The Carpenter Page 7

  — That’s a long way up.

  — I’ll put that dog on you, Dick.

  — That’s fine. He could watch me all the way to my car.

  Dick bent down and picked up a stick from the grass. He held it for Cassius to sniff and then he hurled it across the yard. Cassius trotted after it but stopped halfway and just looked. Dick shook his head and looked back up at Stan and said: I told you I owed you a visit. Them things you asked me about on the telephone a few days ago.

  Stan came down. He got some beers from the fridge and carried two lawn chairs to the dock. They agreed there were not going to be many more days this year that they’d be able to sit by the lake and take in the sun.

  — How’s town? said Stan.

  — Same as ever. Say, do you remember that business with Simon and Charles Grady?

  — Christ, that’s a lot of years ago. King, wasn’t that his name?

  — Leland King, said Dick. Anyhow, he’s been paroled. He’s back in town.

  — I remember driving Leland King down to the provincial jail when his trial started. I thought he looked just like a kid. Remember how his dad-I think his name was George-dropped stone dead in that store of his one morning?

  — Only from hearing about it later, said Dick. I think I was still overseas when he died.

  — That’s right. It would have been ‘44 or so. Anyway, it was better for him, I guess, to die long before he’d see what his son would make of himself.

  — I expect Frank will pay a visit to Leland before long, said Dick. Tell him how things are.

  — It was Frank who was first on the scene with the Gradys, if I remember right. Frank was new to town. Him and Mary hadn’t even had Emily yet.

  — I see Arthur Grady sometimes, driving around, said Dick. He still looks after the living boy. Hell of a thing.

  — Yes, said Stan. When it happened, it was the biggest goddamn news in the county for a whole year. As big as the Lacroixes were … And Charles Grady, he was one hell of a hockey player, but I always wondered if maybe there wasn’t a little more to the story than what came out at the trial. There were a whole lot of people not saying anything at all.

  — Oh well, said Dick. I don’t think it matters much any more.

  They drank their beers and watched a boat cut across the lake two hundred yards out. The change in the colours had reached the point where there was an equal distribution of green and yellow and red around the shore. Edna had liked spring best because that was when she planted her garden, but she’d always said fall was the prettiest time. She came into Stan’s head abruptly now, as she sometimes did, and just as abruptly he tried to push the thought of her away.

  — So, do you still think you’ll retire next summer? said Stan.

  — You better believe it. They won’t have any trouble getting me out the door.

  — I was a few years past the thirty-five when I went. I lost money on my pension but I just didn’t know what I would do with myself. I still don’t.

  — Is that what this is about? said Dick.

  — What?

  — We’ve known each other a long time, Stanley. I don’t know anything else that’s dogged your heels like the Lacroixes, and that was, Christ, I was a kid when that happened. Now this with Aurel’s daughter, you being the one to find her.

  Stan rubbed at a knot in the dock planking with the heel of his boot and said: It wasn’t you on the investigation, was it.

  — No, said Dick. It was Lenny Gleber.

  — Look. I don’t know what I’m thinking, Dick. Maybe I just don’t have anything better to do.

  — I don’t think you owe that family anything. I don’t think you ever did. Judy Lacroix was a pretty poor-off girl with her illness and all, anyhow.

  — Did you get a look at the toxicology?

  Dick took a folded paper out of his breast pocket. He held it out to Stan.

  — You know what Frank would do, don’t you.

  Stan took the paper and unfolded it. He was looking at a photocopy. The reporting toxicologist’s name was blotted out. Stan read the date of the test and the details. He looked at the drug notes, and he said: Look at this man’s handwriting. Okay, that’s carbon monoxide, just like how I found her. But, there’s this, amitrip … What’s this hen scratch here?

  — Amitriptyline. I didn’t ask Gleber about it because I didn’t want word to get back to Frank. Gleber’s alright, but he’s a company man. So I rang up a pathologist I used to work with when I was down in the city. Anyhow it’s a drug for a girl like Judy. It would make her feel normal, if you can call it that. It-what did he say about it-it can make you feel nothing at all. He said it could get you into a kind of mood where you don’t give a fart if you’re hurting or sad or even if you live or die. Judy was on that for her illness.

  — This is goddamn hard to read.

  — Or you just need glasses, Stanley. But what you’re looking at is that she had close to four hundred milligrams of that stuff in her blood.

  — She overdosed on it.

  — No. It was the exhaust that killed her. Carbon monoxide. But four hundred milligrams of the amitriptyline is near three times the maximum dose for a full-grown man. With something like that, you might think all that work you had to do, putting the hose up from the tailpipe through the window, was just as easy as a Sunday drive.

  — She left a note in the car, said Stan. I never got a chance to read it.

  — There wasn’t much. She just told her sister she was sorry is all. But one thing Gleber did find out is that there was a boyfriend. You only asked about how the girl killed herself, but I thought you might like to know what else I found out.

  — Yes, said Stan. Just for curiosity, let’s say.

  Dick took out his notebook and flipped it open to a page he’d marked. He said: I knew I’d forget the boyfriend’s name so I wrote it down. Gilmore. Colin Gilmore. Seasonal worker, not too much on him. I guess Mr. Gilmore didn’t let on they were as serious as Judy thought they were. He said they’d stopped seeing each other a couple weeks before you found her.

  — Maybe that had something to do with it?

  — Maybe, said Dick. The gals that Judy worked with said she’d stopped showing up for work for a week or two. Her sister works at the National Trust downtown. She’d gotten Judy on with an after-hours cleaning crew.

  Stan nodded. He drank his beer. Dick sat back in the lawn chair and rolled his cuffs up from his wrists. After a long moment, he said: People, when they take their own lives … You remember when we got called out to-What was his name?

  — Templeton, said Stan. I knew him when I was a boy but I don’t remember his first name. But yes, I remember that call. You hadn’t been around real long.

  — If he’d only had sense enough to put that.303 into his mouth instead of under his chin like he did. He must of lived forty-five minutes with his face like that. Between the two of us we could barely hold him in one place.

  — Here’s a thing I’ll tell you about that call, said Stan. When we got back to the station that morning, Edna had left a message with the dispatcher. I was to go over to the butcher and pick up an order she’d put in before I came home. When I got to the butcher the order was a pound of ground beef. I took one look at it, and … Well, I made it outside around back before I was sick, but just. I just made it.

  — That’s one you told me, Stanley. You weren’t sick at the scene. You didn’t even blink, but later when you got to the butcher.

  — You’re lying. I never told anybody that.

  — That’s one you told me a time or two. It was many years after that call, but you told me all the same.

  — Well.

  Dick was quiet for another moment. Then he said: I can see it, Stanley. I can see the flywheels working in your head. But the Lacroixes are all gone except for Judy’s sister. You don’t owe them anything.

  — Another beer, Dick?

  — Oh. I guess not. I better get back to town. I’ve got some stuff for
that fat bastard of a J.P. to sign before the court closes.

  Stan walked with Dick up to the patrol car in the turnaround. Cassius was sleeping nearby in a patch of sunlight.

  — I appreciate it, said Stan.

  — I know you do. But I don’t want you to work yourself too hard over questions that already got answers, sad as they are.

  — It’s just something for me to think about. More than those eavestroughs up there, let’s put it that way.

  — I’ll keep my ears open, said Dick.

  The National Trust was on Confederation Avenue, south of the river, a few blocks up the hill from the lake. A little way up, on the other side of the street was the shabby face of the Shamrock Hotel. Woolworths was around the corner. Eleanor Lacroix had a photograph of her sister on her teller’s desk in the main room of the Trust. In the photograph, Judy was laughing, eyes closed. On Eleanor’s finger was an engagement ring.

  At that hour the bank was not busy, so after Stan had asked her, Eleanor leaned over to one of her co-workers and said she’d be back in a minute. She came around and they went to some chairs by the front window. An old woman with a plastic kerchief over her hair was writing a cheque at a table close by and outside a fine rain was slanting through the air. Eleanor sat and composed herself.

  — So, if this is about Judy, I don’t know why you haven’t received the full payment. I sent it last week.

  — I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

  — Aren’t you with the funeral home?

  — No-

  — Are you from the church? If you are, you can tell that priest that what he said about what happens when you take your own life, how nobody knows where Judy is now, how could anybody say that?

  Stan could see that Eleanor was shaking, fighting to keep a quiet pitch to her voice.

  — Miss Lacroix, I’m not here for the church or the funeral home or anything. I’m not here for anybody except myself.

  — You said this was about my sister.

  — That’s right. Maybe you’d go somewheres else to chat about this? If you’ve got a coffee break or when you’re done work?

  — I already used up my break and I’ve got errands to run after work. I’ve got maybe five minutes to talk.

  Stan looked around. The old woman had gone over to one of the tellers and there was no one immediately close to them.

  — Well, I was the one who found your sister.

  He could see how Eleanor was thinking about this. She sat back.

  — It was me who found her, said Stan. There’s some things, some questions, like, maybe for your peace of mind, that I’d be in a good position to ask.

  — Listen, whatever this is, I don’t even know who you are.

  — My name is Stan Maitland, Miss Lacroix. Maybe you’d remember me.

  One of the other tellers came by, close enough to get Eleanor’s attention, and said she wanted to go on her break in a minute.

  — I’ll be there, said Eleanor. Sorry.

  The teller moved on. Eleanor wasn’t looking at Stan. She seemed to be looking at a point over his shoulder.

  — I thought I’d start with you, Miss Lacroix, said Stan.

  — I know who you are, Mr. Maitland. Are you still with the police?

  — No, I’m retired now. Like I say, I’m not here on anybody’s behalf but my own.

  — Mr. Maitland, I know people used to talk about my family, how my dad was a drunk who couldn’t keep a job. But I also know how my dad lived his whole life picking up the pieces after you sent his brother to be executed. So yes, I know who you are. You talk about wanting to ask some questions, but is it really for my peace of mind?

  — It’s not so straightforward as that.

  Eleanor stood up. She wouldn’t look at him. She was shaking again.

  It occurred to Stan what Edna would say about all of this. She would likely tell him to leave it be, that digging around in anybody’s fresh upset wasn’t going to resolve anything. She would tell him he was acting like an old man who was both bored and lonely.

  — I have to get back to work, said Eleanor. This is the worst thing I’ve been through in a long time. I’d appreciate it if you’d give that some thought. Can I ask you that much?

  — I … yes, said Stan. I’m sorry to bother you.

  — Have a good day, Mr. Maitland.

  Lee liked to take walks, a weekend afternoon or a weekday evening if Helen wasn’t around. Walking, you could just go, give your head all the latitude it might want. Strangers’ houses interested him, what he’d glimpse in the yard or through the front window as he passed by. A man raking leaves, a woman setting out the dishes for supper. One time he stopped to watch some kids playing ball hockey on a side street. There were four of them, two goaltenders and two forwards, and they scrambled around each other and shouted and their sticks scraped on the roadtop. Lee leaned against a lamppost, taking in the game, until he realized the kids had stopped playing and were just looking at him. He gave them a little salute, and when none of them returned the gesture, he shrugged, pushed himself off the lamppost, and went on his way.

  All things considered, he felt alright. He had the freedom to open his own door and go out walking for however long he wanted. He liked what he saw-the dinners being set out on tables, the kids playing ball hockey on the road-but he reckoned they were outside his reach. For now, at least. In the meantime, it was okay just to watch. And if it was evening when Lee went walking, he would go right to sleep when he came home.

  A block away from Lee’s place was a poolroom called the Corner Pocket. He’d noticed it on a walk. One evening at the end of September, he went up the steps of the poolroom and went in. A layer of cigarette smoke hung below the lights, and he heard country music playing. There were six eight-ball tables and two snooker tables and two of the coin-operated decks, and four of the tables were in use. A couple of rummies perched at the bar. There was the sharp-featured man in a down-filled vest who Lee recognized, but could not remember where from. He was shooting pool by himself at one of the coin-op tables. Lee wandered between the tables and watched what games were going down until the man behind the bar asked if he could help him.

  — No, said Lee. Sorry.

  Lee went back to the door and opened it halfway. Then he turned and went back to the bar.

  — Could I get a table?

  The barman gave him a tray of balls and marked his start time on a chalkboard behind the counter.

  — Are you thirsty, my friend?

  — I could do with a Coke.

  The barman popped open a can and filled a glass and handed it to Lee. Lee took the drink and the tray of balls over to a vacant table. The felt on the tabletop was worn dark and smooth in patches. Lee picked a straight cue and chalked the tip of it. He racked up the balls and broke them and studied where they’d moved to.

  He’d played some as a kid, and they’d had a table at the halfway house in the city. The game pleased him, the variations of it, the precision, the interactions between players. He took on the parts of both opponents. Once when he looked up he found the sharp-faced man at the coin-op table looking back at him. Or so he believed. Lee bent down again to bank the nine ball into a pocket. Playing pool by himself was like the walks he took. His mind unfettered. Almost an hour went by. Then there were sirens outside and a flash of red lights against the windows. The sound of the sirens fell away but Lee had already replaced the balls on the tray. He carried the tray over to the bar.

  — What do I owe you?

  — Seventy-five cents for the table and the same for the Coke, said the barman.

  Lee stacked a note and some coins on the bartop.

  — Maybe I’ll come on back sometime.

  — Make sure you do.

  Lee passed by the sharp-featured man on his way to the front door.

  — How are you? said Lee.

  — … What? How am I? said the man. Never better is how I am.

  — Hey, John.

  —
I’m Luke, said the boy.

  — I knew that, said Lee. I was just checking to see how switched on you are.

  Clifton’s crew had only worked until the early afternoon and Lee had hitched a ride with Jeff and Jeff Junior out to Donna’s house. The older of Lee’s two little nephews had come to the door when he knocked. Donna appeared behind her son. She was drying her hands on a dishtowel.

  — Luke, who’s at-Oh, Lee.

  — I thought I’d come visit you and Ma.

  He set his lunch pail and tool belt down by the front door and followed Donna and Luke into the kitchen. Donna went to a cutting board on the counter and Luke went back to the table where his brother was sitting. They had notebooks in front of them. Irene was there as well, slumped on a chair where she could watch the room. She breathed heavily, rhythmically, and her clothes hung loosely from her. It had been only a week and a half since he’d last seen her, but even since then she’d lost handfuls of hair. What remained was as thin as mist.

  She smiled when she saw him, said: You look like you came from work.

  — Thought I’d come to visit.

  — What a nice surprise.

  Lee looked down at John’s notebook. He saw child’s writing in big, cumbersome characters. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  — How’s your school work going, buck?

  Before John could reply, Donna told them: Boys, you can take a break. Go on down to the basement. No horseplay.

  Lee watched the boys charge out of the kitchen and disappear down the stairs. Only once they were gone did Donna ask if Lee would sit and have a cup of tea and a piece of rhubarb pie. He sat.

  — How’s it going, Ma?

  — I’ll see the doctor tomorrow. More treatments.

  — You let me know if you need me to go with you.

  — Barry takes her, said Donna.

  Donna put a piece of pie before Lee. She poured tea for Lee and Irene and then she stood near the counter.

  — Well, like I say, it’s what I’m here for, said Lee. I’ll help you out, Ma, any way I can. I didn’t move back up here to get rich and famous. Would you sit down, sister?