place.
We
may have discussed all this aloud at the time. But our decision was ultimately
based not on any sober deliberation. It was a reaction we were locked into from
the moment Randy's light found our music teacher's body in the darkness. Our
instinct to cover up, to hide, to pretend we were never there was instant and
inarguable. It was our first real summoning of the masculine talent for
non-disclosure. We were becoming men. Becoming gravediggers.
----
[7]
He
assumes it was only a side effect of grief, a Parkinson's hallucination, some
aftertaste of Halloween graveyard imagery brought back from a tale told with a flashlight
under one of our chins thirty years ago. Whatever it was, Randy doesn't believe
I saw Carl. If I mentioned I also saw the boy from the Thurman house, a ghoul
who spoke directly to my thoughts (an observation I make a point of not making), he wouldn't have believed that either. If I'd told him about the boy,
he might now be taking me to be admitted to Grimshaw General's psych ward and
not walking through the town's streets, dusk falling around us like tiny
charcoal leaves.
"Why
would he run?" Randy asks for the third time.
"I
didn't get a chance to ask."
"But
whoever you saw wasn't just avoiding you. He was, like, gone."
"Maybe
he didn't want to see us. Maybe he's sick and he doesn't want anyone to know.
Maybe he's not himself anymore."
"Or
the law is after him."
"There's
that too."
Randy
carries on to the corner and rounds it. For a moment, it appears that he is
about to slip away into nothing just as Carl—or the boy—did.
"Where
you going?" I call after him.
"Where
do you think?" he shouts back from the other side of what was, at one
time, Brad Wickenheiser's hedgerow.
"You
don't think Carl is—"
"Not there" he says, not giving me the chance to say "Caledonia
Street" or "the Thurman place." "I'm going to Jake's."
"I'll
get the first round."
"And
an extra one for Ben."
"That's
right," I say when Randy comes back to loop an arm over my shoulders.
"An extra glass for the watchman."
"Ben
was part Irish, wasn't he?" Randy asks as we head into Jake's Pool 'n'
Sports, shaking the rain off our coats.
"I
think his dad was. Or his grandfather. Or something."
"It'll
do."
"For
what?"
"A
wake."
Tracey
Flanagan is our waitress again. From across the room she gives us a comically
triumphant thumbs-up as we assume our positions at what is now "our
table," the two of us hopping atop the same stools as the night before.
She giggles at Randy, who mimes thirst, his tongue out and hands clutched to
his throat.
"I
took the liberty," she says as she comes to us, pitcher in one hand, mugs
in the other.
"I
believe we'll be requiring the assistance of Bushmills shots as well today,
Tracey," Randy says in a leprechaun accent.
"I'm
sorry," Tracey says, with genuine sympathy. "Mr. McAuliffe was a
friend of all yours, right? On the Guardians?"
"He
was a hockey friend of your dad's," I answer. "But to us, he was a
brother. Maybe even closer than that."
Tracey
purses her lips, correctly reading that I'm not pulling her leg. I've just told
her something intimate, and she acknowledges the honour with an eyes-closed
nod.
"I'll
get those whiskeys," she says.
After
we toast Ben, the conversation moves to the topic of Sarah.
"She
looked good," Randy observes. "Then again, she always looked good.
You see a ring on her finger?"
"Like
a wedding ring? As if that would stop you."
"We're
not talking about me."
"I
don't remember."
"Bullshit."
"Okay,
she wasn't."
"It's
open season, then."
"She's
not an elk, Randy."
"I'm
just saying you're here, she's here. Old
We
may have discussed all this aloud at the time. But our decision was ultimately
based not on any sober deliberation. It was a reaction we were locked into from
the moment Randy's light found our music teacher's body in the darkness. Our
instinct to cover up, to hide, to pretend we were never there was instant and
inarguable. It was our first real summoning of the masculine talent for
non-disclosure. We were becoming men. Becoming gravediggers.
----
[7]
He
assumes it was only a side effect of grief, a Parkinson's hallucination, some
aftertaste of Halloween graveyard imagery brought back from a tale told with a flashlight
under one of our chins thirty years ago. Whatever it was, Randy doesn't believe
I saw Carl. If I mentioned I also saw the boy from the Thurman house, a ghoul
who spoke directly to my thoughts (an observation I make a point of not making), he wouldn't have believed that either. If I'd told him about the boy,
he might now be taking me to be admitted to Grimshaw General's psych ward and
not walking through the town's streets, dusk falling around us like tiny
charcoal leaves.
"Why
would he run?" Randy asks for the third time.
"I
didn't get a chance to ask."
"But
whoever you saw wasn't just avoiding you. He was, like, gone."
"Maybe
he didn't want to see us. Maybe he's sick and he doesn't want anyone to know.
Maybe he's not himself anymore."
"Or
the law is after him."
"There's
that too."
Randy
carries on to the corner and rounds it. For a moment, it appears that he is
about to slip away into nothing just as Carl—or the boy—did.
"Where
you going?" I call after him.
"Where
do you think?" he shouts back from the other side of what was, at one
time, Brad Wickenheiser's hedgerow.
"You
don't think Carl is—"
"Not there" he says, not giving me the chance to say "Caledonia
Street" or "the Thurman place." "I'm going to Jake's."
"I'll
get the first round."
"And
an extra one for Ben."
"That's
right," I say when Randy comes back to loop an arm over my shoulders.
"An extra glass for the watchman."
"Ben
was part Irish, wasn't he?" Randy asks as we head into Jake's Pool 'n'
Sports, shaking the rain off our coats.
"I
think his dad was. Or his grandfather. Or something."
"It'll
do."
"For
what?"
"A
wake."
Tracey
Flanagan is our waitress again. From across the room she gives us a comically
triumphant thumbs-up as we assume our positions at what is now "our
table," the two of us hopping atop the same stools as the night before.
She giggles at Randy, who mimes thirst, his tongue out and hands clutched to
his throat.
"I
took the liberty," she says as she comes to us, pitcher in one hand, mugs
in the other.
"I
believe we'll be requiring the assistance of Bushmills shots as well today,
Tracey," Randy says in a leprechaun accent.
"I'm
sorry," Tracey says, with genuine sympathy. "Mr. McAuliffe was a
friend of all yours, right? On the Guardians?"
"He
was a hockey friend of your dad's," I answer. "But to us, he was a
brother. Maybe even closer than that."
Tracey
purses her lips, correctly reading that I'm not pulling her leg. I've just told
her something intimate, and she acknowledges the honour with an eyes-closed
nod.
"I'll
get those whiskeys," she says.
After
we toast Ben, the conversation moves to the topic of Sarah.
"She
looked good," Randy observes. "Then again, she always looked good.
You see a ring on her finger?"
"Like
a wedding ring? As if that would stop you."
"We're
not talking about me."
"I
don't remember."
"Bullshit."
"Okay,
she wasn't."
"It's
open season, then."
"She's
not an elk, Randy."
"I'm
just saying you're here, she's here. Old
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