Abandonment - Part 7

In our last episode Leslie and Ed's pleasant streetcar ride to Scarboro was interrupted by Adams' ghost deciding to come along for the ride. Luckily they arrived at their destination without an ectoplasmic incident. Dim the lights as we watch Ed and Leslie visit with Markie.

I rang the door bell. 

A dog barked somewhere deep within the house. It was a modest post-war brick bungalow faced with cut stone. A ratty outer aluminum screen-door protected a beautiful inner wooden front door. The mailbox was stuffed with flyers. A hockey stick was leaning against the shrubs. There was an old faded blue Austin ElectraBeam with a torn ragtop parked in the driveway.

I heard some shuffling feet and the barking got nearer. 

The wooden door swung open. A tiny dog jumped up and down behind the aluminum screen-door and barked its lungs out. A woman tried to shoo the dog away. 

"Quiet Samson!"

Samson quieted, gave me a menacing glare, and then scuttled off into the house. The woman unlatched the screen-door and opened it a crack to better hear what I had to say.

"Hello Ms. Lawrence. I'm Ed Bryce. I called earlier. I think your cousin might have called about me."

The woman smiled and said brightly, "I'm Markie. Please come in."

Markie opened the screen-door and motioned me inside. I entered and mumbled a thanks.

"Your friend can come in too." Markie waved at Leslie who was admiring the ElectraBeam.

Leslie thought it was better if she stayed outside in case something went wrong. No point having both of us in a pickle if Markie Lawrence turned out to be a garden variety psychopath. She could get help if Markie decided to stretch me out on a rack or something.

Leslie waved back to us, and I said, "She's ok."

"Ok. The genealogy files are in the basement. Why don't you follow me."

I bent over to take my shoes off and add them to the pile near the door.

"That's ok. Leave 'em on. The basement floor's cold."

She turned and marched off into her house. I followed.

A narrow door lead to some steep, rickety stairs that took us down to the basement. At the bottom Markie pulled a chain and lights came on.

And lo, the light revealed a basement filling model railroad mazed with narrow aisles. It wasn't quite a plywood-plains setup, but it was close. Clearly, operations were its raison d'être. Markie walked through the aisles to a far wall, ducked below the layout, and called, "They're over here!"

I followed the aisle to where Markie was crawling around under the layout. There was a long row of cardboard cartons, some double stacked, pushed up against the basement wall.

"I haven't sorted through these yet."

Markie started to open a box at one end of the row and asked, "What're you looking for?"

"Some sort of file labeled Smith. Can I help you look?" I ducked under the layout and started to open a box at the other end of the row.

"Ok."

We sat on the cold floor, systematically opening boxes and looking for anything Smith. I tried to make casual conversation. Not my forte at the best of times, but the mood of basement's dusty silence and cold floor seemed to need lightening. "Your model railroad's impressive."

"Thanks. It's mainly traction. Mostly Scarboro streetcar routes."

"Nice. Have you seen the big streetcar layout they've got downtown at U of NT ?"

"Yes, a long time ago. A friend told me…" Markie stopped mid-sentence and pulled a brown inter-office envelope out of a box. "Is this it?"

She passed me the envelope. Smith was handprinted in a corner in neat little letters. Although I was dying to open it, I didn't. I didn't want Markie to see its contents and start a discussion. "Yes, that's it." Then I lied and added, "There's supposed to be another. Can we keep looking?"

We did. We crawled along the row of boxes checking each in silence. My attempt at casual conversation had fizzled. 

There were no more Smiths to be found.

We got up, dusted ourselves off, and snaked our way back through the aisle to the stairs. I clutched the Smith envelope. 

Before we climbed the stairs I tried again to be cordial. "Thanks for all your help in finding this." I gave the envelope a little shake.

"No problem. Glad I could help."

We exchanged pleasantries and casual promises to someday get together to run the layout and look at it in more detail, but the tone of the conversation said we'd never meet again.

I was back on the driveway two minutes later.

Leslie was leaning against the car and asked the obvious, "Did you find it?"

I waggled the envelope at her and replied, "Yeap."

We walked down the driveway and headed to the streetcar stop. I offered Leslie the envelope. She opened her shoulder bag, took out a pair of elegant driving gloves, and put them on. She then took the envelope, unwound the looped string keeping it closed, and slid out a sheaf of papers. She examined them with a deepening frown.

"They're all blank."

Part 8 is here.