Savage Gerry

by John Jantunen

  Evers had taken to staring back down the path and was again tonguing the gap between his teeth.

  She’ll come around, he said, looking over at Gerald though it was plain he was really just talking to himself. All she needs is a little time. She’ll come around, I know she will.

  48

  They finished tacking up the Typar together, neither speaking beyond the demands of the job until Evers had popped in the last staple.

  I guess we’ll call that lunch, he said. Prime rib and potato or spicy sausage? Soup, I mean.

  Spicy’s good, Gerald answered, his primary complaint about prison food being that it was mostly flavourless where he’d always preferred a bit of heat.

  Spicy it is, Evers answered. I’ll go fetch it if you’ll get the fire started.

  Will do.

  There was still a good bed of coals and it didn’t take more than a couple of blows to ignite the loose weave of birch bark and kindling he’d stacked over it. While Evers opened the cans of soup, Gerald stood, stretching out his back and gazing down at the lake.

  Why don’t you go on and take a swim while it heats up, Evers said, setting the second can on the rack and licking the juice off his fingers.

  Do I smell that bad?

  No. I mean— Evers’s face was pinched and he’d clearly not meant it that way. You always said you liked nothing better than a cool dip on a hot day.

  You’re sure right about that.

  Gerald peeled off his shirt. His back was to Evers and when he glanced over his shoulder the boy was staring at him with an expression of grim despair, seeing the scars the bear had left like lashes from a whip on either side of his spine, maybe blaming himself. When he saw he’d been caught looking Evers averted his gaze, idling his discomfort by rooting around in the pile of quartered logs, apparently searching for the perfect one.

  Gerald stripped off his pants and set those on the closest upended log. When he placed the laminated photograph on top he looked back at Evers but he was prodding at the fire with a piece of kindling and didn’t seem to have noticed.

  A few seconds later, Gerald was taking a running dive off the peninsula. The lake was fed by a series of underground springs and even at the end of August the water was still cool enough to take his breath away. He came up with his skin riddled in goosebumps, wiping the water out of his eyes and up over his head, feeling more than a little like his old self. When his vision cleared, he could see Evers standing at the log where he’d left his clothes. He was holding the picture between both hands and gazing down upon it, Gerald watching him but too far away to tell of his expression.

  He dove again and swam underwater all the way back to the steep slope of granite feeding onto the peninsula, his fingers running along the algae-slicked rock and finding the crack just below the surface of the water where it always was. Taking hold of that he thrust upwards, clawing his hands ahead and snagging hold of a lip in the stone, using that to drag himself onto dry land. Steam was rising from his skin as he walked back towards the fire.

  Evers gave him a curious sideways glance while Gerald was reaching for his shorts.

  I always wondered if you’d gotten that, Evers said, holding up the photo to make his meaning clear as Gerald got dressed.

  It was the damndest thing, I tellya. It was Charlie Wilkes gave it to me. He visited me one time—

  Oh, I know. I was the one who sent him.

  Then seeing the look of confusion on Gerald’s face.

  He didn’t tell you?

  He didn’t say a damn word. Just left it with a guard.

  That son of a bitch.

  He is that. When’d you see Charlie Wilkes?

  He dropped by the foster home after your trial. Said he was just checking in. I gave him the picture then.

  And you told him to give it to me?

  Figured it was the least he owed you, after you’d done gone and saved his life and all.

  It was true. It was only three days after Gerald had killed the bear that Charlie Wilkes had found it and tracked them to their cave. Gerald was laid up in their cubby, dying maybe. He’d got the fever and had been in and out of consciousness. He’d awoken one afternoon to find his face mashed into the floor of the cave, someone kneeling on his back, zip-tying his hands.

  He didn’t know it was Charlie Wilkes until after the cop had rolled him over and grabbed him by the scruff of his hair, wrenching his body up to a sit.

  Where’s Everett? he’d growled.

  Gerald responded by spitting in his face and Charlie had given his hand a twist hard enough that Gerald could feel the roots of his hair snapping between the cop’s fingers.

  Where is he?!

  That’s when Gerald had heard the click of a gun cocking. Charlie had heard it too. He spun around and there he was staring down the barrel of that old Smith & Wesson — the same gun that had killed two of his sons. That veil of steely-eyed resolve had cemented itself on Evers’s face and Gerald knew beyond a sliver of a doubt that the boy was less than a breath away from pulling the trigger. He’d have been a cold-blooded killer then too, and what kind of a father would he have been if he’d let that happen?

  So he’d kicked out with all his remaining strength, striking Charlie in the back and sending him reeling forward, knocking into Evers and the gun going off, the shot ping!ing harmlessly off the cave’s wall. The last thing Gerald remembered before he passed out was Charlie on top of Evers, punching him in the face. It was this memory of his son that he’d carried with him to jail and looking at Evers now he knew it was then that he must have lost his tooth.

  And he’s never had it fixed.

  Knowing that meant something but he wasn’t sure exactly what.

  Gerald must have been staring at it for Evers had closed his mouth, hiding the tooth and maybe his own shame for the way things had played out. Gerald was trying to think of what he might say to ease his pain yet unable to see a way around all those years he’d spent believing Charlie had given the picture to him out of spite, to show him what he’d lost, while really it was just his son trying to reach out to him.

  And here was Evers reaching out to him again.

  You’ve been wearing it around your neck all these years? he asked.

  I guess I have.

  Evers looking down at the picture again, staring deeply into its depths as if trying to divine the hidden significance of that. He seemed to have reached some conclusion for when he looked back up at Gerald, he was holding it out and then seemed to reconsider.

  You know, he said, I got the others inside.

  The others?

  The other twelve pictures Mo—

  He choked on the word and shook his head, gritting his teeth and turning away, looking like he was about to cry.

  She’d have wanted them to be together, Gerald offered and Evers forced a strained smile.

  I’d bet you’re right about that.

  49

  The photographs were lined up on a shelf tacked to the far wall in Marguerite, what they’d always called the cabin right of centre, that being the name of Gerald’s great-grandfather’s oldest daughter.

  The shelf was made of a single slat of the same wood as the walls and had been secured with new roofing nails so Gerald knew Evers had built it himself. Otherwise, the cabin was empty except for a sleeping bag unfurled on the floor and a backpack spilling over with an odd assortment of shirts and pants.

  It was Mr. Mills who brought them to me, Evers was saying as Gerald approached the shelf. Instead of a gap where the fifth picture should have been here was the familiar cover of Savage Gerry: Canadian Outlaw and the mad-dog eyes — his own — glaring at him through the prison door’s slot were enough to check his step.

  Rudy Mills? he asked, using that as an excuse to look away from the book.

  He used to drop by every couple of months w
hen I was at the foster home, Evers answered, stopping beside his father. Take me out to Burger King, the go-karts, stuff like that. Always gave me a folded-up ten dollar bill before he left just like he did after I fetched him his eggs.

  That sounds like Rudy all right.

  Funny, I ran into him the other day when I was in town. He’s the one who gave us all that soup.

  Hearing him say that a clear image formed in Gerald’s mind of how Rudy had been smiling at him last night, veiled and secretive. It had seemed foreboding to him at the time but he now saw it was quite the opposite. Rudy had simply been revelling in his own personal delight imagining the reunion shortly to come.

  Never did tell me where he got the photos from, Evers was saying.

  Probably just took them from the mantel in the living room, Gerald offered.

  That’s what I figured.

  They’d been standing there all the while they talked and finally Evers clued in as to why.

  Oh, he said, sweeping forward. Let me get that.

  He plucked the book from its place and Gerald took those last few steps to the shelf. Unstringing the shoelace from the picture, he set the photo in the open space and scanned over the lot of them, from youngest to oldest, as he always did. There’d been a time when it had seemed that when he was looking at them all together he’d be able to catch a glimpse of the man his son one day might become and he saw now that had only been wishful thinking. They were all taken in good times, not bad, when it was the bad, he now saw, as much as the good that had truly made Evers into the man he’d become, a thought which led him quite naturally to another.

  It was also all the bad times you’d had which had a hand in bringing you to where you are right now too.

  Standing there beside his son, all the violence and suffering and despair he’d seen and felt seemed a world away — a dark cloud receding on the horizon, leaving him with a deep and utter longing for the prospect of countless days again filled with only blue skies and sun.

  So as he scanned down the line, coming back to the fifth in the row, it wasn’t a sense of loss he felt but a renewed sense of hope. Seeing the picture returned to its proper place, he recalled how he’d so often passed it by on the mantel in their living room and had whispered to himself, May he never lose that spirit. He saw this quiet invocation hadn’t been to his son at all, but to himself, for he knew now that it was only he who’d had the power to shape the boy into the man he’d hoped he might yet one day become. And while he might have forsaken him in his hour of greatest need, their story was far from over. There was still plenty of time for his son to become the man Gerald had always wanted him to be. That thought drawing his attention back to the first picture, seeing his younger self standing there looking lost and forlorn and Evers full of reckless abandon, about to take that one step too many.

  It was the first time Gerald had failed him, not so much because he’d almost let him fall but because of the uncertainty he’d felt at the time — about being a father and a husband — and he made a solemn promise to himself that he’d never fail his son like that again.

  Shoot, Evers was saying behind him, I forgot about that.

  When Gerald turned, Evers was bending down, picking up what appeared to be a flattened joint from the floor. It must have been in the book and had just fallen out. Evers caught him looking and, with consternation turning his father’s face into a question mark, was all of a sudden just another teenage boy whose father had discovered him trying to hide a bit of mischief.

  Wayne-Jay left it, he said a little too quickly. He said you’d probably appreciate a puff if you ever did make it back.

  That right? Gerald answered as if he didn’t believe a word.

  Evers passed it over, grimacing. It was dry and crinkled between Gerald’s fingers. He wet it between his lips and stuck it in his mouth, reaching into his pants for a lighter. While he touched flame to its end, Evers walked the book over to the lone window and propped it on the sill. He stepped back, appraising it, and then glanced over his shoulder at Gerald as if he was trying to reconcile the man’s eyes on the cover with the ones staring back at him now.

  But it wasn’t that.

  You mind if I have a puff too? he asked.

  Gerald motioned to pass it over and then reconsidered.

  Your mother said she’d skin me alive she caught me sharing a puff with you even a day before you turned eighteen.

  Well then I guess it’s lucky I turned eighteen in June.

  You sure about that?

  Pretty sure.

  What year is this anyway?

  Evers told him and Gerald made a play at counting the years out on his fingers, Evers never looking more like his mother than he did right then, scowling at him.

  Shoot, Gerald finally said, I guess you really are eighteen.

  He passed the joint over and Evers took a couple of clipped tokes before passing it back.

  In the meantime Gerald’s gaze had wandered over to the book on the window’s sill.

  You read that? he asked handing Evers the joint again.

  Evers nodded.

  It was mighty inspiring, he said and took another puff.

  Funny, I heard another fellow say the exact same thing.

  Evers was holding out what was left of the joint. It wasn’t much more than a roach and Gerald waved it off.

  Well, it’s true, Evers said as he took one last short nip and flicked what was left out through the door. Got me through quite a few rough times, I’ll tellya that.

  The downcast reflection in his eyes while he spoke testified well enough to those and that and the slowly creeping buzz lent Gerald a conciliatory mood.

  I guess maybe I’ll have to get around to reading it some day, he said.

  What, you never did?

  Gerald shook his head.

  I think you’ll be surprised, Evers offered. Then smiling wise: I know Mr. Wilkes surely was.

  How’s that?

  Mr. Asche made him out to be the bad guy.

  That right?

  He almost lost his job on account of it, way I heard. Falsifying evidence and whatnot. Roughing up people he thought were helping us. He even broke Wayne-Jay’s jaw with the butt of a rifle after he found out he was leaving us those packages of food over the winter.

  He broke his jaw?

  Uh huh. And he used to beat his wife too. He was rotten to the core, way Mr. Asche made him out.

  Gerald thought about that and it led him to thinking about something else too.

  You know I saw him yesterday, Gerald said after a moment.

  Who? Mr. Wilkes?

  When I was in town.

  He see you?

  He did.

  Evers expression blanched.

  You think he’s going to come after us again? he asked.

  There was fear in his eyes pleading with Gerald, begging him to tell him it wasn’t so. But that’d mean lying to his son and so he took a moment for himself, passing his thoughts over what had happened since he’d got out of jail and then tracking backwards to all the years he’d spent on the farm, trying to come up with a few true words to start things anew, all over again.

  At last, his thoughts settled on the first time he’d ever seen Charlie Wilkes, the day he’d come to take Gerald away from the farm for beating his son half to death. He heard his grandfather growling in his faux-western drawl and that lent Gerald, as it so often had, a measure of the old man’s unfailing resolve.

  Well, I’ll tellya one thing, he finally said with the terminal deliberation of a voice calling out to him from beyond the grave, Id’a shore like to see him try.

  Acknowledgments

  with gratitude to

  tanja, anyk & kai, for the continuing adventure

  jack david, for “it’s wonderful!”

  emily schultz
, for the light at the end of the tunnel

  &

  david birnbaum, as always

  and extra special thanks to

  the good people of capreol who shared their stories

  and sometimes their lives with us

  the del papa family, matthew, bob & cookie

  shawn robichaud

  larry & chris (next door)

  melissa, james, braxton & brody

  janet gibson & lee ann ducharme

  terry & his dog, mia

  the real gerry i met while snowshoeing

  &

  clayton crisp

  and to

  craig “shag” beattie, rick leipert, nick black

  paul hettinga (who i should have thanked before)

  craig from guelph (for coming to visit us)

  trevor hodgson, jenn gauthier & darren kaliciak

  nicholas ruddock & stephen henighan

  denis stokes & everyone at the conspiracy of 3

  ron, dale, jill, guy & richard

  roger & chris nash, rene trudeau, tom leduc & waub rice

  george “robert” jackson (who knows why)

  &

  all the fine folks at ecw press

  (but especially)

  david, peter, samantha, michel, emily (f.), elham, aymen & adrineh

  and lastly in memory of

  earl wallace brazier

  (1970-2013)

  may we never lose his spirit

  About the Author

  John Jantunen is also the author of Cipher, No Quarter, and A Desolate Splendor. He has lived in almost every region of Canada and currently lives in Kingston, Ontario.

  Copyright

  Copyright © John Jantunen, 2021

  Published by ECW Press

  665 Gerrard Street East

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2

  416-694-3348 / info@ecwpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.