Five Star Review
Dealing with a loved one who has cancer puts you in a different class of people. The thoughts, feeling and emotions are like nothing you’ve ever had to go through. And writers of course deal with things in different ways. My coping mechanism involved creating a story incorporating everything I’d been experiencing: fear, guilt, helplessness and finally … hope. Obviously one of my most personal stories, Five Star Review was published in the magnificent anthology, Dark Fusions, in 2013.
“Five-Star review on this one,” Celia said, glancing from her iPhone and pointing past the rapidly swishing wiper blades. “‘One of Toronto’s best-kept secrets!’”
I looked out through the raging downpour and wondered if maybe we should just let this secret stay hidden. Set back on the edge of the property, shielded from the sky’s torments by a pair of maple trees with sagging branches and leaves wet with crimson tears, stood an uninviting two-story cobblestone restaurant with black windows, broken roof tiles and hanging gutters.
“Sure you want to do this?” I asked. “We can always just get to our hotel, order room service …”
She gave me a look, eyes spilling with desperation. “Please, this might be our last time.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You know what I mean. At least six months.” The words made an effort to mimic hopefulness, but only came out sounding hollow.
“Sorry, I just … I’m trying to keep your mind off of what’s coming, and it just seems everywhere we go, I fail.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “Park this thing, and let’s get a nice bottle of wine, a great meal, and enjoy our night.”
Minutes later, we moved through a cozy lobby, following the sound of soft piano music on our way to the main dining area. After rounding the corner we saw a blind man, his cane propped against the bench behind him while he tenderly fingered the ivory keys of an ancient piano.
Celia squeezed my hand in a vise-like grip as we walked by, and before I could think about it I found myself digging into my front pocket and pulling out a two-dollar coin, then dropping it into the empty fishbowl. The blind man’s fingers faltered for just a second when he heard the sound. His head inclined toward us and a weathered smile crossed his cracked lips as he nodded his thanks. I then noticed the circular hole and plastic seal in the center of his throat.
I turned to Celia, whispering, “What’s the name of this freak show?”
She jabbed me in the side as we stepped through a doorway into the somber glow of a narrow chamber, packed with tables yet still intimate and I had to admit, a little charming. A hostess stand was set to our left, beside a rounded bar where a dour-faced man in a black vest stood like a statue in front of a meager collection of bottles. Three other couples were already seated, staring blankly at menus propped before their faces. I couldn’t help but notice that at least one person in each pair seemed sickly: pale, hunched over and almost skeletal.
“Don’t stare,” Celia scolded after clearing her throat. She let go of my hand, and as we waited for the hostess who was at the other side of the room, seating another couple, she checked her iPhone again. “It’s called Stage Four. Great reviews. Listen to this one. ‘Decadent food, impeccable atmosphere …’”
I raised an eyebrow, glancing around. “It’s certainly clean. I give it that much.”
“‘…friendly service and unbeatable prices. A romantic culinary experience at an irresistible price.’”
Shrugging, I offered a wan smile to the hostess—a matriarchal woman dressed in a loose-fitting black gown.
She studied Celia for an uncomfortably long time, and it seemed her eyes were drawn to my wife’s belly. For a terror-stricken minute, I almost believed she could see through the skin and muscle, right through to her ovaries, and it was as if she not only saw everything so clearly, but savored the sight of the growing mass that threatened Celia’s life, a living parasitical thing that would soon be blasted with six cycles of potent chemotherapy for its trouble, just as soon as this—our last little getaway—was over and we returned to the real world.
“Right this way,” the hostess said with razor-thin lips that parted to reveal tobacco-stained teeth, far too close together.
As she led us away, someone took hold of my arm.
I stopped, and my right hand, which had been holding Celia’s again, slipped free and hung outstretched in the air. She turned back, mouth open, but the hostess had her arm around Celia’s back, and kept moving her along.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a low voice just above a mumble, the words spoken with the same beat as the heavy notes played blindly on the piano in the other room.
Over my shoulder, there looking down on me, his huge head caught in the glare of the ceiling light, stood the tallest man I’d ever seen. He was dressed in a black suit with sleeves three inches too short. His hair was all white, with complimentary bushy eyebrows; and his eyes were a pale gray reminding me of a thin sheet of ice over crumbling pavement.
“What?” I managed, fighting the frost exuding from those eyes.
“You need to come with me for a moment, sir. This way please.”
I blinked, glancing around. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
The skin on his cheeks pulled back and teeth the color of the hostess’s grinned at me. “I’m the manager. Please, come this way, there’s something you need to see before you sit down.”
He started moving toward the back, to a shadowy hallway.
“I don’t …” I started, but he was pulling me with him. Helplessly, I looked to Celia, about to wrench my arm free and run to her, take her and get the hell out of this place, five-star review or not, but then I saw her sitting, the old woman kneeling beside her, patting her arm. Celia was nodding and smiling, gazing at the woman with tears in her eyes.
This had happened before. At the strangest of places. Almost immediately after Celia’s diagnosis, it seemed other women could just tell. Strangers would come up to her and talk, allaying her fears about the treatments, volunteering their survival stories, assuring her she’d make it if she were strong and positive. And here, not surprisingly, it was happening again. At these times, I found it best to keep my distance so I didn’t interrupt something important.
“This way,” the manager repeated, and then we were into a musty hallway that ended at a stone stairwell, something out of place with the rest of the construction, built from material that seemed to belong to a distant epoch. The steps were weatherworn, with indentations as if from centuries of use, crumbling in places and coated with a slick moss along the edges. I smelled something foul, something heated and fuming, rising from below.
I dug in my heels. This was far enough. Pulling free, I took two steps back, returning to the landing where a cool draft of sweet air, laced with the scents of warm bread and onion soup, flooded over me and conquered my queasiness.
“Sorry,” I said in barely a whisper. His hands had dropped to his sides, and as he stood there hunched over with his crooked spine butting up against the low ceiling, he looked like some grotesque freak from one of my childhood nightmares.
“Come with me.”
I shook my head.
His smile was gone, if it was ever really there. “Mr. Kendricks, please follow me.”
I froze. “How did you know my name?”
Blinking at me, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a thick black leather book, which I thought to be a wine menu at first. He opened it and ran his finger down the left side.
“Here it is: five-fifteen reservation. ‘Edward and Celia Kendricks. Table for two.’” The book snapped shut and was gone in an instant, and his back was again to me as he descended. “Edward? Please follow along.”
But I had backed up, rounded the corner, and now I was moving without thought, just on pure impulse, a reaction to primal fear. I wasn’t heading into some dank basement with this stranger and leaving my wife alone.
I stopped in mid-stride just as I returned to the main room and looked to our table. There was Celia, still listening intently to the hostess, and yet where the woman had been stroking Celia’s wrist, the skin had turned white like marble, with spider web cracks extending up her arm, under her sleeve and emerging out of the turtleneck, frosting the flesh on her neck.
But she seemed oblivious, still smiling and nodding. I opened my mouth to shout to her, but found I couldn’t make a sound. And then I noticed the light had dimmed and over me once more stood the gaunt giant, the proprietor. I expected a look of scorn, or anger, but only saw his stone-set features. And those awful teeth that parted above my face. His breath made me retch, but his voice was soothing, almost sweet.
“Please, Mr. Kendricks, you must see this. Kindly follow along.”
“But—” I pointed to Celia.
“It concerns her,” was all he said as he turned his back to me and headed down the passage.
It was all he needed to say.
With just a glance back to Celia, to see the spreading pall of grey-white extending now over her cheeks, reaching even behind her eyes, turning them cold and pale, I turned. And followed.
Without any handhold, I had to travel slowly over the slick surface of the rocky stairs, making my way after the shadowy form of the proprietor. Soon I sensed I was alone, and just as I was worrying about the darkness and the thickening shadows, a crimson glow, flickering slightly, made the walls seem to breathe like the inside of a diseased esophagus.
And then I had caught up to him, and we were on an uneven floor made of dirt and stones, smelling of roots, mold and … something else. Coal certainly, from the piles dumped before five huge fireplaces along the far wall, but then I recognized it.
Rotting meat.
I heard the buzzing of flies, and now I could see the things, a swarm of them darting around the heads of four little boys—boys who couldn’t be more than seven or eight. They stood upon the piles of black coal, wielding shovels in their grimy hands, their faces coated with soot. Sores on their arms, blisters on their faces. Hair falling out in places, revealing infected patches of raw flesh.
I put my hand to my mouth, staggering to the nearest wall and gasping for an increasingly short supply of oxygen.
“Settle down, Mr. Kendricks.”
I released a wracking heaving cough, only to have the fumes simultaneously rage down my throat and sear my sinuses. My eyes were watering. One boy turned as he readied another shovel load for the oven. His eyes were as black as the coals he stood upon, without a trace of white, and his cheeks looked as if he had wept through layers of black makeup. His head lowered, shoulders sagging, and he resumed his work. It was then that I noticed the chains—iron and black so they blended in with the coal piles. Chains attached to shackles around the left ankle of each of the four boys.
“What … the … hell?” Was all I could manage before the manager’s shadow loomed over me, and I actually found myself grateful that he blocked out the heat—and the horrific sight beyond.
He gazed down at me without expression, then inclined his body slowly sideways and pointed so that I could see what he wanted me to see.
The fifth stove—the fireplace at the end. Open, cold. Untended.
The proprietor returned to his position looming over me. “There is something you need to get for me.” Again he reached into his pocket, this time retrieving a single sheet of yellow paper. He thrust it into my coat pocket, the same one that held my iPhone. “Go to the address written there. And retrieve for me something.”
“What? What do you …?
“Something blue,” was all he said as he fixed me with those unnerving eyes.
“Blue,” I repeated, and then I was quickly walked back to the stairs. I tried to turn around and see, convince myself that this was all a trick, expecting to witness the kids laughing and tossing away their shackles and high-fiving each other. Instead, all four had turned, shovels gripped in blistered hands, and were watching me with vacant expressions.
Dear God. “What the hell is this place?”
“Go to that address, Mr. Kendricks,” he said. “Hurry and you’ll be back here before they bring out the main course.”
And after a dazed ascent where I couldn’t force my thoughts to focus, where I ridiculously focused on the need to tell him that I hadn’t even ordered yet, we were at the top and I was breathing clear air again and the pressure was gone from my back. I turned, and I was alone. Turned again—and saw that Celia wasn’t at our table. In her place was a bowl of soup, still steaming, and a half-eaten roll.
I panicked. Rushed toward the neighboring table and grabbed the other diner by the shoulders. He looked up at me with red eyes as I shouted, “Where’s my wife!?”
“Bathroom,” he whispered, then turned away, staring into the glazed eyes of his date. Her head lolled to the left as she absently put a leaf of iceberg lettuce into her mouth.
I backed up, then headed for the restroom, only to be met by the large bartender who barred my way. He held out an arm and pointed toward the exit. “I believe you have something you need to do first, Mr. Kendricks.”
“I believe you can go to hell,” I spat back. “I want to see my wife.”
“She’ll be out in a moment, but if you’re not back here soon, with what he’s asked for …”
He let it trail on, and the look in his eyes—dull and absent, like what I’d expect from a serial killer—got me moving. Before I knew it, I was by the piano again, heading out.
The blind man was bobbing his head and playing what took me a moment to recognize as a slowed-down version of Blue Moon.
I made a wide arc around the piano, then sprinted to the door where I hesitated. What the hell was I doing? The music stopped and the blind man turned, fixing me with a glassy stare. A lone note played, a single key tapping slowly, deeply like a heartbeat.
And then I was in my car. Turning on the GPS.
I pulled out the sheet of paper. Blinked at the address, then typed it into the Navigator. I watched numbly as it searched, then spat out the distance: 2.3 kilometers.
Close enough.
The rain had stopped. I started the car, guided it back, then peeled out fast, gunning around the corner in the search for what I now believed to be the only thing that would allow us to survive this night. Something unknown.
Something blue.
54 Division Road.
A rougher section of town. Boarded up homes, trash spilling from overturned cans in weed-choked yards. A weak sunset sprinkled through the bulging black clouds as I pulled to a stop beside the chain-link fence. I could see the sandbox, empty of all but dirt and broken glass, the dented metal horses on springs, and the rusty swing set with four empty swings.
—And one that was occupied.
I got out of my car for a closer look, already knowing what I’d see. Swinging slowly, his feet dragging in the indented dirt, wearing a Blue Jays jacket and cap, a young boy gripped the chains tight, his dirty fingers clenching the rusty iron chains.
I dropped the piece of paper, let it blow away in the winds, then reached into my coat pocket for my phone. This had gone far enough.
After dialing 911, I held the phone to my ear as I stared at the boy—and he stared back at me. By the time they had answered and said they’d be sending a nearby car to my location, the boy had slowed, then stepped off the swing. He walked over to me, squinting as if the sun were actually high above, out in full force. He didn’t look wet, and yet he must have been out here for hours.
“Hi,” I said, feeling foolish.
He blinked at me, then backed away as a police cruiser pulled up. The officer got out and took his time walking over. He wore mirrored glasses.
“What’s the problem?”
“Um, officer—this restaurant I was just at, Stage Four—you’ve heard of it?”
He nodded. “A romantic culinary experience. Bargain prices. Exceptional service. Never been there myself.”
“Yeah—” I almost stopped right there. Something familiar about those words, but I rushed on. “You have to go there, the basement. He’s keeping kids, making them tend the ovens, and he wanted me to …”
“Wanted you to what?”
“To …” I looked away from my own reflection in those glasses, to the park, where the boy had retreated, crouching now in the sandbox.
“To get him something.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “Just what the hell is the emergency? So he uses younger help? If this is a workplace complaint—”
“Just come back with me! Please, you need to see for yourself. And—and he’s done something to my wife. She ate some soup. Or was it the roll?” I scratched madly at my scalp, frowning, trying to remember. “I don’t know, but when I came back looking for her she was in the bathroom and—”
The officer hung his head as a look of annoyance crossed his features. “Look, I’m not a health inspector. If you suspect food poisoning, call the health board.”
He started to turn away, but then apparently decided to give me a little extra scrutiny. I could imagine how I must have looked: agitated, ranting and waving my hands in the air. He stepped closer, sniffing the air in front of my face.
Oh shit, did he think I was drunk? I had to bring him around, and fast. “Officer, please.” I tried to sound as calm and sober as possible. “The kids downstairs. I tell you something’s not right.”
He frowned some more, and then his eyes softened. Sighing, he started to nod like he was about to give in and come with me—if only to indulge me. I had a moment of elation before—
A call chirped over his CB. He raised his index finger for me to hold on, then turned slightly and held the device to his ear. His shoulders straightened and his body tensed. He released the call and when he turned around, his demeanor had completely changed. “Sorry sir, but there’s a real emergency a couple streets over from here. A hit and run.”
I blinked at him in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear me? Kids, my wife—”
But he was already moving, breaking into a jog toward his cruiser. “No time,” he called back.
“But—” I chased after him.
He slid into his seat and slammed the door before I closed the distance. The engine flared and he rolled down the window as I neared. “Listen,” he said, his voice apologetic but hopeful, “did you have a reservation there?”
I was taken aback by the question. “No. I mean … yes, he had our names in there, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“There you go, then. You’re all set. Go on back, enjoy yourselves. I’d try the Chateaubriand if I were you. Heard good things!”
“But—”
The siren drowned out my last words, and I was left standing in the middle of the empty road, watching my only chance for help disappear around the next corner. Moments later, nudged by the winds, I turned back to the fence, where the boy now stood, his hat on backwards.
We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us blinking.
Finally, he spoke. “What are you going to do?”
But I had already made my decision.
Back inside the restaurant.
The piano man, now playing a jazzier version of Unforgettable, turned to me and grinned. I noticed my coin was still in his fish bowl, all by itself. He took out a small device and pressed it to his throat. “You know,” he said, the words electronic and amplified, “business is slow lately and it might help if you could write a nice review. Sure would please the manager …”
I moved past him, and in the dining area I found Celia’s table was still empty. The four other couples were busy staring at their dishes, and in some cases, holding up silverware as if looking at their reflections. The aroma from the kitchen was foul, a smell that reminded me of something finally flossed out from between two molars.
I looked around helplessly. No hostess. No bartender, no tall man. I knocked on the rest room door, hoping to find Celia but knowing already that she wasn’t in there. Then I turned, lowered my head, and took off toward that dark hallway. I descended the steps as quickly as I dared until alighting on that awful floor amidst the heaps of coal and the four children still hard at work.
Swallowing, I took a step closer—and felt the hand on my shoulder. Soft and fatherly, yet firm enough to let me know I wasn’t going anywhere.
I turned and when he let go, I took a step back.
The proprietor cocked his head. “Well?”
I reached into my coat and pulled out what I had given the kid twenty dollars for. Holding it out by the cap, I jiggled it slightly before his narrowing eyes. “Here you go,” I said with an air of calmness that did nothing to hide my complete terror and the certainty that Celia and I were never leaving here alive. “Something blue.”
The proprietor stared for a moment, then finally blinked at the Blue Jays baseball hat. Shook his head. “So this is your choice?”
“It’s what you asked for.”
I shrunk even farther back, expecting something—I don’t know what—some kind of horrific response to my disobedience. Instead, he merely made a clucking sound with his teeth and shook his head. And then he was gone, making his way up the stairs. I had the urge to rush after him, to force a direct physical conflict despite the odds against me. But then I had another idea.
I wouldn’t do as he wanted, but maybe I could offer an alternative. Maybe there was still time. So, loosening the Velcro on the back of the cap, I slid it onto my head, walked up the side of the last coal pile, and picked up a shovel. With a big breath, I slammed it into the coals and scooped up a shovel-full.
About to toss the coals into the oven, not sure what that would do, if it would even suffice, I paused, noting the attention of the other boys, who had now stopped their work, staring at me with disbelief. We held that pose for several moments before I turned the shovel over, dropping the coals. And before I could think about it, I was there, by the closest boy, raising the shovel. I slammed the point down on the chain link, cleanly severing it in one clean stroke.
“Come with me,” I said after I had freed the rest. “And stay close.” I looked back and saw them still standing there, shovels in hand. Then, all at once, they dropped the shovels, and the impacts echoed grimly in the small room.
The fires dimmed.
“Let’s go,” I urged, and started up the stairs, thinking about how I would lead them out, fighting if I had to, all the way to my car where I’d drive them to the police station. And then I’d join a raid back on this hellish place and personally see that proprietor put in his own shackles.
“Hurry,” I said, and glanced over my shoulder.
They weren’t following. I went back down, peered toward the fires. The fireplaces were simmering, the flames dying. There were no other exits, but the boys were simply … gone.
I glanced back to the stairs, and was about to climb up again when I thought of something.
Business is slow lately and it might help if you could write a nice review. Sure would please the manager …
I took out my iPhone, then went to Google and pulled up reviews for Stage Four. First stop, Travelocity.com where I read the same review Celia had read: ‘Five Stars. Decadent food, impeccable atmosphere … Friendly service’
Then I went to the next one: ‘Five Stars. Food is decadent, atmosphere impeccable. Service friendly …’
What the hell?
Written by different people, supposedly, but the same words. I read the next one, another five-star review. Unbeatable prices. A romantic culinary experience …
I switched over to Expedia, read four reviews, then went to RestaurantReview.com and read three. All virtually the same. All five stars.
Sure would please the manager …
What was happening here? Who wrote these? And then I thought of those couples upstairs, the ones dragging themselves in here, rain or shine, sitting dull-faced and staring at their plates.
What did they choose?
My flesh crawled as again I stared at the fireplaces, the mounds of coal, and I half-expected the giant hand to come crashing down on my shoulder again.
Instead, in the silence and the flickering shadows, I climbed up.
At the top, again I found no one. The dining area was empty now except for that one couple closest to our table. I quickly ran to them. “My wife—?”
“Hospital,” the woman said, and her complexion appeared a little rosier, her eyes a little more lifelike.
“What?”
“After she ate the rolls,” said the man. “Stomach pains, throwing up. Blood. She managed to call, then ran outside to meet the ambulance.”
I bolted. Through the back room I ran, and saw the piano man picking up his cane and reaching into the fishbowl. He pulled out the coin, bit it, then grinned at me as I ran by.
But at the door, it was another voice that stopped me cold. I turned, and standing there, only a few feet away, was the proprietor. The hostess was at his side, coming only up to his waist. They both looked weary, spent, and yet they wore odd smiles.
“Thank you for dining with us, Mr. Kendricks.” Pulling out that little black book again, he snapped it open and turned a page, nodding. “We’ll expect you again next … let’s see, ah here’s your reservation. Next October. Until then, goodbye Edward, it’s been our pleasure.”
This was insane, I thought, but I couldn’t even say a word, couldn’t move my lips. Instead, I turned, ran to my car, set the GPS to find the nearest hospital, and raced there as fast as I could, down surprisingly empty back streets.
Streets that at first mirrored my earlier trip, and as I drove down Division Street and passed the playground, I slowed a little—just enough to watch the five boys on the swings, faces clean, hands unblistered, kicking in unison, rising and falling, their heads turning to watch me pass.
Four hours I spent in the waiting room while Celia was in the ER. I was told by a thin, red-haired nurse that Celia’s food poisoning had been so severe that pumping her stomach did nothing, and after the X-rays they believed she may have swallowed something that had lodged in her stomach and was lethally poisoning her.
So I sat there for two hours, a time in which my anger grew, and clarity returned to my thoughts. Thoughts that eventually turned to fury, and finally—vengeance.
Write a review … sure would help …
Oh, I’d write a review all right.
With my iPhone, I pulled up site after site and wrote the same thing over and over again. These guys seemed to like plagiarism, so I let them have it.
‘0-Stars. You’re better off eating something you find in a hospital dumpster. Service was horrific. The place stunk like a backed up sewer. Rats were plentiful. This place should be condemned.’
Eat that, I thought after saving the last one, just as the doors opened and the doctor came through. He shook my hand, sat me down and told me the best news I could have ever imagined.
Unable to find the source of the food poisoning or her pain through the usual battery of preliminary tests, they did an ultrasound, and what they found—or didn’t find in this case—was astonishing.
“After you told me about the tumor,” the doctor said, “I requested the details from your regular oncologist because I just couldn’t believe it. I reviewed the results from your wife’s previous ultrasound and CT scans, but all I can tell you now is that we looked extensively, and for something that size … well, it’s gone. Just … gone, like it was never there.”
He let that sink in.
“I just got off the phone with her oncologist, and he of course wants to see her as soon as possible. He’ll most certainly want Celia to take monthly blood screening tests for at least a year to be safe, and he’s going to schedule another CT scan in three months. But as it stands, she’s fine. Oh, and the stomach pain? Probably just something she ate.”
I made him say that part about the tumor again; just to be sure I had heard him right. Then I thanked him and slumped back in the nearest chair, content to wait until they brought Celia into recovery.
In the meantime, I stared at my iPhone, my hand trembling as confusion turned to fear.
What had I done?
Eleven months, and Celia is still fine. Still no trace. Nothing. She’s in perfect health.
Several months after we returned, I scoured the Web, looking for any news of Stage Four, but found nothing new after my postings. Nothing except a small blurb in Toronto’s paper. The restaurant had closed the prior week, citing economic issues, poor reviews and weak demand.
A small part of me cheered, but the nagging fear remained, a disquiet I couldn’t put down. I’d often asked Celia about what she remembered, but all she claimed to recall was a talk with that nice hostess, and then eating some bread—that and being furious that I had disappeared when she needed me.
Her lack of recollection is a blessing as far as I’m concerned, but I fear I may need her to remember, and soon. It’s coming up on October.
We’ll expect you again …
I’d been worrying about that phrase for almost a year now. At first, I had fretted over every one of Celia’s tests, going with her each time, rarely sleeping for days before each visit, biting my nails, sure this time the cancer would be back. But a few months ago, a different sort of fear took hold.
Along with the growing certainty that I knew who the reservation was for.
I’m calling my doctor tomorrow to set up an appointment, but I already know what they’ll find. I’ve been having trouble lately. Pressure. Bloating. Urination problems.
Yesterday I called the old number they had listed for Stage Four. And I talked to the hostess, who assured me they were indeed open, and confirmed my reservation in two weeks.
I’ll be there, and in the meantime, I’ve deleted all those negative reviews. And started writing new ones, all these with Five Stars, and roughly similar praises.
This time I only hope that Celia can make the right choices, and do what’s necessary. I don’t know what else I can do. But in the meantime, I find I’m eagerly looking forward to sampling the food I’ve been raving about.
***