Mrs. Thurston's Instrument of Justice.(short story)(Short Story)

MRS. THURSTON'S BOY MARK found Alice McVeigh in the shadow of the viaduct, near the larger patch of nettles at the east river-bank. She had been sleeping there every night for nearly a week -- which, owing to the mid-July heatwave, was not a matter of grave concern. She was as safe in the valley underneath Bloor Street as she was anywhere in Toronto this summer.

Mark was careful about approaching her this time. The first time they had met, she'd nearly taken an eye from him with the sawtoothed edge of a steak knife. The cut on his cheek had healed badly, and the baby-pink scar tissue was a daily reminder of just how much damage Ms. McVeigh was capable of inflicting, if you approached her the wrong way.

So, Mark waited and watched from his hiding place near the river bank, letting the edges of bridge-shade grow and extend to the ends of the valley and beyond, into twilight, before he closed in. Mark didn't mind; he liked Ms. McVeigh, and the simple process of her preparations fascinated him.

Ms. McVeigh had built a tent using an old bedsheet and some sticks, holding down the edges with smooth round rocks pulled from the river-bed. In front of the tent's opening she had placed all her worldly possessions, stuffed into an old Sears bag or spread in a careful arc across the hard ground.

For a long time, Ms. McVeigh simply sat, cross-legged outside her tent with her possessions arrayed around her -- a Buddha, like the one Mark's mother kept in the sitting room, surrounded by the humbly-proffered gifts of her worshippers -- and stared up into the black iron lattice-work beneath the bridge. Occasionally, a subway train would pass through and along that web, the yellow light of its windows strobing across the steel beams as it raced between the tunnels on either side of the valley. At such times, Ms. McVeigh's delicate eyelids trembled, and her neck stretched and her long, matted hair fell from her shoulders, and Mark thought again what a mysterious creature was Alice McVeigh. It was no wonder that she had drawn his mother's kind and undivided attention -- every move she made was an accusation, a mute plea for justice.

Finally, she stood, lifting her elbows above her head, like a jungle cat stretching muscles held too long in repose.

Mark set to work. He unscrewed the mason jar, and with thick, sure fingers he pulled out the cloth. It was soaked through, and the liquid made the little cuts on his hands sting as he crept through the high grass.