Algoma by Dani Couture

bar. When Gaetan arrived, they looked over their shoulders and nodded at the arrival of the next shift. Gaetan knew them as well as he did his coworkers, maybe better. In the far corner were a half dozen men that Gaetan recognized, but couldn’t place. It was like that every shift, a mix of predictable and unpredictable variables, never knowing what they’d result in: a quiet night, or calls to the cops.
    Two hours into the shift, the argument began. The sound of fists coming down onto the table and raised voices made Gaetan look over, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the sound of the music. Every twenty minutes, or so, the shortest of them, a sandy-haired man with a deep scar on his chin that split his beard in two, came up for a new pitcher of beer. With each round, the argument got louder.
    On his fourth time up to the bar, the man said something to Gaetan other than his order.
    “Sorry, what?” Gaetan asked, as he refilled the pitcher.
    “I was asking if it was your kid that drowned in the Charles a while back.”
    Gaetan said nothing.
    Drunk, the man pressed on. “No, it was you right? The guys and I were wondering. Jos doesn’t think it’s you.”
    One of his friends yelled out from the other side of the bar. “Is it him?”
    “So, is it?” the man asked.
    Hoping it would end the conversation surrounding his macabre celebrity, Gaetan said, “yes.”
    “Sorry, man. You are one unlucky sonofabitch.”
    “I think we’re good. Go sit down,” Gaetan said, and handed him the full pitcher.
    The man made it halfway to his table before doubling back. “It’s just, I don’t get it. Didn’t you teach him about the river ice? If it’d been my kid—”
    “Enough,” Gaetan said.
    At least once a month, a scene like this played itself out in the bar. Like an amateur reporter, a patron would bumble his or her way through the questions they wanted to ask about Leo’s death. In some ways, Gaetan missed those first few months after the accident when everyone was too afraid to ask anything of him, let alone questions surrounding how Leo had drowned, how it could have happened. Now that some time had passed, people in town felt they owned part of the story, part of him. It had become a fable to warn their kids about.
    The man seemed to finally sense Gaetan’s impatience and shuffled back to his table.
    Gaetan looked across the bar at the men. They were likely fathers themselves trying to grapple with fears about their own children. He was about to look away when he accidentally caught the eye of one of the men. At first, he thought the man looked guilty, but then realized it was a look of pity on his face. In that instant he knew they saw him as less of a father, less of a man.
    He couldn’t stay and endure their looks. Gaetan picked up the phone and called Daniel, another one of the bartenders and close friend.
    “I’m not feeling well,” Gaetan said into the receiver. “Thought I was fine, but I’m not. I want to go home. Can you cover me tonight?”
    Daniel and his wife had recently separated; Gaetan knew he could use the money.
    Twenty minutes later, Daniel walked into the bar. “Ready for duty, sir.”
    “Thanks,” Gaetan said. He stood there looking at his friend for a moment too long. Daniel had two children. Did Daniel pity him, too?
    “You okay?” Daniel asked. His cheeks were still bright red from the cold. “You want some water? A beer before you go?”
    “I’m fine. I mean, I will be fine. Thanks for coming in,” he stammered.
    He walked out of the bar before Daniel could ask anymore questions. He knew his strengths; he was good at being silent, not at lying. As the door closed behind him, Gaetan heard the first bars of a song he’d heard played a thousand times before. It’s Only Make Believe, an old Conway Twitty tune. Daniel must be having a bad day, too, he thought.
    The man with the scar-split beard was smoking a joint in the parking lot. On seeing Gaetan, he tossed