Leaving the World (59 page)

Dwane Poole lived on a side street not far from the ugly breezeblock high school which Ivy attended. His was a simple ranch house on a half-acre lot, with an extended detached garage taking up most of the available garden space. I heard the whirr of a rotary saw from the garage, so I approached its door. It was open. Poole was inside, wearing clear goggles as he fed a large piece of finished timber into the circular saw. He pushed the wood through, cutting it cleanly, then looked up and saw me.

‘You Nancy?’ he asked, whipping off his goggles. He was a thin, diminutive man in his late fifties, wearing a wool check shirt, baggy jeans and round wire-rimmed glasses. I could easily imagine him, thirty years earlier, passing the bong around a crash pad while wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt. Now he came across as quiet, reserved, with a strong streak of shyness. His workshop was a masterpiece of organization: all the tools immaculately arranged, stacks of finished cabinets on one wall (the craftsmanship was impressive), drawings, design plans and a large wooden desk filling another wall. Behind the desk was a picture of Dwane with a young man attired in the uniform of the Canadian Armed Forces.

‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,’ I said, accepting his outstretched hand.

‘You’re about the fifth journalist who’s beaten a path to this door,’ he said.

‘I won’t take up too much of your time.’

He moved towards his office area, where there was a drip machine of coffee brewing.

‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘I just made a fresh pot.’

‘Is that your son?’ I asked, pointing to the photograph I had spied moments earlier.

‘Yes, that’s David. He’s out in Afghanistan now. Stationed with the Canadian NATO Forces near Kandahar.’

‘That must be a source of pride and worry,’ I said, trying to choose my words carefully.

‘More of the latter,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know what we’re doing over there. But I’m not a politician and my boy did sign up for a tour of duty, so I suppose he has to accept the risks that come with the job.’

He poured me a mug of coffee and motioned for me to sit down on a simple wooden stool opposite his desk. I pulled out my notebook and pen. He himself perched on the edge of the desk and, from the outset, looked like he regretted agreeing to this interview in the first place.

‘You know, George might have been the most talented carpenter I’d ever seen. When I was apprenticing – around forty years ago – every skill was hard won and I really had to work at getting the principals down right. But George walked into this workshop and, within an hour, he was using a lathe as if he was born to it. And his eye when it came to understanding the intricacies of how to cut against the grain . . . like I said, he was a total natural.’

‘Did he talk much about the problems he had at home?’

‘For the first six months he was all business when he came through that door. He was here to learn a craft, a trade – and he was very determined. He was also, at this point, on benefit – but the provincial government was also paying him what’s called a Skills Re-Training stipend to work with me. It wasn’t much – around two hundred dollars a week – and I sensed money was very tight at home, especially as the wife wasn’t yet working. But, as I said, he kept a tight rein of all that – until he came in one morning with a gash over one eye. I asked him what had happened. He told me Brenda had been drunk and got into a real bad fight with Ivy, roaring at the girl and slapping her across the face. When George tried to pull Ivy away Brenda grabbed an iron and caught him right above the eye. He had to drive himself to a local hospital, get five stitches and – this was a big mistake – cover for Brenda by telling the doctor on duty that he’d gotten the gash in a bar fight. That went on his medical records – and was used against him after Brenda’s arrest, especially as there was another incident when she punched him in the nose and broke it. Again he told the doctors that it was a drunken brawl – and these two recorded “bar brawls” have ended up now as further evidence that he has a violent temper.’

‘You say, “further evidence”. Were there other violent incidents besides those two?’

It’s a fact that he did punch her once in the stomach – but, according to George, that was only after she had pulled his hair and tried to throw a pot of boiling water on him, which he dodged just in time. Anyway, after throwing the punch, she doubled over and hit her head on a kitchen counter. Ivy came running into the room and saw her mother concussed, so she ran into her room, locked the door and dialed 911. The police came and arrested her dad.’

‘But didn’t he explain to them what had happened?’

‘Brenda also had her side of the story – how he’d gotten furious with her for being such a bad housekeeper and slugged her.’

‘Surely the cops also interviewed Ivy and she confirmed that her mother had attacked George in the past,’ I said.

‘Ivy was totally intimidated by her mother. She always threatened her with all sorts of bad stuff – like being sent away to an institution for disturbed children – if she ratted on her. Anyway, she already had a reputation as something of a wild child so it would have been her word against her mother’s. And since George was already exposed as a liar because of what he told the doctor . . .’

He went quiet and stared down into his coffee.

‘Word has it that he still hasn’t confessed to Ivy’s death,’ he said, ‘that he’s holding on to his story.’

‘Do you believe him?’

‘Part of me does – because he so loved her. But they had their terrible moments together. Like I was his biggest supporter. But when he was boozing we were in Jekyll and Hyde territory. I had great hopes that we were going to be partners together. We had three big jobs lined up – but he either showed up for work so hungover that he couldn’t function, or he’d not show up at all. Believe me, I pleaded with George to clean up his act – even told him to take two months off to get sober. George didn’t want to know. Eventually, one morning he walked in here so loaded and crazy that he actually picked up a two-by-four and told me he was going to kill me.’

‘What happened?’

‘My wife came in while this stand-off was going on and had no choice but to call the police. I managed to make a dash out of the workshop. He started smashing up some cabinets we were working on. But here’s the intriguing thing: he only smashed those that he himself had built. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor and started crying. I mean, bawling like he was the saddest, loneliest man on earth . . . which, at that moment, maybe he was. The police showed up. I told them I didn’t want to press charges, but they still took him off for “psychological evaluation” and that was another mark against him.

‘He was released two days later and wrote me this long sad letter, telling me how he was going to sober up and how he hated himself for turning against me. I wrote back, saying that, of course, I accepted his apology and thought he was a brilliantly talented carpenter – but we could no longer work together. It was just out of the question. I never heard from him again. And then Ivy went missing . . .’

‘How about the son, Michael?’

‘I never liked him. Sullen, self-important kid – and like a lot of self-important people, not that bright. I know he tangled frequently with George and that George once knocked him down when Michael sassed him. Another black mark against George – though I gathered he only slugged Michael after the kid got caught dealing crystal meth. As you can gather it was one big happy family.’

‘You still haven’t said whether or not you think George did it.’

Another long stare into his coffee.

‘Will I be quoted on this?’

‘Not if you don’t want to be.’

‘I don’t. Everything instinctually tells me he would never have hurt Ivy. But I know how he turned against me. And I also know that, once he had nine beers in him, he was capable of extreme craziness. Then there’s the fact that he had that undergarment of hers in his workshop. So, anything is possible here.
Anything
. That’s about as conclusive as I’m going to get.’

I asked him if there was anyone else I should speak to.

‘I guess there’s Larry Coursen – but I don’t like holy rollers who are as smooth as a Vegas croupier, if you take my meaning.’

‘Nice metaphor. Maybe I’ll steal it.’

‘Just as long as you don’t say you got it from me.’

‘Anyone else worth chatting with?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘You ask around town, everyone will tell you that George is guilty as hell . . . especially as the wife is now in good with God. But I have doubt. A lot of doubt.’

Before I left I thanked Dwane for his time and asked for directions to the MacIntyres’ house.

‘It’s just two streets over from here,’ he said. ‘You’ll see all the TV vans out front. I think the ghouls are waiting for the moment when Ivy’s body is discovered so they can get Brenda’s hysterical reaction.’

‘When a mother loses a child . . .’ I heard myself saying, then lowered my head.

‘Tell me about it. Every day my boy is in Afghanistan, I think about that. About how . . .
if
 . . . I’d cope.’

He stared back into his coffee.

‘I think I’ve said a little too much.’

When I left Dwane I drove immediately over to the MacIntyre residence. As he said, it was easy to find. There were five large television vans parked outside – and assorted camera and sound men lounging around, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee in paper cups, looking bored. Behind them was a rundown split-level house. It needed a new roof, new siding, new steps up to its front door. There was laundry hanging rigid with cold on a clothesline. It had the prerequisite rusted-out car perched on the front lawn. It reminded me of one of those houses you see in Appalachia or any rednecked corner of North America which immediately spoke of social deprivation and bad education and a no-hope view of life. Poor George MacIntyre didn’t have a chance. Everything Dwane told me – like Missy Schulder before him – painted a picture of a man who was in a domestic hell without respite. I could only think about my own personal situation – with my parents, and then with Theo – where I too felt a certain helplessness; a sense that I was with people who just didn’t play fair. George MacIntyre raged against others and drank. I raged against others and used the delusion of being in control of things as a way of denying my depression. George MacIntyre lost a child. I lost a child. Though the details of our stories were wildly different, we shared the same underlying fury at the inequity of others. And it killed the most important thing in both our lives.

I drove around Townsend for another half-hour. I passed by the school again. I noted that none of the houses were substantial or venerable, that this was a community with no visible signs of wealth. I stopped in the Mom and Pop restaurant for a cup of coffee. I sat at the lunch counter and tried to start a conversation with the hard-faced woman who was serving me.

‘Sad about the MacIntyre girl, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Uh huh,’ she replied, half-regarding me warily.

‘Did you know her or the family?’

‘Everybody knows the MacIntyres.’

‘Were they good neighbors?’

‘You’re a reporter, right?’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s not a definitive answer.’

‘Yes, I’m a reporter.’

‘Well, now that I know that, I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’

‘I’m just doing my job,’ I said.

‘And I’m doing mine – which is running my restaurant and not answering your questions. George MacIntyre’s got enough problems on his hands right now . . .’

‘That’s sort of an answer, isn’t it?’

‘You trying to twist my words?’

‘No – but I sense from what you just said that you aren’t of the opinion that MacIntyre is evil incarnate.’

‘I’m not carrying on this conversation.’

‘Was he as bad as the papers made him out to be?’

‘You tell me. You’re on their side.’

‘I’m on nobody’s side.’

Behind us came a voice.

‘Brenda MacIntyre is a saintly woman.’

The owner of this voice was a woman in her early forties – plump, dressed in the brown polyester uniform that workers at Safeway were forced to wear. When I caught sight of the uniform I immediately remembered that Brenda MacIntyre wore one of these as well.

‘Are you a member of her church?’ I asked.

‘She’s Assemblies, I’m Church of Christ. But we’re both people who have been touched by the Lord. And I know that Brenda is really suffering right now – but she has her faith which is sustaining her.’

From behind the counter came the voice of the boss.

‘I think you’ve said plenty, Louise. And I think we’re going to ask this visitor to finish her coffee and leave us in peace.’

‘I was just trying to help,’ Louise said.

‘You were very helpful,’ I said.

‘And you owe me one dollar twenty-five for the coffee,’ the boss said.

As I left the restaurant my cellphone started to ring.

‘Nancy Lloyd?’ said a voice I was already familiar with courtesy of many television and radio interviews. ‘It’s Reverend Larry Coursen here. Might you be in Townsend now?’

How did he know that . . . or was he just surmising?

‘Actually I am.’

‘Well, it’s a truly busy day – and not just because of poor dear Ivy MacIntyre. But I could spare you fifteen minutes if you came by the church right now.’

‘I appreciate that,’ I said, then quickly wrote down the directions he gave me.

I didn’t need them – as the Assemblies of God church was located at the far end of the gasoline alley. It was modest-sized, built in an International House of Pancakes red-brick style. There was a large billboard-sized poster to the right of the main entrance, showing two very well-scrubbed, very white parents in their mid-thirties, their arms around two very well-scrubbed, very white children (a boy and a girl, naturally), both around nine or ten years old. I felt that same aching sadness that always hit me whenever I saw any tableau – either real or staged – of parents and children. This time, however, the sorrow was undercut by the ‘Kodak moment’ cuteness of the family and the mawkishness of the words blazoned above this picture: ‘
All Families Are Miraculously Healed at Townsend Assemblies of God!
’