by Joan Boswell
I must admit I toyed with the idea of fleeing south to Sudbury, or anywhere for that matter. But too many questions would be asked. A good doctor would know there was nothing physically wrong with me. And I didn’t like the idea of being tarred with the brush of emotional or mental strain; a teacher couldn’t afford that indictment.
“No,” I told my wife. “I’m just fighting off a cold. A little extra rest this week, and I’ll be right as rain.”
Katie gave in and agreed to leave the doctor for the time being. She graciously insisted on shouldering my evening duties for the remainder of the week as well as her own, all while keeping a watchful eye on me. I struggled through the lessons with the children, trying to focus on all of them except Charlie; I had come to loathe the boy.
On Friday I gladly said goodbye to Charlie Watterson and his father’s spectre. And Katie was thrilled to see me bounce back to my usual self by the time we hoisted the Union Jack in the next settlement, thirty miles to the north, announcing the school was open for business. She watched with relief as I welcomed my new class and cheerfully greeted the men and women who straggled in once the children’s lessons were over for the day. I’m glad to say I saw nothing threatening in their weatherworn faces.
Those days were a relief to me, but I knew it was only a respite, not a reprieve. That really began to sink in as I lowered the flag and battened down our belongings for the rumbling journey to our next stopping point. Oh, we were still headed north, further from Hal Watterson, but in a few weeks time we would hit the end of the line and work our way back south again to that little settlement just north of Cartier.
I spent hours turning the problem over in my mind, struggling to find a solution. And the more I thought about it, the less fearful and the more angry I became. Who was Hal to threaten me? What had I done that so many other men hadn’t done, or wanted to do, during those years of hardship? They had been desperate times, and I’m sure many had done things they weren’t proud of, or would rather forget. Why should I be held accountable now?
And I would be, if Hal had his way; I had no doubt about that. Hal would be relentless in pursuing the harshest punishment possible. My family life and my job would vanish in an instant.
With my mind running in that direction, it’s not surprising that it came to the conclusion that it did: get rid of Hal.
I didn’t accept that solution easily, of course. I did suffer some twinges of conscience. I mean, it wasn’t exactly the same as killing enemy soldiers in the War. But by the time we reached the settlement north of Hal’s, I was resolute in my decision; I merely needed to work out the means. A couple of ideas did present themselves, but there was always one fault I didn’t know how to work around, and that was keeping my wife and daughter out of the picture. But the day before we were to strike out for Hal’s settlement, Katie came to me with a request that offered it’s own solution.
“I was wondering if you could do without me for a few days?”
“What? Why?”
“Well, that young Mrs. Henderson is expecting to give birth any day, and I know she’d feel much better if I was near when it happened. She hasn’t really made any friends here yet, and we’ve kind of taken to each other, us both being from west-end Toronto.”
“I see. But what about Janie?”
“Oh, she can stay with me. It’s a small place the Hendersons have, but the two of us can squeeze into it for a few days. Janie’ll think it an adventure. And she’s really looking forward to seeing a brand new baby. You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, dear?”
“I guess not,” I said, trying to force some reluctance into my voice. But inside I was thinking, yes, yes! “All right. You stay and see to Mrs. Henderson. But then you take the next train down,” I insisted, knowing it would all be over by then.
My wife kissed me for being so sweet.
I sent the sealed note home with little Charlie Watterson that Monday afternoon, the first day of school. I addressed it to “Mr. Watterson, Private and Confidential” and requested he meet with me that evening to discuss his son. I wrote that it was of the utmost importance and that he was best not to mention it to anyone due to the sensitive nature of what I had to say. Now, how could a father fail to respond to that?
I set the meeting for nine fifteen, when any visitors to the school car should have gone and asked that he come to the door at the south end of the car, the door to our private quarters. He was to wait there to be admitted, and I warned I might be a little late if stragglers held me up in the classroom.
That evening, the schoolroom was crowded. A group of women, disappointed Katie wasn’t there, flicked through the Simpson’s and Eaton’s catalogues, marvelling at the electric washers and dryers, and the latest in fall fashions, all of which seemed worlds away from life in northern Ontario. One young woman, not yet a mother but eager for the role, gathered the children who’d accompanied their parents, and regaled them with tales from The House at Pooh Corner. The male contingent congregated separately, with two or three content to peruse old newspapers, another pair engaged in a game of checkers, and a larger group struck up a poker game.
Like a good host, I did my part and spared a moment and a word with everyone. A couple of the ladies helped me pass around coffee and the Toll House cookies Katie had baked two days before. Around eight o’clock, when each of the groups was immersed in their chosen activity, I slipped out.
I was gone about fifteen minutes in total. When I returned, I slid into the chair next to Mr. McCurdy.
“Katie tells me you’re eager for another crokinole tournament,” I said, not giving anyone a chance to comment upon my absence and hoping to deflect any thoughts that may have wandered in that direction.
McCurdy grinned. “Who, me? What’s the prize going to be this time? A book? A box of chocolate bars? Cigarettes? I won’t let Tulliver cheat me out of it this time, whatever it is.”
“Cheat? I beat ya fair and square.” The maligned Tulliver, and one of McCurdy’s fellow card players, spoke up. And the argument was on, with good-natured barbs and insults flung back and forth, to the amusement of the others around the card table.
I sat back and relaxed.
By eight thirty, most of the visitors had packed up and left, leaving only a trio of stragglers behind. This wouldn’t have worried me unduly, except that the three were embroiled in a debate over who was likely to claim the Stanley Cup that season: Ted “Teeder” Kennedy’s Maple Leafs or “Tough Ted” Lindsay’s Red Wings. Such a discussion, especially with the men involved, could last days, if not all hockey season.
And the classroom clock continued to tick along, edging closer to nine o’clock.
“...with Lumley between the pipes, the Wings are a cinch.”
“Are you joking? He’s no match for the Turk.”
“Oh, yeah? Remember that brawl two years ago? Lumley was more than a match for Broda then.”
I could feel my heart begin to beat louder in my chest. I needed to get these people out of here.
“Yeah, well, who won the Vezina last year? Broda, that’s who.”
“Only because they felt sorry for him, having to carry the rest of those bums.”
The clock struck nine. Panic began to set in. I fought to control it. I couldn’t show any nervousness or unusual behaviour that might be remarked upon later.
“Bums? Well, those ‘bums’ won the cup last year, didn’t they?”
I had to appear calm. Like I hadn’t a care in the world.
“Pure luck. Where did they finish for the year, tell me that?”
I yawned.
Thank God for small miracles: McCurdy saw it and took the hint. “Aw, we’re keeping Mr. Clark from his bed. We’d best be off, Mr. Bertolli. Besides, Tulliver here’s so thick, he’ll never get it through his head that the Production Line can skate rings ‘round the Kid Line.”
“Ah, you’re full of beans,” Tulliver replied, but all three men got to their feet and shrugged into their coats.
I sai
d goodnight and saw them off, remembering to warn them to “watch for bears,” as was my usual leave-taking. I watched as they passed out of the light cast by the open schoolroom door and into the night, their voices carrying back to me their on-going debate.
I doused the lights in the classroom, waited about two minutes, grabbed my coat, then cautiously reopened the door and slipped out. I cut across the main track and made my way through the sumach bushes that flanked it on the opposite side, stealing southward to where I would have an unobstructed view of the school car’s private entrance. The tangled branches of the sumachs were leafless now, allowing me to see through them but still offering adequate cover in the darkness of a northern November night.
I crouched down to wait.
By my calculations, it would be about eight minutes after nine. Hal was always pretty careful with his times, so I expected he’d be by presently. It’d been twelve years since I’d seen him, of course, so he could have changed. But surely not Hal. He’d always been one of those dogged, down-to-earth types who never change and who see everything in black and white. That’s why I knew he’d never forgive me, nor understand my point of view. He wouldn’t know what it had been like for me. He hadn’t been married, not back then. Not during the Depression. Like I was.
I thought I caught the faint sound of a train whistle in the distance, and I began to worry that perhaps Hal had become tardy with age after all; or maybe the letter had not been enough to entice him. Under my heavy duffle coat, I began to sweat, though the night air was frosty enough for my breath to catch in cloudy puffs. Mentally I felt the minutes tick by.
Then the crunch of gravel allayed my fears.
I peered through the blackness and was soon able to pick out the figure I’d been waiting for. I smiled smugly to myself. Hal had come.
My relief turned to disbelief, though, as I made out a smaller form trudging along beside him. The fool had brought the boy with him!
Watching the pair follow the siding, their heads bent as they picked their way along the tracks in the dark, I considered calling the whole thing off; stepping out from my refuge and flagging them down. But it was too late for that. Hal would recognize me, and my life would be over.
Charlie’s young face pushed into my thoughts. The way his eyes had fixed on me in class, their innocence mocking me, haunting me.
I hardened my resolve and stayed where I was.
Hal looked huskier to me; bigger than when last I’d seen him. Working the rails could do that to a man, adding brawn where there had been none. But the swagger was as I remembered.
When he was only about twenty paces from the school car, my ears picked up the low rumble of the approaching freight car; the Monday Night Special.
Hal swung himself up on the little platform that serviced the rear entrance of the school car and knocked on the door. I watched as he waited, his ear cocked for the sound of movement from within. There was none. He knocked again. Charlie climbed up beside him and plunked himself down, throwing his legs between the railings.
The train’s rumble was growing closer, but neither Hal nor the boy paid it any heed. They heard that sound every day, and both probably knew that a train passed through at this time every Monday night.
I edged as close to the pair as I could without surrendering the cover of the sumachs. I almost regretted having broken the back light earlier in the evening; I would have liked to have got a better look at Hal to see if he still had some of his sister in him after all these years. And I found myself wondering what she looked like now, my wife—I mean, my other wife. And our three children; I didn’t even know if the youngest was a boy or a girl.
I jumped as Hal swung down from the platform. I wondered if he’d heard me, or sensed I was there. But then he leaned against the platform railing and lit a cigarette, and I relaxed. He wasn’t going anywhere.
I knew Hal would never forgive me for deserting his sister. But men did that then, during the Depression. Just walked out and didn’t look back. Well, at least some did. You’ve got to understand, I had no money, no job, and no hope. And every night when I came home from looking for work, there was Marge. She never reproached, never showed any disappointment. But she was there, with her ever-growing belly, reminding me of my failure. I couldn’t take it. One night I just didn’t go home. And I admit, it was a relief. From then on, I only had to worry about scraping together enough to feed myself. It was still tough, but the pressure was gone, and I made do. Then the War came and offered jobs to so many of us.
The freight train rounded the bend south of the settlement, and it’s headlight cut through the night like a beacon, just as it whistled it’s usual approach warning. I’d always thought the sound of a train whistle at night sounded melancholy, but not tonight.
Hal nonchalantly glanced in the direction of the train, probably reminding himself to wave to the engineer when the locomotive passed.
But it wasn’t going to pass.
I’d pulled the switch. The Monday Night Special was going to take the siding at full speed.
The gleaming eye of the freight train hit the back of the school car, illuminating Hal’s face. It still looked so much like Marge’s! I stepped from my cover to distract him from the thousands of pounds of locomotive bearing down on him. I also wanted him to see me, to know it was me.
The crack of the branches as I ploughed through the bushes brought Hal’s head around sharply. He peered at me then opened his mouth to call out but faltered. Recognition slowly dawned. Just as I’d thought: all these years later he still knew me.
“How’s Marge?” I threw it out there as a taunt. So there would be no doubt.
“Marge?” His glare was full of hate. “She’s dead. Been gone ten years. Her and the girls.”
Now I was the one caught off guard. Marge dead? Since before the War; before I met Katie.
“The children too?” This didn’t seem possible.
Hal stared at me. Slowly he said, “The girls.”
The train’s whistle shrieked in short urgent blasts.
Both Hal and I spun toward the approaching train. Then our gazes jumped back together. Terror and bewilderment blazed in Hal’s twisted expression.
My mind scrambled to make some sense out of what I’d just learned. Marge and the girls gone. Then my marriage to Katie was valid. Then there was no need to...but there was. My past still held a dark blot, one the school board would not appreciate of a man in my position. And Katie. Sweet Katie. What would she think of me?
I heard the screech of metal upon metal as the brakes were thrown. But I knew with grim satisfaction the engineer’s efforts would be in vain.
Hal took a step towards me, his arms flailing.
For the sake of the engineer’s eyes, I waved at Hal as if I were waving him out of danger. And as Hal took another step in my direction, I wondered if I had miscalculated, counting too heavily on his confused state holding him hostage to his fate.
“Dad!”
Hal froze. My brother-in-law reminded me then of a deer I’d once killed; it’s eyes glassy in the headlights as it stood there waiting for my car to hit it.
“Dad!”
Ah, Charlie! Hal might have made it if it weren’t for him. For Hal wasn’t a deer, and his immobilized state was only temporary. But instead of saving himself, the fool retraced his steps, backing towards where the boy sat with his legs caught between the platform’s railing.
The whistle shrieked louder, the noise deafening.
Hal’s gaze was locked with mine. His horror was still evident, but there was also something else now. Perhaps acquiescence, as he accepted the fate rushing towards him. Or...triumph?
Something nagged at me. What had Hal said?
I heard the screeching of the brakes. Saw the sparks they threw up. I felt the fiery breath of the engine.
And in an instant, I knew why Hal had been late. What had delayed him. This section man who would know about switches and train schedules.
The girls.
And then I saw the iron muzzle of the Monday Night Special.
It wasn’t on the siding. It was on the main track.
As was I.
Not “the children”. The girls. My head jerked towards Charlie. The boy with the haunting eyes so much like...oh, god... Marge’s!
I heard my own scream.
Coleen Steele writes crime and suspense fiction from her home in Bowmanville, Ontario. Her stories have twice been short-listed for Arthur Ellis Awards, and she has won the Bloody Words Conference’s Bony Pete Award as well as Imagination Theater’s inaugural Phil Harper Award for Best Radio Script. This is her second venture into a Ladies Killing Circle anthology.
