Punishment

by Linden MacIntyre

  Then she shuffled into the kitchen. She was wearing a man’s dressing gown and sheepskin slippers. Her hair was dishevelled from her bed. She waved briefly then paused to tie the belt. “Come in,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  She seemed so pale and frail that I momentarily forgot why I was there. Her voice was heavy with sleep or grief or illness. “Come,” she said. “Sit. I’ll put the kettle on.” I studied her back as she filled the kettle at the sink. I knew she was delaying contact, composing her emotions. Then she moved slowly to the stove, turned on a burner and stood there as if lost in thought.

  “I’m a bit of a wreck,” she said finally, without turning. “I haven’t spoken to a soul in days.”

  “Neil told me … he was here,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. Neil,” and she coughed and blew her nose into a tissue she’d been holding in her hand. “Who’d have thought … Neil a nursemaid.”

  “He was worried about you,” I said.

  “I suppose he was.” The kettle started hissing. “I suppose he’s around, big as life,” she said. “Strickland, I mean. Not Neil.” She attempted a dry chuckle. “Bigger than life, that fellow is.”

  “Strickland seems to be keeping a low profile,” I said.

  “Ah well,” she said. “You’ve got your own issues with him. I guess we’ll all have to just get used to having him around reminding us.” Now the kettle squealed and steam rose. She filled the teapot.

  We spent a lot of time examining our cups.

  “Young Angus John,” she said. “I didn’t expect it. She was so … there. In what he was saying. She cried, he said.”

  She tilted the teacup, swirled the contents.

  “I knew she was terribly sad, after Jack. But I never saw her cry. Why, do you think?”

  “She was trying to be strong, for you,” I said.

  “I hope that was the reason.” Swirled the cup again.

  “I used to be able to read the tea leaves,” she said. “That’s the trouble with tea bags. They hide the future, don’t they? But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.”

  “Have you thought of maybe going away for a spell?” I said.

  “Well, weren’t you threatening to take me on a trip?” She smiled at me for the first time.

  “Well …”

  “I’m teasing you,” she said. “It’s a good thing it’s kind of dark in here. I can imagine what I look like.”

  And then I remembered the dog. “I brought your dog back …”

  “No,” she said, mouth tight, eyes widening. “No, I can’t have him around. Not yet.”

  “He’s fine with me. It’s just that I thought …”

  “There are too many reminders already,” she said. “I’ve thought more than once that I’ll have to get rid of this place and everything in it. Move, start all over. And then I realize … it’s too late. It’s too late for starting anything. It’s all about finishing things now, isn’t it? We’ve had all our starts and this is where it’s got us. For better or for worse.”

  “Caddy, that’s not necessarily …”

  “I thought maybe if there was a trial, no matter how it turned out, we’d have a chance to work through all this, bit by bit. And I might understand things better at the end. But it’s …” She rubbed her forehead. “But it’s like … she just disappeared. I feel like one of those people you see on the news whose kid just vanishes and they’re still adrift years and years afterwards. And Strickland was the last one to see her. And we’ll never know what he knows.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t—”

  “I made up my mind to go to see him,” she said, interrupting me. “That’s what I was going to do. I still might. Just sit in front of him. And ask him to tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said weakly.

  “I probably don’t have the guts to do it anyway,” she said, staring off over my head. “Let me get you some more tea.”

  “No,” I said. “I’d better go. Poor Birch will be freezing in the truck.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you dropped by. It might take a little while but … Where was it you said you went on that holiday? With all the gay people?”

  “The Florida Keys,” I said. “Key West. You’d like it there. We’d just sit around drinking rum punch and watching the amazing sunsets, reading Hemingway.”

  “I can’t stand rum,” she said. “You must remember, the night I got sick and threw up in the little red truck?”

  “I thought that was lemon gin,” I said. “But anyway, we can get you something else.”

  “I’ll be thinking about it,” she said. And smiled at me again.

  There was palpable excitement the next time I went to the store. I could feel it even from the outside, the number of cars and trucks parked in the lot. I could hear voices from the doorstep. And when I stepped inside, everybody seemed to be talking. I went straight to the counter.

  “What’s the buzz?” I asked Mary.

  “You didn’t hear what happened? About the big raid at Strickland’s?”

  “When?”

  “Last night. Cops from three detachments. You’d think it was Saddam Hussein they were after. I could see all the lights through the trees so I snuck over to watch.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Drugs,” she said. “Seems they found a stash.” She nodded toward the cluster of men around the coffee urn. “Just listen to them.”

  Then I heard Neil’s voice. “Hey Tony, come over here, get a load of this.”

  He had the inside story. Somewhere near midnight, five police cars raced up Strickland’s lane, broke a door as they rushed into his house, armed to the teeth. “I talked to one of them this morning.”

  They’d been tipped off that there would be a significant drug delivery that night. Maybe the drug mule staying over. They were expecting to find a Hells Angels member there, according to Neil. But their intelligence was flawed.

  “There was no Hells Angel, only John Robert’s daughter, little Ashley. John Robert and the wife are devastated.”

  “What happened to her?” I asked, nausea rising in my throat.

  “It’s what’s gonna happen to her,” Neil said. “She claimed the stash they found belonged to her. Fifty Oxy 80s and a kilo of pot between them on the kitchen table. You imagine.”

  “Well. Maybe …”

  “She’s fifteen years old,” Neil exploded. “That fucker Strickland should be horse-whipped.”

  “That’s the point, see,” said Lester quietly. “She’s underage so they can’t do much. Strickland’s claiming the girl arrived out of the blue with that stuff and your fella was giving her a little sermon about how dangerous it was, just having that stuff, never mind using it.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “They let her come home,” Lester said. “They’re figuring out whether or not to charge her. It’s complicated. Nobody believes it was her dope. You’d have to know her. She’s a little far out, like most of them. But a dope dealer? No friggin’ way.”

  “Where the fuck would she get a load like that?” said Neil.

  “Some son of a bitch planted it there is where she got it.” The voice was controlled but savage. We all turned to see Strickland standing just inside the open door. “And I’d put money on who did it.”

  Neil moved toward him. “Do yourself a favour and get out of here before somebody throws you out.”

  “Why don’t you try it, you big tub of shit,” Strickland said. I noticed he had one hand concealed inside his coat pocket. I moved between them.

  “You should leave, Dwayne,” I said.

  His smile was dangerous. “Right,” he said. “I’ll leave. But you haven’t seen the last of me, Tony. I never thought you’d sink that low.”

  “You’re talking foolishness,” I said.

  “Really? Who else around here would want to see me back inside but you … get me out of the way, right? Get me fucking killed if you have your way
. All because of Anna, all because …”

  I lashed out at him, fist only half-closed. He stumbled, crashed against the door frame, face contorted. My hand was on fire but I grabbed for him, months and months of anger and confusion, doubt and loneliness surging in one impulse to punish. And then I was struggling to escape the apelike embrace of Neil MacDonald, whose breath reeked of onions and tobacco and dental plaque. I kicked back hard, felt the contact with his shin, then felt myself lifted off my feet and hurled to the floor.

  When my head cleared, Strickland was gone and Neil was panting over me: “You idiot, what did you fuckin kick me for?” Then he reached a hand down, to help me up.

  “Christ, man,” he said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

  My hand was scarlet and swollen, almost the size of Neil’s lethal ham-like fist, when I gingerly arranged the ice-packed towel on top of it. I knew the whole place would soon be buzzing with the news. It was depressing how they’d all assume that I’d tried to strike a blow for them and their community and their values and that I was finally, unambiguously, one of them. How little they knew.

  Neil called early the next morning to ask about my hand. I told him I thought I’d broken something. He thought it was funny. He’d told the wife what happened at the store and said Hannah was insisting that I come for supper some night that week. What about Sunday night?

  I said I was uncertain.

  “Better still,” he said. “Make it Monday night. It’ll be St. Paddy’s day. I always break the wagon for St. Pat. We’ll be able to have a few cocktails.” Laughing, he added, “I think Hanna has taken a shine to you. Says you’re a ‘fascinating man.’ I told her she doesn’t know the half of it.”

  He rang off, still laughing.

  I called impolitely late on Friday evening and after perhaps a Scotch too many. I was in a mood of uncommon cheerfulness.

  “Neil,” I said. “I just realized I hadn’t given you a firm answer about dinner Monday evening. I’d love to accept Hanna’s kind invitation. What time and can I bring anything?”

  “Just bring yourself. Around six.” He sounded grumpy.

  “I suppose you’ve been following the news today,” I said.

  “What news are you talking about?”

  “The African uranium that Powell and Bush have been going on about,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t exist,” I said. “Those documents they had were fake. It’s all over the news.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. Powell wouldn’t fall for that. And Bush talked about it in the State of the Union.”

  “Looks bad on them,” I said. “Hard to start a war when one of the main excuses turns out to be bogus.”

  “Your hole is out,” he said. And put the phone down. I stood smiling, remembering Duncan using that same phrase when logic failed him.

  16.

  Saturday was aglitter with frost and sunshine. The trail crackled under my feet and I had a sense my stride was longer and more fluid. I wanted to believe that perhaps I was emerging from a long dark tunnel of gloom that started in the spring of 2000 with Pittman’s death. I wanted to believe I felt better because I was thriving in my solitude. I was part of a community, but somehow above it. I knew that the confrontation with Strickland would become one of the legends of the place. So be it, a brief violent moment that might seal a lasting peace. Tony Breau, the hard man home from a hard place, best not disturbed.

  And then I made a decision, on that lovely weekend afternoon with the scarlet sun suspended just above the silent trees, and that decision would, as I see events so clearly now in hindsight, mark the beginning of a change in everything.

  I was passing the end of Strickland’s lane. I stopped and studied the many tire marks in the frozen snow, trying to imagine the scene earlier in the week, the aggressive urgency of the powerful cars, the squad of nervous, over-stimulated men with guns and body armour, following procedures that apply blindly, regardless of the target—terrorists and hostage takers, or pathetic losers, unsuspecting and alone. And I felt a wave of sympathy for Strickland. It was perhaps a sentimental lapse, identifying with another outsider.

  The dog was trotting in circles, sniffing tracks and footprints, and then I realized the raiding party probably had the assistance of a drug dog. “You smell dog, do you Birch?” And he trotted up the lane. Who sent them here, I wondered? It was at that moment I decided to visit Strickland.

  There was no sign of life around his house and after knocking several times I almost walked away. But then I heard footsteps descending stairs.

  He opened the door and we stared at each other for long seconds before he asked, “What do you want?”

  I shrugged. “Old habit,” I said. “Checking on parolees. Wondering how you’re getting along.”

  “It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “And we have nothing to say to one another.” He started to close the door.

  “I hope the kid was telling the truth,” I said. “That the drugs were hers. Because if they came from where I suspect they came from, you can expect another visit …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not going to spell it out,” I said. “I don’t want to know what your involvement is with the bikers. But you were getting visitors here when you were away. People checking the place out …”

  “You think I’m gonna believe that it was the bikers? Don’t make me laugh. They don’t care about me because I don’t owe them anything. And you know it. You or one of your friends planted those drugs. But it didn’t work. And I’m not going anywhere. And you can get off my property right now. I don’t ever want to see your pious face back here again. Ever.” He slammed the door.

  The dog, startled, dashed off toward the trees and I followed him. The woods were dark then, sun almost gone. The hard snow crust broke beneath my feet and I could feel frozen crystals melting inside my hiking boots. Then I found a track broken by someone else and remembered Mary—she’d probably stood among these trees watching as the raid went down. Soon I was in her lane and the dog was nowhere to be seen. I heard him barking and walked around her house to the kitchen door.

  “You realize you’ve got that dog for life,” she said when we were at her kitchen table. “I hope you’re prepared for that.”

  She poured coffee. “I could offer something stronger.” I declined. I told her we’d been out for a walk when, on an impulse, I decided to call on Strickland.

  “Did you believe him?” she asked. “About the drugs?”

  “That I planted them there?”

  “God no,” she said. “But I’m convinced somebody did. There’s been enough coming and going around here at all hours that nothing would surprise me. People lurking in the woods. I’ve been half-thinking maybe it’s time for me to move. It’s getting hard on the nerves. And now with the talk around the store.”

  “What talk?”

  “You can imagine. People talking about taking things into their own hands. It’s just talk. But it can get to you. And who knows about the drugs? I’d believe anything.”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “All of them. And it’s worse now, with John Robert’s daughter involved. And I know there have been other young ones over there doing God knows what. It’s a bad scene all around, Tony.”

  “What about Neil? What’s he saying?”

  “Not much lately. Not since court.” She laughed as she poured more coffee in my cup. “Neil’s too busy getting ready to invade Iraq.”

  Urgent news on the television, another crisis meeting somewhere in the middle of the ocean. This time Bush and Blair. Last chance for peace. “What did they do for news before all this, Birch Bark?”

  “Yap, yap,” he replied.

  “Yes,” I said. “I agree.” And turned the television off. Then as I stood to go to bed, I saw the winking red light on my answering machine.

  Her voice was soft and sleepy and at first I didn’t recognize her. “I w
as just thinking about you. Remembering things, out of the blue.” Then a long pause followed by a sigh. “I miss our conversations.” Another pause. “It’s Sophie, just in case you don’t remember.” She chuckled. “I often wonder how you are, out there. Call me sometime. Have you got a pencil handy?” Then there was another pause before she slowly dictated an Ottawa phone number, and then repeated it.

  The dog projected subtle disapproval as I prepared to leave on Monday evening—St. Patrick’s Day. He was sitting in the middle of the kitchen, head tilted as I put my coat on. Then he skulked to his coat-bed near the stove, curled up and lay down. “You’re getting good at the guilt trips,” I said, feeling a real twinge. He lifted his head briefly then dropped his chin to his paws as I turned away from him.

  It was a clear, cloudless night, air light with hints of spring freshness and the sky star-spattered. It felt pleasant to be going out, bound for a conventional domestic situation, even one involving Neil.

  Driving by the end of Strickland’s lane I wondered what might be happening up there. And then I wondered why it mattered. I should be grateful for his hostility. It was liberation, in a way, from my confusion. You’re pissed off at me, you sleazebag? But still I felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the unfairness—his belief that I’d betrayed him. That was hard to handle, so terribly ironic that it made me feel like going up there one more time. But I resisted.

  Neil was jolly at the door and the reason was no mystery. Bush had given Saddam Hussein and his two psychotic sons forty-eight hours to leave their country. Neil would be chuffed at the cowboy swagger, the unapologetic assertion of physical force in the cause of a high moral purpose. Something he had done a thousand times in his career, I’m sure—big cop, loaded gun, aggression and control, unsubtle ultimatum.

  I kept my sore right hand in my pocket, afraid of what his macho handshake would do to it. He clapped my shoulder and hurried me inside. “Come on in out of the chill. How’s the mitt? You pack quite the wallop for a quiet fella.” I’m sure he meant it as a compliment.