The Cast Stone (29 page)

Vicky stood like this through the ceremony of going to the earth, holding her husband's hand to keep him from wandering too far away, holding on to Clarice to hold her, to hold herself up.

Then it was over. The flag and the box and the earth, the march, the drill and they were coming one by one in the closing ceremony of shaking hands with the family members.

“My condolences.”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Fisher. Your son was a good man.”

And they took the hand she needed to hold Clarice with, pumped it twice.

“He served his country.”

Just a nod, “Ma'am.” Pump the hand and shift over to pump Dean's hand and then wander over to where they grouped, uniformed, taking off their brimmed hats, wiping their brows, shuffling. Vicky watched, wondering what they might be talking about. Not her son she knew, maybe there was still time to gather at a pub later, she suspected.

“Ma'am.” The officer in front of her did not let go of her hand after the two pumps. Held it as gently as he could. “Ma'am, I'm sorry that for security reasons the media was not allowed to be here for this.”

“That's quite all right.” She didn't have the energy left to explain. “We're private people.” That was all she had for words. It would take too much effort to tell him her fear that Ricky would become part of the daily diet of horror, an episode, a string of words across the bottom of a screen and somewhere someone would rejoice that it was not their son.

“But I do have some good news, Ma'am. Something to take comfort in.”

Vicky looked up at this man who stood in a military stance, feet apart, head high, chest out, so much a part of him that it was his relaxed pose. “The man who poisoned your son was taken care of. He was executed three days ago. I'll have to ask you not to speak to the media about this. The information is very classified. I'm only sharing it with you for your own comfort. Please understand.”

Vicky nodded. She understood, but there was no comfort in it. There was no comfort at all in it. She looked over at Dean, but he was gone, maybe he was already back at the farm. “Thank you, officer.” She wanted to go home, just go back to the prairie house and look after Dean.

Too many years of not doing, of swinging a mop, not with any effort to it, just sloshing the painted concrete floor, too many years of waiting, maintaining, left Lester without the stamina for a full day of physical work. He rested, found reasons to stop, to straighten out the logs piled in the back of the truck rather than join Red and the others hauling them on their shoulders out of the bush. Red was in a good mood, joking, teasing all day, lifted peoples' spirits with his banter. Late autumn, now that the leaves were off the undergrowth, now that the mosquitoes and flies were not so thick, was the best time to cut firewood. Red said it was almost tradition for him. Put up a big pile of wood and then go shoot a moose. Then you could spend the winter with your feet up in front of the fire and eat ribs and brisket.

Lester wasn't so sure it would work out that way, wondered if he would make the winter, wondered if he could find the money for the meds. This work was not bad. Paid a bit, but they sure wanted a lot for a little bottle of green pills. Red could turn this into a real money-maker if he wanted, but Red didn't have any ambition. He only wanted enough for the moment, and enough for Red wasn't enough for Lester.

Short time on the inside, when the sentence is running down, stand away from trouble, stand aside, watch the fights; but keep your record pure, be patient and pure, abide the rules. But short time on the outside felt the opposite. Lester wanted these last months, these possible last months to be worth something, anything. If it wasn't for Rosie he could have had a moment of glory, walked into the face of authority with a nine millimetre and carved a path of fame for himself. Damn Rosie. Then Lester laughed at the memory of it. How he was walking past her, not thinking of her, she was just old ,fat Rosie. But old fat Rosie snatched the gun right out of his hand and he took two more steps before he realized his hand was empty. Then she put it in her pants and how was he going to take it back.

“What's so funny?” Red flipped the log from his shoulder onto the already large pile in the back of the truck.

“Oh, nothing”

“You were sure grinning about something.” Red gave the end of the log a flip to roll it over, fill a gap.

“Looks like we might get some snow.” Lester looked toward the grey sky.

“Maybe. It's cold enough.” Red thought about the possibility, considered the weight of the clouds. They were heavy enough for snow. “We'll get what we have cut off the ground just in case it does snow and bury them, then we can call it a day. I'm feeling a little crappy anyway. Damn cold, just can't seem to shake this one.” He sniffled. It wasn't enough and he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his canvas jacket, coarse against the tenderness of his nostrils. “What have we got today? Is this the third or fourth load?” Red was the type of guy who in his enjoyment of working, especially working outside, could lose track of such things.

“Fourth load.” Lester wasn't.

“That's not bad.” He struck a flame to the end of a cigarette. Lester swung his legs over the side of the truck box and sat on the rail. Looked like they were taking a break. Red wasn't quite ready to stop yet. He took a few drags from the cigarette, handed it to Lester. “Here, finish it.” And went back to hauling the last of the logs out of the bush.

“It's snowing.” Elsie watched the first flakes; small, drifting, lazy white specks. “Wonder if it will last.” She followed a flake to the ground to see if it melted right away. It didn't. The ground was frozen enough to hold. First of winter. Something new. She was about to turn away from the window when the truck stopped next door at her mother's house, a load of wood sagging its springs. She waited until it came to a spot where she could see through the trees. It was her cousin Red bringing Lester home. A good thing to know that Red still cut wood. She'd wondered where they might get their winter supply. Ben had a chainsaw and a truck. Benji could do the work. She could help. She would be happy to help, to be outside, physical work, fresh air. But, there was just the thing about Benji and a chainsaw. Grew up in the city. Would he cut his leg off? Or worse.

She turned away from the window, instinctively looked around for Rachel. The little girl had been quiet for too long. It meant she was up to something, and she was. Standing on a chair, trying to reach Elsie's now cold cup of tea.

“Come down from there, my girl. Come on over here and see. Look out the window, see that? That's snow. That white stuff. That's snow, my girl.” They stood together and watched it fall. There were more flakes now, and not lazy. The wind picked up and slanted them, gave them purpose and destination. The sight chilled Elsie. She added another block of wood to the steel fireplace. Not that it needed it. Forced it in and shut the glass-screened door. “You stay away from this stove Rachel. It's hot. Don't touch. Hot.”

She wished she could build something around the stove. Something to keep Rachel away. But this wasn't her house. It was Ben's. And someday Ben was going to come home. What would he say when he found her here, living with Benji. Shacked up, like they used to say. What would she say? “We were looking after your place for you. Taking care of things.” If he ever came home.

She wished she and Benji had their own place, a small warm cabin, built of logs, like the one up the lake where Ben was raised. That would be nice. She could live without electricity, without all the distractions that came with it. But, could Benji? Or was he still too dependent, too modern to ever give up the comforts and ease. Not that there was anything wrong with comfort. She felt the heat of the crackling stove. But some comforts are better than others. Some don't cost your soul so much.

“You have mail.”

“Mail?” Ben didn't get it.

“Well, not for you, but about you.”

The daily interview, at 2:00 pm. The guards came to the cellblock, beckoned Ben to come with them down the concrete hallway to administration, into the office complex where the floor was tiled and the offices had glass in the windows, where coffee and doughnuts scented the air. Someone here liked Tim Hortons. Brought in a half-dozen sugared old-fashioned every afternoon and spread the smell of cinnamon into the otherwise still, dead air.

The interview would last an hour, the same questions, the same answers. “Why an M-37?”

“Because my eyesight is fading.”

“That's not the average hunting rifle you have there.”

“It works for me.”

Ben sat in the chair, kept his feet flat on the floor, never stretched out his legs, never relaxed. The voice had a name now, John Penner, and a face. The hood was negotiated away. “I'll trust you, if you trust me. It's about answers.” Ben knew it wasn't about answers. It was about questions. The questions John Penner wanted answered weren't about guns or meetings or the hitchhiker. The daily interview always started with those questions, repetitions, rote to the point of becoming custom. The answers were slight variations of more of the same.

Ben watched the time, the big office clock on the wall in the next office, there where the window let in the light from outside. John Penner came to believe that Ben was looking in that direction because of the light, outside, freedom, believed that it tormented Ben. He liked it that he sat between Ben and that freedom and that Ben had to go through him to get to where he knew Ben wanted to be. He sat in the seat of power, his legs stretched out under the desk.

Always take your time, my boy. Don't rush things. Those old
people, when they negotiated the Treaty, they took their time.
It was the government people that were in a hurry. Us Indians,
we sat and talked about things, all kind of things before they
got here. We were ready. We knew what we were going to say.
We sat on the ground, on our Mother, got our strength from
there. They sat on chairs. It was always the treaty commissioner
who tried to hurry things up. Remember that my boy. When it's
important. Don't rush. Time is your friend.

Ben had one hour with John Penner. He had the rest of the day to listen to the words of his father. One hour in an office, and then he would sit by the fire in a log cabin, hot tea in his hands, a willing receptor of the wisdom of generations and their stories. Even here, even in this concrete and glass, in this office, he heard his father, heard the slow speech, the short sentences, each filled with importance, never an empty phrase, a wasted word.

“It seems like you have some friends, Mr. Robe.”

“I'm sure I have one or two.”

“Oh, there's more than two. We're starting to get a little pile of letters, people are writing, saying you're a political prisoner. Are you a political prisoner, Ben?”

“I am a prisoner.”

“That's not what I asked. Are you political?”