David shifted onto his heels, then dipped the paddle into the water, sweeping it in shallow arcs from back to front and front to back. The canoe began to turn. As it came around he felt the catch of the current. Closer to shore it would be less powerful, but he stayed put.
Right hand on top of the paddle, left on the shaft, he reached ahead and dug the blade into the water. He pulled it through and lifted it out, a quick count, no breaks between or he’d be going north, the way the river wanted. He put the strength of his whole body into each stroke and soon sweat poured off him. His shoulders and upper arms burned.
Just when he was ready for a break he rounded a loop in the river and the current was gone. He took a minute to work the ache out of his muscles, then continued paddling at a leisurely pace.
This was a quiet spot, his childhood playground, behind the backyards of the street where his parents still lived. Through the trees he caught glimpses of the screened porch and a light in an upstairs window. They’d be settling down, feeling dozy, weighing the immediate benefit of tea with lemon versus the annoyance of getting up during the night. He’d be seeing them for breakfast in the morning. A hot breakfast. Something must be up. Nothing bad, though. They hadn’t sounded worried when they called.
One more stretch of hard paddling and he was home. Mosquitoes found him as soon as he drew alongside the wooden dock. Swatting with one hand, he lifted the canoe to his shoulder and carried it to the boathouse. He used his building’s back entrance and took the service elevator to the twenty-second floor. His door locked behind him as it closed.
He gulped two glasses of water, then drank a third more slowly on his way to the shower. He turned the tap off to soap up, on to rinse. Air drying helped him cool down a little more, then he climbed into a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and switched on his laptop.
Two rows of charts appeared on the screen. Temperature, humidity, dew point, air pressure, wind speed and direction all measured and graphed by his rooftop weather station. No surprises there. The past twenty-four hours had been hot, humid and still—just as his body told him.
He clicked on a series of radar and satellite maps. There was a typhoon off the coast of China, monsoons in India, torrential rains in Europe. A tropical storm had developed over the Atlantic—Elton, the fifth named storm of the season even though it had just begun.
The number of severe weather events concerned him, but not as much as what was happening in the North—thunderstorms from Alaska and the Yukon through the Northwest Territories to Nunavut. For the first time in their lives Inuit above the tree line were seeing lightning. And robins—the traditional sign of a southern spring. Only Baffin Island was getting snow instead of rain.
David opened the drapes and went out to the balcony. From this height in the daytime he could see the Red flowing through farmland south of the city and meeting the Assiniboine to the north, at the Forks. At night the water was mostly black, silvery here and there, reflecting city lights.
No point staring at the sky. Whatever happened he wouldn’t see it here before the collected data warned him. Still, he came out and looked first thing every morning and last thing at night.
That wasn’t scientific at all.
GWYN PULLED the kitchen curtains, closing out the lights from the apartments along the river. Mrs. Henderson had left dishes in the sink. She had a list of things she would and would not do, a list that changed to suit her mood. For the most part meal dishes were fine, but not snack dishes. She didn’t mind heating home-cooked food waiting in the fridge, but wouldn’t so much as open a tin on her own. If a drink spilled, she’d wipe up the main puddle, but leave a general stickiness behind. She wasn’t there to clean, she said.
Tonight Gwyn didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. All she wanted was to ease the burning in her feet. She washed and dried the plates and glasses, put them away behind leaded glass cupboard doors, then shook Mrs. Henderson’s dinner crumbs from the newspaper and refolded it. The main headline, two inches tall, stared up at her.
Typhoon Strikes China: Hundreds Dead, Missing.
Underneath that article, in smaller letters: Elton Bears Down on Caribbean.
She turned the paper over so she couldn’t see the headlines, then went down the hall to the bathroom. Chris still moved around in bed, talking quietly. His own voice alternated with a very deep one. The panda never spoke and the tiger mostly growled, so she guessed he was having a conversation with the polar bear. Getting advice about life on an ice floe, maybe.
Best not to disturb him. She shut the bathroom door quietly. When the tub was half-full, she stepped into the water and leaned back, gasping when her overheated skin touched cold porcelain. Her eyes closed and her tired muscles began to relax.
It had been a long, difficult evening. They’d had two deaths on the ward. Both were expected. That didn’t make anything easier. They were two people she had greeted every shift and tried to make comfortable with back rubs and sheepskin under their heels and fresh ice water to sip, and this evening she’d helped take them to the morgue instead. She never got used to that trip.
When she first started working at the hospital—for the summer between grades eleven and twelve—the head nurse wouldn’t let her go. All the staff had been protective, maybe because they knew her mother or because she was only sixteen. “Sweet sixteen,” everyone had said and of course one orderly had always added, “and never been kissed.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she’d never done any kissing without dwelling on the logistics. A couple of years later she’d met Duncan and all her how-to worries had gone out the window. Her worries and her education. So here she was on a different ward, but still an aide, ten years later.
By the time Gwyn dried off and changed into shorts and a sleeveless blouse, Chris had fallen asleep. In case he called, she left the storm doors to the porch and the living room open and went out to the front steps. The sun had set, but light still glowed in the western sky. People were out on bicycles or walking their dogs, taking advantage of the day’s best weather.
“Hey, you.” Her neighbor, Iris, appeared carrying a plastic watering can.
“Hey. I don’t suppose you watered my lettuce?”
“I did. And your carrots and your beans.”
“Thanks! I was joking.”
Iris emptied the can into a pot of marigolds, then cut across both lawns to join Gwyn. “That babysitter of yours had all the windows open and the TV going full blast.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”
“I beat you to it. She was on the phone when I came over. Had Chris parked in front of the set.”
“You won’t believe what movie she rented.”
“Sure I would. I heard every line.”
Gwyn suppressed an urge to apologize again. “Do you know any responsible, grandmotherly women who would enjoy spending time with Chris?”
“Seriously?”
“Maybe.” She’d never fired a babysitter. Usually they left under their own steam because their circumstances changed or because she gave them too few or too many hours.
“I’ll ask around. Between us we should be able to find someone who’s willing to read stories and play checkers now and then. It sounds like a great job description to me!” Iris held up a hand. “Don’t even think it. Unless you’re offering a pension and a dental plan.”
“How about all the tea and coffee you can drink and some genuine appreciation?”
“Hah.” Iris stood up, brushing the back of her shorts and retrieving