The Ravine by Paul Quarrington

then.”
    “Why? Were you a Cub, too?”
    “I was the scoutmaster for many years.”
    “You were the guy who held Akela? The guy with the really bony knees?”
    “Yes. Yes, that’s me. Not
too
bony.”
    “No, no. Not at all. I just remember they were a little bony. It’s Phil. Little Philip McQuigge. Don’t you remember me?”
    “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Phil. There were just so many young lads over the years.”
    “I wore glasses. Really, really thick ones.”
    “There were several boys who wore spectacles.”
    “I was stocky.
Husky
was the word they used back then. My mom bought all my clothes from the Boy’s
Husky
section at Eaton’s.”
    “Mmmm … I’m so sorry.”
    “I had a brother named Jay.”
    “Oh, yes! I remember Jay.”
    “Really?”
    “Oh, yes, Jay. He would play the piano in the rectory. He would come over often, to the church, and he would play the piano. Once or twice we even let him have a go at the organ, mind you, back then we couldn’t afford a real pipe organ, still can’t, although we have mounted a campaign, a drive, perhaps you might care to donate a few dollars?”
    “Jay would go over to the church?”
    “Yes.
McQuigge
, that’s right, it’s coming back to me now. A strange name. Jay McQuigge. You boys didn’t have a father.”
    “Well, we were rankers. Rankers don’t really have fathers.”
    “Er, ah, beg your pardon?”
    “Sorry. I just meant, yes, we had no father.”
    “Was your mother a divorcée?”
    “No, a widow. My father died. In a car accident. He sailed a blood-red Edsel into an abutment of the Diamond Bridge. Remember the Diamond Bridge?”
    “Yes indeed. How old were you when this happened?”
    “Oh, I was young. Four. Nobody really knows much about it. There was no evidence of steering failure, the weather was good, and back then there was no such thing as blood-alcohol levels, so there’s no way of knowing what happened. I have to admit, Bill, that I have entertained the notion that he suicided. I entertain the notion especially late at night, especially these days.”
    “Especially these days?”
    “It is not insignificant to me that my father died while crossing the Don River. My father died going through the ravine.”
    “Ah. The ravine can be a very dangerous place.”
    “Who are you, Bill?”
    “Who am I in what sense, Phil?”
    “Well, you tell me you were the scoutmaster, and I remember a tall man with a tallow complexion, clutching the broomstick that held the plastic wolf’s head. I remember your knuckles would blanch, that’s how seriously you undertook that task. You were a kindly man, but you didn’t say much.”
    “I see. Yes. That sounds like me, all right.”
    “You showed me how to tie knots. And I was good at it, the best in the whole troop.”
    “Pack.”
    “Yes, the best in the whole pack. That’s probably the thing I’m best at in life, tying knots.”
    “What is it you do for a living, Phil?”
    “Oh … I’m in the television business. I was. Writer slash producer.”
    “Anything I might know?”
    “Did you ever watch
Padre?”
    “Yes, indeed. In fact, that show is the only reason my grandchildren find me in the least bit
with it.”
    “You actually cradled the phone under your chin and made those little quote marks when you said that, didn’t you?”
    “Now that you mention it, I did!”
    “So, what are you talking about, anyway? Why did my show alter your grandchildren’s perception of you?”
    “Well, you know. Because I too am a man of the cloth.”
    “Yipes!!”
    “Hmm?”
    “You’re a priest?”
    “We don’t have priests in the United Church of Canada, Phil. You know that, don’t you?”
    “And all the time you were holding that wolf’s head—Akela, dib dib dib—you were a priest?”
    “A minister. Retired now, but they can’t seem to clear me out of the place. I attend to the clerical work, I answer the telephones, check the messages … so what is the deal here, Phil? You and this