Shattered (17 page)

“He might still show up tonight.”

“Maybe,” I agreed.

“Either way, just remember that every day is a blessing.” “A blessing? Are all these church ladies starting to get to you?” I asked.

“I could do worse.”

“I guess you could. I just wish Jack would show up.” “You looking for Jack?” asked a man sitting at one of the tables.

“Yeah,” I said, turning to face him.

“I doubt he'll be coming here tonight.”

“Why not?”

“He's sort of under the weather.”

“He's not feeling good?” I asked.

“Actually, he's not feeling much of anything,” another man said. “Started drinking a little early today.”

“This whole week,” the first man added.

The whole week … Did that have to do with our conversation? Was I just bringing up such bad memories that he had to work harder—
drink
harder—to try to forget?

“Do you know where he is now?” I asked.

“By the tents when I last saw him … but that was a couple of hours ago. Could still be there. Could be anywhere.”

“Not likely,” the second said. “He wouldn't be wandering far. If he isn't by the tents, he'll be somewhere in the park.”

“Thanks for the information.” I turned to Mac. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Don't see why not. Come on.” He walked into the kitchen and I followed.

“Okay, shoot,” Mac said.

“I was just wondering … you've been here a long time.

Do you see the same people all the time, you know, year after year?”

“Some of these guys have been coming around as long as I've been here. Some just disappear after a few days or a few weeks.”

“What happens to them, the people you don't see any more?” I asked.

“Sometimes they move away to another part of the city or even another city,” he said. “Lots of street people like to head out to the West Coast. Weather's milder. You can live outside practically all the time out there.”

“So they just move away,” I said.

“Some move and some just die. Mortality rate on the streets is ten times as high as for people who live inside,” Mac said.

“So they either move away or die, is that what you're saying?”

“Or they get off the streets.”

“That's what I was getting at. Some do get off the streets, right?”

“Some. The lucky few.”

“Few … so it's not a lot.”

“Not as many as I'd hope but it does happen.”

“And you've seen it, right?”

He nodded his head. “I've seen it. Heck, I've been it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Where did you think I lived before I started working here?” Mac asked.

“You lived on the streets?”

“Streets, alleys, dumpsters, hostels … although to tell you the truth most of the time I was living inside a bottle.” “You were a … a …”

“A drunk. Although now I guess I'd call myself an alcoholic.”

“But you don't drink now, do you?”

“Not any more. Haven't for more than a decade but I'm still an alcoholic. Once an alcoholic always an alcoholic.” “What made you stop?” I asked.

“I woke up one morning, face down in the gutter.

Beside me was my best buddy, a guy I'd been drinking with for a long time. I gave him a shake, trying to wake him, but he wouldn't wake up. He couldn't wake up. Dead. I knew right then that I had a choice. It was either stop drinking or stop living. I decided it was time to try … and I did.”

Somehow none of this was really a surprise—I'd had my suspicions. Strange, though, it didn't make me think less of Mac … maybe more. To fall down was one thing, but to pull yourself back up again, that took something … something special.

“So you just stopped.”

“It's a little more complicated than that.”

“So what did you do? How did you do it?”

“For starters I went to a detox.”

“I've heard about them, but I don't really know what they're all about,” I said.

“It's a place where people can be to go through the symptoms of withdrawal.”

“There are withdrawal symptoms when you stop drinking?” I asked.

Mac laughed. “Shoot, I can laugh about it now, but there sure are symptoms. For me it was being violently ill, shaking, and feeling like my whole body was on fire. For others it's worse.”

“How much worse can it get than that?” “Hallucinations, paranoia, seizures.”

“And these places, these detox centres, is it hard to get into one?”

“Not if you know the right people.”

“And you know those people?”

“I could arrange a detox bed in a day or two,” Mac said.

“But a detox is just step one. You're there for ten to fourteen days. Enough time to allow the poison to leach out of your body. From there you go into a treatment facility. That could last at least a month, sometimes two, sometimes longer. And from there you have to get hooked into an after-care program … something like Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“I know about that—at least I've heard about it from the movies. You know,
my name is So-and-So and I'm an alcoholic
.”

“There's a little more to it than that, but acknowledging you're an alcoholic is a pretty important first step along the path.”

“Do you go to those meetings?” I asked.

“Three times a week. It works.” Mac got a thoughtful look. “Is this a sort of general question or do you have somebody in mind?”

“Jack.”

“Figured that.”

“I thought you might have,” I said. “I'm going to talk to him. Could you get him into a detox?”

“If he wanted,” Mac said. “Did he tell you he wanted to stop drinking?”

“No … not really.”

“You ever heard the expression you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink?”

“What has that got to do with anything?” I asked.

“It means that just because you make it available to them doesn't mean they'll use it, take it, or appreciate it. If Jack wants detox I can arrange it. If he doesn't want it there's no
point
in arranging it.”

“But there'd be no harm in me asking him if he wants it,” I said.

“No harm. Just be prepared for what he might answer. When you goin' to talk to him?”

“I was hoping for tonight … if he shows up … but it sounds like he won't. Maybe I should go and find him.”

“The park isn't the best place to be … especially once it's dark.”

“If I left right now it wouldn't be dark,” I said.

“You tryin' to help Jack or just get out of work?” “Maybe both.”

“That gets me thinkin'. You've been here an awful lot lately.”

“Are you getting tired of seeing me around?” I asked. “Just figured you must be getting pretty close to the end of your hours here.”

“Pretty close.”

“How close?” Mac asked.

I smiled. “After tonight, one more hour.”

“One more hour! Were you figuring on just finishing up and disappearing?”

“No. I was figuring on finishing up my hours and still showing up to help.”

“Why would you be wanting to do that for?”

“It's certainly not because I want to see your smiling face. Is there any law that says I can't keep coming down here and helping just because I want to?”

“Only law in here is me,” Mac said. “Let me look into your eyes,” he said and spun me around so we were eye to eye. What was he doing?

“Yep, I can see it.”

“See what?” I asked.

“Right there in your eyes. You're high.”

“High? I'm not high!” I couldn't believe he was saying that to me.

“You're becoming addicted.”

“I'm not, honest. I've never had more than two beers and that was at my cousin's wedding last December!”

“I'm not talking about alcohol and I'm not talking about drugs.”

“What else is there?” I was completely lost. What was he talking about?

“You're high on helping.”

“What?”

He smiled. “There's something about helping that makes you feel good. I can't figure out if it's the most selfish or selfless thing you can do. And once you start
doing it you want to keep on doing it. That's why you want to keep coming back.”

“And can I?”

“You come down here any time you want, kid, any time.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I sort of thought from the beginning that you weren't just putting in hours.”

“Then you thought wrong. All I wanted to do was get through and get out.”

“Maybe the first couple of times but not after that,” Mac said. “Look, I got too much respect for you to—”

“Respect for me?” I asked, surprised and shocked. “Yeah, respect for you. Too much respect to be telling you what to do but I'm not so sure it's the smartest thing to be goin' down to the park right now.”

“I'll be careful.”

“It's not just that. You know, you gotta talk to somebody about their drinking at the right time. They say you gotta wait until an alcoholic hits rock bottom.”

“How much lower can he get than sleeping in a tent and eating from dumpsters?” I asked.

“You'd be surprised. It also doesn't work if he's had so much to drink that he can't make sense of what you're saying. Understand?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Good. Now if you're determined this is what you have to do, then you better get goin' before it gets dark.”

“Thanks, Mac. I'll let you know what happens. See you tomorrow.”

Sixteen

I ENTERED THE PARK
. It was still light. That was good. I also knew exactly how to find the tents. That was even better. I just hoped that Jack was going to be there—be there and sober enough to talk to me. As I walked I looked continually around me. Nobody was going to sneak up on me. Up my left sleeve was the metal bar. I'd brought it with me just in case. I'd rather run, though, if I had a choice. I really didn't know if I could use it.

I skipped off the path and onto the little dirt trail. I moved as fast as I could, careful for the roots and rocks in the ground and the branches blocking the way. Soon the little fire was visible through the trees before the tents could be seen. I entered the clearing and saw Jack immediately. He was sitting in one of the canvas chairs. There was nobody else to be seen. I yelled out a greeting. He didn't move or react. Maybe he hadn't heard me.

“Hey, Jack,” I said as I stopped beside him. His eyes were closed, his head slumped over to one side, slightly snoring. He was asleep—or passed out.

“Jack?” I called a little louder. Still, no response. There was an empty bottle at his feet and he smelled of alcohol. He wasn't just asleep. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I shouldn't.

I gave him a little shake. “Hey, Jack, it's me … Ian!” He roused and his eyes popped open. With heavy eyelids he looked up at me. At first there was only a dull glare, like he didn't even know me, then his eyes cleared and he smiled.

“Hey, Ian, how are you doing?” His words were slurred. It was obvious that he was drunk.

“I'm good. You?”

“Fine. I must have fallen asleep.”

“I'm sorry I woke you up,” I said, although obviously not that sorry or I wouldn't have done it.

“That's okay.” He stretched. “You know, I've been thinking about Rwanda a lot lately.”

“Me too.”

“Most of the time over the last few years I've tried hard
not
to think about it,” he said.

“I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories for you,” I apologized.

He shrugged. “Some things are better talked about. It wasn't like I'd forgotten about it … it's not like I'll ever forget about it.”

“It's just that I didn't know how really awful it was.” He scowled. “You
still
don't know how awful it was.

Nobody who wasn't there could ever know.”

“Of course … I didn't mean anything … of course I don't really know.”

He reached up and patted my hand. “I shouldn't have snapped like that. You're a good boy.” He shook his head and smiled. “Been remembering lots of things … thinking about being a kid … about my mother and father. My mother used to say to me, Jacques, you have to know—”

“Jacques? I thought your name was Jack?” I said, cutting him off.

“Jack is what they call me around here. Jacques is what my parents named me.”

“I didn't know that … What should I call you?”

He didn't answer right away. “Jacques would be fine.

It would be nice to hear my name said sometimes. It would remind me of who I was … once … a long time ago.”

“Sure, Jacques.”

He smiled. “You said that with a little French accent.

Do you speak any French?”

“Just grade ten high school French. Enough to order a pizza, find a washroom, or read a sign or directions. So you're French?”

“French
Canadian
. Both parts are important. Both parts are to be proud of.”

His eyes closed and he stopped talking. I wasn't sure if he was thinking or if he'd passed out.

“Jacques?”

“Yeah?”

“You were saying you were proud of being Canadian and French.”

He nodded in agreement. “I am. You know, one of the reasons I was assigned to Rwanda was because I spoke French.”

“That's right, that's one of the official languages, along with English and … and …”

“And Kinyarwanda. It's not good just to speak one language.”

“I speak some Spanish,” I said.

“How is it that you can speak Spanish?”

“I don't really speak it as much as I understand it. I learned it from Berta. She was my nanny when I was little and now she is our housekeeper … but really she's more than that. She's from Guatemala.”