Читать книгу The Dells - Michael Blair - Страница 10

Shoe and Rachel sat side by side in aluminum lawn chairs at the top of the slope of the yard. Fireflies sparked lazily against the backdrop of the dark woods. Rachel cradled a bottle of beer in her lap. Shoe had a mug of coffee, thus far in his life mercifully immune to the negative effects of caffeine. His parents had gone to bed and Harvey Wiseman was in the kitchen with Maureen, helping with the washing up. No one knew where Hal had got to, but at least he hadn’t taken his car; it was blocked by Rachel’s yellow New Beetle.

“Maureen has been after Hal to lose some weight for ages,” Rachel said. She took a slug from the beer bottle. “I guess he’s a little sensitive about it.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Shoe said. “How are things between Maureen and him?”

“I like Maureen,” Rachel said. “And I think she likes me. But we’re not close. We hardly ever talk about personal issues. Maybe we should. The short answer is, I don’t know. Given Hal’s behaviour this evening, maybe not so great.”

“He told me that you and he disagree about whether Mum and Dad should move into a seniors’ residence.”

“That’s what he said, we disagree about whether or not they should?” She sighed heavily. “I’m not against them moving into a seniors’ residence. In fact, it was me who brought it up after Dad fell on the basement stairs going down to do the laundry. He wasn’t hurt, but it was a wake-up call that maybe it’s time they considered selling the house and moving into some place a little easier to manage.”

“So you’re not moving in permanently?”

“Christ, no. I just stay here on weekends. More than that, I’d go nuts. So would Mum and Dad. I don’t care if they move into an apartment or a seniors’ residence. What I’m against is the dump Hal thinks they should move to. He says they can’t afford anything else, but that’s bull. Do you know what this place is worth? Half a million at least. If they sold it, they’d have over a million dollars in cash and investments.

“Our parents are fucking millionaires, Joe. Doc says a million dollars isn’t what it used to be. I’ll have to take his word for it. But a million is more than enough for them to move into a much better place than the one Hal thinks they should. I found a place that’d run them about seventy-five grand a year, everything included. Even at the miserable interest rates the banks are paying these days, a million would easily last them twenty years. Okay, it’s not inconceivable that they could both outlive the money, but how likely is it? Hal’s just worried that there won’t be anything left over for him.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’m not a millionaire by any stretch of the imagination, but business is good and I’m doing all right.” Rachel called herself a strategic marketing analyst, whatever that was, and worked out of her house in Port Credit, just west of Toronto, beside the GO train tracks. “I don’t need their money,” she went on. “Neither does Hal. At least, I don’t think he does — I don’t know what his financial situation is. You don’t, do you?”

“I have no idea what Hal’s financial situation is.”

“Need money, I mean.”

“No,” he said.

If Hal’s problems were financial, Shoe might be in a position to help. Unlike Rachel, he was a millionaire, a little more than twice over, in fact, even more on paper. It was a situation that made him acutely uncomfortable whenever he thought about it, which he seldom did. He had never been particularly interested in money for its own sake. He appreciated its usefulness, but was not the least bit acquisitive. Bill Hammond had paid well and Shoe lived simply, his only extravagance being his house in Kitsilano, purchased with cash two years before, after the Princess Pete, the converted logging tug he’d lived on for a decade, had burned to the waterline. During his twenty-five years with Hammond Industries, Shoe had invested cautiously but well, and had built up a moderately comfortable nest egg for his eventual retirement. He’d also received the equivalent of two years’ salary from Bill Hammond for finding Patrick O’Neill’s killer. What had pushed him over the top, however, had been the stock, cash, and property Hammond had left Shoe in his will. In addition to being a minority shareholder in Hammond Industries, Shoe was also the proud owner of a more than slightly rundown motel and marina on the Sunshine Coast, north of Vancouver.

“Doc says the decision should be up to them,” Rachel said.

“Wise man,” Shoe said.

“Haw.”

“How long have you known him?” Shoe asked.

“Doc? Almost my whole life. Well, since I was sixteen, anyway. He and his wife moved into the Levinson’s house around the time you moved to Vancouver. Jesus, almost thirty years.”

“Are you and he romantically involved?”

She made a face at him. “Nosy bugger, aren’t you? You want to know if we’re sleeping together?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, we’re not. He thinks he’s too old for me.”

“And you don’t?”

“No, I guess I don’t. I’ve made that pretty clear to him. His wife died of cancer three years ago and I don’t think he’s over it yet. I’m not sure I am either. She was a great lady. Her name was Rachel too. That may also have something to do with it.”

A comfortable curtain of silence dropped between them as a warm breeze rattled through the leaves overhead, punctuated by the distant trill of a woman’s laughter, a man roaring at his kids to get the hell inside this very minute, a dog barking, a door slamming, car tires squealing, and the far-off banshee wail of a high-performance motorcycle accelerating through the gears.

“How well do you remember Marvin Cartwright?” Shoe asked.

“Earlier today, if anyone had asked, I’d’ve said, ‘Not very well,’ but a lot of stuff is starting to come back. Bits and pieces mainly. Drinking hot chocolate with marshmallow after skating. Watching Mr. Blizzard after school on a big console colour television set with Marty, Bobby Cotton, and Mickey Bloom. Mr. Cartwright teaching us how to play chess in a room lined with books and records and drawings of birds. And the smell of disinfectant and bleach and his mother calling from her room in the back of the house. But I don’t remember what he looked like.”

“It was a long time ago. You were pretty young.”

“Do you remember him?”

“I don’t recall ever speaking to him. I certainly never went into his house. Like you, I also remember bits and pieces, some more vividly than others.” He had a sudden recollection of a man with his shirt sleeves rolled up, vigorously polishing the body of a dark green car as an awkward, gangly boy watched from the far side of the street. “For instance, I remember his car. It was English. A Rover, I think. British racing green. I have the impression it was old. Not new, anyway. He would work on it in his driveway. Change the oil, rotate the tires, tune it up. I always wanted to talk to him about it, but I never did.”

“I don’t remember it,” Rachel said. “Boys and their toys. You never played tricks on him, though, like Hal and Dougie Hallam and Tim Dutton, did you?”

“No, I never did.”

“How come? I remember you getting into trouble at school for playing practical jokes. Like switching the signs on the boys’ and girls’ washrooms during a district track-and-field meet.”

“Not the same thing at all,” Shoe said.

“No, of course not,” Rachel said. She looked around as Maureen and Harvey Wiseman came out of the house. “I wonder where the hell Hal’s got to?”