He dispensed with his coat and made his way to the kitchen. Dinner was over. He walked into the living room. Julie sat in front of the television with a glass of wine in hand.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” she said without turning from the TV. “I didn’t know you’d be late.”
“I should have told you.” William found the wine, poured himself a glass and trailed into the sitting room.
Julie glanced at him briefly. “Not hungry?”
“Not really.” William sat in his usual spot. The television noise filled the space. Already he was impatient for the right moment. “How was your day?” It was the familiar and safe inquiry.
“Just the usual,” said Julie. “Nothing to report.”
“Where’s Kelly?”
“She’s upstairs with some homework. She wants to go out later, so she’s getting it done early.”
“Where is she going?”
“I’ve already said she can go.” Julie’s expectation of his objection arrived suddenly for both of them. She hesitated. “She’s going to a party, at Michael’s house.”
“Do you know who’s going to be there?”
Julie turned on him. “Of course I do. It’s Friday night and she’s going with her thirteen-year-old friends to a party. I’ll be driving a few of them.” The air was suddenly hot. She sipped wine to cool it.
“Maybe I should drive her,” he said.
Julie stood and marched into the kitchen. William stared at the television without watching, wondering what had happened. He listened to his dinner being pulled from the oven and shovelled into the recycling bin, and then he followed her into the kitchen, perched on the bar stool, leaned on the granite countertop and waited.
Julie stopped banging around the kitchen. “I’m just tired of being questioned, like I’ve done something wrong, when you come home from work. I’ve been here all day and I’m not one of your employees.”
William stayed quiet. There was nothing he could say that would not inflame Julie further, but there were still things he needed to tell her.
He allowed a little time to pass and then said, “I do have something important to tell you.” Julie continued to work in the kitchen. “It really is important.”
She stopped. “What’s important to you that you want to tell me?”
William ignored the scratch in her question. Her eyes looked tired. He could see she did not want to hear him. There was no point in trying to be sensitive. “I have a brain tumour. A small one, but it has to come out.” There was a question on her face that could not find words. “After I fell off my bike I had some tests.”
“I know,” she said, “but they didn’t say anything about having more tests then.”
“When I went back a few days later for a follow-up, I was referred to a neurologist and arranged to have the tests done. I got the results today.” Julie’s brow furrowed.
“Is it cancer?”
“They’re not sure but think it’s unlikely. Apparently the tumour is underneath my brain, not actually in the brain. Anyway, I need an operation to have it out.” He waited for her to catch up. “Apparently it’s on my pituitary gland.”
“What does that mean?” Julie asked. “Will you be all right?”
William tried not to think of what she might mean, but it came too easily to cast off. What was she really concerned about? She had long ago lost interest in him. “Apparently it’s a common operation, and they seem very confident they can do something for me.”
“There haven’t been symptoms, have there? I haven’t noticed anything.”
He thought, What would you have noticed, unless the money ran out? but managed not to say it. “The neurologist said that I’ve probably had it for years. It may have affected me. He won’t know until he does some tests on it. I wouldn’t have noticed anyway. It happens gradually. The effects are hard to spot.”
“What sort of effects?”
“I’m not sure. My hormones have been messed up in some way. The problem is that it’ll get bigger, and I may get worse if I don’t have something done about it.”
Julie sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. I didn’t want to worry you, or Kelly.”
“For God’s sake, William. You don’t decide what we can know or not know. You don’t decide.” She sighed again. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be angry. This is about you getting well, but I don’t like … waiting to be included.”
William watched Julie’s exasperation play out. She was right. He was not good at sharing feelings, kept things to himself, but mostly he neither liked nor trusted her sympathy. It was more than he could tolerate. Julie would never understand how pointless her concern now seemed, when he had to dislocate a shoulder or have a tumour in his head before she showed any sign of being interested in him.
Julie asked, “What will we say to Kelly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to talk with your daughter about this. I can mop up during the day, but it really has to come from you.”
William felt helpless. “I’m not sure how to tell her.” It wasn’t just the helplessness of not knowing what to say to Kelly; it was having to ask for guidance. Having to ask would confirm his absenteeism and line him up for another judgment, now or later. The wind whistled in his ears and he pulled at them.
“Well,” Julie began. “She knows you’ve been injured. Perhaps you could tell her what a lucky thing it was to have happened.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, lucky because they found something serious.”
“Yes. I think if you tell her how lucky you have been that they found something when it was small and they can operate, she might be happy about it. Not so worried.”
It was simple and obvious. He had not thought of it. “That sounds good. I’ll try that.”
Julie came to him and put her arms around his waist. He stiffened. It was unfamiliar. William remembered that she could embrace with her whole body. He had managed to hold all of that at bay, but she was too quick, and in any case perhaps he should allow it. He put his arms on her shoulders and patted her.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“I expect you will have that written on your tombstone.” For a moment it was like they had been before Kelly arrived.
“I better go speak to Kelly.”
He tried to pull away but she clung to him. “Tell her after the party. Maybe tomorrow. I haven’t finished yet. You may not know you need a hug right now, but you do. So do I.”
December 11, 2017
Just a few kilometres from the road he travelled, skiers played on Cypress and Grouse Mountains, under floodlights. In North Vancouver, the temperature remained above freezing and for a few hours the rain had given way to dampness. William felt the weakness in his legs as he tried to power over the bridge into Stanley Park. Just a few weeks of being idle and muscles were no longer what they were. Even so, it was good to be on his bicycle again. He got into cruising mode as he slipped off the bridge into the park. It would be a difficult meeting, but there were a few minutes’ cycling time around the edge of the park to work out how to play it. By Second Beach he pulled off the road onto the cycle path and rolled along the side of the empty playground. He moved slowly along, as was the arrangement, waiting to be joined.
The whirring sound of another bike lifting moisture from the path could be heard approaching from behind. The new rider settled in formation beside William as they swooped through the underpass on the way to the lake. Two more riders held position ten metres back.
“It’s good to see you, William,” said Uri. “How are you?”
“I’m all right. And you?” asked William.
“Very good. And your shoulder?”
“I’m not ready for mountain biking yet, but if I keep to smooth pavement, I’m okay.”
“That’s good, William.”
“How was the shipment last month? Was it
all that you wanted?”
“Everything was good. William, thank you for arranging it. We know that you were not well. It was appreciated.”
William said, “There is a problem this month.” Uri was quiet. “I need an operation.”
“What kind of operation is this, William?”
“I’ve had some tests, and I have a small tumour in my head. Nothing to worry about, but I have to have the operation before Christmas, on the twenty-first.”
“But William, the shipment is coming. The shipment doesn’t turn around. What will you do?”
The pace and urgency picked up alongside the rhododendrons.
“What do you suggest?”
“It is for you, William. This is your part of the business. We can do nothing until it gets to you.”
William tried to concentrate through the discomfort of his shoulder being jarred by every little bump on the path. He had cycled too far. “There is no good time to have an operation like this, but if I have it before Christmas, I’ll be pretty well recovered by the new year and be able to manage the January shipment.”
“So soon?” Uri asked. “William, this is brain surgery. Will it not take a long time?”
“Apparently not. They won’t have to cut into the brain, just near the brain. If I wait until January to have it, I might not be ready for the shipment, and we will be in the same situation. I should just get it over with as soon as possible.”
Uri was quiet for a hundred metres. “So, someone you trust will take delivery at the warehouse?”
“Yes. I’ve got a good man in the warehouse. Ex-military. Reliable. Does what he’s told. He was there to receive the last SynchronoX delivery.”
“But he doesn’t know to give our part of the shipment the following day,” said Uri.
“That’s true, but if I have the manifest before I go into hospital, I can instruct him on separating your consignment from the rest. To get it out the next day, I’ll have to give everyone the day off, leave the security cameras off and give you keys for the front door and alarm. The alarm needs a key and a code. The warehouse door can be opened from the inside.”
“William, you won’t mind me being at your work?”
“This is different. I don’t want the consignment in the warehouse for more than a day. You will be there for only half an hour if we arrange it well. The consignment will be stacked and ready for you. You just have to load and lock up.”
Up ahead the Stanley Park Causeway underpass approached. Uri was thinking in silence.
“Okay,” he said. “We will do as you plan. Have you keys?”
William sat upright on his bicycle and pulled a length of ribbon from his jacket pocket and passed it to Uri. “The alarm code is on the ribbon.”
“This must work, William. Dennis must make it work for you.”
“He will.”
“I’m sure it will go well.” Uri grinned. “With the operation and the delivery.”
Three cyclists moved to the right of the path as it ran under the causeway. William watched them turn toward the city before he turned west along the seawall. He allowed himself to slow and stop. His shoulder ached and his ears rang. He got a last glimpse of three riders moving silently away from him along the path into Coal Harbour. William had more than one thought about the plan working. Not everything was within his control and he would be in no position to respond to anything that went wrong. It would rely on Dennis doing exactly as he was told.
A current went through him. He searched his memory for any recollection of having mentioned Dennis by name when speaking to Uri. There was nothing he could recall. Maybe he had mentioned it. The doubt bothered him as much as not knowing what else Uri might know.
2
Perry Siding, BC, September 9, 1953
Gerry Flanagan looked over the wooden bridge into the crystal cold water of the Slocan River. It reminded him of his time in Ireland as a boy. Thirty pairs of police-issue boots rattled over the bridge but the sound of water over stones could still be heard. Ahead, on the west side of the bridge, more men waited. A group of them turned to watch their fellow RCMP officers arriving. Just three years had passed since the provincial police in BC had been disbanded, and many officers from the old guard neither understood nor accepted the takeover by the RCMP. Their resentment lingered. They huddled together, inspecting the arrival of the outsiders. As the groups joined, the trundle of boots on boards gave way to the mournful sound of singing from the next field, south of the road.
“You failed the first test. Late and missed the briefing,” Sergeant Benson, a small and wiry man something over fifty, said in greeting.
“Sorry, Sarge. Bus was late.”
Benson reached into a crate. “It doesn’t matter. Here,” he said, offering Flanagan a brown bottle of beer.
“No thanks, Sarge. I don’t drink.” Flanagan saw bottles in the hands of his colleagues and wondered what was going on. None of the men made eye contact and a few muttered quietly like embarrassed schoolboys.
“You’ll need it, son,” said the sergeant, holding out the bottle. His thick Borders accent made it sound like an order. The tilt of his head suggested any man who would not drink with him could not be trusted.
“Not for me, thank you,” said Flanagan. He knew it was a mistake not to take it. He had failed the first test, and the second.
“Suit yourself.” The sergeant tossed his empty into the field and took a long swig from the fresh bottle.
“What’s the plan, Sergeant?” Flanagan asked.
The sergeant eyed him. “We’re going into that field,” he said, pointing with the nose of the bottle toward the singing, “and we’re going to arrest every one of these Russian protesters, because they think the laws in Canada don’t apply to them.” The sergeant stared into Flanagan’s eyes. “That’s the plan, son.” He paused to lift the bottle to his lips and continued to watch Flanagan.
Both men could hear the singing and each knew what the other was thinking. Flanagan asked, “What resistance are we expecting?”
“Whatever they offer, we’ll deal with.”
“What are we arresting them for, Sarge?”
“The protesters are naked. That’s the complaint.”
From across the field Flanagan could see nothing. “Someone complained?” he asked.
The sergeant studied him again. “You’re the new boy from Ontario, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been here a week.”
“Irish?”
“I am, Sergeant.”
“Republican or Loyalist?”
“Irish, Sarge.”
The sergeant’s question said everything of the past that Flanagan’s family had tried to escape. His family had left Ireland for Canada because of turmoil, but history would always follow them. He had not been alive when his father was interred by the Black and Tans, who marauded unchecked through the streets of his homeland, searching, beating and arresting anyone who looked part of the Republican Army, and every Catholic did. It had embittered his nation, his community and his family. The question also told of the sergeant’s past. A soldier, certainly, but his connection to Ireland was less certain. Maybe he had felt the spitting contempt from one side or the other, or seen too much of the war.
The sergeant eyed him with more suspicion. “Well, ‘Irish,’ either way you won’t know much about what’s been happening here, will you? In this province, nudity is a serious crime. Punished by three years in prison.”
It was too late for Flanagan to prevent his eyebrows lifting in surprise. The sergeant approached to within a few inches of his face. “Is that a problem for you, son?”
“It seems a long time, sir. That’s all.”
“That’s not our concern, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Your job, if you expect to get to the end of your second week, is to follow the orders I give you.”
“Ye
s, Sarge.”
The sergeant tossed the second bottle after the first and caught the attention of the officer behind Flanagan. “You stay with our Irish colleague with the fine sensibilities, and make sure he does his part.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” came the reply, as the sergeant walked off.
Flanagan looked over the hedge toward the white tents in the next field. The prayer songs drifted toward him on smoke from their fires. The images were too far away to see what was going on. There was movement. Children played, and he could see a few larger pink figures.
The voice from behind said, “You’ll see plenty in a few minutes, and you’ll not want to remember any of it. None of us will.”
Flanagan acknowledged the man standing behind him. “I don’t see any protesting.” There was no response. “What are we waiting for?”
“Transport’s coming to take them away. Adults head to the railway line on the trucks; children without parents and mothers with babies go north to New Denver on the buses.”
“What do you mean? Are we arresting the children?” asked Flanagan.
“Just the adults. The children won’t have anyone to look after them, so we pick them up.”
“Christ!”
“Anyway, it’s not our responsibility. We’ve had orders from Victoria just to round ’em up and get them on the transport.”
There was more Flanagan wanted to know but the group began stirring. Officers muttered about the buses arriving. Bottles flew over the hedge and men began arranging their gear.
“Form up! Form up!” shouted the sergeant, and men arranged themselves in rows. When they were roughly settled, he said, “You’ll cross into the top field at the first gate. Move right along the hedge and stay in two ranks.”
The troop moved sluggishly.
“Move yourself!” the sergeant shouted, and they stepped up. “I expect everyone to do their part,” he said, fixing on Flanagan. “No exceptions. There’ll be no shirkers here today. You’ll do what you’re fucking told.”
The Kissing Fence Page 3