Punishment

by Linden MacIntyre

  “When was that?”

  “I dunno. Six, ten months ago. I put it out of my mind. Why?”

  “Who did you report this to?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Were there witnesses?”

  “There were a couple of cons in the area but I doubt if they heard anything.”

  “Do you remember who they were?”

  “I really didn’t take any notice.”

  “What exactly did Dewolf say?” Now he had a notebook in his hand, flipping through for a blank page.

  “He mentioned a name, said it was my nickname. Wentworth. I’d never heard it before. Then I checked it out and found out who Wentworth was.”

  The larger one, with the shaved head, had his notebook out now too. Mumbled, “So you know who Wentworth was?” I remembered an uneasy feeling from earlier, when this one was asking me questions about Pittman. How he would refer to Steele as Tommy.

  “Yes,” I said. “I found out.”

  “And why didn’t you report this?”

  “As far as I was concerned, Dewolf was just another yappy con. If I took every little …”

  “It isn’t just about you, Tony,” the smaller, smarter version said. “This is about the whole place. A potential threat to you is a threat to everybody.”

  I smiled patiently. “Yes, but there’s such a thing as threat assessment.”

  The big one leaned across the desk. “It’s not your place to be making unilateral assessments. Now what was the basis for your beef with Dewolf?”

  I looked at him steadily, trying to convey that I knew as much about institutional security as he did. “I never laid eyes on the asshole before in my life. So what has he been saying?”

  The smaller one sighed. “Vague remarks. And you’re right he could be posturing. But there’s enough in what he says about people wanting you taken out that we’re taking it serious. So what’s the beef about?”

  “I have no beef. Not with him.”

  “Not with him?”

  For an instant I considered explaining but an instinct made me shrug and look away from the hard unsympathetic face in front of me. “Not with anybody that I know.”

  The big one sat back and folded his arms. “So what do you think it was about then?”

  I shrugged, pursed my lips, folded my arms too. “Beats me.”

  “Tommy Steele,” he said.

  “Tommy Steele,” I repeated, trying to seem surprised. Forced a smile. “Tommy. What about him?”

  “He’s over at Warkworth now. We were wondering if you ever hear from him.”

  “Ahhh. Right. I’d forgotten that he moved over there. Maybe he’s picked something up, about this Dewolf. What do you think? You think it might be worth talking to him?”

  The smaller IPSO said: “You and Steele … how did you leave things?”

  I shrugged. “Who’s to know?”

  I looked from one to the other, picked up a pen, rolled it between thumb and forefinger, genuinely considering. For a moment I wanted to tell them about the fallout after the inquiry into Pittman’s death; the silence and the tension I’d encountered in the day room, among the lockers. Tell them about the hostile glances, the feeling of exclusion, especially after Steele’s demotion and transfer to Warkworth. Tell them that Dewolf’s message really came from Steele. But I asked myself: Why make matters worse? Why compound the damage done already, why confirm your reputation as a rat? And, really, how could I tell these goons that I now considered my co-workers to be more dangerous than any con? Especially the bald one, who called Steele “Tommy.”

  At last I said, “I doubt if Tommy knows anything, I’m sure he’d have come forward if he’d heard.”

  “You and Steele,” the big one said quietly. “He couldn’t have been a happy camper after the inquiry.”

  I tried to compose a poker face. “Tommy? We talked things through. What are you getting at?”

  The smaller one, seated, now picking at a cuticle, said, “We’re all on the same side here, Tony.”

  I shrugged. “Believe me, I want to help you. But it’s likely just some old goof in Warkworth with a grudge. I’m sure there’s more than one. I checked Dewolf’s history and didn’t find anything to worry about, as long as I’m over nine years old.” I smiled and dropped the pen.

  They stood. The smaller officer leaned across the desk, held out his hand. I grasped it firmly. The skinhead turned toward the door, no courtesies. “We’ll be getting back to you,” the smaller one said.

  “Come on,” I said, suddenly feeling the slackness in my smile. “What’s to get back about? This is nothing. Dewolf is nobody.”

  “That’ll be for somebody else to decide.” And then they left.

  It occurred to me to talk to Anna. Get a lawyer’s perspective. Should I make a legal move on Steele? Should I be getting ready for a problem with the service? But I let it slide and then it was another summer. We talked about vacation.

  “We should really spend a week in the old place,” I said. “The place needs some work. What do you think?”

  “I think you should go alone,” she said. “Give me a chance to catch up on some files. Then maybe …”

  “St. Ninian without you?” I laughed.

  “Oh, I’m sure there are some old girlfriends there to keep you happy.”

  In the end we decided to postpone a vacation. “We’ll take all of January,” she said. “We’ll get a place in Florida. Just do nothing for a month.”

  Anna had become extraordinarily busy, away from home a lot. We started referring to time spent together as “dates.” A growing legal practice sucks up time and personal attention but I felt no resentment at all. We’d had what felt like a nine-year honeymoon. Now we were both wrapped up in work and I was happily observing her grow confident and vibrant in spite of all the pressure and professional demands—not to mention the burden of two dysfunctional parents.

  “How much longer does your dad have ’til retirement?” I asked once.

  “He’ll stay in the job as long as they let him. I can’t imagine what will happen when all they have is each other. Oh, and by the way, Dwayne may well be heading for a halfway house …”

  “What …?”

  “You’d be amazed by the progress. He’s like a different person. Dad thinks he’s almost ready.”

  Fridays she’d always try to be home early—we tried to keep one evening a week for going out together. And when she did arrive at about nine o’clock on a Friday night in August she seemed to linger in the front hall, slowly fumbling through her briefcase. She finally retrieved a sheet of paper and her glasses.

  “I’ve been in Warkworth,” she said, when finally she noticed me. Her face and tone were tense.

  “Warkworth,” I said. “How are things in Shangri-La?”

  She didn’t seem to be listening. “Tony, we have to talk about something.”

  “Sure, what.”

  “This,” she said. She was holding up the sheet of paper, smiling tightly, eyes narrowed.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know what it is. Who the hell is SM?”

  “Give it to me.”

  She handed it over.

  In the end Sophie had copied it by hand, added a little note. “The wisdom of experience … SM.”

  “Where did you get that?” I asked. I was hoping that I sounded indignant, to mask the guilt I really felt.

  “I asked a question. Who is SM?”

  “Sophie MacKinnon,” I said. “You’ve heard me mention Sophie, from work.”

  “Sophie MacKinnon …”

  “The psychologist at the RTC.”

  “That Sophie? I thought she was French.”

  “She is French.” It was a welcome turn in the tone of the conversation and I was about to embark on an explanation of Sophie’s fascinating family history, going back to the conquest of Quebec in 1759.

  “So what’s she doing writing poetry to you?”

  “She didn’t write it.”r />
  “Whatever. You should know, Tony, that I’ve been hearing embarrassing gossip around Warkworth. Now this? I think you owe me an explanation.”

  The explanation, under Anna’s interrogation, went on for days. Tony on the witness stand, Sophie invisible but everywhere. To be precise, it happened mostly at night as during the day we were both preoccupied with the demands of our professions. For once I felt the elation of relief as the heavy doors of the penitentiary closed behind me every morning.

  I considered telling Sophie what was going on at home,but decided not to. It was best to leave her out of it for as long as possible.

  I’ve had a lot of experience with lawyers so I could follow the trajectory of Anna’s strategy, anticipate the inevitable Big Moment: So have you two slept together? And I knew that when the moment came I wouldn’t lie. The choice, for me, would be between simplicity and exculpatory context. The value of indignant posturing was dubious, especially with Anna. Looking back and knowing what she was really up to I can only laugh.

  I started with a pre-emptive denial. There was nothing between us. Sophie’s French, a psychologist, mystical, always trying to see into the soul. And Anna seemed to have been reassured and the discussions became, mercifully, more general—state of our relationship, pressures of work, loss of intimacy, stuff that I could handle easily, stuff that had been front and centre on both our minds, as we discovered.

  I carefully measured out my concerns and actually thought that we were making progress. But then on the third evening, halfway through a bottle of Burgundy (I had just remarked on what a great year 2000 was and how maybe we should take our holiday in Burgundy instead of Florida), she said: “Let’s get back to Sophie.”

  “What exactly have you heard?”

  She smiled, almost warmly. “I asked the question.”

  I smiled back. “I didn’t realize it was a question.”

  Her smile died. “Come on Tony, let’s not play games. I’ve heard the gossip. Now tell me, straight out. What’s between you two?”

  We’re friends and colleagues, I explained. I was intrigued by her name the first time I encountered her at a team meeting. She was obviously francophone but the name on the identifying card in front of her, S. MacKinnon, suggested that she was married to someone Scottish, maybe someone from where I was raised. So during a coffee break I introduced myself and she informed me that MacKinnon was her own name. She came from a small place in Quebec where many of the invading British soldiers settled back in the eighteenth century, inter-marrying with the French or women from the native tribes, so that there were many there who, though unilingual francophones, had names like MacKinnon, Fraser or MacDonald. And I recall how Sophie laughed at the irony of names—“You have a French name but you’re an Anglo.”

  In meetings we seemed to agree on most issues. I came to rely on her judgement, common sense and, yes, compassion. She believes in people, actually means it when she talks about “correction.” We’ve become natural allies. Drink a lot of coffee together. I laughed. Anna was just listening, frowning. Then I brought Strickland into the narrative, and I might be imagining it now but there seemed to be a subtle change in Anna’s posture. I told her how Sophie became a vital connection between Dwayne and me, how Sophie had asked for my help in working to transform Dwayne from con to citizen. I might have grown suspicious but at the time I was simply relieved by her momentary change of mood.

  ——

  Four days into the confrontation that started with the poem, Sophie called my office. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s cool,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Was just wondering. Haven’t seen or heard from you for what seems like years.” She laughed. “Isn’t that pathetic. I feel like an insecure school girl.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s a bunch of things going on. Let’s have a lunch soon.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good, Sophie. Thinking of you all the time.” And that, at least, was true.

  Anna was sarcastic. “So. Coffees and lunches and God knows what … what did you find to talk about in all that time. I’ve never thought of you as a compulsive conversationalist, Tony. And surely it wasn’t all about your convicts.”

  “Actually it was mostly about work. And her family.”

  I had asked about the three children who were conspicuous in photographs on her desk. The oldest had just turned thirteen. Her husband, also in a framed photograph, was a carpenter—a very skilled carpenter who built cabinets for the kitchens and bathrooms of wealthy people.

  “Her family? What about your family?”

  “Please …”

  “I can’t believe that you would talk about us and our marriage to an outsider. That’s appalling.”

  “What?”

  “You expect me to believe …”

  “I never discussed our marriage with Sophie. There was nothing to discuss. I thought our marriage was just fine.”

  “I can hear the two of you. I can’t believe this. So just how far did this little serial tête-à-tête proceed, and I want an honest answer.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “My God! Where’s your head, Tony? Don’t play stupid with me. Did. You. Have. Sex. With. Her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you fuck her, Tony?”

  I was—and I can’t think of another description—flabbergasted by that ugly, vulgar word. My head swarmed with hot self-righteous answers. Or, I should say, responses because all the possibilities came out of a primitive instinct for self-preservation. Lie. Dissemble. But there could be no retreat. Lying and evasion could only make it worse.

  “Yes,” I said, struggling for dignity. “Once.”

  She became, I thought—I hoped—very calm and suddenly so did I.

  We stared at each other for the longest time and in the silence I felt the love for Anna that I had forgotten because over time it had broken into fragments that had become redistributed in a variety of places. Isn’t that what happens to long-term couples? The vast emotion that brings us together eventually gets broken down and packed away in smaller packages. Sort of like the way information is stored in tiny bits on digital devices, ultimately unrecognizable for what they are in aggregate. Sometimes we forget all about them until we stumble across one little package unexpectedly. And I wanted everything to not have happened. For a moment, I wanted my life to not have happened.

  Our house was very silent. I ached for a sound. Anything. A crash of something falling, smashing. Heavy metal music. The clash of steel cell doors closing, the terrifying stampede sound of a cell extraction unit. Anything to distract from the inevitability of what would come next.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  The answers rose quickly, silently to my tongue. Yes. No. “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “That’s as bad as a yes,” she said. “A chicken-shit yes.”

  “What I’m trying to say …”

  She sighed, walked to a window, arms folded across her chest. And eventually, with her back to me, she asked: “So what are we going to do?”

  I could have said we could work it out. Maybe I should have said it. Maybe it was true. I could have said: there’s nothing between Sophie and me and that was, in physical terms, quite true by then. But emotionally? I suddenly felt emptied out of words and thought. But I knew the unutterable pain betrayal causes—I knew its permanence. I had learned about it the hard way when I was nineteen years old.

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose you are,” she said.

  From the tone I knew that she’d already moved on. I just didn’t know where she was coming from and I didn’t have a clue about her destination.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said finally.

  ——

  I lay awake in the guest room. I desperately wanted to call Sophie, fought the impulse, satisfied myself with an imagined conversation: You w
ould have been impressed. It was, in the circumstances, surprisingly civil.

  At 2:38 in the morning I tiptoed into our shared bathroom and collected basic toiletries. Razor. Deodorant. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. That’ll be enough for now. Motel rooms always have shampoo.

  Later, lying in the darkness of the anonymous motel room, surrounded by the impersonal fragrances of commerce and other transient lives, I made a mental note of the date: August 5, 2001. It would be one of the benchmarks in memory, one of the series of existential dots that, when joined together, show the jagged course of a screwed-up life. I’d checked into a low-budget motel near enough to the highway that the night was busy with the hurried sounds of traffic. I noted in the parking lot all the minivans with bike racks and roof racks, the paraphernalia of family adventures. And I thought of Sophie, surrounded by her little clan. Would the outcome have been any different if my answer to Anna’s loaded question had been no? If that lovely night in June had never happened, would I be here now, trying to anticipate my future? What if I had been able to clearly, honestly, unambiguously answer yes or no to the logical question, Are you in love with her? But, I told myself, it doesn’t matter, does it? Even if this dreadful moment were a consequence of just one memorable evening in an unlikely far-off place, I’d still have no regrets.

  ——

  The motel room was stale and stuffy when I awoke to the sound of children in the parking lot, the consciousness of where I was and why I was there restored by the glare of daylight.

  I sat for a long time naked on the side of the bed, staring at the floor. I thought of calling home, decided to wait until the house was empty, leave a message on the answering machine. I’m okay, in case you’re wondering. I’ll stop by the house later in the day to pick up some clothes. I hope you haven’t changed the locks already. Tried to sound ironic.

  Then I left a message at Sophie’s office. Hi, it’s me. It’s important that we have that lunch soon.

  It was distressing to find two cars in a driveway I expected to be vacant. I circled the block but they were still there. I parked in front of a van, where I could watch the driveway through the mirror on the passenger side. One was Anna’s blue BMW but I didn’t recognize the second car, a small red Mazda. After fifteen minutes I was certain that the visitor was there for the long haul. A man friend perhaps? Unlikely. I circled the block again, pulled in behind Anna’s car, strode to the door and knocked.