The Carpenter (18 page)

She didn’t have to say anything. Her face gave it away.

—Maybe, said the bartender.

—I’m over from EZ Acres, just wanted to pass a message on to him from the manager.

—I don’t know if he’s here tonight.

—If he is, said Stan.

She nodded. She coasted back down to the other end of the bar.

A few minutes later, the front man of the band took his guitar and stood to the microphone. The jukebox cut out. The barfly leaned over and patted Stan on the arm and gave him a
thumbs-up. The band launched into some rock ‘n’ roll piece. Stan nursed the beer he’d ordered. Speculating. The roadhouse was all possibility. But what was he really going to say?

The band had played through their first song when Stan became aware of a man who’d sat on the stool immediately to his right. The man was leaning back against the bar, one arm stretched along the bevelled edge. He had a slim build and a thick head of hair, jeans, engineer boots, a dark T-shirt, but otherwise he was as they’d said. He was anyone.

—If I happened to see one older gent like yourself in a bar or if I saw a hundred it would never look quite right to me. But maybe that’s my own kind of prejudice.

—You’d be Mr. Gilmore?

The man laughed a little: I’ll go with that.
Mr.
Gilmore.

He took his arm off the edge of the bar to shake Stan’s hand.

—I’m Bill, said Stan.

—How do you do, Bill. Are you enjoying the music?

—It’s a year or two after my time.

They shared a thin chuckle at that. Stan had put himself in a corner and he knew it. The last of his beer had gotten warm and he didn’t have much taste for it. He quarter-turned on the stool to better converse.

—Mr. Gilmore, I’m a friend of a family you might know.

—Okay. So you’re not from the trailer park.

—No. I’m friends with the Lacroixes. Would you have a word with me about Judy?

Stan wasn’t sure what effect forthrightness would bring, but Gilmore remained good-natured. He said: Wasn’t that a goddamn shock.

—Yes, said Stan. Nobody thought Judy would do that. But we guessed you might of been the last person to see her alive and we just wanted to know if you had any thoughts on it. On how she was acting.

—I’m sorry to say, Bill, but I didn’t see her for a couple of
weeks. We kind of parted ways. I didn’t know about it till I heard around town. So sad.

—Yes.

—I have to use the men’s room. You think up some more questions if you want.

Gilmore patted Stan on the shoulder and got down from the stool. He went to a rear corridor past the riser. Ten minutes later he hadn’t come back. Stan looked around. He saw the girl behind the bar making a telephone call. She was looking right at him. When she was finished, she came to ask Stan if he wanted another beer. He told her no thanks and asked what he owed.

—A dollar-fifty, said the girl.

—You wouldn’t be related to Alec Reynolds by any chance, said Stan.

—He’s my uncle. Do you know him?

—Not well. I hear he’s in the hospital.

—Yes, said the girl. A long time now.

Stan nodded. He put some money on the bartop.

He went into the rear corridor and looked in the men’s washroom. There was a fat townie at one of the urinals. Stan went back into the corridor and went down to the door at the end with
Offi e
lettered on it. There was no knob on this side of the door and it didn’t move when he tried to push it.

—There’s a reason we keep the office locked.

The man with the rolled-back cuffs was in the corridor behind Stan. Stan apologized, said he was lost. He went past the man and back into the bar but the man followed him out and took his sleeve.

—How about I just show you out of here. Come on.

—How about you take your hand off my arm.

—Come on. Nobody wants any trouble.

He gave Stan’s sleeve a tug. Stan pulled his arm away and took handfuls of the man’s shirt and pressed him against the wall. Through his teeth, Stan said: I wouldn’t let the white hair fool you.

But then a big bearded man with a bald head and a pair of glasses appeared, moving fluidly for all his size. He wrapped his forearm around Stan’s neck from behind and jerked him backwards and at first Stan kept his grip on the man with the rolled-back cuffs and they all moved together. Then Stan let go of the man he was holding and clawed at the arm around his throat. The big man holding him wasn’t saying anything at all. Stan kicked out one leg and succeeded only in knocking over a table in front of them. A couple of drinks jumped off the tabletop and splashed down the front of his trousers. By now the band had quit. People were shouting and getting out of the way. The big man hauled Stan across the floor. Stan was spitting between his teeth and his vision was greying out.

A moment later, he was being moved out into the coolness of the night. The big man held onto him until he’d pulled him down the front steps. On the flat ground of the parking lot Stan was forcefully let go. He stumbled about, bent double, gagging air. He grasped hold of the side-view mirror on a pickup truck. When he was able to stand straight again, he saw the big man poised halfway up the steps to the roadhouse. The faces of a few townies were crowding out of the front door above.

—You son of a bitch, said Stan.

He took a step forward. He was so angry that he was grinding his teeth together. The wrath was all the worse for how his body wasn’t responding as it used to. But the man on the steps, the faces in the door, they weren’t looking at him. They were looking at something behind him. Stan turned.

Two cops, young, unknown to him, were coming across the parking lot.

For a full minute, Frank didn’t say anything. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. They’d called him in from home. Stan was the only one in the holding cell at the back of the detachment.
They’d taken away his belt and his shoes and his keys and his wallet and his little penknife.

Frank turned to a constable standing beside him. He said: Open it up. Give him his things.

Frank’s office was at the back of the detachment. He kept it neat. There were school portraits of Emily and Louise and a candid photo of Mary. On one wall, Frank had framed letters of thanks from civic groups. He leaned forward on his desk.

—How often do you think the goddamn North Star calls us to send a car out, Stanley? Just how often do you think that happens?

—They called you, did they?

—They called us and said there was some old drunk making rude comments to the girl behind the bar.

—Whatever you want to say about it, Frank—

—I don’t even know what to say. Never mind what might have happened to you. Three years ago a man got kicked in the head out behind that shithole, they had to airlift him to Sunny-brook. He died a week later. So tonight the dispatcher gets a call from the North Star, sends a car, and by the time they get there who do they see getting launched out. Some old drunk.

—Do I look like some goddamn old drunk to you?

—First off, you smell like hundred-proof. And second, when the boys brought you in, they thought you’d peed yourself.

—What? A goddamn drink got spilled on me …

—Stanley, this is unbelievable.

—Don’t you see, Frank, the kind of people Judy Lacroix was tied up with? It seems to me you’re not paying attention to this.

—You’re absolutely right. I’m not paying attention. I’ve put more horsepower into it than it deserves and everything keeps coming up empty.

—This Gilmore—

—I don’t care, Stan. I don’t. I’m sorry to have to put it so blunt but you are not employed in the service of the law any more.

—I don’t know why you think you’ve got to remind me.

—I say again, you are not a police officer.

They’d kept the pitches of their voices reined in but there was colour in their faces. Frank leaned forward with his forearms spaced out on the desk. He said: Look. Think of the position you’re putting me in. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, think of the position you’re putting Dick Shannon in, every time you ask him to get you something you don’t have any claim to any more.

—Dick’s got nothing to do with any of this.

—We have a good relationship. Don’t put any strain on it by talking to me like I’m stupid. I am not stupid, and I do not want to have this conversation again.

Stan felt ashamed and tired. There wasn’t anything about Frank’s position that was unclear. Still, Stan couldn’t say it. His silence would have to suffice as acquiescence.

—Go home, Stan. Your truck is outside.

Before Stan left, they agreed that nobody else in the family needed to know. Word would get around among the men they knew, but Mary and the girls didn’t need to know about it.

When he got home later that night, he couldn’t get any of it out of his head. For the first time, it felt like he was looking fully at his own desperation and foolishness and loneliness. He’d never felt more like an old man, long past his usefulness. The dense shadows in the room seemed to be crawling, seemed to be closing in on him. It was as long a night as he could remember.

Finally, he got up and turned on the light in the hallway and got back into bed.

—I’m sorry, he said. I don’t know what else I can do.

B
y Friday evening the weather had become cruel. Wind barrelled over the pavement behind the variety store. Pete had
come from work. He parked his car and got out, carrying a shopping bag. He hustled upstairs and knocked on Lee’s door.

—What’s happenin’, Pete?

—Hey, Uncle Lee. Mom sent some leftover pot roast.

—Come in, buck.

Pete went into the crooked little apartment. The television was on and cigarette smoke was thick.

—I didn’t know you got a TV.

—I bought it awhile ago. I never used to like it. But I also never used to have any money to buy something like this. Who knows. Some of the shows I’ve seen are alright, and sometimes they have movies.

Pete still didn’t understand Lee. For most of his life, Lee had seldom been mentioned. Irene had photos of him squirrelled away somewhere but his mother did not. She had Luke and John write to him at Christmas every year, but otherwise practically never mentioned him. Pete had had no idea what Lee looked like until they met in September, and even now he was a mystery. It was hard to imagine that they had any family connection at all, really, that they shared blood. There was no way Pete had found of putting himself in Lee’s shoes.

Part of it was that he didn’t know what Lee had done. It was serious, whatever it was, but the crime itself remained unknown. Rape? Murder? High treason? Whatever it was, and in spite of his curiosity, he did not want to think about it. He’d come to like Lee—this strange newcomer in his life, who was tough and hard, yet, at the same time, oddly soft-spoken.

Pete had thought he would deliver the leftovers and be on his way but he ended up staying to watch television for awhile. And then something unexpected occurred: Lee went to the refrigerator and came back with a couple of beers. He gave one to Pete and he had one for himself. Pete held the beer can he’d been given. He opened it, listened to the fizzle. Lee was watching the television. Pete took a drink. They watched
Sanford.
When it was
finished Lee got them a couple more beers and said should they see about supper.

—Unless you have to go somewheres, Pete.

—I’m not in a hurry.

—Not going to see a girlfriend or nothing?

—No.

—Well, let’s have us some of this pot roast.

Lee heated the meat and the leftover vegetables on his hot plate. He brought a bottle of ketchup out of the fridge. They ate while they watched
The Dukes of Hazzard.
Lee was doubtful about the events of the show. He kept asking how the fuck that would work or why wouldn’t they just shoot the goof. Finally he looked at Pete and said: See? Bullshit.

—You bet, said Pete. Say, how about the lady you were going with?

—Helen? All good, as far as I can tell. She’s her own kind of gal. Sometimes we’ll get together maybe three or four days out of the week. Sometimes once. You can’t ever tell.

Pete wasn’t sure how it happened but they were into their third beers.
The Dukes of Hazzard
ended and a television movie came on.

—I heard you quit going to Barry’s church, said Lee.

—Yes. I did.

—Didn’t you go there your whole life?

—Just since I was eight, when mom met Barry. But since then? Almost ten years, every Sunday. We weren’t living in town when Mom met him. We lived in North Bay, actually, just Mom and me. I was born up there. But Grandma was still here, and a neighbour of hers had got her going to the church. Barry was a junior pastor back then, and he was single. I don’t know exactly how it worked—I was too young to figure it out, really—but Grandma got Mom talking to Barry, and before long Mom came back here and brought me with her. We lived in Grandma’s apartment for about a year. Man, that place was tiny. Then Mom and Barry got
married, and they got the house where we are now, and all of us moved out there.

—Well, said Lee.

Lee didn’t prompt him further, but after two or three minutes, Peter said: Maybe you think I’m, you know, that I’m going to go to hell. Because I quit the church. Maybe you think Barry’s right about how people have to get born again and again. How Christians have to bring people in and convert them. So I’m sorry if this offends you but I don’t believe any of it. I didn’t go to church one Sunday, and I’ll tell you why, but hang on, and Barry gave me a look but he didn’t say much. Three weeks in a row I didn’t go and then he brought it up. At dinner one night. I said I didn’t want to talk about it. But Barry said spiritual things are what a family talks about with each other. Which is bullshit because we don’t talk about anything ninety percent of the time, but whatever. He pushed. So I came right out and said I didn’t plan to go any more. That I didn’t believe it. Barry got upset. He said, did I know what I was doing about my salvation? And I told him that’s not something he needs to worry about, but he said he would be and that he’d be praying for me. Mom had to get up and go into the kitchen.