Killing Down the Roman Line (19 page)

Jim reeled back. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

A figure rumbled into the manager’s doorway. The security guard. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Everything okay?”

Carswell rose, met Jim’s stare and hissed. “You made your bed, Jimbo. Lie in it.” He nodded to the security guard. “See Mr. Hawkshaw out, please.”

Jim elbowed past the ogre in uniform and staggered into the lobby. Just past the doorframe, he heard Carswell groan. “Mr. Hawkshaw’s business here is done.”

~

“Why was everyone so rude?” Travis dragged his feet ten paces behind his mom. She marched at a steady clip, flip-flops clacking. Her mouth set in that grimace like she’d just bitten into a lemon but stitched shut. Stoicism, inherited from her mother’s family tree, had been drilled into her bones at an early age.

“I don’t know, honey.” Emma looked back, waiting for him to catch up. When he wanted to, Travis could sprint to beat lightning. The rest of the time, the boy moved like chilled molasses. She wanted to get as far away from the greasy spoon as possible. “Maybe they’re just having a bad day..”

“Maybe they’re just assholes.”

She stopped cold. “Travis, what has gotten into you?”

“What?”

“Your language. You can’t say two words without swearing.” The sour set of her mouth locked. “You know how much I hate that.”

He shrugged. “Just words. Jesus.”

“No it isn’t. It’s the last resort of the simple-minded. Do you think it sounds cool when you curse?” She saw his shoulders about to shrug and cut him off. “Well you don’t. You sound like every other thoughtless idiot in this town. Is that what you want to be?”

Travis bit his lip before the words ‘
fuck you’
tipped off his tongue. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

She turned on him again and this time he thought she was going to hit him. Her hand up, ready to backhand his mouth. He could see the jaw muscles grinding under her cheek. Her hand lowered.

“Wait up!”

They both turned. Jim, crossing Galway to catch up. Travis watched his dad stomp towards them, his whole frame bristling with anger.
What the hell is wrong with everybody?

Jim caught up and kept marching. “Let’s go home.”

“Is everything okay?” Emma pushed down the rage in her belly, recognising the same in her husband’s stomping gait. “Jim?”

“It’s fine,” he said, not slowing down. Rounding the corner to the alley where they’d parked the truck.

“Jim, stop.” Emma took hold of his arm. “What happened? You look ready to explode.”

He scrambled his brains for a convenient lie, something to patch the moment over and move on. Nothing came.

Travis kept walking, wanting no part of his folks arguing in public. He’d hide in the truck and hope he didn’t see anyone he knew. Then he saw the truck.

“Holy shit!”

Emma lost it. “Travis James Hawkshaw! What did I just say about cursing?!” She turned on her husband. “Talk to your son! He’s become a foul-mouthed little grump!”

Travis didn’t hear a word of it. Eyes bugging, he pointed at the old Chevy. “Look.”

The headlamp on the port side was smashed in. Brittle shards peppered on the ground. The sideview mirror was knocked off, dangling loose from one bolt.

Travis went around to the other side and his mouth dropped. “Jesus Christ.”

The starboard side was defaced with spraypaint. Candy apple red, rivulets of it dripping down the panels to the bubbled rust spots on the runners. A single word:

TRAITOR

Jim snapped up and down the alley. Down the street. Not a soul in sight, no car speeding away. Just a crow cawing mindlessly from a fencepost.

Emma looked at him. “What is going on?”

Jim tore the dangling mirror from the bolt and set the piece in the box. “Get in.”

~

The ride home. Kicking up dust down the old Roman Line in a truck labelled ‘
traitor’
. Pulling out of town, Travis wouldn’t stop with the questions. Who did it? Why did they do it? What does it mean?

Jim snapped at him to shut the hell up and they drove home in silence.

Coming home, Jim pulled up before the barn and slammed the shift into park. Weighing his options on how to fix the graffiti. Taking it to Murdoch’s garage for a fresh paint job was out of the question but he sure as hell couldn’t leave it the way it was. How much primer did he have in the workshop?

Travis hopped out of the cab, then Emma. They came around the port side to where Jim stood, looking at the damage.

Emma touched a fingertip to the red spray-paint. “It’s still tacky. Can you fix it?”

“Some gasoline might scrub it off.” Jim looked at his son, oblivious to the anger still brewing in the boy’s eyes. “Travis, bring me the small gas can and some rags. We’ll see if we can’t scrub this mess off.”

Travis didn’t move. “Why do you always yell at me like that? I just wanna know why someone would tag our truck.”

Jim looked at his son, saw the sting in the boy’s eyes. When Travis was born, Jim had made a silent vow to be a better parent than his own father was but this was another reminder of how far he’d missed the mark. Each day he crept closer and closer to becoming exactly like his old man. Yelling and hollering. Quick to anger. Impatient. Harsh.

Emma put a hand on Travis’s shoulder. “We’re all a little shaken up, honey. Your dad didn’t mean to yell.”

Another milestone in Jim’s transformation, remembering how many times his own mother would apologize for his old man’s behaviour. Christ, how did this happen? “I’m sorry, Travis.”

Travis still wouldn’t look at him. “Everybody hates us now.”

“No they don’t. This is just some idiot with nothing better to do.”

“No. Everyone at the diner kept giving us dirty looks and bein’ rude and stuff.” He turned his eyes on his mom. “Tell him.”

Emma didn’t say anything but her face gave it away.

Jim switched tactics, trying to patch over the mess he’d made. “C’mon, Travis. Let’s see if we can fix this. If we can’t scrub it off with some gasoline, then we’ll cover it with some primer.”

“Can’t.” The boy nodded in the direction of the old house up the road. “I gotta go to work.”

Anger rushed back fast. “No you don’t,” Jim said. “You’re not working there anymore.”

‘Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Why? I like working for Mr. Corrigan.”

“You are
not
working for that man anymore.”

Travis barked, near shrill. “Why?!”

Jim defaulted to the laziest excuse of every parent everywhere. “Because I said so.”

“Oh. Well that tells me a lot!” Travis spun on a heel and stormed for the house. He stopped and fired back. “I’m so sick of being treated like a fucking baby around here!”

Jim pounced, marching hard on the boy and towering over him. Sheer force of will kept his hand from slapping the sass right out of the boy. He yanked up a fistful of collar and pulled Travis to his tiptoes. Squeezed the words out slowly. “Go.To.Your.Room.”

Travis pushed off him and backed away, knowing he’d crossed a line. His legs wanted to bolt for his room but no way was he going to give his old man the satisfaction. He turned his back to his father and sauntered back to the house.

Jim smeared his forearm across his brow. Turned to Emma. “What the hell’s gotten into him? I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

“I don’t know, honey.” Emma brushed a fly away, folded her arms. “Maybe he’s taking after his dad.”

Not what he expected. A fight crackled in the air like static electricity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s gotten into you? You’re sneaking around, talking to the lawyer. Running to the bank. Everyone in town suddenly hates us. And you won’t say boo to me. What is going on?”

Jim took a breath. Steadied his footing and spilled his guts. “It’s Corrigan. He’s threatening to sue us. Take the farm.”

“That’s ridiculous. He can’t do that.”

“He
is
doing it, Emm.” He felt dizzy. Sat down on the step. “The man’s dangerous. Corrigan spent the last seven years in jail. For killing a man.”

Emma leaned back as if pricked by thorns. She held up a hand for him to slow down, then told him to start from the beginning.

18

“TO THE FIRST Pennyluck Heritage Festival!”

The cork popped and flew off into the grass. Flutes were filled and passed around. Kate sipped her glass and leaned back in her chair. Not champagne but a provincial equivalent thereof, a sparkling wine from the Niagara region. It went down like liquid sunshine and Kate told herself to savour the moment. Drink it in and roll it over the tongue for all its worth. By the fourth sip, she could have happily closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep in her patio chair.

She shook it off. There was a ways to go yet.

A little pre-festival shindig she had arranged for the council before the official kickoff to the Heritage Festival tomorrow. Larmet’s Chick’n and Rib House had provided the barbecue, Larmet himself holding court over a bank of coals in a steel drum. After the ribs and wings would come the steak and roast potatoes. The case of the sparkling wine finagled from Stonehouse Winery in Lincoln County. A bathtub of galvanized tin held beer smothered in ice chips. Best bitters from a microbrew in Perth alongside hoser safe bets like Blue and Canadian. The obligatory yet loathsome Bud.

The table and patio chairs were set up under a shade tree in the fair grounds. Kate wanted the council members to see the transformation of the bandstand and park. A way to say thanks and show the council that their decision to fund the festival was not a waste. A bit of an extravagance but it greased the wheels of the old boy’s club. Two guitar players and a fiddler were set up on the bandstand, strumming up a mix of Irish folk tunes and country weepers.

Reeve Thompson toasted the band while Keefe assaulted the rib platter. Gene Ripley salted corn on the cob. McGrath plucked a bottle of bitter from the ice and nodded to Kate. “You’ve outdone yourself, Kate. I’ve never seen the park look so good.”

Thompson, sucking rib sauce off his thumb. “Is this where the bagpipers end up?”

“The parade comes down Newcastle, then through the gates to here,” Kate said. “Then we have a short speech to start the festival.”

“When’s the fireworks?”

“About ten that night. Then again on Saturday night.”

“Mitch Connelly tells me his campground is booked solid,” McGrath said. “He’s even got people pitching tents in his backyard.”

“The motels are booked too.” Clifton Murdy licked his fingers. “From here to Exford.”

The councilmen grunted their approval through full mouths and slippery hands.

“You’ve done well, Kate.” McGrath raised his beer to her. “I know we took some convincing but well, we’re eating our words now.”

The men laughed. High praise, thought Kate. McGrath drove her crazy with his smug condescension, acting the wise old grandfather to everyone. He and the rest would be eating a lot more words when she tallied the revenue boom once the festival was over. For now she accepted it with a smile and helped herself to another flute of bubbly wine. Tonight she would sleep like a stone.

It was serene. The guitar picking from the bandstand and the smell of woodsmoke. The sun going down and a breeze riffling the crepe paper. Picture perfect, but perfection is illusory. Between the clatter of plates and board stomping on the bandstand, no one noticed the interloper come to crash the party. He strode down the path, following the sound of banter.

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here.”

Corrigan seemed to materialize from thin air at the head of the table. Murdy would later claim that a tang of brimstone overpowered the aroma from the barbecue.

Forks clattered to plates. Mouths stopped chewing, hung open. The band, sensing something was amiss, stopped playing.

“You gotta be kidding me,” McGrath burst the silence. “You got about two seconds to get outta my sight before we run you out of this park, mister.”

“That I would like to see,” Corrigan helped himself to the ribs. “The councilmen wobbling through the grass at a dead run. Pass me a beer, would you, Mister Thompson.”

Thompson did no such thing. Aside from Kate, few of the council had seen Corrigan in person but his name went hissing round the table. Corrigan held a roll of paper under his arm, like a poster, and this he put down and helped himself to the beer tub. Biting into the ribs, he turned to the man at the grill. “Mr. Larmet, these are delicious.”

Larmet stood over the fire, heavy tongs at the ready like he was about to pummel the crasher. Kate got out of her chair. “This is a private party Mister Corrigan,” she said. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Mmm, I have some interesting developments I wanted to share with the group.” He wiped his hands, took a slug on the bottle. “Since you lied to me about the inquiry, I’ve had to do the digging myself.”

Joe Keefe looked around the park. “Where’s security?”

Corrigan unravelled the roll of paper. “This won’t take a minute. Have a look at this.” The map was old, brittle. Squinting, one could just make out the date in the corner. 1894. The town of Pennyluck, the main road and a few streets. Property drafted into a grid of narrow rectangles, names written inside each lot. “This is a map of our town, dated four years before the massacre of the Corrigan clan. Properties are clearly marked out and identified. If we look closely, we can see some familiar names.” He pointed to various plots within the grid. “Here’s McGrath’s family property. Over here are lots owned by the Keefes, the Thompson family. Ripley’s funeral parlour, still in existence today. Murdy, Berryhill and so on.”

Each man leaned forward upon hearing his name, squinting at the script inside those little rectangles. Rib sauce splattered one corner. Corrigan pointed to a larger patch of land outside of town, leading off the map.

“Over here is the Corrigan farm but down here in town, there are four lots owned in title and deed to the Corrigans.” His finger traced through two lots on Galway Road, another off Chestnut and a fourth on King Street. All smack dab in the center of town. “Now that’s some sweet real estate, eh boys? The Corrigans owned a saloon and a harness shop on Galway and boarding house on Chestnut. The last one was an empty lot at the time, the previous house having been burned down by some feckless bastards in the winter of eighty-eight.