The Carpenter

  Stan put the windshield wipers on to sweep snowflakes off the glass. Downtown, there were many people on the sidewalks, moving in and out of the stores. People carrying boxes and bags. Lee studied one of the model kits. A bomber moving through the air far above a patchwork of fields, a smiling pin-up girl painted beneath the plane’s forward windscreens. Stan said again how any boys would love to have model airplanes to build. Lee nodded.

  It was good until they were two blocks from Lee’s place. They were on Union Street, between the postcard storefronts. Then they stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, and there before them, being led by the arm by his father, was Simon Grady. He walked at a doddering pace. He had a toque on his head and it hid the indented scars where the flesh had split from the impact of the framing hammer. He was led along, grinning blithely.

  Simon and his father disappeared into a store.

  — Think I’ll get out here, said Lee, quietly.

  — I can drive you the rest of the way.

  — I’ll walk.

  Stan nodded. Snow was collecting on the windshield. The wipers swept the glass. Lee gathered his purchases and got out of the truck.

  Stan watched Lee move off down the hill. Then he put the truck in gear and moved up. He beeped his horn and reached into the glovebox for a pen. He scrawled his phone number on an old business card that advertised a man in Novar who’d restored Stan’s woodstove. He rolled down his window and Lee looked at him.

  — Look, said Stan, I’ve got some things I need to do at my house. Some doors to hang, some windows to fix. There’s a bad squeak in the floor in one place. I can do some of it but I could use a hand. Maybe a week or two of work, what you think is fair. Give me a ring after Christmas if you want to talk about it.

  Lee took the business card. He looked at it. He brought out his billfold and stowed the card inside. Stan pulled away from the curb. He had kept himself from looking at Lee when they’d seen Simon Grady a few minutes earlier. He thought again of the young man he’d driven down to the provincial jail, shortly after Charles Grady had been killed and Simon Grady had been put in the hospital, comatose, with his head stove in. The trial had divided the facts of Lee’s crime into blacks and whites, but even in those days Stan had had no faith in blacks and whites. There was always the grey, and in the grey was where the truth often resided. The death of Judy Lacroix had only reinforced that belief, and he’d done what he could, and he’d come up short.

  Stan looked in his rear-view mirror. Lee was still standing on the sidewalk, staring at nothing in particular.

  Pete stayed at the Shamrock Hotel for a few days. He ended up there late in the night after he’d left Nancy’s house. There were a few nice hotels in town, a very nice one near the golf course. But he’d never set foot in a hotel in his life, certainly not in the nicer ones, and he doubted he had the means or the appearance for them. At midnight, the sign at the Shamrock still said OPEN. The people in the adjoining tavern ignored him.

  The desk clerk told Pete it would be ten bucks a night. Pete thought about it. He said he’d pay the first night and then daily thereafter. The clerk was disinterested. He had Pete sign a register and then he gave him a key.

  The room was up on the third floor. A shared bathroom was down the hall. There was mismatched furniture and threadbare carpeting. An ugly painting of a sailboat. A small black-and-white television. The sheets on the bed were faded but they seemed clean. He lay on them, dense with exhaustion. Through the wall someone was arguing. Emily seemed an occupant of another world entirely. He fell asleep with the TV on.

  At work at the gas station Pete watched for police cars, certain that it was only a matter of time before they came to have him account for what he’d done to Roger. To have him account for who and what he was.

  — You’re way out in space, said Duane.

  — I’m sorry.

  — Listen, man, these gasoline fumes. They’ll burn your head.

  — Never mind, said Pete.

  Duane appraised him with bemusement. A car came and Pete went to attend it.

  At two o’clock Caroline came out and told him he had a phone call. Despite himself, his pulse was accelerating. But the voice was not Emily’s.

  — Listen, said Donna. Where are you?

  — You’re calling me at work.

  — How come you didn’t come home?

  He was alone but he still cupped his hand around the mouthpiece: How could I do that? How could I come home after?

  — I’m sorry I hit you, but all this stress. Grandma.

  — I know, Mom. I know what I am. Lee told me.

  When at last she spoke there was a tremor in her voice: You don’t know anything.

  — Yes, I do. I do. But it’s not your fault. How can it be?

  — … Peter … Oh Jesus. Would you just come home?

  — I can’t do that yet. I can’t. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  The call ended.

  He passed Caroline as he was coming out of the office. Caroline said his name. She looked like she was weighing her words.

  — Are you good to work Christmas Eve?

  — Yeah.

  — Noon till close. Maybe eleven or midnight, depending.

  — Okay.

  — Good.

  They were busy for the next hour. When finally there was a lull, Duane ambled over, drawing tobacco out of his chew tin.

  — Do you want some of this?

  — Have I ever? said Pete.

  But he took a pinch of tobacco out of the tin. He saw Duane’s eyebrows lift under his toque. Pete tucked the chew behind his lip. The flavour of burnt cherry was not unpleasant but instantly his head was spinning like it would lift off his shoulders. His mouth filled with juices. Duane offered a Styrofoam cup for him to spit into. Pete tried to hold his head steady.

  — Don’t whatever you do swallow it, said Duane. Let it do its work for you. Anyway, man, your face.

  There were fresh bruises on Pete’s face from the night before. His ear was a little swollen. Nobody had said anything yet.

  — I fell down the stairs.

  — Look, if you got trouble with anybody, don’t be too proud, right? Let me know.

  Pete spat again. All the colours and sounds were too vivid.

  — Thanks.

  — Don’t be too proud, Pete.

  Over the next two days, he made himself somewhat comfortable at the Shamrock. Down in the tavern the food was not bad. He ordered a steak. He ordered a beer as well but the barman just laughed and poured him a ginger ale. Pete sat eating his steak. The only Christmas decoration in the tavern was a plastic Santa Claus in the corner. There were six or seven other people at the bar or at tables, keeping to themselves, smoking. There was an older woman who reminded him of a thinner version of Lee’s lady friend, with the red-painted lips and big hair, and Pete wondered what it would be like to take her up to his room and do things with her.

  In the late evening he watched the television until he fell asleep. It was the only thing that could really dull his thoughts.

  On Monday morning Pete stood in the shower before he went to work. Parts of his head and face still hurt. His work clothes were piled on the vanity. They’d need to be laundered soon. Somebody came into the bathroom and used the urinal and went back out. Pete didn’t give that much thought until he’d dried off and dressed and was heading downstairs to pay the clerk for another night. He discovered his wallet wasn’t in his pocket. He went back up and checked the room, checked the few possessions he had with him. His wallet wasn’t up there either.

  He found that fury and helplessness were almost indistinguishable. All the more so for the desk clerk’s impassivity.

  — Did you get a look at the guy through the shower curtain? So should I call the cops to just turn the whole place upside down? I feel for you, kid, but what do you want me to do?

  — God fucking dammit, said Pete. All the cash I had was in my wallet.

  At least he still had his car key
. He sat in his car in the small lot next to the hotel. He felt like crying.

  At lunch, Caroline sat at her desk. Pete stood across from her. Caroline nodded slowly. She said: Well, I can’t say I’m real surprised. But can we talk about it again after New Year’s? Fix a date then?

  — Yeah, said Pete. We can do that.

  — You work hard, Pete. It’ll be a shame.

  She made motions to signify that their business was concluded, but he stayed.

  — Was there something else, Pete?

  — I just wondered if I could use the phone for a second.

  — Yeah, of course you can.

  She left him to it. He called home and was mildly surprised that it was Barry who answered.

  — Peter?

  — Hi, Barry.

  — Peter, it’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I thought about Colossians, and how it says if anyone has a quarrel against anyone else, as Christ forgave so should we. I’ve been thinking about that.

  — Oh yeah?

  — There’s an open door here for you, Brother Pete. You know that. Your mother-

  — Barry, I know. Look. I’ll be home tonight.

  He’d been out on one of his town walkabouts. He’d stopped at the Brewers’ Retail and picked up a case of beer and he’d bought smokes as well and had come up the stairs with the beer under his arm. He put his key into the lock only to find his door already open.

  Gilmore was sitting on the corner of the pullout, watching the television. He looked up, smiled.

  — Lee. Don’t block up the doorway, pal.

  Lee heard his toilet flushing. Maurice came out of the bathroom. Lee took measured steps into the kitchenette. He set the beer on the counter.

  — How did you get in here?

  — You left your door unlocked, said Maurice. You don’t remember?

  Lee closed the door.

  — Did the landlord see you?

  — That old slant? said Maurice. He didn’t see nothing. And yeah, I could drink a beer.

  Lee took a beer out of the box and gave it to Maurice. Maurice took it and prised up the ring-tab with his finger. The sound of the can opening was clear even over the TV. Maurice drank and Lee watched his throat move.

  Lee tried to be casual. He went over and took hold of the swivel chair at the window. He moved it forward as if he might sit across from Gilmore-but he didn’t sit, not yet.

  — I get the feeling you didn’t just come to say hello.

  — The time’s come, Lee, said Gilmore.

  — What time?

  — We talked about opportunities.

  — I told you.

  — Sure you did. But it’s in your voice, Lee. In the way you say it. I can hear it as plain as anything. Look around. You think you fit?

  — Are you making rent this month? said Maurice.

  — What business is it of yours?

  Gilmore leaned forward, elbows on his knees: We’re your friends, Lee. We’re the people who know what a solid guy you are.

  Lee squeezed his hands together. He breathed: So what is it? What are you talking about?

  Gilmore leaned back. He smiled at Maurice, Maurice who was looking at Lee. And Gilmore told him what the business was. Not the specifics, but enough.

  He did not say which bank it was exactly. Not how they’d studied it, but how long they had studied it, which was several months. Watching, waiting. It would be done overnight. No requirement, he said, for ugliness. No requirement to stick hardware in anybody’s face. No requirement to rush the job. He spoke of all the cash being turned around this time of year, laid up in deposits from stores. When? Christmas Eve. The day after is a holiday. Won’t anybody have an idea about it till we’ve been and gone. Forty-eight hours will have passed.

  — Jesus, said Lee. I have no idea about any of this. I was never a bank man.

  — And you don’t need to be. All you’ve got to be is the six. All you’ve got to do is keep your eyes open and keep your cool. What you’re good at. We’ll do the heavy lifting.

  The take would be more and more than enough. There’d be no requirement for ugliness. And you will eat the labour of your hands.

  — Why? said Lee. Why now?

  — Because the time has come. I’ve been sitting on my ass in this town since March and now the time has come. One night of work. That’s all.

  — And what, you just came around thinking I’d agree?

  — You already agreed, Lee. You’ve been in agreement for a long time. All the time you spend walking the streets. Doing nothing for anybody. What that is, is you throwing your lot in. You know it.

  Lee sat down at last. His hands formed patterns on the tops of his thighs. He thought about the air in the room and how it moved and was recycled man to man. He watched Maurice cross the floor and stand by the window, lift the dirty blinds, glance down at the street. The fading daylight was ashen.

  — One night of work, said Gilmore.

  Lee looked at them, one to the next. He looked at them for a long time. Then it was in the motion of his head, however slight. All things came to that.

  Gilmore leaned forward again.

  — Say it.

  — Say what.

  — Say the words, pal.

  — You want me to say it?

  — Call me old-fashioned but there’s a certain thing about a verbal contract.

  He flexed his hands. He could feel his pulse right down to the balls of his feet.

  — Fuck it, said Lee. Everything. Yes.

  — Good to hear, pal.

  Gilmore offered a handshake. Maurice gave Lee a phone number on a scrap of paper.

  — Call us tomorrow.

  Lee nodded. He put the scrap of paper into his billfold, next to the business card with Stan Maitland’s number on it. That encounter seemed to have happened to a different man altogether.

  — It’s good, said Gilmore. How you’ve thrown your lot in. Soon you’ll find yourself a man of means. Give that some thought.

  — The rest will happen fast, said Maurice.

  His visitors did not remain for much longer. It was better that they did not linger. It would introduce doubt and they must have known it. As surely as they’d known what his response would be.

  He went to the hospital, up to the Amiens Wing. He was making his way down the corridor, conscious of his steps, conscious that things were happening, when the older of the two little boys ran down the hallway ahead, coming from the direction of the washrooms. The boy did not see Lee. The boy ran through the door of Irene’s room.

  Lee came to the door. It was open six inches or so. He looked through the narrow space. Donna and Barry and the two boys. Irene wearing a respirator. He watched them and he remained unseen. After a moment he turned and left.

  Back at his apartment, he looked at the model kits he’d bought for the boys. The purchase was pre-emptive on his part, the invitation having never come, but he hadn’t wanted to be caught empty-handed.

  Not that it mattered now. He thought about stuffing the two bombers into the garbage can, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He left them where they sat, and he got himself a drink and sat down to watch television.

  But then he saw something that he had overlooked. The mark on the wall, some weeks old, from when he’d launched the beer can against it. He wetted a rag and scoured the mark. The scuff came out but an indentation remained.

  He was tired, heavy in the bones. He’d walked to the hospital and back. This made him weary, but it wasn’t the only thing.

  Because Gilmore was right. All other considerations aside, Lee was tired because he was greatly relieved. Relieved to let go of these motions he’d been forcing himself through. Relieved to see that thing-that thing he couldn’t name-stepping out of the dark once again, taking shape, letting him know he hadn’t been forgotten.

  It was clear now. Everything was clear.

  FOUR

  DECEMBER 1980 TO MAY 1981

&nb
sp; On the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, there was a light snowfall. In the shallows of the lake the reeds were clenched by thin black ice. Stan went about his ablutions and put on his suit. When he entered the kitchen, he heard scratching on the back door. He opened it and Cassius came in. The dog’s fur was crisp and cold. He padded over to the woodstove.

  Stan put on his overcoat and galoshes and went out carrying the good leather shoes he would wear for the evening church service. The trees creaked overhead. Snow shrouded Edna’s garden. There was nothing to say where she’d leaned over and died one morning. At times, it seemed she was something he could only grope for in the dark. Stan got into his truck.

  At seven-thirty, Pete was parked in his car looking at the United Church. Snow wheeled down out of the sky. Pete sat until the last of the Christmas Eve churchgoers went through the door and then he waited a few minutes longer.

  He would have to be back at the Texaco for nine o’clock. Caroline had given him two hours’ leave. She’d asked why and he told her he was going to church, and she gave him a doubtful look but did not say anything further.

  He’d made one stop before church, perhaps as a gesture of appeal. He did not know. He’d parked out front of the variety store. The light was on through the blinds in Lee’s window. Pete got out of the car and went through the alley to the parking lot.

  There was a big Dodge van parked close to the Dumpster. One of the side-view mirrors was wrapped with duct tape and part of the windshield was cracked. The hood of the van was open. A man was bent over the engine, working by flashlight.

  Pete was about to go up to the apartment when he heard his name spoken. He turned and saw that it was Lee working on the van. Lee was shrouded inside his coat and he was holding a spark plug and a dirty rag. He was backlit by the flashlight, which was resting on top of the heater. Cigarette smoke lifted around him.

  — When did you get a set of wheels? said Pete.

  — I’m hanging onto it for a buddy of mine. What are you doing here?

  — If you can believe it, I’m going to church.

  — What are you doing that for?