by Dani Couture
Le Pin was the town of his youth; he’d undoubtedly be recognized within minutes. Even the thought of being in town fatigued him. Instead of looking for a job, or a new place to live, he’d crawled back into his unmade bed downstairs. If he slept, he didn’t have to think about why he was back in the town he said he’d never return to.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Simon woke. He went upstairs to smoke. Afternoons had become his favourite time of day. If mornings were his anxious times, afternoons were when he busied himself with problems that were easily resolved and not his own. Algoma’s house was an embarrassment of riches when it came to things that needed repair. Everything, it seemed, needed fixing. It almost felt like after Gaetan had left, the house had given up, though he was sure the issues were a result of several years of neglect. Like a geologist, he felt like he could pinpoint the exact year the cataclysmic event had happened: the year Leo had died.
When Simon’s cousin Louise had called to tell him what had happened to Leo, he’d immediately called his brother. They hadn’t spoken for some time, but Simon felt that his brother needed his support and might even accept it. He’d been wrong. As soon as Gaetan heard Simon’s voice on the other end of the line, he’d hung up.
Simon opened up the kitchen window and lit a cigarette. Algoma forbade smoking in the house, but if he smoked close to the open window when she was gone, she was never able to tell, or at least she never let on that she could. Since he’d first met Algoma when she’d started dating his older brother, he knew she could keep secrets. He wondered how much she was keeping from herself. Her life was built on an outdated routine that she kept performing like a caged animal who didn’t, or refused to, see the open door.
He leaned over the counter to exhale the smoke out the window and did a mental calculation of the cash he had left. Eighty dollars. A week of cigarettes. Instead of worrying about it, he set about his work for the day—fixing the pipes under the kitchen sink—but first he had to take everything out of the cupboard. Simon butted his cigarette on a dirty dish in the sink and sat down on the linoleum he’d scrubbed the day before. He opened the cupboard doors and began to remove everything inside, placing the items on the floor around him. Bright, glowing bottles of cleaner, heaps of dingy rags, and an assortment of brushes and scouring pads. When he grabbed the bucket behind the S-pipe, he saw a cardboard shoebox. He tossed the bucket behind him and grabbed the box, which was half-destroyed from the leaking pipe, and set it behind him.
His working space around the pipe clear, Simon went downstairs to get his brother’s toolbox to fix what should have been his brother’s problem. He couldn’t deny that part of him was happy to be doing it—cleaning up his brother’s mess. Somehow it made him right in the end, about everything, every argument he’d ever had with his brother now recalibrated.
Once the pipes were cleared, replaced, and tightened, Simon began to put everything back under the sink. When he picked up the shoebox, the still-wet cardboard buckled and ripped in his hands. Folded pieces of paper fell into his lap and onto the floor. Most of the notes were written on paper, but some were written on scraps of cloth, leaves, and pieces of torn wallpaper. Simon rested the shoebox in his lap. He picked up one of the notes and began to read.
______________
3:12 p.m. 19°C. Wind N, gusting.
Lightning charred oak still standing.
Ferd found a large boulder to sit on and laid his shotgun down with the barrel facing into the woods, the safety on. The wind was coming from the north. There was a bite to it, which made it feel like the beginning of fall, not the end of summer. He took off his canvas backpack and searched through it for his lunch. A tinfoil-wrapped turkey sandwich with two thick slices of mozzarella cheese and three slices of dill pickle. No butter or mustard. It was only when he made his own sandwiches—as was the case more and more these days—that they remained whole, uncut. His mother was partial to cutting sandwiches into four squares.
“It makes lunch seem smaller,” he’d argued.
His mother said it was more “civilized.” How butchering something was more civilized, Ferd didn’t understand. When left to his own devices, a knife never saw his sandwiches. They were simple hunks of bread, cheese, meat like he imagined Vikings or voyageurs used to eat, without the pickles, of course. After he unwrapped his sandwich, he flattened out the tinfoil and laid it down on the rock, so he could sit on it.
It was the first time that year that Ferd had gone hunting. It had taken him an entire afternoon to find his gear in the basement and the shed, to clean it, and ensure it was all in working order, just like his father had shown him. It was also the first time that he had gone hunting alone. Without his brother, the woods seemed denser, the air colder.
From his perch, Ferd faced the railway tracks that he’d walked along all morning in search of hares. Shining parallels of rail that went clear across the province, north to south. The hunting was hard going without another body to walk along the bottom to flush out the hares, but he kept pressing on, hoping that, either perseverance or luck, would prevail. It was not like he could ask any of the kids at school to join him. He listened to their stories about their mothers’ lasagnas, pizzas, and taco dinners. At Ferd’s house, it was hare stew, moose steak, and tourtière made with ground deer meat, complete with sides from his mother’s garden. The kids at school would sooner starve than harvest their own dinner, but then again, Ferd had thought that an avocado was a type of car until his teacher brought one into class one day. He’d readily admit that there were things his classmates didn’t know about him and he didn’t know about his classmates. But the one thing he knew for certain was that an avocado, whatever it was, was not a meal.
As he sucked on his juice box, he heard a train approach. It sounded its horn several times. He had no idea who they were warning. There were no houses around for miles.
“Twenty-six,” he said out loud. He guessed the train would have twenty-six cars. It was a game that he used to play with his brother, a game Leo always won. Ferd had suspected his twin had better eyesight, but Leo tried to convince him that he was psychic. As the cars passed with their freight, he counted each one. Every other car was covered in graffiti. It was like code, sent from one city to another. Spy messages hidden in plain sight. Thirty-two cars was the final count. He was wrong again.
Ferd balled up his tinfoil seat, tossed it into his backpack, and resumed his hunt. He was ready, but still careful. A year ago, Ferd had heard a story about a hunter in town who’d been surprised by a hare that had run right across his feet. The hunter had reacted too quickly and fired off a shot. He’d killed the hare dead but the meat was blasted apart and useless. And so was his foot.
Focus.
The day was overcast, the sky cluttered with thick grey clouds, but it was the cluster of darker clouds on the horizon that worried him. He didn’t want to get caught in the rain. His rain jacket was the one thing he’d not found the day before. His sweater would keep him warm so long as he didn’t get wet. He crossed himself as he saw his mother sometimes do when things became dire. The wind picked up and tree branches creaked eerily. The only bird Ferd could hear was a crow off in the distance, a persistent, urgent caw. He looked both ways down the tracks. No train. He carried on.
When Ferd had hunted this spot with his brother and father, Gaetan had walked the rails.
“It’s dangerous,” he’d said. “Too dangerous for you.” He’d made the boys walk along either side of the track, doubling his chances.
“Hunting is all about luck,” he said with false humility. Whenever someone asked Gaetan about his take for that day, he would respond: “I was lucky.”
“It’s never good to piss people off,” he’d taught his sons. “They know the real score. But you never tell them the truth and you never tell them your spot. ‘I was lucky,’ you say. ‘Thank you,’ you say.”
Ferd heard t
he chatter of a red squirrel in a tree close to the tracks. He pointed his shotgun at the small animal, aimed. “Pow,” he said, pretending to shoot. The squirrel ran down the tree and back into the woods.
A hare darted across the track. Ferd swung his shotgun around, took the shot, and nailed it. He put his shotgun down on the ties and ran over to retrieve the animal, a smile plastered across his face. At least he would have something to go home with. There was nothing worse than going home empty handed, even if no one was expecting anything. All that effort for nothing. Admittedly, he also liked to impress his uncle with his abilities. Every time he brought home a fish or animal, Simon seemed genuinely impressed.
Just as he was about to pick up his catch, a man walked out of the bush—a game warden. Ferd froze, his stomach a bowl of ice. The warden was taller and broader than his father, his shoulders seeming to take up the sky.
“I’ll be taking that,” said the warden, pointing at Ferd’s shotgun.
Ferd fought the urge to run. He’d never make it, not with his shotgun, and he wasn’t leaving it behind, or his hare.
The warden leaned over and picked up Ferd’s hare. “Nice shot but wrong season,” he said, “Where’s your guardian?”
Ferd remained mute, his heels dug into the ground.
The warden used a plastic zip tie to attach the hare’s feet to his belt. “You want to hand over the shotgun now and any shells you have in that backpack there? I’m not asking again. Where’s your orange vest?”
Ferd handed over his shotgun and all the shells he had. “I have an apple left. Do you want that, too?” he asked earnestly.
“Let’s go,” the warden said. “My truck’s just over there.” He pointed toward a cluster of trees.
Ferd hadn’t known about the utility road that ran alongside parts of the rail tracks—he’d always kept to the tracks. The road was used by workers from the rail company, but the Ministry used it to track hunters in the area to ensure everyone was on the up and up.
“What’s your name?” Ferd asked nervously.
“You’re a little young to be toting a firearm alone, don’t you think?”
Ferd said nothing. When they arrived at the truck, the warden cut the zip tie and tossed the hare into the truck bed where it landed with a padded thump.
“Go on, get in. It’s unlocked.”
Ferd climbed into the cab of the truck.
The warden sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition and they were off, but Ferd didn’t know where to.
“How did you learn to shoot like that?” the warden asked. He kept his hands at the ten and two position as he drove.
Ferd ignored the question and looked out the window.
“That a Browning?” the warden persisted. He tried a different approach. “I have a black lab named Browning. Another one, a golden, named Trigger. I’ve got two girls, too—your age, you might know them—but neither are interested in hunting. But the wife, she got her firearms license last fall.”
Ferd didn’t turn once toward the warden, his view a blur of leaves and mud. Fat drops of rain hit the windshield. At least he didn’t have to walk home.
When Gaetan had been around, Ferd and Leo had never been bothered by the Ministry. One of the top guys had liked drinking at Club Rebar too much to ruin it for himself, so he left Gaetan and his family to do as they pleased, and Gaetan was generous with his pours. As long as they weren’t hunting too close to houses, they were left alone. But with Gaetan gone, the rules had changed. Suddenly Ferd was just a twelve-year-old with a shotgun alone in the middle of nowhere.
Ferd took in the warden’s uniform, the yellow foam floater he had on his key chain, his overly gelled blond hair that was combed back so you could see his pink scalp in the spaces in between. He thought about his father and what he would do in this situation.
Ferd tugged on the warden’s shirtsleeve. “Can I at least keep my hare?”
Algoma ran inside the house, eager to get out of the rain. She was hungry and headed straight for the kitchen with her shoes still on, squeaking as she crossed the floor. “Ferd, you home?” she asked. There was no answer, but she heard movement in the basement. He was home. There was a note from Simon on the table: Gone for smokes. Be right back.
She grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter and a plate from the cupboard. When she turned to get a butter knife from the cutlery drawer, she saw a teacup on the kitchen window sill. She leaned over, looked in, and dropped her plate into the sink where it split into two neat halves. The teacup—one of her mother’s—held a roughly cut hare’s foot, a small amount of blood dried at the bottom. How many more good luck charms, she thought, would she find there without finding any luck at all.
______________
1:29 p.m. 24°C. Dead air.
Wind whistling in the tunnels like an old man’s tune.
The hulking booth attendant offered a strained smile when Gaetan waved at him as he passed through the turnstile, flashing his transit pass like it was a backstage pass to the city. A flight of stairs below, commuters stood elbow to elbow, breathing in one another’s coffee breath, and trying not to look each other in the eyes. Gaetan took his place among them.
In recent weeks, he had become very familiar with the subway system, its web of routes and stops. On his days off, he took transit to different parts of the city to find new restaurants that did not know his agenda: eat and run. In only a month, he’d hit restaurants in Little India, The Beaches, Parkdale, and the Danforth. Some days it was easy and he walked out of the restaurants without anyone noticing. Other times, he found himself running down unfamiliar streets looking for the right turn or open door that would save him.
When Gaetan hit a restaurant, he never chose anything expensive, and he limited himself to one beer to ensure his senses were not dulled when it was time to leave. He always made small talk with the server, asked how his or her day was going. He tried to act normal. He tried to be forgettable. Mostly, he wore good shoes. Running shoes.
That he could have opted to prepare his meals in his apartment and send the money he saved home crossed his mind, but it wasn’t the point. He felt a shiver of pride every time he dropped an envelope for Algoma into the mailbox. It was also the thrill of the kill. No longer able to hunt, he had found a new way to earn his dinner.
Gaetan took the subway to Spadina Station and boarded a southbound streetcar. He exited the streetcar at College Street, the beginning (or end) of Chinatown and continued to walk south on foot, careful to stay on the opposite side of the street of the first restaurant he’d dined and dashed from. It was a perfect day—bright and sunny—and the sidewalks were filled with midday shoppers. He took his time considering the restaurant he’d hit next. Some, he felt, were too small, while others didn’t have enough people already inside. He’d be too noticeable. Finally, he settled on a restaurant that specialized in dumplings. Through the plate glass windows, he could see that most of the tables were occupied and there appeared to be only one server. He went inside and took a seat close to the door and smiled at his waiter. “What’s the special?”
When it came time to leave, Gaetan stood up and walked out the door without so much as a glance from his waiter. The man, along with one of the cooks, was yelling at a baseball game on the television. Once outside, Gaetan looked over his shoulder, but the men were still watching the game, oblivious to his departure and the money that was still in his pocket. Without even thinking about it, Gaetan walked into another restaurant only three doors down from the last one. He wasn’t hungry, he was bored. The last restaurant had been too easy. This time, he sat in the back and grabbed the menu from the waitress’s hand before she could even give it to him.
“Sir,” she said, reprimanding him with a nervous laugh. “Be nice.”
“I’ll have number 4C and a Labatts,” he said.
The wo
man jotted down the order, smiled, and turned on her heel.
“And a number 15B,” he yelled after her.
While he waited for his order, he thought about Algoma. He imagined his wife opening the envelopes and discovering the money inside, but when he tried to think of what she would do next, he drew a blank. He didn’t know her life anymore, not even what bills the money would go to first. He recalled the winter the heat had been turned off. Algoma hadn’t been working because she’d broken her leg, and the boys were very young, maybe four years old. They’d barely had enough money to begin with and with Algoma not working, their financial problems compounded. During that month, the wood stove had been their constant companion, both keeping them warm and the pipes from freezing. Algoma had turned it into a game for the boys. Camping. She’d never complained once. He thought about their more recent bout of basement camping, the fervour with which Algoma had approached it, the desperation to knit a new unit out of the three of them. It had worked, for a time. But now his leaving had unravelled it again.
The waitress interrupted his nostalgia when she put his beer on the table. Gaetan took a swig from the bottle and tried to imagine Algoma’s face.
When the waitress returned with his leek and pork dumplings, he powered through his meal almost mechanically. He stuffed forkful after forkful into his mouth until there was nothing left on his plate except for a mix of vinegar and hot sauce.
Seeing his empty glass, the waitress walked over to him. “Another, sir?”
“No,” he stuttered. “Just the bill.”
The waitress nodded and went to the cash register. As soon as her back was turned, Gaetan stood up. Seeing how far away the exit was made his stomach turn. He’d made a bad choice sitting at the back, but he was still confident he could make it. Fueled by his past successes, he made for the door, his shoulders square, back straight. False confidence. When he heard the register chug out his receipt, he sped up his pace. “Sir,” he heard the waitress call after him. “Your bill, sir!”