The Cast Stone (11 page)

“Homophobia.”

“Yeah, seems like they want to let all the queers and faggots die of natural causes as quickly as possible.”

“Lester's gay?”

“Naw, well, I don't know. He got infected in jail, maybe he is. Or maybe he was, who knows. He got AIDS in jail that's all I know, maybe from a man, maybe from a needle. Doesn't matter. He can't afford to buy his own meds and he doesn't believe in Indian medicine.”

“Worried?”

“Not for myself. Doesn't matter if he dies in my house or in a hospital. I'm not worried about catching it if that's what you mean. But I am worried about Lester, what's he going to do now? Not that he does a hell of a lot anyway. Just sits around the house like he's still in jail waiting to get out. I guess if you spend a lifetime waiting for something, when that something happens, when they let you out of jail, all you know how to do is wait. So Lester waits. He's still waiting.”

“Any idea what for?”

“Like I said, it seems like he is just so used to waiting that the waiting is what's important and not what he's waiting for. Lester probably doesn't even know; maybe now he's waiting to die.”

“How much is your phone bill?” Waiting for Lester to die was too much; he did not want to think about it.

“Never mind. It's awright.”

“What do you mean it's all right? Rosie you need a phone.” Ben drained the last of the warm tea, placed the cup firmly back on the table.

“Don't worry about it.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Got it covered.” She raised an eyebrow showing Ben the twinkle in her eye.

“Tell me.”

Rosie looked into her teacup because it was some place to look away from Ben's questioning gaze, took her time answering, enjoyed the delay. “It's being taken care of.”

Ben waited, knew better. Rosie would tell him. Rosie wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him and drag it out as long as possible.

“My daughter can't phone me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, if she can't phone me. Then what?”

“I'll bite, then you can't talk to your granddaughter.”

“You're getting closer, but no cigar.”

Ben shrugged.

“If she can't phone me then what?”

“Then she — ” Ben was caught in Rosie's little game — ”then she sends you money for your phone bill.”

“No silly. Then she comes to visit.”

“Okay.” Ben did not sound convinced.

“Really. I figured this out long time ago. I think my mother used to use it on us, and I know my grandmother, Old Jeanie, could do things like that. Sometimes I get lonely for just one of my kids, and a day or so later that kid either phones me or comes home.

I remember when I lived with Delbert, locked away down there on the prairie. It was like I was his prisoner. Once in a while I would suddenly need to come home. Just a real strong need to come home and see my mom. I'd make Delbert bring me back, or I would take the car, use all our money for gas. He never understood. Used to drive him nuts. Anyway, when I got back, there would be nothing wrong. My mom would be here. Happy to see me, play with my kids, all smiles. But, she never said anything.”

“And, you couldn't phone?”

“My mom refused to have a phone in her house. No, when that feeling came over me, there was nothing I could do but come home. Remember when we were kids, out sliding or playing and our parents would stand outside when it was time to come home and yell our names?”

“Uh-huh.” Ben remembered. “Well you went home right away. You didn't take one more slide down the hill when you heard your mom calling. You just went home.”

“Yeah, I remember.” It was a good memory. Children playing on snow in moonlight. “You could hear her yelling a mile away.
Roseeeee. Roseeeee.
.”

“Yeah, like that. I think they trained us to come. Do you think she could really yell loud enough for us to hear her from the hill? Try it.”

“Well it was quieter back then.”

Rosie smiled at Ben.

“Really, there weren't so many cars and things.”

Rosie kept smiling.

“I guess not eh.”

“No, there was something else going on. Anywhere we were, we could hear our mothers calling us. Well, I'm using that on my daughter. Right now she's packing my granddaughter in her car and by tonight I'm going to be bouncing that little girl on my knee. Just wait and see.”

Ed Trembley looked into Corporal Rick Fisher's face, didn't like what he saw there and slammed a fist into it. “Fuck you.” He had nothing else to say. “Fuckin' black shirt,” was the best he could do here in the basement away from the light, away from the sky, away from wind, and rain, away from people and living things. His hate churned his stomach, acid rose and filled his mouth, bitter and sour. Rick's lip bled bright in the fluorescent sheen of the workroom light, dripped down the side of his chin. He wiped his face against his shoulder and tried to glare back at Ed. He did not have the strength for a powerful glare and the look came off an indifferent “I don't care,” rather than “Fuck you back.”

It might have saved him from another punch in the face. Ed stood back, kicked Rick in the thigh, once, not hard. “Listen prick. If your buddies fuck with Abe, I'm going to fuck with you the same way.” Kicked him again, harder. Ed's fear eased back into the place that anger had filled. If they tortured Abe Friesen, would he talk? Of course he would. Everyone did. How much did Friesen know? Why the fuck did he stay there? Why didn't he run like hell the way everyone else did? Scatter, spread out, hide, mingle, let the masses absorb him. They couldn't watch everywhere at once.

Ed left his tied prisoners in the dark, no sense wasting electricity on the likes of them, and went again upstairs to sit by the window and watch the street, to pace to the back porch and search the alley, watch and pace and watch.

Benji felt safe again as he drove out of the city that was not a city at all but only a very large prairie town. He was mildly surprised by the extent of paved roads as he took the four-lane north. He had half expected to need a four-by-four.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror as he adjusted it, held it at that angle for a moment and looked, really looked. A narrow face stared back, a thin delicate bone structure covered with healthy, gently tanned skin. The hazel eyes below the high forehead peered quizzically back at him. Who is this man? They seemed to be asking. Who are you?

I am the son of my father, Benji answered the reflection. Do I look like him? Are those my father's eyes? Am I the younger version? He turned the mirror and the highway unrolled behind the truck.

His adoptive parents were old from the time he could remember, too old to play out on the street with, too old to wrestle with, too old to have their own children, and too old to participate in the life of the one they'd borrowed. He made up stories for himself about his real parents, exciting stories, and put in the good parts from his favourite books. Old James and Joyce helped with that, they gave Benji all the books he wanted with time and space to read in the quiet Toronto two-story stone house seven blocks from the library.

Today Benji would meet the fairy tale hero. Would he tell him? Would he say “I am your son come for my inheritance; teach me your art, teach me your science”? Or would he play the practiced role. “I am a gem merchant, see my emeralds and my rubies. How they sparkle.” Would he dazzle his father's eyes, eyes that must be hazel like his own, blind him with colours and lead him away from his horde. Take his money and slip away? Into the den of the old dragon and out with a bag of treasure, the rite of passage. Would he then be able to walk free of the legend, write his own saga, become his own fairy tale hero?

Benji checked the map again. Highway 11 to Prince Albert, then Highway 2, north past the National Park, then east to Moccasin Lake I.R. What does I.R. stand for? Is it like R.M. rural municipality as they say out here, or maybe it's something like County Seat. It didn't really matter whether Ben Robe lived in an Intergalactic Region or not. Today the son would come and get his inheritance. I.R.equals Inheritance Restored.

The sun marked a bright circle on the whiskeyjack-grey sky, poured its heat through the high empty clouds and stuck Rosie's blouse to her back. The day stood still and damp. A boat ride would be nice today; maybe Ben would go out and set a net or just go for a ride. She hung a dripping sheet on the clothesline, straightened it so that it would dry without wrinkles and pinned it in case the wind she hoped for would come. She stood for a moment and looked, at the line of sagging laundry, at the sky that promised her it would not rain. Not that rain would be so bad. The laundry could stay out for another day or so, nothing urgent there; when it dried she would fold it and take it inside — inside a house that was too hot to sit in for long, too hot to run the clothes dryer.

Lester was in there in front of the television. The heat didn't seem to bother him in his sprawl on the couch. It was his couch now, blanket and pillow, duffle bag under the end table. It used to be Rosie's favourite place, tea and cupcakes and gentle entertainment. Now it was coffee and a full ashtray and the violence of professional sports — even golf seemed tinged with anger when Lester watched it.

Rosie left the laundry basket on the steps to the back door and was going to see what Ben was up to. She walked around to the front of the house to where the path through the trees began. Lester could make his own lunch. He'd make a mess, and Rosie would clean it up. But that could wait until evening when the house cooled down. Rosie had never in her life gone to bed with dirty dishes left out. Learned from her mother, “Spirit things come in your house at night and eat off your dirty plates.” It disgusted her to wake up in the morning to find dishes on the counter from Lester's late-night meals.

The black Jeep Cherokee turned onto the track that led from the road to the front of Rosie's little house, too quick — it bounced at the big pine root that ran out under the north track. Not someone from around here; Rosie waited. The truck rolled, slower now, up to the front of the white-sided house. The driver rolled down the window with a buzz of electricity. She waited; too unseemly for a Native woman to talk to a man through an open window, cross her arms and rest her elbows on the door and wiggle her bum in the air. She sat instead on the front step and exercised a little of her deep learned patience.

The man was young and had not earned patience yet; a young man with a salon haircut, and shoes, brown leather; slacks and short-sleeved shirt that matched; black and tan.

“Hello.” He stood not so tall in front of her.

“Hello yourself.”

“I'm looking for a Mr. Ben Robe.” Benji shuffled his feet, tried to find a more casual stance, couldn't, and stood exposed like a schoolboy in front of the master, or a penitent in front of the priest.

Rosie recognized the young man, though she had never before seen him. She smiled inwardly and the smile found its expression on her face.