Parish was of two minds about having a TV in her bedroom. She’d once heard that the only thing former prime minister Pierre Trudeau had in his bedroom was a light and the book he was reading. Nothing else.
It would have been nice to be that aesthetically pure, but the reality was that some nights she wanted to crawl in under the covers and binge on Netflix or watch Colbert.
She was also a closet news junkie, and this afternoon all the news was about the massive demonstration that had popped up on the Danforth Bridge. She wasn’t usually in bed in the middle of the day, but she was sleeping with a community college student who, she’d just discovered, had no sympathy for the plight of the homeless. Chalk it up to his country-club upbringing.
She’d been watching the protest on TV while he slept, and snored, beside her. He was awoken by the sound of the protesters chanting, “The Homeless Need Homes,” “We Are Citizens Too,” “Homes Not Golf Courses.”
Jack groaned and groped over to the bedside table to find his glasses. “Do you really want to watch this stuff?” he asked her.
“I think it’s important.”
“Always the same old crap with these people. They don’t want to work. They just steal stuff, get high, and kill each other.”
Parish hadn’t told him that the third victim, Melissa, was her close friend. He was here for diversion, not sympathy.
“Not everyone has had your pampered upbringing,” she said, not really wanting to get into a political argument with him but not able to stop herself.
“Well, not everyone from my family turned out the same. Look, there’s my older brother, Arnie.”
He pointed to the screen at the man leading a group of protesters.
Parish looked closer at the TV. There was a close-up shot of Dr. Burns, the man Parish had met at the funeral. He had climbed up on the bridge railing and was leading a large crowd of protesters in their chants.
“He’s your brother?” she asked Jack. “His name is Burns, not Waterbridge.”
“My mother’s last name was Burnside. He shortened it to Burns.”
“Was?”
“She died when we were kids. Funny thing is Arnie was a better golfer than me. Dad named him for Arnold Palmer. I’m named after Jack Nicklaus.”
“Oh,” Parish said, half listening. Riveted to the TV.
“Now he wouldn’t set foot on the course if his life depended on it.”
“He wouldn’t?” she asked, distracted, not really paying attention to him.
“My therapist, she says Arnold’s homeless crusade is his way of acting out his anger at my dad.”
“Does she?” Now she was listening.
“That subconsciously he blames my dad for Mom’s death. I hardly recognized him. He’s not wearing his glasses. We all have crummy eyesight in our family. We all need bifocals.”
“And he’s not wearing his?”
“Dad calls Arnie a champagne socialist. Working for the poor but he rides a specially made bicycle, drinks the most expensive coffee you can buy, and wears custom-made, one-of-a-kind glasses.”
“One-of-a-kind, specially made?”
Her robe was on the floor. She slid out of bed, slipped it on, and reached for her phone.
“Hey, where you going?” Jack said, tugging at her robe.
“Give me a minute,” she said. “I have to make an important phone call.”
She rushed downstairs, sat at her kitchen table, and called Greene on the emergency number he’d given her.