The Carpenter (7 page)

—I did, yeah.

He wasn’t accustomed to talking about himself. What he was used to, for the most part, was the way people talked around what they wanted to know. But he told her what he had the words for. When he’d been conditionally paroled, he was moved
into a halfway house on Sherbourne Street. From the outside you wouldn’t be able to tell anything about it. It was a big house. It had a board fence around it, and there was an intercom at the front, and the gate locked electronically. There were twelve beds in six rooms. It was run by the St. Leonard’s Society. The St. Leonard’s people got Lee fixed up with a job at a shop that made office furniture. Lee did the woodworking. The man that ran the place was also an ex-con, twelve years out. Clean and sober. He had given a lot of jobs to people like Lee and he’d seen more than a few of them fuck everything up.

Helen was quiet. Then she said, slowly: Do you like what you do?

—Yeah. That’s what I’m proud of. I make things. I see them come together.

A moment or two later, Helen was asleep. Her hand was on her chest and the cigarette she’d been smoking was burning down between her fingers. Lee took it carefully and dropped both hers and his into an empty cola bottle on the floor beside the couch.

He’d never been sure what he was going to do after his conditional release. He didn’t care for the city all that much but he’d been told he could stay on at the furniture shop if he kept straight. He’d figured that was about as good as it was going to get, but then in July Barry came down to the city to visit. He’d never actually met Barry until then, he’d just known him from the letters they’d written back and forth. Those last few years it was Barry who had written the most and in early July it was Barry who came down to the city to tell Lee that his mother was dying.

The St. Leonard’s people put in a recommendation to the parole board. The man who ran the furniture shop put in a good word. Barry found Lee work with Clifton Murray. And by Labour Day, Lee was on the bus going north. Homeward.

Lee felt good at the job site the next day. Just before noontime, Clifton called him over to his truck and gave him an envelope.

—There you go.

—What’s this? said Lee.

—It’s not a birthday card, Leland. It’s your paycheque.

—Oh.

He opened it and took it out and looked at it. There was the cheque itself and a balance sheet of statutory deductions. He studied the numbers.

—Were you thinking I’d pay under the table? said Clifton. Because I won’t. It’s just not worth the headache.

—Like in the Bible, right? You have to give to Caesar what’s his too.

—Well. It’s just not worth the headache to muck around.

—Good with me, Mr. Murray. Everything above-board. That kind of thing keeps my parole officer happy.

—Yes, well.

—I’ll get back to it, said Lee.

I
t rained that evening. Pete drove to the pizza joint over by the hospital. His work clothes were stuffed in a backpack in the trunk of his car beside a case of beer. He’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt and a jacket.

—There’s my main man, said Billy.

Billy and Emily had a booth inside the restaurant. With them was a girl Emily introduced as Nancy. Nancy did not have the same poise as Emily, but she had an appealing nature. She laughed a lot. She and Billy did most of the talking.

They had pizza and frosted glasses of root beer. Conversation at the table threaded frenetically with Billy and Emily on one side and Pete and Nancy sitting across from them. Nancy talked with her hands almost as much as she laughed. Pete caught Emily’s eye and she made a face at him. Billy’s arm hovered over her shoulders.

—Billy said you quit school, said Nancy.

—Yeah, said Pete. Last May.

—The system doesn’t trust guys like Pete, said Billy.

Nancy shook her head. She said how wild that was, Pete quitting school. Pete happened to catch Emily’s eye. Her expression was mild and neutral, but all the same he reached up and scratched the back of his neck. He said: I was thinking I might go to community college at some point. I don’t know.

He didn’t say anything about his plans to head out west.

They had the rest of the pizza and sent for the bill. Nancy’s folks were away for the weekend and she was having friends over to her house that night. She and Emily got up to go to the washroom and Billy winked at Pete as soon as they were alone.

—She’s nice, said Pete.

—Sure she is. You bet.

The bill came and Billy burrowed about for his wallet until Pete put the cash down. The girls returned. Nancy came back and slipped into the booth beside Pete.

—Are you going to come to my house? I think you should.

—She thinks you should, Pete, said Emily.

Pete might have guessed there’d be trouble if he and Billy went to Nancy’s house, school loyalty being what it was. By eleven o’clock, there were twenty people at the party, all of them from Heron Heights. Shortly after eleven a small group of guys arrived. They were all solidly built athletes. The biggest of them was six feet tall, and it wasn’t so much that he was good-looking—he just had presence in the room. When he took off his jacket, he was wearing a Heron Heights varsity lacrosse T-shirt underneath. The air got tense.

Until that point it wasn’t a bad scene. The house was nice—much bigger than the house where Pete lived—and there was lots to drink. He didn’t know any of these people, except for Billy and
Nancy and Emily, and he was grateful just to take it all in. He spent a lot more time in Nancy’s company than he’d predicted he would, given how it usually seemed to go for him when it came to girls. He’d noticed a picture of her on the wall: an ice rink, a figure-skating pose for the camera, a glittery outfit, thick stage makeup. He asked her about the picture and saw how she lit up. They sat on a couch in the living room and she told him how she volunteered as a coach when she wasn’t training, how she’d gone to the nationals, was going again this spring. As she talked, Pete looked around. There were no crosses on the wall, and there was none of the medical equipment needed to keep an old woman alive. Nancy touched his leg. She asked him if he wanted another drink.

After a few more beers, Billy sat on the living room carpet with Nancy’s father’s Yamaha acoustic. He took requests. People sang. They opened the window and a joint made its way around. Emily sat beside Billy. She wasn’t singing but she was watching Billy, smiling.

That was when the lacrosse player and his boys arrived. They came into the house bearing a couple cases of beer.

—Oh, said Nancy. I didn’t know if you guys were coming.

—We got back from the tournament and heard you were having people over.

—Come in, then.

The athlete and his boys stood between the front door and the kitchen.

—Hey, Emily, said the lacrosse player.

Emily looked up at him. The guy smiled.

Pete guessed that the latecomers would put themselves in the living room, but they didn’t. They disappeared elsewhere in the house a few minutes after they’d come in. A short while later Billy took a break from the guitar. He stood up and helped Emily to her feet. He weaved over and whacked Pete’s arm.

—I’ve got to piss.

—No sense keeping it all bottled up, said Pete.

Billy went on his way. Emily approached.

—Are you having a good time, Pete?

—Sure, your friends are fun.

—Don’t pay any attention to those guys who just got here. The big guy, his name is Roger. I think he’s finding it hard to move on from certain things.

—It’s okay.

Then Emily was gone. Her perfume hung behind her. Pete went to the washroom. When he was coming out he happened to look down the hallway. He saw Emily leaning against the wall, Billy in front of her. Laughing, both of them, her with her hand to her mouth.

Pete went down the hallway away from them. Then someone hailed him from a small den. It was the lacrosse player and his boys and a couple of girls. They were sitting around drinking, shoes propped up on a coffee table. Pete stepped into the den. They looked at him.

—So who are you, anyways?

—I’m Pete. I’m a friend of Nancy’s.

The athlete put out his lower lip. He said: Pete, Pete. Pete Pete Pete. Okay.

Just then Pete heard the guitar strike up in the living room again. He heard voices starting to sing along.

—I’m going to have to talk to Emily, said the lacrosse player.

—I know you, said one of the others. You work at the gas station on the bypass.

The boys in the den laughed.

—I’m going to get a beer, said Pete.

He was trying to think of something to say, some sharp retort, but he couldn’t think of anything. He was sweating under his shirt. As he turned away from the doorway into the den, he heard the lacrosse player saying: What the fuck is she doing with these …

Pete went into the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. Two girls were talking at the table. Liquor bottles stood on the counter
and paper cups oozed bad mixes. Pete opened a beer and went back into the living room. Nancy was standing near the kitchen entryway. She smiled when she saw him. She was sweating a little bit and it gave a high clear edge to her perfume. Everybody was singing the chorus to “Hey Jude” while Billy played, and Emily was sitting beside him again. They came to the end of the song and Billy plucked a final note from the strings.

—You guys are great, said Billy.

But then the lacrosse player and one of his friends appeared at the edge of the crowd.

—Hey, Emily, said the athlete. I want to talk to you for a couple minutes.

Emily gave him a serene look, told him no thanks. He made an O-shape with his mouth. Under other circumstances, it might have looked funny.

—I want to talk to you.

—I don’t feel like talking right now, Roger.

—Emily.

—Hey, man, said Billy. She doesn’t feel like talking right now.

—Who asked you, asshole?

The situation got ugly in seconds. Pete found himself standing side by side with Billy in the middle of the living room. In some ways, he had already been resigned to it. Voices were rising, challenging, protesting. Billy and Roger were almost nose to nose, trading brisk shoves to each other’s chest. Then Roger’s friend came on the run. He leapt over the couch and landed in front of Pete and gave him a push. Pete stumbled on an ottoman behind him and went over backwards. He hit the floor with the ottoman between his knees, his vision wheeling sickeningly.

A sharp whistle cut through the noise. Emily had her fingers in her mouth. She took them out and said: This is so goddamn stupid.

Beside Emily, Nancy nodded fervently. Her eyes were wide. She looked a little frantic, while Emily looked stern and composed and beautiful.

Roger and Billy had hold of each other’s collar. Billy also had hold of the boy who’d pushed Pete over. Pete concentrated on the ceiling and then he sat up. His face felt hot and his head was spinning.

—What are you going to do, Emily? said Roger. Call your dad?

Emily lifted her hands: How did I know you’d say that. Really. How did I know.

—This is all bullshit, said Roger. You know we’re only kidding around.

He and Billy warily unlatched and stepped back. Roger offered a tentative smile and a handshake. He came over past Billy and pulled Pete up.

—All good, right, Pete?

He put out his hand and Pete shook it.

Then Roger and his friends got their jackets and their beer. They took their time leaving, hanging around the front yard, talking, looking at the house. Finally, they got into a wood-panelled station wagon and drove away.

—Here, Pete.

Billy had brought him another beer. Pete opened it and Billy slung an arm around him.

—What kind of bullshit was that? You okay?

—I’m fine.

Peter drank the beer quickly. He went into the washroom. The toilet seat stood upright and dry vomit scum caked the bowl. Pete gripped the sides of the counter, breathing slow. He balled his fist and drove it into the wall. Once, twice, three times, until the knuckles were stinging and the skin was broken. He stayed in the washroom for a long time, letting the anger and the humiliation subside. Then he held a hand towel under a stream of cold water. He cleaned his knuckles with it and tossed the towel into the bathtub.

He came back into the living room. Nancy was on the couch. She got up and blundered forward and put her hands on his arms.

—I am so sorry about those guys.

—If Billy and me knew we’d cause you any problems we probably wouldn’t have come.

—No, you’re more fun than them. I am so sorry.

Pete looked around. The house had mostly emptied and only four or five people remained. All around were cups and beer bottles and small spills. The pictures on the wall hung askew. He did not see Billy or Emily. His earlier anger was gone, and in its place was a bitter taste of jealousy. He tried to shake it away, wondering what was happening to him. He said: Your living room is a goddamn mess.

—I know, said Nancy. But whatever. I’ll make my little brother clean it up tomorrow. Come on.

—Where are we going?

—Just to talk, you know. Come on.

Nancy took him into her bedroom and closed the door behind them and turned on a bedside lamp. The room was many shades of pink and there were clothes strewn about and there was a rack of figure-skating trophies. Over the bed was a poster of Michael Jackson, and in the corner, she had a television. But then she had the light out again and she was groping at him and then he groped back and tasted the liquor in her mouth and the sweat on her breasts and her stomach. She sucked her breath in.

—I don’t want you to think I do this all the time …

—I know, said Pete.

It didn’t go very far. She was shirtless by the time they got into the bed, but after a few minutes of rolling around she seemed to slow down. Then she stopped responding entirely. He said her name. He touched her shoulder. She had passed out. Pete settled down beside her. It took him a little while to come down, to stop thinking about falling over the ottoman, to stop thinking of other things. He listened to the sounds of the house. He was listening for Billy and Emily and not hearing them.