Shattered (13 page)

“Some days? How about
most
days?” I snapped. “Some days,” Berta said firmly. “Your mama and papa are good people. They have always treated me very well.”

I was going to say something but I didn't. I guess they did treat Berta well … but why shouldn't they? She did everything for us. She held our family together.

“You can let me off anywhere along here,” I said. We were right beside the park.

“I've come this far. I'll drive you right to where you need to go.”

“This is where I'm going.”

She gave me a quick but piercing look. She looked confused and worried. She slowed down and pulled the car over to the side of the road.

“Thanks a lot, Berta,” I said. I started to climb out when she reached over and took me by the arm.

“Eon?” she asked.

“It's okay. I'm interviewing a street person. He lives here in the park.”

She shook her head. “This is safe, no?”

“There's nothing to worry about. I'll be fine. Honest.” She released her grip and slipped her arm around me, pulling me all the way into the car and giving me a little hug. “I will worry—that is my job. Be careful,
carino mio
.”

“I'll be fine.” I climbed out and then leaned back into the car. “Thanks.”

“It is nothing, just a drive.”

“Thanks for that as well.” I closed the door and headed into the park. I looked back and watched as she slowly edged back into the flow of traffic. I watched her little car—bright green with even brighter spots of orange rust on the back fender—merge into the flow of the river of cars. The little ceramic dog with the bobbing head in the back window waved to me and I couldn't help smiling back—it always made me smile. The little car disappeared among the larger cars and trucks and she was gone. I always liked being in her car—more than I liked being in any of my parents' fancy cars.

Now that Berta was gone and I'd convinced her that I was going to be fine, I had to work on the other part—
convincing
myself
that I'd be okay. I was nervous. More than nervous. Partly I was anxious about talking to him, wondering if he'd even talk to me or how he'd react. Partly I was just concerned about being in this park. It was day but that didn't mean there wouldn't be people here to cause me grief. People like those three punks I'd run into the first time.

I was dressed down, in old shoes and jacket, hoping nobody would bother me, but that might not be enough. I was prepared … just in case. I had a little bit of insurance. I wasn't going to be the only one without some sort of weapon. I patted my left sleeve with my right hand, feeling the metal bar I'd slipped up my sleeve. Thank goodness Berta hadn't noticed it. It was about twenty inches long. I'd found it in the garage, left over from when construction workers put in a new cement patio out back. It was the closest thing I could find to the bar Sarge had had up his sleeve.

I looked all along as I walked, checking out any danger that might be there. There was a lot of activity. There were men and women, business suits and briefcases, rushing along the path on their way to work. Off to the side of the path, the playground was getting a good workout. It was occupied with small children being pushed on swings or swarming over the climber. Clustered around a little bench were six or seven young women. I couldn't help noticing that the children all looked fair-skinned, a couple of them blond, but these women were brown or black. Nannies. Imported to watch children, just like Berta had been for me. Some people might feel sorry for those kids being raised by strangers instead of their parents. I knew
better. I just hoped that at least some of them had somebody like Berta … if that was possible.

I came to a stop to try to get my bearings. I figured I wouldn't find Sarge on the playground or along the paths. If he was even in the park it would be in the trees at that little campsite. I stepped off the path and followed a little track of worn-down dirt leading into the trees. I checked the bar up my sleeve, pulling it out an inch or two. Somehow it seemed more reassuring to not just feel it but see it. The cold metal against my fingers felt good.

This part of the path looked somewhat familiar. This was the path Mac and I had taken the other night. At least it
looked
like it, but there could be dozens of these throughout the park for all I knew. I ducked to get under some overhanging branches. I looked back. The playground, the main path, and the people walking along it were all out of sight now. Funny, I was in the very middle of a city of over three million people but I was now out of sight of them all. I reached for the metal bar again. Maybe I'd just keep my hand on it.

I kept moving. The path dipped and twisted and I was just starting to think that I'd gone the wrong way when I caught a glimpse of colour through the bushes—red—the colour of the tent canvas. I pushed back the last line of branches and stepped into the clearing. There were six— no seven—tents. It was different to see them in the light of day. It all seemed more real … as real as a bunch of tents in the middle of a park in the middle of the city could be.

The tents were different sizes, shapes, and colours. A couple looked almost new. One was leaning over at a
strange angle and looked like it would tumble over if a little breeze came up. The clearing was a fair size, but all the tents were huddled at one end. They looked like they had been chased to the far end and then clustered together for protection. Maybe they were.

I watched as a thin wisp of smoke gently rose from the still-smouldering firepit into the sky and— There was somebody sitting in one of the chairs around the fire. He struggled to his feet—it was him! He walked— no, stumbled—over to the fire and tossed on a log, releasing a cloud of dust and smoke into the air. As he turned back around, he saw me. He waved and I waved back. Any thought I had of leaving was over. Now that I was here and he'd seen me, what was I going to say? I hadn't thought through this part very well. It would have been easier to just hope he showed up tonight for a meal.

“How are you?” he called out.

“Okay … I hope I'm not bothering you,” I apologized. “Of course you're not. I was hoping to talk to you.” “You wanted to talk to me?”

He nodded. “I was going to come by for a meal tonight so I could apologize to you.”

“But I came to apologize to
you
!”

“To me … What for?” he asked.

“I didn't know about what happened. I should have known,” I explained.

He shook his head. “People don't know, or if they knew they've forgotten. I shouldn't have walked away like that. You did nothing wrong. It just brought back memories … things I didn't want to think about.” He paused. “Do you have more questions you want to ask?”

“A couple more,” I answered. “If that would be okay?” He sat back down. He directed me to a second lawn chair across from him. It sagged under my weight and I thought for a second I was going to tumble over.

“I wouldn't want to cost you any marks,” he said. He sounded serious but I could tell from his voice that he was teasing me. “Go ahead so you can finish your assignment.”

“This isn't for school any more. After we talked I went home and I read about Rwanda, about what happened, and I just needed to know more … None of it seemed real.”

“I was there and it doesn't seem real to me.” He paused. “Do you read the Bible much?” he asked.

His question threw me. “No … not much.” I guess not ever was not much.

“But you know about the Garden of Eden, right?” “Of course.”

“That's what Rwanda was. It was like the Garden of Eden … at least before the killings.”

He said the last words so softly that I could hardly hear him. It was like he had been telling me a secret or it had been a thought that had inadvertently escaped his lips.

We sat there on opposite sides of the little firepit, not speaking. He stared off into the distance and I watched the smoke from the fire curl up and disappear. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a brilliant blue—blue like the Rwandan flag, like the berets of the peacekeepers. There wasn't a sound. Not traffic, not birds, not even wind in the trees. Just silence.

“One day you're there, trying to help, thinking that you
can
help, that you can be part of making a difference for these people, and then the next … you're nothing more
than a witness to acts of unspeakable evil.” He paused. “And you're helpless to stop it.”

His hands were shaking—actually, all of him looked to be shaking. He stared past me off in the distance. He started fumbling around, checking his pockets. He pulled out a package of matches and then continued to search, but came up empty.

“I need a smoke,” he said. “You don't have a smoke … That's right, you don't smoke.”

“I don't smoke, but I do have some cigarettes.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fresh, new, unopened package of cigarettes. I'd had Berta stop at a store on the way so I could get some gum. I'd picked up the cigarettes while she waited in the car. I wanted to give them to him the way Mac gave cigarettes to people. It seemed to work for him.

“Here,” I said as I held them out.

“But if you don't smoke, why do you have cigarettes?” he asked.

“I knew you smoked and I thought you could use them,” I explained.

“That was nice of you.”

“That's no problem. You'll have cigarettes for the whole day.”

“Afraid they won't last that long. As soon as the guys get up I'll be sharing with them,” he said, gesturing to the tent.

“How many people are here?”

“I think ten. Might be twelve. Could be fourteen. I didn't count. We just make space for whoever needs a place. We share. That's how we get by.”
I stood up to give him the package. He reached over and then grabbed me by the arm and held on, catching me completely by surprise. My heart leapt into my throat, and I tried to pull away but he held me firm. He was strong, his grip vice-like.

“What do you have here?” he asked, holding the arm that held the bar up my sleeve.

“N-n-nothing,” I stammered. He released his grip and I practically tumbled over backwards before I regained my balance.

“Seems like something,” he said.

Slowly, hesitantly, I pulled the bar free, revealing it inch by inch, until I held the whole thing in my hand. What was he going to say to me?

“Give it here,” he said, holding out his hand. Reluctantly I handed it to him. He held it up, slowly turning it around, looking at it from all angles.

“Good weight. Good length.” He handed it back to me. “I thought that I should have something … It's sort of like the one you have,” I said, trying to explain and excuse myself.

“They say imitation is a form of flattery. It's been a while since anybody wanted to imitate me.”

“I just thought it would be smart for me to have something. I can't just hope that you'll be there again if I need you.”

“Smart to be prepared. Not so smart if the police see it. You'd be charged with a weapons offence. Besides, it's only helpful if you're planning on using it—were you?”

“I was hoping I wouldn't have to.” “But if you did have to?” he persisted.

I shook my head. “I'm not sure. If I had to … maybe … probably … I hope.”

“That's probably the best answer. You just don't know. You can never predict your reactions until you're in a situation, especially one involving life and death … especially if that death involved
your
life.”

I knew he'd been in those situations. I'd only read about them or seen them on TV or the movies.

Sarge picked up the cigarette package, which had fallen in his lap. With shaking hands he peeled off the cellophane wrapping, removed a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He struck a match and tried to connect the shaking end with the cigarette. They met and the end of the cigarette started to glow, and he exhaled a puff of smoke.

“That's good,” he said as he inhaled another drag of the cigarette. “Now all I need is something to eat. Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“I am now.”

“Come on,” he said as he got up. “I know where we can get a bite. You like bagels?”

“Sure … who doesn't?”

“This place has the best bagels. You ever had a Montreal bagel?” he asked.

“I've been to Montreal. I just don't know if I ate a bagel when I was there.”

He laughed. “It isn't the location. It's the way they're made. Sweeter, different dough. You're going to like it.”

He got up from his seat. “Come, let's go and eat.”
I got up from my chair. I slipped the metal bar back up my sleeve and quickly caught up to him as he retraced the steps I'd taken earlier that morning. I pressed a hand into my pocket to make sure I still had money. I felt the bills—three five-dollar bills. I didn't have my wallet with me. I'd deliberately left that safely on the top of my dresser. I'd offer to pay for our breakfast. I was going to tell him that when I realized that I didn't even know his real name.

“I was wondering, should I call you Sarge?” I asked. He smiled. “You could, but the boys they call me Jack.” “Okay, sure … Jack. I was wondering, how long have you lived in the park?”

“Most of the winter.”

“And nobody bothers you?”

“Who would bother us?” he asked.

“I don't know, the parks people or maybe the police.” “They know we're there, but they just leave us alone.” “And they don't try to make you move?”

“We only burn deadfall, make sure the fire is tended, and as long as we stay out of sight they leave us alone. That's important, staying out of sight. The people driving by, walking in the park, up in those big buildings doing important business, as long as they don't see us they can pretend we don't exist.”