“Jim Connor died in Cyprus in January of 1981.”
29
CASUALTIES OF WAR
November 10, 1980
Dear Kimmie,
I finally got your letters! Four all at once, I don’t know how the military mail system works. Probably the same as everything else here. Slow.
The Halloween party happened after all, but it was just the guys from the base. It’s not like there’s a costume store, so most of us just dressed up in sheets. It was a party full of ghosts and Greeks. Someone bought a bunch of bottles of ouzo and retsina, god I can’t believe these people drink this stuff. It’s terrible, but we drank it anyway. It was pretty fun.
They told us that we’re getting leave in January, but it’s not enough time to come home. Just a week on the mainland. I’m sure it will be fun, but I’d rather be coming home. I’d rather be with you than sitting on a beach in Greece drinking ouzo any day. But if they’re only giving us a beach in Greece then that’s what I’ll take!
My tour is over in April and I’m trying not to count the days, it’s too long. But April isn’t that far away. Write more soon!
Jim
WOLF’S SECOND BEER ARRIVED and he handed me a crisp page printed off the internet about James Masterson Connor. It was the official military notice of his death and I found that my eyes swam when I looked at it. I couldn’t say a word.
“I’m sorry, Brian,” he said, finally. “Kim never said that Jim was your father, but it seems likely. I never read the letters, so I don’t know if he even knew or what. I don’t know if they were a couple or just ... you know. But he was certainly important to her — then and, obviously, even now. Maybe this will help you find what you need, but I wouldn’t expect much more from Kim. I’m surprised that she told you as much as she did.”
“I ...” I stumbled for something to say. “Thank you for this, Wolf,” I said finally. “I know this put you in an awkward position with Kim and I really appreciate it.”
“Hey,” he said, “she asked me to talk to you. I put myself in the soup, even though I didn’t know it would happen.” He sipped his beer and took on a thoughtful look. “Makes me wonder how much I really know about my sister. She always seems like such an open book, so it’s easy to forget that hidden chapter.”
“Thank you,” I said again and stood. The papers were still in my hand, and I carefully pocketed them so I could shake Wolf’s hand. “I have to go.”
He nodded, and shook my hand. “I understand. I hope I’ll see you again, Brian.”
I nodded meaninglessly and left the bar, half a beer still on the table between us.
WHEN I GOT TO MY BUILDING I realized that I couldn’t remember anything about driving home. I walked into my apartment, locking the door behind me, and went into the kitchen. I felt like a robot on autopilot as I took my jacket off and hung it up, then poured a glass of water. I had a name. James Masterson Connor. It was, as Johnny and no doubt Wolf would say, entirely circumstantial. There was no proof; only Kim could say for sure, and she wasn’t going to. But I knew it. I knew as soon as I heard it. Jim Connor was my father.
I spent the next few nights on various Canadian Forces websites, on the Wikipedia pages for Canadian UN peacekeeping missions, learning everything I could about Jim Connor and by extension the Canadian missions in Cyprus. I was surprised to discover that we still had people there. I’d only ever vaguely known about the missions there, and you never hear anything about it anymore — it’s all Afghanistan all the time now. But there are still a handful of Canadian soldiers out in the Mediterranean, now literally keeping the peace.
Shortly before Jim Connor got there, though, it wasn’t so much peacekeeping as it was peacemaking. If that. There had been several Canadian casualties in the late seventies and a few deaths, but nothing in 1981. But I found a local newspaper article from back then with the lurid headline “Local Peacekeeper Dead in Cyprus.” The headline made it sound like some kind of enemy attack was to blame, but the actual cause of death of the man I was now thinking of as my father was much more mundane. It turned out that he died in a car crash.
He was on his way to the airport, not as a repeat of the heroics of 1974 or even for some exercise or drill. He was on his way to catch a plane for Greece and a week’s R and R. From the article it sounded like the road wasn’t in great shape, but otherwise it was just one of those things. A civilian vehicle crossed the middle line and ploughed into the car driven by a staff officer named Gray and carrying my father. Gray was pulled from the wreckage with two broken legs; the driver of the civilian car was killed on impact. My father was thrown from the car and found in a ditch with a broken neck. He was pronounced dead at the scene. It was January 11, 1981, and he was less than a month away from his nineteenth birthday.
WHEN SEEDY CALLED, I told her what I’d learned from Wolf and from the internet. “You should try to track down some of the guys he served with,” she said. “If Kim won’t tell you about him, I bet they would.”
“How would I do that?” I asked, feeling a strange sensation in my gut.
“Come on, Gumbo,” she said. “You’ve been hunting for people all your life, people who didn’t really want to be found. There must be a list of the soldiers on one of those websites you’ve been looking at. How hard would it be to find one or two of them now?”
“I guess,” I said, wondering why I felt so reluctant to contact one of these men who knew Jim Connor back when he was just a fresh-faced recruit. They would be, what, fifty, fifty-five now? Would they even remember a guy who didn’t make it through a six-month tour?
“What are they going to know, anyway?” I argued. “He might not have known about me and even if he did, there’s no reason he would have talked about it to the guys in the barracks. What’s the point?”
“What’s the point?” Seedy echoed back at me incredulously. “What’s ever been the point of looking for these people? Your mom and dad loved you, they still love you, it’s obvious to anyone. You had a great set of parents, trust me. If you’re just trying to figure out your chances of losing your hair, then fine, but you have to admit that there’s never really been much of a logical point to this search of yours. It’s just curiosity, Gumbo. And that weird evolutionary need to know our kin. But there’s never been a point. You just want to know them. And the only way you’re going to know this Tim O’Connor ...”
“Jim Connor,” I corrected automatically.
“Yeah, Jim Connor,” she said. “The only way you can get to know him is through the people who knew him then. And besides Kim, that’s got to be his army pals. So. Find them. Buy them beers and pool games and meat-draw tickets at the Legion. If you really want to know, that’s how you can find out.”
SHE WAS RIGHT, OF COURSE. About all of it. But I didn’t want to admit that my life’s obsession to find my roots was really no different than being into collecting stamps or amateur rocketry. And I realized that I didn’t really want to know if my father was some jerk who knocked up his underage girlfriend, then ran off to the army. Before I met Kim, it never really occurred to me that the people who were responsible for me being born could be anyone: they could be criminals or mentally ill, they could be assholes or worse. Before I finally found her, I always imagined tearful reunions, heartfelt apologies and nice smiling faces that reminded me eerily of Mom and Dad.
Now, though, I realized that other people aren’t all like my family. They aren’t even like my friends’ families. I was just lucky that Kim is a genuinely kind and generous person and that her family was so welcoming. It didn’t have to go that way.
I’VE NEVER LIKED INTERACTING WITH STRANGERS. For someone who spent his life looking for a specific set of strangers that probably seems odd, but it always made sense to me. My natural parents aren’t strangers, exactly. I have a clear relationship with them, and meeting Kim and her family was, if not easy, at least straightforward enough with respect to who I was and how I fit in. Proper strangers, on the other hand, hav
e none of those clear cues.
When you meet someone for the first time, you have all these things you need to figure out. How do we relate to one another? Who is more powerful, more important? Do we share the same views on things, will we argue or get along? What about our temperaments? Will they match? And I hate all of that. The not knowing.
So I didn’t want to look for these men who once, long ago, knew a guy named Jim Connor who had the dumb luck to get into a car wreck on his way to a week’s leave. I didn’t want to have to introduce myself, explain what I wanted and listen to them judge me silently as they told me whatever they wanted to. But Seedy was right. If I wanted to know anything about Jim Connor, these were the people to ask. So I started digging.
30
THE LADY KILLER
November 19, 1980
Dear Kimmie,
I’m finally doing stuff around here. They’ve got me firing the anti-tank guns and man is that ever fun. Those things make the biggest noise I’ve ever heard and what an explosion! It’s pretty awesome.
My bunkie is this guy named Dave from Nanaimo. He’s only a few years older than me but he’s married already and his wife just had a baby. All he wants to do is call home and talk about the kid. It’s kind of sweet, but it’s getting annoying. Married at 20?! Can you believe it?
I hope your letters get here soon. I miss you.
Jim
DAVID PRESTON LOOKED EXACTLY THE WAY I imagined a career army man to look: flat-top haircut, pressed khakis and a brand-new-looking navy blue polo shirt. Solid, sensible shoes. Neat, orderly and terrifying. However, it turned out that Preston’s army career had sputtered early. He had been a regular forces man during his tour in Cyprus on the pay-for-school plan. But he’d left as soon as his required years of service were over and joined the private sector as a software programmer.
He was the absolute opposite of what I imagined a nineties dot-com whiz kid would be, though he wasn’t a start-up wunderkind, just a highly paid nine-to-fiver. He’d made his name building payroll systems. Pretty dull stuff, but I spent my days measuring concrete densities, so it’s not like I could talk. He seemed willing to, though. I’d tracked him down after getting my hands on a list of Jim Connor’s battalion and tracking them through the public service’s various freedom of information sites. It’s not easy to find out about government workers, but it’s always possible. It’s all public information, so if you’re willing to dig, you can find a lot.
David Preston wasn’t the only name I had, but he was the only one who now lived in Victoria, so I started with him. For about the millionth time, I thanked the Elders of the Internet for the invention of email. I did not want to cold call this guy. I found his email address at work using a very helpful Who Are We? page on the company’s website. Pawz N Clawz could stand to talk to their webmaster.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Cyprus 1980–1981
Dear Mr. Preston,
I believe that you may be the David Preston who served in the Canadian Peacekeeping mission in Cyprus during 1980 and 1981. I am looking for information about one of your colleagues, James Masterson Connor. I believe that he may be my father.
I am aware that Mr. Connor is deceased and I was hoping you might be willing to meet with me and share some of your recollections of him. I can be reached by phone or email.
I’d appreciate it if you got back to me, and thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Brian Guillemot
I have to give the ex-military man his due — he was prompt.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Cyprus 1980–1981
Mr. Guillemot
I would be happy to talk about Jim
Connor, I remember him well and it was a sad day when he passed on. However, I feel duty bound to inform you that I do not believe that Jim had any children. Regardless, if you would still like to meet, please call my cell after 5 pm.
Cheers,
Dave Preston
WE MET AT THE STICKY WICKET. The bar is a Victoria landmark and, as such, its wares are generally overpriced and its atmosphere is generally underwhelming. That being said, everyone knows where it is and it’s a safe place to meet just about anyone. I recognized him from the photo from his service record, even though nearly thirty years had passed. He’d kept in shape and looked like he could kill me with his bare hands if I looked at him funny.
I stepped over to the table where he sat nursing a pale beer and introduced myself. He stood and shook my hand more firmly than was necessary, then sat down again.
“So, you think Jimmy Connor was your dad?” he began without preamble.
I briefly explained what I knew and what I thought I knew, and David “Call me Dave” Preston listened silently. Eventually he shrugged.
“Could be, I guess,” he said. “Jimmy never knew anything about it, I can tell you that for sure. My wife had our first just before I shipped out and old Jimmy was totally floored that I had a kid already. I was only twenty; things probably weren’t all that different for me and Lorena than Jim and — what was her name again?”
“Kim.”
“Yeah, those two. Anyway, I was a basket case with the new baby and not being there and everything. I think that was probably what put an end to my army career. I was sure I was going to be a lifer. But being away from Aaron and Lorena, well, it turned out I could handle everything else about the military life a hell of a lot better than that.”
I nodded, wondering if he was going to talk about himself the whole time. “So, Jim talked about Kim a lot?” I prompted.
“Oh, sure,” Dave said. “All he ever talked about was girls. He had about a half dozen of them on a string back home. All his down time he was either writing them letters or reading their letters to him. He was quite a ladies’ man, your dad.” He took a long drink of his beer and I tried to digest this information.
“Did he mention Kim?”
“Could be,” Dave said. “I don’t remember all the names. There was a Susan, Suzanne, something like that. And, of course, Barbara Ann. I couldn’t forget her. Every time he mentioned her we’d all sing the song, you know, that old Beach Boys song.” He thought for a moment; then a somewhat evil smile appeared on his lips. “Come to think of it, you might not be the only one. He did seem to get around, did old Jimmy.”
“You saw this yourself?” I asked.
“Not a lot of women on the bases back then, son,” Dave said, smirking. “But Jim was a good-looking fella, and the girls in town gave him the eye plenty. Sure, a lot of what he said sounded like so much talk, but if even half of it was true, little Kim wasn’t the only mare in the stable.”
“I see,” I said.
“Look, buddy,” Dave said. “This probably isn’t what you wanted to hear about the fella you think is your old man. But you got to remember, he was just a kid. We all were. He was, what eighteen, nineteen years old? He was away from home for the first time, fighting in a war that had nothing to do with him, and most of what was going on was boring shit work that you would have got minimum wage for back home. So all there was to do was brag about all the girls you scored with. He wasn’t a bad guy, Brian. He was just a guy. A young guy.”
Dave shrugged again and drank some more of his beer. “There isn’t much more to say. I only knew the guy for four months. You should try asking Kim — she probably knew him better than any of us ever did.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“No problem, buddy,” Dave said. “Glad to help.”
SEEDY CAME OVER ON FRIDAY NIGHT with a bag full of Chinese food and a toothbrush. I picked at my Szechuan noodles and listened to her talk about some misfiling reference crisis at the library. After a while, she stopped. “What’s wrong, Gumbo?” she said. “You usually snarf this stuff so fast I barely get a taste.”
“I
met up with one of Jim Connor’s old army buddies this week,” I said.
“And?”
“And it turns out that he was a grade-A asshole,” I said.
“The buddy?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Connor.”
“Oh.”
“He was cheating on Kim,” I said.
“Hm,” Seedy said. “You think he knew she was pregnant?”
“The buddy seems pretty sure he didn’t,” I said.
“So, can you even be sure that he thought they were a couple?”
“What about the letters?” I said. “Why would he write to her all the time if they weren’t?”
She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe he was a dick, but don’t forget, Gumbo — he was just a horny eighteen-year-old. Like you didn’t do anything dumb when you were a teenager?”
My face reddened. The Thing with Jacquie. “It’s not like I was stringing along a whole army of women while I was off on a goddamn peacekeeping mission,” I said, masking my embarrassment with vehemence. “Making them think he was some kind of hero or something. Christ.”
Seedy moved over to sit beside me and put her arm over my shoulder. “So he’s no saint,” she said. “What did you expect? You already knew he got a sixteen-year-old girl knocked up. That there were other girls shouldn’t be all that shocking.”
The Home for Wayward Parrots Page 16
