Soldier Boy

by Glen Carter

  “I want to tell you something,” Sarah said.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “When we met tonight. I already knew who you were.”

  That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, Kallum thought. Sainthood was definitely not in the cards, but nor were the fires of hell.

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “And that’s not fair.”

  “Who said anything about fair?”

  “Touché.”

  Sarah looked at him mischievously. Eyelashes fluttered, producing in Kallum a gut full of butterflies. Finally, she said, “We kissed once.”

  “We did?”

  “I was sixteen.”

  “I’m going to be arrested.”

  “Stop it.”

  Kallum leaned forward, caught the scent of her perfume, and lost focus. “I can’t believe I don’t remember.”

  Sarah giggled, a sound that would always connect his ears with his heart. “Do you want to hear about it?”

  “I’m all ears, just a short memory.”

  “I was home from school and at some charity event at the fishermen’s hall. There were several men. You were one of them.”

  “Did you kiss us all?”

  “No, silly. Just you. And I actually paid good money for the pleasure.”

  He did remember. A fisherman’s home had burned, and there was no insurance. The union had pulled together to help. Bake sales and 50/50 draws. There was a dance, and one of the wives had suggested a kissing booth. Kallum was roped in. “You were there with a friend,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You were both giggling.”

  “It was a dare.”

  It was all coming back. “You said you liked my stubble.”

  “I wondered if it would tickle.”

  “Did it?”

  “I’m afraid whether or not it tickled was lost in the moment.”

  “Never to be known.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes. Wisps of steam rose from the coffee. Aromatic, dreamy. Sarah brought the rim to her mouth, and afterward a napkin dabbed the cream from her beautiful lips.

  At the kissing booth, she had pecked him like a little girl. Another sweep of cherry lip gloss and her life went on, at whatever boarding school her father was paying for. It wasn’t likely the guy with the stubble had been her debutante moment. She had grown into a woman in rarified air, a million miles from the diesel and shithawks of his life.

  “School must have been tough,” Kallum said. “Being away from your parents.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But we see each other when we can. They’re busy, I’m busy. You know how it is.”

  Kallum saw no reason to probe. He wasn’t entitled to her story.

  “Dad’s business is mostly overseas,” Sarah said. “But Harbour Rock is his home. My grandparents and a couple of uncles are buried here. My mom is from New York, and I’m an only child.”

  “I know how it is.”

  Sarah frowned. “Always missing something.”

  “You know it.”

  She held his gaze. “You’re a good listener. I like that.”

  Kallum simply nodded.

  “But . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “You’re thinking poor little rich girl, orphaned by globe-trotting parents. Nothing to do but soak up their money and whine about being bored and lonely.”

  Kallum gave it some thought. Then, “Here’s what I think. Money is a crutch and a curse. I’m not stupid enough to believe it solves every problem, but it’s sure nice to have when you really need it. I really need it now, because refurbishing an old schooner costs a ton of dough. But money can make you stupid and lazy and rob you of your initiative and your goals.” Kallum stopped, as if waiting for a funnel to drain before pouring in more fuel. “I can’t believe you’re bored or lonely. But I’d love to make sure you never are.”

  Sarah leaned across the table. Her warm, milky breath reached his lips and she kissed him softly. For a time, immeasurable, Kallum’s world locked up. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “Well what?”

  “Did it tickle?”

  3

  As promised, Kallum and Sarah showed up the next night, ready to work. Sarah was already up to her ears when Kallum walked in. Myrna greeted him like an old friend and directed him toward a door where he would find the “chairman” of the sign committee. Kallum smiled at Sarah along the way. She waved and rolled her eyes while juggling the phone and a voters list.

  He walked through the door into a small garage to find Rutter waiting. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “Don’t be late again.”

  “Chill.”

  Signs were stacked everywhere, and two guys were busy with staple guns making more. A pickup was ass-ended into the place, in the process of being loaded.

  “You’re on saw duty,” Rutter said. “See that pile?”

  A pallet was situated in a corner. Next to it a mitre saw. Rutter walked over, grabbed a piece of wood, and quickly measured it. Then he placed it on the saw and brought the blade down. It roared for a second, creating two four-foot sticks. Rutter took one of them and used the saw to fashion a pointed end. Then he stacked the piece on a second pile. He gestured at the two guys with staple guns. “Fred and Tom are pretty fast, so you’ll have to keep up, or else the whole operation will grind to a halt.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Rutter turned without another word and left. He was clearly pissed. Had Kallum gotten it wrong? Not according to Sarah. Just friends. That was the deal.

  He put it aside and got to work. He picked up a half-dozen of the eight-footers, aligned them perfectly, and placed them on the saw bed. The blade spooled up, and twice as many four-foot lengths were produced. He sharpened the ends and deposited the finished pickets before any possibility of a work stoppage, then he helped Fred and Tom finish loading the truck. The two of them jumped in and drove out, leaving Kallum with hands in his pockets. With Rutter gone, he didn’t know what to do. No matter. Back inside, Sarah was working the phones, and she had to take a break sometime. Kallum opened the door and was struck immediately by the commotion. Everyone soldiering through. He blinked through the hubbub and marched to Sarah’s workstation. She hung up her phone, nodded, and they were off.

  They walked to the harbourfront, beneath a showboating moon. Kallum was cool with the fact that Sarah was not bothered by the rotten smell from the gutting tables. She breathed in the cool air, swept a hand along the wood rails. He told her about some of the fishing vessels. Sasha and Alicia had been recently set upon by a pod of killer whales and rammed several times. She was lucky to get in.

  Sarah gasped with horror.

  “That’s why we carry guns,” he said. “Use ’em when there’s no choice.”

  Farther on, he took her aboard his father’s boat. “She’s forty-two feet with a Volvo that puts out twenty knots. She handles like a Porsche, even when she’s loaded to the gunwales.”

  “Impressive.”

  Kallum laughed. “Yeah. Impressive. Watch your head.”

  He went to a storage locker and pulled out a bottle and two glasses.

  Sarah gave him a wry look. “Something tells me that’s not normally a wine cellar.”

  He hauled the cork with a pop. “Only when VIPs are aboard.”

  “I feel honoured.”

  “You should.”

  They drank the wine and talked late into the evening. Kallum did most of the listening. He wanted to hear about school in Switzerland and her family. She obliged, occasionally stopping to beg the same of him.

  “What’s there to say,” he said back. “I pull nets and crab pots. Love hockey. Used to daydream abo
ut playing in the NHL.” Kallum tilted his glass. “I drink beer, sometimes more than I should. Westerns rule. With guys who were black and white, like their movies. People aren’t like that anymore. They worry too much about the unimportant. Big corporations know it, and they stuff our lives with phony wants and needs. No offence.”

  “None taken.”

  Kallum playfully slapped his six-pack. “I try to stay healthy, but I’m not obsessed. That’s it. Basically.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot more to Kallum Doody,” she said.

  He thought about it. “Yeah. I’ve got ambitions. There’s the schooner. She needs a load of work, but then watch out.”

  Sarah slipped her hand from her glass and placed it on his knee. “I don’t doubt it.”

  He sloughed it off, but it felt for a moment like he was being patronized. A man of his ilk could have been tortured by insecurities with this woman, but he was strong and had good character, and they were a man’s only real currency. “Beauty. Sophistication. I bet you speak that Swiss French.”

  “Nom de blue,” she chortled. “Romandie French is only slightly different.”

  “Of course it is.”

  They finished their wine and climbed off the boat. Kallum called a cab for her. “Sully’s a friend of mine. He’ll take good care of you.”

  When the cab pulled up, Kallum leaned in and gave Sully his instructions. The back door was opened; Sarah thanked Kallum for a beautiful evening and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  Kallum watched the tail lights disappear. Feeling like a million bucks.

  The following night, the wood was stacked in two piles as high as his hips. Rutter was absent, but a note said a blitz was in the works and twice as many signs were needed. Kallum got to work and was finished in an hour. Fred and Tom walked over and shook their heads. “Trying to impress the boss, suckhole?”

  “The blitz.”

  Fred and Tom didn’t have a clue, but they grabbed half the pickets anyway. Started with the staple guns.

  Kallum brushed the sawdust from his clothes and, satisfied with his appearance, walked into the command centre. He made a beeline for Sarah’s workstation. She wasn’t there. Kallum waited a few minutes, feeling foolish, hovering around her desk, waiting for her to come out of the restroom, or from wherever. Five minutes later he found Myrna making a fresh pot of coffee. “Seen Sarah?”

  Myrna poured half a can of coffee into the filter and slammed it shut. “They left about half an hour ago. I don’t ask. Wanna cup?”

  “Shit.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  While he was cutting pickets, Rutter had scooped Sarah up and bugged out. He’d been duped while working double picket duty. Blitz, my ass. Score one for Billy Rutter. It wouldn’t happen again, Kallum promised, marching out the door.

  The next night, when Kallum walked into the campaign headquarters, a crowd was gathered around one of the televisions at the back of the room. Rutter’s candidate filled the screen. He was chirping away at a guy standing at another podium. Wagging a finger for some point he was making. The crowd suddenly erupted. “Knockout,” someone shouted.

  A moment later, Sarah walked out of the bathroom. She didn’t speak, wouldn’t even make eye contact.

  When the debate ended on TV, the crowd dispersed to their workstations. Rutter looked at him smugly and then disappeared into one of the offices.

  What the hell?

  Kallum walked over to Sarah. “Guy knows how to land a punch. Beat that Democrat up like a pro.”

  Sarah ignored him. Picked up a phone and checked a list.

  He was puzzled. “Was it something I said?”

  “You’d know all about landing a punch.” She went back to ignoring him. Pretending to be busy checking a phone number. “From the sounds of it, you’re pretty good beating people up.”

  Now Kallum got it. Rutter had told her about Rory Prichard. Kallum had been pretty good with his fists. Good enough to land the guy in a coma.

  “What did Rutter say?” Kallum was genuinely hurt.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  Sarah folded her arms and locked him with her stare. “He told me you nearly killed a man once. He warned me to be careful.”

  She was right. Technically. Though he doubted Rutter had told her everything. Sarah jabbed the numbers on her phone and turned away, for good this time.

  Goddamn Rutter.

  Kallum huffed out and would never return. His days working for the Republican Party were over. They’d lost the best damn picket man there was. And if Sarah Vanderson was willing to believe the worst, then he wanted nothing to do with her. The more he said it, the better he felt. Sort of.

  A week after, at the government wharf. A thousand pounds of fish was loaded aboard a truck, headed for Boston. Kallum stood on the dock and watched it lumber away. Afterwards, he showered on the boat and dressed in clean clothes. His father handed him an envelope full of cash and told him to bank it before it got him into trouble. He offered a ride, which Kallum declined. The brisk salt air would do him good. Clear his head after a hard day.

  He walked for ten minutes and stopped at an ATM. He stuffed most of the money into an envelope and punched in his account information. A second later the machine sucked in his earnings and spit out his receipt, which Kallum inspected closely.

  He was burning through a lot of cash, and now it looked like Mystic Blue needed a new engine. It never seemed to end. His father had offered to throw some money his way, maybe take a percentage of the tour business. Kallum knew what his old man was up to. He’d refuse to take his share, claim Uncle Sam was going to claw it all back anyway. Kallum appreciated the offer but told him he’d get the job done.

  He walked another five minutes and stopped at a metal door. A neon sign flickered above it. Once inside, Kallum descended a dark, narrow staircase to the floor below. He walked into a crowded room with a long bar and a dance floor. A television hung over the bar. A football game was in the second quarter and drawing a good audience. At the tables, men growled and poured beer from large jugs. Kallum got lots of nods as he passed through. He was ready for a cold one.

  Abe Power was holding court at one end of the bar. He turned as Kallum sauntered over.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what do you get when you offer a good Republican a penny for his thoughts? Change.” Everyone laughed.

  “Good one,” Kallum said, throwing his elbows onto the bar. “Since the laugh was at my expense, I’ll have a beer at yours.”

  “Coming right at you.” Abe grinned.

  A moment later, a frosty glass was placed in front of him. “And to set the record straight. I voted Democrat last time and intend to do so again.”

  “Good man,” Abe said. “Still redeemable even after crossing over to the enemy hordes.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, Abe. God knows you have.”

  “Does that mean you’ve seen the error of your ways?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Hallelujah,” Abe shouted. “Welcome back, brother.”

  There was a smattering of applause from Abe’s little audience. Then they took their drinks and floated to the other end of the bar.

  Kallum swallowed a mouthful of beer and assessed his old friend. The slicked-back hair and round friendly face. His barrelled chest strained at the buttons of a black silk shirt that had road crew stitched above the pocket.

  “Suppose you were advising the candidate on tax policy, foreign affairs.”

  Kallum laughed. “Sign duty.”

  Truth was, he didn’t have a political bone in his body. Rutter had lured him. Curiosity had done the rest. Then, of course, Sarah Vanderson had sealed things. Kallum slid closer. “What do you know about the Vandersons?” he asked.


  “Whoa,” Abe exclaimed. “Strange question for a fisherman’s lad. Why you asking?”

  Kallum gave him the basics.

  His friend shook his head sympathetically. “Politics makes strange bedfellows, Kallum. Especially when women are involved.”

  “I didn’t say anything about bed.”

  “Keep it that way. Theodore Vanderson keeps a tight leash on his little girl. Why do you think he shipped her off to France like he did?”

  “Switzerland.”

  “Whatever. Far enough to keep the stink of this place off her. People like us. Swinging dicks like you.”

  Abe cast his share of stones. Divorced twice, from women who had hated him. Back in the day, when he was not so large, he’d crewed on the Doody boat. Then he ballooned up and couldn’t count on his knees anymore. He managed a comfortable living with a Martin guitar, which he claimed was priceless, like his talent. He had a fatty liver and a quarry of gallstones and had lived most of the adventure and misery he sang about. It was his night off.

  Kallum didn’t tell Abe about Rutter’s backstabbing, since Abe didn’t need another reason to hate the guy.

  “Rutter throwing his weight around?”

  “Rutter’s an ambitious prick.”

  “Hear, hear. He after the Vanderson girl?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let him waste his time,” Abe said. “She’s out of his league, too.”

  “Thanks, Abe.”

  “Anytime.”

  Abe might have been right. Home was a waypoint to the Vanderson girl. On her way to a bigger, better deal. Guys like him got to look, maybe a sniff, but touching was a no go. Kallum ordered another round. They talked for a while about Mystic Blue. She was ready for new decking, and a truck had delivered a load of freshly milled birch that morning. If the engine thing got sorted out, they planned to launch the following year. Abe would take the wheel, in a ridiculous skipper’s getup and his guitar. Kallum would handle the bookings and the business side of things and the occasional seasick passenger. Kallum was excited about it. Abe was, too. They toasted more than once, and after the fourth round, Abe slammed his empty mug on the bar and ordered a fifth.