her, pinched between thumb and forefinger, as though she was reading the worldâs smallest newspaper.
It took me a moment to realize it was my landlady, Bette. It would be awkward to talk to her outside the monthly ritual of dropping my rent in her mailbox, so I kept quiet and checked under my seat for something to read. I found a page torn from the sports section of the
Toronto Sun
, a dusty shoeprint stamped across the logo for the Toronto Maple Leafs. âBuds Drop Sixth in a Row.â I started to read about how the referees were to blame for the loss when Bette placed her wrinkled hand on my knee.
âBrandon. I thought that was you.â
âOh, hello, Bette. Since when do you take Frayne transit?â
âSince my Dodge broke down. A piece of advice: never buy an American car. Japanese is the way to go.â
âIâll keep that in mind for when Iâm in the market.â
The bus went over a pothole and Bette fell into my lap. As I helped her settle back into her seat, the photograph Iâd taken from Melanieâs apartment fell out of my pocket and onto the floor. Bette reached down and picked it up before I could get to it.
âIsnât she a pretty one! Girlfriend?â She held the photo two inches in front of her face.
âYes. Well, no. Well, kind of. Sheâs ââ
âA little young for the likes of you.â
âItâs an old picture.â
She attempted to fix the creases in the photo by folding them back against themselves. âReminds me of me when I was young.â
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. âOh yeah?â
âYessir. I had dark hair, mind you. And no freckles. And Iâve worn glasses all my life. But other than that, sheâs my spitting image!â She handed the photo back to me and looked at the name sewn onto my uniform. âWhy does your uniform have the name Dennis on it?â
âWhen they hired me they gave me a spare and never bothered to get it changed.â
âI see. I guess you can pretend to be someone else while youâre zapping bugs. Thatâs kind of fun.â
âIâve never tried that, but you know what? It sounds like a good idea.â I stuffed the photograph back into my pocket and stood up. âWell, this is my stop.â
âWhat a coinkidink. Mine too. Iâve got to collect some rent from a deadbeat tenant whoâs always late with his payments. Would you mind helping me up?â
She grabbed my forearm and pulled herself out of her seat. She was barely five feet tall. When she reached up to ding the bell she nearly toppled over. I noticed an alligator-skin flask sticking out the pocket of her fur coat as I followed her to the exit door.
When I stepped off the bus behind her, a gust of wind blew some grit into my eye. I dug my knuckle into my socket, and when I opened my eyes again, I saw a bald Bette chasing her hair down the street, her fur coat flopping heavily behind her like the dead animal it was. I had no idea she wore a wig.
I caught up to the tumbling coif, plucked it off the sidewalk, and slapped it against my thigh. A cloud of dust exploded from it. Pebbles fell to the sidewalk. I sneezed.
âThank you very much,â Bette said, catching her breath. She took an inhaler out of her pocket and puffed on it. Her pockmarked scalp was coated with a cobwebby fuzz.
I handed her the wig, but she didnât put it on right away. Instead, she removed the flask from her pocket and offered me a drink.
âNo thanks,â I said.
She unscrewed the cap, took a swig. âCancer,â she said, and shrugged.
âBette, I had no idea. Iâm sorry.â
She waved a hand at me as if to dismiss it. âBad things happen to everyone.â
I bit my lip as she walked away. There really was something poisonous about this town, where even the wealthy were doomed. Down the block I saw the Kill âEm All van parked outside a tenement.