— I hear your mother is in the hospital.
— They found two more tumours in her lungs.
— It’s an awful goddamn thing.
— They can’t do much at her age.
— They can make it comfortable, said Stan. My wife …
But Stan didn’t finish that. He found he had little to say to this man on the subject of his wife.
— For awhile she had to share the room, said Lee.
— She doesn’t have to share any more?
— No. The other lady died.
— I see.
— So far they haven’t given her anybody new. She’s got the TV to herself.
— All this getting old, Lee, it’s a goddamn job all by itself.
— Longest sentence you can do, I guess.
Stan put the windshield wipers on to sweep snowflakes off the glass. Downtown, there were many people on the sidewalks, moving in and out of the stores. People carrying boxes and bags. Lee studied one of the model kits. A bomber moving through the air far above a patchwork of fields, a smiling pin-up girl painted beneath the plane’s forward windscreens. Stan said again how any boys would love to have model airplanes to build. Lee nodded.
It was good until they were two blocks from Lee’s place. They were on Union Street, between the postcard storefronts. Then they stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, and there before them, being led by the arm by his father, was Simon Grady. He walked at a doddering pace. He had a toque on his head and it hid the indented scars where the flesh had split from the impact of the framing hammer. He was led along, grinning blithely.
Simon and his father disappeared into a store.
— Think I’ll get out here, said Lee, quietly.
— I can drive you the rest of the way.
— I’ll walk.
Stan nodded. Snow was collecting on the windshield. The wipers swept the glass. Lee gathered his purchases and got out of the truck.
Stan watched Lee move off down the hill. Then he put the truck in gear and moved up. He beeped his horn and reached into the glovebox for a pen. He scrawled his phone number on an old business card that advertised a man in Novar who’d restored Stan’s woodstove. He rolled down his window and Lee looked at him.
— Look, said Stan, I’ve got some things I need to do at my house. Some doors to hang, some windows to fix. There’s a bad squeak in the floor in one place. I can do some of it but I could use a hand. Maybe a week or two of work, what you think is fair. Give me a ring after Christmas if you want to talk about it.
Lee took the business card. He looked at it. He brought out his billfold and stowed the card inside. Stan pulled away from the curb. He had kept himself from looking at Lee when they’d seen Simon Grady a few minutes earlier. He thought again of the young man he’d driven down to the provincial jail, shortly after Charles Grady had been killed and Simon Grady had been put in the hospital, comatose, with his head stove in. The trial had divided the facts of Lee’s crime into blacks and whites, but even in those days Stan had had no faith in blacks and whites. There was always the grey, and in the grey was where the truth often resided. The death of Judy Lacroix had only reinforced that belief, and he’d done what he could, and he’d come up short.
Stan looked in his rear-view mirror. Lee was still standing on the sidewalk, staring at nothing in particular.
Pete stayed at the Shamrock Hotel for a few days. He ended up there late in the night after he’d left Nancy’s house. There were a few nice hotels in town, a very nice one near the golf course. But he’d never set foot in a hotel in his life, certainly not in the nicer ones, and he doubted he had the means or the appearance for them. At midnight, the sign at the Shamrock still said OPEN. The people in the adjoining tavern ignored him.
The desk clerk told Pete it would be ten bucks a night. Pete thought about it. He said he’d pay the first night and then daily thereafter. The clerk was disinterested. He had Pete sign a register and then he gave him a key.
The room was up on the third floor. A shared bathroom was down the hall. There was mismatched furniture and threadbare carpeting. An ugly painting of a sailboat. A small black-and-white television. The sheets on the bed were faded but they seemed clean. He lay on them, dense with exhaustion. Through the wall someone was arguing. Emily seemed an occupant of another world entirely. He fell asleep with the TV on.
At work at the gas station Pete watched for police cars, certain that it was only a matter of time before they came to have him account for what he’d done to Roger. To have him account for who and what he was.
— You’re way out in space, said Duane.
— I’m sorry.
— Listen, man, these gasoline fumes. They’ll burn your head.
— Never mind, said Pete.
Duane appraised him with bemusement. A car came and Pete went to attend it.
At two o’clock Caroline came out and told him he had a phone call. Despite himself, his pulse was accelerating. But the voice was not Emily’s.
— Listen, said Donna. Where are you?
— You’re calling me at work.
— How come you didn’t come home?
He was alone but he still cupped his hand around the mouthpiece: How could I do that? How could I come home after?
— I’m sorry I hit you, but all this stress. Grandma.
— I know, Mom. I know what I am. Lee told me.
When at last she spoke there was a tremor in her voice: You don’t know anything.
— Yes, I do. I do. But it’s not your fault. How can it be?
— … Peter … Oh Jesus. Would you just come home?
— I can’t do that yet. I can’t. I’ll call you tomorrow.
The call ended.
He passed Caroline as he was coming out of the office. Caroline said his name. She looked like she was weighing her words.
— Are you good to work Christmas Eve?
— Yeah.
— Noon till close. Maybe eleven or midnight, depending.
— Okay.
— Good.
They were busy for the next hour. When finally there was a lull, Duane ambled over, drawing tobacco out of his chew tin.
— Do you want some of this?
— Have I ever? said Pete.
But he took a pinch of tobacco out of the tin. He saw Duane’s eyebrows lift under his toque. Pete tucked the chew behind his lip. The flavour of burnt cherry was not unpleasant but instantly his head was spinning like it would lift off his shoulders. His mouth filled with juices. Duane offered a Styrofoam cup for him to spit into. Pete tried to hold his head steady.
— Don’t whatever you do swallow it, said Duane. Let it do its work for you. Anyway, man, your face.
There were fresh bruises on Pete’s face from the night before. His ear was a little swollen. Nobody had said anything yet.
— I fell down the stairs.
— Look, if you got trouble with anybody, don’t be too proud, right? Let me know.
Pete spat again. All the colours and sounds were too vivid.
— Thanks.
— Don’t be too proud, Pete.
Over the next two days, he made himself somewhat comfortable at the Shamrock. Down in the tavern the
