Algoma (22 page)

“It’s dangerous,” he’d said. “Too dangerous for you.” He’d made the boys walk along either side of the track, doubling his chances.

“Hunting is all about luck,” he said with false humility. Whenever someone asked Gaetan about his take for that day, he would respond: “I was lucky.”

“It’s never good to piss people off,” he’d taught his sons. “They know the real score. But you never tell them the truth and you never tell them your spot. ‘I was lucky,’ you say. ‘Thank you,’ you say.”

Ferd heard the chatter of a red squirrel in a tree close to the tracks. He pointed his shotgun at the small animal, aimed. “Pow,” he said, pretending to shoot. The squirrel ran down the tree and back into the woods.

A hare darted across the track. Ferd swung his shotgun around, took the shot, and nailed it. He put his shotgun down on the ties and ran over to retrieve the animal, a smile plastered across his face. At least he would have something to go home with. There was nothing worse than going home empty handed, even if no one was expecting anything. All that effort for nothing. Admittedly, he also liked to impress his uncle with his abilities. Every time he brought home a fish or animal, Simon seemed genuinely impressed.

Just as he was about to pick up his catch, a man walked out of the bush—a game warden. Ferd froze, his stomach a bowl of ice. The warden was taller and broader than his father, his shoulders seeming to take up the sky.

“I’ll be taking that,” said the warden, pointing at Ferd’s shotgun.

Ferd fought the urge to run. He’d never make it, not with his shotgun, and he wasn’t leaving it behind, or his hare.

The warden leaned over and picked up Ferd’s hare. “Nice shot but wrong season,” he said, “Where’s your guardian?”

Ferd remained mute, his heels dug into the ground.

The warden used a plastic zip tie to attach the hare’s feet to his belt. “You want to hand over the shotgun now and any shells you have in that backpack there? I’m not asking again. Where’s your orange vest?”

Ferd handed over his shotgun and all the shells he had. “I have an apple left. Do you want that, too?” he asked earnestly.

“Let’s go,” the warden said. “My truck’s just over there.” He pointed toward a cluster of trees.

Ferd hadn’t known about the utility road that ran alongside parts of the rail tracks—he’d always kept to the tracks. The road was used by workers from the rail company, but the Ministry used it to track hunters in the area to ensure everyone was on the up and up.

“What’s your name?” Ferd asked nervously.

“You’re a little young to be toting a firearm alone, don’t you think?”

Ferd said nothing. When they arrived at the truck, the warden cut the zip tie and tossed the hare into the truck bed where it landed with a padded thump.

“Go on, get in. It’s unlocked.”

Ferd climbed into the cab of the truck.

The warden sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition and they were off, but Ferd didn’t know where to.

“How did you learn to shoot like that?” the warden asked. He kept his hands at the ten and two position as he drove.

Ferd ignored the question and looked out the window.

“That a Browning?” the warden persisted. He tried a different approach. “I have a black lab named Browning. Another one, a golden, named Trigger. I’ve got two girls, too—your age, you might know them—but neither are interested in hunting. But the wife, she got her firearms license last fall.”

Ferd didn’t turn once toward the warden, his view a blur of leaves and mud. Fat drops of rain hit the windshield. At least he didn’t have to walk home.

When Gaetan had been around, Ferd and Leo had never been bothered by the Ministry. One of the top guys had liked drinking at Club Rebar too much to ruin it for himself, so he left Gaetan and his family to do as they pleased, and Gaetan was generous with his pours. As long as they weren’t hunting too close to houses, they were left alone. But with Gaetan gone, the rules had changed. Suddenly Ferd was just a twelve-year-old with a shotgun alone in the middle of nowhere.

Ferd took in the warden’s uniform, the yellow foam floater he had on his key chain, his overly gelled blond hair that was combed back so you could see his pink scalp in the spaces in between. He thought about his father and what he would do in this situation.

Ferd tugged on the warden’s shirtsleeve. “Can I at least keep my hare?”

Algoma ran inside the house, eager to get out of the rain. She was hungry and headed straight for the kitchen with her shoes still on, squeaking as she crossed the floor. “Ferd, you home?” she asked. There was no answer, but she heard movement in the basement. He was home. There was a note from Simon on the table: Gone for smokes. Be right back.

She grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter and a plate from the cupboard. When she turned to get a butter knife from the cutlery drawer, she saw a teacup on the kitchen window sill. She leaned over, looked in, and dropped her plate into the sink where it split into two neat halves. The teacup—one of her mother’s—held a roughly cut hare’s foot, a small amount of blood dried at the bottom. How many more good luck charms, she thought, would she find there without finding any luck at all.

______________

1:29 p.m. 24°C. Dead air.
Wind whistling in the tunnels like an old man’s tune.

The hulking booth attendant offered a strained smile when Gaetan waved at him as he passed through the turnstile, flashing his transit pass like it was a backstage pass to the city. A flight of stairs below, commuters stood elbow to elbow, breathing in one another’s coffee breath, and trying not to look each other in the eyes. Gaetan took his place among them.

In recent weeks, he had become very familiar with the subway system, its web of routes and stops. On his days off, he took transit to different parts of the city to find new restaurants that did not know his agenda: eat and run. In only a month, he’d hit restaurants in Little India, The Beaches, Parkdale, and the Danforth. Some days it was easy and he walked out of the restaurants without anyone noticing. Other times, he found himself running down unfamiliar streets looking for the right turn or open door that would save him.

When Gaetan hit a restaurant, he never chose anything expensive, and he limited himself to one beer to ensure his senses were not dulled when it was time to leave. He always made small talk with the server, asked how his or her day was going. He tried to act normal. He tried to be forgettable. Mostly, he wore good shoes. Running shoes.

That he could have opted to prepare his meals in his apartment and send the money he saved home crossed his mind, but it wasn’t the point. He felt a shiver of pride every time he dropped an envelope for Algoma into the mailbox. It was also the thrill of the kill. No longer able to hunt, he had found a new way to earn his dinner.

Gaetan took the subway to Spadina Station and boarded a southbound streetcar. He exited the streetcar at College Street, the beginning (or end) of Chinatown and continued to walk south on foot, careful to stay on the opposite side of the street of the first restaurant he’d dined and dashed from. It was a perfect day—bright and sunny—and the sidewalks were filled with midday shoppers. He took his time considering the restaurant he’d hit next. Some, he felt, were too small, while others didn’t have enough people already inside. He’d be too noticeable. Finally, he settled on a restaurant that specialized in dumplings. Through the plate glass windows, he could see that most of the tables were occupied and there appeared to be only one server. He went inside and took a seat close to the door and smiled at his waiter. “What’s the special?”

When it came time to leave, Gaetan stood up and walked out the door without so much as a glance from his waiter. The man, along with one of the cooks, was yelling at a baseball game on the television. Once outside, Gaetan looked over his shoulder, but the men were still watching the game, oblivious to his departure and the money that was still in his pocket. Without even thinking about it, Gaetan walked into another restaurant only three doors down from the last one. He wasn’t hungry, he was bored. The last restaurant had been too easy. This time, he sat in the back and grabbed the menu from the waitress’s hand before she could even give it to him.

“Sir,” she said, reprimanding him with a nervous laugh. “Be nice.”

“I’ll have number 4C and a Labatts,” he said.

The woman jotted down the order, smiled, and turned on her heel.

“And a number 15B,” he yelled after her.

While he waited for his order, he thought about Algoma. He imagined his wife opening the envelopes and discovering the money inside, but when he tried to think of what she would do next, he drew a blank. He didn’t know her life anymore, not even what bills the money would go to first. He recalled the winter the heat had been turned off. Algoma hadn’t been working because she’d broken her leg, and the boys were very young, maybe four years old. They’d barely had enough money to begin with and with Algoma not working, their financial problems compounded. During that month, the wood stove had been their constant companion, both keeping them warm and the pipes from freezing. Algoma had turned it into a game for the boys. Camping. She’d never complained once. He thought about their more recent bout of basement camping, the fervour with which Algoma had approached it, the desperation to knit a new unit out of the three of them. It had worked, for a time. But now his leaving had unravelled it again.

The waitress interrupted his nostalgia when she put his beer on the table. Gaetan took a swig from the bottle and tried to imagine Algoma’s face.

When the waitress returned with his leek and pork dumplings, he powered through his meal almost mechanically. He stuffed forkful after forkful into his mouth until there was nothing left on his plate except for a mix of vinegar and hot sauce.

Seeing his empty glass, the waitress walked over to him. “Another, sir?”

“No,” he stuttered. “Just the bill.”

The waitress nodded and went to the cash register. As soon as her back was turned, Gaetan stood up. Seeing how far away the exit was made his stomach turn. He’d made a bad choice sitting at the back, but he was still confident he could make it. Fueled by his past successes, he made for the door, his shoulders square, back straight. False confidence. When he heard the register chug out his receipt, he sped up his pace. “Sir,” he heard the waitress call after him. “Your bill, sir!”

Gaetan ran the last few steps and threw the door open with such force that the brass bell at the top snapped off and fell to the ground. Outside, the sidewalk was still packed with shoppers. He pushed his way into the centre of the crowd that was flowing south and tried to blend in, however, when he looked over his shoulder, he saw his waitress’s face in the door of the restaurant. She was talking into a cell phone and staring right at him.

“Shit,” Gaetan said. He ducked down and tried to make his way through the crowd. When that became too difficult he made his way toward the street and jogged alongside the curb hoping he wouldn’t get clipped by a car. The next time he looked back, he couldn’t see the waitress. He slowed his pace, but only a little. Once he got down to Queen, he thought, he would hop on a streetcar and disappear east. He wouldn’t be returning to Chinatown anytime soon. Digging into his pockets for change, he found exactly what he needed. Maybe his luck was changing.

“There he is,” he heard a man shout. Gaetan turned to see the server from the first restaurant about fifteen feet behind him, but when he tried to run, he ran right into the barrel chest of another man, the cook the server had been watching the game with.

“Walk with me,” the cook said, guiding Gaetan back up the street.

“I can explain,” Gaetan offered. “I’ll pay double what I owe, just let me explain.” He tried to think of a story that would placate them.

“Just walk.”

When they reached the server, Gaetan offered to go to a bank machine. “Just tell me how much you want. Please.”

“Let’s go,” the server said.

When they passed the second restaurant Gaetan had been to that day, Gaetan saw the waitress standing in the window, a big smile on her face. She gave Gaetan a small queen-like wave, her hand barely moving. Had she called the men? How had she known? His mind reeled trying to make the connection.

When they walked past the first restaurant Gaetan had hit, the one where the server and cook worked, Gaetan knew he was in more trouble than he’d first thought. They were not bringing him back to the restaurant to call the cops. They were going to take care of the matter themselves.

“Where are we going?” Gaetan asked, his voice edged with worry.

The man responded by tightening his grip on Gaetan’s arm.

Not wanting to discover where the men were taking him, Gaetan wrenched his arm free and ran. He made his way toward an opening between two buildings, hoping it would lead him to Kensington Market where he could duck into one of the bars or shops. When he turned the corner, he instantly regretted his decision. It was a dead end. A tall chain-link fence blocked his escape. Before he could backtrack, the two men turned the corner into the alley behind him.

“Listen, whatever you guys want,” Gaetan pleaded. “Just let me explain. My wife—”

“First you rip me off and then my sister?” the server said. “You’re lucky our father is out of the city. He doesn’t take kindly to being taken advantage of. He’s owned those restaurants for more than twenty years and you’re not the first asshole we’ve had to deal with.”

Gaetan could not believe his bad luck. Resigned to whatever fate the afternoon was going to offer him, he closed his eyes and let his shoulders slump.

The cook stepped forward, but the server stayed him.

“No,” he said and picked up a piece of a broken wooden pallet. He stepped forward and struck Gaetan on the side of the head.

The darkness was immediate.

______________

3:55 p.m. 22°C. Wind W, light.
Bird seed scattered on the lawn, birdbath overflowing.

The grackle dropped dead on the lawn, its head twisted at an unnatural angle.

“You got it,” Leo shrieked.