Growing Up Next to the Mental Read online

  There was a fine line between deft sincerity and outright, unprofessional sympathy, but the CBC reporter managed to tightrope it.

  “How long has it been since you lost your son, Mrs. Carter?” asked the gentle female voice behind the camera.

  “It’ll be twenty years in July. Rodney would be turning thirty-three this year.”

  I’d carried lots of guilt around for those two decades; not just over his death, but because my connection meant I couldn’t take on her story and cover her cause. I knew she had come to accept that he was bent on ending his tumultuously short life.

  What she hadn’t accepted was the silence and vague explanations from the authorities responsible for providing satisfactory answers that might lead to some semblance of closure.

  “And that’s what I want. Closure. Closure for me and the closure of this place behind me. Someone diagnosed him with bipolar disorder, but I still don’t know to this day that there was anything really wrong with him at all. He was a hardcase, and he could be all over the place, but I just think at that age, just thirteen years old, it was a rush to judgment, to diagnosis, maybe over-diagnosis.

  “They were so eager to categorize him. But he wanted to be out of the Janeway. He wanted to be at the Waterford, to be closer to home. He was only thirteen, but he could look twenty, and that probably helped get him here. But it was nothing like he expected, and he wanted badly to get out.

  “And he found a way. He was good at that. Finding ways.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to add?” the reporter asked softly.

  “It’s still so hard. He was a good boy. He would’ve been a good man. I know it. I watch other people go about their happy lives in the mall, at the grocery store, on TV, and I wonder how wonderful that must feel.

  “Me, I’m just as guilted and broken-hearted as the day he died. It’s never gotten better. Only worse. But I made a promise to him that I’d stick it out. For him. And I’m still here.”

  I reached down and grabbed the neck of the beer bottle, which had landed upright without breaking, chugging the rest of what hadn’t frothed and spilled out.

  Gross—it was already flat as a pancake.

  I tossed a hand towel over the spillage, donned a winter flannel shirt-jacket, and headed back outside for the last beer in the snow.

  No tears this time. Just a long, pensive assessment of the day and how I just wished it would end.

  More India, I decided, was a good place to start.

  24

  To stay in or not to stay in, that was now the question. It hadn’t been a question at all. I’d resigned myself to staying put for the night, mainly to avoid inevitable run-ins that would lead to conversations about things I didn’t want to talk about.

  But that was all before I had a few beers in me.

  The liquid courage was now sufficiently coursing through my bloodstream to the extent that there was no longer any question about my plans for the night.

  A Friday night, at that. Who was I kidding?

  I would, however, limit my socializing to the one locale where I knew I could relax and be safe from any shop talk. The one place where, even if someone did corner me with a story that seemed great when everyone was half or fully cut, I could deflect it with my standard reply:

  “If you still think it’s a great story tomorrow morning, call me. But I doubt either you or I will remember.”

  That place being The Brass Rack—very much like a second home and close enough to be so.

  Much more than just a pool hall, it was comfortably removed and far more real than the acts and airs being put on down at the usual Duckworth Street haunts where journalists and coy government flacks obsessed over one-upmanship and all the inside info they had but weren’t gonna share.

  In short, not my idea of happy hour.

  The Rack was heads and tails happier, looser, and, yes, crazier. “Warts and all,” a former Open Line host was fond of saying. From Bart Connors to Trixie to Hobo Bill, Johnny Gluebag and Bucky King, all mixing comfortably with lawyers, bankers, doctors, and the few Scottish oil execs or Filipino sailors who dropped by just for snooker and the same contrasting solace that I relished there.

  Even a few firefighters were known to frequent the place on occasion, not mentioning any names . . . Cap’n Mike. Now a superintendent, yes, but always Cap’n to me. His ear and sage advice would be a good fit for tonight, and not entirely out of the blue, having just seen him earlier in the day.

  I called Brookfield on the off chance he was up for a few games, which we had shared more than a few times in my youth and adulthood. I mean, he was the one who’d introduced me to 9-ball many moons before—a game I’d managed to master with not too much practice. I might even owe Mike some of the proceeds of my pool winnings over the years.

  “Not sure I’m feeling up to that tonight, Wish. It was a long day and week up here,” he said.

  “No problem. Well, I’ll be down there either way if you can make it.”

  * * * * *

  A bunch of us were messin’ around with trick shots on the big nine-foot table in front of the bar when he sauntered in just before seven.

  “Need some balls for table eight, Randy,” I called out to the proprietor, who was tucked away in his little office.

  When he didn’t answer or emerge, I ducked in behind the bar myself to grab the tray of balls, showing off my regularity and run of the place.

  “Great to see ya, Cap’n,” I said, eagerly initiating the handshake. “What are ya havin’?”

  “Light beer’s fine for me. Can’t stay too long, though.”

  It had become even harder than I remembered to decipher every word he said.

  “Sorry—bit of a head cold on top of everything else. I’ll try not to cough on ya.”

  “Sounds like you should be home in bed,” I said as we made our way to the out-of-the-way table eight.

  “You didn’t have to come down, ya know.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m here now.”

  “Okey-doke. Here, have some medicine.”

  I twisted the cap off a beer and handed it to him.

  “Flip for break?” I asked, balancing a quarter on my thumb.

  “Nah. You go ahead. Fill yer boots,” he said, unzipping and removing his black winter coat with sjrfd sewn into the left breast and back. He was still in uniform, having come straight to the pool hall from Brookfield.

  I rudely ran the first table, only noticing along the way that he was having real trouble bending to shoot. And when he did, his hands were so shaky I thought he was going to miss the cue ball altogether.

  He was a far cry from the strong, confident man who, years earlier, had unconditionally welcomed an annoying little brat like me into the fire hall whenever I wanted, likely breaking lots of rules along the way.

  We played another, which he “won,” and then the rubber match, which remains under protest. He made me break all three games, too, only because he didn’t have the strength to crack ’em like he used to.

  “That’s enough for me,” he relented. “Looks like the student has become the teacher.”

  We sat down together at the small round table against the wall and each lifted a beer out of the plastic, ice-filled bucket that still held four more.

  “What should we drink to?” I asked.

  “How about health, especially mine,” he laughed, then coughed harder and longer than I’d ever heard out of him.

  I just stopped and stared. “Whaddaya mean?”

  He had to push his bottle into mine for the clink to drink.

  “Yeah, it’s not good, Wish. Dodged the bullet twenty years ago, but now it’s back with a vengeance, so my doctor says.”

  I felt pretty shitty, under the circumstances. Cap’n Mike might be dying and
I’d selfishly guilted him into coming out for a few beer and some pool, but mostly advice. So much for happy hour.

  He must’ve sensed my remorse.

  “S’all right. You didn’t know. And I woulda said no if I had to. But who knows if we’d ever get a chance to do something like this again . . . and we go back a bit. It was a good idea, and I’m glad ya called.

  “So, how’d ya make out at the Waterford after?” he asked with clear intention of changing the subject.

  “Ah, good. I guess. Well, not really.”

  “No? I heard you made the news for a change. I thought you were there for the hostage thing, but you got up to see that White fella. Good on ya.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty cool, actually, getting in to see and talk to him, as short as it was. But the boss wanted me to stay on the other story, with the Monchy guy . . . which I couldn’t do.”

  “Why not? Why not both?”

  “It’s just—I kinda know the guy, Monchy, that is.”

  This was it. I hadn’t expected to jump right in this soon, but here we go: I was gonna open up about Jerry with a J, and whether I should’ve said something a long time ago, and what I should do now, etc., etc.

  “You know him? How? You should call the constabulary. You might be able to help them . . .”

  A big red ABORT sign suddenly began flashing in my head.

  “No, you don’t understand, I . . . I don’t know him know him. I said I kinda do, like, from down in the field . . . and sometimes he stole clothes out of our basement, and I know who he is, kinda thing.”

  I had panicked and changed course in an instant. I got spooked by mention of the cops and bailed on the whole plan. You’d swear I was Capone or the Jackal or someone.

  “Well, you know how it goes. You might know something that you don’t even realize could help them out. At least until they figure out what to do with the guy and what it was all about. He may have been in the Waterford a long time, but I’m not sure they’re gonna keep him there after this.

  “Again, you didn’t get this from me, but they don’t think he’s nuts at all, just unpredictable and dangerous. You had to see what he had going on down there . . . a whole separate room that he was hiding in. Musta took years of planning.

  “I’d say the doctor he had tied up will need some professional help himself after all that . . .”

  I hadn’t asked Mike what he knew or saw, but I was rapt by any morsel he was willing to share.

  “Yeah, we thought it was a staff person he went after.”

  “Doctors are staff. This was some Pakistani guy. Kapoor. Maybe India.”

  I took a Pavlovian swig of my beer.

  “Been here since the early sixties,” he continued between coughs and throat-clearing hacks. “He’s even got our accent now. He looked pretty shell-shocked when they were taking him out. Of course, that crowd, they’re always sweatin’. I swear you could smell the curry, Wish.”

  Ouch. It was easy to forget sometimes that Cap’n Mike was very old school. He did have almost thirty years on me. Two years to retirement, and he might not even make it.

  I knew Kapoor, though. Had a couple of kids my age. I hung out with them for a while, when we were fourteen or fifteen. Since they were born here, they sounded and acted just like any other teenaged townies. And they were, except for their colour . . . and the curry. Knocked me out no matter what door we went in.

  Then one day we were skylarkin’ in their basement when we upsot a few things in the sacred Hindu worship room—that we weren’t allowed/supposed to be in—and I was banished: “Forbidden to return” I believe were the doctor’s exact words in the midst of his fits of fury.

  Okay, so I recalled Monchy saying something about a doctor. Maybe even mention of disliking a doctor. But I think I would’ve remembered if topics such as kidnapping, hostage-taking, or revenge came up. Somehow I think that would’ve stuck with me.

  “Anyways, I ain’t gonna tell ya what to do, Wish. You’re big and ugly enough to make those decisions on your own now. But remember, none of that came from me.

  “Now I’m off to the little boys’ room,” he said, downing the rest of his first. “Be right back.”

  It was just silly sitting there alone while he was gone, so I got up and aimlessly smacked the balls around, discreetly surveying the clientele now filling up the big room and all twelve tables—including the three coin-ops and single snooker.

  Mike returned with a refreshingly funny look on his face.

  “Some guy in the back stall said there’s ‘one in there for ya’ when yer ready. I know I’m not your father, but you should be careful with that stuff, ya know. I’m just sayin’.”

  Okay, so maybe I sampled more than just the beer and grass when I was at The Rack. I mean, when in Rome, right? Down there it was almost an insult to decline a line, but I did that night, under the circumstances.

  I would explain later to the offended party, if need be.

  “Sorry about that. I’m hardly ever at it, but when I’m down on a Friday night, it’s like a recreational hazard.”

  “Just strange to see, is all, from the innocent little kid who used to deliver papers on his bike.”

  Yeah, innocent. That was me.

  “Not that innocent,” I said, steeling myself to finally come clean and face the music.

  “Look, you remember that day when you scared the shit out of me while I was dropping off the paper?”

  “Yeah, ’course. Gotcha good a couple of times that morning. Why?”

  “Well, I set the fire. I wasn’t alone, but I lit the match. Three of ’em, actually. Seadogs, they were. The really long ones. Still got the box.”

  He looked down at the floor for a while. Then up at the exit, possibly pondering whether the revelation, and broken trust, was egregious enough for him to just get up and leave.

  “Am I the only one you ever told?”

  “Yeah,” I said nervously, waiting for the other pool cue to drop.

  “So, you’ve been holding this in, just to yourself, all these years. And now you’re telling someone—me—for the first time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And all the worry, that maybe someone would find out, and the police might come knocking on your door some day?”

  “Well, no. Not that last part. ’Cause, remember? You said it was a patient that did it, so we were off the hook . . .”

  I knew the second I said it, causing my words to slow and fade off to nowhere. That was bad. I mean, had I learned nothing over the years?

  It was as if he could sense that I was sprouting a conscience on the spot.

  “So, on a scale of one to ten, how much of a needless burden would you say that’s been on your conscience all these years?”

  “A nine, maybe even ten.”

  “Well then, my work here is done!” he half-shouted, slapping one hand on the table as the other grabbed another beer, the first having smoothed out his voice a bit. “I think you’ve learned your lesson and then some.”

  “But the patient . . . caught ‘red-footed,’ remember?”

  “Yeah. That was a good one, hey, off the cuff and all. But he was fine. No harm, no foul.”

  He could tell I was both relieved and bewildered by his easy forgiveness.

  “Look. You were what, twelve? What kind of stuff were any of us at when we were that age? If you were still setting fires in high school or your twenties, then we might have a problem.”

  This was precisely the reason I had called him up in the first place. Perspective.

  We followed up with a cheers clink that I thought would break the bottles, then down the hatch till both were empty.

  “C’mon, we have another game,” he said, springing from his chair and rubbing his hands together like he actually had
a chance. “I’ll break ’em up this time.”

  He pressed his hand down on the cloth, made a cradle between his thumb and index finger, and slid the cue through. Four unsteady strokes later, he broke ’em up, all right. Not the kind of force that once made people move to the wings, but impressive nonetheless.

  “Who was the other fella with ya, if you don’t mind me askin’? Wait. Lemme guess. Mr. Carter?”

  It didn’t surprise me that he figured it out. Still, mere mention of the surname was off-putting.

  “I had a feeling,” he said. “Don’t tell me—he made ya do it?”

  “Not entirely. From what I can remember, I wanted to see what would happen, too.”

  It felt like our thoughts naturally progressed from that to the day Rodney died.

  “That day we found him. That was a tough day for everyone, ya know.”

  I sat down and chugged the three-quarters left in my bottle.

  “It was all pretty weird. It was like, he gave me shit almost every day of my life, but I just had a total meltdown when you told me.”

  We didn’t say much for a few minutes. Nothing, really. The game suddenly became pretty mechanical, and inconsequential. Neither of us could remember whose shot it was.

  “I thought you did great at the funeral.”

  Until that moment, no one had ever mentioned anything to me about that—other than Mom while she was at my side. You’d think that would’ve drove me nuts at the time. Prime time for over-analysis.

  But my head never went there at all for some reason. Maybe the weight of it all kept me from overthinking it. And maybe I just didn’t care what people thought. Not a bad thing—sometimes.

  “Thanks. I never said everything I wanted to, but . . .”

  “It was good. And different. Which can be good for church sometimes. It made some people cry, but sometimes people need that.

  “I’ll see to it that I pick someone before I’m gone, less risk being called Michael throughout the service. Always hated being called Michael.”