—This is Pete.
—Hey, Pete. I’m Emily Casey.
—Hey, said Pete. What kind of music was that?
—It was a waltz, said Emily. Chopin.
—Well whatever, said Billy. It was great as hell. Anyway, when you’re done here, you want to come with us? We’ve got a case of beer in the car.
—I can’t, said Emily. I’m here with my family. But I’ve got some time in the week. And next weekend my friend Nancy might have some people over.
They would have talked more but just then a man appeared in the corridor behind them, some distance away. He was a slim man. Collared shirt and tie. The man was simply standing there, not moving towards them, but all the same Pete felt himself scrutinized. He occupied himself by examining some outreach tracts in a rack on the wall.
—Emily, said the man.
She gave the man a little wave, turned back to Billy, and said: That’s my dad.
—The cop, said Billy, his voice low enough that Emily’s father couldn’t hear him.
—Yes. Anyway, call me.
She withdrew as coolly as she’d arrived, going through the doors of the banquet hall with them watching her, and her father watching them.
The case of Labatt made a full revolution of locations before it was opened. They ended up back at Billy’s brother’s apartment, where they smoked more dope and drank beer. Billy and his brother sat on the couch with their guitars and spent some time disagreeing over what song to play. Billy’s brother had married just out of high school. His wife was watching television and didn’t pay attention to Pete or Billy or even Billy’s brother.
The hours passed and the beers got fewer. Pete went out on the balcony to get some air. The lights of town winked up at him,
unchanging. Pete thought about the old bald man, Grady—or was it Gardy?—who’d come to the gas station earlier that night, with his one idiot son in the car and his talk of his other son, lover of Thunderbirds, long dead. Pete thought also of Emily, cool and collected, seated at the piano in the silent instant before she played.
S
tan’s cronies usually convened at Western Autobody & Glass a couple of times each week. The sign over the bay doors read
Family Owned and Operated Since
1934. Huddy Phillips, who’d opened the garage himself, had signed it over to his son Bob five years ago, but Huddy and the other old-timers still got together in the adjoining office to swap their stories. They stood around, drinking coffee, talking at length, sometimes talking over each other, often repeating tales they’d all told many times before.
—… I say if all them sons of bitches want to go their own way they can take everything east of the Ottawa River and go, is what I say, you know I was chums with Black Jack Stewart when we were young lads, turns out that chap she was going with was a queer, and they can take Trudeau with them when they go …
—Nothing is the same as it used to be, by Christ, said Huddy.
He sat under an official photograph of the 1959 Royal Tour, the Queen and her husband walking along a path beside Lake Louise. The photograph hung slightly crooked, and Stan could not look at it without wondering if the Queen had ever seen the inside of a place like Western Autobody, and what she might think if she had.
Dick Shannon filled two cups from the coffee maker. He was fifty-six years old, which put him much younger than the others, but he’d been married thirty-five years to the youngest sister of Bill Norman, who was one of the other old-timers hanging around the garage. Dick had been partnered with Stan
at the local detachment for many years. He did not have long to go before he retired, but today he was uniformed and a marked patrol car was parked outside.
Stan was leaning beside a window into the service bay, watching one of the mechanics pump transmission fluid into an import. There’d been talk about the dead girl. He knew that. The circumstances of the discovery had not been published in the newspaper when the story broke last week, but word had got out quickly as to who’d found her. Stan had heard that her body was only now coming back from the coroner, so that a funeral could be held.
Dick brought Stan one of the cups of coffee. They listened to the gossip around them.
—Ferris’s delivery truck, said Huddy.
—That old Chevy, said Bill.
—You don’t know anything. It was a goddamn Ford. Panel built on the passenger chassis.
—How’s the house? said Dick.
—It’s standing, said Stan. It always needs this or that but I’d say it’s got more winters to stand than I do.
—Word is that Frank and Mary might move out there.
—Maybe. Not just yet. I talked to them about taking it in a few years. It’s been in the family a long time.
—I’ll come out and visit soon.
—Anytime. I don’t hide the whisky bottles any more.
They drank their coffee in silence. Then Huddy reached up and tugged Stan’s sleeve. He said: Stanley, that gal.
—What gal.
—That gal they found out there, dead in her car. That gal was one of Aurel Lacroix’s daughters, wasn’t she?
Dick cleared his throat and examined his knuckles. Bill Norman and the other men in the office became quiet.
—Yes, said Stan. That’s right.
—Aurel Lacroix, Christ Almighty.
On the evening before the girl’s funeral, Stan went to the viewing. It was held at the unremarkable municipal mortuary. Light came from brass sconces on the wall and there were watercolours of nature scenes. He signed the guest book in the foyer. His good suit had been tailored of cashmere wool many years before. Now it was loose in the chest and shoulders. The last time he’d worn it was when his wife, Edna, died two years ago.
Judy Lacroix lay in a closed casket of varnished pine with autumn wildflowers arranged on the bier around her. There were twenty to twenty-five people in attendance, but Judy’s only living immediate relative was her twin sister, Eleanor, not quite thirty years old. Their mother and father were no longer living, and their father’s brothers had died before they’d had the chance to make any families of their own. Stan had never known a family more marked by loss. He saw Eleanor speaking to two well-wishers. It gave him an eerie sense to see Judy’s twin sister here in the room, living, speaking, when the last time he’d seen that identical face, it had been frozen in dismay in the back of a car.
He went up to the casket and stood by for a respectful pause and then he stepped back.
—Thank you for coming.
Stan turned and saw that Eleanor had come to him. Her hand was extended. He shook it.
—I knew your family, said Stan. I knew you when you were just little girls. I suppose you hear that all the time, about how somebody knew you when you were yay old.
Eleanor looked at him steadily. Her eyes were bloodshot.
—It’s the kind of thing you hear when you grow up.
He didn’t think she recognized him.
—I’m sorry for your loss, said Stan. Your sister was a fine young woman.
She nodded her thanks. Stan directed a final look at the casket. Then he went back into the corridor and out into the twilight.
Across from the mortuary was a small trucking company. Three rigs were parked beneath a bright spotlight. Stan got into his truck and put his hands on the steering wheel. He hoped that the visitation would be the end of it.
I
t was raining when Lee woke for work, and he was soaked by the time he got to the Owl Café. He took the stool at the end of the counter. Over the last two weeks, the stool had more or less become his place.
The time had gone by quickly. He’d seen his mother and Donna and Barry just once. He wanted to see them more, especially his mother, but it was hard to get out to where they lived—and for all he’d had to come home to help his mother, she seemed to be taken care of, as much as she could be.
And it was not as if Lee’s return did not cause his family some upset, especially Donna. He knew it. But given enough time, perhaps a month or two more, maybe he’d find his place with them. They just needed to see what he could do now, what he could make of himself.
Last week, he’d had a meeting with his parole officer, a foppish little man named Wade Larkin. They’d met in a room in the new municipal offices and all Larkin asked was how was work going and was Lee staying sober and had he had any run-ins with the police. Some girl in town had killed herself, right around the time Lee came back—the girl had made the news—and Larkin wanted to confirm that she was nobody Lee knew. She wasn’t, Lee told him. Larkin said that was good, and made a note of it, and that concluded their meeting. They wouldn’t have to meet again until next month. Larkin had given Lee his card with instructions to call right away if he got into any kind of trouble.
Helen came down along the counter with a mug of coffee and took his order.
—Give me your Thermos, Brown Eyes. I’ll fill it up.
She took his order to the wicket and she filled his Thermos from a coffee maker behind the counter. Lee was chilled from the wet. He lit a cigarette.
He had just finished his breakfast when he saw Bud’s car outside. The headlights were dense through the rainfall. Lee paid his bill.
—See you next time, said Helen.
Lee got up and took his lunch pail and tool belt. He went over to the door. Then he stopped. He went back to the counter. Helen looked at him and he gestured for her to come over.
—Something wrong?
—No, nothing’s wrong. Look. My name is Lee.
—Okay, Lee. But I might keep calling you Brown Eyes, because of your pretty brown peepers.
—Your name is Helen. It’s on your shirt there.
She smiled. Lee put his hand to the back of his neck.
—Anyways, I wondered if you’d want to get dinner.
—Sounds like a date you’re asking me on, said Helen.
—A date. Yeah.
—There’s a rule where I’m not supposed to go on dates with customers.
—Oh.
—But I don’t really care about rules. So yes, Brown Eyes Lee. I would love to have dinner with you. Meet me tonight. Seven-thirty at Aldo’s.
He was surprised that she’d named the place—wasn’t that his to figure out?—but he supposed it was just one more thing that had changed while he’d been away. He said: That’s the Italian place downtown?
—That’s right.
She smiled. Lee stood back from the counter.
—Okay, said Lee. Seven-thirty.
—Rain before seven quits before eleven, said Bud. Just you watch.
Bud was correct. The crew sat in their vehicles for an hour but by eight o’clock the rain had tapered down. The air was cold and damp and Lee was glad to start moving his body again.
The big cottage was assuming form. The shingles had all been laid. They’d done that through some sunny days when the tar was soft and the flashing was almost too hot to touch. The sheathing had been house-wrapped and taped. Lee had never met the owners. He’d only heard speculation on their wealth. He did not even know their names. The bathroom on the second floor was bigger than two cells in the penitentiary put together.
Of late he was not having any dreams he could remember, and that was a relief. He would get up early and go to the café for breakfast and make small talk with Helen. Bud would pick him up and they’d head to the job site.
He was getting to know the crew. The two framers were father and son, Jeff and Jeff Junior. They would sing country standards, Buck Owens and Hank Snow tunes. They would work quickly to frame the walls and Lee and Bud would often have to trail behind them, moving studs a half-inch to the left or right before re-spiking them. The French guy’s name was Sylvain. He was a subcontracted landscaper who’d worked with Clifton many times before and he was there to grade the property. He behaved with a kind of jovial hostility, and he would grin and ask Lee and Bud if they were extra lazy today, boys, or what? Clifton himself would move around the site with the sole purpose, it seemed, of wringing his hands and looking at his watch. He would invoke larger forces or biblical passages when any of the men appeared to be dawdling: Idleness! You-know-who likes to take advantage of idleness. I’m telling you for your own good.
By late morning Lee and Bud were both black with muck. They were in the midst of digging a drainage ditch around the foundation. Their hourly cigarette break came. Bud straightened up and stretched.
—This is a good one. A guy goes to see a doctor because his dick is orange, and the doctor says has he been eating Cheezies, and … Wait. No. It’s what he tells the doctor. At the end. I frigged it up.
Bud gave his head the same brisk shake that Lee had seen the first time, and then shot him a hapless look. Lee just grinned, and they ground out the butts of their cigarettes and got back to work.
Clifton stayed for lunch that day. Conversation was usually muted when he was around. Clifton said that he hadn’t seen any of them out at Galilee Tabernacle yet. The doors were always open. They could take their time, of course, but they ought not to take too much time. This Clifton said happily. God’s patience runs out once you’re at the gates. Then he looked at Lee and said: And how about you?
—How about me?
—I haven’t seen you at Galilee. I figured you’d be front row centre, what with Pastor Barry being your brother-in-law and all that.
—Well, I’ll get out there one of these days.
Clifton nodded, said: I’ll be watching for you. You’re getting along in town?
—Yeah. Matter of fact, I got a date with a gal tonight.
Lee was immediately sorry he’d said it. He didn’t know why, except that it felt like he’d given something away. He looked at his hands.
—Is that so, said Clifton.
—Is she doing community service by going with you? said Sylvain.
Lee did not reply. He didn’t know what to make of Sylvain, whether or not the man was a prick by nature or was just laying track with him, or if he even had bad blood with Lee from the distant past. It was possible, more so than he cared to consider. All he could think to do was to ignore the man’s comments.
—Just you make sure you’re up and at it for work tomorrow, mister man, said Clifton, digging at his teeth with a toothpick.