around my relationship with Cheryl, about the fight we had that morning and reasons why I might want her dead. The best police minds couldnât engineer a reason no matter how soap-operatic their thinking.
On my side, I refused to make my life with Cheryl anybodyâs business but my own. I didnât mention our marriage because it was sacred; I wasnât going to let the massacre make it profane. I refused to let it be used as some kind of plot twist in the final five minutes of an episode of Perry Mason . So I said nothing, only that Cheryl wanted to talk about feelings, and I didnât. As simple as that. Which is basically what it was.
Â
Â
Okay, Iâm not lying here, but Iâm not disclosing everything. Truth is, Cheryl had just found out she was pregnant. That was what weâd been discussing at her locker. I was so taken aback by the news that I said something stupid, I forgetwhat, and then I told her I had to prepare equipment for a Junior A team. Me-a father -and all I can say is âI have to get stuff ready for the Junior A team.â
Even the idea of the baby got lost in the ordeal of the first two weeks. It wasnât until a month later, while I was waiting for a bus in New Brunswick, the temperature well below zero, that the baby caught up to me. I had to go behind a cedar hedge to cry. My nose began to bleed from the dry air, and the blood brought even moreâ¦Well, you get the picture.
As a result of the baby, I began doing what I used to do, wondering which woman was going to be my wife-except that now I looked at every child I saw and wondered if he or she was supposed to be mine. And then for a while I couldnât be near kids at all, and I got jobs up the coast in logging camps, construction and surveying.
And now? And now I guess Iâll continue writing about the aftermath of the massacre. My many friends from Youth Alive! set the tone, gleefully providing police with a McCarthy-era dossier on Cheryl and me-a diary of the time we spent together after we returned from Las Vegas. The entries describe everything but the sex: where the cars were parked; what rooms were used and which lights went on and off at what time; the state of our clothing and hair before and after; the expressions on our faces-most often variations on the theme of âsatisfied.â
News that the police had taken me away from the parking lot caused rumors to quickly spread. By evening our house had been egged and paint-bombed. The police had cordoned it off, and advised us that it would probably be easier and safer if I spent the night at the station and Mom found a hotel or motel room.
Kent flew in from Edmonton. He was in his second year at the University of Alberta, working toward a CPA degree. Having Dad in the hospital was a blessing, as I at least didnât have to worry about him selling me further down the river. He and Mom, in their last act of married unity, synchronized their stories about the fractured knee, and then called it quits. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that little chat.
My main memories of those two weeks when I was under suspicion are of moving from one spartanly furnished room to another-a cell, a motel room or an interrogation room. I was what youâd now call a person of interest, living in a legal netherworld, neither free nor in custody. I remember eating mostly takeout Chinese or pizza, and having to hide in the bathroom when it was delivered. I remember always having to dial 9 before phone calls to my lawyer, and there was this chestnut-colored kiss-curl wig given to me by a woman from the RCMP. I was to wear it when we drove from place to place, but no matter how many times we rinsed it, it smelled like a thrift store. Potential angry mobs or not, it was stupid and I chucked it in the trash. There was this one interrogation room that smelled like cherry cola, and everywhere, the same yearbook photos being endlessly recycled on TV and
On my side, I refused to make my life with Cheryl anybodyâs business but my own. I didnât mention our marriage because it was sacred; I wasnât going to let the massacre make it profane. I refused to let it be used as some kind of plot twist in the final five minutes of an episode of Perry Mason . So I said nothing, only that Cheryl wanted to talk about feelings, and I didnât. As simple as that. Which is basically what it was.
Â
Â
Okay, Iâm not lying here, but Iâm not disclosing everything. Truth is, Cheryl had just found out she was pregnant. That was what weâd been discussing at her locker. I was so taken aback by the news that I said something stupid, I forgetwhat, and then I told her I had to prepare equipment for a Junior A team. Me-a father -and all I can say is âI have to get stuff ready for the Junior A team.â
Even the idea of the baby got lost in the ordeal of the first two weeks. It wasnât until a month later, while I was waiting for a bus in New Brunswick, the temperature well below zero, that the baby caught up to me. I had to go behind a cedar hedge to cry. My nose began to bleed from the dry air, and the blood brought even moreâ¦Well, you get the picture.
As a result of the baby, I began doing what I used to do, wondering which woman was going to be my wife-except that now I looked at every child I saw and wondered if he or she was supposed to be mine. And then for a while I couldnât be near kids at all, and I got jobs up the coast in logging camps, construction and surveying.
And now? And now I guess Iâll continue writing about the aftermath of the massacre. My many friends from Youth Alive! set the tone, gleefully providing police with a McCarthy-era dossier on Cheryl and me-a diary of the time we spent together after we returned from Las Vegas. The entries describe everything but the sex: where the cars were parked; what rooms were used and which lights went on and off at what time; the state of our clothing and hair before and after; the expressions on our faces-most often variations on the theme of âsatisfied.â
News that the police had taken me away from the parking lot caused rumors to quickly spread. By evening our house had been egged and paint-bombed. The police had cordoned it off, and advised us that it would probably be easier and safer if I spent the night at the station and Mom found a hotel or motel room.
Kent flew in from Edmonton. He was in his second year at the University of Alberta, working toward a CPA degree. Having Dad in the hospital was a blessing, as I at least didnât have to worry about him selling me further down the river. He and Mom, in their last act of married unity, synchronized their stories about the fractured knee, and then called it quits. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that little chat.
My main memories of those two weeks when I was under suspicion are of moving from one spartanly furnished room to another-a cell, a motel room or an interrogation room. I was what youâd now call a person of interest, living in a legal netherworld, neither free nor in custody. I remember eating mostly takeout Chinese or pizza, and having to hide in the bathroom when it was delivered. I remember always having to dial 9 before phone calls to my lawyer, and there was this chestnut-colored kiss-curl wig given to me by a woman from the RCMP. I was to wear it when we drove from place to place, but no matter how many times we rinsed it, it smelled like a thrift store. Potential angry mobs or not, it was stupid and I chucked it in the trash. There was this one interrogation room that smelled like cherry cola, and everywhere, the same yearbook photos being endlessly recycled on TV and
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