NINE

His dreams plagued him. But it was still early evening when he woke up and dressed. He checked his father’s room. No sign of Sylvanus. He dragged out the phone book from beneath the coffee table and called the bar, then Hooker. No one had seen him. Perhaps he should call Corner Brook, he thought, but that might get his mother worked up. Must be on the booze agin, guaranteed.

He climbed out the back window, cut up through the woods to Bottom Hill, and then circled back down the road and onto the gravel flat. Kate’s car was parked by her door. A light was on behind her closed blinds. He strolled down to the beach, teased a fire out of a swatch of dried seaweed, and teepeed it with driftwood from the supply Kate was forever gathering in her morning forages around the riverbank. Ten, fifteen minutes later, she opened her door. Hair battened down by a toque, grey braid trailing, fingerless mitts. No guitar. First time he’d ever seen her coming across the flat without her guitar. She raised her hand in greeting and sat on a half-burnt log and gave a tepid smile. He looked through her fire-blazed lenses to the green of her eyes and saw no light there. He saw nothing of that sense of expectancy she always held out for him. He saw only sadness. Her face drawn like shrunken hide.

“What’s up, Kate?”

“The moon, Kyle. Always the moon. How’s your mom?”

“Doing fine. Guess you already know that.”

“Matter of fact, I did poke my head in this morning. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

She shrugged. “You’ve been protective. I understand that. Hear you got pulled in by the police again.”

“They were more curious about you this time. I’m getting jealous.”

“Wanting to know what I was wearing, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. Already told them. And what you were wearing too. And your father.”

“What the fuck’s that all about.”

“Don’t know.”

“That alibi you cooked up. If not for it, I think I’d be in the slammer now.”

“They’re fishing in the dark. They don’t know who killed him.”

“How’d you know I’d need an alibi?”

“I didn’t. Just something Hooker and I came up with, that’s all.”

“It gives you an alibi too, Kate.”

“Sure does.” She smiled. “Thinking I killed him, Kyle?”

“Thinking you might know some things I don’t. Cops said you were driving Bonnie Gillard around that evening.”

“I was.”

“Mind if I ask you about it?”

“Don’t know if she’d want me talking about her stuff.”

“She’s already told me things.” He hesitated. “I came across her car by accident in by the river. She told me about Clar trying to drown her. She tell you that?”

Kate nodded. “It was a rough night for Bonnie.”

“Got a lot rougher for Clar.”

“It did.”

“So, what’s up, Kate. What was she doing with you?”

“Not a whole lot to tell.” She picked up a stick, idly stoking the fire. “I was getting some things from the car and thought I heard something. In the bushes. Thought it might be a fox. Heard it again. And a sound, like a cry. I went looking and there she was.” She drew an unpleasant face. “She was looking pretty bad, crouching in the bushes. Her clothes were muddied. She was shaking, scared. Looking up at me like a little girl, scared her momma was going to smack her for being dirty. I took her hand, and I led her inside my house.”

“Scared of her momma? Shouldn’t she be scared of him?”

“Sometimes we got to change things up, Kyle. So’s we can live with them.”

“Everyone thinks she killed him.”

“She didn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“She would never kill him.”

“Never—? Jaysus. Am I missing something here? At the hospital she looked like she was grieving. He’s been torturing her for years. I don’t get it. He tried to drown her and she’s grieving him? She sick in the head?”

“You’re sounding mad, Kyle.”

“Yeah I’m fucking mad. He tried to kill her and she got us all mixed up in her shit and, what, they’re best friends now?”

“You said it. That’s just who they were, best friends.”

Kyle’s mouth opened but no words came out. He was like a barrister, staring with contempt at his own guilty client.

“Takes a bit of figuring out, Ky. She was Jack Verge’s daughter. She had nothing but poverty. It smelled off her. Nobody chose her for a best friend. She might’ve played the same games with everybody else in the schoolyard, but she was always the last one standing. Nobody ever picked her. Then he picked her.”

“Sad fucking day for her.”

“Wasn’t back then.”

“She’s not a bony arse kid on a swing no more. She got money, a new car.”

“Don’t matter what she got. In her head she’ll always be poor. Like she’ll always be poor in your head. Perhaps she’d get over it if everybody else would and stopped blaming her for it. If there’s one thing worse than being poor as a youngster, it’s having everyone believing it’s your fault.” Her words were sharp but without hostility. Kyle felt himself flush. He felt something else, too. Felt like she’d just given him a piece of herself. A stranger walks into town…shares nothing of herself…

“We all have our songs, Kyle.”

“Sing me yours.”

She looked away, mouth closed.

“That bad?” he asked.

“Felt like it at the time.” She looked at him, firelight flickering shadows across her face. “Suppose it wasn’t too unlike Bonnie’s. I grew up poor, too much drinking. Not that I knew we were poor. There were only four or five of us families living in that cove, everyone the same social standing, so to speak. We were always fed, warm clothes. Then we moved to a bigger outport and I can hear the whispers now. She’s some poor, dirt poor, not a pot to piss in. Funny. I didn’t know what poor meant. I asked my mother one day.” Kate smiled, “It ain’t poor if it’s a thing you choose. That’s what Mama said. I went back to school feeling shame for them that mocked me. That’s the strength of a mother’s love, Ky. ’Course, that can turn too.” Her face knotted. She rooted at the fire. “Love keeps us going, my friend. Even what Clar Gillard offered as love.”

“Didn’t take Bonnie far.”

“Perhaps that’s all she felt she had, that and hope. Hope that he’d be nicer. You never think things are going to get worse. And then when they do, well—you keeps thinking they’ll get better soon. Hope’s a powerful thing. It’s what takes us into the next world, hopes of a better life. I’ve written songs about hope. Shadows of hope, promise of hope.”

He was reminded of his mother, her tireless fortitude. Kate, seemingly aware of his having shifted, touched his knee, pulling him back.

“There’s always hope, Kyle.”

“Where’s Bonnie’s, now that he’s gone?”

“She’ll find it again. She’s just got to grieve it first, her lost hope.”

“You grieving too, Kate? That why you moved here?”

Her reply, if she would’ve given one, was interrupted by a truck rumbling down the road and turning onto the gravel flat, two dulled beams of light bouncing and tilting towards them.

“I’m off,” said Kate, rising. “Take care, Kyle.”

A young fellow from Bayside was driving the truck, a bunch of his friends in the back, laughing, hooting, looking for a party.

“Hey, Ky, your old man’s house on fire?” one of them called. “He near ran us off the road back there.”

“Back where?”

“Going up Bottom Hill.”

“Horse to the barn, b’y.” Kyle waved them goodnight and started walking across the lot. He hesitated as he got to the road, looking right towards Bottom Hill, then turning left down Wharf Road, not giving a damn who saw him. The lights were out in the house, and he’d expected that—but not to find the door locked. Jaysus. He hadn’t known that door could lock, or that there was even a key.

He rapped on the door and peered through the window. His father wasn’t to be seen. He started towards the back of the house and Clar’s dog rose from beside the gump with a sharp yap. “Jesus, b’y.” His legs had weakened with fright, near toppling him over the wharf.

“Get home,” he snapped. “Get the fuck home.” He raised the window, hoisted himself across the window bench and teetered, falling face first into his father’s boots. He cursed, got to his feet, and went down the hall, pausing at his father’s room door. “Dad? Dad, you in there? You home?”

He cocked his ear to the door, heard the bedsprings creaking like bad ball joints on a worn-out clunker. “What, you in bed already?” He listened. No snoring. His father never slept without rattling the rafters. “Dad?”

Christ. He rested his head with weariness against the doorjamb and then went to his own room. He hauled off his clothes and got into bed and listened to a lone gull lamenting the night. He drifted, maybe slept, and was jarred awake by the shrill yap of the dog. A voice. Low, mumbling. He lifted his head off the pillow, heard nothing. Lay back down. Kept listening, silence scratching at his consciousness like a burr against a naked shin. Kicking aside the bedclothes, he hauled his pants back on, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and went to the kitchen. The light was on over the door. He went outside, chilly night air running like ladders up his arms. The shaft of the overhead light fell across the dark shape of his father’s legs as he sat by the side of the house in Chris’s old spot, his feet lodged against the base of the gump and the dog sprawled out beside him. He couldn’t see his father’s face, just his legs and his hand stroking the sleek black head of the Lab.

“What, you got a mutt now? Where the fuck you been?”

“Muffler fell off the truck,” said Sylvanus, his voice tired, guttural tired. “Waited with your mother while they fixed it.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I did. Ten times.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s it now. I was working all day. Me and the boys poured the footings. We done the mixing in the wheelbarrow. Grunt all you wants now, she looks good.” He bent down on one knee, trying to see his father’s face. Saw nothing but the glint of an eye. Smelled the whisky-free air. Felt his fatigue. The weighted hand stroking the dog’s head.

He drew the blanket more closely around himself and sat down beside him. “How come you never said nothing about Bonnie Gillard then, in the truck with you the other night?”

His father shifted, shrugged. “Nothing to tell, I suppose.”

“Nothing to tell?”

“She was walking in the road. I gave her a ride.”

“To Clar’s house. He tried to drown her just before. She tell you that?”

“She told your mother.”

“He near reamed her car in the river, with her in it. And she goes to his place after. That make sense to you?”

“As much as any of it. Go on to bed now, Kylie. Get some sleep.”

“Sleep! Jesus. How you going to sleep with all this going on?” He hesitated. “I was talking to Hooker. He found you on the wharf that night, parked next to Clar Gillard’s truck. You remember that?” Sylvanus didn’t speak. “He said you were pretty drunk. He drove you up to the bar and parked behind it. He—he said you were in the water that night. When he found you on the wharf, you were wet. He said you knew Clar was dead.”

The gnarled hand stilled upon the dog’s skull.

“So, how did you know?” asked Kyle.

“When did Hooker tell you that?”

“Last evening.”

“How come you said nothing till now, then?”

Kyle fell silent and turned his head away.

Sylvanus grunted, shifted his face into the light, and then his eyes widened with disbelief. “My son, my son.” His big hands, all weathered and chapped from hand-lining cod and chopping wood, gripped Kyle’s shoulders, then softened into a caress. “You thought I did it? Kylie, you thought I did it?”

“You didn’t?”

“No. Christ, no.”

Kyle had been leaning forward, his stomach twisted. He sank back now against the house, his fear oozing from him into the dark night. His father settled back beside him.

“What else did Hooker say?” asked Sylvanus.

“Not much. What do you know of that night?”

“Not much. I woke up at the fire. Thought I drove up to the bar. What else did he say?”

“Nothing else, I told you. You were in the water and you knew Clar was dead. How’d you know that?”

Sylvanus lapsed back into silence.

“Old man, you got to tell me. I been through hell with this.”

“It’s not over yet, then.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. Go to bed, now.”

“I’m not going to fucking bed. Did you go after Clar? You seen his truck and went after him, right? Pay him back for the graveyard thing?”

“I was thinking that.” He dropped his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I should never have left, never have left her. Sin. Sin I left her.”

“Sin! That’s for fucking well sure. Jesus Christ, old man, why did you leave? I left you with her, she was all by herself and you left her. What the fuck!”

“Should never have left.”

“What did you see?”

“Go to bed now, Kylie.”

“I’m not going to bed. Why was your clothes wet? You seen Clar parked on the wharf and you went after him, right? What happened? When you parked next to his truck, what happened? Old man, I’m not leaving till you tells me.”

“He wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t where? In his truck? Where was he, then?”

“I heard his dog, up by the cliffs.”

“So you went after him?”

“Knew he was up to no good.”

“What happened?”

Sylvanus shifted some more, shook his head. “I don’t know, Kylie. I was too drunk. Kept tripping. Falling down.”

“Did you catch up with him?”

“No.”

“You didn’t catch up with him?”

“No, I told you. Too drunk. Too gawd-damned drunk.”

“What happened then? You seen something. What did you see?”

“I can’t tell you. Go on to bed.”

“Can’t tell me what? You seen it, didn’t you? Christ, did you see it happen? What did you see? Will you fucking tell me?”

“I seen him falling. That’s all. The light was on over the door, wouldn’t have seen him otherwise. Too foggy.”

“Who was here? You saw what was happening here on the wharf? Our porch light was on?” He tried to remember if the porch light was on when he had gotten home that night. Couldn’t. “Tell me, who was here, what did you see?”

Sylvanus’s breathing was harsh. He twisted a finger inside his collar to loosen it.

“Gawd-damnit, Dad, what did you see?”

“Leave it there for now.”

“No. No, I can’t leave it. No fucking way. Was it Bonnie Gillard? Who did you see?”

“Thought I heard somebody, thought it was you, first. Must’ve been a gull.”

“It was Bonnie, wasn’t it?”

“No. I seen her.”

“Who else was here? Who the fuck else, why won’t you answer me? Jesus, what’re you, drunk? You’re freaking me out. Tell me who was here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. Tell me! I’m not giving up till you tells me. What was she doing—what was Bonnie doing?”

“She was bawling. She was over there, end of the wharf. She started running. I seen her running towards the house, bawling. I heard him, then. Clar. Awful scream. That’s when he fell backwards, into the water.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No.”

“Who else did you see? Who else could’ve been here—” His thoughts broke off. “No,” he whispered. An absolute stillness took him. He thought he heard her voice then, his mother, calling his name, calling him foolish. Perhaps if he listened harder and longer and could be stone-still, he would hear God’s voice persecuting him, persecuting his father, thundering hell’s fire down on them for thinking such thoughts. “She didn’t do it. You didn’t see her do it. Did you? Did you see her?”

“No. I said no.”

“Then you don’t know. You don’t know nothing. He done it himself, maybe. They does that. Maybe she—Bonnie—done it and ran down to the end of the wharf. And then—perhaps the knife was already in him and it took a while. For him to fall over. Anything could’ve happened. You didn’t see her. Right?”

His father shook his head.

“You swear?”

“I slipped on the rocks. I was too gawd-damned drunk. Couldn’t get up, couldn’t get here in time. If I’d got here—if I wasn’t so gawd-damned drunk.”

“You went back to the truck. Why didn’t you come here instead? Why’d you run off?”

“Don’t remember. Don’t remember getting back to the truck. Remember being on my knees, couldn’t get up. Seen the dog jump in after Clar. Seen him dragging Clar straight towards me. Hard to see, the fog. I seen your mother, then. She come and took Bonnie’s arm. Telling her it was all right. She never had to be afraid again.”

Kyle sank back, shivering.

“Can’t have her knowing I seen. Case it went to court.”

“But you didn’t see nothing. You didn’t see her do it and you don’t have to testify against your wife.”

“Don’t remember nothing after I seen your mother. Don’t remember getting back to the wharf. Nothing. Woke up at the gravel flat in the morning.”

Kyle started to rise. “We have to talk to her.”

“No.” His father pulled him back.

“Yes. Yes, she got to know we knows, case she needs us.”

“She decides that. She decides when to tell.”

“But I needs to know. I needs to know right now—I can’t handle not knowing and she might be needing for us to know.”

“No. You’ll keep it to yourself like I done.”

“I got to talk to her.”

“No! Gawd-damnit, no! We says nothing till she talks. Addie’s not stupid, and whatever she’s figuring, we lets her.”

“What about Bonnie? She got her into this. I’ll make her talk.”

“You’ll not go near her, either! You hear? She decides. Your mother. If she done it, it was self-defence. How come she’s not saying that? There’s something going on there. I can’t figure it. But I knows enough to leave her with it till she makes her move. She’s not stupid. And she’s not scared. Whatever happened, she’s not scared of it and she’s holding on to it. For now. So we holds on to it too.”

“No, she’s not scared. And if she’s not scared, she didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know, Kylie. I don’t know.” His father’s voice was wearied. He made to get up but sank back down. He shifted forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. He peered through the dark, his body taut, as though seeing in the distance the remnants of his old house that had once been strong and true and needing to get there again. He turned to Kyle, his voice deep with conviction.

“We wait. We lets her play her hand. I owes her that, all I put her through. When she gets it figured, she’ll tell us. She decides when to tell us. You got it? She tells us. Else we might fuck up something she got going.”

Kyle tightened the blanket around his shoulders to stop his shivering. He wiped at his eyes, tired. His father rested beside him. For once he was glad for the dark. It hid the fear shrinking his face. It let him sit close to his father, their shoulders touching, and he felt like a boy again, feeling his father’s warmth, his strength. It comforted him. He searched through fear’s pockets for hope. He needed hope now. He needed his father to have it so’s he might catch it like a gawd-damn germ. Hope’s contagious like that: if one believes, then another might.

A spattering of rain against his face and he worried about the footings, if they were covered good enough, and near laughed. Such small things.

“Come on,” said his father. “Let’s get some sleep.”

—

He was lying across his bed, still swaddled in his blanket and his belly cramping, when his father rapped on his door. The rain had cleared, a strong wind squalled at his darkened window, and the greenish neon numbers of his watch said five o’clock. In the kitchen his father looked a shaggy hulk hunched over the table. Looked like he’d been there all night staring out the window. He lit a cigarette, smoke still curling from the butt in the ashtray.

“Working on lung cancer, hey, b’y.”

“That’s it now.”

“Right. Just what Mother needs.” He made himself tea by the stove light shadowing the kitchen. He bit into a piece of bologna left warming in the pan for him. He sat, looked at his father.

“What’s we going to do?”

“Go down and finish off the footing, I suppose. Check the mess ye got made. You take the truck and go get Sylvie. Her plane’s in around six.”

“I figure Suze will be there, picking up Ben. I imagine she’ll take Sylvie to see Mom. I’m going to work.”

“I told Suze you’ll be picking them up.”

“Why’d you tell her that?”

“Just what your mother wants, Suze by her bed. Tongue like a logan. Go. Do like you’re told.”

“I wants to finish what I started yesterday—I’ll phone Suze.”

“We’ll bloody phone you if we needs you. Now go get your sister.”

“Haul back them eyebrows, old man, before they tangles in your nose hair. Jaysus.”

“Truck’s parked upon Bottom Hill. There’s a bag of stuff in it for your mother. I bought it in the drugstore. Make sure you brings it to her. She’s coming home this evening.”

“This evening? Already? What the hell we going to do, the house ribboned up like Halloween.”

“I’ll rip the gawd-damn stuff off if I got to.”

“Oh, here we go. Another round with MacDuff coming.”

“That’s it now.”

“She don’t need you getting thrown in jail.”

“You not gone yet?”

“Mind if I put on my boots? How you getting down?”

“Drive with the boys.”

“Cops took their licence.”

“You not gone yet?”

Jaysus. He went to the back room and skimmed out through the window, scratching his face on the pane and cursing. It was still dark. He felt for the path with his feet and started up the steep hillside muddied from the rain. Couldn’t see a thing in this sunless vault, not a fucking thing. Wind scudded through the bush, wetting his face with tree water. He felt the woods falling away to his left, heard the creaking limb from the rotting carcass of the old sawmill, heard water suckling through its bones. And something else. He paused mid-step. Something rustled the bushes behind him. Too strong to be the wind—a fox, perhaps. He kept walking, then stopped. There it was again, a shuffling—no fox, too loud to be a fox. A fucking bear? He started to run. He slipped, fell face first into the dirt. He scrabbled to his knees and stared through the dark. Above him the branches shifted with the wind against the meagre bit of dawn emerging through the heavens. More shuffling, right next to him now, and he cowered, feeling the air shift around his face. He was on his feet, his heart thudding with terror. He thrashed up through the woods and then the brush and onto Bottom Hill. The truck was a dark shape across the road, flagged by a pale star breaking through the cloud. He ran towards it, clambered inside, and locked the doors. He revved the engine and flicked on the headlights. He looked towards the path and strained to see. There was something there, swear to Jesus, there was something there. He shoved the gears into reverse and backed up and turned so’s the headlights fell across the mouth of the path. Nothing. Grey clumps of foliage. Darkened woods behind.

Putting the truck in gear, he booted it down the road and drove through Bayside towards the highway, shivers spiralling down his back. He flicked on the heat, drummed on the wheel. He couldn’t keep from shivering, thoughts shooting through his head like comets. It could’ve been a bear, this was the time for them, crawling outta their fucking caves, looking to eat. Jaysus. He wiped at his nose, tried to sit back, relax. He was all twisted inside. More from his talk with his father the night before than a stupid fucking bear. His mother. Clar Gillard. Bonnie. What happened? What the hell happened? He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear another thing, and now he had to pick up Sylvie. Last time he was at the airport it was to pick up Sylvie. And Chris was in a white box behind her.

He wiped at his face, hand cold, shaky. He jacked the heat on high. Driving across the second bridge near Faulkner’s Flat, he saw too late the small reddish disc glimmering at the side of the road. Moose. He jammed on the brakes, tires screaming, rubber burning as he skidded towards the black bull lumbering across the road, antlers wide enough to hang bedsheets. Damn, gawd-damn. The tires bit into concrete, the truck’s rear end swinging sideways and the hind wheels thudding into the ditch, seat belt digging into his bruised ribs. The moose stood to the side of the road, looking back at him.

“Get off the road, you fucking moron!”

The moose sauntered into the woods. Jesus, oh Jesus. He rested his forehead on the cool hard plastic of the steering wheel. He didn’t know how long he waited there. Watching light sieve through dawn’s dusk. Greg Bushy drove by, stopped and chained the bumper of the truck to his trailer hitch and hauled him back onto the road.

Forty minutes later, Kyle pulled into Deer Lake airport, the smell of jet fuel and car exhaust rankling his already nettled stomach. Inside the small, one-gated terminal, the baggage carousel creaked to a stop, a few suitcases grouped to the side of it, couple of odd souls strolling about. He learned from the striped-blouse attendant behind a ticket counter what he’d already figured: the flight had landed fifteen minutes ago, and was readying again for takeoff.

He went outside, looking about the mostly empty parking lot. She’d taken a cab. Knowing Sylvie, she wouldn’t have waited longer than five, ten minutes, her urge too great to see their mother.

He called the hospital, asking for his mother’s room. He might as well drive back home and work on the house with his father.

No answer in her room.

He walked about the deserted terminal for five minutes, then called back. No answer. Another ten minutes and he called again, cursing the wasted time. No answer. They’re in the family room, he thought. Sitting down, yakking. He’d go home, then. They didn’t need him now. He’d give his mother’s stuff to somebody else driving in, always somebody driving to Corner Brook.

He got in the truck and drove back out the airport road. Nearing the highway, he braked, signalling left to head east, homewards. His mother’s bag of stuff shifted. It slid onto the floor and like the waters of the Atlantic being pulled by a celestial ball floating through the heavens, he, too, felt himself being pulled westward onto the highway by some invisible force. Hell, bloody hell. He drove hard, blasting his horn at a three-quarter-ton rust-bucket creeping along the highway. He pulled out and cut ahead of it and was mad, mad as he’d ever been and couldn’t say why. At his mother, he supposed, for what she’d done or hadn’t done that night on the wharf. And his father, for what he hadn’t done, but could’ve. And at himself for freaking out back there in the woods over whatever the hell it was that spooked him. And then near hitting a moose and missing Sylvie and his mother would have something to say about that. If she could think of anything else these days but fucking Clar Gillard.

He found a parking spot near the hospital door. Inside he elbowed past a bewildered looking group asking for directions to the blood clinic. First time in the hospital, he figured, and all gathered around a splinter of an old woman dozing in a wheelchair. Jaysus. The whole horde gotta escort Granny for blood work. Outside his mother’s room, he was motioned aside by an unsmiling young nurse.

“She has a small infection. We’ve given her antibiotics. She’s been sleeping a lot.”

“She’s all right, though?”

“She’s fine, but we mightn’t let her go home this evening. We’ll keep watch.”

He searched the sober-faced nurse for more but she was hurrying off. He listened at his mother’s door; there were no voices. He nudged the door open, stepped slowly inside. She was alone, sleeping. He stood by her bed, looking down at her thin form beneath the sheets. Her face was anemic, spiritless, and each deeply drawn breath seemed punctuated by weariness. He felt the cold steel of the bed’s safety bar beneath his hands and no longer trusted that the cancer had left her and no longer trusted that she would be fine. Her eyes fluttered and her hand reached for his.

“You didn’t get your sister.”

“I near hit a moose on the way, ended up in the ditch. She’s here, though?” He spotted a bulging knapsack resting by the bathroom wall and a small canvas bag.

“Kylie.”

“I’m here.”

“It wasn’t her fault.”

“Whose?”

“Your sister’s.”

“What? Her fault for what?”

“Chrissy’s dying.”

“What? Jesus, Mother!”

“That’s what your father does, blames himself.”

“Mother, I don’t blame Sylvie.”

“I sees it on your face. It robbed your father, his blaming did. He blames himself for getting sick. Eats at his heart.” She smiled up at him, her eyes the softest he’d ever seen them. She touched his knuckled hand. “It’s not time that ages you, my baby. It’s life.”

“All right, enough of this.”

“He can’t be in your heart if it’s filled with blame. Your father, now. He carries death in his heart.”

He wiped at his face, couldn’t look at her. Her fingers clutched his hand, forcing him to her, her eyes bluer than the heavens and with a depth that had nothing human in it, like a wormhole through to eternity.

“Go. Find your mercies,” she said urgently. “Before you harden into something ugly. Make peace with your sister.” She turned aside, her eyes closing, whether in sleep or dismissal he couldn’t know.

“Jesus, Mother. What got you thinking like that?”

Her eyes opened again onto his, so brutally clear. A week after Chris’s funeral and he’d snapped at Sylvie for some small thing as their mother stood on a chair, hanging curtains. She stepped down from the chair, staring at him with the same brutal clarity, and stood beside Sylvie, the curtain rod held aloft like Orion’s sword. He’d backed away from those knowing eyes as though he’d been caught slugging back wine from the holy chalice. And Sylvie. Just standing there, silent, fighting to keep erect her bowing head when he wanted it further bent with shame.

Kyle moved back from his mother’s bed. He circled the room, jammed his hands in his back pockets, and kept circling. His mother’s breathing slowed a little; she was sleeping. He cut out through her door, hurried past the elevators and took the stairs, near leaping from landing to landing. Coming into the lobby, he bolted outside and was grateful for the wind scraping cold across his face. He hooked the truck keys from his pocket, stopped, then ducked behind a white van. Sylvie was getting out of a brown Buick parked a couple of car lengths away, just to the other side of the truck. She was balancing a couple of coffees on a cardboard tray and a brown paper bag greasing up the side from buttered muffins or bagels. She had lost weight. Her arms were reedy, her legs so thin she looked knock-kneed like their father. She’d always been concerned about looking knock-kneed, and as though hearing his thoughts she glanced down, like she was always doing, checking her knees, and he felt a rush of affection.

She trotted past him so close he saw the colour of her eyes—brown eyes, Chris’s eyes. She’d watched the light leave them, she’d sobbed to him, stumbling drunk from the bar one night. She hadn’t told anyone else in the world that she’d watched the light leave his eyes, watched them die like the flame in their old gran’s lamp after the wick burned dry. And when she curled her arms around Kyle’s neck, craving comfort from her awful secret, he shoved her away and ran, widening his own eyes to draw light, widening them so big they watered, his vision running like rivers and he swimming through them into a sea of dark.

He watched the hospital doors close behind her and his face burned. Burned with the shame of wanting her to hurt further. He climbed into the truck, backed out of the space, and sped towards the street. Then he braked hard, thinking he saw her in his rearview. She had stepped back outside and was staring after him. No. No, it wasn’t her. A car blasted its horn behind him. He accelerated, checked his rearview—it was her! Watching him speed away. The horn blasted him again; he hit the accelerator and then instantly jammed his brakes to keep from rear-ending the arsehole in front of him. He hauled out and passed him, gunning uphill to a cacophony of horns blasting from all sides. He drove harder, checking his rearview; she was gone, she couldn’t see him. Make peace with your sister, make peace with your sister. Damn. Gawd-damn. He slapped the steering wheel and then slammed on the brakes, tires smoking as he skidded to a stop, watching another gawd-damned moose lumbering across the highway. Speed bumps. Newfoundland gawd-damned speed bumps.

He pulled off the highway, fighting for calm. His face was wet. He wiped it, surprised. That he could harbour such secrets from himself, but not from those they hurt the most.

Man. Oh man, he was fucked.

He was almost at Hampden Junction when he remembered something. Trapp. He’d forgotten. That same night Sylvie wept on his shoulder down by the bar. Trapp had been watching them through a window. His white face staring at Sylvie, his eyes the false light of a jealous moon. A curious thing, he remembered now. Strange thing to have forgotten, that.