Deluded Your Sailors (42 page)

Tomorrow – fuck tomorrow, she'd deal with tomorrow when it came. Tonight, she would not binge and purge.

Her parents sat at a bistro table not too far off, talking with other Wright cousins not seen or contacted since the late 1970s.

They all looked unhappy and strained. Nichole found maybe four relatives just a few years older. No one younger. Beneath dull smiles and I-haven't-seen-you-since or I-remember-hearing-

stories-about-you floated an unspoken agreement: this reunion was a bad idea. And whose idea, again? Why use this stunted gathering to give old documents to the government? No Wright seemed to know.

Wait staff threaded the crowd, bearing plates of fruit, cheese and sausage rolls. Suddenly, turning away from his sister, Thomas Wright looked ill.

Matt and Lewis quickly got to him, one on either side. —You all right, Skipper?

Thomas looked at his sons and Nichole with shame.—I forgot the ledger. It's back at the house.

They helped him sit down on a cushioned bench. Through one of the huge panel windows, Nichole saw a government limo pull up and Chris Jackman and Evan Rideout climb out of it. Jackman's hair defied his combover, and he seemed to dance a little jig. Evan scowled and pointed to the brightly lit floor above where the ceremony would take place.

Thomas moaned. —How much am I startin to forget?

Matt took over. —Lew, you and Nichole dart out and get the ledger. I'll stall Jackman if he finishes working the room before you get back. Don't worry, Skipper, we'll look after you.

Nichole and Lewis passed Evan, who stood at the coat-check accepting two tickets. He'd not invited Nichole out for sushi for weeks now, despite her peace offering of showing up for work wearing intact archivist's gloves.
Peril on the Sea
demanded serious overtime from them both, and seeing each other tonight at the Admiral's Rooms felt like just one more extension of the workday.

Evan nodded at her, and Nichole tentatively smiled back before following Lewis outside.

Lewis sniffed the air.—Someone's got a backyard firepit going.

I thought the city had bylaws against that so late in the year. This won't take long. When we get to the house, you check downstairs, and I'll check up.

They drove uptown. A few blocks from the house, sirens wailed, and Lewis pulled over to let the fire trucks pass. Neither he nor Nichole commented, both pretty sure what they'd find when they got to Thomas Wright's house. Flames. Already reaching out the windows, through the roof. Investigators would quickly determine that an old electrical fault had sparked. That knowledge would not soothe Lewis when he considered the loss of childhood books and toys, old photographs of his grandfather, the Ghostometer. Oh, and John Cannard's ledger.

32) ‘WINTER'S STERN COMMAND'
O
CTOBER
9, 2009, S
T
J
OHN
'
S
.

—Why hollow clay?

Nichole smiled at Evan. —Because it's fragile.

Gabriel Furey had delivered his sculpture of
Sea Sentry
slightly ahead of schedule, giving the Admiral's Rooms an extra week to finalize setup. Evan and Nichole had put together something they both felt proud of, but Nichole still spoke rather coolly to Evan, blaming him, he thought, for TCR's axe falling on the Settlement 250 play.

What a weird day that was.

Evan noticed how Nichole's fingers did not end in gracefully shaped nails but in quick-bitten ragged stubs. That slight tremor in her hands seemed to have worsened. She'd dropped a good ten or fifteen pounds, but what really startled Evan was her hair: tied back in a loose braid, exposing her face and the lines and dark circles that aged her. Not sure why he'd ever found her attractive, yet still finding her so, Evan pointed to a skewed porthole on Gabriel's sculpture. —Do you think that's deliberate? Aw, shit.

Off down the hallway: the long stride and sharp jabber of Chris Jackman.—Yeah, I hear ya. I understand that right well, right well.

Cost overrun – put in the diversion schedule – shag the news crowd, I haven't got time to talk about – when I get back – the PM's gonna have my balls – I know, I wish I still had that assistant, on my way to see him now – leave it on my desk. Bye. Evan, me ol cock. Where ya been hidin out?

I am in no mood for this today. No. Mood.
—Right here, Chris.

Been workin.

—How's your grandfather? I understand the missus didn't press charges.

This city is too damned small. Had a good laugh about that, did
ya?
—Mrs Dunphy? No, she's finest kind. She knew Pop just wanted to kiss her. Then he got confused.

Nichole cleared her throat. —Should I come back later?

Chris smiled at her but only with his mouth. He didn't like her eyes: sadness and some strange knowledge in there, what all those models and celebrities made up like crack whores and vampires tried to emulate. —No, that's fine. Ev, listen, I got more fundin. I

really need you back. The Minister's got me drove cracked to get the museum review policy up to TFAT standards, and that friggin Seth Seabright is after workin up some rant about us havin no theatre. He's pullin some performance arts stunt now down by the cruise ships.

Nichole laughed. She tried to make it a cough, but she could not disguise that joyful noise.

Jackman turned back to Evan. —When can you start?

—I'm a little busy here, Chris. Nichole, do you think we should turn it so people see the porthole as soon as they walk in?

—Come on, don't let me down here. I need you.

—You need help, no doubt.

—Will you please look at me when I speak to you, Rideout?

Not until I find out if you fast-tracked my grandfather.

—Nichole, maybe if the porthole faced the window – —Evan, stop fartin around and listen to me! I – what the hell is this?

Evan said nothing. Nichole fixed her gaze on Chris. —
Sea
Sentry
.

—The rig that sank?

Nichole nodded. —Part of the exhibit. I'm sure I sent a press release about it to TCR.

—This is government-funded, is it?

Squinting a bit, Nichole studied Chris Jackman as she might a lost little boy. —Well, yes. TCR supports the Admiral's Rooms.

—The utter gall of ye. She left behind eighty-odd families when she sank. All hands gone. My father among them. And you turn it into arts and crafts!

Nichole glanced at Evan, but he was studying the floor. She tried to speak. Chris raised his arm and swiped at the clay
Sea Sentry
with the back of his hand.

The sculpture toppled onto the stone floor and shattered.

Evan's headache rivalled Dead Man's Pond for depth when he got home. The hired caretaker had just helped True Rideout back to his favourite chair and re-started the old VCR. The tape carried a decayed recording of an episode of
Shores and Tides
, a weekly Newfoundland documentary series that had run in the 1970s and 80s. Evan wondered how much longer the tape would last before it frayed and snapped.

—Pop, how ya doin?

—Sshh, me show's on.

The caretaker smiled sympathetically. Evan flipped through the day's mail. An envelope from the Department of Health.

Finally
.

Dear Mr Evan Rideout:

As to your recent and expedited request to fast-track TRUE RIDEOUT (relation: GRANDFATHER) into the Seniors Home System, we regret to inform you that your application was not successful. As you know, the fast-track system is new and still under development and at present runs on a lottery basis. We recognize that you do need to access the Seniors Home System, and so we have placed your application on a Priority Two Waitlist. You can expect to hear from the Seniors Home System within six weeks to confirm the placement of TRUE RIDEOUT (relation: GRANDFATHER) on a Priority Two Waitlist. Please contact us if TRUE RIDEOUT (relation: GRANDFATHER) changes his contact information. If TRUE RIDEOUT (relation: GRANDFATHER) experiences any worsening of symptoms, please contact a doctor.

Evan put down the letter and stared at the strange caretaker, and then at the stranger, disconnected man who looked like his grandfather. The man who'd confusedly held a gun to his grandson's head and now la-laed with the
Shores and Tides
opening theme. For a moment, Evan's focus sharpened dramatically. The tear fell.

True pointed at the screen.—That's me favourite show, that is. Favourite show.

33) BLOWOUT
O
CTOBER
9, 2009,
AS TOLD BY
C
HRIS
J
ACKMAN TO SOME WRITER AT
T
HE
W
RECKING
B
ALL
, S
T
J
OHN
'
S
.

Fuck, b'y, I'm after avoidin you for months, and you got to find me here. Got your little voice recorder, I see. Yes, take footage of me on your cell phone. Hang on now, I gives ya the royal wave. Hulloooo, hulloooo. Cheers. I, Christopher Lawrence Jackman, do hereby pledge allegiance to God, history, every greasy cent, every piece of dinosaur shit and every human bone in the oil fields, and thereby allegiance to the Republic of Newfoundland and Labrador. Orphan Basin forever, whooooo! Some fun, wha? Oral history? And what the fuck is oral history, my son? You're goin around collectin stories about
Sea Sentry
like they're seashells. Necklaces from bits of metal next. Be on sale at the Folk Festival in Bannerman Park. Drink? Vodka and lime. Ya got me cornered now between the stinkin little corridor to the urinal and the VLTs. Inside of two sunkers. Jesus, I can't get clear of that rig today. Yes, b'y and me after wreckin a sculpture of it. That can't be very good for an assistant deputy minister of Tourism, Culture and Recreation now, can it? Larry Jackman. Born today. Died on board that fuckin
Sea Sentry
, February 15, 1982. Had to be today I see that sculpture, had to be today. Right delicate it was. Looked like stone, sure, or concrete, and I took it out with one strike of my hand. Career's gone. Once again, history fucks Chris Jackman up the arse.

Cold, that night, so fuckin cold, wind drivin the rain and sleet and snow against the windows, and me all snuggled in bed with my hockey cards and great big Luke Skywalker action figure, size of a rag doll, thinkin how safe I was, because I was inside. Tucked in bed. Mom kissed me. And I knew Dad was safe, too, out on the rig. I just knew it. Sure, ya know it gets stormy. Weather's fuckin savage in February. But
Sea Sentry
, she could take it. Monstrous, pontoons and everythin. Be a rough night, no question, but nothin that rig couldn't handle. No more lanterns in the windows. No more women walkin the floors askin God if they'd been made widows. That Jesus wind. Soon as I woke up, I knew somethin was wrong. I'd overslept. Mom hadn't gotten me up for school. There she was, hunched at the kitchen table, VOIC playin some loud. The guys in the newsroom that mornin sounded right slow, like they were listenin to somethin else while they read the news and were tryna translate all at once – vodka and lime – next thing I know aunts and uncles and Nan and Pop are all in the house, soakin wet, and I poured out a Jesus big bowl of Rice Krispies and heaped on the sugar and milk and ate the mess of it sittin on the good livin room carpet. And no one said a word to me. I couldn't believe how stupid they all were. No way Dad died. No fuckin way that rig went down. It didn't happen. Soon as we all wakes up and sees the sunny skies, we'll understand that, I told them. I wrecked that sculpture. Can't go makin arts and crafts out of somethin like that. Jesus. No b'y, I'll call me own cab. TCR's got an account with Bugden's.

Not callin no fuckin cab. Only a short drive.

Head to one side, Jackman, just the airbag. Windrose carved outta rock? Undo the belt first. Some foggy. Jesus, it's Casper the Ghost Real. Or Riel, is it? Who's after crashin into that?

34) ‘BUT ITS TRUTHS ARE ALL BOUND TO THE NEVER-ENDING ESCAPE'
O
CTOBER
11, 2009, V
ON
H
ALDORF
M
EMORIAL
C
OTTAGE
H
OSPITAL
, C
ONCEPTION
B
AY
N
ORTH
.