by Chuck Crabbe
"What about you, dad? It's spring, you must be getting busy out in the fields again. How are you guys doing with last year's vintage?"
"Oh, we're getting by alright I suppose."
"Are you working much still?"
"Oh, yes. I'm out there every day...pretty much every day."
Finally, he asked about the boys. She was surprised that he knew exactly how old they were and what grades they were in. He had heard they were doing well in football.
"Gordon's got them into that then?"
"Oh, yeah," she went on, "you know how Gord loves his football."
"That's good."
"Dad, we'd like to have you out to the new house for dinner, if you can make it. Maybe one Sunday?" She knew that was the only day he felt safe taking his eye off the vineyard workers.
"Well, I'd have to take the ferry over in the morning."
"Yeah, it doesn't have to be this weekend or anything. Whenever you're free."
Late that April, on a Sunday, Harold Mignon woke up at 6:15 am, the same time he got up every morning. He showered, shaved carefully, put on a button-up, short-sleeved work shirt and pleated pants, and applied Brylcreem to his silver hair. From his night table he methodically gathered his belongings: a cheap silver watch, a pocket protector that held two blue pens and one red one, and a wad of folded bills held in a heavy rubber band. He counted the money and then pushed it deep inside his pocket. Smoothing his shirt out over his thick shoulders and slight belly he went outside, and as his routine dictated, selected a portion of his vineyard to inspect, then walked slowly through it. At places he stopped to adjust the vines or note repairs that needed to be made to trellises or wiring. When he was finished he found the only Mexican worker he kept on year round, a man in his late forties named Ruiz, and instructed him to get the pick-up truck and pull it round to the front of the house.
"Where are we going Mr. Mignon?" Ruiz asked in his thick Mexican accent.
"We're not going anywhere. You're driving me to the ferry station."
"And where's an old man like you going all by yourself, Gallo?"
"None of your goddamn business."
"Ah, well. It's a woman then. You should have just said so."
"I'm going to see my daughter, you fool."
"Usually Sarah makes the trip here to see you. Well, she mostly comes to see me, but you're here too, of course."
"I'm going to see my other daughter," he said and went inside to wash up. The screen door slammed shut and, for once, Ruiz was struck silent.
"So Gordon, what do you think of this Tyson kid?" Dinner was cooking and they were having tea in the living room. Elsie watched her father staring at a stain on the couch with disapproval. The roast was almost ready.
"Seems like he's doing a lot of damage. Helluva fighter."
"But I'm not sure how together he is upstairs," the old man said as he scratched at the material with his fingernail.
"He's had some problems."
"There's this young guy I box with a bit. He's worked for me the last couple of vintages. He says Muhammad Ali would have wiped the floor with Tyson. What do you reckon about that now?" He gave up on the stain.
"Did you say a guy you box with, Dad?" Elsie interrupted before Gord could answer.
"That's right."
"I didn't know you boxed," she said, surprised not just that he boxed, but that he would be doing anything like that at seventy.
"Oh, yes," he said. "All four years that I served in the Canadian Army. That's a long time ago now. Before I met your mother, of course."
"You never told us that."
"I'm sure I probably did," he answered, shifting in his seat. "You girls were never very good listeners, Elsie."
Layne had been listening while he got a drink from the fridge. "You were a boxer, Grandpa?" he asked, stepping into the doorway to the living room.
"Oh, a bit of one, I suppose."
"You punched people in the face?" the boy asked enthusiastically.
"I'm sure I did."
Ezra was not listening. He was lying by himself on the couch in the backroom with his headphones on. Elsie restrained herself from answering her father's insult, and then dismissed it.
"And now you're sparing with one of the Mexicans?"
"De la Rocha's his name. He's pretty fast too."
"Aren't you too old to box, Grandpa?" Layne asked. Elsie smiled and looked at her father.
"Now I don't think so," the old man said, a little amused. "We don't go trying to hurt each other or anything. It gives me some exercise."
"You were always good about getting your exercise," Elsie said.
Everyone was silent for a moment.
"So this kid's a boxer back in Mexico then?" Gord asked breaking the pause.
"Well, you know the Mexicans, lots of them fight here and there. He boxes, but not for a living or anything. He asked me if he could hang his heavy bag in one of the old rooms in the cellar. I didn't see any harm in it."
"And that's how you started sparring?"
"Simple as that..."
Elsie made a fine meal with great slabs of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, corn and dark, thick gravy. She served a bottle of Sauvignon from among those she had laid down at Walpurgis over the years. Harold Mignon ate voraciously, as he always had, and Elsie, watching him eat, was stung with the memory of the fear he had instilled in his wife and daughters each night at dinner. There had always been tension, the type one feels when they know someone's temper can explode at any moment, but does not know if it will, or what will set it off. To try and avoid his anger she and her sisters had always made the effort to be quiet and helpful. Even still, despite them trying to appease him and understand his mood, they had never been able to predict when he would come at them with an open hand or a long string of abusive words. Beside the coat rack he had kept an electric cord wrapped with duck tape to punish them. She remembered the way it looked hanging on the wall.
"Where's the wine from, Elsie?" he asked.
"Oh," she said, attempting to sound casual, "it's from Walpurgis. I made it."
"What's that now?" Harold said, grabbing the bottle from the table and examining the label. "So you did..."
Gord smiled. It was not often the old man was caught by surprise. Harold took another taste and allowed the flavor to settle in his mouth.
"Damn good wine, Elsie."
"I'm glad you like it, Dad."
"You had some vines up there in Walpurgis, did you?"
"Not much, just under a couple of acres. Olyvia's taking care of them for me now." There were certain topics that had to be avoided if they were going to get through the evening without incident, and Harold Mignon's oldest daughter was one of them. Ezra still had his headphones hanging around his neck.
"You like music, do you Ezra?" Harold said, motioning towards the cassette player on the table.
"Yes."
"What kind of music do you like?"
"My friend recorded this Badmotorfinger tape for me. I like it."
"That's rock'n roll?"
"Yeah..." Ezra tried not to laugh.
"You know, they say your aunt Olyvia is a helluva musician. Have you ever heard her play?"
The voice of God could not have struck Elsie harder. She stared across the table in awe. It took several moments before she even realized she was staring.
"Yeah. I've heard her lots of times," Ezra answered. "She's really good."
"So I'm told."
Elsie looked at Gord in disbelief, as if she needed another human being to confirm that what she had heard had in fact been what was spoken.
"Layne, Ezra, come over here boys," Harold said after he had pulled his boots on to leave. The two of them walked over to him. Their grandfather reached into his shirt pocket, behind the front flap of his pocket protector, and pulled out the money he kept there. He took the elastic band off the bills, peeled off two twenties, and gave one to each of them. "Here's a little something from your grandpa..."
"Thanks, Grandpa," Ezra said, hiding that he felt like his grandfather was speaking to him like a child.
"The boys' hands are too soft, Elsie," Harold said. Ezra looked at his hands. "Don't you do any work with those hands, son?"
"I do lots of work."
"You come out to your old grandpa's vineyard on the island one summer. Come work with me and you'll see... And you, too," he said, looking over at Layne.
"Only if you'll pay me," Layne said.
"Layne!" Elsie scolded him.
"What? I'm just saying."
"No, no. That's good, Elsie. Just like his grandpa, always thinking about how he can make a buck."
"Fucking rat!" Alex passed behind Ezra as he gathered his books from his locker.
"What did you say to him?" Rick Riley asked. He and Alex were always together now.
"I called him a fucking rat." Alex raised his voice to make sure Ezra could still hear. "That's what he is. I should kick his ass."
Rick looked at Ezra and Ezra felt his eyes, but was afraid to meet them. Rick saw that the younger boy was afraid and laughed out loud.
Ezra pretended he had not heard and continued getting his things together. The moment had been coming, and he had known it, but still he was not prepared. Alex and Rick turned and walked past him again.
"Fucking rat!" Alex said again. Rick knocked Ezra's binder out of his hand and his papers fell all over the floor. Ezra spun around fast, expecting a blow to come. But the two of them were already a few steps down the hall. Alex kept walking and Rick stared at Ezra over his shoulder, challenging him to say something.
Gord and Elsie had asked him repeatedly if he'd had any trouble with Alex at school. They told him that it was very important, because of his case, to tell them immediately if something happened. In the time since his arrest Ezra had obeyed them unconditionally. As soon as Gord got home from work that night Ezra told his parents what had happened. They listened carefully and Elsie had him write it down. After dinner Gord took him and Layne into the backyard.
"If he comes up to you, stay calm, but keep your hands up near your face."
Ezra held his hands up by his jaw. He felt like this was all a little stupid.
"Layne, stand across from your brother." Gord pulled Layne into position by his shoulders. "Listen carefully now. There's two feet of open space in front of you—two feet to which you're always entitled."
"Okay."
"If he comes into that space, take one good step backwards. If he steps forward again, then you take the first punch."
"Why?"
"Because if he steps into that space again, he's decided he wants to fight, and there'll be no talking your way out of it."
It was good advice. Gord had them practice several times. Layne would take a step into Ezra's space, and Ezra would raise his hands and take a step back. Then Ezra would pretend to punch him in the face. Then Layne wanted to try, so they switched positions.
"It's nice outside," Gord said. "Layne, why don't you go inside and grab the football? We'll play catch out front for a bit."
Layne ran inside and got the ball. They ran patterns against one another and worked on their throwing motions while Gord instructed them. It was dark when they finally came inside.
Ezra started running. He never went out anymore because they said it would be a while, maybe a long while, before they could trust him again. And so, either late at night or as soon as he got up on the weekends, he would go out and run by himself. Sometimes he ran through town, and sometimes he ran along the lakeshore and all the way out to the pier. When he got there he would walk out on the rocks, right to the very end, and sit down under the lighthouse. The water was always rough at this time of year. He would sit for a while and think then get up and jog home. During the last stretch, when he was past the bend in the road and could see all the way to the pillars at the end of his driveway, he would run as hard as he could and finish breathless, his heart pounding against his ribcage, bent over with his hands upon his knees.
The day he was to be sentenced for his crime came late that June. Before going to the courthouse with Elsie and his lawyer they went to lunch so they could discuss what was about to happen. Before they went into court, the lawyer told Ezra to spit out his gum.
The judge, The Honorable Peter Saynt, read the character reference letters out loud in the courtroom. Ezra started to cry when he heard the words written about him. They spoke of his virtues, his contributions to his community, his athletic and academic potential, and the belief that his actions were completely out of character and would never be repeated.
"Does your client wish to change his plea, Mr. Duchamps?" the judge asked, frowning over all of the testimonials in front of him.
"He does, Your Honor."
The judge looked at Ezra. "Please stand up, son."
Ezra pushed back his chair. It scratched along the floor in the silent, half-full courtroom.
"Ezra Mignon," the judge began, "you have been charged with the crime of break, enter, and theft at the location of Calvary Pentecostal Assembly in Belle River, Ontario. Do you understand this charge?"
"Yes."
"And how do you plea?"
"Guilty."
"Let the record show that the accused has plead guilty. We'll take a short break and then proceed with sentencing."
"Why are you crying?" Elsie asked when they got outside. Young thugs in baseball hats and big, baggy coats stood smoking at the bottom of the courthouse steps.
"I don't know," Ezra said, trying to control his tears.
"Were you frightened?"
"No, not really." A lawyer came outside in a panic and retrieved one of the delinquents.
"Was it hearing all those things everyone said about you?"
"I guess so. I don't want to talk about it, okay?"
"Alright," Elsie said, holding something else back.
"This is a very serious offence," Judge Saynt, gathering himself, began. "If an adult were involved, I would be sentencing jail time. It is serious not just because of the crime itself, but because of the location at which the crime occurred. Our churches, particularly in days like these, are among the few cornerstones left in our communities. This was a church you were trusted inside, Mr. Mignon, and the congregation believed you would not abuse that trust. Do you understand that?"
Ezra nodded silently.
"Though Mr. Duchamps has suggested that you were led into this by your peers, to my thinking this is cause for additional concern, not pardon. It tells me that you are vulnerable, that you are capable of following the criminal element, which, in the eyes of the law, is the same thing as being of it. Of additional concern is the tendency you have shown toward destructiveness." He paused for affect, as if he were a game show host keeping a contestant in suspense. "However, this is your first offence." Ezra heard the lie in his voice even if the judge did not. The first I have been caught for. I am punished not because of my actions but because of your discovery. The actions remain, and who will punish them? "And, according to the many generous letters you have presented to the court, it seems that many members of our community are of the belief that you are a fine young man. Do you realize that the people who wrote these letters have put their names on the line for you, Mr. Mignon?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"I hope so." He took a moment to look over the papers below him again. "Please stand."
Ezra stood before the court. "Ezra Mignon, I find you guilty of the charge of break, enter, and theft and hereby sentence you to one year's probation, forty hours of community service, and order that you refrain from being within thirty-two meters of either Alex DaLivre or Adam Nayeve. I trust that I will not see you in my courtroom again." With that, Judge Peter Saynt lowered his gavel.
When they got home Ezra asked Elsie to shave his head. He wanted it as short as she could get it. Elsie brought the clippers, cleaned them carefully, and told him to sit down on a chair in the middle of the kitchen. She took a fresh towel and laid it
upon his shoulders. The steel on the clippers felt cold and clean against his head. His long brown hair fell to the floor.
He spent the weekends alone and did not dare to ask to leave. He was lonely again, and loneliness is fuel for the fire of a bad conscience. The fear that one of his other crimes would be discovered tormented him. Perhaps, now that his fingerprints were on file, the police would discover that he and Alex had stolen that woman's car. If they came for him again, he would run.
In fact, the only time he did leave the house was to run. He ran down Notre Dame St., through the heart of Belle River, secretly hoping that those who knew of his crime and conviction would see him training and begin to believe in his redemption. On other days he ran along the lake road, away from everyone, and made each stride only about himself.
Saturday and Sunday mornings were market days in the town of Belle River. Butchers, farmers, craftsmen, and gypsies from all over Essex County set up little stands on either side of a narrow side street that ran perpendicular to Notre Dame.
One morning, as Ezra ran through town, he encountered the market. Of course the market area was crowded, and he weaved in and out of the people standing in the street and in front of the stalls. Held up by the crowd, he ran in place until a space cleared that he could slip through. . Finally, he broke onto the street and headed for the high school. He ran hard and took pride in the long strides and the way the muscles in his legs bulged as he ran. As he turned the corner he ran hard across the uncut wet grass. Reaching the bleachers he slowed, placed his hands on his head to help him catch his breath, and walked up and down the football field. When his pulse returned to normal he climbed the bleachers and sat down at the top.
Looking across the field to the neighborhoods on the other side of the fence, he saw a group of children playing road hockey between two rows of cookie-cutter houses with neatly cut lawns. He imagined that their lives were much different than his. Using the bottom of his t-shirt, he wiped the sweat away from his face. He was thirsty and wished he had water. One of the boys playing hockey, feeling that the rules had been broken, screamed out at the offense. Ezra saw two figures climbing the fence. Even before he could see their faces clearly he knew it was Alex DaLivre and Rick Riley. He was alone, in a very open space. The danger sank in as he wondered what they were doing up so early in the morning. Probably walking home from some dive they had been high in the night before.