“I’m confused. What element?”
“The criminal element. The world never really changes, does it?”
Ah, I think, pleased. He’s a storyteller. I relax back in my chair, enjoying myself more than I’d expected.
“There are criminals now just as there were criminals then, and they enjoy the high life as much as the celebrities do, I imagine. This hotel hashad its fair share of secrets. There have been rumours of secret rooms and tunnels in the depths of the hotel for years. And according to police records, there was a steady smuggling trade around Toronto. Started with booze during Prohibition, but a lot of dirty money passed through here as well.” He pulls out a pad of paper, then a pen, which he taps nervously against the desk. “I don’t know anything about smugglers’ tunnels in the Dominion firsthand, but the archives should have something. If you’re interested, I can dig into it.”
I’m trying to get a feel on him, to see if he’s enthusiastic about researching this or if I’m just a make-work project. He’s naturally reserved, so it’s hard to tell. I’m hoping he’s up for it, because this has been a great hour or so, marvelling over history with someone who is as interested in it as I am.
“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Buchanan. I don’t want to impose. Do you really have time to do that?”
I see something like relief in his expression, as if he was hoping I’d ask, and I have my answer. “Oh, yes. I’d be happy to.”
Time has flown. When I switch off the recorder, then rise and reach for my coat, I wish I could stay longer.
“Thank you so much again. Please text me anytime.”
He walks me out, and I feel refreshed as I head toward Spadina. Sometimes it’s easy to get bogged down in everyday things, like work, but right now I feel as if I just spoiled myself with an hour of “me time.” Almost like a pedicure, but for my mind. And tonight is the perfect follow-up: a quiet night with Grandma. I check my contacts, find the Wok Inn, then place my order. I’ll pick it up on the way to her place, as usual.
An evening with Grandma is exactly what I need.
chapterELEVEN
Grandma lives in the Village at the Isabella Arms Apartments, on Isabella Street just a little west of Jarvis and Church/Wellesley, smack in the middle of so many things both good and bad. It’s a classic four-storey, faded-redbrick building built back in 1925, so of course I had to research it. The building cost $52,000 to build. I calculated that out to a little over $990,000 in today’s dollars. Interestingly, back then they advertised fifty-six units, but there are only twenty-five today. Makes me wonder how much space they used back then—and how much we really need. A rental ad inThe Globe and Mailback in 1939 gives an idea of how people were living:Two- and three-room apartments, newly decorated, large windows, bright rooms, full-size kitchen, ample cupboard space, latest and modern heating equipment, hot water at demand. Immediate occupancy from $25 [per month].
Little has changed around Grandma’s place except the rent, which is actually—yes, I did the math again—sixty times higher than that. Of course, this little building lacks the latest amenities: the gym on the main floor, the sparkling granite, the city views… but there’s a great coffee shop across the street.
A few old houses still stand around the Isabella Arms, but they’re allthreatened by applications for condos. Grandma’s building squats slyly behind black metal fencing and trees that are cemented in, their heavy branches and thick roots threatening to overtake the whole thing. When I get to the front door, I pass an antiquated air-conditioning unit propped outside a window. No HVAC here.
I climb the four flights of stairs, vaguely aware of the building’s settled, familiar smell. Remnants of a nice, warm bowl of chicken soup. Onions and potatoes and wilted flowers. All those cooking smells have put down roots, twisting into the old walls and original pipes. When I was a kid, being on the fourth floor felt like I was on top of the world. I know that sounds silly, especially considering the towers rising over the city today, but when I’m here, I feel like I’m home. Somehow, I feel younger.
“There she is!”
I give Grandma a careful squeeze—she is, understandably, a little fragile these days—then she reaches for the brown paper bag in my hand. I clutch it tighter. I’m not going to let her carry the bag. It’s too heavy.
“Did you get—”
“Of course. It wouldn’t be right without the chopsticks, Grandma.”
“And the—”
“Extra soy sauce. I think there are six little packets in there. More than enough. I know you’re hoarding more in that catch-all kitchen drawer by the fridge.”
She laughs. Hunched and taking wobbly steps, she leads me to her dining room, which is more familiar to me than my own. Her rose-patterned fine china plates are set in place, awaiting our messy meal of fried rice and chicken balls.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Bridget. Let’s dig in.”
While we eat, she talks about her bridge club, a friend of hers who recently passed away, and her best friend, Flo, who just had a great-grandson.
“Can you imagine that? Four generations! I still feel like I’m thirty-six some days. She’s only eighty, and I’m sure she feels the same way. Great-grandson! I can’t believe we got that old.”
“I’m gonna be twenty-nine next month,” I remind her.
Her lips tighten with annoyance. “No, that’s not possible. You’re only five, with pigtails and a Snow White dress.”
That brings back a tumble of memories, difficult for both of us.
Grandma’s mostly as sharp as a tack. I can’t really be surprised that she is starting to lose her memory at this age. When she’s with me, I can usually guide her a bit. I’m her only grandchild, and she’s my only grandmother, so I know most of her stories anyway. Ever since I was little, she and I have been close, but twenty years ago, we were pushed even closer by a horrible car accident. I was nine. My mother had taken me shopping for school clothes, and we were T-boned on the way to the mall by a drunk driver. I was physically unharmed, and I remember nothing. I must have blocked it out. Grandma told me my mother died instantly. I went home with Grandma that night, and I stayed for nine years. It must have been so difficult for her, losing her daughter and her freedom all at once. Saddled with a kid when she was just starting to enjoy retirement. It’s a ridiculous thought, but there are times I feel bitter toward my mother for leaving me. For both mine and Grandma’s sakes.
