Downstairs the tree had been decorated, its lights glowing softly, and a Christmas present for him sat on the chair near the window. In the distance he thought he heard a shotgun blast.
He sat down, and stared glumly ahead of him. The bennies finally wearing down, his head nodded and he drifted off in anxious sleep. He woke with the lights of a police car in his yard and two constables getting out with their pistols drawn.
“She told,” he thought, and jumping up ran to the clothesline window and made it around the side of his house. He hadn’t had time to bring his coat, and was wearing an old pair of leather slippers instead of boots.
He crossed the field towards the Donnerel property, every now and then stumbling, putting his leather slippers back on, tears flooding his face.
The trees were gloomy and dark by Arron Brook. And he turned and saw in the distance Constable Matchett shining her light on his tracks.
“He’s gone up towards the brook,” Constable Matchett said.
He made his way past Guillaume Brassaurd’s grave, slipping and sliding over the ice-covered boulders. His hands were raw, his face in torment, while snow lashed his eyes.
“He’s following the brook!” he heard one of them yell.
He came up to the bridge.
He climbed under the wooden structure and hid for a moment before his legs gave way and he fell, flat on his back.
“Billy goat gruff,” he said, remembering a story from his childhood.
Then he moved onto the road and ran towards the Jessops’ corn field. He decided to go back to his camp and hide for the night.
The thing about this, as Bobby Taylor remembered, on June 19, 1994, was that Constable Matchett and Constable Foley were not talking about or chasing Silver Brassaurd.
They were talking about and chasing Everette Hutch, whom they had spied pointing Madonna’s shotgun, against the side window of the house, at Silver Brassaurd’s head.
They had drawn their guns to protect him.
That night of December 19, Everette had waited for his money, thinking of how well he had planned his life. But nothing happened at all. So, never minding Madonna’s ultimatum, he first went down to see Michael, who wasn’t there. He turned and went into the woods. Then he visited Gail’s shack at midnight. The money was gone. The shack was empty and still.
He thought that Madonna had betrayed him by telling Silver to bring the money to her. For a while he did not want to think this, but vicious paranoia took hold of him.
“We’ll see — that bitch,” he said. He could feel both his eyes and his body turn to lead. And it excited him.
He was the swirling centre, the black hole where all the debris, the planets and moons, like Madonna and Silver and Michael Skid, teetered and wobbled in their orbits, and were being sucked into. And this is exactly what all of them had sensed from the moment they had met him thirteen months before.
He went and woke Madonna in the early morning, hauling her by the hair down the stairs, so that her head hit all the steps, and he dragged her into the kitchen where she lay prostrate in front of his thick boots.
“Where is he?” he asked.
Madonna said she didn’t know.
He grimly smiled and slapped her face.
“You won’t get away with this — either of you.”
Then looking into the closet he took her shotgun. He loaded it and put it against her head.
“This is for them,” he said. “Michael and Silver. And then I’ll come back for you, you tight quiff.”
“Don’t kill anyone,” she smiled, as sweetly as a child. “Don’t kill them,” she whispered, giggling slightly and touching his face. Then her eyes turned to captivate him in a glance and she lay back seductively, as she pulled at his zipper. Her eyes were as warm as the sun upon him, and she whispered, “Come inside me — get me pregnant and we will go away”
And she hauled her pyjamas down for him and took his hand to fondle her. He was mesmerized by the beauty of her body, her breasts, the hair between her legs. For her, it was so easy.
Afterwards he left the house.
He grinned selfishly, which is always hard to look upon.
“I ripped off a good piece of cunt,” he said. He took the shotgun.
“Neither of them will be alive tomorrow,” he said. “And, if you want to live, you meet me at Donnerel’s farm by six o’clock tonight”
Madonna sat up on a kitchen chair, her hands between her knees, and couldn’t bear to look at him again. Everette never understood the meaning of a difference between good and evil.
For two or three hours she stared at the telephone. Twice in that time she picked up the phone, to call Laura McNair and tell everything, and twice she put it down again.
Finally in the afternoon, the snow fell And Madonna’s tears started. They flowed hotly down her cheeks, from those desperate beautiful eyes, because she had suddenly seen a vision of her own human triumph and despair.
“Jesus, please forgive me,” she said.
She fell on her knees and blessed herself. She said a Hail Mary
She looked at the house, the wallpaper she had started to put up, the new skirt she had bought for her course, still sitting on the chair in the living room. She smelled bread, and heard the ticking clock.
She went upstairs and got the decorations for the tree, brought them down from the attic, and standing on a chair put on the lights, icicles, the small bulbs. Finally finding the star she managed to place it high above her.
She smiled, kissed her rosary, and left it dangling on a branch.
She knew that Everette would kill Silver and Michael Skid with her shotgun. She knew and she had prayed, and had finally given herself to him so he would not.
Now, it had happened and she had lost power over him.
She went out into the dark and the bitter snow.
THREE
Bobby Taylor looked at the June day, the trees in lime-green bloom, and children walking in shorts to the playground. In formation they walked as clean and wonderful as children should be, in hope and love, with no boots or water hoses or beaten heads.
Bobby Taylor was thinking of these events, because information had come this morning about the other person in the case. So he supposed the case was closed, and that everyone now — even Laura McNair — could find some peace or reconciliation.
For that was the only thing anyone ever wanted.
He had a letter to write, for he had promised, and he sat down to write it.
He thought of Madonna, and his throat filled, after all these twenty years, because of her grace and beauty, and tears came to his eyes.
Madonna had gone out on December 20, 1974, in the snow, used the path, and crossed low on Arron Brook She came up behind Everette in the dark, and set herself upon him.
At that spot on the map ensued the fight between an unarmed girl of twenty and the vicious thug, Everette Hutch That was verbatim how the provincial paper described the event, which shocked and sickened the entire community, and made people grow in one universal moment kind toward each other, and to those other poor dark-faced children from the swamp road.
For Madonna, this was the only gift she could give back to the Virgin she believed, in simplicity and goodness she had defiled. She managed in fact to hurt him fairly badly, so that he yelled out in fear. But finally his kicks brought her to the ground. He dragged her by her bloodied hair as he spoke about how he would kill her. Her eyes stared at the oak tree and she whispered something.
Her body was thrust against two fallen barn rafters. Her face, quiet and unworried, her eyes opened peacefully to the snow, her chest half blown away
When the constables spotted him at the Brassaurds’ house fifteen minutes later, Everette threw away the murder weapon. He ran to the brook, but not in the same direction as Silver. And his few tapes, so important to a man like him, fell into the deep, placid snow.
Everette Hutch ran to one place for shelter. Michael’s farm. He believed Micha
el Skid was there, with the train tickets in his pocket. But no one was there, the porch door open and the summer chairs half-filled with grey-blue ice.
Michael Skid in fact had been taken into custody an hour earlier — not by the police, but by Bobby Taylor and Mr. Jessop, who came to get him for his own protection. They had led him out from the farmhouse, with a coat over his head, and a dozen people hurling insults at him and his suddenly disgraced family He sat in Bobby’s car, with the coat still over his head, as they drove away.
Outside the farm the crowd that had gathered was still there as Everette ran past them, and everyone started chasing him.
Everette kept running towards the middle of the inlet before he was stopped by a shot to the leg from the service revolver of Deborah Matchett. Everyone cheered in amazement. A man they had feared so much, that had terrorized their community so totally, was so easily brought down by a 115-pound woman who knew how to fire a pistol. It turned out to be the only time in her career she was to fire her pistol on duty.
It got later and colder that night of December 20, 1974. The snow stopped, the frozen trees tapped, and Silver walked along the fringe of the corn field. He circled back towards his house and heard a group of men shouting about Madonna being dead and Everette being shot, and Michael Skid in custody, and that men were going down to burn the shack.
He went back towards the corn field again to go to his lean-to. He stood in the snow, and waited. Far in the distance he could see the smoke rising from the shack, and then a billow of huge flame when the moonshine was lighted.
Then, after a time hiding, and a time crying, Silver realized that he had slipped away. No one would follow him this night.
He thought of all possible ways out. And he wondered what to do. He looked up at the stars, and breathed the salt in the air. He lit a cigarette and smoked it down. He went into the corn field and stumbled towards the trees. On his way he tripped on the length of cord Tommie Donnerel had thrown away last August, tangled up by the frozen ghostly stalks. He tore it from the stalks and brought it with him.
He took his slippers and socks off, and walked barefoot in the snow.
He made sure the noose was tied and garrotted with the screw-driver so it was certain to break his neck. He blessed himself.
He faced north into a thick row of trees, just beyond the corn field, his hands at his side.
There were thirty-five dollars in his pocket and an address where he could buy a second-hand bicycle for Madonna.
At least that is what those people who found his frozen body maintained.
After that, all the hurrying was over. By 11:15 Michael sat in the police station giving his statement. The bag of clothes was tagged as evidence. The bag of mescaline was also, and so was the money, and by the next afternoon so were Everette Hutch’s tapes.
Constable Delano kept his head down, staring at certain notes as Michael spoke.
Michael said that, although it was Everette’s idea to sell the mescaline, he had gone along with it. That he had capped it in his barn. That, once, he’d had to convince both Silver and Madonna to go through with it. That though he didn’t know bad mescaline was sold, it was sold from his sailboat to make up for a debt. That he had dragged Karrie into the very group that was ultimately responsible for her death. And that the bloody clothes, proof of Tom’s innocence, were something he would have been willing to hide to protect both himself and Laura McNair. That he was ashamed of all of this and would regret it for the rest of his life.
Finally he said, “I think we should inform Laura.”
“Constable Matchett has done that, I think,” Delano said. “But let me check.”
And he stood and left the room for a moment, as casually as if he were checking to see if someone had phoned for a taxi. Then he came in and nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Ms. McNair has been informed —” As subtle as it was, he had used Ms., instead of Miss, as a sign of respect for Michael
There was a deep silence as Michael sensed this, and then he felt himself smile slightly.
Now he wanted to be close to this man, and to have John Delano like him. Delano looked up from his typewriter and glanced at him in humility. He took a drag on his cigarette and offered Michael one. He stood and lit the cigarette for Michael and, looking at his lighter, spoke kindly.
“Things look bad,” Delano advised, “But look to the future — think of what positive things you wanted to do in your life. Think of the respect people still have for you. I still have respect for you. What Silver did was a terrible act that he might not have been entirely responsible for, but neither are you entirely responsible for Silver. Make sure you get a good lawyer — and then — well, things have a way of working themselves out — and time will pass — you look very remorseful — remorse will lessen. You will look upon things more — philosophically. And you will be able in some way at some time to atone — mark my words. Anyone can start a brand-new life, not dependent on a previous life. If you knew me five years ago, you would know I am living proof of that.” He smiled.
Michael held the cigarette in his mouth and breathed the smoke into his lungs.
They informed him they would take him to the jail overnight, and handcuffed him in order to facilitate the transfer.
FOUR
The prosecutor’s office, feeling that they had been duped the first time, charged Michael with criminal negligence and conspiracy to traffic in illegal drugs.
The prosecutor spoke of how Madonna had fought Everette to the death while Michael ostensibly ran away.
“And how much did she weigh?” the prosecutor said. “One hundred and five pounds? — yes — so get Madonna.”
And this made a tremendous impact on everyone.
“Put him away,” someone shouted.
Michael had cut his hair, wore the suit he had loaned Tommie Donnerel for his parents’ funeral, and sat in the dock near his lawyer. His father had taken a leave of absence.
Laura McNair didn’t handle the case for the prosecution. She was under review. But once during the examination of Constable Matchett she came into the courtroom to deliver Karrie’s diary to the prosecutor. Her hair was longer — her face looked a little thinner.
At that moment Everette’s tapes were being played, the mescaline shown, and a picture of The Renegade was up on the bulletin board, with a picture of Karrie standing on the bow.
Laura glanced over at Michael. Their eyes met for a few seconds only. Then she looked at his lawyer, Philip McSweeney, and smiled, as if at Michael’s expense. She turned and quickly left the courtroom, with a movement of her skirt. It was the last time Michael would ever see her.
Professor Becker testified that he was surprised at Michael’s appearance that afternoon he and Silver had visited him in Fredericton, and felt that Michael had fallen in with bad company, but because of his sense of duty tried to straighten Michael around.
Yet it was Karrie’s diary which was the most damning. It was as if an investigative report had been done on him, conjured up for the papers. Her whimsical writing was matched only by the meaning of her words, which she herself did not understand.
“Michael could fly above us — but he has decided to lower hisself into the pit, just like the pit at the dump. Why? Well I think it’s to pretend he has his bad side. But real men never have to do this. Only the sad cruel men he has taken up with. So I will help him get away from them — you see that’s my secret summer job.”
Michael came to hate that diary, and long for his own destruction.
When he stood to be sentenced he couldn’t help trembling. He tried not to. His lawyer pleaded his youth, his brilliance, his potential to vindicate himself someday through good works. That is, all the usual things were said. But his journalistic talents were never mentioned.
“He forgot that a source of self-recrimination always comes tomorrow morning,” the judge said.
Dora and Emmett Smith were present for the sentencing. So was old Mr. Jessop, the
only kindly face in the court.
Laura McNair was not present. She couldn’t stand to be. For she loved him deeply
He received five years.
“Only five years,” people whispered.
From prison he heard that Laura had lost her virginity to his lawyer, Philip McSweeney, and they were engaged to be married.
In prison he was mocked and tortured every day by the man who had stabbed Tommie Donnerel.
Michael wrote letters from prison, one to his father, and one to Nora Battersoil, asking both for forgiveness.
Nora Battersoil sent him a picture of his son, Owen. The picture had been taken the day after Michael had saved Amy and the boy’s life. (This was something Nora would not know until twenty years later.)
The picture she sent him had been taken at the church picnic.
Nora informed Michael that she had loved him, but for the sake of the child thought it best to leave and hoped he would someday forgive her. “I’m so sorry and feel responsible that all of this has happened.”
The picture had one more striking detail. In the background was Silver Brassaurd, who must have just left Michael’s house that August afternoon. He was walking straight towards the camera, wearing the clean shirt and pants that Madonna had pressed, his hands thrust into his pockets.
The Smiths were given a fine and ordered to do community service. After this Dora developed chronic angina, so the gas bar was sold, and the little profit they had made was spent, and Emmett and she moved to an apartment in town, where Emmett took care of his invalid wife, began to drink to forget, and Dora turned very bitter towards Gail Hutch and all other people on the road.
Everette went to prison and, after seven years, his health failed. In time he became a hypochondriac, worrying the guards about his aches and pains, complained about the omission of true friendship, turned feeble, had a local writer write his life story, and forever needed to see a doctor.
The Bay of Love and Sorrows Page 25