Punishment (33 page)

“Just bring yourself. Around six.” He sounded grumpy.

“I suppose you’ve been following the news today,” I said.

“What news are you talking about?”

“The African uranium that Powell and Bush have been going on about,” I said.

“What?”

“It doesn’t exist,” I said. “Those documents they had were fake. It’s all over the news.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute. Powell wouldn’t fall for that. And Bush talked about it in the State of the Union.”

“Looks bad on them,” I said. “Hard to start a war when one of the main excuses turns out to be bogus.”

“Your hole is out,” he said. And put the phone down. I stood smiling, remembering Duncan using that same phrase when logic failed him.

S
aturday was aglitter with frost and sunshine. The trail crackled under my feet and I had a sense my stride was longer and more fluid. I wanted to believe that perhaps I was emerging from a long dark tunnel of gloom that started in the spring of 2000 with Pittman’s death. I wanted to believe I felt better because I was thriving in my solitude. I was part of a community, but somehow above it. I knew that the confrontation with Strickland would become one of the legends of the place. So be it, a brief violent moment that might seal a lasting peace. Tony Breau, the hard man home from a hard place, best not disturbed.

And then I made a decision, on that lovely weekend afternoon with the scarlet sun suspended just above the silent trees,
and that decision would, as I see events so clearly now in hindsight, mark the beginning of a change in everything.

I was passing the end of Strickland’s lane. I stopped and studied the many tire marks in the frozen snow, trying to imagine the scene earlier in the week, the aggressive urgency of the powerful cars, the squad of nervous, over-stimulated men with guns and body armour, following procedures that apply blindly, regardless of the target—terrorists and hostage takers, or pathetic losers, unsuspecting and alone. And I felt a wave of sympathy for Strickland. It was perhaps a sentimental lapse, identifying with another outsider.

The dog was trotting in circles, sniffing tracks and footprints, and then I realized the raiding party probably had the assistance of a drug dog. “You smell dog, do you Birch?” And he trotted up the lane. Who sent them here, I wondered? It was at that moment I decided to visit Strickland.

There was no sign of life around his house and after knocking several times I almost walked away. But then I heard footsteps descending stairs.

He opened the door and we stared at each other for long seconds before he asked, “What do you want?”

I shrugged. “Old habit,” I said. “Checking on parolees. Wondering how you’re getting along.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “And we have nothing to say to one another.” He started to close the door.

“I hope the kid was telling the truth,” I said. “That the drugs were hers. Because if they came from where I suspect they came from, you can expect another visit …”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not going to spell it out,” I said. “I don’t want to know what your involvement is with the bikers. But you were getting visitors here when you were away. People checking the place out …”

“You think I’m gonna believe that it was the bikers? Don’t make me laugh. They don’t care about me because I don’t owe them anything. And you know it. You or one of your friends planted those drugs. But it didn’t work. And I’m not going anywhere. And you can get off my property right now. I don’t ever want to see your pious face back here again. Ever.” He slammed the door.

The dog, startled, dashed off toward the trees and I followed him. The woods were dark then, sun almost gone. The hard snow crust broke beneath my feet and I could feel frozen crystals melting inside my hiking boots. Then I found a track broken by someone else and remembered Mary—she’d probably stood among these trees watching as the raid went down. Soon I was in her lane and the dog was nowhere to be seen. I heard him barking and walked around her house to the kitchen door.

“You realize you’ve got that dog for life,” she said when we were at her kitchen table. “I hope you’re prepared for that.”

She poured coffee. “I could offer something stronger.” I declined. I told her we’d been out for a walk when, on an impulse, I decided to call on Strickland.

“Did you believe him?” she asked. “About the drugs?”

“That I planted them there?”

“God no,” she said. “But I’m convinced somebody did. There’s been enough coming and going around here at all hours that
nothing would surprise me. People lurking in the woods. I’ve been half-thinking maybe it’s time for me to move. It’s getting hard on the nerves. And now with the talk around the store.”

“What talk?”

“You can imagine. People talking about taking things into their own hands. It’s
just
talk. But it can get to you. And who knows about the drugs? I’d believe anything.”

“Who’s talking?”

“All of them. And it’s worse now, with John Robert’s daughter involved. And I know there have been other young ones over there doing God knows what. It’s a bad scene all around, Tony.”

“What about Neil? What’s he saying?”

“Not much lately. Not since court.” She laughed as she poured more coffee in my cup. “Neil’s too busy getting ready to invade Iraq.”

Urgent news on the television, another crisis meeting somewhere in the middle of the ocean. This time Bush and Blair. Last chance for peace. “What did they do for news before all this, Birch Bark?”

“Yap, yap,” he replied.

“Yes,” I said. “I agree.” And turned the television off. Then as I stood to go to bed, I saw the winking red light on my answering machine.

Her voice was soft and sleepy and at first I didn’t recognize her. “I was just thinking about you. Remembering things, out of the blue.” Then a long pause followed by a sigh. “I miss our conversations.” Another pause. “It’s Sophie, just in case you
don’t remember.” She chuckled. “I often wonder how you are, out there. Call me sometime. Have you got a pencil handy?” Then there was another pause before she slowly dictated an Ottawa phone number, and then repeated it.

The dog projected subtle disapproval as I prepared to leave on Monday evening—St. Patrick’s Day. He was sitting in the middle of the kitchen, head tilted as I put my coat on. Then he skulked to his coat-bed near the stove, curled up and lay down. “You’re getting good at the guilt trips,” I said, feeling a real twinge. He lifted his head briefly then dropped his chin to his paws as I turned away from him.

It was a clear, cloudless night, air light with hints of spring freshness and the sky star-spattered. It felt pleasant to be going out, bound for a conventional domestic situation, even one involving Neil.

Driving by the end of Strickland’s lane I wondered what might be happening up there. And then I wondered why it mattered. I should be grateful for his hostility. It was liberation, in a way, from my confusion.
You’re pissed off at
me,
you sleazebag?
But still I felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the unfairness—his belief that
I’d
betrayed
him
. That was hard to handle, so terribly ironic that it made me feel like going up there one more time. But I resisted.

Neil was jolly at the door and the reason was no mystery. Bush had given Saddam Hussein and his two psychotic sons forty-eight hours to leave their country. Neil would be chuffed at the cowboy swagger, the unapologetic assertion of physical
force in the cause of a high moral purpose. Something he had done a thousand times in his career, I’m sure—big cop, loaded gun, aggression and control, unsubtle ultimatum.

I kept my sore right hand in my pocket, afraid of what his macho handshake would do to it. He clapped my shoulder and hurried me inside. “Come on in out of the chill. How’s the mitt? You pack quite the wallop for a quiet fella.” I’m sure he meant it as a compliment.

“Almost good as new,” I said.

The air inside was warm and heavy with the fragrances of cooking. We went straight to the kitchen where Hannah looked stressed, juggling two recipe books. “You guys stay out of the way,” she said. Neil quickly fetched a whiskey bottle from a cupboard and led me toward the living room.

“Just let me get this out of the way and I promise there’ll be no more talk about politics tonight,” he said. “What do you think Canada will do when the Americans go in?”

“Well, the government said today we’re staying out of it …”

“Bullshit political pandering,” he said. “When the rubber hits the road I can’t believe Canada will stay on the sidelines with the pussies.”

“Maybe it’s all bullshit,” I said.

“Oh, the Americans are going in, man. And surely to hell this country is gonna do the right thing. Think of the embarrassment if Ottawa just sits on its hands. Even fuckin Poland is in the coalition.”

I shrugged, smiled. “We’ll see.” And to change the subject: “I had a chat with Strickland the other evening.”

“You did?”

I explained how I had gone there on an impulse, drawn by curiosity about the drug raid—who really owned the drugs, how the police found out so quickly and were so confident of their intelligence they’d mobilized a full-dress takedown. That it seemed strange to me that Strickland would be so careless.

“You know the mentality as well as I do,” Neil said. “Cocky. After that court fiasco I’m sure he feels like God almighty. Look at the way he barged into the store, making accusations.”

“Come on,” I said. “That wasn’t strength—that was fear.”

“Well he’s got goddamned good reason to be afraid,” Neil said. “What you did was what anyone of us would have done with the kind of reason you had.”

“What are you talking about, Neil …”

“Come on Tony, we’re old friends. I heard him mention your wife’s name. That would have been enough …”

“How do you know it was my wife’s name?” I was struggling to keep the tone light.

He stood, drained his glass. “I’m sure you mentioned her. Let’s go see what’s happening in the kitchen.”

Generous pouring of wine failed to diminish the tension. I even ventured into the forbidden field of global politics. “Looks like George Bush will get his way after all.” Neil ignored me and Hannah remarked that she had no interest in the subject. She was from a family of Democrats and to her Bush was like the aftermath of a bad curry. Something nasty passing through the American digestive tract, a pain the world would have to suffer for another year. No way he’ll win a second term.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Neil.

She stood. “I hope you won’t mind if I excuse myself,” she said to me. “I’ve been feeling miserable all day.”

Neil watched her go, then returned to his dinner. “She’s been low for a while,” he said. “The long winter got to her. And she hasn’t made any friends here. I was thinking her and Caddy, maybe you and Caddy coming here for an evening sometime. Two couples. What do you think?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“It’s a hard place for an outsider,” he said. “Especially in the winter. I’ll tell her that. You and Caddy making it an evening here—that might cheer her up.”

“Neil,” I said. “I have to ask. Who told you about Anna and me? And Strickland.”

“Told me what?” he said, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. “What about Strickland?”

And after some long seconds he looked away and seemed to nod, then we returned to the business of eating.

After dinner and another drink he insisted on listening to a new CD he’d found in town. Local music. But halfway through a tune he stood, walked to a window and peered out, as if expecting someone. He was restless. “That’s some rig you got out there. New is it?”

“Last fall,” I said. “Hardly driven.”

“I was half-thinkin’ I need one of those,” he said. “I’m constantly hauling stuff for this place. Ruining the car or paying a fortune for delivery. What do you think?”

I shrugged. He sat down across from me, both hands wrapped around his glass.

“I seem to remember you driving a little red half-ton way back, when we were youngsters.”

“You have a good memory,” I said.

“Your dad, Duncan, what year was it he went?”

“1969,” I said.

He leaned back, stared off somewhere over my head. “Strange times, 1969,” he said. Laughed at some private memory, then stood and returned to the window, deep in thought.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “I’d like to take that thing for a spin. What do you think?”

“Whatever,” I said. “But isn’t it a little …”

“Grab your coat,” he said. “I want to see what it feels like.”

“It’s a standard shift,” I said.

“Perfect.”

We drove in the general direction of my place and then he turned down the Shore Road. The night was clear and dry and cold. He fiddled with the radio, found old rock music from the seventies. “Those were the days,” he said.

Near the end of Strickland’s lane he stopped, turned off the engine and the lights, plucked a package of cigarettes from a shirt pocket. “You don’t mind me smokin’ in here?” Rolled the window down a crack. “Beautiful,” he said.

“Why are we stopped here, Neil?” I asked.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said, exhaling. “A few of us kind of keep an eye on this place, just to be on top of what goes on up
there. Some of the ones with kids have some concerns. If the young ones are hanging around up there, the parents like to know. You never know what other visitors he gets. He’s got some pretty rough friends. It’s a kind of Neighbourhood Watch. A coalition of the village if you like.” He was smiling, watching me, waiting I suppose, for some response. A song by Crosby, Stills and Nash with Neil Young was playing softly on the radio. “Like the song says,” Neil said, nodding toward the sound. “Teach your children well.”

“There’s also something about ‘teach your parents,’ ” I said.

He laughed. “That’s good.” Then he opened the truck door. “You wait here, I’ll just be a minute.”

“Neil,” I said. “This is a bad idea.”

“I hear you, Tony,” he said. “I admire how you feel after everything.”

“After what, Neil?”