Chapter 10 - THE KEY TO HER OWN DOOR
Spring comes to East Toronto later than it does to the rest of the province.
The lake holds the winter cold like an iron stove holds the heat, releasing it in long, damp drafts that crawl up the ravines until the middle of May. But when it finally breaks, it happens in forty-eight hours. The horse-chestnut trees along Pape burst into pale green candles, and the mud in the back garden turns from black grease into sweet, warm soil that smells of worms and old rain.
On a Saturday morning in late May, I was standing on the back porch of 414 Pape, barefoot on the cedar decking, holding a cup of Bridgehead tea.
Oat milk. No honey.
I liked it better that way now. Less sweet. Clean on the tongue.
In the back garden, the two plum trees were in full, reckless bloom—masses of tiny white petals that drifted down onto the grass every time the wind blew off the bluffs. Where Hugo had wanted to pour three feet of reinforced concrete for an underground parking ramp, the soil was freshly turned, planted with four rows of heirloom tomatoes, runner beans, and two bushes of sweet box whose scent drifted up to the porch like honey.
My phone gave a single, quiet buzz from the pocket of my linen trousers.
It was an email from the City of Toronto Heritage Preservation Board:
*RE: 414 Pape Avenue (Arthur Mercer House).*
*Please be advised that the nomination for listing under Part IV of the Ontario Heritage Act has been approved by the Toronto Preservation Board. The designation applies to the full parcel, including the Edwardian residential structure, the rear stone garden wall, and the original 1912 masonry rosettes.*
*File closed.*
I read it twice.
Then I hit *Forward*, typed *Carl – please print three copies for the green box*, and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
From inside the kitchen, the radio was playing an old Glenn Miller tune—the scratchy, sweet brass of "In the Mood" drifting through the copper screen door. Jean was at the yellow pine table, her glasses on the end of her nose, slicing rhubarb for three pies she was taking to the church bazaar on Sunday.
"Abby!" she called through the screen.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Did you take the spare key off the hook by the cellar door?"
I smiled down at my hand.
Between my fingers, warm from the pocket of my trousers, was the old iron key Dad had cut on his lathe forty years ago. It was heavy, notched with five irregular teeth, its bow worn smooth by three decades of his calloused thumb.
"No," I called back. "I’ve got it right here."
"Well, put it back when you’re done," she said. "The boy from the nursery is bringing the cedar mulch this afternoon, and I’m not getting up to let him through the lane."
"I'll be here, Mom," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."
May you like
I leaned against the porch post, feeling the sun soak into the three coats of marine varnish Arthur Mercer had laid down before he left us. The wood was solid. It didn't yield an eighth of an inch under my weight.
Down on the avenue, the streetcar gave its familiar, two-tone clatter as it swung around the corner toward the lake, its bell ringing once, twice—a bright, stubborn iron sound that announced to the whole valley that the line was open, the rails were clear, and the house was standing exactly where it was meant to be.
