THREE

NOVEMBER TO DECEMBER 1980

The accident on Lake Kissinaw was big news for the remainder of November. There was a police investigation and then a Ministry of Labour inquest. Stan’s and Lee’s names were kept out of the paper but for a few days all you would see were pictures of Bud and his despairing widow. He was not buried. He was cremated and his ashes were spread at a campground he’d gone to every May long weekend for the last ten years.

Lee did not go to the memorial. He’d been very fond of Bud, but the thought of people, almost all of whom would be strangers, standing together, looking at him, whispering his name, knowing that it was he who’d been with Bud at the last moment, was too much to bear. He went up to the poolroom instead, and had a few drinks and shot a few games, and then went home and watched the hockey game on his TV.

By early December, six inches of snow had come to stay. Lee came into the hospital through the visitors’ entrance and went directly into a smoking area encased in glass. He nodded to an old man in a wheelchair who was smoking through a tracheotomy. Lacklustre Christmas garlands hung from the walls. Lee lit a cigarette.

Two hospital volunteers were sitting at a desk near the elevators. They were both old, a woman and a man, she with white-blue hair and he with liver spots on his bald head.

—I’m here to see Irene King, said Lee.

They peered at him. The woman painstakingly consulted a list of patients in a three-ring binder. She said: She’s in room 3B. Amiens Wing.

—I know where she’s at. I’ve been here a few times since she got here.

They gave him a visitor’s pass. He felt them watching after he’d passed by. He hadn’t been in any state of mind to pull together his observations in the short time he’d spent here following Bud’s death, but he felt a revulsion towards the hospital, he suspected because of its institutional nature.

It was in the hospital that he’d been interviewed about the accident by the police and by an investigator from the Ministry of Labour. His parole officer, Wade Larkin, had come for the interviews. It hadn’t taken long to clear Lee of any culpability but that hadn’t left him any more at ease. Clifton was in more trouble, and as his part in the investigation wore on, work had ceased.

Lee took the elevator up to the third floor. Up here were a number of other terminally ill persons. Irene shared her room with an old woman named Mrs. Petrelli, who was dying from pancreatic cancer. She did not speak English and she became talkative only when her son came to visit in the early afternoons. The remainder of the time, she watched the TV in the corner of the room, soap operas or news broadcasts. Irene reported that Mrs. Petrelli had had night terrors on two occasions, had screamed until the nurse came. Mrs. Petrelli’s son said his mother was bombed in Italy as a teenager in the Second World War. Most of her family was killed.

Irene was sitting up in bed wearing a nasal tube, her supper tray on a bed table in front of her. The meal was chicken and peas and it reminded Lee of the meals in prison. He sat down beside her. Under the bed, just at the edge of sight, was a catheter pouch full of urine.

—Did Barry or Donna visit today? said Lee.

—Barry said he would come by.

The television chattered. Mrs. Petrelli moaned.

—You shouldn’t have to share a room, said Lee.

—It’s okay, son. Unless she has her nightmares.

—You should have your own room. Goddammit.

—Lee, now.

He held up his finger.

—Wait, Ma.

Lee went out of the room and found the duty station, where a nurse wearing a cardigan over her scrubs was bent over a clipboard. Lee leaned on the edge of the desk. The nurse asked in a flat voice if she could help him.

—I want my mother to have her own room.

—To whom are you referring, sir?

—Irene King.

—Is there a problem?

—She shares a room with a lady who doesn’t even speak English. My mother is real sick. She should be in a more comfortable way. She shouldn’t have to worry about sharing the TV with nobody or getting woke up in the night.

—I hate to say but it’s not so quick a process. Bed space is always an issue.

—Well, what can you do about that?

—I can recommend a hospice or in-home care.

—Something I’d have to pay for, in other words.

—That’s correct. But I assure you, sir, the comfort of all patients here is very important to us.

—She should have her own room.

—It would be nice if this hospital was twice the size it is, I agree.

Irene had been in the hospital since the last few days of November. Lee had gotten a call from Donna, relayed upstairs through Mr. Yoon. Later he’d heard the whole story from Pete, how Pete had come home late one night from work and found his grandmother on her knees in the bathroom. She was trying to cough quietly. There were bright spots of blood in the sink and in the toilet and on the floor.

Dr. Vijay called it hemoptysis. Some of the cancerous blood vessels had burst in her lungs. The doctor did not think it was necessarily severe, and said it would likely subside on its own. But they needed to discuss a more aggressive treatment, he said. In the meantime, she was to be kept in the hospital.

When Lee went back to the room, he saw that Barry had arrived. Barry had stopped to speak some words with Mrs. Petrelli, standing by her bed and holding one of her skinny hands.

—Si chiamano figlio mio? Egli ha sposato un ebreo.

—God bless you, said Barry, patting her hand.

—Barry, said Lee.

—Hey, Brother Lee.

They went to Irene’s bed. She was looking out the window and her breathing sounded like dirt caught in the gears of a machine. Barry was about to speak but Lee spoke first: We’re looking at getting you your own room, Ma.

—Lee, said Barry.

—That’s what we’re going to do.

—Well, said Barry.

They stayed for awhile. Barry talked about his sons, about Donna, about the Christmas outreach programs Galilee Pentecostal had organized. Meals for the infirm, a gift drive for the empty-handed. Lee sat with his face planted on his fist. He watched how Barry was solicitous in the telling. He badly wanted a cigarette.

—It makes me proud, said Barry.

Irene and Barry were both looking at him.

—Say what?

—I was saying it makes me proud, Lee. How you’ve been keeping your faith since the tragedy. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.

—You done well, son, said Irene.

—I think maybe it’s time for a prayer, said Barry. He turned to Mrs. Petrelli and asked would she join them in prayer.

—Chiamare l’infermiera. Io sono affamati.

Barry took Mrs. Petrelli’s hand and he took Irene’s hand and he held them. Irene reached her other hand out to Lee and he took it in both of his own. Irene squeezed her eyes shut. Mrs. Petrelli gaped. Barry lowered his head.

—The burdens that are put on us, there’s nothing that’s not intended to strengthen us in Your service.

—Dear Jesus, said Irene.

—The body gets weak but the soul gets stronger.

There were tears collecting at the sides of Irene’s shuttered eyes. She whispered: Oh dear Jesus.

Lee watched his mother, wondering what these words were doing for her. He thought about the Bible, he thought about some of the verses he’d learned, or at least some of what he’d heard chaplains saying—hope in hard times, deliverance in the face of death. They spoke of God as the high tower, God as shelter from the wicked, God as the shield, God as the sword, God as the one who would escort you up from your earthly pain to heaven, where you would be pain-free for the rest of eternity. All you had to do was have faith. But faith in what? In these words? Was his mother squeezing her eyes shut from the words alone? Because all Lee could hear were the words, and they’d never sounded so hollow.

—Amen, said Barry.

—Egli ha sposato un ebreo, said Mrs. Petrelli.

Ten minutes later Lee stood to go. He kissed his mother’s forehead and smoothed back what remained of her hair. He went out and looked at the duty station, but the nurse was gone. Barry caught up with him at the elevator.

—Brother Lee, thank you for coming. It means so much to her.

—It would mean more if we got her into her own room.

—Honestly, I was a little surprised when I heard you say it. I thought we agreed on the arrangements.

—I agreed till I saw the room lately.

—Bed space is a major issue here, Lee.

—Don’t worry about that, Barry. I’ll find something to take care of it.

Barry clasped his hands together and smiled tightly: Can we agree it’s something to discuss with Donna?

—We can agree.

—Good. Are we still seeing you for supper next Thursday?

—I’ll be there. I’ll introduce you to my lady friend.

—We’ll be happy to meet her, said Barry.

—I’ll see you soon.

—Lee, there’s one other thing.

—What’s that?

Barry pushed a pamphlet towards him.

—It’s something to think about. Everybody is here to help, Brother Lee.

Barry went back to Irene’s room and Lee got into the elevator. The pamphlet showed a drawing of a figure contemplating a bottle. It advertised Alcoholics Anonymous. The meeting was held weekly at the Charles Grady Memorial Community Centre. Lee wondered if Barry had even noticed that part. Probably not. He managed a thin chuckle.

He carried the pamphlet with him into the smoking section in the cafeteria. He had a smoke among the ill and the dying, the relatives, the attendants. He put the pamphlet on the table and took his leave.

As he went outside, he thought of the call that faith was supposed to be, the call in your heart. He’d thought he’d heard it once or twice, perhaps, but now, everything that had gone before was doubtful. Everything, it seemed, was just words.

The sun was going down, making long shadows of the gas pumps. Duane was finishing with a customer and Pete was in the store. He kept looking at the clock on the wall.

—You seem like you’re in a hurry tonight, said Caroline. Big date?

Pete shifted his feet.

Caroline nodded: If it’s a date, you’ll have to tell us about it. Go take Duane a hot chocolate. Yes, you can have one too.

Pete went to the coffee stand and mixed powdered hot chocolate and hot water into two Styrofoam cups. He sealed the cups with plastic lids and went outside. The air smelled of cold concrete. He gave one of the hot chocolates to Duane. Duane spat a wad of chewing tobacco into an empty pop can.

—Thanks, said Duane. Feel like working, you dog-fucker?

—Not really, said Pete.

—I thought not. Hey, you know this guy?

Duane was pointing. A Camaro was parked across the lot. Billy was coming towards them at a brisk pace.

—What’s up? called Billy.

Pete crossed the distance to meet Billy halfway.

—What’s up? said Billy.

—I don’t know. What’s up?

—You tell me, you fucking traitor.

Pete did not reply. The heat through the Styrofoam cup was creeping into his fingers. Billy’s face was pale and etched.

—Where are you going tonight, Peter?

—I guess you know already.

—You fucking traitor.

Billy’s voice was gaining an edge. He was so angry that tears had formed in his eyes. He knocked the hot chocolate out of Pete’s hand. It hit the ground and the lid burst off. The hot chocolate steamed on the dark pavement.

—Say something, Peter.

—I don’t know what to say. It just … doesn’t have anything to do with you.

Billy pulled his fist back but then Duane swept between them, barrelled up against Billy, pushed him away. Billy kept calling Pete a fucking traitor. Pete happened to glance over at the store. Caroline was watching from the window. Duane walked Billy backwards, speaking to him all the while. There was no real fight in Billy anyway. There was only hurt etched on his face.

—You’re a fucking traitor, Peter.

A few feet farther on, Duane released Billy. Billy pushed Duane away and shook his shoulders. He pointed at Pete and said they were done. Then he slouched away in the direction of his car. Pete and Duane looked back at the gas pumps but no customers had come in the meantime.

—You okay? said Duane.

—I’m fine.

Pete bent down and numbly retrieved the Styrofoam cup. They walked back and Pete dropped the cup in a garbage can. His hands were shaking and the image of Billy’s hurt face seemed to have been burned into his mind. If there’d been anything to do or say before, the opportunity was lost now.

By this time Caroline had come outside. She came right up in front of Pete, not standing as tall as his chest.

—You, mister, keep your personal shit away from here. I’m trying to run a business. Understand?

—I’m sorry, said Pete.

She went wordlessly back to the store.

Duane leaned against one of the pumps. He looked amused. He said: A girl between buddies, I’m guessing.

—Everything changed when I met her. I just wish he could have seen that at the time.

Pete drove into town. He was stiff inside a brown tuxedo and dress shirt he’d rented. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he swung past Lee’s place first. For advice of some kind, perhaps? There was also a desire just to see the man, given the accident he’d survived a few weeks previous. But at Lee’s place, the windows were dark. That seemed to be the case lately. Maybe he was on one of his long, town-wide walks, hunched into his coat, smoking a cigarette. Pete drove on.

The address Emily had given him was the house of her friend Samantha, who lived on Harding Crescent, up near the golf course. It was a nice part of town. Snow lay on lawns and rooftops and the tops of hedges. There was light in the windows of Samantha’s house. Pete parked behind another car. A corsage of small roses he’d purchased sat in a box on the passenger seat. He took it and got out of the car and crossed over to the porch.

Samantha opened the door. He had a vague memory of her from the party at Nancy’s house in the fall—she’d spent the night conspiring in the kitchen. Samantha was wearing a purple formal gown and was heavily made up. She nodded, and she called out to Emily that Pete had arrived, but Emily had already appeared in the hallway.

She looked coolly elegant, much as she had the first time he’d ever seen her, in the church when she’d played the piano. She was dressed in a pale satin dress, fitted in the bodice, bare across the shoulders. She was smiling as she came forward, and Pete felt his breath catch in his throat. She smelled like lilacs, and when she said hello there was peppermint schnapps on her breath.

Pete held up the corsage. Emily told him to come in, that they’d go soon.

Samantha was in the living room with her boyfriend, Doug. Doug’s tuxedo trousers were short by a full two inches, and he’d paired white sports socks with the brown leather shoes he was wearing. Doug and the girls finished the drinks they’d been working on and they all went out and got into Pete’s car and set off for Heron Heights. Doug pawed at Samantha in the back seat. She was slapping his hand and laughing. They passed a mickey of rum between them and offered it to Emily. She had a sip of it, made a face, and passed it back. The corsage was pinned over her breast. She was wearing snow boots, but had brought along a pair of high heels to wear at the dance. Pete kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

They’d spent much of the past two weeks seeing each other. She’d called him at work one day, a little while after he’d seen her at the hospital. She’d admonished him for not calling her. The first two times they’d spent together, they barely touched. He’d not dared to put words to what might be happening. He avoided Billy entirely. Then, on a weekend afternoon, he and Emily had gone walking by the river and she’d stopped abruptly and said he’d better give her a kiss.

In the car now, Emily asked Pete how work was. He answered briefly, agreeably. He didn’t say anything about Billy’s visit.

They arrived at Heron Heights at a quarter past eight. Pete had only gone to a few dances at his old high school. He’d never gone to a formal.

They got out of the car, Samantha and Doug in the lead. Emily looped her arm through Pete’s. She said: Do you think a Christmas formal is too much? I feel like I at least have to make an appearance.

—We’ll have fun, said Pete. Will we see your other friends?

—One or two of them. There’s been some drama.

—Drama.

—I don’t like drama. But if you’re a girl you can’t get away from it. I envy you. Boys don’t become dramatic. Boys just hit each other like cavemen when they get mad.

They went into the school lobby. There was a national flag and a portrait of the Queen and a bulletin board. Music was coming through the doors to the auditorium. The students’ council had set up a reception table. A girl at the table greeted Emily and Samantha and Doug by name and asked Peter if he was Emily’s guest. She crossed their names off a list and told them to not forget about the photographer.

The auditorium was dark, hot and half filled with young people uneasy in their fancy dress. Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Some teacher chaperones policed the scene, prowling for booze. A local disc jockey had his equipment set up on the stage. He had stacks of LPs in milk crates and was just now drawing a record out of a sleeve. Nobody was dancing.

People spoke to Emily and Samantha and Doug. Pete was introduced. They spent some time idling about in their foursome and Emily was never far away. Fingertips on Pete’s hand or a tug at the edge of his jacket. He wondered at it. She told him when a good song came on she wanted him to dance with her.

After awhile, they went to a classroom where a photographer had set up his camera in front of a muted backdrop. Pete and Emily took up a position. The photographer came over and adjusted their pose, angled them towards each other. Pete’s free hand traced patterns on the small of Emily’s back. The photographer scooted back behind his camera and told them to smile their million-buck smiles.

Emily murmured: Is this completely ridiculous?

—It was your idea.

She pushed her back against Pete’s fingers.

The flashbulb went off and the photographer told them that was just great. Emily took Pete’s arm and they stepped away from the backdrop. Pete wondered vaguely what might become of the photograph.

Back in the auditorium, the music was slower. Couples were pairing up to dance. They spied Doug and Samantha out on the floor, turning slowly. Doug looked half asleep.

Emily led Pete out and they started to dance, and then over her shoulder Pete saw a small group of the people he’d wondered about. There was Nancy. Some other girls were with her. There was Roger. He was leaning against the edge of the stage. Beside him one of his mates was saying something into his ear. Roger had his head tilted the better to hear, and both he and his friend were looking at Pete. If Emily had seen any of them, she gave no sign of it.

When the song ended, Emily and Pete headed back to the chairs at the edge of the room. Sweat and perfume and cologne hung in the air. Doug had disappeared somewhere but Samantha had come with them. She said she needed more rum, would Emily go with her to the bathroom.

—Am I just going to leave Pete here? said Emily.

—We’ll only be two minutes, said Samantha. Can you take care of yourself, Pete?

—I’ll be fine, said Pete.

Emily put her lips against his ear. Her breath was warm. She told him she would be back and she kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. Then she was gone.

Pete was very hot. He made his way over to a refreshment table along the far wall, beneath a banner of the school mascot, a snarling cartoon Indian brave. Snacks were arrayed on the table around a big punch bowl. He poured a cup and drank it. The punch was not spiked but it was queasily sweet.

Nancy came up to him from somewhere. It was all on her face and in her voice. They said hello to each other and then asked the cursory questions people are required to ask—what have you been up to, what’s new? Her tone was clipped: How come you never called on me?

—I don’t know, said Pete.

—I thought you were nice. I don’t fool around with just anybody.

—I don’t know, Nancy. I’m sorry.

—Was it because of Emily?

—What?

—You thought I couldn’t see it? Well I’ve got one thing to say to you. Be careful.

—What?

—You think Emily doesn’t have big ideas about her life? No offence, but you’re a dropout. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Peter.

She seemed like she was waiting for a rebuttal. Instead, Pete went back over to the dance floor, tipping down the punch on the way. It almost made him gag.

Emily and Samantha had returned and sat in the chairs. Pete came up to them and Emily stood up and kissed him. He could taste rum.

—Is it just me or is it roasting in here?

—I’m boiling, said Pete. Actually, I think I’ll go splash some water on my face.

Pete went down the corridor outside of the auditorium. He found the boy’s washroom and went in. He was alone but for one pair of shoes glimpsed beneath a cubicle.

There was a round stone sink in the middle of the floor. Pete looked at himself in the stainless-steel mirror over the basin. He adjusted the stiff lapels of his rental tux and loosened his bow tie a little bit. He scrubbed cool water into his face and into his hair. Then he heard the door open and close. He knew who had come before he even saw them.

—Look who it is, said Roger.

He had a friend with him. Pete straightened, water dripping off his jaw. They had come around to the side of the sink, casually. Roger spat on the floor.

—Are you having a good time?

—The punch is too sweet, said Pete.

He had nowhere to go without having to go around them. They exchanged a look and then they smiled at him. It was their advantage and they knew it, and Pete wondered exactly how bad this was going to be.

But then the cubicle opened. A kid with long hair and an ill-fitting suit took two shuffling steps out. His face was dead white and he was smacking his lips.

—Buddies, said the kid. Buddies.

The kid swayed. He dropped to one knee and vomited onto what must have been Roger’s father’s oxfords. A stench of stomach acid and raw alcohol filled the air. The kid shuddered and vomited again. Roger’s face went bright red. He tapped out a peculiar dance to extricate himself from the waste on his feet. His friend looked like he was getting close to retching himself, going pale, staring, taking great gulps of air.

Pete stepped around them and went into the corridor. A moment later, he could hear voices lifting in outrage. He was ten paces away when he heard the washroom door clap open. He chanced a backwards look and saw Roger’s friend jogging into the corridor with a hand clasped over his mouth.

When Pete re-entered the auditorium, the heat was almost forceful. There was a slow song playing again and Doug and Samantha and everybody else were up dancing.

Emily came up behind Pete and took his arm. She was frowning. When Pete looked past her shoulder he saw Nancy in the near distance.

—Are you okay?

—I’m fine, said Emily.

—Well. Do you want to dance?

—No. I want to get out of here. This is ridiculous.

—What about your friends?

—They’ll be fine. Doug lives a block away and that’s where they’re going.

—Okay. Do you want to go home?

—Oh my God, Pete. I didn’t get dressed up to be home by ten. Let’s go do something. Come on.

Emily told Samantha that they were leaving. She linked her arm into Pete’s and they walked out. He was relieved. He got his car started. Emily thought for a minute and then she told him exactly what she wanted to do.

It was a house league night but there were a few lanes open for the public. They switched their boots for the rental footwear. They bought colas and hot dogs and went to their lane and bowled badly. The house league teams were drunk, shouting at the balls thundering down the hardwood. Pete and Emily were objects of some amusement in the clothes they were wearing, but nobody bothered them.

Pete sat in one of the plastic chairs at the head of their lane. Emily took up a ball and launched it with unnecessary force. It curved into the gutter. She turned back around, laughing. Pete watched her with complete wonder. The sight of her in that moment was taking hold of him. Her eyes were big and clear, her skin was pale, and her mouth, usually set cool to match the way she carried herself, was pulled open in a wide smile. Through the times to come, whenever he thought of her, this was how she would appear.

By midnight, Pete’s car was parked close alongside a snowy meadow north of Echo Point. Lights passed infrequently along the highway. The back door of the car opened and Pete emerged, wrapped in a wool blanket, and jogged over the snow in his work boots. He went out twenty feet and opened the blanket only wide enough to pull off the condom he was wearing. He flung it away and urinated into the snow and jogged back to the car.

The car engine idled and the heater blasted away. Emily was sitting in the back with her legs up on the seat. Pete turned the engine off and got into the back seat with her and draped the blanket around them both. For some time they were quiet. The windows were foggy. Emily traced her initials.

—My grandpa’s place is close to here.

—Yeah?

—It’s the house on Echo Point. Right where … that boat crash happened. Your uncle.

—Where my uncle’s friend got killed.

—Yes. Grandpa’s lived there a long time. The house was in his family before that. He wants my folks to take it from him. My mom was an only child.

—How long ago did your grandma die?

—Two years ago. It was in the spring. She had a stroke and she died right in her garden.

—Jesus. That’s terrible.

—I think it’s kind of nice in a way, said Emily.

—Nice?

—She loved her garden. It was a beautiful morning. I remember because they called me into the office at school and I was looking out the window when I took the phone. Here’s my dad telling me, and I’m looking outside and thinking what a beautiful day it is. I didn’t get upset at all. Not until I got to the hospital and saw Grandpa. She was gardening when it happened, which was her favourite thing to do, and she just lay down right there. We should all be so lucky.

—My grandma is dying of lung cancer. She’s been sick since the summer. She smoked a pack a day for her whole life and finally she quit, maybe two years ago. But she was too late. She’s got a tumour in her lungs. They can’t do anything for that at her age. You know what I’ll remember best? Go get Granny her menthols, Pete. I grew up hating the smell of cigarettes. I hate them now.

The cold was creeping into the car. Emily moved closer against him. There was nothing to see outside the car, nothing of their surroundings.

—Was your granddad always a cop? said Pete.

—Yes, forever. He was sixty-two when he retired. I think he had to at that point, legally and all, but it was hard for him. But when he was really young, twenty or so, he was a boxer. Grandma used to tell me about it. They had these old newspaper pictures. This handsome boy wearing funny trunks, with a funny haircut. A moustache. Got his dukes up. I couldn’t recognize him at all except for the eyes. It’s hard for me to imagine that time in his life.

—Was he a cop here in town?

—Always. Here’s something. The last guy they executed here? Grandpa arrested him. The man had killed another cop. They executed him, out behind where they have the library now. Grandpa never talks about it. I only know because my mom knew. She told me about it once when we were visiting her aunt. We took the train down to the city to visit, and on the way back Mom told me a lot of things I never knew. It’s funny what happens when you grow up. How you learn about things in the lives of the people you love. The big things, the bad things. They happened before you even existed.

—You find out and it changes things.

—I guess.

—You don’t think so?

—Well, I think with the people you love, unless you find out they’re murderers or something, you still love them. It’s just you find out they’re actually people. They’re not giants any more.

—My uncle is a murderer, said Pete.

—What?

—I can’t say for sure. There aren’t many things other than murder that you do that long in jail for. But I can’t say for sure because nobody in my family talks about anything except Jesus. My grandmother is dying and nobody talks about that. My real dad ran off somewhere before I was born and nobody talks about that. My uncle was in jail for seventeen years and definitely nobody talks about that. Half of what I make at the gas station goes to Saint Barry for rent—he counts it every time— and you don’t hear anybody talking about that. I don’t even talk about it. If it weren’t for Jesus I would live in one quiet house. Are you cold?

—Yes, a little.

He reached into the front and started the car for the heater to blast again.

—You know what they told me about sex? said Pete. They left a booklet on my bed. I was twelve. It was called The Christian Path to Growing Up, and it was a booklet full of reasons why if you beat off or if you neck with a girl you’re going to hell.

—My mom told me everything, said Emily. I could have done with just an explanation. I didn’t need her to talk about techniques.

—That’s better than a booklet about the evils of necking, believe me.

—Tell me how evil necking is, said Emily.

She moved against him, shifting out of the blanket. Her pale body moved fluidly in the dim light. She kissed him with her tongue inside his mouth and her fingers tracing along his cheek.

There was nothing to compare this feeling with.

He wanted her to be vulnerable, wanted her to need him as much as he felt he was beginning to need her. He was even willing to believe that it was so, that she did need him as badly. She moved on top of him and slid her hand down his stomach.

—Do you want to go again?

—Yes, said Pete. Anything for you.

—Good. After that, you’ll have to take me home so I can go to bed like a good girl.

A few nights later, Pete picked up Lee and Helen after work to take them to Donna and Barry’s house for supper. Lee had dressed in what he had for a formal occasion, jeans and a collared shirt and his Carhartt coat. Helen wore big hoop earrings and a leather jacket over a tight-fitting dress. Lee held the door for her and she got into the passenger seat. He got into the back.

Pete had assembled a picture of Helen from what Lee had told him, and in person she was not far removed from what he’d imagined.

—Haven’t I heard a lot about you, said Helen.

—Hi, said Pete. Hey, Uncle Lee.

—Hey, Pete.

They drove out to the house.

—This is a nice-looking joint, said Helen. Why don’t you move out here, Brown Eyes?

—It’s filled up with people out here is why, said Lee.

They were halfway up the walk when Donna opened the front door and stood there thinly against the backlight, wearing grey slacks and a cardigan. Lee went up first. He and his sister embraced stiffly and he went to kiss her on the cheek but she had already turned her head. Helen came up the steps and took both of Donna’s hands. Pete could see his mother’s shoulders climbing in defence.

—Hello, said Helen. What a big beautiful property you guys got out here.

They were shown into the living room. Helen was as misfit a figure as Pete could imagine, but she seemed oblivious to it. Donna served them hot apple cider. Lee took Helen’s jacket and showed her to the couch. Irene’s recliner remained vacant. The Christmas tree was crooked. Donna went into the hallway and tapped on Barry’s office door.

—He’ll be out in one minute, said Donna. He’s working on his sermon for Sunday.

Donna came back into the living room and Pete brushed past her to the office door. The door was open a few inches so he opened it fully and stood on the threshold. Barry was at the desk with his study bible open beside him.

—Just a moment and I’ll be out.

—Take your time, said Pete. My mother is only half panicked. You’ve got a couple minutes before she loses her mind completely.

Barry put on a look of forbearance: What is it, Peter?

Pete took the week’s rent out of his wallet. Barry darted a look into the hallway. Then he composed himself again.

—You’re a day early with that, said Barry, taking the money.

He counted it carefully and stowed it in the strongbox in the drawer. Peter craned his neck to spy a bible quotation Barry had transcribed and underlined on his legal pad. It was about the angel appearing to the terrified shepherds, bidding them be unafraid, for that day a child was born.

—Do you believe that about the angel coming down to talk to the shepherds?

Barry blinked, tugged at his ear: Why wouldn’t I?

—I’m just curious.

—How God calls us is up to God. That’s exactly what I’ll be talking about on Sunday. It would be good to see you there. It would be good for your mom to see you there.

Pete went back into the hallway. When he was going back through the living room, John and Luke were being presented to Helen. They were both wearing the dress shirts they wore to church, pressed and tucked in, and they had identical left-sided parts in their hair.

—Couple of little heartbreakers, said Helen.

Donna served a roast ham with peas and a macaroni salad. Lee and Helen were seated next to each other across from John and Luke. Barry sat at the head of the table. Pete and his mother took their usual places. The spot for Irene at the other end of the table remained conspicuously empty.

Barry said they would pray first. They held hands around the table and Pete watched them bow their heads. He was holding John’s hand. The boy had his eyes pinched shut. Barry told the Lord thanks for the food and the fellowship of family. Across the table, Lee’s eyes were closed. Helen was looking at Pete, grinning.

Amen was said. Donna served their plates.

—Would you tell us about yourself? said Barry. We’ve heard a little bit.

Helen shrugged, hand to her chin. The boys stared at her.

—I didn’t come from around here. I don’t know anything about this town to tell you the truth. It’s funny how we end up in certain places. I went to college for a year or two, this was, like, ‘67 …

She laughed as she spoke. Barry smiled sociably. Donna and Lee were both staring into their meals, slicing through their ham with something approaching savagery. To see them, you would conclude, finally, that they were sister and brother.

—I travelled for awhile with these Hare Krishnas, said Helen. We shared everything. They were real good people. Then I went back to the city in about 1972. The city was where the action was.

She told them more, a rambling stream of words interrupted by the odd giggle. It was difficult to understand what had driven her to the city, but she told them she had a son.

—He’d be about your age, said Helen to John.

John gaped at her. Lee sounded as if he’d caught something in his throat. He coughed and cleared whatever it was, and slowly set into his ham and his peas again.

—Does your son go to school here in town? said Donna.

—Oh no, said Helen. I don’t … He doesn’t live with me. But the way it goes, things have a certain way of working out, you know? Like, to everything there is a season and a purpose.

—But you were in the city, said Donna. How’d you end up here?

—You got a lot of questions, said Lee.

—That’s okay, said Helen.

But Donna had put her knife and fork down on either side of her plate: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy.

The boys stared around the table. Barry chewed methodically.

—It’s fine, said Helen. Come on, Brown Eyes, she’s asking me about myself.

—I didn’t mean to be nosy, said Donna again.

—It was a man, hun. Isn’t it always a man for us gals? Anyways he’s not my problem any more. I don’t even know where he is.

—I see.

—And he owed me money, but, oh well. Maybe Lee should go have a chat with him. Tell him what’s what.

Silence fell like a shroud. They all went on eating, pretending nothing had been said.

At length, Barry cleared his throat: I’ve seen Clifton at church. It’s a difficult time for him but he’s handled it well.

Lee chuckled dryly: And he wasn’t even in the god— He wasn’t even in the boat when it happened. Good for him. I wonder if he’s helping Bud’s wife to handle it, too. He’s sure done a lot to check up on me.

—He always mentions what a hard worker you are, Lee. You really did impress him.

—Well, how about that.

Helen had caught John staring at her. She crossed her eyes and puckered her lips together. The boy blinked down at his plate. She told him he’d catch flies with his mouth open like that.

—I made a cobbler for dessert, said Donna hastily. She got up and started to clear the plates.

—I’ll help you, said Helen.

—No, I have it.

But Helen had already lifted her plate and Lee’s from the table. She laughed: Oh, hun, I’ve been a waitress for a long time. Stuff like this is one of the two things I’m any good at.

A short while later, Pete was on the telephone in the hallway.

—I’m going to be in town later tonight. I want to see you.

—Pete, it’s a weeknight. My dad is home. Is something wrong?

—No, there’s nothing wrong. I just want to see you is all.

—I want to see you too. Okay. I’ll go out for a walk. Eight-thirty. I’ll be walking on my street.

He hung up and went back through the living room. Barry was conducting a bible lesson with Luke and John. He was speaking about the Magi. Pete could only see the backs of the boys’ heads and the expressiveness on Barry’s face as he entreated them. Lee was sitting in the recliner. He was flexing his hand into a fist and studying it closely. Releasing, flexing.

In the kitchen Donna was holding a dish, paused in the act of drying it. There had been times in Pete’s life when he had found her like this, unmoving and blank in the midst of some chore.

Helen was sitting on the counter, discussing gossip from the Owl Café. Donna stood static, holding the dish like a plate of armour over her heart.

—And the man she shacked up with? said Helen. Hun, you wouldn’t believe.

—Mom, said Pete.

He put his hands on the dish and tugged and for a moment Donna’s hands clutched it. Then she released. Her eyes moved to her son. She put a hand to the side of her face and then she turned around to what remained on the drying rack. She said nothing.

—Pete even helps out in the kitchen? said Helen. I bet every girl in town is kicking down your door. She flashed a brazen wink.

When Pete went back into the living room, Barry was telling the boys how King Herod was in a murderous rage. The faces of the boys were rapt, imagining the sight of infants being put to slaughter. Lee looked bored.

—Uncle Lee, said Pete.

They all looked at him. Barry paused mid-story.

—I’m going to drive into town in a minute or two, said Pete.

—I’ll grab Helen if she can stop yapping, said Lee.

The guests said their goodbyes, Lee curtly and Helen with the same rambling exuberance she’d shown through supper. Donna did not come out of the kitchen. Barry saw them to the front door. He told them he’d be happy to see them at church.

They got into Pete’s car. Pete was tense and he did not know why. Every darkened field he passed he found himself looking for avenues of escape, as if it should be a sudden and uncalculated move. Helen laughed about something.

—I didn’t know you had a goddamn kid, said Lee.

—That was another life, said Helen. It doesn’t matter any more.

They came into town. Lee told Pete to take them down to his place. The trees in the lakefront park stood like black bones against the snow.

—Funny, said Lee. I never thought about it before, but if anybody asked me I couldn’t tell them where you live. I got no idea.

Helen laughed: Oh my God, Brown Eyes.

Pete pulled in behind the variety store. Lee said that he would see him around and got out of the car. Helen patted Pete’s knee.

—So nice to meet you.

Pete watched them. Lee dug for his keys and Helen hitched at her pantyhose and stepped side to side in her shoes. She swatted Lee’s backside. Lee looked at her and she shrugged.

Emily was walking on her street. She had her head held high and her hands in her front pockets. She got into Pete’s car and she kissed him, cold lips and warm mouth.

—I’m glad to see you.

—I’m glad to see you too.

—I can’t stay out for long. Five minutes.

—It’s okay. Five minutes is enough. How are you?

—School today was asinine. I feel like my work here is done, you know?

—I know. I’ve felt like that for a long time.

—What does it matter. Christmas break starts next Friday.

He could listen to her forever. Her hand was on his except when she lifted it to emphasize a point. Once again, nothing else in the world mattered. He wondered how, fifteen minutes ago, he’d been thinking about escape.

—I have to go away this weekend, said Emily.

—You do?

—Peter, you look broken-hearted.

—No …

—I am a little too. We could have gone bowling again.

—Where are you going?

—Our annual trip to the city, my mom and me. We’ll do our Christmas shopping. We’ve been doing it almost as long as I can remember.

—Where will you stay?

—In a hotel. Very fancy. Or maybe not, I don’t know. It’s close to downtown. Somewhere you can see the CN Tower and the lights and everything else. This is the first year we’re bringing my sister. But let’s talk about next Tuesday.

—Next Tuesday.

—You’re invited to dinner.

—Where?

—My house, Peter.

—With your folks?

—Who else? Do you accept?

—I do, said Pete. For sure.

When she kissed him, he could feel her tongue moving and then she grinned against his mouth. He drove her down to her house. She kissed him once more and she got out of the car. At the front door she turned and waved at him and then she went inside.

Pete drove around for awhile before he went home. His mind was at ease, which was funny to realize, since half an hour ago he’d been thinking about a sudden and uncalculated escape from everything. But now, the smell of Emily’s perfume or shampoo lingered in the car. As he drove, Pete found himself reconsidering his plan to move west. Maybe he had a reason to stay here, after all. Maybe he would rent an apartment in town, like Lee’s. Maybe, for once, everything was okay.

Pete left work in the middle of the afternoon on Friday to take some magazines and evangelical cassettes to his grandmother at the hospital. Later, he would think that Roger and the others must have followed him, looking for an opportunity. The gas station was too busy, too exposed.

He did not park in the visitors’ lot at the hospital, where they charged a toll. Instead he parked on a gravel patch at a small construction site a little way down the street. Then he went down the sidewalk, through the hospital entrance, and up to see his grandmother. He didn’t stay long—she was drugged and sleepy. He delivered the items he’d brought, and he stood looking at her and fighting the constriction of his throat.

He was going back across the gravel patch, thinking about Emily, and how the city had taken her away for the weekend, when the boys jumped him. They’d been waiting in a wood-panelled station wagon. They piled out and set on him hard from all directions before he could even make sense of what was happening. He felt knuckles slugging the side of his head. Someone punched him above his right eye. Someone kicked him in the thigh and he stumbled, and they pushed him over into a ditch alongside the gravel. He raked damp snow off rotting leaves as he slid down. He could feel his forehead swelling.

Roger stood on the edge of the ditch and told Pete to stay the fuck away from the Heron Heights girls.

—Four of you, said Pete.

Roger came down and kicked Pete in the stomach, driving the air out of him. He thought he might vomit. Then Pete heard the station wagon pulling away and they were gone. He hauled himself up. There were leaves clinging to his back, leaves in his hair. Nobody had been around to see anything. He managed to get himself into his car, where he sat for a long time, beaten, ashamed.

The radiator made soft clanking noises. Early headlights moved through the predawn outside the window. Lee was sweat-sodden on the pullout bed. First he dreamed the old dream, the boarding house basement, the crippled caretaker shuffling towards him. Then he dreamed he was in solitary confinement in the penitentiary. Brick and steel, enclosed on all sides. In this hole there was no door.

Workless afternoons prior to his hospital visits, Lee would walk the town. It was a strange time for him, when idleness gave way to dark thoughts. Bud frequently occurred to him, the jokes he’d get wrong, and particularly the image of him face down in the bottom of the barge. He thought also of Donna, and found himself looking for things he might get the family for Christmas. Donna used to make Luke and John write to Lee annually, this time of year. Once, a couple of years ago, they’d written about Lee spending Christmas Day with them sometime in the future, after he would be released. The idea had appealed to him, more than he cared to admit, but he hadn’t yet been invited. He didn’t know how to ask.

Everywhere around him was the bustling industry of the holiday season, the store windows packed with signs peddling sales, the ceaseless clatter of Salvation Army bells. Lee went about in his work boots with his collar turned up.

One day, Lee went into a furniture store he’d passed many times. The showroom was warmly lit with crafted desk lamps. Every article of furniture was made of unvarnished wood. He was drawn to a dining room table, ten feet by five. The tabletop was an inch and a half thick. He ran his hand along the rasping smoothness of the naked wood. A grey-bearded man appeared from somewhere.

—All our pieces are handcrafted, said the man. This table is solid oak.

—You make this? said Lee. It’s a hell of a nice piece.

—Thank you. We like to keep our prices negotiable too.

—I got Christmas coming up. I got some people to buy for. Where does the price start out before you negotiate it?

—This table starts at three hundred dollars.

Lee laughed dryly. He seemed unable to withdraw his hand from the sanded tabletop. He cleared his throat and said: Actually, I was wondering if you ever hire. I’m a carpenter myself.

The bearded man nodded.

—For the most part we’re a family business. And to be honest with you, we’re a little slow-going right now. But I’d be happy to put your information into our files.

With some reluctance Lee withdrew his hand from the table.

—You got the time by any chance?

The bearded man had a silver timepiece on his belt. He brought it out. With his timepiece and his beard he was like something out of the olden days: It’s two o’clock, said the man.

—Two o’clock. Well, I’ve got some things to do.

What he had to do was meet Wade Larkin at three o’clock. After the barge accident and the Ministry of Labour inquest, Larkin said he wanted to meet with Lee more frequently, once every three weeks or so, especially since Lee was out of work. They were set to meet, today, in the same spare municipal office where they’d always met, and this appointment would be the last Larkin would see him before Christmas. Not that the meetings ever amounted to much. Larkin couldn’t do anything to get Lee a job, or get Irene into her own room at the hospital. He would just ask his questions and nod and make notes in his notebook, and confirm, as always, that Lee had Larkin’s business card in case of any trouble. At least today Lee would be able to tell him that he’d tried to get a job.

Lee went to the front door of the furniture store. He paused, looked back over his shoulder at the table: I do think that piece is a beauty.

—Thank you, said the grey-bearded man. Happy holidays.

Lee went back onto the street. He bought a pack of cigarettes and some lottery tickets from the pharmacy. He wanted to buy some booze, as well, before the liquor store closed. He had just enough time, perhaps, to pick up a bottle of rye, walk home and stash it, and arrive at the meeting with his parole officer empty-handed.

That night Speedy was on the drums at the North Star. The band he was playing with was driving through Rolling Stones covers. People whirled. Garish coloured lights beamed through the smoke.

Lee and Helen had had a few drinks, and he was feeling good. Helen said she’d had no idea he could be so goddamn fun. Lee had seen Maurice over near the bar, eyeing the dance floor. Maurice nodded to him. In a booth, Helen sat across from him with her chin propped on her hand, smiling. She’d worn a chambray shirt unbuttoned low enough to show the deep crease between her breasts. She had her foot up between Lee’s thighs.

In the adjacent booth sat Gilmore and Arlene. Gilmore leaned over the plywood divider and clapped Lee on the shoulder and asked if they were enjoying themselves. Lee said they were. It was Speedy who’d gotten them out here. Lee had had some drinks with Speedy a few nights earlier and he’d told Lee a band he jammed with was going to be at the roadhouse—would Lee and his lady friend come for some rock ‘n’ roll? Lee was feeling now like a big man.

Gilmore dropped back into his own booth.

—I didn’t know you had friends out here, called Helen.

—I’ve got a few.

She gave his thigh a friendly dig. He looked into the crowd and saw strangers moving to the music.

The band took a break and Lee got up to go to the men’s room. He studied the graffiti over the urinal. Someone had written Sally D Is A Cocksucker. There were black hairs on the drainplate.

He came out. Gilmore was waiting in the passageway, leaning on the brickwork with one hand in his pocket.

—Looks like you’re having a good time, said Gilmore.

—We’re having a good time, yeah.

—What would you say to going for a ride?

—You want to go for a ride someplace?

—Have a smoke.

Gilmore took out his Camel cigarettes and offered one to Lee.

—I told you before, said Lee.

—I know you did. It’s just a ride is all it is.

—Where is it you want to go?

—I have a business associate I’d like to visit. All you’re along for is just another pair of eyes and ears, that’s all. Lee took a long drag: Eyes and ears, said Lee.

—In business there’s a matter of appearances.

—You keep using that word, business. Gilmore laughed: Yes, I do.

He had a fifty-dollar bill folded between two fingers. He tucked it into Lee’s breast pocket. He said: On good faith, Lee. It was a hell of a bad accident you were in a few weeks ago. A raw deal for a dependable guy. I want to see better things come your way.

—What about my lady friend?

—Come.

Gilmore showed Lee to the booth where he’d been sitting. Helen was in the booth with Arlene. They were laughing. Arlene looked up when she saw Gilmore.

—You keep Lee’s lady friend company, said Gilmore. You hear me?

—Yes, daddy.

—You’re going somewheres? said Helen.

Lee looked at the tabletop. Helen reached her arm behind him and patted his butt.

—Well, go on, Brown Eyes. Just give me a bit of money, will you?

He gave her a few dollars. He and Gilmore walked out shoulder to shoulder like old comrades. Out in the parking lot, Maurice was waiting at his Caballero.

—You were pretty sure, said Lee, quietly.

—Pretty sure about what, pal?

—That I’d come with you.

Gilmore just smiled.

They drove all the way back to town, to a row of frame houses along the rail line. The house they parked in front of had paint peeling from its siding. No sooner had the car come to a stop than two barking Rottweilers materialized behind a chain-link fence penning in the backyard.

A door opened on the crooked porch and the shape of a man shouted at the dogs. He came out and stood on the porch and looked at the car.

—Come on, Lee, said Gilmore.

Maurice did not get out of the car. Lee felt uneasy. During the drive into town it had occurred to him that maybe this was some affair of old blood, though he couldn’t think of who or what, but maybe this was a house he would go into and not depart from.

The man on the porch was wearing unfastened work boots and a T-shirt, despite the cold. He was short but he looked like he pumped a lot of iron. He merely nodded when they came up. The dogs behind the fence seemed half berserk. Gilmore and Lee were led into a kitchen. The room was crammed with junk on the counters, engine parts, a twelve-ton jack. Through an opening, they could see into a living room where coloured Christmas lights were strung around a shuttered window. A young child was parked on the living room floor, watching a movie on a black-and-white cabinet TV.

The man closed the door to the porch. Turned the deadbolt.

Gilmore sat down at the kitchen table. He pushed aside a telephone from which a snarl of wires had been partially eviscerated.

A woman in a wheelchair rolled through the opening into the kitchen. She was thick-bodied, with grey hair in braids. Her legs were gone below the knees. She pulled up to the table. The man in the T-shirt leaned against the wall behind her. He glanced back into the living room, perhaps to check on the child.

—Gilmore, said the woman.

—Happy holidays, Jean.

—You got a new friend.

Gilmore looked back over his shoulder at Lee, smiling: Where are my manners? This is a good friend of mine. Say hello, Lee.

Lee nodded to the woman. She looked him up and down. There was something shrewd about her, calculating.

—You might think we came because of the Christmas season, said Gilmore. Friends calling on each other to spread cheer and all that.

The woman chuckled: The way you talk, Colin, I almost got the idea you think I’m just some young hussy.

—Jean, I wouldn’t think that of you for one second. Not one second.

Gilmore brought out a thick sheaf of money held together with a wire clasp. Lee saw twenties. There might be a thousand dollars in there. Gilmore held the money out to Jean and she took it and counted it.

—On good faith, said Gilmore.

—You’ll have the van before Christmas. The electronics too. The other things, I got here.

She gestured with her head. The man opened a door off the kitchen where Lee saw steps leading to a basement. The man went down.

Lee found the woman studying him again. He wondered once more, was this old blood, was he maybe going to be taken down to the fruit cellar and shot in the back of the head? He’d heard of such things happening, cons with serious history getting out of the pen, only to be found dead a short while later. He was digging deep to remember who he’d had particularly bad blood with. There were any number of names from his first five or six years—but that really was a long time ago, and he didn’t think any of them had ended up here, in his hometown.

Just then the child appeared in the kitchen. A little red-headed girl, maybe six years old. She came and stood beside the wheelchair and regarded Gilmore and Lee. The woman put a hand on the little girl’s head.

—And how are you, half-pint? said Gilmore.

The little girl shrugged: I’m okay.

—Beautiful, said Gilmore.

The man came back upstairs carrying a canvas duffle bag. There was something long and thin pushing out the side of the bag. A golf club, perhaps, but Lee doubted it. The man set the bag on the table in front of Gilmore. Gilmore unzipped the bag and glanced inside and zipped it back up before Lee could see what it held.

—Good, said Gilmore. Of course, there won’t be any need.

—The Bible says hear no evil see no evil, said the woman.

—Sure it does. It also says a man can get up and dance three days after you nail him to a chunk of wood.

Midmorning the next day, Lee woke with a bad hangover. Helen was snoring. Lee got up and for some time stared into the mostly empty refrigerator. He had enough food for today, that’s all. He thought of the money Gilmore had given him.

He boiled water for coffee and fried some eggs. His recollection of the rest of last night was dim. After they’d left the house in town they’d driven back to the North Star. He’d danced with Helen for awhile, he could remember that. Then there was a fight. Some townies, some hatchet-faced woman screaming at them. The woman jumped on a man’s back. Lee remembered Maurice wading into it, moving his big fists in steady articulations, but Gilmore had disappeared altogether. Lee had been bumped by a stranger, whom Lee then struck under the eye and in the side of the head because the stranger looked like he might be thinking about it. Lee remembered the hatchet-faced woman sitting spread-legged on the concrete floor, shrieking curses. He’d walked off into the dark then and he couldn’t remember much more. A car barrelling through the night. Cigarettes. Helen’s hand squeezing up his thigh. It was Speedy’s car. What hour?

Lee piled eggs and toast onto two plates and brought them to the pullout. Helen was blinking at him. The sheets were twisted around her.

—Eat. There’s coffee.

—Aren’t you a dear.

He sat beside her with his legs up and his plate balanced across his thighs. Helen still had mascara in shrouds around her eyes. She smiled dizzily.

When they’d finished eating, Lee took their plates and stacked them on the countertop. He lit two smokes and gave her one.

—What I’m not real excited about is working tonight, said Helen.

—I’ll bet.

—So what kind of business opportunities?

—Business opportunities?

—Your friend Colin was talking about business opportunities.

—That was all talk.

—I’m guessing he didn’t mean real estate.

Lee stabbed his cigarette out: How about you don’t need to ask.

—Suit yourself.

A moment passed.

—I didn’t mean to snap at you, said Lee.

She yawned and stretched her arms: Forget it. Come here and rub my shoulders.

First, Lee turned on the television. There were Sunday morning church shows. He turned it off and went over and sat on the couch-back behind her and rubbed her shoulders. They were quiet. Then she fondled him through the thin fabric of his undershorts.

—What do we got here?

When they woke again it was early afternoon.

—Some things I’ve been thinking about, said Lee.

—What’s going on in that cute head of yours?

—Some things about me and you.

—Okay, said Helen.

—Well, things aren’t always going to be like this.

—What is this?

—My situation.

Helen rose up from the pullout. She went into the bathroom and Lee could hear her urinating.

She came back out, saying: Can’t we talk about this later?

—What’s wrong with right now?

—My head hurts. I don’t want to talk about these serious things.

Lee was going to say something but there was a knock on the door. Helen covered herself. Lee pulled on his jeans and the shirt he’d worn last night. The money was still in the breast pocket. He opened the door to Mr. Yoon.

—Phone for you, said Mr. Yoon.

Lee turned to Helen: Don’t go anywhere.

Lee followed Mr. Yoon down into the store. Mr. Yoon’s wife was tending the cash-out. A plastic nativity scene had been set up beside the register. Mr. Yoon led Lee to the office at the back. The telephone receiver was overturned on the desktop. Lee looked at Mr. Yoon until Mr. Yoon tightened his face and backed off to inspect cans of soup on a shelf. Lee picked up the receiver.

—Hello.

—Lee, Clifton here.

—Clifton.

—Listen Lee … That thing with Bud was a mess. The Ministry is fining me two thousand dollars. Two thousand, mister man, what do you think of that. But listen, I got some work coming up. I want to get on with it after Christmas. If you want some inside work, I got it. Some cupboards, some trim. Maybe three weeks solid.

Lee held the receiver. He traced his thumb along the edge of the desk.

—Lee.

—Yeah, Clifton.

—Thought the line cut out.

—So that thing with Bud was a mess, Clifton?

—Lee—

—Go fuck yourself. You think I ever want to kiss your ass again?

He hung the phone up. He came out of the office and passed Mr. Yoon.

—When do you work again?

—I have some things, said Lee. Not for that bastard, though. I gave you this month’s rent. You’ll get next month’s.

Back up in the apartment, Helen had put on her bra and panties and was pulling on her pantyhose.

—What are you doing?

—I have to leave more sooner than later, said Helen. I have to work.

She went into the bathroom and redefined the edges of her makeup. She sang some words from a radio song. She came out and put her clothes on.

—Do you think that Oriental will have to call a taxi for me?

—Maybe, said Lee.

She picked up her purse and looked through it: How do you like that. Brown Eyes, do you have any cash?

Lee took his wallet off the dresser and opened it. He did not want to but he counted. Seventeen dollars. Plus the fifty in his shirt pocket. He gave her five dollars and felt the money moving out of his hand. Before long she was standing in the doorway.

—The café is going to get real busy with the season, said Helen. So how about I’ll call you.

In the early dusk, Lee went down to the store and bought a can of Stagg chili. He cooked it on the hot plate and opened a beer. There was a science-fiction movie on television—the one where Charlton Heston had to fight a bunch of talking monkeys on horseback. Lee had seen this one when he was in jail. They’d shown pictures in the chapel.

All at once, Lee tensed up and launched the beer can at the wall. It bounced off, leaving a mark on the plaster, and what beer was in the can sprayed onto the floor.

Pete went to supper at Emily’s house on Tuesday. He hadn’t seen her since she’d gone to the city with her mother. They’d had one conversation on the telephone to confirm the dinner invitation. He did not mention having been jumped by the boys she knew.

In the driveway of Emily’s house was a police cruiser, a hard-angled Ford LTD. There was also an old GMC pickup truck and a small Volvo. A holly wreath hung on the front door of the house.

Emily’s sister, Louise, opened the door when Pete knocked. The first thing he heard inside was the piano. He knew the tune but it took him a moment to name it … “O Holy Night.” The pianist wasn’t confident yet, and the notes were hesitant and loud.

Mary Casey appeared to welcome him. Pete hoped the swelling on his brow had gone down enough not to be noticeable, but he saw how Mrs. Casey’s attention flicked quickly to the wound. Then she smiled.

Pete was shown into the living room. It was warm and there were a lot of gifts stacked under the Christmas tree. He could see Emily at the piano bench, her back straight. He wanted to touch her. Mrs. Casey told Pete to make himself at home and then she leaned over Emily and said that her friend was here. The back of Emily’s head moved but her hands stayed at the piano keys. The melody she was playing was recognizable but not graceful.

Pete had barely lowered himself to the couch before he stood again, for Mr. Casey appeared in his uniform trousers and slippers. He was carrying a drink that smelled like rye and Coke. Behind Mr. Casey was Stan Maitland, holding a beer.

Mr. Casey offered his hand in one firm shake. He saw the swelling over Pete’s eye. Pete knew he did.

—This has got to be Peter, said Mr. Casey.

—Thanks for having me, said Pete.

Stan told Pete it was good to see him again—that last time wasn’t so good, was it.

—How is your uncle getting along? said Stan.

—He’s fine, I guess. That accident was bad.

—Was that when the man died out at Grandpa’s house? said Louise.

—Louise, said Mrs. Casey.

Mr. Casey nodded at Pete: Your uncle, Leland King.

Emily stopped playing. One chord struck hard, reverberating. She turned around on the bench.

—Hi, Pete. I hope you’re hungry. It’s spaghetti night.

At supper, Mrs. Casey asked Pete if he would have a glass of wine. Mr. Casey answered for him, said Pete didn’t need any wine if he was to be driving later. He said Emily didn’t need any wine either. Emily and Pete had been seated together at the table. Pete did not want to keep stealing glances at her but he could not help himself. Once they were eating, Mr. Casey asked his daughters about school that day. They answered shortly, succinctly, school was good.

—Just a couple days till vacation.

—Yep.

Mr. Casey pointed with a piece of garlic bread, said: What kind of bonehead parties do they have planned for the weekend?

—I wouldn’t even know, said Emily.

—How about you, Pete?

—I’m not much of a party kind of guy. Mr. Casey grinned: Not big on the drinking and scrapping?

—Frank, said Mrs. Casey.

Stan touched his napkin to his lips. There was something unsaid in the air. He chopped through his spaghetti and chased each forkful with beer.

—Mr. Maitland, my uncle told me a little bit about your house.

Stan looked up: Did he?

—He said it was on a real nice piece of property. Good view of the lake. I’ve probably seen it at one time or another but I can’t think of when.

—From time to time I think I could hire some help out there, maybe an afternoon or a day. If ever you have a bit of time to spare. It’s an old house and it’s hard to keep up by myself.

Emily ate quietly, steadily. Her silverware made clipping sounds against her dish.

—Your mother, Pete, said Mr. Casey. What does she do these days?

Pete hadn’t realized his mother was known to Mr. Casey. He wondered vaguely how.

—She stays at home. Looks after my brothers. When we moved here from North Bay, she got a job as a secretary at the chemical factory, but they laid her off. That was four years ago.

—And your dad, he’s a pastor, right? Out at that Pentecostal church?

—Dad, said Emily.

—It’s okay, said Pete. Yeah … my dad is a pastor. I didn’t know you knew them.

—Not really well, said Mr. Casey.

They did not ask him anything further. After supper, Stan was quick to collect his coat. He said he had the dog to get home to and he asked if Pete would let him out of the driveway. Pete went out and backed his car onto the street. He passed the old man as he was heading to his truck.

—Good to see you, Mr. Maitland.

—Is your uncle working?

—No. He hasn’t been able to get anything. He tries, you know. Tries to find work … but, so far …

Stan nodded. He said so long and got into his truck.

When Pete went back inside, Mr. Casey gave him strict orders to have Emily back by eleven. They went out and got into his car. He kissed her before anything was said. Then they were driving.

—That was not how I wanted it to be, said Emily. I did not want everybody to be mad at each other.

—I thought maybe it was me.

—It wasn’t you. It was my grandpa and my parents. Fifteen minutes before you got there, my dad broke the news to him.

—They’re not going to take the house?

—No. They’re not going to take the house. And there’s more. There’s been something wrong between my grandpa and my dad for a month. I wish they’d just come out and say what it is.

—Oh, said Pete.

She was quiet for the rest of the drive. They went to the cinema out by the shopping mall and she insisted mildly that she would pay. She bought tickets for The Empire Strikes Back and bought popcorn and soft drinks. They went into the theatre. She allowed him to take her hand and he tried to think nothing of it. Pete lifted her hand to kiss it. After the film started she took her hand back to eat with.

Later, coming out of the theatre, they talked about the movie on their way back to the car.

—Did you want to drive around awhile? said Pete.

—Just drive around?

—Or go somewhere?

—And do what, Pete?

She was looking at him with a touch of amusement. He felt very small.

—I haven’t seen you in a week.

—I should probably go home. My dad will be waiting up.

—Okay.

She watched out the window while he drove. There was a faint reflection of her face in the window-glass. When they got to her house, there were lights in the living room window. She allowed herself to be kissed a little. She touched the swelling over his eye.

—I do not understand boys at all.

—I didn’t think it would be so noticeable.

—It was. But don’t worry about it.

She allowed him to kiss her again, then she said: I should go in now.

—Did I say something wrong? I didn’t go looking for a fight with your friends, if that’s what you thought.

—You didn’t say anything wrong, Pete, and I know you didn’t go looking for a fight. They are not my friends. They’re a bunch of spoiled brats. I can’t wait to be done with them all. Anyway, thanks for taking me out.

She was getting out of the car.

—Well, said Pete, should we plan something?

—It’s a busy few days. I have to play piano at the Christmas Eve service and I haven’t even practised. You heard it when you came in. It sounded horrible.

—It didn’t sound so bad.

—I need to practise more. I have to go …

—Emily, for Chrissake. What’s going on?

She paused with the door open. The cold flowed into the car. She sat back down on the passenger seat. She said: I think tonight wasn’t a good idea but it was too late to take a step back from it. That’s my fault, Pete, and I apologize.

—I don’t understand.

—We’re just moving a little too fast.

—I thought we were having fun. I thought you miss me when we’re apart.

—I really have to go.

—So what now?

—I’ll call you.

And she was gone. She went up the driveway and into her house. He saw the silhouette in the living room window and then put his car into gear. Nothing seemed quite real. There was a weight on his chest. As he drove away from her house, he could still taste her on his lips.

Two days passed and Emily didn’t call. Late Thursday, Pete was in the booth between the pumps, watching vehicles on the bypass. Duane had the day off and Caroline was in the store. Pete hunched down in his winter coat. The cold in the booth was a qualitative thing. The cold could be addressed.

From time to time he would touch his eyebrow to bring the pain, which had subdued to an ache. He ate half a sandwich. Then he heard the bell and saw a police cruiser pulling up to the pumps. Pete went out, knowing who it was before the window rolled down.

—Hey, Mr. Casey, said Pete.

—A top-up is all I need.

As far as Pete knew, the local detachment had a service contract with one of the other petroleum companies, so if Mr. Casey was at the Texaco station, it was because he’d gone out of his way. The tank was topped up in a minute.

Mr. Casey paid cash. He was casually watching the sunset through his windshield. Pete struggled for something to say: Thanks again for supper the other night.

—I guess you know where we stand. Most times I don’t get involved in her business. But I know about you. I know what you are.

—Mr. Casey, if you mean my uncle …

Mr. Casey looked at him directly: I know exactly what you are. She’s got too many good things going in her life for you to make a jackpot of it. You’ll just want to look for another kind of girl, one who’s more your sort. I won’t have you hanging around my property or my daughter. It’s no goddamn good for anybody.

Pete studied the scoured pavement: I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.

—That’s right. That’s exactly right.

The patrol car pulled out of the station and back onto the bypass.

Pete found himself pacing the apron. He stopped once and touched his eyebrow. It did not hurt enough. He pressed it with his thumb. He could leave. He could leave right now. There wasn’t enough money but when was there ever enough money. Instead, he sat back in the corporeal cold of the booth as the dusk gathered.

The question remained. It had always been there.

Later, Pete took his supper break at the hospital. By that hour his family had come and gone and his grandmother was watching television. Pete watched with her for awhile, nursing a hot chocolate he’d bought in the cafeteria. Mrs. Petrelli was gone. Departed from the world, about a week earlier. The bed was remade and vacant, ready to take on a new occupant. There was nothing to suggest Mrs. Petrelli had ever been there.

Irene asked in halting words how was work and when would he be going back to school. He told her what he always told her. Then he asked her the question.

—You know that, Peter.

—I just thought maybe you remembered something. Or maybe I forgot something you or Mom told me once.

—He wasn’t nobody at all. Come and gone. Left a young girl pregnant …

She lifted her hand and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. She whispered: Don’t you go treating girls that way.

—I won’t, said Pete.

—I know.

Irene’s eyes gaped at him. He smiled for her and wondered was she afraid of this, the long business of dying.

It was after midnight by the time he got home from work. The only sound was Luke grinding his teeth. Pete got into bed. He read a paperback until his eyes burned. He shut off the light but did not sleep. He saw Emily in the bowling alley, in her formal dress, laughing. It was four o’clock before he fell asleep.

—We’ve been through this before. You carry that number over, you add it, and that’s how you get the answer.

—I don’t understand.

—Yes, you do.

Pete watched them from the kitchen doorway. Late-morning sunlight banked in through the window over the sink. The boys had their notebooks open before them. Luke had his pencil in his fist and was glaring at an arithmetic lesson. John saw Pete and fixed him with a stare. A bubble of snot pushed out of the boy’s nostril each time he breathed.

Donna noticed him at last. She paused with the dog-eared curricula notebook in her hands. Then she told the boys to keep at their sums and asked Pete if he wanted breakfast. Pete sat down at the table with his brothers, asked them how the lesson was going.

—Hard, said Luke.

—Hard, said John.

The boy still had the mucus in his nostril. Pete told him to blow his nose. His mother brought him oatmeal with brown sugar and a cup of tea. Pete knew he should be hungry but he wasn’t. It was as if his belly was obstructed by a thing just starting to take shape.

Donna picked up the curricula book.

—Okay. We were at times tables.

Pete put his spoon down. He said: Hey, boys. Can you go into the living room for awhile?

The boys looked at him.

—We’re doing lessons, said Donna.

—Just for a few minutes.

The boys looked at their mother. Her thin shoulders drooped. She made a shooing gesture and they hopped off their chairs.

—No, take your notebooks. This isn’t playtime. They bounded into the living room.

—Peter, do you know how easy it is to get behind in the lessons?

—I want you to tell me what we never talk about.

—What?

—I want to know about my dad.

—You know about that.

—No. I don’t know. We never talk about it.

John’s voice rose in outrage from the living room. Donna stepped to the doorway and looked out at them. She raised her voice: Let go of your brother’s head. Now.

—We never talk about it, said Pete. I want to know.

—There’s nothing worth talking about. He was nobody.

—Goddammit, listen, Mom. What’s it got to do with the cops? Is Uncle Lee involved?

She stepped forward and slapped him, but drew back immediately, with all her fingers splayed and her lips quivering. She hadn’t struck him hard but his face felt branded all the same.

Pete rose from the table. He carried his dishes to the sink and washed them. He was slow in his motions. Everything, every feeling he’d felt over the last few days, over the last month, over the last year, seemed to be coming together into a single, slow-burning flame. It was a sensation he didn’t even have a name for, but he felt the heat of it in the bottom of his gut.

Donna moved backwards to give him a wide berth. She spoke quietly: He was just a loser. How do you think it felt to be me? Why do you think you didn’t live here for so many years? I couldn’t be here, Peter. I couldn’t.

Pete nodded. Hot water flowed over the bowl and the cup. Steam lifted through the sunlight.

—Peter?

—Never mind.

He turned from the sink and went out of the kitchen. He didn’t know if the boys had seen anything but they were sitting on opposite sides of the couch, conspicuously silent.

By half past noon, Pete was in town. He drove past Heron Heights, where a number of students were moving between the parking lot and the school doors. Emily was nowhere to be seen. What Pete did see was the wood-panelled station wagon. It drove past him into the lot and parked. Roger and one of his friends got out and walked into the school. Pete watched them.

Pete drove back downtown. He parked at the A&P and walked over to the variety store and went around back and rang the buzzer to the apartment. No one came. He went into the store. Mr. Yoon was stocking the refrigerator.

—You see my uncle?

—Not working today, said Mr. Yoon.

—You know where he’s at?

—He just walks around sometimes. I see him. Or he goes and plays pool. Bar around the corner.

—Okay.

—When is he going to work again?

—I don’t know.

Pete drove to the Corner Pocket, the only poolroom on the block. There was a small parking lot in back. He went in through the back door. The place was nearly empty this time of day. The man behind the bar was wiping down the sides of a jar of devilled eggs. The radio was on, or the jukebox, but Pete could only discern the dry sounds of the drum track. Finally he spotted Lee at a table across the room.

Lee was lining up a shot when Pete came over. Four empty beer bottles stood on the rail behind him. He was working on a fifth.

—Uncle Lee, said Pete.

Lee banked the six-ball into a pocket. He said: How are you, Pete?

—If I ask you something, will you level with me? Lee leaned the cue against the side of the table. He took a drink of beer.

—What are we talking about?

—I want you to tell me what nobody else will.

—You’re not making any sense.

—Look. You know that cop? Frank Casey? He came to my work. He says he knows what I am. What I am, he said, whatever that means. I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. So what is he talking about?

—That son of a bitch is a ball-breaker, Pete. He’s giving you a hard time because of me.

—That’s not it. There’s something nobody will tell me. My mom got real upset when I started asking—

—Don’t bother your mother about it.

—And Grandma won’t tell—

Lee slammed his beer bottle down. The noise drew casual glances from the few hang-abouts in the place. Lee pressed his finger into Pete’s chest.

—Do not bother your grandmother with this shit. Do you hear me?

Pete stared back. He felt blood come into his cheeks: Fuck this. One more person. The sooner I’m done with all of you the better.

He turned and went out the back door.

The afternoon was all the brighter for the brief minutes he’d been inside. He was opening his car door when he heard Lee say his name. Lee was standing at the back door of the poolroom.

—Maybe nobody tells you because they figure you don’t want to know. This was a bad thing, buck.

—Yeah?

—But I know what it’s like to be on the outside of everything. So I won’t lie to you. I won’t do that. But what you have to know is nothing will be the same if I tell you.

—I want to know, Lee. I can’t live my whole life like this. Maybe I used to think it didn’t matter, but it does now. People around me have made it matter, but they haven’t wanted to give me a choice in much of anything. So I’m choosing to know. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, but I’m choosing to know.

—Well, like I said, I won’t lie to you.

Pete followed Lee back inside to a table near the jukebox. On the wall above was a faded print of dogs shooting billiards. Lee went to the bar and came back carrying four beers. He gave one to Pete. Pete nodded at the bartender.

—He won’t mind?

—I’ll talk to him if he bitches. But he won’t. If I wasn’t having a drink, I don’t think I’d be able to get into any of this. If you’re going to hear it, you’ll want to have a couple too.

They drank in silence for a little while. Lee lit a cigarette. He said: You’re eighteen.

—Yeah. I am.

—Eighteen, that means you’re a man. Eighteen years ago I was twenty-two. I was on trial for capital murder. Six months was all it took. You’re born in, what, July? ‘62? Well, July ‘62 I’d already been inside for three months. Your grandmother sent me a snapshot of you in the hospital when you were born. There was this Indian in jail that I had some trouble with when I was first there. He thought he was a big man and he thought I was just some young goof. He got a hold of some of my stuff and he burned it. That picture was part of it. He did this when I was working in the mailbag shop, which is where all the new fish go. I don’t know why. But later on I got my chance at him in the shower. I did twenty days in the hole for what I did to him, but that big dumb Indian, anytime he saw me after that, he stayed away. I’m already off the subject. Look. When your mom and me were kids we didn’t have it too easy. I know everybody says that. But our old man—your granddad—even though he worked all the time, we never had enough money. I don’t know why. Maybe he could earn money okay but he couldn’t save it. He wasn’t bad to us, never beat us up or nothing, but I never knew him either, not really. When I was still pretty little, the old man had three heart attacks. He still didn’t quit working. The fourth heart attack killed him flat out. That was the end of that. The store went bankrupt and a year later we were on the dole. Do you know all that?

—Not like this, said Pete.

Lee finished his beer and started on another.

—Well. We lived in a boarding house on the other side of downtown, north of the river. Merritt Street. I think about that place a lot, I don’t know why. I went to see it awhile back but it’s different now. Your grandmother helped clean the place to take down the rent she was paying. And your mother wasn’t always so serious, Pete. Did you know that? How she is now, I wouldn’t of even known her. So quiet. So wrapped up. But she wasn’t always so serious.

—I don’t remember her ever being anything else. There were times when I was younger, I’d see her just staring off into space. Just blanked out.

—When she was young she was a lot of fun, and she was real pretty. A real knockout, they’d say. She didn’t care that she barely had two changes of clothes. She got along good with practically everybody. She was the only person, the only person … I mean, she cared for me. I was her older brother, the loser, the small-time hood, but none of that bothered her. I used to be afraid I would, you know, disappoint her, but I’d get drinking or doing something stupid, and no matter what, she was always there to pick me up and drive me wherever it was I needed to go, or if I needed to come back home for a little while, she’d give up her room and sleep on the couch …

Lee was peering into the tabletop, moving his beer bottle back and forth between his hands. Pete drank down his own beer. He left the dregs in the bottom of the bottle. A man weaved into the men’s room nearby and by the time he’d come out Lee had still not resumed.

—Lee, said Pete.

—You know that hockey arena in town?

—The community centre, sure. Charles Grady Memorial or whatever.

—And you never played hockey?

—Never. I took some skating lessons when I was little, but I wasn’t any good.

—Well. Chuck Grady was a hockey player from town. He played forward. He had a hell of a name for himself. He was playing Triple-A when he was sixteen and he got scouted for the National League by the time he was your age. I knew this because everybody in town knew it. Chuck had a brother named Simon, about a year or two younger than him, and when Chuck was back in town you’d always see them two together. The Grady boys. There wasn’t a teenage girl around that him and his brother couldn’t get into. Chuckie Grady. He started sniffing around your mother. She was going with a guy—I can’t remember his name, but what does it matter—and she didn’t care about hockey and she had no interest in Chuckie Grady. But him and Simon would cruise by the boarding house every now and then. They had this, what was it, a real flashy car. T-Bird, if I remember.

—T-Bird? said Pete.

—Yeah. A T-Bird. Their old man owned the dealership.

—Jesus, said Pete.

—What?

—Nothing. Never mind.

—Well, I figured I’d let Chuck and Simon know that your ma wasn’t interested in them. I saw Simon one time at a party and I let him know he didn’t need to have anything to do with her. Ha. A week later I was pretty drunk, coming out of a dance hall, or maybe the bowling alley, and Chuck and Simon and a few of their pals were waiting for me. They stomped my ass into the ground pretty good. I guess they figured a greaser hood like me shouldn’t be speaking up for his sister.

He’d taken to studying the tabletop again. After a moment, he went on: I’d been on a real tear for a few days, way out on Indian River. Me, Speedy Simmons, Jimmy Robichaud, a couple others. It was maybe September. I came back to the boarding house at night. I wasn’t supposed to be living there any more—I was in my twenties—but I couldn’t hold a job down for real long, and I’d been evicted from the place I was living. I remember that night because it was late, eleven o’clock. I had Jimmy Robichaud’s dad’s Buick, which we all just kind of used when we needed to. Anyways there I was near the house and that fucking T-Bird is going the other way real fast, and I thought, there’s the Gradys cruising again. But when I got to the house, your mom, she was just sitting outside on the porch. She … she had no shoes on. She was barefoot. Her legs were all scratched up.

Lee peeled the label off his beer bottle. Pete’s mouth was bone dry.

—I never figured out why those two guys thought she’d just keep her mouth shut, said Lee. I thought about it a long time. But you know? They were right. She did. Far as I know I’m the only person she ever told it to, and I think it was on account of I saw their car and I saw her sitting there on the porch. The only time she said a word of it was to me that night. How she was walking home from the grocery store where she worked. How they came by and saw her and picked her up, she said, and this was maybe nine o’clock at night in the fall, so it was full dark, and then they didn’t drive her straight home. She didn’t talk a lot more about what happened after that. Not to me. Not even when she got called up as a witness for the defence, and I was sitting there with those charges laid on me. She just looked at the floor when the lawyer asked her. Did you know Charles or Simon Grady? She said, no, sir. Not at all, sir. I guess they all knew a lot more about shame than I ever did, which is why they knew she wouldn’t say anything. I don’t know what Chuck and Simon did when they went back into town, and after that night Simon was never able to talk clearly anyway. He couldn’t even be called as a witness. See, I don’t know where they went after they left her. I only know I got to their house before they did. When they got home it was around midnight and I was there already.

Pete started to get up from the table. He felt queasy.

—Sit down, said Lee.

—I have to go.

—Sit your ass down, Peter. You wanted me to start talking about this, well, I am. The Crown wanted to hang me for it. You can’t duck out now.

Pete sank into the chair.

—Jimmy’s dad was a framer on a building crew, said Lee. He had a framing hammer in the trunk of the car. It was twenty-two ounces. I didn’t say nothing to Chuck or Simon and they never got any words out themselves. The whole thing was done and over in less than a minute and I drove away. I threw the hammer down a creek. But the thing is, Simon Grady was still alive. That’s something I didn’t think of at the time. When I left them, they both had their heads pretty messed up. I … I know I used the claw a couple of times, anyway. But I was also young and pissed off and drunk. Stupid. Simon Grady was still alive, but he was all messed up. He never got right again.

—I feel like I’m going to throw up.

—They gave me twenty years. They talked about some of the chicken-shit stuff I’d been picked up for before, and they called a few witnesses who said I had prior history with the Gradys. And me, us, whatever you want to call it, I just told the court I didn’t like them bothering my sister. If she couldn’t talk about what they’d done to her, I couldn’t speak for her. Mom knew, and I think some people in town might of had the idea, but it never come out in the newspaper. Just how the local hockey hero got murdered in cold blood. They called it envy. The first chaplain, when I was inside, he called it covetousness, and he showed me in the Bible what that was.

Pete stood up again. He was unsteady and feeling sick to his stomach. He said: I don’t understand at all why you … why you’d come back here. Why you’d do that to us.

—To us, said Lee. Is that right? You’re the man of the family now? You’re the big man?

—I’ve got to go.

—Well, one more thing, big man. I’m sorry you had to find out from me, like this. I’m sorry your mother won’t say nothing, specially when I think of all the time I sat in jail. I’m sorry for all that wasted time. I’m sorry for what’s gone down since I got out, like Bud, for example. I’m sorry that Simon Grady is a halfwit because I didn’t have the sense to make sure I finished it. But I’m not sorry for what I did. I never will be. I can see that. Clear as anything.

—What gave you the idea you could decide that?

—What gave you the idea I couldn’t?

He drove the streets. He hadn’t eaten all day. He clenched the wheel until his hands hurt. The flame in his gut had turned into a fire, and it was spreading through every part of him. Every thought in his head was a wordless, desperate scream. In the late evening he pulled up a few doors down from Nancy’s house. He could see the cars in the driveway, the station wagon among them, and all the lights in the windows, and people moving about on the porch. He got out of his car and crossed the yard.

Pete went into Nancy’s living room. There had to be fifty people there and it was hot and cloudy with smoke. Nancy must have seen him as soon as he came in, because she appeared almost immediately.

—What are you doing here?

—I’m looking for somebody.

—Emily’s not here.

—I’m not looking for her. I won’t be long.

—Hey, said Nancy. Look …

He brushed past her. She grasped his arm and he pulled away. He walked through the kitchen and the dining room. Nancy fell into step behind him.

He found Roger in the den at the back, the same place he’d been when they first exchanged words. He was with a few of his friends and some girls. They were playing quarters on the coffee table.

Roger’s head turned. He looked drunk.

Pete kicked the chair out from under him. Roger went down and Pete jumped on top of him. He pinned him down with his knees. Roger had his arms raised to fend the blows as they came. Around them, voices cried out. Pete felt a hand grasp a mittful of his collar and he half turned and punched somebody in the testicles. He was punched hard in the side of the forehead. The world spun. He was hauled backwards. He could see Roger crawling away on his elbows, crablike. Roger’s nose was bleeding onto his shirt.

Pete was on his knees and he was up and down and up again. He held his own. In the end, he was dragged out of the house. He staggered off through the front yard and paused under a street light. Roger came out and stood on the porch, crying out that he would kill Pete. There were neighbours peering out their windows and doors. Pete didn’t say anything. He walked back to his car and got in and turned the key in the ignition.

Streets rolled out in front of him. He drove along the lakeshore. He drove up the hill, drove past Galilee Tabernacle, drove out to the CIL factory, to the shopping mall, drove back down the hill, sped along River Street. He saw the place where Emily had told him he’d better kiss her. He kept going, but there was only so far you could drive before you were covering the same streets again. He was shaking coldly, seeing the red and green lights around windows, the store signboards saying MERRY CHRISTMAS, the wooden crèches out front of the churches. Everything seemed cheap and cruel. He hadn’t balanced any account, and he couldn’t possibly go home.

Once more, Lee went to look at the boarding house. When he got there, he stood with his fists pocketed. Then he went up the driveway and around to the back of the house, watching the windows all the while. The back porch was still there but it had been bolstered with pressure-treated lumber and repainted. He went around the porch and followed the steps down to the basement door. The steps and the door were exactly as he remembered them.

He was reaching for the knob when he heard the porch door open and close above. He looked up, blinking against the sky, and could see the side of somebody’s head, could see gloved fingers moving along the deck rail. There were two of them. One asked the other where they should go for lunch and the other said downtown.

Lee didn’t move. He was in plain sight if the men above looked down. But a moment later they were gone in a car. Lee waited a little longer. Water dripped from an icicle overhead. He tried the basement door and found it locked. He tried it again. He pushed the door with his shoulder. It did not budge. That was that.

He went back up the steps and around the side of the house and back to the street.

In those days long past, if he had happened to glimpse the crippled caretaker outside in the yard, he was not afraid of the man at all. He wondered what had become of him.

You know, I’ve seen the old boarding house a few times. You ever go back there?

—Not so’s I remember.

—You remember that day when Dad died?

—Would you change the channel?

Lee went to the television. He changed one soap opera for another until Irene nodded and said: I like this program.

—Down the basement of that house they had a big coal furnace. I saw it the day Dad died.

—Mrs. Pound didn’t want any kids down there.

—I remember. I went down there anyways. I never liked anybody telling me what I couldn’t do.

She lifted a finger from the bedrail and poked the side of his hand with it. Her skin was tight across her skull. She breathed. Her eyes flashed in their dark hollows. Her voice rasped at him: That was a long time ago, Leland.

—Yes.

Lee looked into the other half of the room. No one had come yet to occupy the other bed. His mother had gotten her own room after all.

—Barry thinks you’ve been drinking.

—He said that?

—He worries about you.

—He doesn’t need to worry so much.

—He worries about Donna. He worries about the little boys. Peter.

An unpleasant feeling went through Lee at the mention of Pete’s name. He’d been drunk when he told Pete the truth. He didn’t know if he would have told him otherwise, although it bothered him to think how the great shame remained a secret even now. It more than bothered him—it made him angry. He flexed his fist and pulled his eyes away from his mother’s and looked at the TV for a little while. He didn’t know if word had gotten out to the rest of the family yet that he’d told Pete the truth, and he didn’t know what it would be like for him to see Pete again. Maybe it would be easier not to see the kid at all any more.

And besides, nobody had said anything to him yet, about coming over on Christmas Day.

He leaned over and adjusted the blankets on Irene’s bed. He said: Well, Barry doesn’t need to worry about me.

She groped for his hand. She smiled: I know. I told him. He doesn’t need to worry about me neither. I’m close. Called up to Jesus. He doesn’t need to worry about me at all.

The Owl Café was turning a brisk trade. There was a hiss of frying in the kitchen. The cook sweated in his whites and turned plateloads of food onto the wicket. The radio played an endless list of Christmas songs. Voices were layered in conversation and there were boxes and bags full of gifts piled into booths. The waitresses moved about quickly. Nobody paid attention to the bell-chime as the front door opened.

Helen served a bowl of soup to an old deaf man at the counter. When she turned she saw that Lee was down at his usual place, sitting with his hands folded on the countertop. He was alone, as always.

She went down to him.

—Hello, Brown Eyes. Haven’t seen you in here in a little while.

—That’s true.

The cook spoke through the wicket: Helen, your fried chicken’s up.

—It’s real busy, Brown Eyes, said Helen. Maybe later on.

—I want a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll order some lunch.

She brought Lee a mug of coffee. He emptied two sugars into it and stirred in some cream.

Helen took a plate of fried chicken from the wicket and delivered it to a woman down the other end of the counter. Lee watched her. The place was busier than he had ever seen it. Near Lee, a man was trying to flag Helen down to pay his bill. Helen came and took the bill and returned the man’s change. The man left her two quarters. She moved a strand of hair from her forehead and asked Lee if he was hungry.

—Am I hungry. Why not. I’ll have the BLT.

She wrote the order down and posted it on the wicket. Lee lifted his coffee. He watched her work. The old deaf man had finished his soup. Helen cleared away the bowl. The old man counted coins out of a leather change purse and laid them on the counter. He stood up from his stool and shuffled out of the diner.

The cook called to Helen that the BLT was up. She brought the plate to Lee and refilled his coffee. She had her other hand knuckles-down on the countertop. Lee closed his own hand over hers.

—Haven’t seen you.

—I’ve been busy.

She pulled her hand away. The people sitting around them were making an effort not to notice.

—I’ll check on you in a bit.

—Wait, said Lee. What time do you get done today?

—It’s real busy. I don’t know what time I’ll finish. I’ll check on you in a bit.

She moved back down the counter again. Lee raised his hand, called to her:

—Hey, miss. There’s a hair in my sandwich.

She returned to him. He was grinning.

—It’s real busy, Lee.

—Let’s just make some plans.

Helen pressed both hands down on either side of Lee’s plate and pitched her voice low and lethal: If you’ve got to know, Lee, you talked about all that serious shit. You and me, serious. You think that’s what I wanted to hear? You can’t even keep a goddamn job. Now why don’t you eat your sandwich and pay your bill and get back to whatever it is you were doing.

She went back down the counter, moving with her shoulders lifted. Not three seconds later there was the noise of crockery breaking. All conversation in the café came to a halt. Lee was standing when she turned. She could see the shards of his plate and the mess of the food on the floor. He drove the coffee mug forward off the counter. The mug burst on the floor as the plate had.

Helen could feel all the eyes on her. Lee’s hands were opening and closing. He bared his teeth and said: You’re nothing but a cheap goddamn bitch, you know that?

The cook came out of the kitchen and stood with his arms crossed. Lee hauled his billfold out of his pocket. He flung a handful of change and one-dollar bills onto the counter, and then he turned and went out of the café.

The bell on the door chimed his departure. A woman in a booth laughed once and then clapped her hand over her mouth. The radio was still playing Christmas carols.

The old men convened at Western Autobody. They stood in the office, Stan, Dick, Huddy, some of the others, drinking coffee, watching the garage. Bob Phillips and the other mechanics had two cars raised on the lifts. The pneumatic wrench whined. The old men in the office exchanged bits of gossip from the last week. Dick and Stan leaned against the wall together.

—I’ll be working Christmas Day, said Dick. I’m coaching the new kid. He’s a bit of a mouthpiece. Always knows best, that kid.

—Reminds me of you, said Stan.

Through the window, they watched Bob as he tightened the lugs on a tire on one of the lifted cars. After awhile, Stan said he should be getting on.

—Where do you have to be? said Dick.

—I’m going up to the shopping mall. I have a present to buy for Louise. I’ve got something in mind. She likes to go fishing and she likes to know the names of everything, every goddamn bird and bug you can imagine.

Huddy was putting his hearing aid back in. He peered at them, said: Birds?

Stan went out to his truck. Dick caught up with him.

—Stan, are you in town on Christmas Day or are you staying out at the Point?

—I’ll come into town to see Frank and Mary and the girls. It’s easier than them coming out to me.

Dick went and started the unmarked car and Stan started his truck. Then Dick came over and leaned on the side panel.

—Stanley, I overheard Frank on the telephone with Mary. I know about the house. I’m sorry.

Stan nodded. He said: I know. But it’s … Mind you, it’s a few years off yet. Anyhow, I’ve got some things I want to do with it, some new doors to hang. I never was much of a builder. It takes me a long time to do any of that. But time I have. Time I have.

—It’s a good old house.

—I know. So you’re working on Christmas Day?

—I am, said Dick.

—I’ll come by after I’m done with the family. You leave the new kid on the desk and we’ll go get some lunch. We’ll find someplace that’ll be open.

—Okay, Stan.

Stan found a book called The Young Naturalist at the bookstore in the shopping mall. He turned the book in his hands. He opened it and read a passage on the denning of beavers. The woman at the checkout asked him if it was a Christmas gift and he said it was and she asked him if he would like to inscribe it. She offered him a pen. He printed: Louise, here is a good book about nature. You & me can learn together. Happy Xmas, Grandpa. His printing looked peculiar to him. There was sway in the letters. He paid for the book and the woman gift-wrapped it.

Stan had seen Eleanor Lacroix the day before yesterday. She’d called and asked him to meet her in town. They’d met up for a cup of coffee at a small diner near Stan’s old boxing clubhouse. They talked for half an hour or more—mostly Eleanor did the talking. She and her fiancé, Tommy, had a vacation they were going to leave for the next day. She had to get away, she said. She couldn’t imagine Christmas at home without Judy around.

Stan nodded. He told her she looked like she was doing well, which was true. There was colour in her face again and she’d put some weight back on. He’d only ever been able to say he’d come up short looking into Judy’s former boyfriend. He was sorry. He was goddamn sorry there wasn’t anything more. He was sorry for a lot of things. He did not elaborate on this. He just listened as Eleanor told him about her vacation plans.

Outside the diner, she got a rectangular gift-wrapped object from her car.

—Thank you, Stan. For everything.

—It was nothing, said Stan.

—Maybe you think that. But it’s not right. Because what you did is you cared. I won’t ever forget that.

Eleanor put her arms around him and kissed him quickly on the mouth.

—This is for you, said Eleanor. I couldn’t really think of anything but then I found this.

She gave him the gift-wrapped thing. It felt like a book. All he could say was, Happy Christmas and so long.

Later, after he’d gotten home, Stan unwrapped it. It was a big hardcover book. The Illustrated History of Canadian Boxing, published by the Canadian Amateur Boxing Association. Eleanor had bookmarked a page a third of the way through, and though he’d never seen the book before, he had a sense of what might be on the page. He was correct. Himself, nineteen years old, poised on the mat with his gloves up. He thought maybe the picture had been taken in Parry Sound shortly before he’d gone professional. If it was the Parry Sound fight, he’d won it with a knockout in the fifth round. He couldn’t remember much about the opponent, neither his name nor his face, but he’d worked the man into the ropes with body blows until the man dropped his fists, and then he’d fired his right cross into the man’s jaw and watched him fall sideways. The fight was in a fairgrounds tent and the mat was canvas stretched over hay bales. Hard as rock. But there he was, little more than a boy, living a part of his life he could scarcely remember now.

In the shopping mall corridor, Stan saw a man clad in a canvas jacket and dirty jeans and work boots. Leland King. Lee was carrying a box under each arm and in one hand a paper bag. They were coming directly towards each other.

—Lee, said Stan.

—Mr. Maitland.

—Christmas gifts?

—Yeah. My sister’s two boys. Do kids like these types of things any more?

The boxes Lee had contained two model airplane kits, a B-17 and a Lancaster bomber. Both kits were 1:48. Lee opened the paper bag and Stan saw tubes of glue, a wheel of paints, and a set of camel-hair brushes.

—I used to like these things, said Lee. What do I know about kids?

—I’d say a couple boys would like it. Say, Lee, I saw Peter not too long ago.

—Peter, said Lee, speaking the name as if he didn’t know it.

—He’s a good kind of a guy. When he talks, you can see he’s sharp.

—He’s so sharp he quit school. That’s how sharp he is.

—I think he’s been seeing my granddaughter, said Stan. Anyhow, he says you’re getting by okay.

—Sure I am. At least I’m not working where somebody gets drowned on the job.

Stan made himself laugh at that. He said: It’s good to see you, Lee. I can’t imagine the boys not liking those airplanes. So long.

—See you, said Lee.

Stan ran a few more errands around the mall. He bought extra batteries and candles in case he lost power out at his house. It was snowing lightly when he went out and got in his truck, and driving back in the direction of town he spotted Lee at the bus stop, waiting for the half-hourly town bus. There was no one else waiting. Across the way was a vacant house with plywood tacked over the windows and the porch collapsed, and behind it a hundred acres of overgrown and snow-dusted pasture. Stan stopped the truck and called to Lee, asking if he would care for a lift back downtown.

For a moment Lee did not move and Stan thought he might not come, but then he stood and pitched away the cigarette he was smoking. He jogged forward, carrying the model kits and the bag. He climbed onto the passenger seat and sat his purchases on his lap.

Stan put the truck in gear and moved back onto the road.

—I hear your mother is in the hospital.

—They found two more tumours in her lungs.

—It’s an awful goddamn thing.

—They can’t do much at her age.

—They can make it comfortable, said Stan. My wife …

But Stan didn’t finish that. He found he had little to say to this man on the subject of his wife.

—For awhile she had to share the room, said Lee.

—She doesn’t have to share any more?

—No. The other lady died.

—I see.

—So far they haven’t given her anybody new. She’s got the TV to herself.

—All this getting old, Lee, it’s a goddamn job all by itself.

—Longest sentence you can do, I guess.

Stan put the windshield wipers on to sweep snowflakes off the glass. Downtown, there were many people on the sidewalks, moving in and out of the stores. People carrying boxes and bags. Lee studied one of the model kits. A bomber moving through the air far above a patchwork of fields, a smiling pin-up girl painted beneath the plane’s forward windscreens. Stan said again how any boys would love to have model airplanes to build. Lee nodded.

It was good until they were two blocks from Lee’s place. They were on Union Street, between the postcard storefronts. Then they stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, and there before them, being led by the arm by his father, was Simon Grady. He walked at a doddering pace. He had a toque on his head and it hid the indented scars where the flesh had split from the impact of the framing hammer. He was led along, grinning blithely.

Simon and his father disappeared into a store.

—Think I’ll get out here, said Lee, quietly.

—I can drive you the rest of the way.

—I’ll walk.

Stan nodded. Snow was collecting on the windshield. The wipers swept the glass. Lee gathered his purchases and got out of the truck.

Stan watched Lee move off down the hill. Then he put the truck in gear and moved up. He beeped his horn and reached into the glovebox for a pen. He scrawled his phone number on an old business card that advertised a man in Novar who’d restored Stan’s woodstove. He rolled down his window and Lee looked at him.

—Look, said Stan, I’ve got some things I need to do at my house. Some doors to hang, some windows to fix. There’s a bad squeak in the floor in one place. I can do some of it but I could use a hand. Maybe a week or two of work, what you think is fair. Give me a ring after Christmas if you want to talk about it.

Lee took the business card. He looked at it. He brought out his billfold and stowed the card inside. Stan pulled away from the curb. He had kept himself from looking at Lee when they’d seen Simon Grady a few minutes earlier. He thought again of the young man he’d driven down to the provincial jail, shortly after Charles Grady had been killed and Simon Grady had been put in the hospital, comatose, with his head stove in. The trial had divided the facts of Lee’s crime into blacks and whites, but even in those days Stan had had no faith in blacks and whites. There was always the grey, and in the grey was where the truth often resided. The death of Judy Lacroix had only reinforced that belief, and he’d done what he could, and he’d come up short.

Stan looked in his rear-view mirror. Lee was still standing on the sidewalk, staring at nothing in particular.

Pete stayed at the Shamrock Hotel for a few days. He ended up there late in the night after he’d left Nancy’s house. There were a few nice hotels in town, a very nice one near the golf course. But he’d never set foot in a hotel in his life, certainly not in the nicer ones, and he doubted he had the means or the appearance for them. At midnight, the sign at the Shamrock still said OPEN. The people in the adjoining tavern ignored him.

The desk clerk told Pete it would be ten bucks a night. Pete thought about it. He said he’d pay the first night and then daily thereafter. The clerk was disinterested. He had Pete sign a register and then he gave him a key.

The room was up on the third floor. A shared bathroom was down the hall. There was mismatched furniture and threadbare carpeting. An ugly painting of a sailboat. A small black-and-white television. The sheets on the bed were faded but they seemed clean. He lay on them, dense with exhaustion. Through the wall someone was arguing. Emily seemed an occupant of another world entirely. He fell asleep with the TV on.

At work at the gas station Pete watched for police cars, certain that it was only a matter of time before they came to have him account for what he’d done to Roger. To have him account for who and what he was.

—You’re way out in space, said Duane.

—I’m sorry.

—Listen, man, these gasoline fumes. They’ll burn your head.

—Never mind, said Pete.

Duane appraised him with bemusement. A car came and Pete went to attend it.

At two o’clock Caroline came out and told him he had a phone call. Despite himself, his pulse was accelerating. But the voice was not Emily’s.

—Listen, said Donna. Where are you?

—You’re calling me at work.

—How come you didn’t come home?

He was alone but he still cupped his hand around the mouthpiece: How could I do that? How could I come home after?

—I’m sorry I hit you, but all this stress. Grandma.

—I know, Mom. I know what I am. Lee told me.

When at last she spoke there was a tremor in her voice: You don’t know anything.

—Yes, I do. I do. But it’s not your fault. How can it be?

—… Peter … Oh Jesus. Would you just come home?

—I can’t do that yet. I can’t. I’ll call you tomorrow.

The call ended.

He passed Caroline as he was coming out of the office. Caroline said his name. She looked like she was weighing her words.

—Are you good to work Christmas Eve?

—Yeah.

—Noon till close. Maybe eleven or midnight, depending.

—Okay.

—Good.

They were busy for the next hour. When finally there was a lull, Duane ambled over, drawing tobacco out of his chew tin.

—Do you want some of this?

—Have I ever? said Pete.

But he took a pinch of tobacco out of the tin. He saw Duane’s eyebrows lift under his toque. Pete tucked the chew behind his lip. The flavour of burnt cherry was not unpleasant but instantly his head was spinning like it would lift off his shoulders. His mouth filled with juices. Duane offered a Styrofoam cup for him to spit into. Pete tried to hold his head steady.

—Don’t whatever you do swallow it, said Duane. Let it do its work for you. Anyway, man, your face.

There were fresh bruises on Pete’s face from the night before. His ear was a little swollen. Nobody had said anything yet.

—I fell down the stairs.

—Look, if you got trouble with anybody, don’t be too proud, right? Let me know.

Pete spat again. All the colours and sounds were too vivid.

—Thanks.

—Don’t be too proud, Pete.

Over the next two days, he made himself somewhat comfortable at the Shamrock. Down in the tavern the food was not bad. He ordered a steak. He ordered a beer as well but the barman just laughed and poured him a ginger ale. Pete sat eating his steak. The only Christmas decoration in the tavern was a plastic Santa Claus in the corner. There were six or seven other people at the bar or at tables, keeping to themselves, smoking. There was an older woman who reminded him of a thinner version of Lee’s lady friend, with the red-painted lips and big hair, and Pete wondered what it would be like to take her up to his room and do things with her.

In the late evening he watched the television until he fell asleep. It was the only thing that could really dull his thoughts.

On Monday morning Pete stood in the shower before he went to work. Parts of his head and face still hurt. His work clothes were piled on the vanity. They’d need to be laundered soon. Somebody came into the bathroom and used the urinal and went back out. Pete didn’t give that much thought until he’d dried off and dressed and was heading downstairs to pay the clerk for another night. He discovered his wallet wasn’t in his pocket. He went back up and checked the room, checked the few possessions he had with him. His wallet wasn’t up there either.

He found that fury and helplessness were almost indistinguishable. All the more so for the desk clerk’s impassivity.

—Did you get a look at the guy through the shower curtain? So should I call the cops to just turn the whole place upside down? I feel for you, kid, but what do you want me to do?

—God fucking dammit, said Pete. All the cash I had was in my wallet.

At least he still had his car key. He sat in his car in the small lot next to the hotel. He felt like crying.

At lunch, Caroline sat at her desk. Pete stood across from her. Caroline nodded slowly. She said: Well, I can’t say I’m real surprised. But can we talk about it again after New Year’s? Fix a date then?

—Yeah, said Pete. We can do that.

—You work hard, Pete. It’ll be a shame.

She made motions to signify that their business was concluded, but he stayed.

—Was there something else, Pete?

—I just wondered if I could use the phone for a second.

—Yeah, of course you can.

She left him to it. He called home and was mildly surprised that it was Barry who answered.

—Peter?

—Hi, Barry.

—Peter, it’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I thought about Colossians, and how it says if anyone has a quarrel against anyone else, as Christ forgave so should we. I’ve been thinking about that.

—Oh yeah?

—There’s an open door here for you, Brother Pete. You know that. Your mother—

—Barry, I know. Look. I’ll be home tonight.

He’d been out on one of his town walkabouts. He’d stopped at the Brewers’ Retail and picked up a case of beer and he’d bought smokes as well and had come up the stairs with the beer under his arm. He put his key into the lock only to find his door already open.

Gilmore was sitting on the corner of the pullout, watching the television. He looked up, smiled.

—Lee. Don’t block up the doorway, pal.

Lee heard his toilet flushing. Maurice came out of the bathroom. Lee took measured steps into the kitchenette. He set the beer on the counter.

—How did you get in here?

—You left your door unlocked, said Maurice. You don’t remember?

Lee closed the door.

—Did the landlord see you?

—That old slant? said Maurice. He didn’t see nothing. And yeah, I could drink a beer.

Lee took a beer out of the box and gave it to Maurice. Maurice took it and prised up the ring-tab with his finger. The sound of the can opening was clear even over the TV. Maurice drank and Lee watched his throat move.

Lee tried to be casual. He went over and took hold of the swivel chair at the window. He moved it forward as if he might sit across from Gilmore—but he didn’t sit, not yet.

—I get the feeling you didn’t just come to say hello.

—The time’s come, Lee, said Gilmore.

—What time?

—We talked about opportunities.

—I told you.

—Sure you did. But it’s in your voice, Lee. In the way you say it. I can hear it as plain as anything. Look around. You think you fit?

—Are you making rent this month? said Maurice.

—What business is it of yours?

Gilmore leaned forward, elbows on his knees: We’re your friends, Lee. We’re the people who know what a solid guy you are.

Lee squeezed his hands together. He breathed: So what is it? What are you talking about?

Gilmore leaned back. He smiled at Maurice, Maurice who was looking at Lee. And Gilmore told him what the business was. Not the specifics, but enough.

He did not say which bank it was exactly. Not how they’d studied it, but how long they had studied it, which was several months. Watching, waiting. It would be done overnight. No requirement, he said, for ugliness. No requirement to stick hardware in anybody’s face. No requirement to rush the job. He spoke of all the cash being turned around this time of year, laid up in deposits from stores. When? Christmas Eve. The day after is a holiday. Won’t anybody have an idea about it till we’ve been and gone. Forty-eight hours will have passed.

—Jesus, said Lee. I have no idea about any of this. I was never a bank man.

—And you don’t need to be. All you’ve got to be is the six. All you’ve got to do is keep your eyes open and keep your cool. What you’re good at. We’ll do the heavy lifting.

The take would be more and more than enough. There’d be no requirement for ugliness. And you will eat the labour of your hands.

—Why? said Lee. Why now?

—Because the time has come. I’ve been sitting on my ass in this town since March and now the time has come. One night of work. That’s all.

—And what, you just came around thinking I’d agree?

—You already agreed, Lee. You’ve been in agreement for a long time. All the time you spend walking the streets. Doing nothing for anybody. What that is, is you throwing your lot in. You know it.

Lee sat down at last. His hands formed patterns on the tops of his thighs. He thought about the air in the room and how it moved and was recycled man to man. He watched Maurice cross the floor and stand by the window, lift the dirty blinds, glance down at the street. The fading daylight was ashen.

—One night of work, said Gilmore.

Lee looked at them, one to the next. He looked at them for a long time. Then it was in the motion of his head, however slight. All things came to that.

Gilmore leaned forward again.

—Say it.

—Say what.

—Say the words, pal.

—You want me to say it?

—Call me old-fashioned but there’s a certain thing about a verbal contract.

He flexed his hands. He could feel his pulse right down to the balls of his feet.

—Fuck it, said Lee. Everything. Yes.

—Good to hear, pal.

Gilmore offered a handshake. Maurice gave Lee a phone number on a scrap of paper.

—Call us tomorrow.

Lee nodded. He put the scrap of paper into his billfold, next to the business card with Stan Maitland’s number on it. That encounter seemed to have happened to a different man altogether.

—It’s good, said Gilmore. How you’ve thrown your lot in. Soon you’ll find yourself a man of means. Give that some thought.

—The rest will happen fast, said Maurice.

His visitors did not remain for much longer. It was better that they did not linger. It would introduce doubt and they must have known it. As surely as they’d known what his response would be.

He went to the hospital, up to the Amiens Wing. He was making his way down the corridor, conscious of his steps, conscious that things were happening, when the older of the two little boys ran down the hallway ahead, coming from the direction of the washrooms. The boy did not see Lee. The boy ran through the door of Irene’s room.

Lee came to the door. It was open six inches or so. He looked through the narrow space. Donna and Barry and the two boys. Irene wearing a respirator. He watched them and he remained unseen. After a moment he turned and left.

Back at his apartment, he looked at the model kits he’d bought for the boys. The purchase was pre-emptive on his part, the invitation having never come, but he hadn’t wanted to be caught empty-handed.

Not that it mattered now. He thought about stuffing the two bombers into the garbage can, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He left them where they sat, and he got himself a drink and sat down to watch television.

But then he saw something that he had overlooked. The mark on the wall, some weeks old, from when he’d launched the beer can against it. He wetted a rag and scoured the mark. The scuff came out but an indentation remained.

He was tired, heavy in the bones. He’d walked to the hospital and back. This made him weary, but it wasn’t the only thing.

Because Gilmore was right. All other considerations aside, Lee was tired because he was greatly relieved. Relieved to let go of these motions he’d been forcing himself through. Relieved to see that thing—that thing he couldn’t name—stepping out of the dark once again, taking shape, letting him know he hadn’t been forgotten.

It was clear now. Everything was clear.