Sufferance

by Thomas King

  I put the brownie on the counter.

  “Almost missed the news,” says Florence. “Lucky for you, I was busy with paying customers.”

  Enola waves me over. “You should try this.”

  “Very sketchy,” says Louis.

  “No, no,” says Enola. “Here, have a go.”

  “It’s a website that predicts how you’re going to die,” says Louis. “You answer a bunch of questions, and then a mainframe somewhere in the Ukraine comes up with a completely fallacious scenario.”

  Enola whacks her father on the shoulder. “It said you were going to die in your bed.”

  “Very sketchy,” says Louis.

  Florence taps a spoon against the side of the espresso machine to get everyone’s attention. “News, blues, and comfortable shoes.”

  “Shoes,” says Wapi.

  “On the international scene, U.S. forces in Turkey have shot down an Aeroflot plane on its way to Greece with 210 passengers on board. A spokesperson in Adana says that the incident is under investigation.”

  “We hardly pay any attention to how we live,” says Louis, “but we’re willing to consult a computer as to how we’ll die?”

  “In Vancouver, a Heiltsuk man and his twelve-year-old granddaughter were arrested at a Bank of Montreal branch when he tried to open an account for her.”

  “There’s also a site that can tell you if you will be successful,” says Enola.

  “Bank officials called the police because of the large amount of the cheque, and because he was Native.”

  “And another one that can predict whom you will marry.”

  “I added the ‘because he was Native’ part,” says Florence. “Both the man and his granddaughter were arrested and handcuffed, but later released, with bank officials blaming the incident on ‘mitigating circumstances.’”

  “My daughter did the marriage one,” says Louis, “and the prediction was that she would marry a rich woman.”

  “Which was an error,” says Enola, “since I’m not gay.”

  “Not what the computer says,” says Louis.

  “The fact that the man had been a customer at that particular branch for over six years,” says Florence, “didn’t seem to matter.”

  “You know, all those things are just scams,” says Louis. “Data mining. They want your email address, your phone number, your social insurance number.”

  “We get calls at the office all the time,” says Enola. “Clean our ducts, threats from ‘Revenue Canada,’ alerts that our credit cards have been compromised.”

  “We used to get letters from Nubian princesses,” says Louis, “who just happen to have millions of dollars they want to share with someone like you.”

  “The new capitalism,” says Enola.

  “Meet the new boss,” says Louis.

  “Same as the old boss,” says Enola.

  “While here at home,” says Florence, ignoring the interruptions, “the annual Gleaming Spring Festival is right around the corner.”

  Louis sits up straight. “Don’t get me started.”

  “Mayor can’t find any money to help with the water and hydro,” says Enola, “but he’s got enough to hire a drum and dancers from Curve Lake to play at the festival.”

  “Thought Roman and the Clay Pigeons were going to do that,” says Florence.

  “They are,” says Enola. “There’s even talk of Harold and Ester’s boy, Marlon, coming down from the Cape with his hoops.”

  Wapi begins working his tablet.

  “Rumour is,” says Enola, “that the Curve Lake drum is going to do an honour song for his worshipness.”

  “Maybe we should make him an honorary chief,” says Louis. “Give him an Indian name.”

  “Wasn’t there a radio show that gave away authentic Indian names?”

  “There was,” says Louis, “but CBC cancelled it.”

  Florence disappears into the kitchen. I sit on the stool and drink my macchiato. Wapi finds a video on hoop dancing, and the Three Bears huddle around the tablet as the sound of the drum and the voices of the singers fill the café.

  I leave my half of the brownie on the counter. There are days when all the caffeine and sweetness in the world are not enough.

  33

  I haven’t worked in the graveyard for a while, and it takes some time to find the rhythm. I go to work on the stone for William Benson. It’s a long name for the stone, and I have to draw William on one line and Benson on the other. There is a moment when I’m tempted to shorten the name and save myself some work. Maybe his friends called him Willie or Will or Bill.

  But then I remind myself that I’m in no rush. I have all the time in the world. And if I dig around a bit, I can always find a larger stone.

  I NEVER KNEW WHY my mother left the reserve, never understood why she died. One day she was there, and the next she wasn’t.

  Foster-care roulette until I was eighteen. Smart enough to get a scholarship. Dumb enough to think that the world owed me something.

  And in all those years, I never came back to Cradle River. Part of me believed that, in some way, the reserve was responsible for my mother’s leaving, that the reserve was responsible for her death. By the time I was an adult, there was nothing left in my memory to anchor me to the place.

  And then Thomas Locken bought the old school and the graveyard and gave the property to me.

  He would have known my history. Locken loved to keep track of that sort of information. If he knew where a person came from, if he knew their biography, he felt he could predict how they would conduct themselves in business and in their personal affairs.

  Maybe he gave me the school in an effort to connect me to my past. Maybe he didn’t think the adage “you can’t go home again” would apply. Maybe he just liked the irony and wanted to see what I would do with it.

  I’VE JUST FINISHED the first L in William when Oliver Flood walks out of the trees and into the sunshine. I half expect that he will turn to dust the moment the light hits him.

  But he doesn’t.

  “Do you know the epitaph on Mary Oliver’s gravestone?”

  I erase the second L and redraw it.

  “‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’” Flood takes off his hat and runs a handkerchief around the sweatband. “I met her once. At a reading in Provincetown.”

  I put my goggles on and strike the chisel with the mallet. Pieces of stone and dust fly into the air like tiny birds. The sound of the steel on stone echoes in the quiet afternoon.

  “I’m impressed,” says Flood. “All these crosses, all these stones.”

  I move the chisel along the length of the letter, striking each time I shift position. I imagine that I’m keeping time with a song.

  “And when you’re done, what will you have accomplished?”

  I set the chisel to one side. It’s clear that ignoring Flood will not drive him away.

  “I hear you have a full house.”

  Flood takes a plastic key card out of his pocket and drops it on the ground.

  “We’ve reserved a room for you at the Plaza. Away from the madding crowd. Someplace where we can talk in private. Tonight. If you can find the time.”

  Flood stares into the trees.

  “You got a lot of crows,” he says. “They’re god’s spies, you know. Supposed to be a symbol of bad luck.”

  I brush off the stone, check the chisel marks.

  “Though how yours could get any worse is beyond me.”

  Flood walks through the graveyard in a circle. When he gets back to where I am sitting on the ground, he stops.

  “Course, crows are also nature’s survivors,” he says, “so I suppose that’s cause for optimism.”

  The edge of the L is uneven. I pick up the chisel and begin to straighten the line, and when I stop again and look up, Flood is gone.

  I’M PULLING UP another cross when Lala arrives back from school, running ahead of her mother.

 
“Pop-Up!”

  My arm aches and I can’t feel the fingers in my chisel hand.

  “Can I try?”

  “Leave Mr. Camp alone while he’s working.”

  “I can draw,” says Lala. “I can draw my name.”

  Lala opens her backpack and takes out a pencil. She sits down next to one of the river rocks and writes her name on the stone.

  “See.”

  “Come on, honey,” says Emma. “I think there’s some hot chocolate.”

  Lala heads for the school at a run. “And toast?” she shouts over her shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mr. Camp.” Emma follows her daughter. “You don’t know how much Lala enjoys your walking her to school.”

  Toast.

  Damn. That’s what I’ve forgotten. Groceries. I put the chisel and the mallet to one side, slip the key card into a pocket. I stand up and brush off my pants.

  I don’t need a list. We need everything.

  DINO’S HAS GOOD RED GRAPES. The cantaloupes look serviceable. The bananas are a little on the green side, but they’ll ripen up quickly. Hamburger, a large box of spaghetti, and bread, along with butter and cereal and milk. Everything barely fits into two large shopping bags, which weigh as much as buckets of water.

  Halfway home, I realize that I don’t have nearly enough to feed everyone at the school. To do that, I’d need a functioning truck.

  The light is beginning to drop. When I get back to the cemetery, I put the bags down for the moment, find my eraser, and scrub Lala’s name off the stone.

  I’m not a superstitious man, but I see no point in taking a chance.

  NUTTY AND ADA AND LALA are at the kitchen table. I put the bags of groceries on the counter.

  “About time,” says Ada. “You get cookies?”

  I put everything away. I’m not sure why I bother. It’ll be gone by tomorrow.

  “Emma’s making up a batch of chili at the café,” says Nutty. “She’s going to feed the Neighbours there.”

  “’Cause this kitchen ain’t got enough room,” says Ada.

  “That’s not nice,” says Nutty. “Jeremiah is doing the best he can.”

  “What happened to my toast?” says Lala. “I have to have toast with my chocolate.”

  A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN, Emma and the Neighbours return.

  “I would have brought you some chili,” Emma tells me, “but there was barely enough as it was.”

  Wes and Autumn introduce me to their kids.

  “This is Zorina,” says Autumn, “our oldest.”

  “Zoe,” says Zorina.

  “Zoe’s my best friend,” says Lala. “She’s nicer than Linda.”

  “And these are the twins, Nicholas and Nicodemus.” Wes pats the head of each boy in turn.

  “Nick,” says Nicholas.

  “Nico,” says Nicodemus.

  “We’ll try to be as quiet as we can,” says Autumn, “but you know kids.”

  There’s standing room only in the kitchen. I retreat to the porch with the dogs.

  “Watch out for Diesel,” Wes warns me. “He tends to be nervous around strangers.”

  He’s not the only one.

  One of the Neighbours comes up with a guitar that needs to be tuned, and someone starts singing “Hotel California.” I check my pocket to make sure the key card that Flood gave me is still there.

  Then I pick my way past the dogs and slip out the back door.

  34

  I walk to the middle of the graveyard before I stop and turn back to the school. The windows are alive with light, and I can hear the guitar and the jangle of voices trying to keep time and tune. The night is colder than I thought it would be, but I’m not about to go back and get a heavier jacket.

  Emma and Lala. Nutty and Ada. Wes and Autumn and Jimmy and the rest of the Neighbours.

  The dogs.

  I may never go back.

  I wouldn’t have asked for a room at the hotel, certainly wouldn’t have spent money on it, but given the circumstances, I’m not unhappy that I have a place to go, where I can close the door and lock out the world.

  Of course, that’s what the school was supposed to be, and look what happened to that plan.

  “Sounds like they’re having a good time.”

  Roman Moosonee. Standing at the edge of the graveyard in the shadow of the trees.

  “They kick you out?”

  I can’t tell if Roman is drunk or sad. Or both.

  “Every asshole with a guitar plays that song.”

  I didn’t leave the school so I could have a heart-to-heart with Roman.

  “Looks like you and me are the same,” says Roman. “Nobody wants us, and we don’t fucking well need anyone.”

  In the school, the village people have started in on “Blowin’ in the Wind,” the guitar and the voices in different keys.

  Roman smiles and shakes his head. “Whatever gets you through the night,” he says.

  I turn away and start to town.

  “What do you think?” Roman leans against the tree. “If I stay here long enough, you think she’ll find me?”

  THE BANDSTAND IS ALIVE. Someone has set up a modest sound system. Big band tunes. People dancing. There’s a sandwich board in the park that says “Moonlight Cabaret.”

  I look, and if there is a moon, I can’t see it.

  I recognize Eddie Ott and his wife and Maidie Matthews and her husband. Dino Kiazzie is there, and so is Swannie Gagnon. Bob Loomis is standing at the stairs to the bandstand, shaking hands and passing out buttons.

  I’m already in the lobby before I realize that I don’t know my room number. I take the card out, but there’s no help there. It’s just a piece of white plastic.

  “Top floor.”

  I hadn’t sensed Oliver Flood’s presence, but there he is, standing at my side.

  “You have the River Suite.” Flood leads the way to the elevators. “Penthouse view.”

  Spot and Rover are waiting for us. Spot steps forward and I feel my body tense, but Flood waves him off.

  “Mr. Camp is our guest,” says Flood, and Spot and Rover have a quick smile between themselves, as though this is an inside joke.

  THE SUITE IS SPACIOUS and has a view of the river.

  “Get settled and join me at the bar,” says Flood. “We have much to discuss.”

  I have little interest in joining Oliver Flood at the bar. My interest is in ordering room service and locking the door.

  Flood stops at the door. “And in case you’ve not heard, Kommer Heineken is dead.”

  THE BAR AT THE PLAZA HOTEL is a relic of the 1920s. It reminds me a bit of the Owl Bar in Baltimore. Or Chumley’s in Greenwich Village. Southport Lanes in Chicago. Dark wood. Mahogany leather. Tarnished brass. The stylish spaces in the world that absorb light and sound.

  Flood is sitting at a corner table, looking like a character from an old gangster movie.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Flood arranges his cellphone so that it’s parallel to his napkin. “The special is prime rib with Yorkshire pudding.”

  I find the most expensive single malt on the bar menu and order a double shot.

  “I have no idea why they call it Yorkshire pudding,” says Flood. “It’s just a big dinner roll.”

  I’m not going to drink the whisky. I’m not a drinker. But the glass gives me something I can move around on the table. As I listen to what Flood has to say.

  “So, now the circle is complete.” In the dull light of the bar, Flood suddenly looks grey and spent. “Twelve people on a list. All of them dead. Remarkable, don’t you think?”

  I swirl the amber liquor around in the glass. Curious that something so pleasant a colour should taste so awful.

  “I saw what you sent Ms. Locken.” Flood takes a long, deep breath. As though he’s about to dive underwater. “Quite astute, and mostly correct. I’m intrigued as to how you came to your conclusions.”

  Whisky gets its colour from the charred white-oak barrels in which it’s s
tored.

  “The two questions at this point are what are we to do with your forecast? And what are we to do with you?”

  And because alcohol is a solvent, it leaches pigment from the wood. The longer the whisky is in the barrel, the darker the colour.

  “I will say that Ms. Locken and I are divided on the answer.”

  But over time, barrels lose their ability to colour, so many manufacturers add a small amount of spirit caramel, or E150 as it’s known in the business, to the mix.

  “Ms. Locken sees you as a potential asset, while I fear that you will become a liability. The former is problematic at best. The latter, unacceptable.”

  In general, whisky is made from five different grains. Corn, oats, wheat, barley, and rye.

  “What to do?” Flood rearranges the napkin and the phone. “What to do?”

  No one knows who invented the distillation process for the making of whisky. Historically, the Scots or the Irish get the credit.

  “She hopes to further engage your skills, while I would prefer to kill you.”

  But it’s quite possible that the Vikings brought the process with them on their travels to the west coast of Scotland, or that seventh-century Irish monks carried it back with them from their travels to the Mediterranean.

  “I thought I would ask you for your opinion.”

  The phone on the table vibrates. Flood glances at the screen. I amuse myself, swirl the whisky around in the glass, let the glow from the candle set off the highlights.

  Flood pushes the chair back and stands up. “We are summoned.”

  I leave the glass where it is.

  Flood stares at me in disbelief. “You’re not going to drink that?”

  There must be a time-honoured language of signs common to saloons. Flood gestures to the bartender, and the man gestures back. For a moment, I think they intend to put the drink in a carry-out bag.

  Flood makes a gun with his fingers and aims it at my head. “Come along, Forecaster,” he says, “before I change my mind.”

  35

  Ash Locken is waiting for us in the suite. She looks comfortable in the wingback chair.

  Flood points his chin at me. “He ordered a double twenty-five-year-old Macallan and didn’t drink it.”

  Locken crosses her legs at the ankles. “Oh my,” she says. “Perhaps you should go and rescue the wee beastie while Mr. Camp and I talk.”