by Ron Thompson
We sat in the dark contemplating my close call. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “That was kind of a Sydney Carton moment. A sacrifice.” “It was. I owe you.”
He was silent again. The train had passed, its horn now wailing at Poplar Lake, not us.
“Then you sacrifice something. Give something up.” He meant something more than Claire, whom I had surrendered forever the moment I confessed.
“Give something up, and do something for me, too. Then we’re even. And we’re done.” “Name it, and I’ll do it.”
“Tammy and me are finished. She won’t have anything to do with me now. And she shouldn’t. But she likes you. I know she does. I know you like her too.”
“I always did,” I admitted.
“Then you give her up. Forever.” I stared at him.
“And do this for me: take her to the grad. I’m not going to go, now, and she wouldn’t go with me anyway. So you take her.”
* * *
The deluge outside had stopped. Water flowed in the eavestrough and down a spout. The house itself was quiet. Genny was very still. She looked at the yearbook photo again, at our sad, miserable faces, Tammy and me among the revellers.
“Do you have feelings for her?”
“I have feelings for you.”
“But do you still—”
“I did but that was then. That was another life. Now I have you. And I only want you.”
* * *
The morning after our near-miss with the train, I told my father and mother everything about what Hardcastle had done to Clinton (and nothing about what Claire had done with me). Dad went to speak with Claire and told her about Hardcastle. She didn’t believe him, so Dad told her about the night before, about Tammy, and me, the car, the train.
She was horrified. Her first instinct was to protect Clinton. She would keep him away from Hardcastle: he would not go back to his job; he would never have any contact with his coach again—she would see to that. She would get whatever help he needed, a doctor, a counsellor, a shrink. Whatever it took, she would see that he was well—but she would do it privately. No police, no officials, no courts. She wanted to spare Clinton the anguish, the humiliation of having everything come out publicly. Dad reasoned with her. It was important to protect Clinton, he said, but what about others? Hardcastle had to be stopped. The police had to be brought in. They’d use discretion, they’d protect Clinton’s privacy, and that of the other victims, if there were others; but Clinton had to come forward with a complaint. He had to cooperate with the authorities.
Claire remembered how the townsfolk whispered.
We need to do what’s right here, Dad said.
For who? Claire asked.
That man has to be stopped, Dad said, before he hurts another child. Someone else’s child.
Claire grew steely and said Clinton’s welfare was the only thing she cared about.
Dad fell silent. For a moment he studied his hands, flippedthem over, looked at his scarred palms.
Clinton will never heal if this is swept under the carpet. I can guarantee you that. He has to confront his demons, the sooner the better. Or it’ll ruin him. Claire returned his gaze.
You know what almost happened in that car.
Her steely façade crumbled and she wept.
I’ll talk to him, she said.
But Clinton refused to cooperate.
We have to take this to the Mounties, Dad told Claire, and she nodded, though it was Dad who walked into the detachment and asked to speak to the Sergeant. He told him what he knew, which was what I had told him, and so the Sergeant questioned me, and I repeated what I knew. Then he talked to Clinton. But Clinton refused to say anything.
Without a witness the Mounties could not act—but they could begin an investigation. They could question Hardcastle to be sure he knew they were on to him. It would stop him from abusing anyone else.
He denied everything. His indignation was profound, so profound as to cast doubt on those who had raised such vile aspersions. Who is it? he blustered—some kid who never made the grade? Someone who resents what we’ve done here for the kids of Poplar Lake?
Rumours spread that there was an investigation underway and police inquiries about Hardcastle. The town rallied to his defense. He had stores of goodwill from the championships he had won. People knew about the teams he had led, the young players he had mentored. Nonsense, they said. A good man.
Through those early days he kept up appearances. That was why he was at my graduation, handing me the math proficiency award he had sponsored for years. From our expressions in the yearbook photo taken at the ceremony, we would both have rather shaken a rattlesnake’s neck than the other’s hand. It was a small town. Word had gotten out that it was my father who had come forward with the allegations. Rumour was that I was the anonymous complainant—the so-called victim, the jealous kid who had never made the grade. Reggie Lafleur told everyone he always knew I was a fag. Others joined in the name calling. They followed me down the hall at school; they nudged and shoved me on the stairs; they trailed me home. Always, the names, whispered in passing or thrown in my face, but I kept my mouth shut. Sticks and stones and all that; but I can attest that words do hurt.
And then, just after school ended, Clinton had his true Sydney Carton moment. He went to the police and told them everything. By then he must have known it would be impossible to keep his identity secret. In early July, the Mounties charged Hardcastle with abusing a minor, and everyone in town soon knew the minor was Clinton. The Mounties tried to get other victims to come forward—they were sure there were more—but no one did. Hardcastle fought back with character references and testimonials from hockey and football officials and players he had coached.
Claire Sturgis left Poplar Lake in mid-July. She had arranged a transfer to Calgary with her company. Clinton moved with her but began college in the States in the autumn. He returned to Poplar Lake only once, in the following year, and that was to testify against Hardcastle. In the end, one other complainant came forward, a former Ice Dog who had gone on to play minor pro hockey before flaming out at twenty-six, spent on drugs andbooze and rage and guilt. Their testimony was enough to secure conviction. At sentencing, Hardcastle claimed that his relationships with the boys had been consensual and loving, and thus not immoral or illegal. He was sentenced to three and a half years and sent to serve it in a segregated cellblock for sex offenders. His wife divorced him, his business closed. The question in town was, who knew? No one answered. New coaches came forward to take Hardcastle’s place, and safeguards were put in place to ensure that no minor could ever again be abused by a sexual predator. On the streets of Poplar Lake there was consensus about these measures. The last thing Poplarites wanted was some pervert converting their kids into homosexuals.
* * *
Genny wanted to say something, but it was lost in a fit ofcoughing. Still, she kept trying, and her splutter became a choking hack, her face grew red. I tried to pat her back but she pushed me away, thumping her chest ineffectively to clear whatever was caught in her craw. She looked angry at this sudden indisposition, but still kept trying to speak.
While she played grouse I closed my eyes to think. I felt relief at getting these memories off my own chest. They had been buried deep, and I had not wanted to dig them up; but this trip with Genny, her questions about Poplar Lake and my past, had brought them to the surface and forced me to confront them. At long last, I had looked into the abyss—and seen my hometown.
CHAPTER 24
We were up very early next morning. Victor came for breakfast, and after, when it was time to say goodbye, he wrapped Genny in a bear hug and jokingly called her Sis. She looked disconcerted when he let her go, and as he and I shadow boxed and bro-hugged she looked out the window, flickingcrumbs from the front of her blouse. Victor, nodding thoughtfully to himself, left for work.
We still had packing to finish in our room, but there was one thing I wanted to do before we left. I found my mother alone in the kitchen. “Mom?”
“Dear.”
“I want to know her name.”
“Whose?”
I hesitated. “Your daughter. My sister. What was her name?”
The colour drained from her face. She looked around for Dad, who was out tinkering with the car.
“Genny told me.”
“It was never a secret.”
“It was to me.”
“We just never talked about it.”
“I know. What was her name?”
She looked away and was silent for a moment. “Margaret. Her name was Margaret.”
“Margaret.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I want to meet her, Mom. I want to visit Margaret before we leave. I’m coming with you this morning to the cemetery.”
* * *
Our flight from Regina was in the late afternoon, but we were driving into the city early to see the sights. “What’s there to see?” Genny had asked, and we had come up with a list that included Taylor Field, home of the Roughriders, and the RCMP depot. She was not enthused by either. Only when I suggested the Legislative Building did she look interested; in fact, more than interested: she grew excited, knowing it was where her hero, Tommy Douglas, had presided over North America’s firstsocial democratic government. I imagined her walking reverently down its corridors. Perhaps she would bedazzle a security guard with her smile, and he would walk her through the legislative chamber, which was not in use in summer. She would stop at Tommy’s desk and run a hand across its wooden top. She would listen for the echo of his voice, and the security man (who might even be a Tory) would understand completely.
We were packed and ready to go by ten. “Why don’t I drive, Dad?” I suggested reasonably before he could get behind the wheel. “It’ll give you a chance to check out the crops. And you’ll be rested up for the drive home.”
“Okay. One condition. Drive careful.”
“Always do.”
“You always do.” He flipped me the keys and grinned andwent around to the passenger side to take what he called the codriver seat—were the car a Sherman tank. I knew he would perform the role of co-driver diligently. In between observations on the weather and the state of the prairie farm economy, he would faithfully scan ahead for road rubbish, dead skunks, and German armour deployed in ambush.
I glanced around to the back seat to see if anyone had noticed my manoeuvre—frankly, if Dad were driving, we should have left the night before—but Mom and Genny were chatting away like old friends. No, not like friends: like mother and daughter. And observing them, I marvelled at Genny. In the rear view mirror I saw the look in my mother’s eyes. I had seen that look in the eyes of many we had met on our journey across the Shield. It was the look given her by the porter at her college in Oxford; by the green grocer on my street in London; and by cooks and waitresses, bus boys, delivery men, nurses, clerks, and sales associates—working stiffs all, regular Joes and Janes without pretension. It was the look people got when they realized that Genny was on their side, that she had no agenda beyond compassion. It was adoration, understanding, a sudden recognition of the goodness of humanity in general and of this, its beautiful paragon, in particular.
But why was she with me? Time and again I had asked myself that question. I had pondered it incessantly since we first discussed Africa. She was so certain in everything she did. I was her antithesis.
Surely I would disappoint her, and fail her, as I had failed Clinton. Was I destined to fail everyone I loved? Was I even capable, the way I was, of love?
That was still an open question, at least for me; but I would try.
We would be in Toronto late that night, and I would return to London the following day to move out of my flat and prepare for Africa. Genny would not join me for a week, as she was travelling on to Nova Scotia to visit her family. Back in England, when we were planning our trip, I had proposed coming with her. That way, on this one trip, we would finally meet eachother’s parents. But she had laughed and replied that one set of parents was quite enough for one trip. It was her idea that we go overland to Saskatchewan and spend time in Poplar Lake. Next trip I’ll take you go to Antigonish, she’d said, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Okay,” I conceded, worried she was catching a cold.
* * *
The sky that morning was crystal blue, unmarred by vapour trail or cloud. Sunlight twinkled off puddles filled by theovernight storm. As we rolled out of Poplar Lake and onto the prairie, I looked back at the town in the rear view mirror, feeling a deep inner peace, one I had not felt in years. There was my hometown, marked by Progress, scarred by change, a microcosm of the world, a grab-bag of humanity—of victims, scoundrels and saints; of the pure of heart, the gullible and naïve, the manipulative, cruel, and conniving; the here-to-stay, the gone-tomorrow. They had all left their imprint on the town. They had built it, this Shangri-La, this Salem, this shining city without a hill, this Hamelin, this Jerusalem, this Gomorrah, this Zion; a place as decent and petty and prurient as any place on earth; an Eden, if you avoided the snakes—or stood up to them.
I gazed on the town in reverse, wondering at the events of my own life. For years I had borne my guilt and confusion from those times in silence, alone; trying to forget and feeling I should have seen what was happening to Clinton, that I should have recognized Hardcastle for what he was. If I had been able to read between the lines like a normal person, to interpret the body language, the signs, the looks, I might have realized what was going on. But I was incapable of that, and I had failed Clinton as a result.
What was it about me? It seemed I would always have that puzzle to ponder.
The previous night, after I had confessed all, we had talked for a long time. “I was blind to it,” I told her. “Blind to what Hardcastle was doing to him.”
“Do you hear yourself? When you talk about him, and when you talk about her? What Hardcastle did to Clinton, what Claire did with you.”
“Listen, what I had with Claire—”
“You make it sound like ‘love.’ Bullshit. You were a kid and she abused you. You were abused. There was no consent. No meaningful consent. What she did was wrong on every level. There’s a double standard in this. It’s always there. What is it that makes it okay in one case and not the other?”
Her voice caught, and she swiped a hand across her eyes, and I realized she was shaking, that her posture was rigid, her fists balled.
“I don’t have anything to apologize to you for.”
“No.” She took a deep breath. When she spoke again her voice was calm. “Not me. But why do you feel guilty? What exactly are you guilty of? And are you telling me it has nothing to do with Claire?”
The question hung between us for a long time before I could respond.
“I already told you I failed Clinton. Failed, betrayed, you can call it what you want. I know what I did.”
When I could speak again—she comforting me, holding me close—I said, “I don’t want to fail you, Genny. I worry about that. I worry what I’m made of.”
“Shhh. That’s just being human, baby. There’s nothing in that that sets you apart.”
A few minutes later I tried again. “Doing something is better than doing nothing. But I didn’t do anything . . . because I couldn’t see what Hardcastle was up to. I didn’t recognize the pattern, what was going on right beneath my nose. And because I so obviously didn’t get it, Clinton saw that I was vulnerable. If he hadn’t sacrificed himself I would’ve been a victim too.”
“Listen to me,” Genny said. “Clinton didn’t sacrifice himself for you or anyone. What happened to him was awful. He was manipulated and abused. So were you, by the way. I know you don’t see that right now, but you thin
k about it.” She waved off an interjection. “Just focus on Clinton. He wasn’t powerless. Not in that situation. He needed to take a stand and he didn’t, and it screwed him up. Maybe for life. But you came through when you needed to. That night, out in that car, you stayed with him, and by doing that . . . you saved his life.”
I would never see it that way. It was not that simple. That night, the thought of getting out of the car did not even occur to me. I had no thoughts of myself, of life or death, the future. Knowing that I had abandoned him before, I had only one thought: that I could not abandon him again.
Still, what Genny said helped. It made my guilt more bearable. And I no longer bore it by myself. I was beginning to gain perspective, to see things through another’s eyes. I had never been able to do so before.
I looked away from the mirror at the road ahead and marvelled at my good fortune.
I thought back to one of our first dinners, almost a weekbefore, soon after our arrival in Poplar Lake. Although I had tried to ignore it, to deny the obvious, my mother was a well of resentment towards Genny. It drew, of course, on an aquifer of protective love, but I witnessed its churlish manifestation. Who, she must have wondered, was this pretty stranger with the strong opinions, this vixen who had cast a spell over her most impressionable, most vulnerable son? Edie would show her what her family was made of. Her eyes settled on Victor. Yes, he could be counted upon. She invited him to tell a joke.
Victor surveyed the table, gauging his audience, assessing his material. Mom looked on, beaming and thinking: Well, Toots, you’ll see what we’re made of now.
Finally Victor cleared his throat. “Okay. I’ve got one. There’s a train traveling through the Rockies. On it, there’s a Saskatchewan farmer, a Quebec separatist, a little old lady, and a blonde girl with big breasts. The train goes into a dark tunnel, and a few seconds later there’s the sound of a loud slap.
