out of the house. He staggered off through the front yard and paused under a street light. Roger came out and stood on the porch, crying out that he would kill Pete. There were neighbours peering out their windows and doors. Pete didn’t say anything. He walked back to his car and got in and turned the key in the ignition.
Streets rolled out in front of him. He drove along the lakeshore. He drove up the hill, drove past Galilee Tabernacle, drove out to the CIL factory, to the shopping mall, drove back down the hill, sped along River Street. He saw the place where Emily had told him he’d better kiss her. He kept going, but there was only so far you could drive before you were covering the same streets again. He was shaking coldly, seeing the red and green lights around windows, the store signboards saying MERRY CHRISTMAS, the wooden creches out front of the churches. Everything seemed cheap and cruel. He hadn’t balanced any account, and he couldn’t possibly go home.
Once more, Lee went to look at the boarding house. When he got there, he stood with his fists pocketed. Then he went up the driveway and around to the back of the house, watching the windows all the while. The back porch was still there but it had been bolstered with pressure-treated lumber and repainted. He went around the porch and followed the steps down to the basement door. The steps and the door were exactly as he remembered them.
He was reaching for the knob when he heard the porch door open and close above. He looked up, blinking against the sky, and could see the side of somebody’s head, could see gloved fingers moving along the deck rail. There were two of them. One asked the other where they should go for lunch and the other said downtown.
Lee didn’t move. He was in plain sight if the men above looked down. But a moment later they were gone in a car. Lee waited a little longer. Water dripped from an icicle overhead. He tried the basement door and found it locked. He tried it again. He pushed the door with his shoulder. It did not budge. That was that.
He went back up the steps and around the side of the house and back to the street.
In those days long past, if he had happened to glimpse the crippled caretaker outside in the yard, he was not afraid of the man at all. He wondered what had become of him.
You know, I’ve seen the old boarding house a few times. You ever go back there?
— Not so’s I remember.
— You remember that day when Dad died?
— Would you change the channel?
Lee went to the television. He changed one soap opera for another until Irene nodded and said: I like this program.
— Down the basement of that house they had a big coal furnace. I saw it the day Dad died.
— Mrs. Pound didn’t want any kids down there.
— I remember. I went down there anyways. I never liked anybody telling me what I couldn’t do.
She lifted a finger from the bedrail and poked the side of his hand with it. Her skin was tight across her skull. She breathed. Her eyes flashed in their dark hollows. Her voice rasped at him: That was a long time ago, Leland.
— Yes.
Lee looked into the other half of the room. No one had come yet to occupy the other bed. His mother had gotten her own room after all.
— Barry thinks you’ve been drinking.
— He said that?
— He worries about you.
— He doesn’t need to worry so much.
— He worries about Donna. He worries about the little boys. Peter.
An unpleasant feeling went through Lee at the mention of Pete’s name. He’d been drunk when he told Pete the truth. He didn’t know if he would have told him otherwise, although it bothered him to think how the great shame remained a secret even now. It more than bothered him-it made him angry. He flexed his fist and pulled his eyes away from his mother’s and looked at the TV for a little while. He didn’t know if word had gotten out to the rest of the family yet that he’d told Pete the truth, and he didn’t know what it would be like for him to see Pete again. Maybe it would be easier not to see the kid at all any more.
And besides, nobody had said anything to him yet, about coming over on Christmas Day.
He leaned over and adjusted the blankets on Irene’s bed. He said: Well, Barry doesn’t need to worry about me.
She groped for his hand. She smiled: I know. I told him. He doesn’t need to worry about me neither. I’m close. Called up to Jesus. He doesn’t need to worry about me at all.
The Owl Cafe was turning a brisk trade. There was a hiss of frying in the kitchen. The cook sweated in his whites and turned plateloads of food onto the wicket. The radio played an endless list of Christmas songs. Voices were layered in conversation and there were boxes and bags full of gifts piled into booths. The waitresses moved about quickly. Nobody paid attention to the bell-chime as the front door opened.
Helen served a bowl of soup to an old deaf man at the counter. When she turned she saw that Lee was down at his usual place, sitting with his hands folded on the countertop. He was alone, as always.
She went down to him.
— Hello, Brown Eyes. Haven’t seen you in here in a little while.
— That’s true.
The cook spoke through the wicket: Helen, your fried chicken’s up.
— It’s real busy, Brown Eyes, said Helen. Maybe later on.
— I want a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll order some lunch.
She brought Lee a mug of coffee. He emptied two sugars into it and stirred in some cream.
Helen took a plate of fried chicken from the wicket and delivered it to a woman down the other end of the counter. Lee watched her. The place was busier than he had ever seen it. Near Lee, a man was trying to flag Helen down to pay his bill. Helen came and took the bill and returned the man’s change. The man left her two quarters. She moved a strand of hair from her forehead and asked Lee if he was hungry.
— Am I hungry. Why not. I’ll have the BLT.
She wrote the order down and posted it on the wicket. Lee lifted his coffee. He watched her work. The old deaf man had finished his soup. Helen cleared away the bowl. The old man counted coins out of a leather change purse and laid them on the counter. He stood up from his stool and shuffled out of the diner.
The cook called to Helen that the BLT was up. She brought the plate to Lee and refilled his coffee. She had her other hand knuckles-down on the countertop. Lee closed his own hand over hers.
— Haven’t seen you.
— I’ve been busy.
She pulled her hand away. The people sitting around them were making an effort not to notice.
— I’ll check on you in a bit.
— Wait, said Lee. What time do you get done today?
— It’s real busy. I don’t know what time I’ll finish. I’ll check on you in a bit.
She moved back down the counter again. Lee raised his hand, called to her:
— Hey, miss. There’s a hair in my sandwich.
She returned to him. He was grinning.
— It’s real busy, Lee.
— Let’s just make some plans.
Helen pressed both hands down on either side of Lee’s plate and pitched her voice low and lethal: If you’ve got to know, Lee, you talked about all that serious shit. You and me, serious. You think that’s what I wanted to hear? You can’t even keep a goddamn job. Now why don’t you eat your sandwich and pay your bill and get back to whatever it is you were doing.
She went back down the counter, moving with her shoulders lifted. Not three seconds later there was the noise of crockery breaking. All conversation in the cafe came to a halt. Lee was standing when she turned. She could see the shards of his plate and the mess of the food on the floor. He drove the coffee mug forward off the counter. The mug burst on the floor as the plate had.
