Act of Evil

by Ron Chudley

  “Actually, no. I had something to eat on the boat.”

  “Okay, so let’s have a glass of wine and sit a while. And then . . .”

  “Then?”

  “Then you can help me with one last thing.”

  forty-one

  The house stood alone at the end of a wooded lane running off the Genoa Bay Rd. It had its own view of the water, but this was largely obscured by unkempt greenery that had grown up all around. The building was not as old as the Trail house, but large, built in the faux-cottage style favoured by well-off British émigrés after the Second World War. Time and neglect had turned it into a peeling ghost of its former glory, echoing the sad decline of its owner.

  At the gate was a FOR SALE sign.

  When Mattie rang the bell, there was a brief pause, followed by a rattling of the inside latch. Then the door was opened with surprising energy. Revealed was a small woman whom Hal had little difficulty recognizing as Con’s mother; she had the same high forehead and dark, quizzical eyes. By all accounts, Claudia Ryan was younger than Mattie, but looked twenty years her senior. She was thin, her hair white, and she had the mottled, puffy features of the dedicated drinker. She was wearing a shirt and jeans, which hung like prison drab from her angular frame. In her mouth—at an incongruously jaunty angle—was a fat little cigarillo. Her glance darted swiftly between the newcomers: she was obviously cold sober.

  “Mattie!” Claudia said, her voice cultivated and incongruously deep. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  “Well, of course!” Mattie replied. “You don’t think I’d let you leave without saying goodbye.”

  Hal was introduced, and they entered, Con’s mother ushering them in with a manner that—if not exactly cheery—was clearly welcoming. Hal recalled Mattie’s account of Claudia’s recent coldness and withdrawal, and they exchanged a glance of surprise.

  The dark-paneled hall was cluttered chaos—furniture, ornaments, books, and packing cases competing for space, with hardly room to pass. They inched their way through a similarly dismembered living room to the kitchen, which as yet had been spared the rude winds of departure.

  As with the Trail house, the windows looked out over the ocean, or would have done, but for the rampant outdoor foliage. The room was sparsely neat: table, four kitchen chairs, clear counters with appliances and dishes in a rack. On the stove was a simmering kettle, nearby a teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of digestive biscuits. The table was bare except for two items: a wicked-looking kitchen knife and a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label whisky.

  Claudia picked up the latter objects and with a grimace put them aside. “Reminders! If I open one, I may as well cut my throat with the other. Maybe it’ll work. The jury’s still out. Will you have tea?”

  They both accepted and settled at the kitchen table. From what Hal had heard of past behavior, it seemed that a radical change had occurred in Claudia Ryan. A short time ago she’d lost her only son and apparently had exhibited all the expected reactions of shock and grief. But now that phase was definitely over. Though they’d just met, Hal felt that this was not just a persona donned for company. Physically ravaged she might be, but mentally Claudia seemed very clear, as if she’d turned some sort of corner.

  After they’d chatted, a little awkwardly at first, Claudia said quietly, “Mattie, isn’t it nice to think that at this very moment our boys may be together—in some place we can’t begin to imagine—goofing off just like they used to?”

  “It’s certainly a . . . a pleasant thought.”

  Claudia smiled, and sipped her tea. “But it’s just as likely that they’re nowhere at all. That they’re both gone into nothing and that’s an end to it. But either way—at least for Con—it’s for the best.”

  Mattie looked startled. “Claudia, what are you saying? Surely you don’t mean that Con’s better . . . ?”

  “Dead?” The other woman sighed then deliberately relit her cigarillo. “I used to think that Con’s life being so messed up was his parents’ fault: his dad’s for running off, mine for becoming a drunk. But none of that seemed to matter when he was young. Then he was happy as a boy could be. And clever! Good grades at school, as you well know. And all that lovely stuff he wrote; poems and stories. You said he could be a real writer. Remember?”

  Mattie nodded palely, “Of course.”

  “But after Brian disappeared, everything changed. Con just wasn’t—right anymore. I don’t know if he blamed himself. For not being there. For not being able even to find his friend. But afterwards, something just went out of him . . .

  “Me being a lush didn’t help, of course. He was disgusted with me and I can’t blame him. Thank God he at least had your family. After losing your own boy, I sometimes wondered how you could even bear to look at Con. But you did, and it was the only good thing in his life: hanging out at your place, fishing with Fitz, just being around where he and Brian used to play. I don’t know what he’d have done without that.”

  The others watched silently as Claudia extinguished her cigarillo and poured more tea. Finally she looked directly at Mattie. “Dear, I don’t know what happened with the boathouse fire, how it started, or who was to blame. If other people were involved, I certainly hope they’re punished. But one thing I do know: helping to save your dad would have made Con very proud. I don’t mean to sound sentimental, but I know he’d have considered the swap—his life for Fitz’s—a fair bargain. And if he’d also known the fire would help find his friend . . . I don’t think he’d have asked for more.”

  The room was very still. Mattie, with her cup half to her lips, had tears in her eyes. Hal felt a lump in his own throat.

  “As for my drinking,” Claudia continued, “who really knows. Maybe it’s just shock that’s keeping me sober right now. But, believe me, I’m going to try like hell to make it stick. Mattie, you lost a son and a husband, but you didn’t give up. You just—what did we used to say?—kept on trucking. Taking care of the ones who were left and being a wonderful teacher. You rebuilt your life, while I pissed mine away. I’ve no excuse, I was just shallow and stupid.” She shook her head sharply as Mattie made to interrupt. “No! It’s true. If there’s any hope for me, I must start by being totally honest.

  “And now I know I have a simple choice: either to follow my son into the dark, or try—even though I’m a beat-up old wreck—to follow your example, Mattie: do something with what’s left of my life. As you know, I’ve always had money. Too much for my own good, probably. If I’d had to get out and hustle my buns, maybe there’d have been less time for self-indulgence. Anyway, I’m going to try my best to make a new start, Not exciting but better. And AA full time, of course, to keep me on track. I’ve got a sister in Kelowna who had a stroke last year. I’m going to stay with her awhile. Give her some help, if I can. Then I’ll try to figure how I can use this damn money of mine to do some good.”

  Claudia rose, poured more tea, sipped, then made a face. “Damn, I hate this stuff. But I’m going to grow to like it again if it kills me.” She moved around the table to Mattie. “So that’s it, dear. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you for all you’ve done. But mostly I wanted to make sure you understood what I know: Con’s death was his choice: whatever the circumstances, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  After that there was little more to be said. Mattie told Claudia about the plans for Brian’s funeral, but Claudia made her apologies and begged off. She was leaving for her sister’s tomorrow and was unlikely to be back. On their way out, she asked them to wait and hurried upstairs. Presently, she returned, carrying a small bundle, which she handed to Mattie.

  “Con’s old notebooks. Came across them while I was packing. English compositions, mostly. I thought you might like them.”

  Mattie looked pleased. She took the books, extending the move into a hug, so strong that the thin woman gasped and laughed. Having planted a kiss on the white hair, she finally backed off.

  They said goodbyes and left. A
s they swung the car around to head home, Claudia Ryan was still standing by the peeling front door, thin arm raised in mute farewell.

  forty-two

  They arrived back to find unexpected activity. Lights were burning in the dining room and busy sounds were coming from that direction. Entering quietly, they discovered Fitz hard at work. A tarp had been thrown across the table and upon this rested a thick chunk of log. The sounds they’d heard were of mallet on chisel. Already a considerable pile of shavings had been created, flowing from the table onto the floor. Sensing their presence, Fitz glanced up briefly.

  “Doing Brian’s boat again.” he said, without pausing in his labors. “Dandy piece of cedar, eh?”

  “Yes!” Mattie replied. “Where did you get it?”

  “Hauled it out of the woods a while back. Hadn’t got round to cutting it up, so I hadn’t yet taken it down to the . . .” He trailed off. Since the fire, the boathouse was not easily mentioned. “Once I’d made up my mind, I couldn’t wait to get started. Sorry about the mess.”

  “Who cares!” Mattie’s eyes were shining. “I’m just glad to see you working again. I loved that boat. Of all your carvings, I think it was the best.”

  Hal found he could remember it vividly, the storm-swept sails and heroic figure alone at the wheel. That haunting creation, along with the rest of Fitz’s work, was now ashes. Yet it still lived in the old man’s mind, from which it was evidently about be reborn.

  However, now there was a problem: the central premise, lone sailor bravely fighting the elements, was invalid, since Brian had not in fact been lost at sea. Unless after drowning, his body had washed up under his own boathouse—an unimaginable coincidence—the only possible conclusion was that he’d been murdered in an unknown location, his body then returned to be hidden in the one place no one would think to look.

  But that was not being talked about now. Mattie must have gone over it with the police, but she’d not as yet mentioned it to Hal and he hadn’t liked to bring it up. As for Fitz, since the fire he hadn’t said much of anything. For now, recovery, or acceptance, or whatever was happening in his beleaguered spirit, seemed to require the re-creation of the boat carving. If that’s what it took, more power to him. Life had to go on. But for Hal, who found it impossible to ignore the mystery of what had really happened to Brian, all this seemed extremely strange.

  They left Fitz working and gravitated, as if by tidal pull, back to the kitchen. Outside the window, the broad sweep of the bay was fading to dark, the eastern sky laced with emerging pinpoints of stars. Mattie fetched the bottle of wine they’d started earlier and poured fresh glasses.

  They sat, and some time later Mattie put on a lamp. It created a warm glow, a gentle haven in the enormous night, a place where the monsters of memory and misadventure were of diminished power. Later still, Mattie put down her glass and took Hal’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Right now—tonight—just for being here.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

  “I’m glad. Also for not talking about that other.”

  “You mean, what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you find it hard—not knowing?”

  “It’s been that way so long, I’m used to it. Anyway, I’m sort of swamped with relief just to have found him. Does that sound unfeeling?”

  “Heavens, no! Anyway, what do I know? I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child, so there’s no way I could possibly judge. I’m just happy that both you and Fitz seem to be surviving.”

  She squeezed his hand and stared out into the dark. “Hal?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to ask you something. Probably I shouldn’t, but if I don’t now I’ll probably never get up the nerve again. And I’ll never stop wondering . . .”

  “So ask!”

  “I know we said that it’s inevitable that our lives went the way they did. And I’m convinced that’s true. But did you ever wonder what it would have been like if we . . .”

  “Hadn’t broken up?”

  “Yes.”

  Hal thought for while. “To answer that,” he said finally, “I have to go back to a certain day in Victoria, when I fell on my butt and looked up to see an old friend staring at me.”

  Mattie gave a little laugh. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, I recognized you instantly, you know that. My first thought was, That’s Mattie ! Then another one came right on top, though I tried to push it away, to sort of unthink it. And I guess I’ve been trying to avoid it ever since.”

  “What was it?”

  “That letting go of you was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  Mattie’s grip on his hand tightened, so much that it was almost painful. But on her face grew a smile of such depth and beauty that Hal would have endured any discomfort to witness it. Then she let go his hand and rose. “Dear Hal,” she said quietly. “That’s about the sweetest thing I ever heard. All the more so because I believe you really mean it. Now—if I don’t go to bed, I think I may fall down. Goodnight.”

  Just like that she was gone. Hal sat in the window, sipping the last of his wine, the house silent save for the distant tap-tap of Fitz’s chisel. The sound had a hypnotic quality: ancient, soothing to the spirit.

  After a while he rose and headed upstairs also.

  forty-three

  He awoke with a start, thinking someone had called his name. The darkness of the room was split by a fuzzy bright haze, that came from the open door, which silhouetted a looming figure.

  “Hal? ”

  This was not an echo from a dream, but a real voice, which emerging consciousness identified as Mattie’s. Surprise, concern, and pleasure began a struggle for supremacy in the brisk run-up to his response. “Mattie—what is it?”

  The figure drifted closer, and he realized that Mattie was dressed only in a nightgown. “Hal!” she whispered yet again. “Oh, God—Hal!”

  The tone was so strange that any excitement he might have felt at this surprise nocturnal visit morphed into fear: Fitz, he thought. Something’s happened to Fitz. Scrambling to sit up, he fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp.

  “Mattie, what’s the matter? Is it Fitz?”

  Mattie shook her head. The light confirmed Hal’s first impression of her attire—or lack of it—but she seemed unaware of this; even in a state of undress, and obviously distraught, she still retained an aura of dignity. This was enhanced by the fact that perched improbably on her shapely nose was a pair of reading glasses.

  “What’s the matter?” Hal said again.

  Instead of replying, Mattie moved farther into the light and lifted her arm, revealing an exercise book. She held it out, her hand shaking. The glow from the bed lamp cast her expression into sharp relief: wonder, and something more disturbing.

  “Jesus, Mattie—WHAT ?”

  Mattie spoke at last, her voice a whisper. “This is Con’s. One of the ones his mum gave me this afternoon. Full of old compositions. I started reading it when I went up to bed . . .”

  “And?”

  Mattie’s eyes again locked on his own. “A lot of the exercises were graded by me. Some I even remember. But one is . . . different.”

  “How?”

  “It was written later. A long time after Con left school, I think. It’s more than just a composition. Like a real story—except . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Hal, I don’t think it’s a story at all!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mattie sat on the bed, forcing him to move over, and thrust the book in front of him. It was already open, folded back to the start of a section of writing. The letters were in blue ballpoint, small but legible, with a sharp, imperative quality that didn’t look like the work of a young person.

  Hal looked from the page to Mattie, then on impulse plucked the glasses from her face. The lenses were drug-store magnifiers and suited his own e
yes just fine. Shifting the book into better light—which also necessitated putting his arm around her—he began to read . . .

  forty-four

  Damn, Jack felt psyched. He’d finally found out where his dad lived and was off to Vancouver to root the old guy out.

  His mum didn’t know. Would have had a bird if she had. He’d fed her some bullshit about taking in a rock concert on the mainland. Not that she probably remembered. Lately she’d been bombed all the time. Totally out of it, when he went to her room to lift some green for the trip.

  It was then he hit a snag. Except for chump-change, her cash supply was zilch. While tossing some juicy curses at the snoring bitch, he thought of Paul. His bud always went sailing early on Saturdays, but if he hustled he could catch him.

  The quick route to Paul’s pad—traveled a zillion times—was down some steps from his backyard, then a five-minute jog along the beach. Jack made it in less than that and found Paul’s boat still moored at the dock. There were sounds coming from the boathouse.

  “Yo, Man!” he called, heading in. “How’s it hangin’?”

  Paul was at the workbench, sanding something in a vise. Jack was glad to see that he was alone. He didn’t need old Gramps on his ass when he was trying to mooch cash.

  “Hey, freako,” Paul grinned, pushing back the cruddy red baseball cap he always wore sailing. “You coming crewin’ for a change?”

  “Nah, dickhead!” Jack returned. “Gave that shit up for girls!”

  “Yeah?” Paul sneered. “So how’s that goin’? Still a hopeful virgin?”

  “Like you, eh?”

  “Whatever!” Paul took the object he’d been working on from the vise, a stout wooden handle with a narrow end to slot into the boat’s rudder. He tossed it to Jack, who caught it easily. “What do you think?”

  “What was the matter with it?”

  “Kept working loose. Last time out I almost dunked. Should be cool now.” He put the handle with some gear by the door. “Wouldn’t have been such a bummer if I wasn’t alone.”