Algoma (23 page)

Gaetan slapped Ferd on the back. “You did it. Good eye!”

Ferd beamed.

Leo leaned against the cupboard. “Will the finches build another nest?”

“Not sure,” said Gaetan. “We’ll have to wait and see now.”

A week after the family had discovered a finch nest in their backyard, they’d watched a grackle destroy the eggs, nosing pieces of shell onto the lawn below. Leo had cried the entire afternoon.

While shooting a gun—even a pellet gun—inside town limits was prohibited, Gaetan ignored the law when it came to “bad birds,” which included grackles, sparrows, red-winged black birds, and cowbirds.

“They take over nests that are not theirs and destroy the eggs. They’re asking for it.”

The hedge that wrapped around the backyard provided them with the privacy they needed to carry out their vendettas. Algoma clapped every time one of them shot a starling or sparrow. The Beaudoins’ “bird pail” was three-quarters full with feathered layers. Feral cats circled the bin like sharks.

Gaetan looked at his boys, who eagerly waited his instructions.

“A dead bird scares off live ones,” he said, waiting for the boys to figure it out.

Leo and Ferd fought over who would get to shoot the next bird and who would have to retrieve the grackle.

Afternoons when there were no birds, Gaetan and the boys practiced their aim on lawn ornaments. Their favourite was the already bullet-riddled wooden duck. They took turns shooting at it from the kitchen window. Gaetan was the best shot, followed by Leo, and Ferd a surly third. Ferd believed he was a better shot than anyone—even his father—but there were factors that worked against him. It was always something else that ruined his shot: a sudden gust of wind, Leo’s heavy breathing, or the sun in his eyes, even on the cloudiest day. Ferd’s shots were often non-lethal, hitting the duck’s tail or legs. Leo had mastered the kill shot. Immediate death.

Ferd ran outside to get the bird and tossed it into the bird bin.

“Three points,” he yelled.

“Wait,” Gaetan called out. “I have an idea.”

In his basement workshop, the boys watched their father cut a length of wire from a large coil on his worktable. Gaetan pierced the grackle’s still warm breast and carefully threaded the wire through the bird’s body, up to and through its head. He used wire cutters to snip off the excess wire that poked out, so that it barely showed.

“Here,” he said, handing over the franken-bird to Ferd. “Go stand it on the lawn and then get your mother.”

“Mom, there’s a bird. Come and take the shot,” Leo yelled.

Algoma closed the washing machine lid and ran up the stairs, happy they were including her in something.

“Here,” he said, handing her the pellet gun. “It’s already loaded.”

It was her first time holding the gun. It was lighter than she had imagined, the weight of a broom.

“There,” Leo pointed. “By the bird feeder.”

Algoma slowly slid open the kitchen window.

“There,” Ferd hissed. “See it? Shoot! Shoot!”

“Shhh—”

“Now! Shoot it!”

Algoma raised the gun and let the barrel rest on the window sill, a trick Gaetan had taught the boys when they were younger and too small to keep the barrel steady on their own. She carefully lined up the sight with the bird’s head.

“Stay still, stay still,” Leo coached. He sat cross-legged on the counter. “Don’t even breathe.”

Algoma bit her lip and pulled the trigger.

The bird shook but did not fly off or fall down.

“It’s not moving,” she said. She was confused. “It’s not even scared.”

“Shoot it again, Mom! Shoot it again!” Leo could barely contain his laughter.

Algoma took several deep breaths and leaned into her shot. Breathe. Exhale. Take the shot. She pulled the trigger again. The bird bent over at a gravity defying angle, but did not fall down.

“What the—”

Gaetan and Ferd stumbled out onto the lawn, doubled over with laughter. Ferd ran over to the bird and punted it with his running shoe. “Goal!” he yelled lifting his arms above his head. The bird sailed across the yard and over the hedge into the neighbour’s yard.

______________

3:48 p.m. 25°C. No wind.
Tin of pellets forgotten on the sidewalk.

Both pellet guns looked the same. Even though they’d had different owners, there was little to differentiate them. Ferd couldn’t recall how he and Leo had always been able to tell them apart, but they had. He wasn’t so sure anymore. He sat cross-legged on the lawn and assessed the two rifles. Both had been gifts from their father—hand-me-downs—break-barrel air rifles that he’d had at the same age. Years of immaculate care meant that the guns had lasted, but Ferd had always believed that his shot a couple centimetres to the left, which was why Leo was always a better shot when it came to target practice.

Leo had laughed at Ferd’s theory. “Let’s trade rifles then,” he’d said, but Ferd never accepted the offer. He would know the truth now.

He unlocked the shed and squeezed in behind the lawnmower to where the cardboard targets were kept. Behind the targets, he found what he was looking for.

Immediately after Leo had gone through the ice, Gaetan had removed the black bear pelt from the spare room wall and put it in the shed. He said he couldn’t look at it anymore. The pelt had been a gift from his father after a hunting trip they’d gone on when Gaetan was a teenager. Until it had been removed, the pelt had been a fixture in the house; and once it was gone, its spread-eagle silhouette remained on the wall like a ghost.

Ferd picked up the pelt and shook it out a like a rug. It was old and brittle, the hair missing in patches where it had fallen out. He looked over the pelt and decided to use the small bald patch above the bear’s nose as his target, so that his shots wouldn’t get lost in the fur that remained. Sure his father was not coming back, and even if he did, he’d hardly be able to punish him, Ferd took the pelt and nailed it to the side of the shed. Target ready, he took his position on the other side of the yard.

Ferd picked up the first gun, broke the barrel, and loaded the pellet into the breech. Once he’d tipped the barrel back into position, he was ready to shoot. He pressed the walnut stock against his shoulder and carefully lined up his shot. A sparrow flew down and perched on the bear’s nose, and for a second, Ferd thought he might have a live target, but it flew away. He took several deep breaths and, on the third, he slowly exhaled and pulled the trigger. The shot went two inches wide and struck the bear’s nose. He took another shot and the pellet struck the bear several millimetres away from his first shot. It was definitely his gun.

Swapping guns, Ferd put down the first gun and picked up the second. He loaded his pellet and switched off the safety. This time he would hit the centre of the bald patch. He wished he’d drawn a proper target on the exposed hide. A target within a target. Even if there was no one to see it, he would know that he’d been the better shot all along. While he loved his brother, he didn’t think it was fair that he’d left with the title of best shot in a contest that had only ever existed between the two of them. Since his mother had asked him to stay out of the woods until the incident with the game warden calmed down, he’d had a lot of time to practice in the backyard. If he wasn’t the better shot before, he was now.

Ferd adjusted his grip on the rifle and focused on the target. Again, he took several deep breaths and, like clockwork, took his shot on the third exhale. He put down the rifle and ran over to the target, sure his shot was dead centre. Instead, he found a third hole beside his previous two. Impossible, he thought. Both guns shot exactly the same. He was crushed.

Simon called out to Ferd from the side door. “You want to come in here for a minute?”

Ferd threw down his gun and walked to the house. Inside, he found his uncle seated at the kitchen table with a box sitting in front of him. “Where’s Mom?” he asked.

Simon opened the lid and pulled out a piece of folded paper. “She’s still working.”

“What’s that?” Ferd took a step forward.

Simon took a deep breath. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

He’d held onto the notes for days trying to figure out what to do. In the end, he decided it was just like fixing the sink—something his brother should have taken care of, but now the job had been left to him.

Simon pulled out one of the notes and began to read. “Dear Leo—”

Ferd’s face fell. “What are you doing? What is that?”

Simon continued. “Dear Leo… I can’t wait until you come back. Everything will be better then. Don’t stay away too long.”

“Stop it,” Ferd said, tears coming to his eyes. “That’s not yours. It’s Leo’s.”

Simon read on: “I miss you a lot. Sometimes I pretend you’re still here—”

Ferd ran over to Simon and ripped the note from his hands. “I said stop it. How did you get that? It’s not yours.”

Simon pushed the shoebox towards Ferd and sat back in his chair. “There are dozens more in the box. Look for yourself.”

Ferd rifled through the box, looking at the notes. He immediately recognized his own handwriting and even some of the paper the notes were written on. A bill envelope he’d stolen from his mother, a grocery store receipt, a slip of birch bark. Had he been wrong all along? Had his brother not actually received any of his letters? The idea was impossible to him. He shoved the box off the table, the notes tumbling onto the floor.

“You’re a liar. You made all this up,” he choked.

Simon spoke calmly in a low, slow voice. “He’s gone. I’m sure you’re breaking your mother’s heart with these letters. It needs to stop. Leo’s dead. He’s not coming back.”

“I hate you,” Ferd said. “Leo is coming back.”

“Then why do I have these letters?” Simon asked.

Ferd didn’t understand what was happening. He felt hollow, gutted of purpose, but he refused to let go of the only thing he had: Leo.

“I don’t care,” he spat. “You’re wrong.” He bent down and started ripping up the letters. “You did all this. You made this all up.”

Algoma walked in the door with a bag of take-out in her arms, a special surprise. She looked and saw Simon sitting at the table, head heavy in his hands, and Ferd crouched on the floor ripping up pieces of paper. When she saw the empty shoebox, she understood.

“What you have done, Simon?”

______________

11:13 p.m. 5°C. Wind S, breezy.
Crunch of gravel underfoot.

Simon was the only person to arrive at the bar on foot that day. Two rows of cars and trucks gleamed under the parking lot security lights. When the lights automatically switched off in the morning, a half dozen cars would be left behind to be collected later. The air was crisp and cool, the sky blanketed with stars. It was already beginning to feel like fall. He was so shaken up by his encounter with Ferd earlier that day that he’d left without his jacket, leaving Algoma to try to calm her son down.

“Just go,” she’d said. “Come back later.”

He wasn’t sure she wanted him to return, but took her at her word. What else could he do?

With nowhere else to go, Simon found himself at Club Rebar, knowing that no one who saw him there would be sober enough to remember the next day. Going to the Club was like walking into a black hole; nothing truly escaped.

It was early evening by the time he’d arrived, however; the bar was packed. Over the clack of billiard balls and music blaring out of the tinny speakers of the jukebox he could barely hear his own thoughts. It was perfect. While he rarely drank, Simon found himself quickly spending the money he had left. He didn’t look forward to having to ask Algoma for money to buy cigarettes the next day.

“You look like someone,” the bartender said, as he poured Simon another beer.

“You’ve got that right,” Simon said, leaning back on his stool. “I’m someone.”

The bartender called him a smart ass and gave him a beer that was warm and mostly foam.

When they were growing up, Simon and Gaetan had often been mistaken for one another. It was only when they’d entered their twenties that they began to look different, Gaetan becoming broad and Simon growing even taller, leaner; however, there were still enough similarities to tie them together as brothers, something Simon resented. Tonight, he didn’t want to be recognized as himself or mistaken for Gaetan. Neither was a good option.

Simon patted his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes, sure he could leave his stale-tasting draught beer behind untouched. As he was standing up to leave, Bay sat down on the stool beside him. Still dressed in her work uniform, brass name tag still pinned to her chest, she ordered a vodka and water.

“Should you be wearing your uniform here?” Simon asked. “Wouldn’t you say that’s inappropriate?”

Bay recoiled when she saw who it was. “Inappropriate? You should talk, fucking things up at my sister’s house.”

Of course Algoma had called her sisters, Simon thought. “They couldn’t go on like that.”

After he’d read all of Ferd’s letters, he understood why the boy seemed to be holding it together while his parents hadn’t. He wasn’t. Ferd had fabricated a reality that suited his one hope and everyone had allowed him to believe it because it was easier—or some small part of them believed he was right.

“Why are you here anyway? He’s gone,” Simon said, referring to his brother. “You expecting him to show up just because you’re here?”

Even in the dim lighting, Simon could see Bay turn red.

“Why don’t you go back to Drummondville? No one wants you here.”

Simon took a sip of his beer. “Maybe so.”

The two drank in silence for a time. Bay kept her elbows tight to her sides, so she wouldn’t touch Simon, but she didn’t leave. She wouldn’t be the one to give in.

“Have you heard from him?” Simon asked.

“From who?” Bay stalled.

“My brother.”

“No.”

“Sure,” Simon said. He drained the rest of his beer and grimaced at the taste. “Maybe you want to stop fucking things up at your sister’s house.”

After Bay left, Simon caught the bartender staring at him again. “Is there a problem?” he asked. Even he was growing tired of the constant confrontations.