Constable Ralph Thomas took two more pictures. This was weird. It couldn’t be the Horse, but there was no doubt, it was indeed the Horse, right down to the handprint. Both Shelley and William weren’t answering their phones. For personal and professional reasons, Ralph would frequently use the camera app on his phone for just for such emergencies. He would email these to the couple when he got the chance. Maybe they would have a reasonable explanation for what he was looking at.
“Hey, you! Police boy! I need to talk to you.”
Surprised, Ralph turned around. Across the road he saw a short man, bushy and faded. The sitting man was gesturing at him, urging him to cross to his side of the street. More oddly, the person, obviously street familiar, kept looking over Ralph’s shoulder at the Horse, somewhat fearfully.
“What?” Ralph yelled back.
Yelling, but whispering at the same time, Harry put his hands around his mouth. “No, over here. I can’t go over there. Come here!” Once again, he gestured for Ralph to cross the street. “It’s about your friend.” Harry pointed at the Horse. For a second, the constable wasn’t sure if the old man was referring to the Horse or possibly to the person who had drawn it. Logic told him there was only one way to find out.
Crossing the street, Constable Thomas was well aware that he was jaywalking. The irony was not lost on him. Situations like this required unorthodox responses. Four lanes and a few seconds later, Ralph stood over the sitting man.
“You’re awfully pushy for someone looking for loose change.”
Harry almost laughed. “I don’t want your money, but I thought I should warn you. You should be careful over there. The Horse … he likes you. He doesn’t like a lot of people, but still, he’s got a temper. Best to stay away.”
The world stopped spinning. Ralph turned his full attention to the worn but oddly happy old man. Harry shifted the cardboard mat beneath him in order to let more heat rise from the vents below the grate. Ralph paused, barely able to get the words out.
“You know the Horse? You’ve met her? I mean the person who drew … that?”
“Him, you mean. I know he looks like a her, but the Horse is a him. A dark him. You should count yourself lucky.”
Kneeling down, Ralph locked eyes with the unusual fellow. “Do you know something about that Horse? Do you know who painted it?” Ralph asked, in full cop mode. His words sounded inadequate to his own ears, his voice weak. He didn’t sound like he was in control of the situation.
Harry could see the policeman better. He was just a boy. Indian … he could tell the boy was Indian, both by sight and glow. He knew that term was out of time, but that was what he had grown up hearing and that was what was burned into his memory. Political correctness was low on the priority list for those living on the streets. This boy standing in front of him was an Indian cop. Harry didn’t see a lot of this type patrolling the streets. The times were changing. Moving beyond that, everything Harry could see at the police boy’s centre told him this man was good. A bit lazy. Once had focus but now was more or less treading conviction water. Had family he cared about. But now was worried about something. It took a second, but Harry quickly deduced the situation. “You weren’t expecting to see the Horse. That’s why you’re looking so shaken, huh? He reached out and grabbed you. Scary, huh?”
Ralph stepped back, startled. He was taller than the old man sitting in front of him, a good thirty pounds heavier, some thirty-five years younger, and substantially better trained and armed, if it came to that. Still, it was prudent to be wary of those possessing the kind of knowledge they, under normal circumstances, should not possess. Crawling to his knees and then standing on his feet, groaning noticeably, Harry stood eye-to-chin with Ralph. “I can’t go over there. He won’t let me. But I can tell, he knows you. He’ll allow it.”
Unable to control his actions, Ralph once more looked over at the Horse on the wall. It had not changed. It was still there, unmoved, but managing to stare at the two of them. The old man talked like the image was alive. And had a gender. Ralph felt a chill unrelated to the climate. Was he, Constable Ralph Thomas of the Otter Lake First Nation and long-ago viewer of the Horse, afraid of it? No, that was ridiculous. It was, after all, a spray-painted image. Even so, whatever it represented — then and now — was no threat to him. How could it be? He was simply shocked by seeing it again, after all these decades. That’s what scared him. As for this transient in front of him …
“Sir, who are you?”
“I’m Harry.”
“Harry what?”
Once more, Harry smiled. “Out here, you only need one name.”
“Why won’t the Horse let you cross the street?”
“I think the more interesting question is, how does he know you?” For a few seconds, Ralph wondered how to answer a question like that. But luckily, Harry asked a question easier to answer.
“Do you like chili?”
Much like his earlier comment about the Horse, Harry’s question took the constable by surprise. “Uh, yeah.”
Harry grabbed the police boy’s arm, gently leading him down the block, back to the Tim Hortons. “Good. On cold days like today, donuts just aren’t enough. A day like today calls for something more substantial. Like chili. Any man with matching socks can obviously afford to treat me.”
This guy smiles a lot, thought Ralph, disappearing through the doors with his new buddy. The good thing was, Ralph really did like chili. The bad news was just not at this very moment.
A short time later, Harry and Ralph were sitting by a window. Harry was turning out to be an expensive date. The world was walking by, but Ralph only had eyes and ears for the odd man devouring his second bowl of chili, as well as the bread and coffee he’d ordered with it. Meanwhile, Ralph was patiently waiting, warming his hands on a large black coffee, dark roasted. He had patiently waited for the strange street dweller to quell his appetite, but now he wanted a return on the investment of his time.
“So, tell me about the Horse.”
“He likes you, you know. I can tell. He doesn’t like a lot of people. That’s why I think he knows you. You know him from a before time, don’t you?” Harry’s spoon made scraping noises on the cardboard container, getting the last of the kidney beans into his grateful stomach. Ralph would have been surprised to know Harry hadn’t drunk in years. Over the years of self-abuse, the man had reached a point where the alcohol opened more portals in his mind than it had once closed, or was supposed to. Most people drank to forget. Unfortunately for Harry, his drinking proved to reveal too much of the world to him.
“You sound like it’s alive or something.” Ralph tried to figure out this bottomless pit sitting across from him. In many ways, Harry fit the profile of a homeless man, but in other ways, he differed. Substantially.
Once more, Harry smiled at Ralph’s comment. “No. That would be crazy. Alive, no. There’s no blood or pulse there. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be watching us. Existing. That’s different. You don’t have to be alive to be dangerous. Don’t they teach you guys anything?”
“And how is that … Horse … dangerous?”
Harry put his empty container down and burped. “You know.”
Ralph tried another tack. “I don’t. The artist who drew that picture. Did you see her?”
The smile slowly evaporated. “Her? How do you know it’s a her?”
“Are you saying it isn’t? That a girl … a woman didn’t draw that Horse?” Ralph leaned forward, anxiously awaiting an answer.
“Once maybe. Maybe once.” Harry looked out the window, across the street to where he could see just the head of the animal looking around the corner of a roti shop. No normal woman, or man for that matter, could have drawn an image like that. This police boy should know that. It was time to have a talk about the facts of life with this young man.
“Police boy,” Harry said, turning h
is attention to the man nursing his coffee like an amateur. “Why did you become a cop?”
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE SCHOOL playground, Ralph and William were loitering, bored with themselves. The game of King of the Hill had been officially banned by the Powers That Be who ran the school. Always a rebel of sorts, William was willing to poke the beast of school authority for the thrill of pushing classmates down a dirty pile of snow, but Ralph was not. Poking any type of beast was not one of his favourite activities. So instead, they leaned against the swings where the younger kids would occasionally play, looking out at the playground.
Without adrenaline to get his heart pumping and muscles moving, it turned out William was not a very articulate conversationalist. There they stood, the both of them, watching the elementary school world go by. “Hey, did you hear? There’s talk of the school getting the internet!”
William seemed unimpressed. “Nope, what’s that?”
“Some sort of computer network thing. You can learn and find all kinds of things. Mrs. Kendrick described it like having an entire library in your typewriter. And … and … you can send messages and all sorts of cool things out to people.”
William thought for a moment. “Kinda like Spock’s library computer on Star Trek?”
Now Ralph thought for a moment. “Yeah, kinda. Supposedly it’s been popping up all over the world. All you need is a phone line. It’s in Baymeadow already.”
“Big deal. Nobody will care.”
“How come?”
“Nobody will want to do all that typing. All that information, sounds too much like being in school all the time.”
Recess wasn’t for standing around. It was for running around. Doing things. And what was wrong with King of the Hill, anyway? Nobody ever got hurt … well, not badly, anyway. “So do you know what the prize is gonna be?! The one I’m gonna win?!” William smiled eagerly.
“You are so sure it’s gonna be you.”
“Yep. Gotta admit, that Everything Wall was a good idea. I like your mother sometimes. Geez, seems practically everybody’s drawn some sort of picture there. None of them very good, of course.” Absentmindedly, William grabbed a handful of snow and began making a snowball.
“Yeah, my mother says it’s where imagination comes alive.” Intentionally, Ralph exaggerated his mother’s mannerisms, getting a laugh from William.
“Yeah, that sounds like your mother.” Liz Thomas, in one of her annual home beautification attempts, had planted all sorts of new and interesting flowers around her house, determined to make her and her children’s home visually arresting. Unfortunately, one of the flowers she’d chosen to line the front of her deck was a particularly lovely strain of poppy. And it wasn’t long before somebody made the connection between poppies and heroin. Almost immediately, rumours began to fly about what Liz was really doing with those flowers, completely disregarding the fact that there are dozens of varieties of the poppy plant, of which only one carries the addictive alkaloids that, properly processed, lead to opium, morphine, and heroin. A visit from the local cops failed to put that gossip to rest, and within a week of their blossoming, the poppies were relocated to the compost heap.
William yawned. “And you still haven’t drawn anything. What are you waiting for?” William suddenly flung the snowball at a tree, hitting it dead on, showering its roots with bits of lumpy snow.
“I tried three times, but nothing came out. I don’t know …” Unfortunately, Ralph was beginning to feel a little inadequate about his dormant sense of talent and non-existent contribution to the Everything Wall.
“Don’t sweat it. Some people know how to draw. Others don’t. And I’m happy with that.”
Suddenly the bell rang and recess was over. “Is it my imagination or is recess getting shorter and shorter?” said William.
Both boys began walking towards the front doors of the school. Sitting on the steps of the slide, nearby but hidden from where the two boys had been standing, was Danielle. Standing up, she finished off her delayed breakfast, another bag of chips — this time a little more exotic brand of salt and vinegar — and watched the boys travel further away. She watched them leave with a certain longing. It had been a long time since she had walked anywhere with anybody.
“The Everything Wall …,” she said. For a brief moment, she seemed happy. Then the second bell rang, and she began walking towards the school. “Imagination comes alive …,” Danielle repeated, deep in thought, almost forgetting the wet, squishing sound her right boot made.
FIVE DAYS HAD passed since the creation of the Everything Wall, and the Thomases’ wall was alive with life and imagination. Easily two dozen different images of varying styles and talents had been squeezed onto the surface of the black wall. There was still one day left until the winner would be chosen. A motley selection of drawings crowded the kitchen, but it was obvious the boat William had drawn was by far the best. Two of Shelley’s closest friends, Vanessa and Julia, had drawn, or more accurately had attempted to draw, their pets, a cat and a dog. Other various friends and family had populated it with animals and objects. Most had laughed at the idea, claiming they were “too old for this kind of thing,” but pretty soon, with a little prompting — and occasionally without prompting — somebody would eventually kneel at the Wall, chalk in hand, opening the doors of imagination and letting through what may.
Liz Thomas was pleased. Her little gift to youthful artistic expression was proving surprisingly successful. Part of her was glad William’s boat was so good. It was rather obvious he was better at drawing. This way, by picking him, she wouldn’t be hurting any of the other youngsters’ feelings. Still, William couldn’t continue to win the prize every week, she thought. She’d have to make some rule about that later. More importantly for the moment, her husband was due home that night. It had been three weeks since he’d last slammed the Thomas door behind him, not out of anger but because it had been a windy day and the elements had wanted him to leave with a more emphatic send-off.
This afternoon, she began her usual ritual. Pork chops. Scalloped potatoes. Peas. And, of course, pie. Maybe apple. Possibly a strawberry rhubarb mixture. Liz would make most of the traditional welcome home dinner herself, except for the pie. Her dexterity in the kitchen for some reason did not extend to the baking arts. Experience had taught her her limitations. Those pies came from a small shop in Baymeadow. Once she had made the mistake of bringing home something called a Key Lime pie. Due to its unique appearance, all in the family had refused to call it a pie. And who ate green pies? So that non-pie quickly fell by the wayside.
Tye Thomas’s life was one of simplicity. Drive trucks. Come home. Eat the same food he’d been eating for the past four decades. Get to know his kids again. And wife. Catch up on local gossip. Watch some hockey. Laundry. Golf when the season and the weather allowed. And then head out again to parts of the continent where it was his responsibility to prevent product shortages. The eighteen-wheeler he drove was the twentieth-century cargo ship travelling across the land instead of the sea. The Thomas house, located on the Otter Lake reserve, was his home port. And if the projection in his phone call was correct, Tye Thomas should be pulling his own personal cargo ship — a Ram 1500 — into port in the next few hours.
Liz’s life was just as simple. The only difference? She wished it wasn’t. There was a wayfaring spirit hidden somewhere deep under her polyester blend Baymeadow sweatshirt, struggling to break free. Rather than a cargo ship, she wanted a catamaran, a schooner, a real sailing ship to explore the world, see new things, and have adventures. There were precious few adventures to be had in Otter Lake. She had to live them through her children; thus, the Everything Wall.
A television show about some far-off land played in the living room, and when she craned her head as she was preparing the scalloped potatoes, she could catch some of the visuals as well as the audio commentary. In her heart she kept a l
ist of places that, should she win the lottery, she planned to take her family. There were several of the usual places one would expect: Greece, Australia, New Zealand, England. Some unexpected countries also appeared on that list: Iceland, Ireland, Easter Island. The show currently captivating her interest talked about some ancient civilization in India, which was now on her unofficial list. The world was so fascinating. She loved Otter Lake, but …
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Ralph, William, and Shelley were sitting at the Thomas living room table, playing a game of cards, a unique local game called Anishnaabe Rummy. The rules had developed in the community over a number of years and they involved the ability to swoop in on your neighbour’s cards, picking the tastiest one, whenever an ace turned up.
Outside, it was a cold, drizzly day. The very first hint of spring had arrived extremely early with a temperature slightly above freezing. Thus, the rain created a dampness and cold that ate through even the best winter gear. As a result, it was an afternoon meant for indoors and cards.
“You’re cheating!” yelled Shelley at William.
“Prove it … I mean, am not!” he replied to the accusation.
Shelley threw her cards down in frustration and stormed away from the game. “I want to go to Vanessa’s. I bet they’re having fun over there.”
“Go right ahead but take an umbrella or a scuba outfit. It’s very wet out there.”
Looking out the window, Shelley sighed. “I wish somebody could drive me over.”
Ralph shuffled the cards once more. “Then you’ll have to wait till Mom or Dad gets home. Want another game?”
Depressed that her life had come down to either forging out through the winter rain, or playing cards with her little brother and It she rested her head against the glass. Apathetically, she answered, “I guess.” Even this had to be better than reading the book she’d been given for English class. Shelley never understood how a lot of the books they were given to read in school related to her life in Otter Lake. Yes, the human experience was universal, as her teachers tried to drill into her class; but, seriously, a book about a group of stupid boys stranded on tropical island, getting meaner and meaner. If that was of interest to her, there was William to study. He was his own Lord of the Flies. As for the Shakespeare she’d had to read … cry havoc and let slip the dogs of boredom.
Chasing Painted Horses Page 5
