One or the Other by John McFetridge

they were French, I guess so.”
    â€œAnyway,” Dougherty said, starting to get annoyed and looking to shock his little brother, “they’re not missing anymore, they were killed.”
    Tommy said, “That’s too bad,” with no emotion.
    â€œAre you sure you’re not stoned?”
    â€œWhy, you want some?”
    Dougherty looked around the rec room and got the feeling Tommy was the only one who ever spent any time there. Their sister, Cheryl, had graduated high school and moved out a couple years before, and Tommy was the only kid left at home. The place felt cold.
    â€œOkay, I’m going to wait upstairs.”
    Tommy said, “Okay,” but didn’t make a move to follow.
    In the kitchen, Dougherty looked out the back window at the apple tree his mother had planted that never had any apples. He saw she hadn’t started any work in the garden, but he wasn’t sure if it was time for that yet or not.
    Music started up in the basement again, loud and aggressive. When he could make out the words, Dougherty was pretty sure it was something about fly by night, away from here, and then something about my ship isn’t coming and I just can’t pretend.
    Dougherty walked into the living room and looked out the big picture window onto Patricia Street. Both sides of the street were lined with the side-by-side two-storey red-brick houses with flat roofs, small front lawns and driveways. It did feel far from city life, Dougherty agreed with that, but that was the point. He watched a car drive along the street, stop at the corner and disappear up Fairfield, and he thought he could understand Tommy’s feeling like he was ready to get out, but Dougherty was starting to think that he was ready to come back to a place like this.
    He doubted it was something Judy was thinking about these days, though.
    The back door opened then, and Dougherty’s mother came in, saying, “Édouard, what are you doing here?”
    â€œI was in the neighbourhood.”
    Dougherty’s father was coming in then, too, and he said, “Well, this is a nice surprise.”
    â€œSupper in half an hour,” his mother said.
    Dougherty’s father made a couple of rum and Cokes, and they sat at the kitchen table while his mother put a ham in the oven and got the potatoes on to boil. They talked about work for a while, both his parents with the phone company, his mother working as a clerk in the east end and his father building switchboards and installing them in office buildings. His father complained about the traffic on the bridge and the possibility of another strike.
    Dougherty said, “This summer?”
    â€œMaybe in the fall,” his father said. “Seems like everybody’s on strike. Nurses, teachers, post office.”
    â€œUsing the Olympics for pressure. I’m surprised you guys aren’t talking about going out sooner.”
    â€œToo much overtime getting ready for the games.” Then he said, “What brought you out here?”
    â€œI’m working,” Dougherty said. “On a homicide.”
    â€œDetective?”
    â€œNothing official,” Dougherty said. “Acting detective.”
    Dougherty’s mother said, “Like your father, longest-serving acting foreman at the Bell.”
    His father said, “Not this week.”
    â€œIt’s the union work,” his mother said. “None of the ones who started the lineman’s union got promoted.”
    â€œWas the homicide on the south shore?” His father clearly didn’t want to talk about his own job.
    â€œIt was two kids,” Dougherty said, “high school students. They were at a concert at Place des Nations, and then the bodies were found in the river.” He glanced at his mother as he said that, but she was at the sink cutting up carrots and he couldn’t see her face. “We’re not sure where they went into the river. But they were