One member of the inmate police force had even promised to protect the hostages from “the donkeys” downstairs. This was a reassurance convincing enough that the hostages relaxed a bit, played some cards and dispensed unsolicited advice. One of those pieces of advice included instructions to break into a prison canteen for extra toothbrushes, toothpaste and tobacco to meet the needs of the unexpected guests.
He emphasized repeatedly that the hostages were threatened “in no way, shape, or form”. Hope had faded when Ottawa refused to concede anything to the rebels, not even when they released a nervous young hostage as a show of good faith. All the prisoners had wanted was to delay the move to the new Supermax and for the authorities to provide better prison conditions, the guard said. They hadn’t even asked for amnesty, for God’s sake.
Ha! Dace had noted at this point in his letter, for all the good it had done.
The guard said their food supply had started to dwindle about the same time they heard some agonizing shouts and screams. The riot ended on the fourth day almost as precipitously as it had begun. Their protectors came and told them, “It’s all over, boys. We’re quitting, and you’re going home.”
Possibly the interviewer was dissatisfied with the ex-hostage’s answers, for he’d inquired: “But those screams. Why did they kill their own men? Do you think they killed them because they couldn’t kill you?”
The ex-hostage diffused his question immediately. “The inmate police force was too busy looking after us to knock off anyone, [expletive deleted].” Unfortunately, only a handful of readers would have gotten that far in reading his interview. They would be sidetracked by the criticism of the Solicitor-General’s actions—apparently laudable actions if subsequent Letters to the Editor were any indication. None of the letters mentioned the guard’s tale. In the end, his story was just filler to people like Joe and his fellow reporters so they could keep the riot alive.
Not that they had to work hard. True, the prison authorities were stingy with leaked information, but with any luck an anonymous source usually claimed firsthand knowledge of the damage as well as the atrocities committed during the four day riot.
At least the authorities were generous in their release of black and white photographs, so there was no doubt in anyone’s mind about the amount of sheer destruction that had occurred. The old prison, including four chapels, had been destroyed. The bell that had measured out all their lives was cracked beyond repair.
In time there were titillating rumours of forced sex and bloody castrations, and a heated debate flourished regarding why several prisoners were tortured in the dying hours of the riot on the final day. The Maitland Spectator labeled the tortured men The Unwanted. The castrations were later denied by both the incarcerated men and the outsiders, but it didn’t matter. Two men—well, child molesters—were indisputably dead. That didn’t seem to affect the general public all that much. It was the hostage-taking that really bothered people, not to mention the destruction of the prison and the fact that taxpayers would once again be forced to foot the bill. How much time would the bad guys get for that?
The coroner finally announced an investigation, although he voiced concerns about the feasibility of laying charges in a situation like this. For one thing, there had been six hundred inmates in the prison when the riot took place. It was going to be difficult to pin the murders on any one person or group of persons. Convicts weren’t reliable witnesses at the best of times.
And he was right. Plus, the public wanted to believe every inmate was guilty. Otherwise the person wouldn’t have been in jail in the first place. Logically speaking, some people had to be in the clear. After all, they couldn’t all be murderers, Liza pointed out to Janice, Mel and anybody else who would listen, although most people just walked away when she started to talk about it. Some of the inmates had even been in the public eye on committees and had met the press. Dace’s friend, Rick Lowery, for one.
“Look,” Joe crowed when, in a moment of weakness, she agreed to coffee after class. They were in the new Social Sciences building, and he’d bought the coffee this time. He pulled a paper out of his pocket as they sat down at a table, and pointed to the headline: “There’s A Hero Even In This Mess!”
Liza wriggled closer to him so she could read and he put his arm around her shoulders. He pretended to be hurt when she shrugged him off.
Rick Lowery was a high profile committee member, so he probably would have been lionized by the press even if his lawyer hadn’t thrust him into the limelight. The lawyer claimed his client had saved six guards’ lives, an action applauded by the political science professor, who was re-interviewed by the Maitland Spectator one slow news day.
“A hero, eh?” Liza said, jealous on Dace’s account.
Yes, she thought, all Dace had done was keep the wolves at bay and watch his friend’s back. She examined Rick’s picture. Dace always said Rick wasn’t at all camera shy, but in this photograph he looked like a man in flight—a person always looking the other way.
Joe shrugged.
“So who’s the villain?” she asked.
“You think this might be some kind of book? I was thinking the same thing.”
“Well, it’s a story all right,” she replied vaguely, reminded of her embryonic novel.
“Okay. So Sandy McAllister should be the villain, I suppose. He hoisted the key and took six men hostage. But …”
“But …?”
“It’s the headliner in tonight’s news. His friends—Sandy McAllister’s—have all dummied up.”
“Well, of course.”
“And none of the hostages could identify him in a line-up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe people think he’s crazy and are too scared to talk. I dunno. He did an interview this morning. I couldn’t stand the ass. Bit of a Bible thumper.”
“Too bad I missed it. My dorm mates were watching The Price is Right. So he’s not going to be charged with anything? Well, who then?”
“Don’t worry,” Joe assured her, trying to pat her hand. “I know somebody on the police force. They’re expecting all sorts of charges to be laid. There’s the riot itself, the hostage-taking and the fact that two men are dead. They’ll lay charges soon and when the lawyers get in, the snitches will get out.”
“Oh, c’mon! Surely people won’t listen to them.”
“Remember that sick little bastard on the CBC? You’ll see. The authorities will cut some deals. Early probation, extra privileges for anybody who squeals. Hey, what’s with you, Liza? Every time I talk to you, you turn a sickly shade of green.”
“Oh, I’m okay. It’s just this coffee, I think. It’s swill.” Her legs shook under her, but she stood up, hugging her books to her chest.
“Wait. Where are you going? If you come over to my place tonight, I might have something better. I never touch the stuff myself, but I probably could score some grass. You know, I have one of the few single rooms in rez. Unless you’re waiting for your cousin to get out, of course,” Joe said, evidently annoyed that she was still backing away. His eyes widened, but his mouth shrank. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he added when she stopped and stared at him. He shook his head with wonder. “Well, lucky you. You might not have to wait too long. That boy’s hands are starting to look kind of clean. Not squeaky, but clean enough. Especially if he can pin a murder rap on somebody else.”
Liza came over to him again, slammed her books down on the table and looked both ways before sliding back into her chair. Only a couple of other students were in the cafeteria and nobody within five feet.
“How do you know?” she whispered.
“I’ve got my sources, baby,” he said. He rocked back in the chair, hands behind his head.
I bet, she thought, her face neutral. “So you think he’ll get paroled?”
“Well, he’s eligible, isn’t he? I don’t think they’ll bother much about the hostage-taking. They’d like to, but they gotta pick their battles or they’ll tie
up the courts indefinitely. They can get a lot more mileage outta murder charges … first degree for sure. There’s a slew of men they can try on that charge. I don’t know, maybe even some of the hostage-takers. There’s a boy called Steve, who apparently went `round the bend …”
“Steve is one of Dace’s friends. Why would those guys be charged with murder?”
“I didn’t say Dace would. A bit slow today, aren’t you? But if they let him out and he testifies against Steve …”
“If he snitches, you mean? Oh God. He wouldn’t do that.”
Joe looked puzzled. “Why not? Especially if he didn’t do anything.”
“He just won’t, that’s all.”
Joe shrugged. “Well, no matter,” he said, deftly highlighting his role in the upcoming events. The Spectator would be sending him. This was his big chance. This was a book for sure. “Baby, if you could just see the look on your face!”
Liza looked away.
“Ah, c’mon,” he smiled triumphantly. “Are you sure you won’t go out with me sometime? I dream about making you. You know, if you really knew me, you’d feel sorry for me. You feel sorry for your handsome cousin, don’t you? You think he’s a wronged soul? You’re just like Dunia in Crime and Punishment. You want to save him, don’t you?”
Liza stood up again. “What the hell do you mean?” she asked levelly, hating his smirking face.
“C’mon, you little bibliophile, you’ve read Crime and Punishment, haven’t you? In fact, you’ve probably read it several times, considering …”
“Once. I’ve read it once!” she snapped. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered why the only man she knew who could reference Dostoyevsky had to be this one.
“Don’t you remember one of those nasty Russians—who the hell could keep all their names straight? It sure reminded me of you. Wait. Wait, I’ve got it marked right here,” he said, pulling a New American Library 2006 paperback copy of Crime and Punishment out of his pocket. “Yeah, here it is on page 452: When a girl starts pitying—watch out, she’s in danger. She starts wanting to ‘save’ you and bring you to reason; revive you and recall you to more decent goals; restore you to a new life and new work …”
“Stop it. You don’t know me at all. Or him.”
“I checked. There’s no law against having a relationship with your own cousin, but it’s still not right.”
“I’m not having a ‘relationship’ with my cousin, you dork. At least not in the way you mean. Besides, I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“If you say so. Wait. Wait, don’t go. There’s more.”
“No, there isn’t. And shame on you, interested in a con lover like me,” Liza hissed, embarrassed to be backing out of the college cafeteria with tears on her face.
It was eight o’clock. Janice was already snoring when Liza got back to residence. The girl lay on her back, her nasal passages dried out from the menthol cigarettes she had promised her Pentecostal mother she wouldn’t smoke. Liza flicked on her desk lamp, aimed the sudden burst of light into the corner and dried her eyes with the bottom edge of her T-shirt. She had cried all the way back to the residence in the early winter dark, a five minute walk.
“What’s the matter?” Janice muttered. She rolled over, her eyes still screwed shut.
“It’s that Joe. He said Dace might get out.”
“So why are you sniffling? Isn’t that what you want?” Janice asked, blinking awake.
“I don’t know. I mean, of course I do. I’m just worried,” Liza said, grudgingly smiling at her roommate’s optimism.
Chapter 21
Dream Time
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
*[Poe, Edgar Allen, “Annabel Lee”]
Devereux Farm, near Maitland, April 19, 1972:
Spring came early that year. Liza had just finished her classes. She had even softened towards Joe Accardo because he had been right.
Hurry, hurry, everything in her prayed. Phone and tell me you’re here to stay.
“April is the cruelest month, mixing memory with desire …” she recited, walking by the stream at Maitland residence, trying to keep calm. She was rereading T.S. Eliot for her English exam, but she was much too restless to stay inside. Trees were budding all around her, the scent of lilacs wafted on the night air, and the earth pulsed with life. Little silver fish, smelts, wriggled and twisted like flashes of light, spawning in the stream. Students, mostly boys, waded in the rushing water, catching fish with their bare hands. Liza wanted to study, though, to sink into books. Eliot’s poetry was perfect: gloomy, but offering golden phrases she would remember her whole life.
“Liza!” Janice called, leaning out the hall window which overlooked the stream.
Liza started running. This could only mean one thing. Dace. Dace was home.
Ever since she’d heard his parole was really coming through, she had been nearly incandescent with joy, so energized she had practically flown through her exams. And everywhere she went she carried a letter of confirmation next to her heart, official proof via her Uncle Norm.
Yes, there was still talk in the Maitland Spectator about laying charges in the deaths of the two unfortunates who had died during the riot, but what did that have to do with Dace?
A taxi dropped her off at the end of the daffodil-lined lane. In memory of their meeting at the family homestead, butterfly clips held up snatches of her hair. It was too early for the real monarchs to have returned.
She spotted him first, walking from the garage to the house. He carried a can of stove oil in his hand, for the evenings were still cool. She was half an hour early, having left the student residence almost the minute she’d hung up the phone. She’d had to go to him, he couldn’t come to her, not then. Hearing him say, I want to stay home, was poetry to her ears.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier he’d been paroled to the huge, veranda-swathed house his father had built on one hundred acres just outside of Maitland, constructed in anticipation of the prodigal son’s return. And just like he had in prison, Dace looked like he belonged there. As if she had spoken, his eyes shifted, finding her, focusing on her. Then he was moving with confidence, striding towards her with the lovely, easy grace of a Devereux man. A chameleon, she exulted, flying down the lane, almost stumbling over her own feet. It’s all right. He can fit in anyplace.
A Mennonite farmer drove by in a horse drawn cart and stared, for in spite of everything, Dace was a fine specimen of a man, dressed in blue jeans and a white open-necked dress shirt. He was somebody who could easily have tossed bales of hay. A scar carved a line over his left eye where the guards had beaten him last fall, but none of his other scars were visible. Nobody had cut his hair and, left unattended, it had grown out curly. A St. Christopher’s medal hung in the opening of his shirt. Almost blinded by the sight of him, Liza tried, but failed to remember hair on his chest when he was eighteen.
They hesitated, meeting by the side door to the house and wondering what to say, where to start. She stooped awkwardly and placed a foil-wrapped pot of hyacinths on the closest lawn chair. Uncle Norm’s dog, a border collie, barked a caution from inside the nearby shed.
“Little Liza,” Dace said, placing the can at his feet. He held out his cleanest hand and looked straight into her eyes with a gaze so worldly wise, so tired, but then he probably hadn’t slept for days. God knows she hadn’t. He doesn’t show it, but he’s excited, she thought. Just like I am.
Accepting his outstretched hand, she walked into the arms of the man she had been waiting for all her life. Home, she thought, home. Circling his hands around her waist, he lifted her easily, a foot into the air, then gently deposited her on the ground, like somebody who didn’t know his own strength.
“My ha
nds are dirty and you’re wearing a yellow dress,” he groaned, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans.
“Dace,” she whispered into his sweet smelling neck, almost robbed of speech. “You like yellow, don’t you?”
“Enough of that,” Uncle Norm said from the other side of the screened door before coming out to give Liza a quick hug. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling either. “A hyacinth girl,” he said, glancing at her offering, still wet from a recent watering. The strong scent of its tiny purple florets saturated the midday air. He did a double-take of Liza and patted her shoulder. “Ah, your cousin’s a pretty girl, isn’t she? Dace, bring her in and get her a drink. Mrs. O’Connor has left us some lunch.”
Liza stayed with Dace all the first day, walking beside him on his father’s farm. They carted beers around and he smoked continually, except when he was touching her. Like the old Devereux homestead, this property was also called “The Farm”, even though the barn was empty besides the dog. As of the third week of April, fifty acres of prime land were still unplowed.
“When Dad brought me home last night in his car, I was almost too scared to get out. Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Dace confided. “But now I can’t go back inside the house. I’ve been out here since dawn except when I spoke to you on the phone. The light, Liza. The light is so incredible I thought I was gonna go blind. I saw a gopher, six kinds of birds, squirrels … and the mayflowers are already out in the bush. It’s too soon, isn’t it? Come see,” he said, pulling her hand so eagerly that she laughed. He’s like a kid, a great big kid, she thought, almost swelling with maternal pride. “This is the first time I’ve been to the new house, but this farm is already more familiar to me than the streets in Maitland ever were.”
“The alleys, you mean,” she joked, pointing at some cardinals in the pine trees sheltering the patio by the house. She loved their song. “Have you forgotten your old buddies too?”
From the Chrysalis: a novel Page 20