The Bessie Series - Books 1-3

20. Toronto

The air is as thick and heavy as a chocolate pudding. The 1967 navy-blue Plymouth crawls slowly along a downtown, working-class neighborhood. The sidewalks are filled with hot, sweaty people, either trying to escape the steamy night, or take advantage of it.

Art MacIntyre drives. Beside him, a stocky Italian squirms in the passenger seat. A stack of posters is crammed in by the console. The title is clearly visible: “Have You Seen These Teens?” Beneath the words, Ash and Bessie smile up innocently in school photos, along with a set of their glamour headshots with the cautionary words: “May be Wearing Wigs”. Contact information fills the rest of the sheet.

Gianni Moreno picks up half a tuna submarine sandwich from waxed paper on his lap. He takes out the slice of tomato, tossing it out the window. “I hate vegetables,” he says. “Hate ‘em all, except chili peppers, of course. Love chili peppers. And onions.” He stares out the window at the milling mass of sweating humanity. “Which one is really a fruit?”

Art scowls at him. “One of them is always mistaken for a vegetable. Forget which one. Look at them all. Enjoying themselves. Not a care in the world.”

Gianni takes a whale-sized bite, dripping mayonnaise. He mutters, “Maybe our daughters are too, for all we know.”

Without warning, Art jams on the brakes, white-knuckled. He points excitedly and cries out, “There they are!” Indeed, half a block ahead on a crowded sidewalk, two teenage girls stroll: one pale Caucasian with blue-black curls, and one of mixed heritage with bright blonde hair. They teeter in spike heels and cheap, tight outfits. Arms are interlocked as they chatter and giggle.

Art scrambles to find a place to pull over and park. He gives up, turning off the ignition in the middle of the road. Grabbing the keys, he spills out of the car, followed closely by Gianni. Despite the heat, they tear through the crowd like boys who have just stolen a purse.

The crowd fills in. The girls disappear. Art and Gianni stop to look around, frantic.

Through an opening in the throng ahead, the girls appear again. The men elbow and tear through the slow-motion mass, pushing aside a stroller, making the baby cry. They both shout into the air, “Ashley! Bessie! Stop. Wait. Bessie!”

Now they’re closing in on the oblivious teenagers. The backs of their heads are together, the darker-complexioned girl in an obvious fake blonde wig. “Stop! Bessie! Ash! It’s Dad! Daddy!” the men yell at them. “Stop, for the love of God!”

Now they are narrowing the gap. A small dog on a leash barks and snaps, angering the owner who shouts, “Hey, youse! You just bashed into my dog, jerks!”

The two perspiring men are now just a few feet behind the girls, calling frantically, “It’s your dads, please. Ash, Bessie, stop, please!”

The teenagers finally react to the shouting right behind them, spinning around. Art and Gianni’s features beam with joy, followed closely by shock and repulsion. Instead of their daughters, two sulky strangers glare back, smacking wads of gum, a gut-wrenching mockery of their beloved girls. And up close, at least ten years older.

Art and Gianni’s faces contort in pain. The girls smirk, snap their gum, shrug their shoulders, and turn back around, disinterested. They teeter off, getting lost in the crowd.

The men stand silently on the sidewalk, watching the girls’ backs disappear as people push by them. Finally, Art turns to head back. “Tomatoes,” he says.

Gianni looks sideways at him, repeating, “Tomatoes?”

Slowly, painfully, the two fathers begin the sad trek back to the abandoned car, where a policeman is busy writing up a ticket. Art speaks under his breath, “They’re a fruit. Not a vegetable.”