Savage Gerry

by John Jantunen

  Savage Gerry

  A Novel

  John Jantunen

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Drake

  Epigraph

  The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

  — Willian Faulkner

  1

  Four Harleys led the way. Their riders were clad all in black leather and had shaven heads, their faces painted as white as bone and their mouths tattooed with the imprint of skeletal grins so that they more resembled ghouls than men. They rode two by two under a star-fraught sky carrying hell’s own thunder along this country road, its two lanes enshrouded by spruce and pine and cedar trees broken at intervals by scattered settlements — groups of four or five houses clustered around gas stations and country stores and shuttered motels, their gravel driveways and unmowed lawns enclosing domiciles as dark as tombs. At their approach twitches, like nervous ticks, parted the drape of curtained windows, revealing prying eyes widened in muted horror as if these were but the vanguard for an army of the vengeful dead, or the crest of a wave they expected to rear up at any moment and whelm them under.

  Onwards they rode ever north, espying none of the palpitations spurned in their wake, blind to the world beyond the scour of their headlights upon the blacktop ahead. At last they passed a lone bungalow moored some ten feet above the road upon a granite ledge. The house was fashioned out of wood panels the colour of honey and roofed with cedar shake and had an expansive porch cobbled together out of chinked logs. From its rails hung crudely embossed signs — Folk Art and Mennonite Furniture and Live Bait and Ice Cream and Cold Drinks and Fireworks! — and above these there perched a smattering of woodland creatures: a brace of squirrels upraised on their hinds and chipmunks poised in furious ascent along its vertical beams, a martin caught mid-slink and frogs mid-croak, racoons rearing with expressions of curious bemuse from each of its posts. Amongst them their creator sat hunched over in a pine rocking chair. He was an old man, clean shaven and wearing a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt and a wide-brimmed hat made of straw and banded by sweat. In his right hand he held a hook-bladed carving knife and was using this to tease his latest creation from the block of rock maple in his lap, neither that nor the shavings scattered about his slippered feet giving any clue as to what it might become. Another chipmunk perhaps, or maybe a squirrel (and why not?). As the motorcycles sounded their trumpet, he looked up with the idle contempt of someone who’s seen everything and wouldn’t at all have been surprised if the devil himself had appeared at the foot of his stairs proffering to him his heart’s content, which at that moment wouldn’t have amounted to anything more than an ice-cold bottle of beer.

  The Harleys had barely passed when there arose a splash of light and a rumble from beyond the southward bend in the road. These heralded the approach of a transport truck hauling a flatbed trailer on which loomed an excavator of a size amenable to moving mountains. Lounged upon its treads were a half dozen men and there were others sitting in precarious recline on the roof of its cab, all of them cradling rifles of a military grade and drawing on cigarettes with the plaintive deliberation of soldiers being carried off to war. Hitched behind that was a second trailer. It was smaller than the first and lit with spans of Christmas lights strung between the steel posts affixed to its corners. Within their festive glow the old carver could see it had been furnished to resemble a parlour now set to rocking and reeling with a motley assemblage of musicians: two men with fiddles on a couch and a man with a banjo sitting in an easy chair, another hammering at the keys of an upright piano and one plucking at the strings of a stand-up bass, a sixth astride a three-legged stool, pounding out a chaotic rhythm on a snare drum and cymbal. They were all garbed in the vestments of simple country folk — dungarees, coveralls and plain white T-shirts or bare-chested — and one of them was singing, the old man could not tell of which. All he could make out of the song itself was a single line, sung thrice with the exuberant lilt of an old-timey barn hall jig.

  Raise a little hell, raise a little hell, raise a little hell!

  The voice and the music were both then swallowed by the gust of wind spurned by the trailer’s passing and the old man turned towards the bend in the road again, seeking out with plaintive eyes any wonders this night might yet still behold. A moment later there was another splash of light and this heralded the approach of a white cube van, unremarkable except that it was followed by another grim rider, a perfect duplicate of the ones that had come before save for the flagpole affixed to the back of his seat. From this there billowed a standard emblazoned with a green and leafy tree cast upon a hilltop against a diffusion of reds and oranges such as might colour the sky approaching dusk.

  The old man knew then whence this strange caravan had come and the only thing left unresolved was the matter of where it was going. He barely had a breath to ponder on that before he heard the crackling scorn of his wife’s voice straining through the screened window at his back.

  What in the devil was that all about? she asked and her husband turned northward, scanning the road and probing deeply of its dark, searching out any and all of its possible ends.

  I do believe, he said at last, they’re headed for the prison.

  2

  He awoke with Millie’s voice still ringing in his head.

  Gerald! she cried, startling him awake from the dream and into the dark, his hands flailing, reaching out as if he meant to comfort her and finding only a cement wall, its cold and hard so at odds with her warm and soft that he was at a sudden loss to explain where he might have been.

  His head ached as if it had been pressed into a vice and his tongue throbbed like a slug baking in the sun. When he inhaled, the air was enlivened by the stench of rotting meat, so rank he could hardly breathe, and only then did he remember where he was: locked in a prison cell with a dead man. He could hear the thrum of flies, and the traipse of them over his cheeks and within his bushman’s beard spoke to him of his own future, no different than Orville Gates’s, all two hundred and eighty pounds of whom lay stretched beneath a blanket against the back wall of the cell, dead now these past five days.

  The stench of his putrefaction had soured the air with such a pungency that it seemed to have impregnated Gerald’s lips and his tongue, his very skin, curing him like a gutted pig strung from the rafters in his grandfather’s smokehouse. As he rolled over, burying
his face in his pillow, he clung to this memory, conjuring in his mind the subtle waft of porcine-infused smoke seeping from its chimney, recalling how his grandfather always used white oak when smoking his hogs. There weren’t a wood that burned cleaner, he’d told Gerald no more than a week after he’d come to live with the old man on his farm at the end of Stull Street, Gerald then a boy of seven. His grandfather explaining, Everything else would be like if we used swamp water to make lemonade. The old man swore he could tell by the subtle variations in the smoke’s flavour the exact moment the meat was cured and when the time was drawing nigh he’d circle the smokehouse following its drift, his nose upraised, stopping every now and again to flick his tongue against the cleft in his top lip with the deft precision of a lizard, as if when the meat was ready he’d be able to taste it.

  Gerald peppering this reminiscence with a myriad of details as if through sheer force of imagination he might be able to trick the stench into abeyance. The swish of timothy grass against his legs as he followed his grandfather’s endless circling. The crunch of pebbles beneath his shoes as he traversed the pile behind the smokehouse, left over from when the old man had dug the new well. The taste of clover which Gerald would suckle from the flower’s multiform spikes, same as his grandfather, who’d told him that the sweet perfume of its nectar cleansed the palate. Grasshoppers knocking against his legs and the pinch of their claws when one landed on his arm. The electric whine of cicadas from the woods and the trollop of frogsong from the ditch along the road, the restless fret of chickens scratching for grubs in the yard. How, whenever his grandfather stopped to take a whiff, his right hand would come to rest on the butt of the Smith & Wesson revolver holstered on his belt, which he always wore though it had been years since he’d retired from the RCMP. His left hand would scratch at the scruff of his beard and he’d look ever so much like a sheriff catching a whiff of trouble on the horizon in one of those old westerns they used to watch.

  On and on he went but no matter how he inhabited the memory he couldn’t inure his thoughts to the embalming force of Orville’s decay. His right hand, in the meantime, had slipped beneath his undershirt and had come to rest on the plastic laminated shell encasing the picture hung around his neck on a shoelace. He had the sudden urge to pull it out but was stalled in this, as he was whenever he felt the sudden urge to chance a look at his son, by the recollection of a piece of prison wisdom a sixty-year-old lifer had imparted to him during his first week at the Central North Correctional Centre.

  There is nothing more painful than days of joy recollected in days of misery, he’d said and if truer words had ever been spoken, Gerald had never heard them.

  But it was the endless stretch of the three life sentences ahead of him that had lent the adage its veracity. He hadn’t seen a guard for going on a week and it was by then painfully clear to him that his present future didn’t add up to more than a couple days, three at most. Not that it really mattered since the cell was about as dark as a coffin and he wouldn’t be able to see the photo anyway. So he left it were it was, biding his time drumming his fingers on its shell and conjuring into his mind the image of his son on the picture that his wife, Millie, had taken to mark the boy’s fifth birthday, one of the thirteen she’d taken every June fifth since he’d been born. They were all snapped from the same spot, her standing on the front porch of their cabin and Evers on the boulder at the end of the outcropping of rock that stretched thirty feet into the lake.

  Gerald himself had given her the idea on the day Evers had turned one.

  To mark the occasion, they’d hiked the two kilometres from their house to Beausilake (what his grandfather had called it since the lake had no designation on any map and the family name was Beausoleil). Seen from above, the lake resembled an elongated foot imprinted in the granite, ringed red with iron deposits leached from the rock, its heel calloused by the ridge — some fifty feet high — that banked the northern edge and its toes forming a series of coves nestled amongst the firs crowding the shoreline to the south. It was around the biggest of these that his great-grandfather had built seven one-room cabins, one for himself and his wife in the middle and three for his daughters on the left and three for his sons on the right. None of them, nor their offspring, had been to the lake for years by then and the middle cabin, which Gerald’s grandfather had claimed for his own, was the only one that hadn’t been let fall into ruin.

  Millie had just come out of its front door after stowing her pack inside. Evers was standing on the boulder, slapping his knees and shouting, Bah!, which he always did to express his joy. Gerald, who’d just put him there, was standing a few feet off, ready to spring to the rescue if it looked like he was about to fall. The picture she took was the only one of the thirteen with Gerald in it. She’d just surprised him by shouting, Say cheese!, and he was looking directly at the camera with an expression that had always seemed strangely lost and forlorn and at complete odds with Gerald’s memory of that day, which he’d always counted as one of his happiest. Evers’s expression was one of reckless abandon. His right foot was upraised, about to take that one step over the edge, heedless of the four-foot drop onto bedrock. The moment after she’d snapped the picture, Millie had screamed, Evers!, and that had shocked Gerald back to life. Panic gripped, he lunged for the boy, catching him as he fell, holding him then cradled in his arms, Evers giggling like some sort of infant lunatic, unaware of the fright he’d just caused his parents.

  Millie had later framed the photo and put it on the mantel in their living room. Every year thereafter she’d added another and each spoke to one facet of the boy so that it had come to seem to Gerald that when he was looking at them all together he could almost catch a glimpse of the man his son might one day become.

  His favourite of them all was the one she’d taken when he was five.

  He’d carved Evers a bow out of rock maple and had given it to him as a present along with the best twelve arrows he’d rooted out of his grandfather’s supply in the shed. Millie had stitched him a quiver out of her old purple suede jacket, the same jacket she’d been wearing the night she’d followed Gerald home from the Legion in Capreol, a year to the day after he’d buried his grandfather. She was plenty drunk and he drunker still. Seeing the coat hanging from the back of the chair in his bedroom upon awaking the next morning had come as much of a surprise to him as had been the woman cooking eggs in the kitchen after he’d finally stumbled downstairs.

  In the picture, Evers was up on the rock, the quiver slung over his bare chest, the arrows’ feathers lashing against his cheek, and he had the bow raised up over his head in his right hand. His mouth was open in a bestial roar and his eyes were narrowed to slits and he’d never look more fierce or wild than he did standing on the boulder just then. The picture spoke to Gerald better than any of the others as to the man he hoped his son would one day become and whenever he passed by the picture on the mantel he couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch it, whispering a quiet invocation to himself, May he never lose that spirit.

  He was doing the same now, exhaling the words with the solemn determination of a dying man speaking his last, and those apparently rousing his other cellmate, Jules.

  You say something? Jules asked in a hushed voice, though that seemed like an antiquated sort of luxury, held over from a time when talking after lights out might earn the censure of a guard, all of whom, as far as Gerald knew, had long since abandoned them.

  Gerald!

  His voice had risen a notch, veering towards panic, but Gerald wasn’t in the mood for talking and responded by holding his breath as if playing at a game of hide-and-seek, a vain effort locked as he was in a cement box, six feet by ten.

  After a moment he heard Jules’s rasp as he inhaled through the door’s slot. The last guard they’d seen, a man by the name of Foley, had left it open in clear violation of prison protocol, though it seemed a tender sort of mercy now. Beforehand, he’d slipped
each of them a plastic-wrapped emergency ration and a bottle of water — their last — and Jules, for about the hundredth time over the past four weeks, had asked if there was any news about why the prison’s main power had gone out. Foley seemed reluctant to talk about that, or had been ordered not to, and answered as he always did by saying, That’s a mystery all right. But don’t you worry about that. It’ll be back on any day now.

  He’d turned to leave and Orville had called after him, asking for his insulin shot.

  Shoot, Foley’d said, I forgot about that. I’ll be right back.

  He’d added, Don’t you go anywhere now, his good humour while he said it meant to assure Orville that it was just a mere oversight, nothing to worry himself about. Except Foley hadn’t returned and a few hours later the emergency lights in the hall had gone out too so Gerald knew the prison’s emergency generator had finally quit. Orville had died that night, panting like a sick dog and then passing without a sound except for a faint hiss like air leaking through a pinprick in an inner tube.

  The next morning Gerald had awoken to the buzzing of flies and the day after to a crunching noise like caterpillars ravaging a tree, though he’d only wished it was that. The room had shortly become overwhelmed with the acrid stench of rotting meat and ever since Jules hadn’t moved an inch from the door’s open slot, idling his time drinking deeply of the air from the unit’s common area.

  Gerald, Jules prodded again. Are you there?

  Exhaled in a carefully measured stream, the air whistled a strained harmony through Gerald’s nostrils.

  Yeah, he said, though it only felt half the truth. I’m here.

  I can’t take it anymore. The smell. I can’t, I can’t— I can’t fucking take it anymore.

  A couple more days.

  What?

  It’ll only be a couple more days.

  What do you mean? Until someone comes and lets us out?