Some Great Thing
Page 29
I was standing near one of the posters I had just put up and Cooper kind of put me off balance by punching the poster through the wall. Plasterboard. The ladies let out a little “owoohwoo.”
“Telling you about his son, has he?”
“It’s all right, ladies. This is Johnny Cooper. He’s been out of prison for many years.”
“These posters. What you got here, five posters in the office, eh, boss man? That’s gonna find him.”
“I want to talk to you about the project, Cooper.”
He went over and punched another Jerry through the wall.
“Could you stop punching my son, please?”
“That’s not your son, cunt boy.”
“Should we call the police, Jerry?”
“No. Whose son is he, prison boy?”
“I don’t know, tough guy.”
“What are you saying? Are you insulting my wife?”
“Your son has a mohawk.”
“What?”
“That’s right, boss man. He’s not a fuckin, not a fuckin five-year-old with a beard. He’s a fifteen-year-old with a shaved head. And I got him a nice little tattoo, on his forearm.”
“What?”
“Pair of wings.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“He was living with me.”
“Call the police.”
“You cunts call the police and I’ll eat you.”
“You kidnapped my son.”
“Fuck yourself, McGuinty. You don’t have a clue.”
“Where . . . what is going on, Cooper?”
“I looked after him. That’s what the thing is, tough guy. I looked after him for a bit. And now he’s gone.”
“Call the police.”
“What did I say?”
“Don’t call the police. Get your hand off my neck, Cooper. Get . . .”
When I caught my breath again I was able to think more clearly. I was calm. Cooper explained. I listened.
“He left me this note last week,” he said.
“‘Johnny, I’m off. Thanks, J.’
“He slept on my floor. Since he ran away he slept on my floor sometimes. That’s all I’m saying to you, golf boy. He’s got friends. But I don’t know where he’s gone.”
I DO KNOW THIS, I do know this: there’s a flower, I’ve seen it in numbers, shoots up through snow like a sword. Dirty snow, hopeless snow. In reds, oranges, yellows.
Part Five
1
COOPER LIVED OVER with the crooks in Vanier, near downtown. He had some of Jerry’s stuff but he wouldn’t let me come over and get it. If I wanted to wait outside to see if Jerry came back for it, I could, he said, but don’t expect him to send out coffee or blow me fuckin kisses. If Jerry was going to come by, he said, he’d be doing it at night.
I wanted to know how Jerry spent his days.
“He begs, I think. Mentioned a job. I don’t know.”
So I waited in my truck outside Cooper’s place every night, for months. I grabbed some McDonald’s on my way over, parked and waited from around five thirty, watching Cooper’s door until two a.m., when the radio stations got all weird and Christian. I was at the ready, hand on the handle, a soldier every night, I tell you, a sharp old cop, ready to pounce, on the lookout, FBI.
Every night Cooper slouched home from the Brasserie, never looking toward me. He was getting old. Still a piece of iron, but smaller. I never thanked him for looking after Jerry because I continue to doubt whether that man could look after anyone. I saw him trip on his top step one night—a wooden step—and he fell over. He got up slowly, approached the step again like he was hunting it, and he kicked the top board off, stomped on what was left, broke through the next step, got his leg caught, fell over again, got up screaming, went over to a wooden pillar near the step, shook it, his head thrashed around, the pillar came loose at the bottom, he kicked it, and went inside. I don’t like to think what Jerry learned from him.
Have you ever had two Big Macs every night with an apple pie and eight hours of diesel fumes? Ever shat by the side of your truck?
There was one person and one person alone who ever walked into Cooper’s house, for months: the master himself. But one night I saw him stumbling along and a little fella ran up to his side and they laughed loudly and put their arms around each other. I tightened my hand on the handle, waited till they got nice and close. It was Jerry all right.
Just before they turned up Johnny’s path I flashed on my headlights and jumped out. I ran toward them shouting “Jerry! Jerry!” and confronted them. They just stood still.
Cooper’s lady friend had a shaved head and a laugh like smoke. She found me funny. When I got back into my truck Cooper fired a rock at my windshield and chipped it. Fair enough. I disturbed them. I looked like an idiot.
I docked his wage for the windshield. He laughed about it when he got his pay check, saying, “Huh, huh, I meant to tell you that night, huh, your Jerry got his stuff a couple of months ago. He broke in one day.”
IT’S GOING TO be easy. One little city. One little Jerry. One big Jerry. I’ll find him. Can’t trick me forever, big guy. I know what you look like. Put a mohawk on your head, whatever—I still know what you look like. Mother’s eyes, smart guy. I know how to chase them.
I COVERED MY floor in maps, made myself coffee. That was my morning business. Every map of the city I owned was spread across my living room. I trained my eyes to avoid that green belt. I got to know the flow of every street from above, learned shortcuts in case I had to chase him in my truck. FBI. Freeze.
So what are we dealing with here? We’re dealing with paper maps, concrete roads, concrete buildings, marble malls, fruit markets, flesh and blood, leafy trees to hide in, maybe. All these things, these materials, will come together. They don’t know each other (what’s more different than paper and concrete?) but they can’t do without each other. From the map in my living room I will choose a road, go to a building, find my son.
Each morning I chose an area, sometimes depending on what I found the day before. I started downtown because it seemed the most likely. It was coming up on fall, late September or so, still warm enough for him to be anywhere.
Top of Rideau, work straight down, have a look around here, Sandy Hill, probably not, maybe around King Edward, right.
CORNER STORES ARE likely places.
“You seen my son? This is an old picture. He’s fifteen or so. Mohawk.”
“What color?”
“What?”
“What color is his mohawk?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fan?”
“What?”
“Fan mohawk?”
“What?”
“Is it a blue mohawk, orange fan mohawk, purple half mohawk, we get a lot of mohawks in here, sir, streetkids, punks, stealing things, sir, do you understand?”
“His name’s Jerry.”
“If I knew the names of the kids . . . if the kids stealing from me only left their names.”
“Yeah, well. How much are these wine gums?”
“A dollar.”
“Here’s a dollar. There. You’ve made your fortune, My son’s not a thief.”
“No, I’m sure he’s just another sweet kid with a mohawk.”
“Tell you what, buddy, having a mohawk and stealing sounds a lot cooler than selling wine gums.”
“You going to buy anything else?”
“No.”
“Get the fuck out of my store.”
THERE’S ANOTHER CORNER store over there, but I might save that for another day.
Gas station?
No.
Flower sho. . . . no.
Frui . . . no.
Pi . . . ? Maybe. Kids like pizza. I fuckin love pizza. Try the pizza shop.
“Hi there, can I have one of them, one of those pepperonis, a slice, two slices, yeah, and, I was wondering, and a Coke, and I was wondering if you might have happened to see my son, name’s Jerry, his name’s
Jerry, about fifteen. Here’s a picture.”
“I can’t touch, greasy fingers. Show me.”
“There—that’s about five years out of date. And he’s got, someone said he’s got some kind of mohawk thing on his head.”
“I’m not here at night. Most of those kids come here at night, you know, later. Ask Vinnie. He’s here at night.”
“OK. Where’s Vinnie?”
“He’s not here. That’s what I’m telling you. He’s here at night. Come back and ask Vinnie.”
“Thanks.”
“Five seventy-five.”
“Eh? Oh, right.”
I COULD LOOK down some of these alleys, but, come on, he’s, what’s he going to do in an alley? I’ll look. I’ll have a look. What do you do down alleys? Fuck people, do drugs, get fucked, shoot people, get shot. That’s television. You park your car in an alley. You put out your garbage. Is he eating garbage? Bet you Cooper taught him to eat garbage.
Is he still a virgin?
THE SHELTERS! What an idiot! Try the shelters! Where’s he going to sleep? He’s not sleeping on the streets. Try a shelter!
Shepherds of Good Hope, Salvation Army, Keepers of Sweet God-Lovin Faith and My Jerry. He’s probably eating their soup and becoming a priest, the crazy little goof.
Here now. Shepherds of Good Hope. Jesus, look at the line. I don’t need to line up. I’m not looking for soup.
“Hey, buddy.”
“Whasssssssa?”
“Never mind. Hey, buddy.”
“Fuck off ”
“Have you seen my son?”
“Get the fuck away from me, man, or I’ll shiv ya.”
“How do you get in here?”
“Quit butting! Quit butting!”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Quit butting!”
“I just wanted to speak to . . . where’s the shelter? Where do you guys sleep?”
“Tell that guy to quit butting!”
“Get to the back of the line!”
“I don’t want soup. I’m looking for my son.”
“Get to the back of the line!”
I FOUND A GUY, someone in charge. I thought he was a priest. I said, “Father, I’m looking for my son.”
“I’m not a priest,” he said. “I’m an ex-cop. Drunk. How old is your son?”
“Fifteen.”
“He’s probably not here. We don’t get many kids. I send them over to the Y sometimes, if they turn up here. Would you like some soup?”
“No thanks.”
There was a tiredness about him that reminded me of Kathleen. “Do you get many women here?” I asked him.
“Sometimes. Your son a woman?”
“No. He’s got a mohawk.”
“Yeah? There was a kid with a mohawk turned up here about a month ago. I told him the Y would be better for him.”
“Did he look like this?”
“Who’s that?”
“My son.”
“No, this guy had a mohawk.”
“The Y, eh?”
IT WAS GOING to be easy now. I drove over to the Y right away. It was a much nicer place. It felt right, for a boy of Jerry’s taste: no drunks, front desk, etc.
“Do you have the names of people staying here?”
“What would you like to know?”
“Whether my son is here.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because sometimes people are staying here because they don’t want to be at home.”
“Well, that’s not the case.”
“But you understand that for that reason I can’t tell you whether your son is here or not?”
“His name is Jerry McGuinty.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, it is nice. Is he here?”
“Sir . . .”
“I’m not picking a fight. You know, I understand. But in this case . . . You see, it was his mother. I don’t have to tell you this.”
“No. And I can’t tell you who is staying here.”
“How does it work here? You have rooms?”
“Shared rooms and private rooms.”
“Private rooms are more expensive?”
“Yes.”
“I want to stay in a shared room.”
“I can’t let you do that. We’re full.”
“You’re full or you can’t let me do that?”
“I can’t let you do that because we are full.”
“Not because I’m Jerry’s father?”
“That’s right, sir, not because you’re Jerry’s father.”
“So he is here?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just said his name like you knew him.”
“I was only repeating what you said.”
“So he’s not here?”
“Maybe.”
“How long will you be full?”
“I can’t say.”
“Guess.”
“We’re always full.”
“I could force you by law to let me see my son.”
“How old is your son?”
“Fifteen.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I could squeeze his name out of you.”
“Then it is my turn to remind you of the law.”
“Then it is my turn to remind you . . . Are you proud of yourself, little fella? Do you realize you are keeping my son from me?”
“I am doing my job, sir.”
“Well I’m going to wait outside.”
“That’s nice.”
“For as long as it takes.”
“That’s nice.”
“He’ll come out, we’ll hug, it’ll be none of your business.”
“I look forward to that.”
So I waited. I went outside, got in my truck, and waited.
Five weeks. I never wanted to lose sight of that door to the Y. I got thirty-eight tickets for stopping there in my truck during rush hour. I couldn’t shit by the truck because this wasn’t Cooper’s neighborhood, so eating and your basic belly functions were the only things that kept me from that door.
I did visit Vinnie the pizza man one night, though, and that was my first breakthrough. Yeah, he’d seen him, he knew the kid I was talking about. But not for a long time—he hadn’t seen him for months, he said. He didn’t know where he was staying, he just served him pizza—pepperoni was his favorite, same as me.
A lot of young guys went in and out of that Y, all looking like the world’s rough paw was tossing them for a tumble too often. It was getting near winter and none of them had anything more than a jean jacket. That’s all right if you’re a construction worker because you’re busy, and tough as bad beef. I, for example, know how to relax my shoulders in the cold. That’s the way to stay warm. But all these little guys, they would come out of the Y and hunch up their shoulders as soon as the wind hit, shrugging like they were saying I don’t know why and couldn’t say it hard enough.
So I had an idea. I got out of my truck and went up to this little guy, and I said, “Relax your shoulders.”
“What?”
“Relax your shoulders.”
“Up yours.”
But my idea went beyond that. I just had to stop one of them long enough to ask him if he knew Jerry. The relaxyour-shoulders thing was stupid, sure, but I had to find a way to make them a bit grateful so they would tell me something in return.
Cigarettes were the obvious answer. (Everything is obvious now. Why did it take me five weeks to think of asking one of these guys if he knew Jerry? Nothing was obvious then.) I bought some cigarettes and waited for another little guy.
“You got a light?” I said.
“Yeah.”
He lit my cigarette, kind of cool.
“Thanks. Here, you want one?”
“Thanks.”
“Getting cold, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m looking for a fella named Jerry McGuinty. Yo
u know him?”
“Yeah, I know Jerry.”
“Mohawk?”
“No, he grew that out.”
“Right.”
“Too expensive shaving that all the time.”
“Right.”
“More of a nothing now, you know.”
“Sure. Sure. Do you want the rest of this pack?”
“No thanks.”
“Sure?”
“You don’t want it? I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”
“Go for it.”
“OK.”
“Jerry live up there in the Y, shared room or anything?”
“He did, man. He did. He’s not there now.”
“Where is he?”
“Not sure. You his father?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it, man. Same voice.”
“Same, is it?”
“Yeah. Deep.”
“He’s got a deep voice now, does he?”
“Pretty deep.”
“I probably gave him that.”
“Guess so, man.”
“But do you know where he is, where he might be?”
“Honestly, man, I don’t know. That Jerry moves around a lot, doesn’t stay in one place long. That fuckin Y is getting expensive, man. I can’t stay there long. But it’s safe, see.”
“So where else does he sleep?”
“Everywhere.”
“On the street?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
“You know.”
“Yeah?”
“Warmer places. It’s getting cold.”
“Come into my truck. It’s over there.”
“No, I don’t . . . I don’t do that, man.”
“Give me a break, buddy.”
“No, man. I’ve got to go.”
“Which warmer places? Where’s warmer?”
“I don’t know. Malls. Billings Bridge is good.”
“Billings Bridge mall?”
“Yeah. Good places to hide in there.”
“Wait. Wait. Look, here’s some money.”
“I told you I don’t do that.”
“Would you give me a fucking break? It’s not for anything. I just need . . . Here. Look.”
“That’s a fifty.”
“Take it.”