The Boy (18 page)

The sound of boys' voices in the yard. Now Daisy imagines Jerry, Chrissy, Patty in that shower room. Small, cold. Naked. She slaps the lid closed on the cracker box. Tapes it over and over around and around.

On the table, on top of the pile of letters home, the details of Bobby's impending release. Daisy skims through the pages. A letter from Bobby to Ray, July, 1955:

Here's the way I figure it. Am going to be 18 in a few days and its just about time to smarten up. If I get into trouble again, don't write me or anything, just forget I am your son. Dad, Im really sincere this time. I mean everything I say for if I get into another jam, it will go on and on until I kick the bucket in a pen or some dirty provincial jail, but if things work out the way I plan, I'll be home for Christmas.

Bobby did not make it home for Christmas. He was barely released that time when he was picked up again and charged with breaking and entering in Hanna. Two years in the Saskatchewan Penitentiary. How long this time?

She hears the car, slam of the door, Ray's quiet voice midst the shrill children. Where does Bobby fit in all this? Nowhere. Tell him! Tell him we are going away!

Well, you seem to have taken over. You're going to write the ending for me? She sends the cheery socks and tie and then has Ray tell Bobby, when he arrives home, that they were really a farewell gift? That he and Daisy and the kids are leaving town, no forwarding address for errant sons?

Isn't that what happened? He found out they were moving away without him? And then he flew into a rage, some kind of dissociative state, killed them all, dumped the bodies, drove away, and when he came to all he remembered was that travel plan. They were gone to B.C. to find a service station, a father and son opportunity.

That's the theory. That's what people in town believed, if they believed he did it.

Why would anyone believe anything he said to the contrary? He was a liar. He was wearing the yellow socks when he was arrested. That red tie, we both know, ended up under the mattress, “blood spattered.” So much for Daisy's gift.

The Boy

As soon as Louise turns the corner, off the main drag and onto their own tree-lined street, she wants to drive right past the house and out the other side of town, straight to the farm. Too late. Jake has spotted the police car as well.

He groans, sits up straighter in the passenger seat. “Now what?” The lines around his mouth and between his eyes, etched even deeper after three days in hospital, look like scars against the pallor of his skin.

“Whatever it is this time,” Louise says, “you're going in to bed. I'll handle it.” Louise feels the back of her throat tighten against the sour tide rising from her gut. She's tried to ignore the burning in her chest these past few days, Jake's wounded heart eclipsing all other concerns. She's glad Jon and Lauren aren't home to welcome their dad. Phyllis offered to come in and wait with them, but Louise wanted time alone with Jake. She'd bring them to the farm if that was all right, she told Phyllis. And come pick them up after their dad was settled at home.

Against Jake's protests, against the assurances of the two RCMP officers that they have just a few questions, Louise puts her arm around her husband's waist and glides him through the door and onto the sofa before she goes back onto the front step to invite the two men into the kitchen. There, she leaves the door open so that Jake can hear the conversation but not engage. No matter what they have to say, he will need to know, but she wants him sitting down, and she wants to provide the answers. When the questions begin she's gladder still that her children are innocently soaring on the swing in Phyllis's garden.

Alice has been robbed and assaulted. She is barely conscious in a hospital bed, unable to offer any clues as to who forced their way into her house on Sunday night, beat an old woman in her nightgown, and made off with a paltry few dollars from her purse. Alice's daughter and grandson found her on the kitchen floor.

“The daughter says she can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her mother, and there's nobody in their lives who'd take advantage of an elderly woman all alone. But the grandson informs us there is a person of interest. Can you tell us about your son's connection to Mrs. Kelly?”

No doubt Alice's grandson—that successful young man who bought a new truck from Jake—has remembered the car salesman's jailbird son for whom his grandmother seemed to have a soft spot. He may have remembered, too, that his grandma went to Bowden with the father to visit the guy. That she talked about what a poor lost little boy Danny had been, his mother dying, father remarrying, the new kids grabbing the attention.

Before Louise can answer, she hears the thump of Jake's feet, and he is off the sofa, the effort of the walk to the kitchen enough to leave him leaning on the door frame.

“Jake! For goodness sake go back and lie down. I'll handle this.”

“Now, Lou.” Jake looks like he's pulling up every molecule of energy in his slumped body just to speak. “I think I should just tell these men what they need to know and get it over with.”

“No.” She takes his arm and this time steers him slowly down the hall, into the bedroom and closes the door. That he offers no more protest, just turns on his side on the bed and waves her away makes her as sad as anything that has happened in the six years they've been married.

When she returns to the kitchen, she motions to the two men to sit down, offers to make coffee but they politely decline. She tells them she's going to make it anyway, her husband needs a cup of strong coffee. She needs Jake in the kitchen with his coffee mug in his hand as soon as she can get rid of these two.

They look at one another, nod and sit down at the table while she measures coffee into the basket, grounds spilling from the spoon because she cannot control her shaky hand. “You
are
Daniel Peter's mother?” one of them finally asks.

“Yes,” she says. “The only one he's had since the real one died, so I'll have to do.” She takes a deep breath. “You want to know his connection to Alice. We were neighbours. Danny and Alice were pals back when his mom was still alive. The year I met them, Dan spent part of his Christmas money on a box of chocolates for Alice without anyone telling him to buy her a gift. He was twelve years old.” She looks back and forth at the two faces, neither of them obviously impressed with young Dan's generosity. “Alice went with my husband to visit Dan at Bowden a while back. Jake said Danny was so surprised and pleased to see her he looked as though he was going to cry.” She's making this part up, but dares anyone to ask for proof. “Daniel did not hurt Alice. I am positive of this. Our son is a thief, but I know he would not lift a finger against that old woman.” She can hear Jake's words coming out of her mouth, but for once, she believes them. She knows this is true. “Dan was here, at home on Sunday night.”

Another glance passes between them. When did he arrive, they want to know, and how long did he stay? Now she has to admit that she didn't actually see Danny, just evidence that he'd been there. No, she has no idea what time he would have arrived, or how long he stayed. And no, she has no idea where he is now. No direct contact with him since he was released from Bowden. No familiarity with his “associates.” Yes, should he come home she will be sure to call them. Yes, they can count on this. And yes, she is absolutely sure that her husband's health will not permit him to talk with them today. For a split-second, she thinks they are going to insist and she feels such a rage rising in her that she grips the edge of the table. Raging at Danny. Then they stand up so precisely in tune that she wouldn't be surprised if they turned smartly on their heels and galloped out of her kitchen.

When Louise takes coffee into the bedroom, Jake seems to be asleep. She is about to turn and tiptoe out of the room, when he lifts a hand and pulls himself up on the pillows. “He didn't hurt Alice. Did you tell them there is no way that Danny would lift a finger against that woman?”

She smiles and feels every muscle in her face tremble with the effort. Sits down on the edge of the bed and holds the cup out to him. His hand is steady, steadier than hers, when he takes it, raises it to his mouth. “God that tastes good after the slop in the hospital,” he says. “You should have let me talk to them. I'm okay now.”

“No,” she says. She takes the cup from him, sets it on the bedside table and leans close to put her arms around him. “You didn't need to. I told them exactly those words.” She pulls away so she can look into his eyes. “I believe it too, Jake. Dan might have robbed her, but he would not hurt her.” Not intentionally, she thinks. This is not in him.

But now she has to tell Jake that Danny came home that night. Even though she's kept it to herself, not a word to Jon and Lauren, asked Phyllis not to mention this to Jake.

“Aw no. He finally comes home and I'm not here to tell him I'm so glad he made that choice.”

Louise fights a sudden urge to pull away from Jake. As well as the smell of hospital still strong on his skin, his breath is foul. In his face, she can see that he is imagining the same thing that horrifies her—Alice, a cowering rag doll, a man with a blank face towering over her. But Louise finds herself imagining her own mother on a kitchen floor. Or her father. What if her dad were alive, and
someone
went to his house in desperate need of cash. Someone he knew well enough to have opened the door. No! The boy is a sneak and a liar and a thief. But not this.

The next day, Jake talks with Alice's daughter. He says she sounded wary on the phone, but relaxed enough, when he told her how fond he and Brenda had been of her mother, how worried he was now about his old neighbour, to tell him that Alice has recovered sufficiently to talk with the police. All she can tell them, though, is that the man who rang her doorbell late in the night was wearing a knitted mask over his face. He didn't speak, just pushed his way into the house, knocked her to the floor. Beyond that, she remembers nothing. Can Jake and Louise visit Alice? A long pause. Perhaps in a week or so, give her time to rest. She won't be going home. Arrangements are being made to transfer Alice to an assisted living facility. Surprisingly, the daughter says, her mother is offering only token resistance.

The day they visit, they find Alice in a wheelchair in a small lounge, watching television.

“I can walk,” she says, “but they insist on wheeling me down here. They say I'm too brave for my own good, even though I promise them I won't try to march out of here if they'd just give me my shoes.” She waggles a slipper-clad foot at them. “Ha!”

Alice looks better than Louise expected. Apart from purple bruises beginning to yellow on her nose and forehead and black stitch marks in a gash at her hairline, she seems as steady and sharp-eyed as always. She purses her lips, and stares at Jake with one eye squinted shut. “You look like you've had a rougher time than me,” she says.

Jake pulls up two chairs, and he and Louise sit facing Alice. “Getting better,” he says. “I had a bit of a cardiac upset the same day you had your…”

How to describe something Daniel is still suspected of committing even though Alice has doggedly refused to implicate him.

“But I'll be good to go again in no time,” Jake says. “I'm taking a month off work to lie around the house and drive Louise nuts.”

“Still no sign of Danny?” the old woman asks. Louise can't read her face, something there besides concern for either Jake or his son. Jake shakes his head. Alice seems to be working her jaw, rearranging dentures. She shifts in the chair as though she's suddenly less comfortable than she's led them to believe. “Well for what it's worth,” she says, “I've seen a few bad apples in my time, even had a brother who turned a little rotten, and I don't think Danny's the bottom of that barrel. But you, you look like death on the back burner, and the best you can do is just try not to think about that boy for a while, Jake.” She winces and leans sideways slightly. “Maybe it's time to make some tough choices for your own sake. That's all I've got to say.”

Then, she says she's tired, nothing serious, just in need of a nap before her grandson shows up. Maybe better if they leave before he gets here.

At the car, Jake insists on driving. “I'm not going to behave like an invalid, Louise. I feel a lot better now that I've seen Alice. She didn't look too bad at all, don't you think?”

No, Alice doesn't look as damaged as Louise expected, but
she's sure that neither she nor Jake can really imagine the terror of that night.

“Anything else we need to do before we head home?” Jake asks, but when Louise shakes her head, he pulls into the donut shop, parks, and opens his door. “Stay here,” he says, “I'm going to get us some coffee.”

He's back in a few minutes with two large coffees, an apple fritter, a French cruller, and a box of mini-donuts. He hands the tray through her window, and when he gets into the car, he slides his seat back. He taps the box. “I figured we'd better take something home to the kids if we're going to have a treat.”

A treat? “Jake, apart from nutrition and the fact that I'm trying so hard to watch my weight, I don't even like donuts. And the kids would never know.”

He shrugs, grins at her and for a moment looks like the man she met in a bar years ago. “I guess I'll have to eat both of these. And don't you dare give me the cholesterol lecture today. I need this sugar, Lou.”

As he bites into the fritter, flakes of icing dislodge and sift down onto his lap. “It would have been a lot to easier to eat this inside,” she says. She struggles with the lid on the coffee, finally gives up and sips from the plastic rim. The coffee will not sit well. Already, she can taste the backwash of acid. When they get home, she'll call for a doctor's appointment. Just a check-up is all she needs, she's sure, but it's suddenly imperative that she stay well. What if something were to happen to her? Who would look after Jon and Lauren? The obvious answer is Jake, but with a jolt that almost makes her gasp aloud, Louise feels Jake's impermanence beside her. She wants to grab him and wrap her arms around him, but instead she sits quietly and watches him eat a donut.

After he's polished off both the fritter and the cruller in no more than three bites each, Jake grabs a napkin, wipes his lips and hands. “I wanted privacy. I don't even want strangers to hear me talking about Dan.” He wriggles the lid off his cup, sets it in the cup holder and holds out his hand for hers. “It's downright dangerous trying to drink hot coffee from a spout. Here. Go careful.” After two long slurps, he looks at her over the rim of his cup, his thick brows clamping down over eyes still veined with pink, baggy with fatigue. “What Alice said in there, Lou, about not letting him come home again, even if he shows up, is that what you think would be best too?”

Louise swallows. She wishes she had peppermints in the bag, the way her mother always carried them, so that she could suck away the bitterness in her mouth. “You mean turn him away? Are you sure that's what she was saying?” A sharp image springs to her mind, she and Jake barring the door, Daniel unkempt and angry on the step, pleading with his dad. “Surely you don't think I'd ask you to turn him away.”

Jake still has a dusting of icing sugar around his lips. “How many chances have we given him? How many do I owe him? He's an embarrassment, Lou. And I can't help wondering about Alice …God, if he's responsible …I don't know what I'd do to him if he was standing in front of me.”