The money came through like the lawyer said it would. He was free and clear. Back on his feet again. He had been wronged. The commission had agreed on that. Came to a conclusion. The people who did it to him should be made to pay. Be held accountable was what they said. Who was to blame? No one could decide for certain. But the lawyers wanted to settle it up. His lawyer. Their lawyers. The faster the better. Put it all to bed. An election in the wind. People in power soon to be judged. Clean it all up. Vote.
Ms. Brophy wanted the people who put him in jail to take his place there. The police officers. The judge. She was sure that this must be the way. She got wound up easy. Why not? she said into a camera. Why didn’t the police. The justice minister. Why didn’t they go to jail for taking fourteen years of a man’s life? Exposing him to the trauma and humiliation of being locked away. Do they understand what is done to a man when he’s inside? That place. A man who is guilty of nothing. No crime. Other than being in a disadvantaged socio-economic situation. Living in a low-income sector. That was his only crime. The socially disadvantaged in this country will never be treated fairly until people in positions of wealth and power are held accountable for their own abuses. People with status. People with money. They are the ones who belong behind bars. Ms. Brophy said all of this at once.
Then she answered questions.
The money was in the hands of his lawyer. He sat down in the lawyer’s office. He was nervous. No reason why. He was almost in tears. It would make him guilty to take the money. Not guilt because of something done against another, but something done against himself. He’d be bought off. All of it worse. His hands were trembling. He joined them in his lap. His wife was there with him. She had to be. The cheque was in her name too. The lawyer thought that might be best. A safe bet. Just in case. Right from the start. Her in on it. No disagreements. Everything documented.
His wife was all dressed up. New coat and boots. Perm. She smoked a cigarette while the lawyer explained. How much was left after his expenses. He took almost half. His wife didn’t like that. She smoked her cigarette faster. Her eyes went shifty.
“That’s almost half,” she said. Licked at her lips.
“Here is a list of expenses. Court preparation fees. Court appearances. Consultations. Telephone calls.” He handed the list across his desk. Leaned forward a little so his wife could take it. Watched the ash on her cigarette.
His wife looked at the list. Licking her lips and skimming. Came to the charge for telephone calls. Like hitting a brick wall. She said the amount. It was the price of a small house.
“Where’d you call? China.”
“No. Locally. My time.” The lawyer was patient. “And my associates’ time.” His eyes went toward his door. Toward the hallway. Toward the other offices where his associates made phone calls.
He watched his wife. He wondered if he hated her. No. It was something much worse than that. Something not as strong as hate. It might have been hate at one time. But now it was hate worn down. The edge ground off it. Something he couldn’t put a name on. So it was worse. He wanted Ruth to be there with him. To see the cheque. How much he was worth.
His wife looked at the telephone. Sitting there on the lawyer’s desk. What was that phone made of? Gold. She was making a fuss about nothing. There was no getting around it. No changing it. Look at the man. Look at the office. Look out the window. The top floor on a downtown building. Top floor in a tower. Everything down there. Everything under him. People small walking around. Small cars driving by.
“These all local calls?”
“It’s not the long distance. It’s my time.” The lawyer tried smiling. He took an ashtray from a drawer. Slid it toward her. It was almost funny to him. His eyes on the cloud of smoke.
His wife looked at the lawyer. She made a face like he smelled rotten. The stink of something she could not begin to trace the source of. Then she looked at the ashtray. Stabbed out her cigarette. The lawyer was quick about it. Putting the ashtray away. He shut the drawer.
“The cheque is made out in both your names.”
What was left was still over a million dollars.
“If you invest this, you’ll never have to touch the principal.”
“Whose principal?” his wife asked. “We got no one in school anymore.”
The lawyer laughed.
He thought he might have to stand up. “Where’s the cheque?” The idea of it hurt his head. Above his eyes. He pushed his fingers into his eyebrows.
“You okay?” the lawyer asked.
He lowered his hand. Nodded. His wife looked at him for a second.
“Don’t mind him,” his wife said to the lawyer.
The lawyer waited then opened a neat folder. The folder was white. The cheque was in there. It was on top, attached by a paper clip. Long sheets of papers to be signed. Papers from the government. Papers from the police. Papers from the lawyer. “These are release forms.”
His wife stared at the forms.
He thought of Gilbert in the Waterford. Gilbert and Randy’s house. It still hadn’t been sold. Not in that neighbourhood. Things took a while. Things had to get cheaper and cheaper before anyone would buy. The lawyer had explained about real estate. He told the lawyer to buy it so Gilbert and Randy’s stuff could stay where it was. The sale was in the works. The lawyer had told him that it didn’t matter how much money there was. It wouldn’t be enough to get Gilbert out. Randy was a different story. Money bought Randy out of prison because Willis was paid off. Willis changed his story. Willis had no problem with that. Whatever was worth the most to him. Change anything he said. Anything he did. That had worked out fine. But now Randy was in there again. Just after being let off. The lawyer was working on the new charge. It was a full-time job.
“When you sign these, you release the various individuals, organizations and departments from complicity … blame. Complete blame. There can be no further actions. Criminal, civil or otherwise.” The lawyer waited so they would get what he was saying. “You understand?”
He nodded. His wife looked at him. Saw his nod. Nodded too.
“Who’s the money from?” he asked. He coughed to clear his throat.
“The government.”
“You and me.”
“Yes, I guess so.” The lawyer frowned.
“We’re all to blame then.”
His wife was still watching his face. There was nothing in the room except money. That’s what she saw. Dollar signs on the wallpaper.
“Both of you need to sign.”
He stared at the papers in the folder. The lawyer took them out. He put the cheque to one side. There were a lot of numbers on it. It was hard to be exact. His eyes were shot for small print. His name, he supposed. His wife’s name. Printed on the cheque by a machine. There were quite a few papers. Numbers and papers went hand in hand. Long sheets of paper. Thousands of words in small print. They could barely fit them all on the page. What it was they were trying to say. Jammed together like a bunch of people all talking at once. Blurred words he knew he would never understand. There was no point in trying to read them. A code that had to be learned. The law made sure of it. If he wanted it explained. They would be sitting there for ten years. In the end. He still wouldn’t get what it was all about.
The lawyer laid out the forms in a row in front of them. He laid down a gold pen.
One in front of him.
One in front of his wife.
His wife snatched up a pen.
He took his. They were heavy in the hand. Well balanced. He thought they might write nicely.
“Do you want to go through the forms?”
“No,” said his wife. She was in a hurry. She had her pen pointed at the papers. Ready to go. “I’ve had enough of this misery. It nearly killed me. Waiting this much.” She grinned. Hunched over the desk. Peeked at him.
He could make out the big words at the top of the forms. One word there with all the others: Release.
“We could go over them,” the lawyer said. “There’s no hurry.” The lawyer said this to him. “You don’t need to take the money either. We discussed this, right? You can wait and we can proceed through other means. Handle each suit individually.”
His wife watched the lawyer. She licked her lips. Quick. Then looked at him. “Don’t be foolish,” she said. “Where?” Her eyes on the papers. Her hand lowering the pen. Pretending to sign. Making a motion above the paper to sign. To scribble. “Where? Show me.”
The lawyer waited. They watched each other. “Your call. It must be difficult.”
He thought of Jackie. Caroline. His sons. His three living sons. The two dead ones. Bobby and skinny little Chris. He wouldn’t think of the dead baby. Ruth. If only the money had come earlier. Years ago. The money would keep the living ones from dying. Buy them better lives. Nicer things. Nicer things were like protection. Or the nicer things would kill them faster. It was hard to sort out. How the money would help.
“No. Let’s get it done.”
His wife grinned.
“Here,” said the lawyer. He pointed to blank space above a line.
He signed his name. His wife signed her name under his.
“Here.”
He signed his name again. His wife right after him. Leaning close.
“Here.”
He signed his name. Again and again. Mister Myrden. He signed it like that. So there’d be a difference. Mister Myrden. It was a scrawl. But he knew it wasn’t his proper name. Mister Myrden.
It took a while to sign everything. Then the lawyer took some time separating the papers. Three piles.
“These copies are yours.” The lawyer put them in the white folder. He put the cheque in there with them. Clipped to the front of the papers. Then he put it all in a white envelope with nothing written on the front. He tapped the edge of the envelope on his desktop. Both hands holding on. “Done.”
“Good,” he said. But he did not really think it.
“So, now, as your attorney, I have an obligation to mention the possibility of investment. It would be wise to invest.” The lawyer listed off a few names. People who would know what to do. The lawyer wrote the names down. On the back of the envelope. “They can make sure your money lasts longer. All your life.”
His wife laughed. “Won’t last long. Money’s for spending.”
The lawyer said nothing. He’d seen it before. People with free money. Friends and family members with ideas. With plans. Nothing left in a year. Pissed away. The lawyer had told him stories. Before the money came through. The lawyer had wanted him to know.
“Let’s get to a bank,” his wife said.
The lawyer stood and put out his hand. The one not holding the envelope. To shake. Then the lawyer put out his other hand. The one holding the envelope.
His wife took the envelope. She made a sound when it was in her hand. A sweet sound. A sound he hadn’t heard from her since she was a young woman. A different person.
He shook the lawyer’s hand.
His wife shook the lawyer’s hand. She liked shaking that hand. He could tell. The lawyer was glad that it was all done. But there was something else. Maybe regret. His name on that cheque. All that time. Bought off. They both knew what they were doing was wrong.
“I’m happy for you,” the lawyer said. And you could tell that he was. He wasn’t a prick like everyone said.
“Thanks.”
“Enjoy it,” said the lawyer. The way it sounded. Like it was the end of them.
“What about those funds for Jackie and Caroline?” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. Not in front of his wife. It was best to keep it a secret. But his wife wasn’t listening. She had opened the envelope and was peeking down. Grinning at the cheque. Like it was a baby. A blessed miracle.
“Come see me.”
This made him feel a little better. It almost made him smile. He noticed that the pen was still in his hand. He’d moved it over to his left hand when he shook on the deal. He didn’t realize he was paying so much attention to it. He kept looking at it. It sat there in his palm. It was shiny. Then he heard the lawyer say: “You get to keep the pens.” But he wouldn’t. He laid his on the desk. His eyes on it. Like a bang just gone off.
The car that one of the local dealers gave them a year ago was smashed up by one of his sons. One week old. They had it towed to a used parts lot. Scrap. A few hundred dollars for it.
They took a taxi to the bank around the corner from his wife’s house. They stood in the normal lineup. He wondered if he should go over to the place where there were seats. What was that place for? When they got to the teller. His wife shoved him aside. How quickly she forgot. How quickly she took advantage. The way he changed was nothing to her. It never changed her. She just got her way more. He let her. He watched her. He would be gone soon.
“We wanna open an account,” she said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” said his wife. “But I’ve got a cheque for a million dollars.” She laughed and slapped his chest with the back of her hand. Like they were in it together.
The teller looked at him. She knew his face. The sight of his face changed the way she saw things. She pointed to the seats he had been looking at.
“If you’d like to have a seat over there,” said the teller. “Someone will look after you.”
“That’s right,” said his wife, smiling. “Now she knows.”
They went over to the chairs. No one was ahead of them. He wondered why they needed an appointment. Were they supposed to have one? The teller walked off to get a woman. An older woman. Small and fat in a suit. Curly hair and glasses. The woman watched them while the teller told her things. The woman nodded a few times. There was a plan being laid down. The woman came over. She sat behind the low counter. There was a computer next to her. He couldn’t see the screen. What was on it. He stood there. His wife sat down right away.
“You’d like to open an account?” The woman said this to his wife. Then looked up at him.
His wife pulled the cheque out of the envelope. She handed it over. Laid it on the desk. Pressed her palm on it. Patted it. Better than words. The woman looked at the cheque. She tried not to look surprised.
He knew that he’d need ID.
His wife took out the papers. “You need these too?” she asked.
That was it. He grabbed them from her. The woman’s eyes went to him. Fast. He took his time putting the papers back in the envelope. Trying to forget the noise they made.
“Excuse me,” said the woman. She went off to talk to someone else. Someone who knew what to do. They needed to keep asking the ones with better information. On and on up the chain.
His wife looked up at him. She was sitting in the chair. He was standing. She smiled at him. She patted his arm. He had done good. It had all been worth it after all. She felt that way. Happy as a pig in its own filth. She rubbed her palms together. He held onto the envelope. Held it against his chest. Against the tender scar that his wife had slapped. Back at the teller. He still felt it. The Zipper Club. He liked the idea of that. Open him up. Have a gawk inside. Close him up. Caroline would think that was interesting. Maybe she’d laugh if he told her the right way. Her laugh. That would be great to hear. Right about now.
“Missus Myrden, the manager is ready to see you,” said the woman in the suit. “Please, this way. Mister Myrden?”
Staring but not seeing. He came back to himself. Slowly followed after her along the carpet. Past offices. He had never been in there before. The carpet was clean. The walls had pictures of men in suits. Or pictures of the ocean. A fishing boat. A lighthouse. A beach. In gold frames. The manager’s office at the end of the hallway. The manager showed himself in the doorway before they got there. He was in good shape. Tall. Not that old. But he didn’t have much hair. His head was shiny. Like he had polished it.
“Mister Myrden,” said the manager. “Very pleased to meet you.” He put out his hand. Shook. The hand was soft. Warm. Like a boy’s. A man with little boy’s hands. “And Missus Myrden. Hello.” He shook again. He swept his other hand toward his office. “Come in, please.”
They followed him in. The office smelled of paper. New carpet. False, hollow walls.
“Please, sit down.”
They sat.
The manager smiled. Like he cared about everything they’d ever done in their entire lives. It took years to learn. A guarantee that his smile was for the well-being of whoever. It got him the big office. “So, what can we do for you today?”
The options had given him a headache. Brochures with numbers. Interest rates. Locked in. Flexible. They all looked the same. Three-year term. Five-year term. Sounded the same. Except for one small detail in each one. Half a percentage point. What was the real difference? He could make no sense of it. How could it matter that much? What you did with your money.
Pay the bills. Keep breathing.
He just put it in a bank account. Wanting to get rid of that cheque. His pay cheque. He had worked it out. On the calculator the bank manager had shown him. The bank manager explaining how much interest could be made on the principal. He had taken the calculator from the manager’s hand. Done his own calculation. Fourteen years. Fourteen times three hundred and sixty-five. Five thousand, one hundred and ten days. One million divided by five thousand, one hundred and ten. $195.69 a day. Weekdays and weekends. Even holidays. Sick days included.
A simple bank account was enough. Savings. But he could write cheques. There was interest if he left a certain amount in. He could use a bank card in machines. He’d seen people doing that. The main account in both their names. Another account with so much set aside for his wife to spend. When that ran out, she could get more from the main one. Money enough for everyone. They had asked him for ID. Even though the manager said he knew who he was. The manager had nodded. Like he understood. Like he was annoyed at the assholes who had done it to him. Unbelievable. It was. For a few careful seconds. Then his face changed again. Professional. Down to business. So much money a day in interest. They could spend that and not touch the principal. It was enough for him. He looked at his wife. The eyes on her. The face. Drugged out of her mind by it.
They took out some money. A thousand each. The bills counted out by the manager. Ten one-hundreds. Crisp in his pocket. The manager had shown them how to use the bank machine. His wife nodding through it all. “Uh-huh, uh-huh …” He had to come up with a password. It took him some time to think of one. It seemed important. A password. Four letters at least. Numbers like on a telephone. With letters. Hard to see because of his eyes. The manager made suggestions. Some special word. The manager said. Trying to help him along. A word that you wouldn’t easily forget. He used “Caroline.” The only special word he knew.
His wife used another word. It was shorter. She made sure no one saw it. Blocked it with her hands. The manager said there’d be a gift for them. He couldn’t tell them what it was right away. He’d have to call head office.
He left the bank and went across the street. Bought two cases of beer. He always liked the feel of that. A case heavy in each hand. Hanging from where he gripped the handle-holes. Anchored on both sides. Enough money for two cases. That was reassuring. They walked back to his wife’s house. There was a party going on. Everyone knew they were getting the money. His wife told them all. Faces he’d never seen before. Hands grabbing at him. Touching him. Patting his shoulder. Randy not there because he was inside again. Assault. A taxi driver who wouldn’t laugh. That’s what he was told by the lawyer. Randy wouldn’t say. One way or the other. A taxi driver driving Randy home and wouldn’t laugh at any of his jokes. Jokes no one would ever understand anyway. A taxi was what had hit Randy’s father. Killed his father. Maybe it was a joke about that. He’d heard something like that out of Randy a few times. Another year or more before Randy’d be let out. Unless the lawyer could buy off the cabbie before the trial. He thought of Randy when he tore open the case. Opened the first cold bottle. He’d buy Randy an artist’s studio. With an easel. And some models. Sexy models. Nude ones. That was funny. He almost spit out his beer.
Some time into it, his wife came to him.
“I’m going to the mall.” She held up her crisp hundreds. Eyes everywhere were on her hands. Like it was the Second Coming. He was happy for her. He just didn’t know if he cared.
His mind kept filling up with Jackie. She wasn’t there. Caroline either. They didn’t want any part of this party. They knew better. He didn’t either. He never wanted any part of any of it. The stink of a party. The loudness. The drunken laughter. The talk getting more useless by the minute. People should be whispering if anything.
There was a scuffle in the kitchen. Two of his sons. At each other since the day they were born. No end to the bullshit. He broke it up. They backed away from him when he made the roar. Everything went quiet. All eyes on him. Everything turned on him. In his head. Just like that. He could kill anyone in the room. The fucking money in his pocket. It should matter. It did. It didn’t. He pulled the bills from his pocket and threw them at his sons. Other people in the room watching. The hundreds at their feet. It took a while for them to realize. The smiles slowly came. Then they laughed. Like it was a joke. The laughter made it easier to move. A bunch of people went for the money. Like it was a contest.
He stood there as more people came from behind him. Pushed past. He kept staring. Stunned. They brought the bills to him. The hundreds. They tried putting the money back in his pockets. He crumpled it all up. Threw it back down.
Then he went upstairs and got changed. Put on his good pants. His good shirt. The one he wore to church on Easter and Christmas. The clothes he’d left behind. Combed back his hair. Slapped on some aftershave from the drawer. He looked at the bedroom. Nothing in here his. He thought of burning the house to the ground. There was a pack of matches in his pocket. From some bar. He took it out. He struck the head against the strip. The head burst into flames. He looked around the bedroom. How did a house burn to the ground? How fast? If it could only be in an instant. The idea excited him. It cleared his head. He was breathing easily. Smoothly. Drunken laughter beneath his feet. Coming up to meet him. It didn’t matter. That was them. He felt fresh. He blew out the match. Dropped it in a glass by the bed. Then he went down the stairs. Not a word to anyone before he walked out the front door.
Caroline wasn’t in bed yet. He made sure he got there before the time. Willis, Jackie’s husband, wasn’t at home. Out spending his I’ve-suddenly-had-a-memory-change money. It was quiet in the house. Jackie had a book in her hand. Standing in the doorway to see who he was. Wondering why he looked the way he did.
“You’re all done up,” she said.
“Special day.”
“How’s that?”
“Money came through.”
“Aw.” She stepped aside. Let him in.
“Who’s that?” Caroline calling.
He smiled right away. She stuck her head around the corner and ran to him. He bent down. Hugged her. Held on. Picked her up. She was getting heavier. Bigger.
“You smell great,” she said. A fingertip against his cheek. “You look handsome.”
“We were reading,” Jackie said. She walked past them. He carried Caroline into the living room. He couldn’t wait to get them their new house. A big place with a yard. One in the back and one in the front. Green grass cut short. No broken bottles on the street. No busted-up cars with busted-up mufflers. No screeching tires. No shouting and screaming in the walls. Walls without sounds in them. No garbage and rubbish in the backyard. No scrap wood with nails. No rusty metal. No wreckage.
“You going out to dinner?” Caroline asked.
He put her down on the couch. Sat next to her. “Why?”
“Because you’re dressed up. Are you going to the ballet?”
He laughed. He looked at Jackie. She wasn’t sitting. She was standing there in front of them. Then he looked back at Caroline. “No. You want to go?”
“To the ballet?” She got excited. Sat up straighter. “Tonight?”
“No. Maybe sometime.”
“They went with school,” Jackie said. “Last month.”
He looked at his daughter, Jackie. She was dressed nice. She was a beautiful young woman with a hardness to her. But the beauty beat it out. What she had been put through made his skin tighten. Took everything out of him. He felt his mouth frown. She watched him and saw all of that. He could tell that she saw everything in him. He was her father. It wasn’t all bad. But it had been. Was.
“Time for bed,” she said. Her eyes on Caroline now. Enough of him.
“Poppy just got here.”
“I know that. It’s still time for bed.”
“I just wanted to say hello.” He got up.
Jackie stepped back. He was sorry. He stood there. Then he looked down at Caroline.
“Poppy can read me a story.”
Jackie said nothing. She was searching around for the words. He could tell by her eyes.
“Will you, Poppy?”
It took him by surprise. No one had ever asked that before. He waited for his daughter to speak.
“Sure,” said Jackie. Jackie allowing him to do this. To be close.
“You never read to me before.”
“A first for everything,” he said.
“A first time for everything,” Caroline said.
“You’re right.”
Jackie didn’t know what to think. He could tell. She tilted her head just a bit before she turned away. It was almost like she accepted it. Like things unexpected might actually happen.
Caroline had a bookshelf in her room. He’d never been in there before. Stuffed toys. Games. A little table and chairs. The walls were painted yellow. There were paintings of teddy bears and balloons up close to the ceiling. Going all the way around. What did Willis do for money? He couldn’t recall. Jackie worked at the supermarket. Cashier. And she typed things at night. She had a computer. She was always the one who could apply herself. Her and Mac.
He looked at the bookshelf. Caroline was talking. Showing him everything. Pulling at his hand. His pant leg. Talking. Pointing. He thought the bookshelf might fall. His eyes kept going to it. It wasn’t made well. It was shaky. He thought it might tip over. Jackie looking through the books. He thought of telling her that it should be secured to the wall. With a small, silver L-brace. Four screws. It might fall on Caroline. It wasn’t his place though. To tell other people how to do things.
Jackie gave him something easy. She knew he wasn’t good with words. A thin book. She left them alone and Caroline climbed into bed. Patted the space next to her. He lay down on top of the covers. Caroline put a blanket over him. Took her time making sure it was spread perfect. Crawling down to cover his legs. Trying to cover his feet. Then getting back under the covers. It was a lot of effort.
“You’re big. I need a bigger blanket for you. Your feet are sticking out.”
“I’m too big.” He saw on the ceiling that there were stars stuck there. Planets. A moon. He felt sleepy. He shut his eyes. He could drop off just like that.
“That’s an old book,” Caroline said. She slid it from his hands. Held it in hers.
He came all the way awake. Like a jolt.
“The Seven Chinese Brothers. I used to read that a long time ago,” she said. She opened the cover. “I still like it.” Started reading. One page, then another. Her little voice. So sure of herself. Knowing the words. Anxious to move ahead.
“Your turn.” She put her fingers to the letters. The line where she wanted him to start.
He read two pages. It took him some time. People were trying to kill the Chinese brothers. But the brothers wouldn’t die. There was a drawing of one brother holding the sea in his mouth. His head huge. His face puffed up. That struck him. Amazing. Who would think of something like that? He watched Caroline’s face while she read more. He couldn’t help but kiss her cheek. She liked that. It made her read even better. She was a child. Just a little girl. He could not believe how much he loved her. That it would ever be possible. The cleanness of his feelings. He wondered why he didn’t love before. If only it was Jackie. If only he knew back then. Why couldn’t he love back then? It wasn’t until he went in. All those years locked up. In a cage.
How had he learned to love in there?
It never worked the way he imagined. He had gone to do a good thing. But it was complicated. He was thinking about it all. About Jackie. Not wanting the house. Right up until closing time. She had refused it. A house from him. Was it her talking? Or Willis. Willis forbidding it. Forbidding a better house. Drinks for everyone. His hundreds were changed into twenties. Every bar he went to. He gave over a hundred. To see what people might think. They never even noticed. It seemed like a common thing. Maybe it was. Up on George Street with the people who were dressed in nice clothes. Why did he hate them so much? Why did he want to hurt them? The pretty faces. They had never been in pain. By the looks of their faces. That made him angry. It wasn’t their fault. He kept telling himself. The throb of music that was all the same. One bar to the next. The throb of talk. Of music. Their fucking laughter. Hated their fucking guts. Jaw clamped, he knew it was time to leave.
The hundreds didn’t matter. He ended up back with who he knew. With where he belonged. Country music on the jukebox. Hurting songs that almost made you smile with sadness. Because they were about everyone in the room. Everyone was in it together. The door was locked and they could still keep drinking. As long as they were locked in. The time didn’t matter. Everyone else locked out. He kept going over and unlocking the door. People stumbled in from the street. The other bars letting out. Shutting down. He bought them all drinks. Anyone. It didn’t matter who. The new barmaid kept locking the door. Huffing at him.
“I’ll lose my licence,” she said.
He gave her a hundred-dollar bill. Scratched his chest through his shirt. The scar itchy.
“That’s not real.” She tossed it back at him. Everyone laughed. Looked at his face. And he laughed too. They said his name. His first name and then Myrden. They told his story. They knew it better than him. “The man in the flesh.” Pointing at him. “Right there, look.” They knew he really did it. Killed the woman. Everyone knew. But they wouldn’t say when the time came. They knew about his money. It was all over the news. What a joke.
He gave the barmaid the hundred-dollar bill again. This time she took it. He kept unlocking the door. Letting people in. It became a game then. The barmaid laughed when she locked the door. Eyeing him. Waiting for him to unlock it. Shooing him away.
“Get,” she’d say. “Get.”
Everything was okay then. He’d just keep unlocking it. Letting people in. So they could drink. Drink and be with him. To know he was doing good. That made him happy.
There was the house again with all the windows. Under the cover of night. That’s how he liked to visit. He was true then. He was real. That’s how he felt. The only time. Natural. Dark windows. A still house. Maybe one light left on. In darkness. How he could enter that house. Was able. That had been his intention. But it was getting light now.
He had called so she knew he was coming. But he was late. Stopped at the airport. Ten miles out of town. For the surprise. Pictures of a country he had seen in a window. A travel office downtown. All lit up at night. Couples smiling on a beach. And old white houses. Old buildings. Castles. Colourful celebrations. It said “Escape” on one of the posters. The surprise for Ruth. He used his bank card for the first time. Had no trouble remembering the password. The taxi waiting. It had taken longer than he thought. Then out to the country. The roads clear. Too early for morning traffic. The sun was coming up when he got there. She had already been awake when he called first. Getting ready for work at the university. Archeology. Or something like that. She dug up bones in faraway places. Went on trips. On boats. On old roads. She had told him about some of the trips. No. Not bones. That’s what he had thought first. When they were together all those years ago. But it was about places that were falling apart. Had fallen apart. She studied that. Like bones. Putting the pieces back together. He had laughed at what she did. The explanation. Not in a bad way. Just thinking on it. It was like a hobby to her. That’s how he saw it. She didn’t need the money. Her father had money. She just needed something to do.
She was in her car when he got there. The taxi backed away. Tires popping over stones. Everything calm in the early morning. Birds making sounds. A few titters from up in the trees. Then the bark of a crow. He stood behind her car. Saw her eyes in the rearview. She wasn’t happy. It made him tired to see her that way. It took the shine off everything. The exhaust was collecting low in the chilly air. It came up in front of his face. He stood there. In a cloud. Didn’t mind the smell of it. Hands in his pockets.
Ruth sat there waiting.
He went around to her window. Bent down to see her face. She rolled down the window.
“Having fun?” she asked. Her eyes on his chest.
“Not really. Not yet.”
“I’ve got to go.”
He stood up. Kept his hands in his pockets. He could see her gloved hand click down the transmission stick. The car backed away.
There she goes.
It was a stupid idea. Him and her. Fuck. What was in his mind? She stopped the car. Looked at him through the windshield. He tilted back his head. Watched the sky. Squinted with one eye. What a nice morning. Moving toward spring. The sun was coming up somewhere. It would blind him. When he looked at her again, she was leaning out the window.
“Why don’t you go inside and wait,” she said. Her voice sounding different that far away.
He checked toward the house. Maybe it was a solar house. Maybe that’s why all the glass was there.
“I’ll be home lunchtime.”
He took a look at her. She was straight in her seat again. Her face behind the windshield. She put on sunglasses. Long hair. She was elegant. He stared down at his boots. The car turned around. Straightened. Drove down the lane. The brake lights came on for a second. The car stopped. It stayed that way. Maybe she’d come back. Maybe she’d forgotten something. But no. The car kept going. She had work to do. Her hobby. Nothing to do with him. He couldn’t even begin to imagine.
He had developed a taste for the black beer in her fridge. It was in tall cans. Strong and bitter. But like a meal. The taste of coffee in it. Good breakfast material. Unfortunately there were only three cans. He’d finished them off by lunchtime. Playing the piano. It was getting easier and easier. Fingers soft on the keys. Remembering. Half note. Quarter note. Eighth note. Running higher. Running lower on the lines. Sheet music in his head. His eyes on the portrait of the woman. The one Ruth thought looked like his mother. His fingers going on their own. Without even thinking. It was almost funny now. His fingers running like water. It didn’t look like his mother. Nothing like his mother. His fingers faster. Chasing after something. His mother not even close. He shut his eyes. The eyes of the boy opened. The eyes of the boy stared. They did not blink. What was happening to his mother. What was being done. His fingers raved over the piano keys. It sounded like music to him. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just noise. Music to his ears. The eyes of the boy wide open. It just kept spilling out. Pouring out of him. A river of something like music. Loud. Raving. Raving. Raving. Punch with the fingertips. And then soft. The river of tears behind his face. His fingers barely breathing on the keys. The eyes of the boy open. His fists pounding then his straight fingers. Carefully. Carefully. Touching. He couldn’t tell if it was anything. His fingers knew though. Anger, then the lull. His fingers knew all about it. His fingers trembling on the keys. The flutter of eyelids. The boy’s. It was confusing him. He opened his eyes. He had to. To make the boy’s eyes shut. Two final bangs with all fingers at once. One for each eye. He stopped and stood up. The bench tipping over behind him. Crashing to the floor. The music still booming in his ears. He looked behind him. The bench tipped over. He bent and righted it. Then looked toward the kitchen where she was standing. Still in her coat. Still in her gloves. Her lips parted. Sunglasses covering her eyes. She might have been a statue. She might have been a ghost. She never said anything. She looked like she might be frightened.
“My God,” she finally said. Her voice shaky. “That was beautiful.”
He bought Jackie the house anyway. Near where she had a friend. The suburbs. He knew enough about her. From his wife. From Caroline. He learned things. Then he remembered. Her best friend, Pam. Pam lived in the east end. Had two kids. Nice house. No husband. Caroline went there sometimes. To play.
He got the real estate agent to pick one out. One street over. A quiet cul de sac. No fast cars going through there. The neighbours were busy. Work and then leisure. Kept to themselves. If she didn’t want it he’d give it to someone else. There were plenty of people who could do with a house. Plenty of people who needed more space. He could name a hundred of them. Bigger rooms. Brighter kitchens. But those people would turn against it. That house. Live in it and not care. Make it into a slum. Just to prove a point. Nothing worth anything. Nothing ever lasts. He knew it. All that they knew. Ever. Care for nothing. Owed a living.
The real estate agent pointed out the features. He walked around the space. The rooms were clean. The walls were smooth. No water stains. No holes. He looked out the main window. Children playing in the street. Chasing each other. Laughing. He said he wanted it. He’d pay in cash. The real estate agent couldn’t believe him. He told the agent the name of the lawyer. He let the lawyer take care of it. The lawyer gave him the deed. It was in his name. To keep it from Willis.
“It’s nice to see,” the lawyer said. Sitting behind his desk in his office.
“What?”
“That you can do things for your family. The money’s wisely spent that way.”
“Why don’t you call Jackie up when she’s in her new house?”
The lawyer said nothing to that.
He thought it was because of Willis. The lawyer was afraid of Willis.
“This just came this morning.” The lawyer handed over a small yellow envelope.
Inside was a passport. He slid it out. Looked at the picture he’d had taken. It was a bad picture. Sit here. Look into the camera. He knew better than to smile. The flash went off. Doors clanged shut. They gave him his picture. Two of them. Side by side. And he could leave. He could go anywhere now. Anywhere in the world. Just like that. Who could ever stop him?
Money.
“You can use those tickets now. Have fun.”
He shut the passport. The first day inside came back to him. The fear of the walls. He sniffed. Looked at the window. The passport fell to the floor. His hands in weak fists. His thumbs feeling the cold. The backs of his fingers. Jackie in her house. Out there. In the east end.
He bent for the passport. Looked at the lawyer. “You went to school with Jackie, right?”
“Yes, I did.”
He just looked at the lawyer. The lawyer had a nice face. Handsome. He took care of himself. He smelled okay too. He could smell the lawyer from where he was sitting. Whatever he was wearing was expensive. He looked at the lawyer’s suit. A man who could keep people out. Get them out. Then he looked at the lawyer’s desk. At the lawyer’s shelves. The books. Rows and rows of books with gold letters. No pictures. No frames.
“You have a wife?”
“I’m gay,” said the lawyer.
You could never tell. “That leaves you out then,” he said.
“Guess so.”
The tickets were good for any time. Full fare. First class. He had bought them to connect through Toronto. That was west instead of east. Spain was east. Where they were going. But he wanted to stop in Toronto first. West first. East after. There was a good reason for that.
Myrden’s Eyewear.
It was no problem for Ruth to get the time off. Her schedule was flexible. This was what she said with a smile. After kissing him. A big kiss. The ticket in her hand. She’d been to Toronto before. She’d been to many places. He’d seen her passport. The stamps on it. The place names all different. She suggested the hotel. They rode in a limousine from the airport. It was long. Plenty of room inside. Black. Shiny. Superstars. The guy up front had on a hat. Just like he thought it should be. Smoothest ride he ever felt. Buildings were lit up in the night. Closer to downtown. He saw the CN Tower. Needle in the sky. The tallest building in the world. Other buildings lit up. Nothing stopping those lights that made the air seem so clear.
“Is this place good?”
“Which place?” Ruth asked.
“The hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Five stars?”
Ruth smiled. “No.”
“What’s a good five-star hotel?” he said to the driver. Like it was something he asked every day. Only he wouldn’t be asking it. If he asked it every day, he’d already know the answer.
The driver spoke without blinking. He listed a few. He called him “sir.” His voice the same on every word.
“What’s the best?”
The driver suggested two.
“Which one is better?”
“It’s hard to say, sir.” The driver’s eyes in the rearview.
“Which one is more expensive?”
“They’re priced pretty much the same, sir.”
“There’s got to be one.”
The driver said nothing. Maybe he was thinking. Maybe he was ignoring them.
He thought he might grab the driver. He was being fucked around. One had to be the best. There was always the best. And always the worst.
Ruth said which one was better. She put her hand on his leg. It was meant to mean something.
He looked at her. “Good,” he said. Then told the driver: “Take us there.” Like it was a bullet. His words.
They weren’t expecting anything like him. He could see that. The man behind the hotel counter. But it was all business as usual. It wasn’t enough to smother his mood. Out of the limousine. Clear of that driver. Too young to know anything. What kind of life would he have? In this city? Making money.
A man in a fancy outfit had opened the hotel door. Done up like a guard. But more colourful and with manners.
“A room or a suite?” the man at the counter asked.
“A suite,” he said. Because it came second. More expensive. One step up.
“Baggage?” The man looked at Ruth. He gave her a smile that was different. Like he knew her. Recognized her. It would be easier. Then he started asking her the questions. He kept talking to her. That was fine.
He turned away. Checked out the lobby. Huge space. Chandeliers. Expensive chairs and rugs. Marble floors. Marble statues. Water flowing somewhere. Trickling. High ceilings. Corridors up there. A balcony that went all the way around. You could see some of the rooms. The doors. Wooden doors. Nicely made. Crafted was the word.
“Sir?”
He turned.
“How would you like to pay?”
“With rocks.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s how I’d like to pay.”
A smile that was tight. Like an asshole.
He took out his wallet. Gave over the bank card. It wasn’t gold. Like the others he’d seen. It wasn’t silver. It wasn’t like any sort of metal. Cards people clicked down on the counter. He’d watched them. Others checking in. What they put down. His card was red. No name on it. Could be anyone’s.
“Would you prefer to use a credit card?”
“Use that. Take what you like.”
“Certainly.” A little bow. He remembered the dog. Willis’s dog. It had died. Brought to the vet. Hepatitis. It was throwing up all the time. Wouldn’t eat. Nothing they could do for it. The vet was a woman. She was sorry for the dog. She really cared for the dog. You could tell. She kept rubbing the dog. Saying sweet things to the dog. Taking her time. He had looked at that woman. That vet. And he wished for another life. Her face made him wish. A woman who cared for a dog. She would care for him. In a bright white room like that. Her white coat. Other animals everywhere. She had a house full of them. Ones that she’d saved. He knew it. He had Ruth. Ruth was like that. But she stood back. She didn’t give herself over. Not all the way. He felt he might love the vet. Just her tenderness. Pure tenderness. Able to give all of herself that way. They had to put the dog down. Kill it. Put it down. They had to kill it because it had been made sick. Chained up outside in the cold. He had rubbed the dog. Watched it. Its eyes. They knew. Those eyes were going to die. Be put down. The dog just watched him. I can’t save you. He said that in his head. I can’t save you. Tears. He heard another voice: Just a fucking dog. I can’t save you. A fucking dog. What are you? Nothing. Dead now. Nothing.
The man swiped the card. “We’ll hold a deposit. Then return it to your account on checkout.”
He looked at the man. It was like there was something wrong with him. His smile. His eyes. His teeth. His hair. What was the matter with him? He was stiff as a board. Creepy behind a perfect face. What did he do for fun? Exercise? Count?
“Here you are, sir.” The man gave him back his card. Then handed him the button box with a cord like a telephone.
He had to move it back to see. He pressed the buttons. Slowly. One at a time. The password.
The man watched down behind the counter. Waited for a machine to tell him something. Then he smiled. Relieved almost. Looked up. He handed over a little pocket folder with two cards in it. He said the room number. He circled it where it was printed on the little folder. And said it again. He pointed to his left with the pen.
“The elevators are to your right. Through the columns.”
He looked that way. Ruth did too.
“Have a wonderful stay.”
“Thank you,” Ruth said.
The man raised his hand like he was hailing a taxi. Tipped up his chin. No need for a word though. Another man swooped in to take their bags. This one was younger. He took their bags. Like they were precious. Held onto them. Didn’t want to lose them on the way. Like they might escape.
He liked this guy.
The guy told them a bunch of things on the way up in the elevator. Where everything was. The restaurants. Which food was best where. This was right there in the building. The shopping concourse. Excellent gift ideas. He was anxious to please. He wanted them to know what he knew. He had come from somewhere different. A place nothing like this hotel.
He could tell.
The young guy needed this. He was still talking when they got to their room. Explaining everything. The guy laid the bags inside the door and waited.
He had seen this in movies. He wasn’t stupid. He took out a fifty and gave it over.
The fifty made the baggage guy stutter. It worked on him. “Th … thuh … thank you, suh … sir. If there’s an-nuh … anything, annnnything I can do puh … please call. My nuh-nnnnn … name’s Jean-Paul.”
“Jean-Paul?”
“Yuh … yes.”
“That’s okay.” He knew it wasn’t his real name. But he gave the guy another fifty just to watch what it did to his face.
The suit she picked out for him made him look younger. Important. She put a hat on his head but he took it off. The sort of hat he’d seen strange older men wear. Wide brim. Thought they were full of charm. Their lives one big adventure. They wore long coats too. Like capes. They went home. Ate something made of grass. Made of dirt. No flavour. But good for them. Sure to make them live another fifty years. Listened to the radio. Fell asleep in their chairs. Going bald by the second. Their reasonable wives wishing they were dead. “No hat,” he said.
He bought her a dress she liked. She saw it in a window. Black and long. The way she had stopped to look at it made him feel lucky. That he could buy it for her. Standing in the cold. Her face in the glass. Him watching her reflection without her knowing. The window done up. Someone’s job to do it like that. It was interesting. Just that window.
He had to insist. She wouldn’t go in to try it on. It was too expensive.
“Let me do this,” he said. Her eyes on his face. Because of the way he’d said it.
When she came out of the dressing room. She showed it to him. It fit her nicely. She rubbed her hands down the front of it. Over her belly.
“How is it?”
He shook his head a little. He couldn’t believe it. He shook his head some more. Couldn’t stop. Like he hadn’t slept in a week. How beautiful she was. I don’t deserve you.
“It’s good?”
The woman at the counter watched him. She knew he was in love with Ruth. He could tell by her face when he looked at her. What the woman had seen. The way he was staring at Ruth. And the woman was happy for him. In his smart suit. His hair combed back. She smiled because she knew the condition. Because she wanted it, too. He smiled at her. This absolute stranger.
*
They went to dinner. A place they walked by and saw in the window. It looked magical in there. Dark. Candlelight. People talking. A woman took their new coats. The smell of perfume. Jewelry. Men in suits. Grey-tops. Some of them like those with the hats. Women in dresses. Everything brand new. Not a speck of lint could be scraped together. Money everywhere. Hush. The hush of talk. The quiet eating. His heart was beating fast. It was delicate. He thought he might make a mistake. Seated at their table near the window. He’d wanted one at the back. Farther in the darkness. But this was where the woman put them. Where she thought they should be. So he left it alone. Ruth liked watching people. Through the window. Not always. But every now and then. He kept his eyes on Ruth. Did what she did. The white cloth napkin in her lap. The right fork for salad. He ate the salad to please her. The sauce on it tasted okay. But the lettuce was nothing. It stuck in his throat. He had to wash it down to stop from choking.
The tastes were full of all sorts of other tastes. They flashed by as he ate. She ordered wine. The wine was good. Red. It didn’t burn when it went down. It made him take another sip and think about it.
They didn’t say much. Once he started eating. He realized he was enjoying it too much. His steak was the best he’d ever tasted. It fell apart in his mouth. There were juices he’d never known about. He couldn’t say even a word. He kept stopping and tasting the insides of his mouth. The little potatoes in a sauce. What was that? He dabbed at his lips with his cloth. Like the guy over there did. The guy with the watch. He kept glancing at Ruth while she ate. A plate full of mussels. The smell of garlic. She ate carefully. The little bits of flesh. He ate more. She never said anything either. But her eyes in the candlelight.
He felt good about being there. Almost certain. But there was tension building. His muscles going tight. Always during eating. That feeling after a certain point. Lockdown. That’s what he figured it was. Eat and then lockdown. Lunch. Lockdown. Supper. Lockdown. That’s how it went inside. He checked over his shoulder. Saw someone on the telephone. The guy with the reservation book. Who was he calling? Why was he looking their way? Others in the room too. Looking right at him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He said it quietly. Like it was meant to go away. He ate a little more. Forced himself to forget. And the pleasure slowly came back. He tried. For Ruth’s sake. He didn’t want to ruin it. “This food,” he finally said. He made a sound. A genuine one. Like he couldn’t believe it.
“Fucking right.” He smiled after he said it. He hadn’t meant to be so loud. A few heads turned. It was okay though. It was almost funny. He felt good. Not so bad now. “Fucking right,” he whispered. Leaned toward her.
“Fucking right,” she said. Smiling too. Sounding like she meant it. That was the best part. The best fucking part.
She was still sleeping. He got up and looked at her. It was dark in the room. The heavy curtain pulled. A married man. A memory of his wife. Of death. Shut down. He remembered Ruth’s head resting on his chest. Her fingers moving over the scar. Two of them breathing in the near darkness of last night. He was happy for himself. He slept well with Ruth. But there was something the matter. She wasn’t his. She couldn’t be. He stared at her. The full length of her under the sheets. Naked. Still nothing between them. Nothing he could do with her. Her touch. It killed him. He shut it off. Then he got dressed and left.
The telephone book gave him the address. He caught a taxi. There were taxis everywhere. This early. The driver was dark-skinned. It wasn’t something that bothered him. It was just different. It made him think about where he lived.
The driver just drove. It took a while.
He began wondering if they were going the right way. He watched the buildings. They were out of downtown. He turned to look out the back window. To get his bearings. The tall buildings in a clump. On a divided highway. Everything a little run-down. More and more. Not flashy and made of steel. Concrete. Brick. He thought they might be heading for the airport. It looked that way. The way they had come. He felt panic rise in him. The driver hadn’t understood him. What about Ruth?
“Where are we going?” he called out.
The driver said the address. In perfect English. No accent. Like a different man inside the skin.
He watched out the window. Billboards and signs on top of buildings. Names he recognized from back home. Names he knew all his life. This was where it all came from. So many headquarters.
The taxi kept driving.
He watched the meter. The digits climbing.
“How much longer?”
The driver’s eyes in the rearview. “Five minutes.”
“I thought it was in Toronto.”
“It’s all Toronto.”
Cars sped by. The taxi driver changed lanes while going faster than he should. The cars all barely missed each other. Inches apart. It was a dangerous game. Rows of cars. Shifting. Changing. Squeezing in. His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his new trousers. His new shirt was white as anything. No stains on it.
The taxi took an off ramp. There were a bunch of buildings. All together. Not tall. An industrial park. New prefab buildings. Lit panel signs. Not on in the daylight.
He felt better when he saw where he was. He paid the taxi. “That’s all right,” he said. Not wanting his change.
He stood in the parking lot.
Myrden’s Eyewear. A sign. Mac’s company. No one there yet. No cars parked in the spaces. It was too early. The sun just barely up. Clouds masking it.
He turned to watch the taxi drive off. Then he watched the building. It was big. He counted the parking spaces. The ones in front. Twenty-seven. Others around back probably. He had people working for him. Mac had a head on his shoulders. He always did. Did good in school. Despite everything. Despite him. A big building. Wide and long. Going back from the road. He walked to the side. Looked down. Two trucks parked there. Myrden’s Eyewear on the sides.
He heard footsteps coming up behind him. Turned to see a security guard. Seven feet away.
“Can I help you?”
He looked at the security guard. The security guard had his hand on his holster. His little friend strapped in there. It was almost good for a laugh. If it wasn’t so stupid. He was wearing a badge. A uniform. He had on a hat. Hats were always a problem.
“You’re on private property.”
“I know that.”
“Do you have business here?”
He shook his head. The security guard didn’t like the looks of him. He could tell. The security guard didn’t buy the suit he was wearing. He knew the face. He knew what was in the face. Bang bang. Gunfighter. The bad guy must die.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave where?”
“The parking lot.”
He took one step forward. The security guard took one step back. The sun was a little warmer now. It broke free of some clouds. Trying to do away with the chill. His fingers could feel it. The heat. The tips of his fingers throbbing with the cold.
The security guard watched his face as he came nearer. He started to say something. A warning maybe. Something foolish. Out of a comic book. The security guard hadn’t grown up. The bad guy must die. The security guard’s eyes came to life with something. He took his radio from its pouch. Raised it to his mouth. His other hand on his gun holster. His little chum. His little buddy. Probably a water squirter.
He took a few steps. Quick. Ahead. He snatched the radio away. Smashed it on the ground.
“Wake up,” he shouted. He did not know why he said that.
The security guard backed away.
He was bigger than the guard. He was bigger than most people. His teeth were clamped together. His jaw hurt. The security guard backed up as he came forward. In his face.
The toot of a car horn broke it up. Gentle. Polite. He stopped and checked over his shoulder. Then he heard a noise the other way. Looked back at the guard on the ground. Tripped over the edge of the parking lot. The concrete edge. The lip. He looked at the car again. It was wine-coloured. Big. It pulled into a space right by the door. A man in a long dark grey coat got out. He was big like him. He pressed a button and all the doors locked. Something beeped.
“Let him be, Tommy,” Mac said. He went to the door. Took out keys. Unlocked it. Went inside.
The security guard was on his feet.
He watched the guard go past him. Then into the building. He had things to ask Mac. That was for certain. He didn’t know if he wanted to go in now. Another car pulled up. Parked. A woman got out. She gave him a smile. She walked easily. Was nicely shaped. Not a care in the world. She liked to be watched. The receptionist. Maybe. She was that sort. Pleasant to everyone. She held the door open for him. Said “Come on” with her eyes. So he went toward it.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning.”
“The sun’s trying to come out.” She watched his face while she went behind the counter. There were three desks there. She took off her coat. Hung it on a tree. “You here to see Mister Myrden?”
He didn’t answer. He looked around.
“You must be his brother or something.”
“Or something.”
“You look alike.”
“It’s not his fault.”
She laughed.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” She picked up the phone. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
He wouldn’t tell her. “He knows I’m here.”
Her on the phone: “Mister Myrden. There’s a gentleman here to see you.” She listened. She watched him. What was being said. There was a decision. Always a decision to be made. “Okay,” she said. She hung up. She said: “You can go right up.” Her eyes went to a door. He moved through it. There was a metal stairway at his right. A factory ahead. Mac’s office above. He could watch everything from up there.
He climbed the stairs. It took his breath out of him. Came to a door that was opened. Mac wasn’t in that room. It was filled with white boxes. Small and bigger. Filing cabinets. There was another door ahead. Big windows to his left. Nobody down there on the floor yet. Just equipment. Then a movement. One person. The security guard. He waited for his heart to steady from the stairs. Then stepped ahead. Went nearer the other door. He heard papers being moved around. He stepped ahead. Into the doorway. Into the office. Mac was watching him. Eyes there right away. But nothing in them. One way or the other. He was seated behind a big wooden desk. The man in charge. He’d taken off his overcoat. His desk was neat. Everything neatly arranged. Papers piled evenly. Every framed picture and eyeglasses poster on the walls. Perfectly straight. Not a hair out of place on Mac’s head.
“What can I do for you?”
Like he was a customer. He sighed. Stood there. Looked down over the machinery. Through the glass. A wide-open space below. People made things. It was their job. Mac was still watching him. He wanted an answer to his question. It wasn’t just conversation. What can I do for you?
“I’m standing here looking at the machinery.” He gave Mac a look. Maybe the wrong one. Maybe the one he used on him too many times.
Mac straightened a little in his seat. He knew the look. It wasn’t one he liked. It still did things to him. A grown man. A man all grown up. Almost thirty. Born when he was a teenager. Mac tapped a fingernail on his desk. A beat. His fingernails scrubbed clean.
He remembered pressing one key on the piano. That night with Ruth. It was like that. He watched there and Mac stopped.
“You’re doing well,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You deserve it.”
Mac said nothing. This time. He relaxed. Leaned back in his chair. He tapped his finger again. This time on the armrest. Made a movement with his lips. Like he was considering something. His tie was straight. His buttons done up on his suit jacket. He had shaved. Brushed and flossed. Gargled with mouthwash. Trimmed his eyebrows. Nose hairs. Ear hairs.
“What’re you doing here?”
He looked at Mac. That question was harder now. Spoken harder. “Nothing.”
“You can go anywhere now. You’ve got money. Just show up anywhere. Uninvited. Nowhere’s far enough.”
What right? What right did he have? Him, not Mac. He swallowed. Checked the window again.
“You bought a house for Jackie.” It wasn’t said in a nice way. It was loaded with bad tastes. Bad smells.
He was feeling like shit. His heart was pressing in on him. His eyes were going to let loose. He shook his head. Looked down at his hands. He was rubbing his fingers without knowing it. For Jackie. And for Caroline. The house. For them.
“Everyone should forgive you now that you’ve got money?”
It wasn’t going the way he hoped. An embrace. Everything’s okay. Yes, don’t worry. Why should it?
“Well, I earned my money.”
He looked at Mac.
I earned my money.
He hadn’t earned his money. He took it anyway. He didn’t want to take it. He took it for them. So everyone would be okay. He’d rather have torn the cheque to shreds. Right there in the lawyer’s office. It made him sick to think of it. Bone sick. Fourteen years. Here’s your money. This is how we pay. Now, forget it and get lost. You’re not poor. Don’t use that excuse again. Not anymore. See if it makes a difference. You’re free. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe. Maybe not. Who really cares? Here’s your money. What you wanted all along. What you were after. We know. Here’s our money. Not like us. Never like us. This is how we pay you off. One million dollars. Here’s your lottery money. Scum. Now, go fuck yourself.
“You were talking with Jackie,” he said.
“I talk to her all the time.”
He had no idea. He was the outsider here. The man who had made them.
“Forgive the old man.” Mac leaned ahead. Arms on his desk. Hands joined. Back straight. A business meeting. The facts. “That’s what Jackie said. She could almost forgive you. You get old. You get soft. A prick when you’re young. All ego. All power. Then it’s gone. An old man. Forgive the old man. Forgive and forget.”
He looked out the window. The rows of overhead lights had been switched on. A few people down there. Trying to get started.
“Nobody wants anything from you.”
He turned away. He headed for the door.
“And the worst thing is, you can’t give anything anymore. You have nothing left to give. We have lives. Lives.” The last word shouted.
He made it to the stairs. The security guard at the bottom. Stood there looking up. Hearing what was being said. Watching him. The bad guy must die. That hat still on his head.
He went down the stairs. Past the guard. Didn’t lay a hand on him. Didn’t even knock the hat off. Out into the reception area. The woman there smiling at him. Her face changing when she saw what was in his face. Not a word to her. Although he should have. It wasn’t her fault. He used both hands to shove open the main door. It was on a spring. So it didn’t bang back. He was out in the cold. The sun fully out. The air. Facing all of this. Knowing he was hated.