In the shopping mall corridor, Stan saw a man clad in a canvas jacket and dirty jeans and work boots. Leland King. Lee was carrying a box under each arm and in one hand a paper bag. They were coming directly towards each other.
— Lee, said Stan.
— Mr. Maitland.
— Christmas gifts?
— Yeah. My sister’s two boys. Do kids like these types of things any more?
The boxes Lee had contained two model airplane kits, a B-17 and a Lancaster bomber. Both kits were 1:48. Lee opened the paper bag and Stan saw tubes of glue, a wheel of paints, and a set of camel-hair brushes.
— I used to like these things, said Lee. What do I know about kids?
— I’d say a couple boys would like it. Say, Lee, I saw Peter not too long ago.
— Peter, said Lee, speaking the name as if he didn’t know it.
— He’s a good kind of a guy. When he talks, you can see he’s sharp.
— He’s so sharp he quit school. That’s how sharp he is.
— I think he’s been seeing my granddaughter, said Stan. Anyhow, he says you’re getting by okay.
— Sure I am. At least I’m not working where somebody gets drowned on the job.
Stan made himself laugh at that. He said: It’s good to see you, Lee. I can’t imagine the boys not liking those airplanes. So long.
— See you, said Lee.
Stan ran a few more errands around the mall. He bought extra batteries and candles in case he lost power out at his house. It was snowing lightly when he went out and got in his truck, and driving back in the direction of town he spotted Lee at the bus stop, waiting for the half-hourly town bus. There was no one else waiting. Across the way was a vacant house with plywood tacked over the windows and the porch collapsed, and behind it a hundred acres of overgrown and snow-dusted pasture. Stan stopped the truck and called to Lee, asking if he would care for a lift back downtown.
For a moment Lee did not move and Stan thought he might not come, but then he stood and pitched away the cigarette he was smoking. He jogged forward, carrying the model kits and the bag. He climbed onto the passenger seat and sat his purchases on his lap.
Stan put the truck in gear and moved back onto the road.
— 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.