The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  “Too risky.” He tried to use a tone that would brook no discussion, no disagreement, like in the old days, but it sounded unconvincing, as if it weren’t the real reason. The two men looked at each other, perplexed. Tom Blanchard was becoming angry.

  “Risky! Jesus Christ, Jimmy, everything is risky. There’s big money there, Jimmy. Thousands of money. Enough for the three of us. And how in the Christ are we going to get caught—on a night like this?”

  In the darkness, Jimmy stared at the floor. Somehow, being truthful was easy. All you had to do was let it flow. “I don’t know, Tom. But we will. We’ll get caught, just like we got caught every other time. We’ll get caught, and we’ll go to jail. And you know something, Tom? One thing I became sure of, freezing on that Trans-Canada today, I’m not rotting my life away in no stinkin’ penitentiary anymore.” His thoughts were conflicted, tumbling over one another. Deep down, he wasn’t sure of anything. He wasn’t even sure of what he was saying. He wasn’t even sure why the sleeping form of Cheri Wilson stayed in his mind, dominating his thoughts.

  “Christ! Jimmy, what’s happened to you? Dorchester screwed you up or what?” Tom Blanchard’s face was pleading, not knowing how to cope with the changed person before him.

  “In a way, Tom. In a way. Maybe it’s put some friggin’ sense in my head. I know one thing. If the cops do come lookin’ after that money’s gone, it won’t be you or Rocky here that’ll be losin’ sleep. They’ll be tearin’ this place apart like a hurricane in October.” Tom stared at Jimmy, trying to conceal the disappointment and anger which were beginning to show on his face. He turned back-on to the table as he addressed Jimmy in a sulky tone of voice, but Jimmy couldn’t discern his movements in the darkness of the kitchen.

  “You’re not goin’ to do a favour for old Tom, and this Christmas. This Christmas?”

  Rocky Watson gathered his coat around him and thrust his way through the door, his mounting anger reflected in his movements. “Come on, Tom, let’s get the hell out of here. We should never’ve come down to this jerk’s in the first place.”

  Jimmy gripped the edge of the table, trying to restrain his trembling hands. He felt the blood drain from his face and surge through his body, but before he could move, Tom had quickly gripped his shoulder, his voice deliberately soothing. “Easy, Jimmy boy! I don’t want to be no witness in a manslaughter case. The Rock here don’t know about yer temper, and he’s pretty down right now. He thought you was goin’ to go fer it, lock, stock, and barrel. He’s pretty mad now, with all that money for the taking jest sittin’ there, and he can’t lay a hand on it. We’re goin’ back to the house for a while to think things out. If ye changes yer mind, come on up.”

  Tom left Jimmy seated on the window ledge, still seething with anger. Take it easy, boy! Take it easy! Wait one more minute. He ain’t worth the jail term. Take it easy! He stood and stretched his body in the karate-style movements he had learned from the Chief, letting the anger flow outwards, the calm regain within—then he returned to his seat on the window ledge, totally bewildered by his own self-control. It was the first time since he had left Brine Cove, since he had taken the vow to never again back down from anybody, that he had not struck back.

  He made his way to the living room. Then, upon thinking about it, he returned and carefully locked the front door. It was a long time since he had experienced even a twinge of fear, but Rocky Bates struck him as a very dangerous man. Jack Gregory’s voice came into his mind. If he were in Stony Mountain, he wasn’t there for stealing crabapples. He forced a laugh on his way back to the settee, where he arranged the sleeping bag, smoothing out the folds. You couldn’t lock doors on the streets of Winnipeg or Toronto. Still, Rocky Bates would have done the job on Dick Furneaux and not batted an eyelash. He was a very dangerous man.

  Jimmy removed his outer clothes and lay them between the layers of the sleeping bag, then he manoeuvred into the bag and rolled over on his side, facing the stove. He pushed himself farther down, fitting the flap around the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of its thickness. He went to sleep watching the last flickering embers of wood die slowly in the grate, thinking back to people he had passed on steaming grates and covered with cardboard on park benches. Like so many other firsts on this Christmas Eve, it was the first time—since the little blue and red wheelbarrow—that he had experienced gratitude and knew what it meant.

  The harsh grating of a sand truck awoke him as it roared past the house in the distance. He sat up without blinking—he was always wide awake in an instant—and disentangled himself from the sleeping bag, swinging his legs expertly in the last freeing movement, straining to stare out of the living room window even as his feet recoiled against the sting of the freezing floor. The storm had ended, and the blinding morning sun exploded in dazzling brilliance over a quiet world of endless pure white, a virtual panorama of dancing, sparkling diamonds. The scene overpowered him, but in an ecstatic, happy way. His mother would have called it a gorgeous day.

  Convulsive shivering shocked him back to the reality of the freezing temperature of the room, and he rubbed his arms as he reached for the clothes he had placed under the sleeping bag. He hastily donned his socks and jeans and pushed his feet into his boots, still damp but comfortable, and hauled on his sweater preparatory to starting the fires. Within minutes, heat radiated through the two rooms, generating an atmosphere of cozy comfort. He made a second cup of tea from the Thermos bottle, rummaging in his travelling bag between sips for his shaving gear.

  A man always feels better after a shave, the prison doctor had told him. Unable to find a plug for the sink, he stopped up the drain with a face cloth from one of the garbage bags and poured in the hot water from the other Thermos. He turned on the cold-water tap, then laughed to himself at the futility of the exercise. The pipes had to be frozen. That’s another job he would have to look to. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked to the back door and returned with a huge mound of snow cupped in his hands, which he dumped into the hot water, watching it as it dissolved in a mass of steam. It reminded him of the steam in the showers in Dorchester, with force like water cannons. He shivered as he removed his sweater and began washing his face with the small cloth Cheri Wilson had brought over. The cloth smelled strangely fresh, and he held it to his face for what seemed like a long time.

  The action brought back another memory of his mother. She had used a little cloth like that when she bathed him at night. He held the cloth for a long time, staring at himself in the mirror, then abruptly shook himself, shaking away the revulsion at what he had become, and what had somehow stolen into the beauty of the morning. He dried, then scavenged a piece of broken mirror from the corner of the bathroom floor and mounted it on the washstand, shaving with regular, rhythmic strokes. The cheap aftershave smarted, but he enjoyed its spicy tang.

  He allowed his fingers to gently stroke the smooth skin. It was a strange feeling—enjoyment. It occurred to him that that’s what he had never had—at least since the little red and blue wheelbarrow—and what he had always missed in Brine Cove: enjoyment. He shook himself again and gathered up his shaving gear into the leather pouch, zippering it shut as he walked back to the living room to get the remainder of his clothes. It was truly a gorgeous day.

  After all the good that had come his way, what could possibly go wrong? The sharp pounding on the door that accompanied the shouting of his name shattered the winter stillness of the tiny house.

  “Jimmy Blanchard! Jimmy Blanchard! Open up. Police.”

  Jimmy froze, his stomach contorting into instant nausea. Christ! Don’t tell me the b’ys . . . . Or did Frank Ryan? He couldn’t have been that worried. But he had waited too long. A second pounding, louder than the first, jolted him into action, and he raced to the door, straining to muster a look of composure to greet the certainty of what he knew was on the other side. The door burst open the moment he unlocked it, revealing two impati
ent RCMP officers standing before him, their loosely hanging parkas and the looks of irritation on their faces confirming his worst suspicions. He was going to be in for a rough ride. He tried to appear nonchalant, his voice gruffly polite.

  “What’s goin’ on? Did the people across the way complain? I haven’t bothered a soul since I came to Brine Cove, except to look for a bit of wood, and I offered to pay for that.” He was testing. He knew it was deeper than that. A courtesy call would have one bored Mountie showing up. These police weren’t in the mood for courtesy.

  The tone of the addressing officer was curt and peremptory. “Would you mind stepping down to the car?”

  “Sure. Could I check the stoves first? Put on a jacket?”

  One of the police followed him at a distance as he dressed and lifted the dampers. The other wandered about the house, peering under the settee and into the washstand, wrinkling his nose at the accumulation of dirt and garbage which assailed him at every turn.

  “Looking for something?” So the b’ys must have gone ahead with their plan. But why were they looking here?

  “We’ll talk in the car.”

  Jimmy adjusted his cap and walked to the cruiser, where the back door was opened by a female officer who had been waiting at the end of the path.

  “Would you take a seat inside, Mr. Blanchard, please? We’d like to ask you some questions.” She appeared nervous, but her eyes held no rancour. Maybe he just did that to women. He further suspected that the politeness and courtesy didn’t entirely hide the irritation at being called out to do an investigation on Christmas Day, but he obediently sat in the vehicle while one of the police officers, the one who had been searching the house, settled himself behind the wheel, adjusting a large clipboard for note-taking. The other male officer sat alongside the first, looking sleepy and irritable.

  The female police officer slammed the car door shut, then assumed a position of authority just outside, directing the occasional traffic past. The slamming jarred him. He could hear the clanging of the cell doors in Dorchester, and the nausea returned. If Tom and Rocky took Dick Furneaux’s money—or did something worse, and had somehow dragged him into it—this was going to be a long interrogation. He wondered how well they had done their work. But how could they set him up? He had never left the house.

  Several cars had stopped along the road, and a small crowd had begun to gather across from the police car, subdued in their movements and murmuring comments that Jimmy couldn’t comprehend through the closed windows. Everybody here for the big show! Well, so much for staying out of the limelight. Maybe they should pick the jury right here and now. Get a tree and a rope. Get it over with fast.

  The atmosphere in the car felt oppressive, and he instinctively reached in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. The action coincided with a similar action on the part of the officer behind the wheel, as he held up an object for Jimmy’s obvious perusal. The Mountie’s tone was flat, confident.

  “Looking for this? Found it in Furneaux’s store. Next to the safe.” Jimmy recoiled in horror, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, as his body sagged in total defeat. It was the same cigarette package he had discarded the night before, the one with all the numbers. So that’s what Tom was doing back-on to the table. So that’s how they set him up. The Mountie was continuing in the same tone. “Sloppy for you, wasn’t it? A spike, a sledgehammer?”

  “Spike? Sledgehammer?” Jimmy was forced to laugh in spite of the tightness in his stomach. The b’ys didn’t have a clue. “I never used a crowbar in my life. I always twirled the tumblers. You know that.”

  “Yeah! That’s what got us confused. Still, this cigarette pack is going to be hard to explain. With these numbers, which weren’t hard to track down. After we’ve done a few tests, we’ll probably find your fingerprints all over this. Mind telling us everything? From the beginning. It’ll make things a lot simpler.”

  Jimmy slid down in the seat, staring through the closed window. Would a lawyer help? The last dingbat wasn’t much help. Maybe he should just tell them about Tom and Rocky. Maybe he shouldn’t tell them anything. Through the window he saw Cheri Wilson running toward the female police officer, gesticulating frantically as she spoke in Jimmy’s direction. She appeared upset and anxious. But the officer shook her head in response and directed her away. Why was she . . . ?

  He let his head fall back on the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, as the thought of her sleeping form the night before again pervaded his mind. The image seemed to bring him energy—energy to focus his thoughts, bring himself together. There was only one way: the truth. There would be no shoulder shrugging or mind games or evasive answers this time. Just tell the truth.

  “You tell me what I’m up against, and I’ll talk to you. But I’d like to bum a smoke off one of the b’ys first. I haven’t had one since yesterday evening, and I guess I’m going to be here for a while.” He desperately wanted a cigarette, but he wanted to find out how far the b’ys had gone, too.

  The second officer jerked his head in Jimmy’s direction, his brow furrowing, his tone provocative. “You should have lots of cigarettes on you. A lot of cigarettes disappeared out of Furneaux’s store.”

  “Well, I don’t have them. I didn’t get here till dark yesterday, after hitchhiking across the Trans-Canada. When I got here, it was after six. It was Christmas Eve, and the store was closed. Everybody around here knew I’d just been released from Dorchester, so I didn’t feel like I could knock on doors.” The old defences had returned, not as good as they were, but good enough. Defences weren’t as necessary when you hadn’t committed any crime, and one thing he was sure of—he hadn’t committed this one.

  The officer continued, in an investigative tone that Jimmy couldn’t decide was bored or tired. Outside, Cheri Wilson was still pleading with the police officer, while her father was trying to interfere, trying to lead her away. Well, this was another way to spend Christmas Day. “You’re looking at break and enter. Attempted robbery. The safe was banged around a bit but wasn’t broken open. Theft. Cigarettes were stolen, along with a bunch of food and three dozen beer.”

  Jimmy gazed at the gathering crowd, now grown considerably larger. Some of the faces he didn’t recognize, but then they were younger. They were children when he left. Most of them looked impassive, like a jury, although some faces showed confusion, as if they weren’t ready to condemn yet. Cheri Wilson’s presence must have brought the memory of the accident to their minds. Maybe it was hard to condemn a man for stealing cigarettes when he had just saved a person’s life. Maybe it was hard to hang a man who had kept one of their own from drowning in the landwash. Maybe they were waiting for him to help himself, convince them. The thought, like the image of the sleeping Cheri Wilson, stirred him into a more assertive response.

  “Look, I got here yesterday after dark. A fellow by the name of Jack Gregory gave me a ride. I hung around the house for a bit—alone. I went to Mass at eight o’clock. I helped old lady Hennessey to her house from the church, and I walked the Wilson girl home. They can swear to that. Then I went back home and lit a fire. Vince Wilson and his girl brought over some food and stuff about eleven o’clock or so. I ate a feed, went to bed, and went to sleep.”

  The Mountie with the clipboard flipped through the pages, his eyes alighting on one for which he was obviously searching. “You didn’t talk to Tom Blanchard and Rocky Bates?”

  Jimmy swallowed hard, feeling the noose tightening. He had thought he could avoid mentioning their names, but they must have . . . . He tried to be evasive. “Talk to Tom Blanchard and Rocky Bates?”

  The officer behind the wheel shrugged. “They told us all about your little discussion last night and wanted to do the right thing as concerned citizens.”

  “Our little discussion. Concerned citizens!” Jimmy almost snorted the reply. Well, they must have given a nice story to the police to convinc
e them like that.

  “Yeah. A little discussion about breaking into Mr. Furneaux’s safe. Apparently they called on you for a Christmas visit, and you proposed this great plan about all the money that just sat in Dick Furneaux’s safe, just for the taking. They didn’t want anything to do with it, and they left. They figure you must have gone down to do the job after.”

  “They said that?” Jimmy was forced to laugh. You had to hand it to them. They could lie their way out of their coffins.

  The Mountie thumbed through several pages on the clipboard. “Yeah! Right here. Their statements corroborate to the word.”

  He thought he detected the two Mounties exchanging glances. Maybe they were just trying to find out all they could. Maybe they weren’t so eager to believe Tom and Rocky, either. “You’re believing these guys? For Chrissake, they have records a mile long.”

  “Well, until their testimony is disproved . . . . And with your record, you could be in for another run at time.”

  Jimmy went cold again, realizing the import of the Mountie’s statement. They were right. With his record, they didn’t need much for some smart prosecutor to build a good case. They might even just be waiting for somebody like Tom and Rocky to come along, whatever the story, to send him back up. Even without a cent missing, he was looking at another long stretch. Or maybe they didn’t really suspect him and were only trying to pump him to get the goods on Tom and Rocky. He tried to think but was totally at a loss for any form of defence. The police were still waiting, as if for some magical statement to bring it all to a close. Jimmy’s eyes lit on Cheri Wilson pacing back and forth in front of the police car, her movements agitated, and the words came more easily.