not look at his watch. “I’ll wait.”

“But—”

“I have to talk to you, Zack. You owe me that much.”

The boy pursed his lips, thinking. Then he nodded.

Kyle did wait. Normally he liked browsing in bookshops — especially the kind with real paper volumes — but he was too nervous to concentrate today. He spent some time looking at an old copy of Colombo’s Canadian Quotations, reading what people had said about family life. Colombo contended that the most famous Canadian quotation of all was McLuhan’s “The medium is the message.” That was likely true, but one that was uttered more frequently, even if it wasn’t uniquely Canadian, was “My children hate me.”

There was still some time to kill. Kyle left the store. Next door was a poster shop. He went in and looked around; it was decorated all in chrome and black enamel. There were lots of Robert Bateman wildlife paintings. Some Group of Seven stuff. A series of prints by Jean-Pierre Normand. Photo portraits of current pop-music stars. Old movie posters — from Citizen Kane to The Fall of the Jedi. Hundreds of holoposters of landscapes and spacescapes and seascapes.

And Dali — Kyle had always liked Dali. There was “Persistence of Memory” — the one with the melting watches. And “The Sacrament of the Last Supper.” And—

Say, that one would be great for his students. “Christus Hypercubus.” It had been years since he’d seen it anywhere, and it sure would liven up the lab.

He’d doubtless take some flak for hanging a picture with religious overtones, but what the heck. Kyle found the slot that had rolled-up copies of the poster in it and took one up to the cashier, a small Eastern European man.

“Thirty-five ninety-five,” said the clerk. “Plus plus plus.” Plus PST, GST, and NST — Canadians were the most taxed people in the world.

Kyle handed over his SmartCash card. The clerk placed it in the reader, and the total was deleted from the chip on the card. The clerk then wrapped a small bag around the poster tube and handed it to Kyle.

Kyle headed back to the bookstore. A few minutes later, Zack’s break came.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” asked Kyle.

Zack looked as though he was still very reluctant, but after a moment he said, “The office?” Kyle nodded, and Zack led him into the back room, which seemed to be more a storage facility than anything that might justly be termed an office. Zack closed the door behind them. Rickety bookcases and two beat-up wooden desks filled the space. No money had been spent upgrading this part of the store; outward appearances were everything.

Zack offered Kyle the single chair, but Kyle shook his head. Zack sat down. Kyle leaned against a bookcase, which shifted slightly. He backed off, not wanting it to come toppling down on him; he’d had enough of that lately.

“Zack, I love Becky” said Kyle.

“No one,” said Zack firmly “who loved her could do what you did.” He hesitated for a moment, as if wondering whether to push his luck. But then, with the righteousness of the young, he added, “You sick bastard.”

Kyle felt like hauling back and hitting the kid. “I didn’t do anything. I’d never hurt her.”

“You did hurt her. She can’t…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

But Kyle had learned a lesson or two from Cheetah. “Tell me.”

Zack seemed to consider, then, finally, he just blurted it out. “She can’t even have sex anymore.”

Kyle felt his heart jump. Of course Becky was sexually active; she was nineteen, for Pete’s sake. Still, although he’d suspected it, he didn’t like hearing about it.

“I never touched her inappropriately. Never.”

“She wouldn’t like me talking to you.”

“Damn it, Zack, my family is being torn apart. I need your help.”

Sneering now: “That’s not what you said Thursday night. You said it was a family matter. You said I had no place there.”

“Becky won’t talk to me. I need you to intercede.”

“What? Tell her that you didn’t do it? She knows you did it.”

“I can prove that I didn’t do it. That’s why I came here. I want you to agree to come by the university.”

Zack, who was wearing a Ryerson T-shirt, bristled; Kyle knew that those who attended Toronto’s other two universities hated the way U of T types always referred to it as the university. “Why?” asked Zack.