Later, at home, he picked up his father's photograph and pretended it was speaking to him: “Fine work, Michael. Well done, son. Way to go!”
He waited impatiently for the trial to begin, to prove Dorfman's guilt once and for all.
His name was Greg Stevenson and he flew a two-place ultralight. His partner had failed to turn up
for a day's flying, so when he saw Mike standing, watching the fliers through a pair of binoculars, he strolled over.
“You're usually in a wheelchair, ain't that right? I've seen you here lots of times.”
“That's right,” said Mike.
“You're walking now. Great!”
Mike grinned self-consciously and demonstrated by walking back and forth a few paces.
“This is my aunt, Norma McLeod, and my friend Robbie.”
“Hi. Greg Stevenson. Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. Then he turned back to Mike. “You ever fly in one of these?” He jerked his head at his ultralight.
Mike knew it was a Beaver RX 550 Plus. Greg's was red, with what looked like a big Rotax engine, a 582 maybe. “Never,” he said. He didn't like to mention he'd never been up in a plane, period.
“I was wonderin' if you might like to take a short spin?”
Mike looked at his aunt. She shrugged and smiled.
“I'd like that,” said Mike, trying to hide his excitement.
“I can find you somethin' warm. Make sure you don't freeze to death.”
He followed Greg over to the aircraft, pulled on a flying suit and climbed, with help, into the back seat, his heart pounding with anticipation and excitement.
And he flew. For the first time in his life he flew. It was as simple and wonderful as that.
It was time. A thick fog crouched over False Creek. The city was muffled in gloom. They took the small twelve-passenger Aquabus ferry over to an invisible Beach Avenue, and Robbie pushed Mike uphill â the journey was too much of a challenge for his tin legs â along Howe Street through half-blind traffic. They were dressed warmly; Mike and Robbie wore their baseball caps, Norma a toque and walking shoes and she carried her umbrella.
The fog was thinner in the downtown, at the crest of the hill. They were early, so they walked to Robson Square to watch a peaceful demonstration in progress â about a hundred people â outside the art gallery, with signs and billboards protesting what they believed to be the Algerian government's complicity and cover-up of one hundred thousand murders. And across the street an old man paced up and down, carrying a sign above his head: THE END IS NEAR. The traffic was noisy.
The courtroom was crowded, but Detective Inspector Samson was there and he made space for them near the front. Mr. Dorfman sat at a table with his back to the court; all Mike could see of him was the back of his head.
They were there all day, listening to the evidence.
There were no demonstrators in the square on the second day except for the old man shufing up and down outside the courthouse with his sign: THE END IS NEAR.
On the third day the fog was thicker, and the old man with the sign wasn't there.
On the sixth day Mike, Robbie and Norma sat where they could see Dorfman more clearly. He looked wooden, impassive. The case wound down.
On the ninth day the judge instructed the jury and they retired to consider their verdict.
On the tenth day the fog had gone and the old man with the sign was back and the jury reached its verdict: “Albert Dorfman, guilty of murder in the first degree.”
Mike could see Dorfman's face as the jury foreman read the verdict. Dorfman showed no emotion. Dark blue suit, blue shirt, red tie, wet lips, bald head, pale eyes. Nor did he show emotion as Judge John B. Watterson sentenced him to life imprisonment with no chance of parole.
Because it was a busy summer for Mike and Robbie they saw less of each other. When they did get together they had much to talk about, Robbie with stories of the furniture warehouse and the people who worked there, and Mike with his tales of the Rehab Center.
Norma spent her two weeks summer holiday simply relaxing around the apartment, visiting with neighbors, reading, listening to the radio, watching the TV in the evenings as she surfed the channels, hunting for political news, gossip and disaster stories, and talking to her friends in the co-op about August's global tragedies: forest wildfires, the worst in fifty years; a terrorist bomb killing eight in a Moscow subway tunnel close to the Kremlin; Basque separatists killing more innocent people with car bombs; the tragic deaths of 118 men in
Kursk
, their Russian submarine. Norma had lots to talk about.
Dolly Dhaliwal came over one evening with her box of tricks and gave Norma the full treatment over herb tea and sticky cakes.
Mike had tea and cake and asked Dolly to read his palm. She told him he would suffer a loss, and this time he believed her.
Then suddenly it was the end of September and the summer was over.
He was wrong when he'd guessed he would never see Sarah again, for she came on a foggy October evening when the False Creek sea wall was cold and deserted. After a full day at the Center he walked the short distance to Stamps Landing through the fog and watched the ghostly shapes of ships moving up the creek towards Granville Bridge. He listened, but could hear nothing. Vancouver was muffled, almost silent. The silence was welcome after the noise and bustle of the Rehab Center. He wore dark corduroys over his tin legs, and wore his rain jacket, but no hat. His feet felt wet; he grinned wryly.
He thought about Sarah. He was always thinking about Sarah it seemed. And Becky, of course. He would never forget his sister, or Mom and Dad: they were still a powerful ache in his heart.
His home and his family gone. Sarah gone. But his life had meaning now. He had a job, helping others like himself; and he was walking. He was happy, happier than he had been in a very long time.
Sounds began to filter in: the cry of a gull, the faint slap of water against boat hulls in the marina, the tinkling bells, the fading roar of a bus over the Cambie Bridge. He felt the air sliding and shifting about him, saw the fog swirling and lifting with a rush, and her warm hands were suddenly on his face. The voice came from behind, a
calm whisper in his ear. “I'm here, Michael.”
“Sarah!”
She moved in front of him. Under a loose gray raincoat she wore a plain gray dress that matched her eyes, her grayness merging with the fog. He blinked his eyes to be sure she was really there.
It was Sarah all right, the same Sarah, but with a different aura about her, not smiling as usual, but with a sadness, a kind of still quietness that made her seem almost a stranger.
“Michael, my brave knight. I am so happy to see you. And look at you! Standing tall. I'm proud of you.”
He felt his throat tighten. “It feels good to stand. And to look at you.”
“Your tin legs.”
The fog swirled about them.
“After grad, I didn't think I would ever see you again, Sarah. It was ... a feeling. And then I thought, No. She will come to say goodbye.”
She turned her head away and looked towards the city lights, barely visible through the fog.
“It's true isn't it? You've come to say goodbye.”
She turned back to him, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. “Not goodbye, Michael.” She took his hands in hers. “Goodbye is forever.”
“So I will see you again?”
“Not for a very long time. But you kept your promise. You waited. Now it's my turn.”
He wanted to ask her what she meant, but he couldn't speak. All he knew was that he didn't want her to leave. They walked a short distance, holding
hands, and sat together on a bench.
“I miss you, Sarah. And I miss the archives room and our talks. I keep remembering when you were just an eighth grade kid, only months ago, yet a hundred years seem to have passed since then.”
“Yes. I came to help you.”
“You have helped me more than I can ever say.”
“You called me a nuisance.”
“No, I didn't.”
She smiled. “Yes, you did.”
“Didn't.”
“You said I smelled like a bubble-gum factory ...”
“And I smelled like ... what was it?
“A pepperoni pizza.” She laughed. “You were such an old sourpuss. Do you remember I said you looked like Harrison Ford, that same scowl? You still look like him, you know; those eyes. And those hurt lines in your face. But you're happy now; your life is good.”
“Yes.”
She whispered, “I'm leaving you now, Michael.” She pulled away, but he held on to her hands, not letting her go.
“What will happen to you, Sarah? Where will you â ?”
She placed a finger on his lips.
The rain splattered in the puddles. The faint glow of light from apartments and high office towers across the inlet twinkled through the mist. The mournful cry of the Prospect Point foghorn came up the inlet. He could feel the weight of the fog on his shoulders.
He released her hands and hugged her. She was solid in his arms, and warm.
After a while she freed herself and backed away from him, and when she was far away, waved; and he tried to wave back but his arms suddenly had no life in them. When she was so far away that he could barley see her face she waved one last time, and then she merged with the gray landscape and the swirling mist. The sea wall was empty. For a long time he stood, staring into the darkness at the spot where she had disappeared. Then he walked back along the sea wall and headed for home.