by Don Aker
Standing in front of the stainless-steel door, Ethan thought again of the tree that had blown down behind their house in Herring Cove, thought about the storm that had snapped it off and brought it crashing within a few metres of the power lines.
He thought about how in the space of a few weeks his life had been turned upside down by another kind of storm, and he let his mind travel back to its beginnings—the night he’d clipped the corner of the garage with the Volvo.
No, that wasn’t right. It was the morning after that when everything really went to shit, the moment when his old man decided Ethan should pay for the damages out of his own money, the fifty-three hundred bucks that would have bought him the car he’d wanted for more than half his life. He thought about the physics of that moment—he’d been the tree, his father the unstoppable force that brought him crashing to earth. But it was all for the greater good, right? In the service of those goddamn life lessons handed down by a grandmother he’d never even known.
Every action has a consequence.
Ethan thought of the number of times he’d clicked the Hit Me button on MyDigitalVegas.com. Yeah, every action had a consequence, all right.
A person is invariably defined by his ability to meet his obligations.
Ethan thought again about all the money he’d lost, especially the money he’d taken from Raye. His kid sister, the only member of his family who gave a damn about him, and look what he’d done to her.
Make every obstacle an opportunity.
Ethan thought about the money that had repaired the Volvo and the corner of the garage. His money. He’d worked hard to save it, and his old man had taken all of it and more. He thought again about the three obstacles to success with the Martingale system—brains, balls, and bankrolls—and then again about that fifty-three hundred bucks. His father owed him that money. That was his bankroll.
Ethan swallowed the last of the water, left the glass on the counter, then returned to his old man’s study. Looking down at the desk, he picked up the thick envelope and again felt beneath his fingers the raised numbers of the plastic card inside. Make every obstacle an opportunity. Without hesitating, he tore it open and pulled out several pages, and glued to one of them was a credit card with a sticker bearing another valuable life lesson: Just call to activate.
Chapter 27
“This is gettin’ to be a tradition,” said Hornsby. “You, me, and crappy diners.”
Sitting across from him at The Lobster Pot, a hole-in-the-wall in the city’s north end that wasn’t much bigger than its namesake, Ethan didn’t even try to fake a smile. He’d spent an hour outside the waterfront casino and then walked a four-block radius around The Chow Down for nearly two more, hoping he’d spy Hornsby somewhere, but he hadn’t. It was Hornsby who’d spotted him, pulling his rusted Echo over to the curb and asking if he wanted a lift. Ethan had nearly sobbed with relief.
He passed on Hornsby’s offer of a burger or fries—”My treat,” Hornsby had said, but food was the last thing Ethan wanted. Instead, he launched into an explanation of everything that had happened online. Hearing himself say it out loud, he felt even more like a loser than when he’d finally turned off his old man’s computer that second time. At least he hadn’t thrown it across the room.
“So, can you help me?” he asked, leaning forward in the booth. He hated that he sounded so desperate. But the truth was he’d never felt more desperate in his life.
Hornsby took a long swallow of his iced tea—Who drinks iced tea in December? wondered Ethan—and sat back against the red vinyl upholstery, scarred from years of zippers, sharp corners on purses and packages, and the odd knife or fork used for things other than eating. “Lemme get this straight. You maxed out the card in less than an hour?”
Ethan nodded. “Fifteen hundred. And five hundred more before that, money I took from my sister.” He didn’t bother mentioning the hundred he’d gotten for the buckle. What was the point? “I’ve gotta come up with two thousand quick.”
Hornsby shrugged. “Why not just come clean to your old man? Guy livin’ in Cathedral Estates could probably cover a couple thou’ easy.”
Ethan shook his head. He had actually considered it. Adding up the damage that day, he knew he was in over his head. He couldn’t continue on the course he’d taken, couldn’t keep thinking he could pull a miracle out of his ass.
But the idea of telling his old man what he’d done made him want to puke. The morning in the kitchen after Ethan had hit the garage would pale in comparison with the production his old man would make when he heard about the money Ethan had gambled away. It would be a two-act play—first, the Shocked And Appalled portion of the program, which included lots of yelling, then the What Did I Ever Do To Deserve This suffering-martyr routine Jack loved so much. Ethan could see his father now, arms folded, head shaking sadly, as if he couldn’t believe that the person in front of him had actually sprung from his loins. And Ethan could only imagine the aftermath—not just the punishment he’d hand down but also what he’d make Ethan do to repay the cash. Car washes on Seminary Lane? A paper route? Something that would teach him the value of an honest day’s work. Christ!
Ethan shook his head. “Going to my father isn’t an option.” He looked down at the table, saw that someone had scratched “LR luvs DP” in the faded laminate. For a moment he wondered who LR and DP were, wondered if they’d been able to make it work, keep it together. Nothing lasts forever, though. Just look at him and Allie.
He raised his eyes. “There’s nobody else I can go to,” he said. “Can you help me?”
Hornsby stared at him for a long moment. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re willin’ to take some risks.”
The last time Hornsby had asked him that question, Ethan couldn’t have imagined how badly things would turn out. But they couldn’t get much worse than this, right? “What have I got to lose?” he said.
It turned out that Ethan had a lot more to lose than he thought. They’d left The Lobster Pot to sit in Hornsby’s shitbox of a car and, hearing him outline his plan for getting the cash, Ethan felt his lower jaw loosen and had to put conscious effort into keeping his mouth closed. He couldn’t get out of his head what Lil had said about Hornsby that first day he saw him: I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you. And hadn’t Ike told him much the same thing? Along with That guy’s bad news. If Ethan had ever needed proof of that, he certainly had it now.
“I can’t do it,” said Ethan.
Hornsby leaned back in the seat, his left arm propped on the door frame. “There’s lots ‘a things we think we can’t do,” he said. “You’d be surprised how easy it is.”
Ethan shook his head. “Not this.”
“Thought you said you had no other options.”
“There has to be another way.”
“There’s always another way.”
Ethan’s heart lifted. “Tell me.”
The smirk around Hornsby’s mouth was evident even before he began to speak. “You get yourself a big bag and start walkin’ the 101 pickin’ up bottles ‘n’ cans. Shouldn’t take more’n a few hundred trips to an Enviro Depot to score what you need. Good luck with that, okay?”
Ethan turned to look out the passenger-side window, anger boiling away his disappointment. “Funny,” he muttered, gripping the worn armrest.
“Look, kid,” said the man, and there was no mistaking the boredom in his voice now, “you got yourself into this. You wanna get out of it quick or slow, that’s up to you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card, handing it to Ethan. “You change your mind, call me. Now get the hell outta my car.” He turned the key and the Echo sputtered to life.
A moment later, Ethan stood on the sidewalk watching helplessly as Hornsby drove off. He glanced down at the card in his hand. There was only a number printed on it, obviously a cellphone. No name, no address, nothing but the number.
In the second it took him to read it, E
than realized what he had to do. What other choice did he have?
He would tell his old man everything.
Chapter 28
Ethan was almost sick with relief to find no one at the house when he got there at six. Raye was usually home by now, and he took her absence as a blessing. She would know something was wrong the moment she saw him and she’d be all over him. He needed the time alone to plan what he was going to say to his old man. Already he could feel his guts churn as he thought about it.
Of course, it didn’t help that he’d had almost nothing to eat all day. He still didn’t feel hungry, but he needed something on his stomach before he faced his father. He went to the kitchen and began opening cupboard doors, knowing what he’d find. Other guys’ parents bought snacks that weren’t soy-based and drinks that didn’t make your lips curl back when you got a mouthful of sour. What would it be like when Jillian finally moved in for good? Ethan abandoned the cupboards and tried the fridge, settling on a container of cottage cheese. It reminded him of albino brain matter, but he thought he could force some down if he didn’t look at it.
He took the container and a spoon into the family room and slumped onto the sofa. He wished he could call Allie, longed to hear her voice, longed to talk to her about the mess he’d gotten himself into, but he couldn’t yet deal with what Pete had told him that morning: I kissed her, Ethan. Pete had said again and again that Allie had done nothing wrong—She started apologizing for maybe giving me the wrong impression. But she hadn’t. I told her so, told her it was just me. All me—but he couldn’t think of Allie without picturing her face next to Pete’s, her lips touching his.
Besides, she hadn’t called him in almost two days. What was up with that? Guilt?
Ethan reached for the remote and clicked the flat screen on, eager for other images to replace the ones in his head. Spooning cottage cheese into his mouth, he surfed absently, and he was three channels past it when his brain finally registered their Brilliant Cream living room. He channelled back down and found himself looking at Connie Althorpe, a monitor behind her showing his old man sitting on their white sofa: “—had an opportunity to interview prominent Halifax lawyer Jack Palmer last night in his Cathedral Estates home. Mr. Palmer, who recently threw his hat into the political arena, responded at length to questions about his work and his plans for the future. That interview will air in its entirety this evening on Maritime Movers and Shakers.”
The camera drew back to show Althorpe sitting beside another news commentator, this one male. “Can you give us a preview of what we’re going to see, Connie?” he said.
Althorpe nodded. “As you’d expect from the city’s most successful defence attorney, Mr. Palmer was extremely articulate. He was also refreshingly forthcoming. Up to a point.”
“Didn’t he hold up under cross-examination?” the commentator joked.
Althorpe smiled primly. “One of my questions, as you’ll see, evoked a rather heated refusal to elaborate.” Althorpe turned, and the camera zoomed in on the monitor. The producer had obviously intended to save the bulk of the exchange for a later viewing since the clip was brief, but it was clear that Ethan’s father was upset, his face red as he said crisply, “I have absolutely no comment other than to say I’m appalled that you would ask such a question in my own home.”
The image froze and the camera returned to Althorpe and the male commentator beside her. “Connie,” he said, “can you tell us what question upset Palmer?”
Ethan sat up straight, pressing the volume-up control on the remote.
“I asked him how it felt to defend a man charged with driving while intoxicated when the mother of his own children was killed by a drunk driver.”
His hands trembling, Ethan reached inside the wastebasket in his old man’s study and pulled out the newspaper. It was today’s, delivered long before anyone in Cathedral Estates was awake. His father would have seen it before he went to work, probably intended to clip yet another article about himself to add to his glory wall.
But he hadn’t. Ethan reached for the torn newsprint he’d seen earlier and dropped the scraps of paper onto the desk. Sifting through them, he could see that all the scraps were remnants of a single page, and it took him little time to piece them together. The article, headlined “Would-Be Politician Faces Personal Dilemma,” summed up what Ethan had already heard, except that it included two photos. One showed the now-familiar YouTube image of the MLA’s damaged car, the other a crumpled 1996 Mustang Cobra SVT, its Mystic finish imperceptible in the grainy black and white photo.
“You son of a bitch,” breathed Ethan.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
Ethan turned toward the voice. His father stood in the study doorway, his Fisher, McBurney, and Hicks briefcase in his hand. “That’s sensationalism, not journalism,” said Jack. “It was unfair of that Althorpe woman to bring it up.”
Ethan glared at him. “Unfair or inconvenient? But it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ve got a media consultant to fix problems like that, right?”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Ethan.”
“‘Don’t use that tone’? You’re really going to play that card?”
“Ethan—”
“How could you?”
“How could I what?” The question was natural enough, but Ethan could tell from the hesitation in his father’s voice that he already knew the answer.
“Agree to defend a man like that when it was a drunk driver who killed her.”
“It’s not that simple, Ethan.”
“Isn’t it? I thought a person is invariably defined by his ability to meet his obligations,” said Ethan, his face warped in a sneer. “Seems to me a person might feel at least a little obligated not to shit on his dead wife.”
Jack set his briefcase on the floor beside him, stood looking at it for a moment before raising his eyes again. “Everything is always black or white with you, Ethan. So cut and dried. When you’re older you’ll understand that a person has to make compromises to ensure the best for his family.”
“The best for his family,” repeated Ethan. “Don’t you mean the best for you? I expect your party will be pretty grateful if you can make that DUI charge disappear. And it wouldn’t hurt your new political career to be able to call on a few favours from day one, would it.” Ethan heard paper crinkling and he looked down to see he was making fists, the newsprint twisting between his fingers.
“This is important to me—” his father began, but Ethan cut him off.
“Really? Something is actually important to you?” He realized he was shouting now, but it felt good. Great, in fact. “Do you have any idea what’s important to me?” He snorted venomously. “Or what was important to me?”
“If this is about that car again—”
“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about it, planning for it?”
“Ethan—”
“Since the day we buried her. Did you know that?”
The surprise was evident in his father’s eyes.
“Remember that big tree that blew down in our backyard in Herring Cove the week after Mom died? The one with the swing? I was sitting on it after we got home from the funeral. Someone sent me outside because Raye was napping and they didn’t want me to wake her up.” Ethan was surprised at how fast he was talking, how fast the memories were coming back to him. “So I was sitting there on that swing trying to remember the last thing I heard Mom say. Raye and I were with you that weekend and she called you on the phone. She was going to bring you the divorce papers, even though the weather was supposed to turn bad. She called those papers your ‘early Christmas present.’” His voice cracked again, but he pressed on. “All this time, I thought it was the snow that caused the accident. I must’ve heard about the drunk driver at some point, but all I remembered was the Christmas present. And the snow.”
He sobbed suddenly, hating himself for doing it, and he looked down at the desk and the newsprint crumpled in his hands
. “After the funeral? While I was sitting on the swing? These two guys came out to the backyard for a smoke. People you worked with. They didn’t see me. The swing was on the other side of the tree. I heard them talking about the car. How it was a shame, right? Car like that? Cobra SVT? They even knew about the Mystic finish.” He looked up again. “I’d just lost my mom and it was a goddamn shame about the car.”
“Look, Ethan—”
“At that moment, I knew I’d have a car like that one day.” He paused, wiping savagely at tears, then continued, “I begged her to get it. Did you know that?”
His father shook his head.
“On the way home the day we found it, she talked about how nothing ever stays the same. But that afternoon sitting on the swing listening to those guys talking about the Cobra, I thought—” He coughed, cleared his throat noisily. “I thought maybe if I could make just one thing the same—” He stopped. He had no more words, none that would make a difference, anyway. He stood up, unfolded his fists, pulled one of the scraps free and held it up. It was a fragment of the photo with the Mustang. “That’s what was important to me.”
A horrible silence echoed in the study until Jack broke it. “You never told me anything about this, Ethan,” he said softly.
“Like you ever asked.”
“That’s not fair—”
Ethan laughed harshly. “You’re real big on the whole fairness thing, aren’t you? People probably think that’s why you became a lawyer, right?”
“It is why I became a lawyer.”
“Yeah, right. Champion of law and order, defender of the poor and underprivileged. Bullshit! How underprivileged would you say your current client is?”
“His wealth doesn’t deny him the right to a fair trial, Ethan. And he’s not my only client. I’ve defended lots of people who were in dire straits. People in situations like my own mother—”
