Stanley turned back toward Ramona. “We’ve got your mother on a new medication.”
“You should not have done that without my permission,” Ramona snapped.
Stanley remained cool despite her wrath. “I consulted with the doctor. The new medication allows for longer periods of clarity. They’re not even sure how it works, but it steadies the mind somehow and we’ve tried it several times. I’ve taken her around town before and we’ve had a wonderful time. Haven’t we, dear?”
“Yes, Stanley, we have.”
“She knows your name?”
“Yes. For a while.”
“And this must be Charles,” Brenda said, turning to me.
Ramona was wide-eyed.
“I was a bit astonished at first,” Stanley said. “Just remember, it’s temporary. I got a bit overly excited when she first took the medicine. I thought it was like a miracle. And in some ways it is. We’ve found that it works well for an hour or two. Not perfectly. But well. And then, when it starts to wear off and the confusion sets in, she will simply fall asleep.”
Right now, Brenda looked bright-eyed.
“What a lovely smell,” she said, inhaling deeply. “I remember going to an old sawmill once with my father when I was just nine. And it smelled just like this.”
Stanley splayed out his fingers. “She’s had moments like this. Many of them. I write things down. I record her memories.” He took a small notebook out of his suit jacket and jotted a note. “Lakes, trees, birds, traffic, now this. All triggers to her memory. The doctor says that the memory is not truly gone. It’s just that you can lose the mechanism to retrieve it.”
Ramona looked at her father in a way that I had not seen before. The hostility was gone. “She is still not well enough to leave the home,” she insisted.
“No, she is not. Not permanently. I now agree with you. The best care for her is there. I am not moving her out.”
“Thank God,” Ramona said.
“But I did not lie to you before. I regret, deeply regret, abandoning your mother before. I can’t explain it. I should not be forgiven for it. But I do want to be part of Brenda’s life again. And I want to be part of your life.”
Ramona said nothing.
Stanley looked around him. “And here you are building a home. How wonderful.”
“Yes,” Ramona said. “Charles and I are building a home together.”
Stanley looked me over again. An assessment perhaps.
“I assume he is a good man,” he said, even though I was right there.
“The best,” Ramona said.
“Then I approve.”
“I do not need your approval.”
“Of course not. I was just stating a fact.”
Small talk ensued. The workmen were returning from their lunch break. It was time for us to get out of the way. Stanley offered to take us out to lunch, but I told him that there was not a single restaurant within easy driving distance.
He looked puzzled at that, as if such a thing could not be. “So we’ve come to the ends of the earth,” he said with a half-smile. Then, turning to his wife, said, “Well, then, my dear, it’s time we should go.”
As they drove away, Ramona turned to me. “Back when he left us, he never even said goodbye. To me or to her. Instead, he left instructions with a lawyer. That’s how we both heard. Phone call from a lawyer to tell me my father had abandoned us to start a new life and he had left a sizable sum to take care of both of us.”
“Then it’s your father’s money that’s building this house.”
“Guilt money.”
“Do you think it was guilt that brought him back?”
“I don’t know,” Ramona said. “Partly. But it’s more than that. He’s changed. Before, I could always tell when he was bullshitting or manipulating my mother or me or anyone else. But there’s something different about him.”
“People change,” I offered.
“I didn’t ever think so. But maybe it’s possible.”
And with that the small work crew — Big Carl and his two carpenters, Wade and Bernie — with Rolf in tow, walked in the front door.
“Honey, I’m home,” Rolf shouted jovially.
36
We never had a face-to-face encounter with the C-WAP women. Hard to say how they found their way to Stewart Harbour or how they knew about the house we were building. But then, with the internet anyone can pretty well find out whatever they are looking for. Anyway, they found us out. My hope was that they weren’t local folks, and I reckoned they weren’t. Here, people who didn’t approve of you were more likely to say it to your face and maybe stir up some gossip or, worst case scenario, spit in your face. But graffiti was a bit too urban and just wasn’t that popular down there on the Shore.
The twenty-fifth of August was the court date. Alan said this was the easy part. We’d be in and out of there. Brody was pleading guilty. That was all there was to it. Sentencing would come at a later date, after the judge had studied what Alan and the Crown attorney provided him with.
Ramona and I had both read the information Alan had given us about how sentencing worked. I was familiar with much of it from my work as a reporter. Brody would be charged under the federal Controlled Drugs and Substances Act. Sentencing would depend on whether Brody accepted responsibility for doing what he did, if he showed remorse, if it was his first offence (strangely it was), his family situation, his character references, his mental health, and other factors.
I had already explained my relationship and why I had turned him in and Alan had provided a record of that statement to the judge. Beth Ann, Joe, and Mackenzie had all done the same. All of that would help reduce the sentencing, and it looked like Brody was grudgingly going to go along with whatever happened.
Of course, the Crown attorney might be looking for a harsher conviction. Undoubtedly, he’d know Brody had been dealing one drug or another for many years. He’d probably know that Brody had been able to get away with it because no one wanted to turn anyone in to the Mounties in Stewart Harbour. Mounties and fishery officers were not liked, not trusted and considered to be the enemies of the people. But with the near-death of Scooter, his father, Brian, had made sure that Brody’s past was now out in the open.
Tom, the arresting officer, had already filed his report. That would not look good since Brody had put up a fight. We didn’t know who else might give incriminating statements to the Crown attorney. He’d no doubt go after Scooter and Scooter’s father might jump in and have his say. But we hoped that was all.
Despite all the possible sources for problems, when the twenty-fifth rolled around Alan exuded his signature confidence. He had the clothes, the briefcase, the manner of a polished professional. He insisted Brody say nothing. The judge, as it turned out, was a woman. The Honourable Delia Green.
Joe, Beth Ann, and Brody sat with Alan. Ramona and I sat across the room and watched as drunk drivers lost their licences, tavern brawlers got stiff warnings, a bootlegger was fined for selling beer to teenagers at three o’clock in the morning, and reckless drivers were fined for texting, speeding, not stopping for school buses, and running stop signs.
And then Brody’s case was up. The judge read the charges in a monotone voice, noted the Criminal Code, and asked, “How does the defendant plead?”
I almost thought Brody was going to stand up and say something. He had an antsy look about him and I knew he was a wild card. Maybe he’d throw it all in the trash. His hands were on his chair and Alan gave him a look that said, Don’t do it. Alan himself hesitated as he watched Brody. Then the judge peered up over her glasses. “Well?”
Alan stood tall, cleared his throat and said, “My client, Your Honour, pleads guilty as charged.”
“Then it’s guilty as charged. Crown and defence, make sure I get documents. Sentencing will be held on September twentieth.”
And that was that. Brody’s day in court.
Because it all seemed so routine, so matter of fact,
I think we all felt relieved. Brody was still out on bail. He didn’t have to wait in jail. We could all get on with our lives.
There was still a chance that Brody would run. Just say to hell with it and leave. But, as the days passed, he kept showing up at the worksite. He seemed to be fascinated by the building process and the workmen seemed to like having him around. Big Carl, who owned the construction company, even went so far as to hire Brody part-time as a gofer. Brody seemed to like his new role just fine. He liked joking with the workmen and learning about carpentry. It could not have gone much better.
But before you start thinking that it was an idyllic month down on the Eastern Shore, it wasn’t all sweetness and light.
Ramona deleted her Facebook and email accounts. She was getting C-WAP hate mail from an alarmingly large number of people. Scooter’s father, Brian Deacon, was always trying to pick a fight with me or Joe down at the wharf. There were also some problems with the engine on my father’s boat and it took me a while to find someone willing and able to tune it up. Rolf had gone on a bender — drinking through the days and staying up late at night howling at the moon. Tropical storms were brewing in the Atlantic, but so far they’d all passed us by, the ocean water being cold enough at this time of year to tame the storms as they blew north.
The relationship between Ramona and me had deepened. It still seemed like a miracle to me. We both laughed at how quickly we’d become like an old married couple, but that wasn’t really the case. The passion was there. Every day.
Ramona would awake sometimes in the night, especially if it was a full moon. Especially if Rolf was next door howling like a wolf. Sometimes she’d be disoriented. Sometimes she’d say something that didn’t make sense. But it was no big deal. I’d awakened plenty of times in my life in a strange location and bumped into walls trying to figure out where I was. Her “condition” continued to seem mythical to me. There was no one more fully alive and alert than Ramona.
The boat engine was repaired by a one-armed boat engine mechanic from Port Bickerton. Ramona and I returned to sea on calm days. That was where the magic was most in our relationship. On one particularly idyllic afternoon at sea, Ramona looked at me and asked, “How did we do this?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Us. How did we make this happen?”
“I’d been wondering that myself. I’m pretty certain it was all your doing. You took the initiative and I … well, how could I reject such an offer?”
“No,” she said, “it wasn’t like that. We came together at a time and place in our lives when we desperately needed something, someone to commit to.”
“Okay, I can buy that. But how did we get here?”
“On the boat?”
“On a boat that was my father’s, on an ocean I knew so well as a boy, with a girl like you who is both beautiful and intelligent.”
She liked the flattery. “So you don’t think I’m just an over-the-hill porn star?”
I laughed and grabbed her around the waist. We kissed.
“I’m going to take you to an island,” I said. “I want to show you something.”
“How mysterious. Let’s go.”
So I hauled up the anchor and started the engine. Ever since it got tuned up, it was running beautifully. I circled out around Prosper Point, remembering that terrifying day when we’d chased after Brody, thinking about how close we’d all come to our deaths. It was hard to imagine on a day as warm, sunny, and benign as today.
I pulled the boat in as close to Gammon Island as I dared, and then cut the motor and dropped the anchor. “We’ll have to swim ashore from here,” I said. It wasn’t far.
Ramona didn’t say yes, no, or maybe. She dove overboard and looked back at me with a smile. I joined her and felt the sting of the cold, felt it biting into me in the most invigorating way.
We’d both been wearing only shorts and T-shirts, so we weren’t bogged down by heavy clothes. I nodded toward the shore and we both swam slowly forward. The barnacles on the stones were sharp and painful as we stumbled across them onto the thin white beach.
“Welcome to Elvis Island,” I said.
“Why Elvis?” she asked.
“I’ll show you.”
I led her down the beach until we came to an overgrown path and we followed it into a straggly forest of half-dead spruce and shoulder-high ferns. It was tough going in bare feet, but we soon found what I was looking for.
The cabin was in much worse shape than the last time I had seen it many years ago. The door was off, but the windows and roof were still surprisingly intact. Unfortunately, the inside had been inhabited by more than one generation of porcupines, who must have been living in the rafters. There was a knee-high pile of porcupine poop on the floor.
“You brought me here to see this?” Ramona asked, holding her nose and easing back out the door.
I reached for her and pulled her back in. “Damn city girl,” I chided and waited for our eyes to adjust to the dim light. Oddly enough, the old magazine photos, some of them in glass frames, were still on the walls. There were at least a hundred pictures of Elvis Presley.
“My theory was that Elvis didn’t die. He just got tired of all the attention and came out here to live his final days.”
“That was your theory, was it?”
“Yes. Look over there.” I pointed to the old cookstove and the sink. “That was Elvis’s frying pan and the pot he boiled grits in.” Atop the mouldy mattress and rusted bedsprings sat a pile of old, half-eaten hardback books. “Porcupines sure do like good literature,” I added.
Ramona carefully took a few steps farther in and picked up something from the rotting boards on the floor. “And this would be Elvis’s fork, I presume.”
“Damn straight,” I said.
“Why did he come here?”
“My guess was that he just got tired of people and that he liked wild creatures more. So he faked his death in Memphis and came up here. Didn’t tell anyone. Got himself a couple of raccoons and porcupines for pets and tacked up those pictures of himself to remind him of what he’d left behind.”
“And then what?”
“I think he died here and the creatures took over.”
“Anyone ever find a body?”
“Nope. But then I don’t think anyone knew Elvis was here but me.”
“Only you?”
“Me and Beth Ann.”
“So I’m not the first girl you brought out here?”
“That was a long, long time ago.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’m still jealous.”
I gingerly walked over to a small table that had a single drawer. With difficulty I opened it and inside was an American quarter, a small framed picture of Jesus, a broken wristwatch with a picture of Elvis on the faceplate, and a tiny notebook, not unlike the kind that I used to take notes as a reporter. When I flipped it open, there was only writing on one page. It read: Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away. Elvis Aaron Presley.
I showed it to Ramona.
“That proves it, then,” she said. “Elvis was here.”
I carefully put the watch, the quarter, and the notebook back in the drawer and closed it.
As we walked back to the beach, I had the feeling that the island itself was watching us. Nothing spooky, nothing overly weird, just this notion that this island knew we were here. When we got to the beach, we sat down in the warm white sand and Ramona lay on her back and closed her eyes.
“What do you really think the story behind that cabin is?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Could have just been a place that someone from the mainland came to once in a while to hunt ducks or go fishing. Or it could have been a place where someone came to live out their days to escape from the world. I doubt if anyone ever comes ashore here now. There’s hundreds of islands like this along the Eastern Shore.”
“Life would be lonely. I’m certain loneliness is the hardest thing for
many people.”
“You afraid of being alone?”
“Yes.”
“Really. Someone like you would never be alone. There’d always be a man who’d want to be with you.”
“That could change in a heartbeat.”
And I knew she wasn’t lying. And I also knew that the fear of loneliness may have been what drew her to me. If so, then that was okay with me as well.
“You’re not afraid of being alone, dying alone?”
Truth was it wasn’t one of my big fears. “I’m afraid of boring social situations, drowning, or maybe getting eaten by a shark. But loneliness isn’t up there. I thrived on being a loner for as long as I can remember.”
“Wanted to be a hermit like whoever had lived in that cabin?”
“Thought about it once or twice. But I decided that I preferred the urban wilderness to this. Much easier to be alone in the city. At least you can buy good coffee and you have all that noise to keep you from thinking too much. Out here on a calm day, the quiet would kill you. Nothing but you and your thoughts.”
“So, see, you are afraid of being alone.”
I nodded. “I guess we all are. Maybe that’s why my father disappeared. Couldn’t handle facing life without my mom. Trouble is, no one knows for sure.”
“They never found his body?”
“Just the boat. Perfectly intact. No note. No nothing. Truth is, he could have gone to an island just like this one and kept on living. Could have let his boat just drift back out to sea. Maybe he just didn’t want to make small talk with the boys on the wharf anymore.”
“Do you think that’s likely?”
“My father seemed to have a set of rules in his head. He was a stubborn man and he stuck to them. Work hard. Take care of your family, but don’t overdo the emotional part. Never cheat anyone. Lie only when you have to and only to fisheries officers. Drink only beer. Never hard stuff. Don’t ever go wishing you had it better than what you have. Cut your losses when you have to, but stick to it. Never walk away.”
“But isn’t that what he did? Walk away. Sail away. After your mother died.”
Broken Man on a Halifax Pier Page 21