Reparations

by Stephen Kimber

  But Mummy was gone from the room. Again.

  Ward found his car keys on the floor in the den where he’d put them, or dropped them, or where they’d fallen out of his pocket last night. He went out the front door and down the walkway toward the driveway. The car was parked halfway up the lane as if he’d been unable to calculate the space remaining and erred on the side of caution by stopping in the middle of the driveway. Had he? He couldn’t remember parking the car. Or the drive home. Walking around the back of the car to get to the driver’s side, he noticed the dent in the left rear bumper, the chrome scraped off. Shit. What had he hit? And how? He tried to remember. Banging. The garbage can. He’d backed into the garbage can. Now he’d have to get the bumper fixed before—What? There was a dark, brownish-red colour splattered over the whitewalls. And what was that caught in the tire tread? A bluish-blackish-brownish piece of . . . He felt it with his fingers. Rubbery. Embedded with flecks of whitish-grey. Bone? Oh, Jesus! What had he done? He tried to conjure the details of the drive home, but none came to him. A dog? Someone? Oh, God . . . He got in the car, inhaled, exhaled, deep breaths, tried to stop himself from throwing up.

  Think. Think. Car wash. Wash away whatever it is. Now. Before someone sees. He drove to the self-wash in the north end. A coin car wash. No operator to see his face, to see the . . . Was that really blood on the tire? He put his money in, took the hose, trained its spray on the rear tire, washed away the splatters and the pieces of whatever. He trained the hose on the pieces he’d washed out of the tread, followed them with the spray to the floor drain. Gone. He used five quarters’ worth of water on the tire before realizing he had to wash the rest of the car too. So no one would know.

  Rosa? Shit. He’d told her he’d be right there. Would she call the house again? What would Victoria say this time? He needed to get over to her place. East on Young to Barrington. South on Barrington to White. Left turn onto—Ward slammed on the brakes, jammed the car into reverse and backed onto Barrington again. There was a cop car outside Rosa’s place. Were they looking for him? How had they connected him to Rosa?

  He headed the car north on Barrington again, willed himself not to speed. Perhaps he should turn around, retrace his drive home after he left Rosa’s last night. Maybe something along the route would bring back what really happened. He flipped on the radio. Driving rock music. And then the disc jockey. “Bachman-Turner Overdrive as you drive around on this beautiful Sunday afternoon. Don’t worry. We won’t stop the music. The Bay City Rollers are next, right after Steve tells us what’s coming up on the news. Steve?”

  “Thanks, Dan. Halifax Police are investigating a fatal hit-and-run accident last night on White Street in the city’s north end. The victim: a two-and-a-half-year-old boy. I’ll have all the details on Contemporary News at five to the—”

  Ward snapped off the radio. Trying to pretend he hadn’t heard what he’d heard. That he didn’t know what it meant. But he had. And he did. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. Opened the door. Leaned over. Threw up.

  The phone rang and rang. Ward was about to hang up when someone finally picked up. “Hello.”

  “Jack?”

  “Ward! I’m glad you called. I didn’t want to leave the things the way they were yesterday. We’re all grown—”

  “I need to talk to you,” Ward interjected. “I think I did something . . . bad.”

  Chickenshit bastards. Patrick was certain the missing paragraph hadn’t been edited out for space. The local section was thin enough this morning the editors had even stuck some national wire stories in just to bulk it up. So it wasn’t space. No, this smacked of the usual “Tribune Trepidation,” a phrase of his own proud creation to describe the paper’s aversion to controversy of any kind.

  The missing paragraph read: “One eyewitness to the incident, a 12-year old Negro neighbour who wouldn’t give his name”—not quite true; Patrick hadn’t remembered to ask—“told this newspaper he saw a large white car driven by a white man leaving the scene of the hit-and-run Sunday morning. He said he’d seen the same car parked on the street on previous occasions.”

  Snipped from the printed version as if it had never even been there.

  The phone rang. It was the desk calling. “How’d you like to do a follow-up on that hit-and-run story?” He was about to complain when Lucas, the City Editor, laughed out loud. “Just kidding, don’t get yourself in a lather. Harkin left me a note about how happy you were to get that assignment. So, don’t worry. I’ll bounce that one back to the boys in the cop shop. But I do have a story you might be interested in. Nothing to do with car accidents. Got a note this morning. About some press conference in the Red Room at ten. The details are still sketchy but it’s apparently going to be a kind of pep rally for some fish company pitch to convince Ottawa to give them a factory freezer trawler. I’m hearing Eisner but I can’t say for sure. That more up your alley?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” The story didn’t sound exciting but at least it didn’t involve dead kids. That was a plus.

  Jack had been cryptic on the phone. “I have some information on that matter we discussed the other day,” he said. “I’d like to come around and talk to you about it now if you have the time.”

  If he had the time! Ward had nothing but time. Time to think. And worry. About one thing. Certainly not Junior’s press conference two days ago. Junior had announced Eisner’s application to Ottawa to acquire a fleet of factory freezer trawlers. No mention where they would come from. Or who would crew them. Of course, the press wanted to know the provincial Fisheries Department’s position on Junior’s proposal.

  “Tell them we’re studying it,” Ward had told Matheson, the department’s press guy. “And no interviews. Tell them I’m too busy to talk to anyone right now.”

  Too busy? Ward had been busy cancelling appointments, postponing departmental meetings. So he could . . . sit alone in his office and think.

  He had tried to call Rosa. And tried. No answer. He’d heard on one of the radio open-line shows—he listened to them all the time now—that the show had been trying to contact her too, “so we can ask that woman just what was she thinking, putting her child outside like that in the middle of the night.” The host of Open Mic with Mike in the Mornings sounded angry with Rosa. “Listeners, I want you to know we called her number a dozen times yesterday and again this morning because we know you want to know the answer to that question too,” Mike’s Voice of Righteous Indignation boomed out from the radio on the credenza in Ward’s office. He lowered his voice then, almost whispered. “She isn’t answering her phone. What do you want to bet, dear listeners, that that woman is sitting there in her apartment and just doesn’t want to talk to us, doesn’t want to answer our questions, your questions? But who knows? Maybe she’s got her radio on, is listening to us this morning. Is there something you want to say to that woman who left her little boy outside to die a horrible death? Our phone lines are open right now. Give us a call.”

  No wonder Rosa wasn’t answering her phone. Not that Ward would have known what to say if she did. What could he say? I’m sorry I killed your son? Did she know it was him?

  “War’ p’ay t’uck? War’ p’ay t’uck?” Little Larry’s voice played like a looped chorus, an endless accusation, in his head. It was playing now. Still. Ward’s eyes filled with tears. Again.

  He should have gone to the police. He’d wanted to, but Jack wouldn’t hear of it. “It was an accident,” Jack said after Ward blurted out the whole story and asked Jack to accompany him to the police station so he could turn himself in. “Don’t make things any worse. There’s nothing you can do now to change what happened. And you don’t even know what the police know. They may not know anything. So just step back and take a deep breath . . . Look, I know you’re upset and I know you want to do the right thing, but this is about more than just what happened. It’s about your career and your future. It’s about the go
vernment. I don’t think we could survive a scandal like this. Not now.” Ward was not convinced. Jack could see that. “And what about Victoria? And the kids? Are you really ready to put them through something like this?” Jack was beginning to make an impression now. He kept talking. “Give me a few days. Let me see what I can find out for you. I have some contacts. Meantime, don’t do anything different. Just go about your business. “

  But Ward had done everything different. That night he’d told Victoria the whole story. The truth. Left nothing out. She’d screamed at him, beat at his chest with her fists. He took it. He deserved it. She’d cried then. He’d cried too, told her he was sorry for the mess he’d made for her and the kids, but he didn’t say he was sorry he’d fallen in love with Rosa. And Victoria didn’t say she forgave him. She didn’t. The next day when he came home from the office, all his clothes were in the closet in the den. Their marriage, even the pretence their marriage had become, was finished. Nothing but the shell remained. For the sake of appearances. And the children. Which was why he had to wait for Jack, she told him. For the children.

  But Jack didn’t call. And didn’t call. So last night, after the funeral, Ward had driven to Rosa’s apartment in Victoria’s car. There were no cops. And no reporters. But no Rosa, either.

  “Gone,” her next-door neighbour yelled out from inside her apartment when she heard Ward knocking on Rosa’s door. “Left this afternoon. In a cab. With her suitcase. Can’t blame her. Why couldn’t you guys just leave her to mourn in peace? Why you hafta be coming around here looking for your quotes and your pictures?” She thought he was a reporter! Ward turned and hurried back down the stairs before she came out and saw him. He’d probably passed her before in the hall. What if she recognized him? What if she put two and two together and . . . ? Coming here had been a terrible idea. He hadn’t seen Rosa, hadn’t been able to say he was sorry for her loss. Where had she gone, anyway?

  He wished he’d gone to little Larry’s funeral. He couldn’t, of course, but he’d listened to the radio for all the details. There were only a few mourners inside the church, according to one newscast, but “dozens gathered outside to say goodbye to the little boy they didn’t know but whose death touched their hearts.”

  Perhaps it was because of the circumstances in which he’d died. Perhaps it was simply a slow news week in the middle of summer. But Larry’s death had become the news. There were stories in the newspaper. The Tribune stories inevitably made note of the fact that Rosa had been convicted for street prostitution two years before. As if that explained something.

  The callers to Open Mic with Mike in the Mornings believed it did. They wondered where Child Welfare had been. “They shoulda taken that little boy away from that woman, Mike,” one woman said, speaking for many. “I think Welfare’s scared to do their jobs because they don’t want the coloureds screaming discrimination, that’s what I think.”

  “Leaving her little one run loose all night like that!” added another caller. “They should lock her up and throwaway the key. Make sure she never gets the chance to do that to no baby again.”

  The open-line host agreed. And called the Police Chief to demand action.

  “Well, Mike, I understand your callers’ concerns,” the Chief explained on the air. “We’re concerned too. And we will be looking into what we can do to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

  “So there you have it, callers.” Mike spoke directly to his listeners. “The Chief’s going to do what he can. By the way, Chief, what’s the latest on the investigation? Have you found the bastard—sorry for my language but that’s what he is—the bastard who did this terrible thing?”

  “Not yet, Mike,” the Chief replied. “But we are making progress. I hope your listeners saw the composite sketch of the suspect in the newspaper this morning, or on TV last night.” He laughed lightly. “If you don’t mind me mentioning TV on the radio.”

  Ward had seen the sketch. Of a black man! Dark. Nondescript. Could have been almost anyone. Anyone black.

  “We’re investigating the possibility this may have been connected to drugs,” the Chief continued. “We have information the mother may have owed money to a drug pusher.”

  “A drug pusher! Well, well,” Mike said, talking to his audience again. “What do you think of that, callers? We have lines open this morning and we’re waiting for your call—”

  The intercom buzzed, startled Ward. He turned down the volume, pressed the button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Eagleson is here to see you, sir,” the disembodied voice announced. “Should I send him in?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” Jack said as he closed the door behind him. “But I had to call in some favours. The news isn’t good, I’m afraid.”

  Ward nodded. He knew it.

  “A kid apparently saw you driving away. He got a pretty good description of the car. The cops have talked to him.”

  “But the sketch?”

  “Public consumption,” Jack explained. “They’re afraid of stirring up the black community, especially if they don’t catch the guy.”

  “Do they suspect—?”

  “No, not yet. At least from what my friend on the force tells me. Now that the boy has been buried and once the talk shows finish chewing over the bones, well, this isn’t going to be at the top of anyone’s to-do list.” Jack paused then. “But the cops aren’t our real problem.”

  “What is?” Ward asked.

  “There’s a reporter at the Trib, the one who covers the Legislature, you know, the prick who tried to nail us in ’70 . . . Well, apparently, he’s been sniffing around. Cops think he’s on to something. Checked with a guy I know at the paper and it seems like they’re right. My friend there tells me he’s a day or two away from putting all the pieces together.”

  Ward found this news strangely comforting. Part of him just wanted the uncertainty over. He was guilty. He should be punished. Would he still feel that way when his name was on the front page?

  “. . . only way I can think of to head it off.” Jack was still talking. “So I contacted some friends of mine in the Prime Minister’s Office. They’re willing, but they want to move quickly. They’re afraid of winding up in the middle of a mess if it becomes public. So I have to phone them tonight, let them know if you want to go ahead . . .” He waited for Ward to say something.

  “What?”

  “Should they go ahead? They’d announce it tomorrow morning. Look, Ward, I know this isn’t what you wanted. It isn’t what I wanted either. But we need to be realistic. You could end up with nothing at all . . . or worse. This way, at least you’ll be a judge.”

  A judge!

  “The paper won’t touch you then. My friend says he can make sure the Trib puts the leash on Donovan after you’re appointed. The publisher has too much respect for the judiciary to allow one of his reporters to tarnish a judge.”

  Ward appeared doubtful.

  “There’s precedent,” Jack added. “Everyone knew what happened with Williams and that hooker in Sydney.” Al Williams had been the Municipal Affairs minister in O’Sullivan’s first term. Ward didn’t know anything about a hooker. Was he the only one? “He beat her pretty bad. Cops were still looking into it when O’Sullivan named him a Provincial Court judge. End of stories. All neat and clean. Same here . . . And Williams just got Provincial Court. You’ll be a Justice of the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia. For life. So . . . ?”

  So?

  “I’m not sure there’s really a choice . . .” Jack was waiting.

  “Yes,” Ward said finally. “Okay.”

  He had come so close to standing up to Jack and Junior. Now that all seemed a long time ago.

  Holy shit! Patrick Donovan couldn’t believe his eyes. But there it was in black and yellow. He hadn’t expected much when he heard the clack-clack-hiccup
of the government’s information wire firing up in the back of his cubicle. They always seemed to be churning out fresh propaganda. Funding for this recreation group in Yarmouth, or that new rink in Canso. O’Sullivan must be planning an early election call, Patrick thought. Before things got worse. Before his own party turned against him. It was probably another nothing announcement, but Patrick was supposed to call the desk in fifteen minutes to tell them how he planned to spend the day. His notebook was still empty. So he got up from his desk and made his way to the teletype just as the roll of canary-yellow copy paper stopped turning and the machine went silent.

  ATTENTION NEWS EDS

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  HALIFAX—The Honourable Seamus J. O’Sullivan announced today he has accepted “with deep regret” the resignation of the Honourable Ward Justice as Nova Scotia’s Minister of Fisheries and MLA for Cabot County.

  Mr. Justice has accepted a federal appointment as a Justice of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. That announcement will be made formally by the Prime Minister’s Office later this morning.

  Premier O’Sullivan praised Mr. Justice for his “outstanding contributions” to public life and said his wise counsel will be missed at the Cabinet table, as well as by him personally.

  “All Nova Scotians are grateful to Mr. Justice, whose unstinting dedication to the people of his riding, to the future of the fishery, and to all the citizens of his native province has made this a better place to work and live. We wish him well as he continues to make a contribution as a Justice of the Supreme Court.”

  A graduate of the Dalhousie University Law School, Mr. Justice was first elected as the Member for Cabot County in the General Election of 1974. He was appointed to the Cabinet as Minister of Fisheries, the youngest in provincial history, and has served in that portfolio since.

  Mr. Justice is married to the former Victoria Cullingham, daughter of a former Nova Scotia Premier, Gerald A. Cullingham. They have two daughters.