| |
10:20 a.m.
Aptly enough, York Cemetery sat on York Boulevard, a main artery that connected Hamilton to Burlington. It was Hamilton’s oldest cemetery. I parked the car and went about looking for Steven’s dead parents. Even though I knew that this would not lead to finding Steven, my need to know was eating me up. The cemetery was empty except for a few visitors. An earthy smell made me think of worms that I’d dug up as a kid in my parents’ backyard, the night before a fishing trip up in Algonquin Park with my dad. The sun had burst through a hole in the clouds and was pouring through the trees, lighting up the remaining leaves on the trees. Sparrows chirped and darted from branch to branch. My footfalls made swooshing sounds through the thick carpet of leaves on the ground.
I thought of the leaf project I’d made in Grade Three, all those different leaves I’d glued to a large sheet of white Bristol board, the names of each tree printed in pencil under each leaf, the entire board sealed in plastic. It hadn’t been very creative—every kid used the same basic format—but it had earned me three stickers, and I’d been very proud of that.
Instead of feeling depressed by all these dead people surrounding me, I felt a strange shot of vigour. Part of me wanted to experience the dark thrill of finding Steven buried here; the mystery would be over, and then I could start to breathe again. Or, I wanted someone to call me with tangible proof that Steven had died; even better, that he’d just died, the story had just hit the papers, and I could cancel the concert and be off the hook for what would prove to be the most humiliating moment of my life. I waited for a stab of guilt for these heartless thoughts, but it didn’t come. It had been two decades since I had seen the guy. What connection did we have, other than a piece of geography and the same momentary pockets of time and space? We had been a couple of baby-faced adults looking goofy in the same high school yearbook. We’d walked the same halls together, but he’d never idolized me the way I’d idolized him. What was I really hoping to find by seeing him again? I wasn’t so sure I could handle another rejection, with everything going on in my life.
Wrapped up in these thoughts, I found the tombstones. They sat side by side, under a majestic old white pine. John Allen McCartney, 1930–2002, and Freda Jean McCartney, 1931–2003, with the inscription Beloved parents of Steven. I felt a deep pang of sorrow. I’d known the McCartneys since kindergarten. Mrs. McCartney used to make Steve and I grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup at lunch. She had a helluva temper, Mrs. McCartney did, and she’d passed that trait down to her son. Once, he couldn’t get the lyrics right during one of our famous Friday night, beer-guzzling rehearsals in Kevin Muirsey’s basement, so he’d driven his Greb Kodiak boot through the skin of Muirsey’s bass drum. Muirsey had freaked, leaping over his kit at Steven like a wild wrestler. The bassist and I had a wicked time trying to break up the fight.
I shook my head fondly as I remembered that night. God bless you, Mr. and Mrs. McCartney. I didn’t know what else to think or say, so I just stood there, staring.
At the foot of each tombstone was a floral arrangement. They had withered, but still had some colour. How many weeks old? I wondered. Steven could have brought them here! I had to make an effort to calm my racing imagination. Relatives, church friends, anyone could have put those flowers there. It was not necessarily a sign from God.
My cell phone rang, making me jump.
“It’s me,” she said.
“Allison! Where are you? Are you OK?” My heart started hammering my chest.
“I’m staying at a motel.”
“Where? Which one?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.”
“You’re pregnant, you shouldn’t be alone. Is the motel decent, at least?” My fears of Allison cooking on a hot plate in a roach-and-crackhead-infested motel reawakened.
“It’s OK, Donny. No bugs or hookers.” She knew me so well that I wanted to cry. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’m sure you’ve been worrying.”
“Yes,” I said in a weak voice. I was suddenly afraid of putting my foot in my mouth, wrecking this chance to convince Allison to return to our life together.
“Donny, listen. I want to talk to you in person. Can you meet me at Limeridge Mall?”
She wanted to see me! That could be good. Or that could be a very bad sign. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there, honey.”
She was silent for a moment. Just long enough for me to realize that “honey” might not have been welcome. “I’ll see you there at noon. At the Greek place in the food court.”
“How will I know it’s you?” I said, trying to be cute, hoping to jolly her into forgiving me for my screw-ups.
She hung up.
The dead air over the phone line stumped me. I stared at the wilted flowers at the feet of the gravestones, realizing that my life decisions had forced my wife to flee our home and hole up in a grungy motel somewhere. What kind of man did that to his wife? An abuser? A psychopath? A fucking loser? What final decisions had Allison made? I checked my watch. Eleven-twenty a.m. I made for my car, my thoughts racing.
