Ashbee & Son

Arriving at 45 Arkell Street

I had rented a sedan from the Enterprise Rent-a-Car at Bay and Gerrard. I'm not sure why I decided on a sedan. I had the freedom to choose any vehicle, but for some stupid, asinine reason, I decided on the fucking sedan. I would later realize, as I drove the stupid sedan home to see Charlie, that I can never shake Ingrid. It was there at the end of all things that I came to understand that she would always be with me. She was there in the passenger seat; sitting there, she was a ghostly outline, punched through the fabric of the universe. She was smiling, her hair twisting and flinging in the whipping wind. It made me want to die. From then on, everything swam by in a temporal vacuum. I returned the stupid sedan somewhere just outside Westdale Village. I allowed my lizard brain to guide me through the process. I boarded a city bus and took a seat. I watched the buildings as they passed by. Some were made of red brick laid by men who lived a hundred years ago. Some were grey stone, carved extravagantly to showcase the decadence of the 1920s. The Saturday afternoon traffic, mommies and daddies taking their children out to Cootes Paradise or over to Webster Falls (places my parents, before my mother passed, would take me on such a lovely day), held the bus up for longer than usual. And by the time I disembarked at Paisley and walked to 45 Arkell Street, the sun was getting low in the sky. I looked up at the house. I was not ready to approach that door. That old yellow door that had the paint peeling from it. Decades ago my mother played the role of the tidy house wife, and Edmund played the role of the man of the house. He'd mow the lawn, prune the hedges, clean out the gutters, wash the windows, and repaint, if needed.

In my mind, I placed a negative of the old house over what stood before me. It was a beautiful scene. As I peeled it back, I came to see that those days had long since passed. Hard winters had pared the white paint from the siding. A decade's worth of brown, wet leaves filled the gutters. Dust and grime coated the windows. The unpruned hedges looked like splayed fingers, and the grass stood to knee-height.

I lit a cigarette and pulled hard on it. The ember burned bright red before turning to ashen grey. And I blew. Ingrid came to mind. I closed my eyes. It was only a moment that I did, but it was long enough to glimpse the piece of paper with my handwritten wedding vows. O, Ingrid. My dear. What joy it brings me to think of a future with you. There is no friendship like the one we have, and no love like the one we share. There will be nothing with the strength to break us. But if we must part, know that no one will have my heart, for it is, and always will be, yours.

I saw the deed to our home near Chester Station. We held each other all night, the night we moved in. I thought we'd never let one another go. It was the happiest I've ever been, and the happiest I'd ever be. Well, until Charlie.

I flicked the cigarette, and it rode on the wind. I blew out the last drag of it, and wafted the smoke away. I took hold of the handles of my gym bags and walked toward the house. It seemed to grow ever more large and menacing with each step. I did not know what I'd expect to find. With each footfall came a new sound from within. And each new sound built upon the last. Left foot: a gunshot ringing through TV speakers. Right foot: a hacking cough. Left foot: a wooden chair creaking under some weight. Right foot: stomping upon the floor. I stepped to the door and raised my fist to knock. I knocked once, twice, and then the knob turned and the door opened. There he was before me. Edmund Ashbee.

"Hello," he said with a croak, as if he had just awakened from a nap.

I said nothing.

The hair wrapping the crown of his bald head was white as snow. His icy blue eyes had a bloody sea of red around them. There were more crevices and creases on his face than last I saw him. He wore a light-grey sweater and matching light-grey sweat pants. And on his feet, he wore dark-brown slippers.

"You got old," he said. "And you smell like an ashtray."

"Okay," I said, evenly.

There was a stall, and then he said, "Well? Are you coming in?"