Cryptic Messages
by Rod Raglin
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
Flo has a house alright, a six-bedroom, three-story mini-mansion in Kerrisdale, a ritzy neighbourhood on Vancouver’s West Side. An only child like me, and let’s face it, weird as well, Flo lived most of her life with her father. The only time she moved out was to go to university and, after the fire in the dorm, she moved back. Get this, the guy was a successful investment banker, who not only left her this three-million-dollar house but a lucrative portfolio of investments.
Though the messages she’d received appeared to be remarkably the same as mine, as was the outcome, she isn’t plagued with guilt and burdened with the idea we were spared to fulfill some obligation to the victims, maybe even to the world. Flo is back to normal, at least normal for her.
She’s in the kitchen sorting out the meal delivery package after spending most of the day buying and selling stocks on the computer and cell phone. When her father became ill, he set up “the trading floor” in a spare bedroom and taught her the tricks of the trade. Who’d have thought you could make so much money without leaving home, without getting out of your nightie?
“How’s your mother?” she asks.
“I’m afraid she’s getting worse.” Just after I moved in, Mom had a stroke followed by a series of minor ones. Not only did her level of care increase but so did the cost of it. Even though Flo refused to let me pay rent, I needed to find a job if I was going to keep Mom at Amica.
“Work for me,” she said when I told her about my job search.
“Help you do what, Flo? You already have a housekeeper and a gardener.”
“Do the books, the banking. What you do for your other accounting clients. It will give me more time to make trades.”
“I could do that.”
“I don’t want you leaving me alone here every day, Ernie.”
“Well, okay then.” And with that, she became my biggest client and took over the cost of Mom’s care.
I sit down at the kitchen table and open a can of Dr. Pepper. Flo places a plate of food in front of me. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Shawarma,” she says, then continues, reading from the directions that accompanied the meal box, “A feast-worthy platter of cranberry and shallot-infused rice, soft naan, tomato and cucumber salad and mouth-watering steak topped with creamy herb sauce.”
“I told you not to make dinner for me, Flo.”
“I don’t make it, I assemble it.”
“I end up eating the majority of Mom’s lunch, and this is just a waste.”
Flo makes her hurt face. “Sorry,” I say, but I’m not, I’m annoyed. This was not part of our understanding.
* * *
It’s coming up on Christmas, a time I dread given my family history, and it’s made worse by remembering what a happy hive of activity Gruber’s was at this time of year; everyone pitching in, and Mr. Gruber showing his appreciation with generous bonuses and a lavish Christmas party. I never attended, but Maureen always filled me in.
Flo has hired a company to put up a tree and decorate the house and, if the frequency of delivery vans arriving at our address is any indication, she’s spending a fortune shopping online; for whom I have no idea.
“Do you want to invite anyone over, Ernie?”
“No, do you?”
“Maybe a few people; my aunt. How about Jonah?”
Jonah’s the facilitator of our group. Why would she want to invite him, or anyone for that matter?
“I told you, Flo, I don’t do Christmas.”
“You never know, Ernie, maybe all this will put you in the mood.”
“No! It makes me feel worse.” I always feel bad after one of my outbursts. I don’t like disappointing her, but she’s asking more than I’m prepared to give. She’s even hinted at wanting to take our friendship to the next level and that’s making me feel anxious as well.
“Well, I don’t plan to spend Christmas Eve with just the two of us.”
“Then have your friends over and I’ll go out.”
“You need to get over this, Ernie.”
“Don’t you think I’d like to? Don’t you think I’d like to be as carefree as you, planning parties with your friends?”
“Maybe get professional help. I’ll pay.”
“And tell them what? That I received cryptic messages that I can’t prove, and they saved me from being crushed to death by a cement truck?” We’ve been through all this, why was she bringing it up again? “Why don’t you go to therapy and tell them how your cryptic messages saved you?”
“Because they didn’t?”
“But here you are. If they didn’t save you from the fire, what did?”
“Insomnia.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“I had insomnia, that’s why I went to the coffee bar. No message, no meeting, just couldn’t sleep.”
“But the fire—”
“That really happened.”
“And the word precisely. When the facilitator used it, I saw how you reacted.”
“It was a word my father used all the time.”
“But how did you know about the messages, what they said?”
“You told me.”
Then I remember, I went first. I told Flo my story and then she told me hers, embellishing it with cryptic messages.
“You lied?”
“Just the messages part.”
She doesn’t get it. People one minute full of purpose going about their business and the next minute being killed is tragic, horrible, but it happens. All the time. Being saved by cryptic messages doesn’t. Not to anyone except me and then Flo. Now she’s saying that in her case there were no messages and acting like it’s no big deal.
The rage I feel, the desire to hurt her frightens me. I need to cool down, to think things over: not the message part but my financial dependence. Without Flo, I’ll be broke and homeless. Then how will I support Mom?
“I need to go for a walk.” I get my coat and scarf.
“I’ll come with you.”
“Alone.”
The tree-lined neighbourhood where we live is quiet except for a few night noises; the swish of a passing car, a dog barking, the wailing of a distant siren. At night when the anxiety awakens, I find the solitude soothing.
I decide I have to let it go. Never bring it up again. With time, and hopefully no more messages, the anxiety will ease, it already has, a bit. I mean, what are the alternatives? Become a homeless person shuffling around the street mumbling or continue to live with Flo in an all-expenses paid mansion?
It starts to snow, and the fat flakes float down in the halo of the streetlight creating a fairytale effect. Maybe I can do Christmas, at least fake it for Flo and her friends. I turn at the end of the block and head back, in a better mood than I can remember. Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit working its magic.
Now the snow is really falling, cloaking the trees, sidewalks and parked cars, except the one I’m approaching. The fine layer of white on its windshield has been disturbed like someone has written on it only to have it covered by more snow.
That’s weird because I haven’t seen anyone else during my brief walk.
The flashing of the Christmas greeting on the roof of the neighbhour’s house catches my eye. Instead of announcing Season’s Greetings as it did when I left, it reads,
ATTENTION! Stanley Ernest Blunt.
You have a meeting this Tuesday, December 22, at 7:00 p.m. precisely!
at 2220 The Crescent.
* * *
“You have to ignore these messages, Ernie. They’re not real,” Flo says as she brushes melting flakes from her shoulders. She’s just returned from the front yard to tell me the message flashing on the roof of the neighbour’s house is indeed a Christmas greeting and not an anonymous summons for me to attend a meeting.
“Is that a good idea, Flo? I’d be dead if I hadn’t paid attention to the last one.”
“If all of what you said happened, then it was a coincidence.”
“It happened, Flo. You can look it up on the Internet if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe the roof caved in, Ernie, but maybe there weren’t any messages. Maybe you made them up as a way to deal with, you know, survivor guilt.”
“You think I made up the messages after it happened?”
“You were traumatized, Ernie. You were probably suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. You probably still are.”
* * *
As the date approaches, I’m getting more messages: on the fogged bathroom mirror after my shower, on the back of the Bran Cereal box, a delivery notice hung on the front door knocker, in texts and calls, and, of course, the neighbour’s flashing roof sign which I see every night from my bedroom window. (Flo’s room faces the back yard.) Even though I don’t mention them, she can see I’m getting more and more anxious. I can tell she’s losing patience.
The twenty-second is our group therapy potluck Christmas party. It starts a 7:00 p.m. precisely, the same time as my meeting three miles away in a residential neighbourhood. I’ve done an Internet search of the address, and it’s a heritage house owned by the University Women’s Club used for their functions and to rent out to others.
That evening there’s a fundraiser for the Women’s and Children’s Hospital. The bar opens at 7:00 pm, dinner is at eight, and the auction begins an hour later. At three hundred dollars a plate, it’s not something I’m inclined to attend, but I’ll consider it if it will save our lives.
“Flo, I have a very bad feeling about this evening.” My hands are shaking, I’m freezing, but sweat is beading on my forehead. Maybe she’ll take pity on me.
She glares at me. We’ve had this conversation before, many, many times in the last week. She takes the aluminum pan of family-size lasagna she’s baked from frozen out of the oven and sets it in a shallow cardboard box along with three loaves of garlic bread.
“No one will miss us,” I say. “Besides we’ve got the perfect excuse, we can say we got depressed; they’ll all understand.”
“Get your coat, Ernie. The cab will be here any minute.”
This is a deal-breaker, and I know it. I’ll go either to the group potluck party or out on the street. The way I feel right now, with fear sour in my mouth, and diarrhea for the last two days, I’d take my chances on the street. But I have Mom to think of. But then, what good am I to Mom if a leaking natural gas explosion levels the church while we’re meeting in the basement? I check the time on my cell phone, then set the timer to chime at 7:00 p.m. precisely. If I get to turn it off, I’ll still be alive.
When we arrive, I recognize some of the members hanging around outside smoking. Sullen Cullen is there wearing a long overcoat and standing off to the side by himself.
“Hi, Cullen,” I say as I walk by, which is uncustomary for me. Even though I’m major stressed, I feel for the guy. I mean, who wants to be that unhappy? He mutters something and turns away.
The others follow us inside, all except him.
As soon as we enter, I check the wall clock at the back of the hall above the kitchen pass-through. We’re ten minutes early.
Left of the entrance near the front are three folding tables with food, paper plates, plastic utensils and napkins. Chairs are against the wall. I put our food and Dr. Pepper on the table where Flo is unwrapping the bread. It looks like a nice spread, but the thought of eating anything makes me gag.
“Your attention, please,” our facilitator shouts.
We all gather around. There are nine in the group, but I count thirteen, so some have brought friends or family members.
“The Holiday Season can be tough, so let me remind you of some of the things we discussed to manage stress: get a good night’s sleep, drink lots of water, go for a brisk walk, make a list of five or more things you like about yourself...”
Everyone has a chuckle at that one, except me; watching the clock that says I’ve only seconds to live.
“And, most importantly, spend time with loved ones.” Jonah looks at each of us and smiles. “Okay, let’s eat!”
The wall clock strikes 7:00 p.m. I feel Flo’s hand in mine. She gives it a squeeze. It’s going to be alright. I feel euphoric!
“Ernie, I forgot a spatula for the lasagna,” Flo says as she cuts the layers of cheese, sauce and pasta into small, rectangular pieces. “Can you check in the kitchen and see if you can find one?”
“Sure.” I double-time it to the kitchen, which is through the door on the right at the back of the hall. I switch on the light and, as I’m searching through cutlery drawers, my cell phone chimes. The timer! I pull out my phone. It reads 7:00 p.m. precisely. The church clock is fast.
I hear the hall entrance door bang open!
“Hey, Cullen.”
“Just in time to eat.”
I look up and through the kitchen pass-through see Cullen standing in the entrance. He opens his overcoat, pulls out a semi-automatic rifle and opens fire. He’s still firing as I hit the emergency exit doors and flee into the dark alley.
Copyright © 2023 by Rod Raglin
