The Fortunate Brother (18 page)

“You didn't?”

“No. Christ, no.”

Kyle had been leaning forward, his stomach twisted. He sank back now against the house, his fear oozing from him into the dark night. His father settled back beside him.

“What else did Hooker say?” asked Sylvanus.

“Not much. What do you know of that night?”

“Not much. I woke up at the fire. Thought I drove up to the bar. What else did he say?”

“Nothing else, I told you. You were in the water and you knew Clar was dead. How'd you know that?”

Sylvanus lapsed back into silence.

“Old man, you got to tell me. I been through hell with this.”

“It's not over yet, then.”

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing. Go to bed, now.”

“I'm not going to fucking bed. Did you go after Clar? You seen his truck and went after him, right? Pay him back for the graveyard thing?”

“I was thinking that.” He dropped his head, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I should never have left, never have left her. Sin. Sin I left her.”

“Sin! That's for fucking well sure. Jesus Christ, old man, why did you leave? I left you with her, she was all by herself and you left her. What the fuck!”

“Should never have left.”

“What did you see?”

“Go to bed now, Kylie.”

“I'm not going to bed. Why was your clothes wet? You seen Clar parked on the wharf and you went after him, right? What happened? When you parked next to his truck, what happened? Old man, I'm not leaving till you tells me.”

“He wasn't there.”

“Wasn't where? In his truck? Where was he, then?”

“I heard his dog, up by the cliffs.”

“So you went after him?”

“Knew he was up to no good.”

“What happened?”

Sylvanus shifted some more, shook his head. “I don't know, Kylie. I was too drunk. Kept tripping. Falling down.”

“Did you catch up with him?”

“No.”

“You didn't catch up with him?”

“No, I told you. Too drunk. Too gawd-damned drunk.”

“What happened then? You seen something. What did you see?”

“I can't tell you. Go on to bed.”

“Can't tell me what? You seen it, didn't you? Christ, did you see it happen? What did you see? Will you fucking tell me?”

“I seen him falling. That's all. The light was on over the door, wouldn't have seen him otherwise. Too foggy.”

“Who was here? You saw what was happening here on the wharf? Our porch light was on?” He tried to remember if the
porch light was on when he had gotten home that night. Couldn't. “Tell me, who was here, what did you see?”

Sylvanus's breathing was harsh. He twisted a finger inside his collar to loosen it.

“Gawd-damnit, Dad, what did you see?”

“Leave it there for now.”

“No. No, I can't leave it. No fucking way. Was it Bonnie Gillard? Who did you see?”

“Thought I heard somebody, thought it was you, first. Must've been a gull.”

“It was Bonnie, wasn't it?”

“No. I seen her.”

“Who else was here? Who the fuck else, why won't you answer me? Jesus, what're you, drunk? You're freaking me out. Tell me who was here.”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit. Tell me! I'm not giving up till you tells me. What was she doing—what was Bonnie doing?”

“She was bawling. She was over there, end of the wharf. She started running. I seen her running towards the house, bawling. I heard him, then. Clar. Awful scream. That's when he fell backwards, into the water.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“No.”

“Who else did you see? Who else could've been here—” His thoughts broke off. “No,” he whispered. An absolute stillness took him. He thought he heard her voice then, his mother, calling his name, calling him foolish. Perhaps if he listened harder and longer and could be stone-still, he would hear God's voice persecuting him, persecuting his father, thundering hell's fire down on them for thinking such thoughts.
“She didn't do it. You didn't see her do it. Did you? Did you see her?”

“No. I said no.”

“Then you don't know. You don't know nothing. He done it himself, maybe. They does that. Maybe she—Bonnie—done it and ran down to the end of the wharf. And then—perhaps the knife was already in him and it took a while. For him to fall over. Anything could've happened. You didn't see her. Right?”

His father shook his head.

“You swear?”

“I slipped on the rocks. I was too gawd-damned drunk. Couldn't get up, couldn't get here in time. If I'd got here—if I wasn't so gawd-damned drunk.”

“You went back to the truck. Why didn't you come here instead? Why'd you run off?”

“Don't remember. Don't remember getting back to the truck. Remember being on my knees, couldn't get up. Seen the dog jump in after Clar. Seen him dragging Clar straight towards me. Hard to see, the fog. I seen your mother, then. She come and took Bonnie's arm. Telling her it was all right. She never had to be afraid again.”

Kyle sank back, shivering.

“Can't have her knowing I seen. Case it went to court.”

“But you didn't see nothing. You didn't see her do it and you don't have to testify against your wife.”

“Don't remember nothing after I seen your mother. Don't remember getting back to the wharf. Nothing. Woke up at the gravel flat in the morning.”

Kyle started to rise. “We have to talk to her.”

“No.” His father pulled him back.

“Yes. Yes, she got to know we knows, case she needs us.”

“She decides that. She decides when to tell.”

“But I needs to know. I needs to know right now—I can't handle not knowing and she might be needing for us to know.”

“No. You'll keep it to yourself like I done.”

“I got to talk to her.”

“No! Gawd-damnit, no! We says nothing till she talks. Addie's not stupid, and whatever she's figuring, we lets her.”

“What about Bonnie? She got her into this. I'll make her talk.”

“You'll not go near her, either! You hear?
She
decides.
Your mother.
If she done it, it was self-defence. How come she's not saying that? There's something going on there. I can't figure it. But I knows enough to leave her with it till she makes her move. She's not stupid. And she's not scared. Whatever happened, she's not scared of it and she's holding on to it. For now. So we holds on to it too.”

“No, she's not scared. And if she's not scared, she didn't do it.”

“I don't know, Kylie. I don't know.” His father's voice was wearied. He made to get up but sank back down. He shifted forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. He peered through the dark, his body taut, as though seeing in the distance the remnants of his old house that had once been strong and true and needing to get there again. He turned to Kyle, his voice deep with conviction.

“We wait. We lets her play her hand. I owes her that, all I put her through. When she gets it figured, she'll tell us.
She
decides when to tell us. You got it?
She
tells
us.
Else we might fuck up something she got going.”

Kyle tightened the blanket around his shoulders to stop his shivering. He wiped at his eyes, tired. His father rested beside him. For once he was glad for the dark. It hid the fear shrinking his face. It let him sit close to his father, their shoulders touching, and he felt like a boy again, feeling his father's warmth, his strength. It comforted him. He searched through fear's pockets for
hope. He needed hope now. He needed his father to have it so's he might catch it like a gawd-damn germ. Hope's contagious like that: if one believes, then another might.

A spattering of rain against his face and he worried about the footings, if they were covered good enough, and near laughed. Such small things.

“Come on,” said his father. “Let's get some sleep.”

He was lying across his bed, still swaddled in his blanket and his belly cramping, when his father rapped on his door. The rain had cleared, a strong wind squalled at his darkened window, and the greenish neon numbers of his watch said five o'clock. In the kitchen his father looked a shaggy hulk hunched over the table. Looked like he'd been there all night staring out the window. He lit a cigarette, smoke still curling from the butt in the ashtray.

“Working on lung cancer, hey, b'y.”

“That's it now.”

“Right. Just what Mother needs.” He made himself tea by the stove light shadowing the kitchen. He bit into a piece of bologna left warming in the pan for him. He sat, looked at his father.

“What's we going to do?”

“Go down and finish off the footing, I suppose. Check the mess ye got made. You take the truck and go get Sylvie. Her plane's in around six.”

“I figure Suze will be there, picking up Ben. I imagine she'll take Sylvie to see Mom. I'm going to work.”

“I told Suze you'll be picking them up.”

“Why'd you tell her that?”

“Just what your mother wants, Suze by her bed. Tongue like a logan. Go. Do like you're told.”

“I wants to finish what I started yesterday—I'll phone Suze.”

“We'll bloody phone you if we needs you. Now go get your sister.”

“Haul back them eyebrows, old man, before they tangles in your nose hair. Jaysus.”

“Truck's parked upon Bottom Hill. There's a bag of stuff in it for your mother. I bought it in the drugstore. Make sure you brings it to her. She's coming home this evening.”

“This evening? Already? What the hell we going to do, the house ribboned up like Halloween.”

“I'll rip the gawd-damn stuff off if I got to.”

“Oh, here we go. Another round with MacDuff coming.”

“That's it now.”

“She don't need you getting thrown in jail.”

“You not gone yet?”

“Mind if I put on my boots? How you getting down?”

“Drive with the boys.”

“Cops took their licence.”

“You not gone yet?”

Jaysus. He went to the back room and skimmed out through the window, scratching his face on the pane and cursing. It was still dark. He felt for the path with his feet and started up the steep hillside muddied from the rain. Couldn't see a thing in this sunless vault, not a fucking thing. Wind scudded through the bush, wetting his face with tree water. He felt the woods falling away to his left, heard the creaking limb from the rotting carcass of the old sawmill, heard water suckling through its bones. And something else. He paused mid-step. Something rustled the bushes behind him. Too strong to be the wind—a fox, perhaps. He kept walking,
then stopped. There it was again, a shuffling—no fox, too loud to be a fox. A fucking bear? He started to run. He slipped, fell face first into the dirt. He scrabbled to his knees and stared through the dark. Above him the branches shifted with the wind against the meagre bit of dawn emerging through the heavens. More shuffling, right next to him now, and he cowered, feeling the air shift around his face. He was on his feet, his heart thudding with terror. He thrashed up through the woods and then the brush and onto Bottom Hill. The truck was a dark shape across the road, flagged by a pale star breaking through the cloud. He ran towards it, clambered inside, and locked the doors. He revved the engine and flicked on the headlights. He looked towards the path and strained to see. There was something there, swear to Jesus, there was something there. He shoved the gears into reverse and backed up and turned so's the headlights fell across the mouth of the path. Nothing. Grey clumps of foliage. Darkened woods behind.

Putting the truck in gear, he booted it down the road and drove through Bayside towards the highway, shivers spiralling down his back. He flicked on the heat, drummed on the wheel. He couldn't keep from shivering, thoughts shooting through his head like comets. It could've been a bear, this was the time for them, crawling outta their fucking caves, looking to eat. Jaysus. He wiped at his nose, tried to sit back, relax. He was all twisted inside. More from his talk with his father the night before than a stupid fucking bear. His mother. Clar Gillard. Bonnie. What happened? What the hell happened? He couldn't bear it, couldn't bear another thing, and now he had to pick up Sylvie. Last time he was at the airport it was to pick up Sylvie. And Chris was in a white box behind her.

He wiped at his face, hand cold, shaky. He jacked the heat on high. Driving across the second bridge near Faulkner's Flat, he saw too late the small reddish disc glimmering at the side of the
road. Moose. He jammed on the brakes, tires screaming, rubber burning as he skidded towards the black bull lumbering across the road, antlers wide enough to hang bedsheets. Damn, gawd-damn. The tires bit into concrete, the truck's rear end swinging sideways and the hind wheels thudding into the ditch, seat belt digging into his bruised ribs. The moose stood to the side of the road, looking back at him.

“Get off the road, you fucking moron!”

The moose sauntered into the woods. Jesus, oh Jesus. He rested his forehead on the cool hard plastic of the steering wheel. He didn't know how long he waited there. Watching light sieve through dawn's dusk. Greg Bushy drove by, stopped and chained the bumper of the truck to his trailer hitch and hauled him back onto the road.

Forty minutes later, Kyle pulled into Deer Lake airport, the smell of jet fuel and car exhaust rankling his already nettled stomach. Inside the small, one-gated terminal, the baggage carousel creaked to a stop, a few suitcases grouped to the side of it, couple of odd souls strolling about. He learned from the striped-blouse attendant behind a ticket counter what he'd already figured: the flight had landed fifteen minutes ago, and was readying again for takeoff.