“She wasn’t like that.”
Sullivan turned away, nodding, then stopped in front of Strickland. “You must have known Dwayne Strickland as he grew up.”
“I knew who he was. Mostly by reputation.”
“Ah. Reputation,” said Sullivan. “Yes. A reputation for inappropriate behaviour, acting out. Getting himself into trouble.”
“That’s for sure.”
“A boy, an outsider adopted into a community—and I call this a great virtue of the place—a community with strong traditions,close-knit, clan-based families. A little boy taken in by an older, childless couple, good people, undoubtedly. But I would put it to you, an environment that might have lacked a certain warmth, the kind of nurturing that prepares us for the larger challenges of growing up. Would you agree with me on that?”
“They were lovely people, salt of the earth.”
“I’m not saying otherwise. Just that fate, destiny if you will, offered Dwayne Strickland something short of the ideal circumstances for a normal life.”
Caddy’s face was very pale. She said nothing.
“Just for the record, your granddaughter—Mary Alice—was born in 1985 to your daughter, Rosalie.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure …”
“And because Rosalie was quite young at the time, just a teenager, you and your husband raised Mary Alice as though she were your own. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Stewart … can I assume that Mary Alice, Maymie, knew that you and your husband were her grandparents?”
“It was never an issue.”
“And did Mary Alice know who her biological parents were?”
“She knew who her mother was.”
The judge had his glasses off. “I’m not sure of the value of this line of questioning. Why don’t we move on to something relevant?”
“I’m interested in knowing if there was conflict or distress relating to the circumstances of the victim’s … early life, Your Honour.” Then Sullivan said to Caddy, “You don’t have to respond. I’m just making an observation here.”
“Life has unpleasant surprises for almost everybody,” Caddy said, glaring at him. “We all have to cope.”
“Exactly my point,” said Sullivan.
“But nobody has the right …” she started, voice quavering, but Sullivan stopped her with a raised hand, and asked her sharply: “Mrs. Stewart, are you familiar with the word ‘scapegoat’?”
“Prick,” Neil murmured loudly enough to cause several people seated nearby to turn toward us.
During the recess Caddy stood alone, arms folded, studying the floor. “I don’t want to talk,” she said when I approached her.
“You’re doing great,” I said.
“He’s twisting everything around.”
“It’s what they do,” I said. “The judge understands that.”
She shook her head. “It’s not right. Trying to make it sound like it was her own fault.” She raised a hand to shield her eyes.
Caddy was back on the stand. My shoulders ached, my mouth was dry. I longed for it to be over.
“Mrs. Stewart, I want you to think back very carefully, to the months after your husband’s death,” Sullivan said. “Do you recall significant changes in demeanor, mood, behaviour of your granddaughter?”
“She was obviously grieving. I thought it was normal and even healthy.”
It was probably Sullivan’s fifth attempt to corner Caddy.
“I put it to you with genuine regret and sympathy that this young woman for reasons that are tragically common these days, at a time of personal stress, turned to drug use. Perhaps serious drug use, even before Dwayne Strickland showed up in the community, while he was still living in Ontario.”
“No,” Caddy said. “I mean she wasn’t like that. She was just sad.”
“You aren’t suggesting that drugs only became available in the community after Dwayne showed up.”
“I don’t know,” Caddy said. “I don’t know about drugs.”
“Well let me tell you a little bit,” he said. And he turned to the table and picked up a sheaf of papers. “August 1999, three young local men arrested near the convenience store, charged with selling marijuana. Did you know about that?”
“There was talk.”
“Mrs. Stewart, it was in the local newspaper. But anyway. December 2001, a young man home from Fort McMurray, arrested at a local dance in possession of a large amount of crack cocaine. Summer 2002, just past—marijuana grow op discovered on the Mountain Road. You didn’t know about any of this? And what about this, Mrs. Stewart—a young man, Jimmy MacLennan, charged with trafficking a year ago after he sold OxyContin pills to an undercover police officer. I think Jimmy was a friend of Maymie’s, was he not?”
“Jimmy was long gone when Maymie …”
“Ah yes, when Maymie passed away, but the point I’m making is that your granddaughter, if she was a drug user, wouldn’t have found it necessary to turn to a stranger, an older man like Dwayne Strickland, to buy drugs. She could easily have got drugs … just about any kind of drugs … from people she knew, people in her own circle of friends. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”
“She wasn’t a drug user,” Caddy said softly, wearily. “She was a good girl. And she knew who he was.” She was staring, nodding at Strickland. “She knew all about him.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan. “I was going to get to that. In fact, she met Mr. Strickland once before the night she died. And you found out about that. And didn’t it become a source of tension, maybe even conflict?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Caddy wiped her nose with the tissue.
“See, with all respect, I’m going to suggest to you that before she left your house that night, the young woman, Maymie …”
“She was just a girl, for God’s sake,” Caddy, said. “Stop calling her a woman.”
Sullivan paused, crossed his arms, studied the floor. Let silence hang in all the empty spaces.
“I want you to remember very carefully. Because I want to suggest to you that there was something bothering her that night,” he continued quietly. “She was what I might describe as ‘down.’ She seemed … depressed. And when you pressed her, and suggested that she should stay home there was an argument. And she was angry when she left …”
“There was no argument,” Caddy said wearily. “I just didn’t want her going to his place. I knew about his reputation.”
“Ah. There’s that word again. ‘Reputation.’ And in your opinion, what was that reputation based on, Mrs. Stewart?”
Caddy was silent.
“Had there ever been a drug bust at Strickland’s place?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. The answer is no. In fact, Mrs. Stewart, there’s nothing in Mr. Strickland’s background to give you any reason whatsoever to be concerned about drugs at his place. Only gossip. A young man living alone, a young man with a troubled background, unemployed. An easy target for local gossip and speculation. A scapegoat …”
The judge interrupted. “Mr. Sullivan …”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour. But I just want to acknowledge that the accused, Dwayne Strickland, has never claimed to be a saint. But he’s also experienced the very human tendency by a small community to form a collective opinion about someone who is, shall I say, different. Or someone who through a few bad choices and a lot of bad luck gets himself identified as a magnet for trouble. And I want to suggest to you, Mrs. Stewart, that this young man, Dwayne Strickland, learned important lessons from his mistakes and went to some lengths to share those lessons with people like your granddaughter.”
“For fuck sake.” Neil was on his feet, face enflamed. I wasn’t sure how many heard him but as he bolted for the door the judge stopped him. “You!”
Neil faced him.
“Another peep out of you and I will bar you from this courtroom. Do you understand me?”
Neil nodded, turned and opened the door, closed it gently behind him.
Sullivan seemed distracted for a moment, studying the yellow writing pad. Then he turned back to Caddy, spoke gently. “It’s understandable that something like this tragedy creates distress in a place. A peaceful, civil place. We have a deep need for answers. Why? What happened, what caused this aberration, this … contradiction? But not just any answers—we need reassuring answers. It isn’t good enough to find an answer that raises larger questions—about the state of our society, of our community, of our families.”
The judge cleared his throat. “Mr. Sullivan, do you have any other questions for the witness?”
“Just one, Your Honour.”
He came close to Caddy. “Mrs. Stewart—have you or any member of your family ever used OxyContin for any medical reason?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Stewart. Yes or no. Has anyone in your home ever had a prescription for the drug?”
“I can only speak for myself,” she said firmly. “No.”
“That’s your answer?”
“That’s my answer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stewart.”
Caddy stepped out of the witness box and came to sit beside me, rigid. It felt as if I exhaled for the first time all afternoon.
The judge was speaking: “I wonder if you gentlemen can give me an idea of whether it’s realistic to anticipate wrapping up by the end of tomorrow.”
Jones stood. “I intend to call three witnesses tomorrow.”
The judge frowned.
Jones said: “One is an undercover police officer, so obviously I don’t want to say too much just now. The other two were friends of the victim.” He sat down.
The judge was flipping through a large day-timer. “So obviously we aren’t likely to finish up tomorrow.”
“In the circumstances I think it would be prudent to assume that, Your Honour,”
Jones said sourly.
“But we can try,” said Sullivan.
In the corridor Caddy was quiet, nodding as people whispered comfort, or laid sympathetic hands on her arm or shoulder as they walked by. “It’s awful,” one said, “dragging you through this all over again.” Caddy smiled wearily, shrugged, and after the woman was gone, said, “I have to go to the washroom.”
I went to the men’s and Neil was there, washing his hands vigorously. “That was something,” he said. “I never heard the like. I got the diarrhea listening to it. Honest to Christ. I’ve been in here ever since. What happened?”
“Three witnesses tomorrow. One of them is supposed to be an undercover cop.”
“Great,” said Neil. “I was hoping for something like that. The Mounties had to be all over that asshole.”
On the highway I reached across and grasped Caddy’s hand. “You don’t have to be there for the rest,” I said. She was silent.
“The undercover cop … I want to hear what he has to say. And the others, too.”
“You know who they are?”
She was staring at the passing countryside. “One maybe, Angus John,” she said. “I heard he was around.” She sounded distant. “She had nice friends.”
We were at her place then. “Let’s do something tonight,” she said. “Go somewhere. There’s a new bistro in town. Or I could cook something.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Oh Tony.” And then she wept.
Standing by her piano studying her memories, she leaned back, to press her head against my cheek. My arms were loose around her middle, her hands lightly cupping mine. Then she moved my hands to her breasts and I kissed her neck. She turned and kissed me firmly, then more urgently.
“We should go upstairs,” I whispered.
“No,” she said. “Here. We should stay here.”
“The light …”
“Leave it on.”
Maybe she wanted me—or all the ghosts surrounding us—to see a different Caddy in the glare of light, to hear another Caddy in the sounds she made as she kissed me furiously, hands beneath my shirt, then tugging at my belt and buttons. Of course I responded, at that moment driven more by her expectations than desire. I raised her sweater, unhooked her bra with a dexterity that surprised me. I felt an old familiar surge as the sudden tumble of her breasts released me from whatever inhibition I’d been briefly caught in, sinking to the carpet in that gallery of silent witnesses on top of the piano, hanging on the wall. Jack. Maymie. Maymie. Maymie everywhere. Trousers down, shaken free, buoyed by my rampant readiness in spite of them. Maymie, Jack, Maymie, Jack. But, alas, only briefly rampant.
When we were naked on the carpet I realized that the sensations in my lower body were but tricks of memory. I was limp and my awareness of it guaranteed that there was nothing either one of us could do about it. I cursed the light, the smiling faces of the dead. I could feel her energy diminishing, imagined lust decaying, turning into pity.
No bloody way, I told myself, and in a display of passion that was more angry than erotic, I kissed and sucked and licked my way down the length of her long lovely body, all the way to her painted toenails, then up to where I knew they keep the keys to all their secret fantasies—every woman I’ve ever known. Hungrily, I banished all the phantoms from the room, even banished Caddy, tried to make her every woman I’d ever loved.
“No, no,” she said, suddenly alert. “No, Tony.” She had her hands firmly on either side of my head, cupping my ears, then tugging at my hair. “You don’t …” But it was too late for turning back, too late for either of us.
And then she said, “Oh … Jesus … Jesus.”
I guess I could have stayed the night. In fact, she asked me to. But I felt awkward and quietly declined. “I have to get home. We can’t forget about the dog.”
14.
Settling into the front seat of my truck on Friday morning, Caddy seemed subdued, an unfamiliar shyness in the look she gave me as she fastened her seatbelt. As we drove away I realized my failure to respond to her glance had caused her mood to swing to sadness, then toward what seemed like irritation. She was staring straight ahead, arms folded as if to stifle a sudden chill.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She glanced at me and said, “For what?”
“I meant to call when I got home last night.”
She produced a tissue, blew her nose. “Just as well you didn’t. You wouldn’t have got an answer.”
I reached across and caught her hand. She didn’t resist, but closed her fist around the tissue.
“Have you ever wondered,” I said, “how our lives would have been if we hadn’t been so gullible, way back when?”
“Gullible?”
“Yes. I was anyway. Taking everything literally, about sex and girls. I was amazed to find out later in life how many of us were just having a grand old time while I was struggling to be proper.”
She sighed. “You think other people were having a grand old time, do you?”
I realized I’d just made matters worse. I shrugged. “The way they tell it, anyway.” And felt the heat increasing in my face and neck as she stared at me, processing and suppressing all the things she could and maybe should be saying.
“About last night,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t want you to go getting the wrong impression.”
“And what impression would that be?” I tried to sound casual, but she didn’t answer. Then I became angry, or maybe sorry for myself. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference. The day was overcast making the mid-winter landscape seem even dirtier and drearier.
“The friend of Maymie’s,” I said at last. “I suppose you know him well.”
She sighed. “Not really. I know who he is, who his people are. But it’s different now. The young ones are hard to get to know. They aren’t interested in … old people. I think that when we were young, age didn’t make such a difference.”
And after a long pause, she said, “What was Strickland rea
lly like?”
I struggled for an answer that wouldn’t hurt. “I’d have to say he’s more like we were. Maybe a little old-fashioned. Growing up the way he did, with older folks.”
I looked across at her and she was nodding.
She didn’t speak again and finally we were at the courthouse. As I aimed the truck carefully into a space between two police vehicles she said, “I think you were fond of Strickland at one time.” I forced a smile. “Umm. I’m afraid not.”
Her eyes searched mine, but they were full of kindness. Then she leaned across and lightly kissed my mouth. “I’m okay about everything,” she said, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. “Really!”
I could only nod.
I followed Caddy to the third row and sat on the end chair by the aisle. She was beside me, coat folded across her lap, hands clasped together. She still had the balled-up tissue, now a tiny lump I wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t seen it in the truck. A sudden wave of tenderness swept through me, scattering misgivings about our past, anxieties about what lay ahead. I touched her hand. She turned her head slightly and smiled and maybe I imagined that she pressed her shoulder a little bit more firmly into mine.
Then two uniformed policemen escorted a third man wearing jeans and a tweed sports jacket up the centre aisle to a place in the front row. Caddy leaned her head close to mine. “The undercover cop,” she said. At that moment the clerk ordered everyone to rise.
The judge reminded us all that this was a preliminary hearing to determine whether or not there was sufficient evidence to justify a trial. There was a publication ban on all proceedings but, he warned, the court would be particularly vigilant about the evidence we’d hear today. Then he nodded toward Jones, who stood.
“Your Honour, thank you for the reminder—the evidence today is particularly sensitive considering my first witness. I call Corporal Ryan Jackson.”
The man in the sports coat rose from his front row seat and walked toward the witness box, pausing on the way to raise his hand and swear to tell the truth. He was obviously at home on the stand and comfortable with Jones, answering questions with articulate self-confidence. He’d been a police officer for twelve years and it came as no surprise that along with all his special certificates in the forensic sciences he had a master’s degree in sociology. His hair was shaggy, collar length. He wore large tinted aviator glasses of a style that had been popular among cool folk in the seventies and he had the kind of mustache that for a while, back then, was commonplace on cops and pimps. Of course I realized, as he was speaking, that the mustache was part of a disguise. Just then Caddy leaned close to my ear. “The glasses are fake,” she whispered. “And so is that mustache.”
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