Some Great Thing (36 page)

“Fantastic. I am so pleased you took an interest in this. I have no idea why. It wasn’t … you know … I don’t know why you have.”

“What else would go in here?”

“Have I told you about the model of the city?”

“Yes. Tell me again.”

M
Y PROBLEM WAS
I had no patience.

People leave their jobs all the time. I should have accepted it. My business had grown, now it was shrinking a bit. I should have been patient and kind.

Instead, I tried firing a lot of the people who didn’t leave. Anyone who said something in the wrong way: “You’re fired.” I never showed up regularly, but when I did show up and someone was late: “You’re fired.” I fired a guy for getting a splinter. “Ow,” he said.

“You’re fired.”

It made me feel good for a while. I recommend it. I didn’t always mean it. The people who knew me knew I didn’t mean it. But I fired some of the people who thought they knew me.

Cooper kept turning up for work after I fired him because he knew I didn’t mean it. I tested him with a look, which, I think, said, “You know you pissed me off.”

“Get out of my face,” he said. “I’ve got responsibilities.” He looked ashamed for using a long word. I assumed the responsibilities were to his parole officer.

“You’re a big man, Cooper.”

I didn’t know.

I
CLEANED THE HOUSE
a lot. You could have eaten off my bathroom floors if that was to your taste. I figured Jerry would like to come home to a nice clean house. He might have associated the house with chores, so I didn’t want him to see it all dirty when he walked through the door. (He was going to walk through the door any minute. I would have rubber
gloves on, and a sponge in my hand, and he would walk in, I wouldn’t be able to shake his hand, he’d say “Dad, you look like a fruitcake,” and we would laugh all the way to the fridge.)

When I was cleaning I kept finding hidden bottles, empty bottles. That was good for a laugh. I had thought it was a story, a bit of a wives’ tale, that drunks hid their booze in the bathroom, like “all drunks have red noses.” Kathleen had a pretty nose. But there were bottles in the bathrooms, in closets, behind the couch. I didn’t know how she had bought them all.

I called people sometimes, her doctor, people I thought were her friends. (“You seen Kath?”) I didn’t do it seriously, just occasionally, just as a sort of hobby. I started to realize that she had no friends. I myself have no friends, my friend, but it is somehow more sad to learn that someone you know has no friends than to realize it about yourself.

The obvious way to catch her was through the bank, maybe even at the bank. She was still withdrawing money, you see. At first I told my bank manager to keep that woman out of my accounts. She had money of her own, in accounts I had set up in her name to beat the tax man (better the wife than the Government). But those would run out, and as my mood changed I told the bank manager to let her have access.

I planned to go to the bank, hang out there all day to see if I could catch her. I was ready to do it, but the closer I got to doing it I got such a tired feeling. So tired. Aren’t you tired?

She wouldn’t want to see me anyway.

Still, I waited near the bank all day just as a hobby. She didn’t show up. I opened the “Kathleen” account and told the manager to help her find her way to it.

S
HE WAS ALIVE
. I knew that at least. But Jerry?

Dead?

No way.

The Government was still drugging him. Someone was. I knew that much. Someone was keeping him.

But the Government—I
fought
them. I called Schutz every day. I knew people who knew people, union boys who knew politicos who knew how to put pressure on the right people. I told the angel demons, don’t worry, we’ll get it, and when a couple of them pulled out, I took up their shares. “The National Capital Division answers to no one,” one of them said, but for once I ignored their advice.

I moved the golf-course architect up here full-time and we worked furiously. I hired two new engineers and fired my long-standing trusted one because firing put the blood in my arms. We were going to go all the way, I decided: not nine holes, but eighteen. And I doubled the number of houses. Oh ho ho, yeah. If the Government wanted environmental conservation, the best solution was to double the size of the golf course. All the trees and grass in the world would survive beautifully if we made it all a golf course.

Thanks to the “vegetation inventories” I had been forced to do, we knew exactly what could grow. We knew the precise depth of ponds, how to keep them level across the seasons. We planned to stock them with fish, and I had a letter prepared for the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, explaining the benefits to each species.

We had been warned of a Wetlands Policy, so we planned the houses and ponds so far away from each other that no matter what the policy was there could be no complaints about disturbing whatever was so precious about a wetland.

I had fifteen different subcontractors arranged for the building work, all their men next to mine, the best in their respective trades. We planned ten separate house designs, more choice than I had ever offered. Six hundred houses all together.

A lot of my other projects were winding up, we had all finished the mall. Money was marching in, so I scaled back, took advantage of everyone leaving, fired more of the old people, forgot about
other possible projects, ducked out of commitments, and put all my energy into the golf course. And I still didn’t own the land.

Every morning from nine o’clock I had Schutz on the phone. Not Schutz himself, I mean—just his number. Schutz never answered, you see. The Government had become really French, so all the messages were in French and every time I called Schutz I got this message, in French, which I can still repeat the sounds of even though I have yet to learn what it said. It was all part of their ploy to shut me out. I figured there was some secret code in the French that would give me some way in, maybe tell me something about Jerry—but I wasn’t going to stoop to playing their games.

I kept writing to that Struthers chump. No response from him, either. But I knew that as soon as I caught one of them I would be able to force them into selling me that land, force them because they would be so overwhelmed by the fact that I had every blade of grass accounted for and protected, that I was saving fish and improving the world. We planned to offer executives of the National Capital Division discounted memberships for the course.

I
WAS ALL FIRED
up again. I was in the office, jumping around in front of two new office ladies. They liked seeing me fired up. “It’s all happening, ladies.”

They loved it.

I was waiting for Cooper. I wanted to fill him in, tell him about the state of my project because ever since I started my company Cooper was the one to tell first. It was like a ritual.

And I was putting up new Jerry posters. The only picture I had of him was when he was eight or nine. I had these posters made, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?, and I got the printer to make him look older. There was this new batch of him looking even older, but he was starting to look a bit funny.

“It’s all happening, ladies.”

“We heard about your son, Jerry.”

“It’s terrible, Jerry.”

“Well, these posters should work. He doesn’t look like a freak like that, but I didn’t have, you know, a … a nice picture.”

“He’s gorgeous. He’ll turn up.”

“You bet.”

Cooper had walked in.

“Hey, Cooper. It’s all happening, buddy, you’ve got to see these plans, all the plans are finished, and it’s all in, and everything’s go, so sit down here, there, stand if you want and listen, and I’ll tell you, seriously, listen it’s all bigger than ever, we’ll force their hand, I’ll make you a king …”

I was standing near one of the posters I had just put up and Cooper kind of put me off balance by punching the poster through the wall. Plasterboard. The ladies let out a little “owoohwoo.”

“Telling you about his son, has he?”

“It’s all right, ladies. This is Johnny Cooper. He’s been out of prison for many years.”

“These posters. What you got here, five posters in the office, eh, boss man? That’s gonna find him.”

“I want to talk to you about the project, Cooper.”

He went over and punched another Jerry through the wall.

“Could you stop punching my son, please?”

“That’s not your son, cunt boy.”

“Should we call the police, Jerry?”

“No. Whose son is he, prison boy?”

“I don’t know, tough guy.”

“What are you saying? Are you insulting my wife?”

“Your son has a mohawk.”

“What?”

“That’s right, boss man. He’s not a fuckin, not a fuckin five-year-old with a beard. He’s a fifteen-year-old with a shaved head. And I got him a nice little tattoo, on his forearm.”

“What?”

“Pair of wings.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He was living with me.”

“Call the police.”

“You cunts call the police and I’ll eat you.”

“You kidnapped my son.”

“Fuck yourself, McGuinty. You don’t have a clue.”

“Where … 
what
is going on, Cooper?”

“I looked after him. That’s what the thing is, tough guy. I looked after him for a bit. And now he’s gone.”

“Call the police.”

“What did I say?”

“Don’t call the police. Get your hand off my neck, Cooper. Get …”

When I caught my breath again I was able to think more clearly. I was calm. Cooper explained. I listened.

“He left me this note last week,” he said.

“
‘Johnny, I’m off. Thanks, J.’

“He slept on my floor. Since he ran away he slept on my floor sometimes. That’s all I’m saying to you, golf boy. He’s got friends. But I don’t know where he’s gone.”

I
DO KNOW THIS
, I do know this: there’s a flower, I’ve seen it in numbers, shoots up through snow like a sword. Dirty snow, hopeless snow. In reds, oranges, yellows.

C
OOPER LIVED OVER WITH
the crooks in Vanier, near downtown. He had some of Jerry’s stuff but he wouldn’t let me come over and get it. If I wanted to wait outside to see if Jerry came back for it, I could, he said, but don’t expect him to send out coffee or blow me fuckin kisses. If Jerry was going to come by, he said, he’d be doing it at night.

I wanted to know how Jerry spent his days.

“He begs, I think. Mentioned a job. I don’t know.”

So I waited in my truck outside Cooper’s place every night, for months. I grabbed some McDonald’s on my way over, parked and waited from around five thirty, watching Cooper’s door until two
A.M.
, when the radio stations got all weird and Christian. I was at the ready, hand on the handle, a soldier every night, I tell you, a sharp old cop, ready to pounce, on the lookout, FBI.

Every night Cooper slouched home from the Brasserie, never looking toward me. He was getting old. Still a piece of iron, but smaller. I never thanked him for looking after Jerry because I continue to doubt whether that man could look after anyone. I saw him trip on his top step one night—a wooden step—and he fell over. He got up slowly, approached the step again like he was hunting it, and he kicked the top board off, stomped on what was left, broke through the next step, got his leg caught, fell over again, got up screaming, went over to a wooden pillar near the step, shook it, his head thrashed around, the pillar came loose at the bottom, he kicked it, and went inside. I don’t like to think what Jerry learned from him.

Have you ever had two Big Macs every night with an apple pie and eight hours of diesel fumes? Ever shat by the side of your truck?

There was one person and one person alone who ever walked into Cooper’s house, for months: the master himself. But one night I saw him stumbling along and a little fella ran up to his side and they laughed loudly and put their arms around each other. I tightened my hand on the handle, waited till they got nice and close. It was Jerry all right.

Just before they turned up Johnny’s path I flashed on my headlights and jumped out. I ran toward them shouting “Jerry! Jerry!” and confronted them. They just stood still.

Cooper’s lady friend had a shaved head and a laugh like smoke. She found me funny. When I got back into my truck Cooper fired a rock at my windshield and chipped it. Fair enough. I disturbed them. I looked like an idiot.

I docked his wage for the windshield. He laughed about it when he got his pay check, saying, “Huh, huh, I meant to tell you that night, huh, your Jerry got his stuff a couple of months ago. He broke in one day.”

I
T
’
S GOING TO BE
easy. One little city. One little Jerry. One big Jerry. I’ll find him. Can’t trick me forever, big guy. I know what you look like. Put a mohawk on your head, whatever—I still know what you look like. Mother’s eyes, smart guy. I know how to chase them.

I
COVERED MY FLOOR
in maps, made myself coffee. That was my morning business. Every map of the city I owned was spread across my living room. I trained my eyes to avoid that green belt. I got to know the flow of every street from above, learned shortcuts in case I had to chase him in my truck. FBI. Freeze.

So what are we dealing with here? We’re dealing with paper maps, concrete roads, concrete buildings, marble malls, fruit markets, flesh and blood, leafy trees to hide in, maybe. All these things, these materials,
will
come together. They don’t know each other (what’s more different than paper and concrete?) but they can’t do
without each other. From the map in my living room I will choose a road, go to a building, find my son.

Each morning I chose an area, sometimes depending on what I found the day before. I started downtown because it seemed the most likely. It was coming up on fall, late September or so, still warm enough for him to be anywhere.

Top of Rideau, work straight down, have a look around here, Sandy Hill, probably not, maybe around King Edward, right.