by Thomas King
“Check generator,” says Wapi.
Louis lumbers out across the plaza towards the reserve, Wapi hard on his heels. Enola hangs back for a moment, hugging herself against the evening chill.
“Don’t think I could live the way you do.”
I stay on the bench, watch Enola cut through the grass and catch up with her father and her cousin, wait to see if the plaza woman will appear again.
When she doesn’t, I get to my feet and make my way to the hotel.
6
Oliver Flood is waiting for me in the lobby.
“You’re late.”
Rover and Spot swing in behind, tighten up against me. Flood leads the way to the elevator.
“Didn’t your parents teach you to be punctual?”
The elevator in the Plaza Hotel is the original mechanism. As such, it is both ornate and cramped. If there’s a weight limit, then we have certainly exceeded it.
“They don’t make them like this anymore,” says Flood. “Thank god.”
We get off at the top floor. Halfway down the corridor, Rover stops me and Spot pats me down. He is not at all gentle but stops short of breaking bones. As it is, I’ll only have bruises.
“I’m told,” says Flood, “that Elvis stayed here.”
Elvis never stayed at the Plaza. But a few years back, the local Rotary Club organized an Elvis-impersonator night to kick off the hockey season and to raise money for a dialysis machine.
Elvis on ice.
That night, twenty-seven Elvises, of varying skill levels, showed up at the local rink. One guy slipped on the ice and wrecked a knee. Another sprained a wrist.
The best of the Elvises, a nineteen-year-old from Saskatoon, won five hundred dollars and a night on the top floor of the Plaza. The Gleaming Advertiser declared the event a “stunning success.”
And it was never repeated.
Flood stops in front of a door, holds the card key against the sensor, and waits for the light to turn green. Then in we go, leaving Spot and Rover to guard the empty hallway.
The suite is turn-of-the-century extravagant. High ceilings, heavy drapes, parquet floors, uncomfortable furniture. There is a long table against one wall with silver serving trays and an ornate coffee urn.
Flood goes to the connecting door. Knocks and waits, stands there like a statue, eternally patient.
And then the door opens.
The woman is the same woman I saw earlier. She’s older than I had supposed. Late-thirties. Honey blonde. Blue eyes. Slender. No makeup. Casually dressed. Black slacks and a silver blouse.
“Jeremiah Camp.”
She doesn’t bother shaking hands, goes directly to one of the wingback chairs and sits. I do the same. Flood brings her a cup of coffee. I wait for him to bring me a cup as well.
“You knew my father.”
Ash Locken. Heir apparent to the Locken fortune. Charter member of the Three Comma Club.
“With his death, responsibility for the Realm has fallen to me.” Locken pauses, in case I want to offer my condolences. “Transitions are never seamless,” she says, “and several matters have come to light that need explanation and resolution.”
I get out of the chair and wander over to the trays. Maple soy-glazed salmon. Wild rice with dried cranberries and pecans. Yamashita spinach. An avocado caprese salad with several dressing options.
“And in this regard, I wish to engage your skills.”
By the time I’ve worked my way past the appetizers and the entrees to the chocolates and the fresh strawberries, I discover I’m no longer hungry. I leave my plate on the table, help myself to a cup of coffee, and go back to the chair.
“You worked for my father for almost thirty years.” Locken tilts her head, as though this is a question. “And then you quit. Quite suddenly.”
Flood slips into the adjoining room and disappears.
“My father thought highly of you, Forecaster. In particular, of your ability to predict the future.”
I can’t predict the future. Thomas Locken knew that. Ash Locken knows it as well.
“Of course, no one can predict the future,” she continues. “But you have a unique talent. For seeing patterns.”
Flood reappears, a manila envelope in his hand.
“When I went through my father’s things, I discovered a set of files that he had kept separate from everything else. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Special projects he was working on. Creative financial arrangements with other corporations, politicians. Countries. Most of it not unexpected.”
Locken nods. Flood hands me the envelope.
“And then there was this.”
Inside the envelope is a single sheet of paper.
“This was in a file by itself,” says Locken.
On the sheet is a list of twelve names, each in a large, bold font. Easy to read. Double-spaced. At the bottom of the page is a handwritten note.
“I’m sure you recognize everyone.”
I do. Thomas Locken and eleven other of the richest and most powerful individuals in the world.
“In fact,” she says, “I believe you created this particular list.”
Locken goes to the table and helps herself to a chocolate and two strawberries. “And given recent events, I’m sure you might expect that I would be curious.”
I’m not curious. I’m bored. I stand up slowly, so as not to startle Flood, and move towards the door.
Flood moves quickly to intercept me.
Locken stays him with a gesture.
“You’re right, Forecaster,” she says. “It is late.” The chocolate and the strawberries on her plate are untouched. “There’s no rush. We can finish this conversation later.”
I wait for the rhetorical turn, for the veiled threat to make an appearance. Instead, Locken walks back to the adjoining door, pauses at the threshold.
“It’s been a pleasure,” she says.
I CAN GET HOME by myself, but Flood insists that Rover and Spot see me safely back to the school. Spot walks ahead on point, while Rover protects me from adulterous mayors and hairy bakers.
They take me as far as the porch. I don’t thank them or say goodbye, don’t invite them in for coffee and cookies, and so far as I can tell, this does not hurt our relationship.
A full moon hangs over the graveyard and lights the crosses. There is symbolism here if you believe in that sort of thing.
I don’t.
In the moonlight, along the river, I can see the silhouettes of crows hunkered down in the trees. I know that they have not gathered here for my benefit, are not concerned about my safe return.
But they are a comforting sight, nonetheless.
7
Morning comes early and bright as a pearl, and all of yesterday is forgiven.
The simple life. The quiet life. The unattached life. The life that never quite works out that way.
Breakfast. Walk into town. Brownie. Coffee. Listen to Florence read the news. Go out to the edge of the escarpment and watch the river plunge over the edge of the world. Return in time for lunch and a nap. Replace another cross or two in the graveyard. Chisel a stone. Dinner and bed.
Repeat.
Today I’m feeling hopeful. For no discernable reason. Perhaps I’ll nod to Iku Takahashi, consider her binoculars. I might even pet Koala. Pick up a gâteau basque along with the brownie and surprise Swannie. Try to explain to Florence what I used to do for a living.
Buy a television.
The cat is waiting for me when I get to the kitchen. She is sitting on the table, next to a pile of cat puke.
Okay. Reality restored.
I clean up the mess, pad my way upstairs, and get into the shower. Under the hot water, I work on the problem that has found me.
Oliver Flood.
Ash Locken.
Thomas Locken and the list of names.
I stay there until the water begins to turn, and I’m forced into the cool air and a cold towel. As soon as I step out of the shower, the
cat appears, goes immediately to the drain, begins licking at the standing water.
I’m not sure that lapping up grey water and citrus-scented shampoo is a good idea, and I consider saying something.
But then she did puke on the table.
THE RIVER PATH is busy. I don’t see Takahashi and her pooch, but I have to dodge bicycles and step out of the way of joggers, who pound by me on their way to plantar fasciitis, bone spurs, and compression fractures.
Several couples are dressed in matching running outfits. A dress code for exercise seems excessive, but exercise is, after all, big business. Why not look good while you sweat?
The bakery is crowded, the line snaking out the door. Swannie is behind the pastry display, stuffing sugary treats into boxes and bags. I check to see if there are any brownies left.
“Jerry.”
Mayor Bob and his wife. Cathy or Taffy. A thick woman. Bottle blonde, rumoured to have had major renovations.
“You’ve met my wife, Paula,” he says.
I nod. Up ahead, someone has taken three of the brownies. Now there are only five left.
“I’m going to make you an offer,” says Loomis, trying to channel Vito Corleone, “that you can’t refuse.”
“Make sure he doesn’t cheat you,” says Paula.
I check the display case. Now there are only three.
The mayor puts his arm around his wife. “Don’t know why you insist we come here,” he whispers. “Timmy’s has a better selection and better prices.”
In addition to the real estate company, Mayor Bob also owns the two Tim Hortons in town.
“Sure,” says Paula. “If you want frozen lumps of lard.”
“Canadian company,” says Bob. “Buy local.”
“Company hasn’t been Canadian since 1995,” says Paula.
“You see those wasps.” Bob pokes a finger at a trio of yellow jackets crawling across the eclairs. “That doesn’t happen at a Timmy’s.”
“Woman makes the best pastries around.” Paula points her chin at Swannie. “But I wish to hell she’d shave her underarms.”
By the time I get in the door, there are only two brownies left, and I have to use all of my mental abilities to dissuade the people in front of me from taking them.
“Ha,” says Swannie when I finally get to the register. “You see? Today the brownies, they are gone. Poof.”
There’s one left, hiding at the end of the tray. I point it out.
Swannie frowns and puts her hands on her hips. “Such the lucky one,” she says, and drops the last brownie into a bag. “Today, you must buy the lottery.”
Mayor Bob stops me at the door. “Come by the office,” he says. “Take a look at the model. Give us a chance to talk about the future.”
THE SUN IS SHINING brightly, and for the first time in a long while, the air is warm. As I pass by the Plaza Hotel, I glance in the window of the dining room, and there she is.
Ash Locken.
She sits at a table, alone. No Oliver Flood. No Spot. No Rover. Today, Locken is wearing a print dress with a dark jacket. It is probably a trick of light through glass, but she looks younger now than she did the night before.
And softer.
A pleasant mouth. Impatient eyes. Long, elegant fingers that glow in the muted light of the restaurant.
Standing on the sidewalk looking in at Locken, I sense something familiar. Something shared. An echo in the body.
If I wait long enough, perhaps what it is will come to me.
Behind me, there’s a low sound, and when I turn, I see Roman Moosonee. He’s in the bandstand. With his horn. He’s playing “Smile.” Softly. A step lower than normal, the notes on the bottom sounding like moans. He sways from side to side, as though he’s trying to find a balance.
I come back to the window, but now Locken is gone, the table empty, the chair pushed back, the napkin dropped on the plate as casually as a child might drop a toy on the floor.
Sadness. That’s what it was. The echo. A deep, unyielding sadness.
Roman leans against the railing, tips the horn up to the open sky. The music spills out into the sunshine like warm rain thrown into the air. I stand on the sidewalk and listen as he chases the song through a landscape of silences and long notes before turning effortlessly and finding his way home.
THE PIGGY IS BUSY. The Three Bears are at the back table. Enola and Wapi are looking at something on Wapi’s tablet. Nutty Moosonee and Ada Stillday are huddled together by the window.
“You’re late,” Florence calls out as I come in the door. “That better be my brownie.”
I try to look contrite.
“When my sisters and me did something we weren’t supposed to do,” says Florence, “we’d put on that same face.”
I give remorseful a try.
“My father would line us up and ask who was responsible. Course we kept our mouths shut. He’d pace back and forth, hoping to wear us down.”
I take the brownie out of the bag. So Florence can see that no crime has been committed.
“‘Monuments of Injured Innocence.’” Florence shakes her head so her cheeks flop about, and she lowers her voice. “My father had a flair for the dramatic. ‘Monuments of Injured Innocence.’”
After Reggie died, everyone thought that Florence would stop teaching and carry on with the restaurant. Breakfast, lunch. Breakfast, lunch. Just as before. She had helped out at the Piggy on weekends, so she knew the recipes, knew the business.
But that’s not what happened.
LOUIS TAPS THE TABLE with his spoon. “I’m telling you,” he says, “another twenty-five years of global warming, and Venice won’t be there.”
“Global warming,” says Wapi.
“Along with Key West, Bangladesh, the Seychelles, Tonga, and the Maldives.” Louis ticks each place off on his fingers. “As well as large parts of Miami, Vancouver, New Orleans, and Halifax.”
“Global warming,” says Wapi.
“Course,” says Louis, “there are still a lot of people who don’t believe in global warming.”
What happened was Florence closed the Piggy. The restaurant was Reggie’s dream, she told everyone, not hers. There was speculation that she would sell the place and move away. But that’s not what happened either.
“Global warming doesn’t care if you believe in it or not.” Enola slaps Wapi’s shoulder. “Right, little bear?”
“Global warming,” says Wapi.
Louis holds his cup up in a toast. “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”
I stand at the counter and cut the brownie in half. Florence waits for the machine to get back up to temperature.
“News, blues, and comfortable shoes,” she says, her voice filling the room. “In Barcelona, peaceful demonstrations have turned into running battles with the police as activists continue to press for Catalan independence.”
“You’re too slow for a running battle,” Enola tells her father. “Best you could manage is a walking skirmish.”
“I can move when I need to move.”
Florence doesn’t break stride. “In California, a scientist has suggested that the arsenic-resistant bacteria and nematodes at Mono Lake may be from outer space.”
“What I hear,” says Louis, “most of California is from outer space.”
“Outer space,” says Wapi.
“While in Toronto, the body of Amanda Cho was found in her suite at the Four Seasons.”
Florence wipes the milk residue off the steam wand.
“Cho was the head of the Phoenix and Dagon Consortium. According to her publicist, she was in Toronto on a shopping trip. Foul play is not suspected.”
I stand at the counter and wait for my macchiato.
“Here at home,” says Florence, “Indian Affairs has agreed to deal with the mould problem in the trailers.”
“About time,” Ada pipes up from the back. “Maybe they’ll actually do something for a change.”
“That’s the spirit,” says Nutty
. “Little optimism never hurt nothing.”
Florence slaps the deck of cards on the counter next to my elbow. “You think good thoughts,” she says, “you get a good card.”
I shuffle the deck and turn over the Nine of Cups. Happiness.
“If I were you,” says Florence, “I’d consider picking another card.”
AFTER REGGIE DIED and the Piggy closed, Florence took early retirement from her job at the high school and moved into the back of the restaurant.
To hide away from the world, to live in memories of the past.
But Nutty and Ada were having none of that. They had gotten used to the good times at the Piggy, so in spite of the sign in the window saying the restaurant was closed, the two of them would arrive each morning with the expectation that, if they couldn’t get fed, they could at least get coffee.
Each day Florence would shoo them away, and each morning they would return, until finally she let them in and cranked up the espresso machine. And while she had no interest in restarting the restaurant, she discovered that she did enjoy morning coffee in the company of friends.
I FINISH MY COFFEE and eat my share of the brownie, while Enola and Louis and Wapi debate alien nematodes and global warming. Florence joins Nutty and Ada.
I stand at the edge of the conversations and work through the new patterns that have appeared. Thomas Locken. The arrival of his daughter. Fabrice Gloor. Amanda Cho. The list.
And then I follow the shadows to the door and slip out into the day.
8
Matthews Hardware is an institution in Gleaming.
The business was started by Old Man Matthews, who had emigrated to Canada from Scotland. Old Man wasn’t his first name, but that’s what everyone in town called him, and if he did have a first name, it got lost somewhere along the way.
According to Nutty, who knows these things, Old Man Matthews’s oldest son, Vincent, took over from his father. Vincent’s boy Ian was next in line, but Ian decided he had better prospects raising farmed salmon in British Columbia than selling hammers and garden hoses in Gleaming.
And so, Matthews Hardware passed from Vincent to his daughter.
