The Men Who Killed Oates

CAPE BRETON ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA; 1957

Jimmy R. Kansas slipped through a window of opportunity. It was a gap in the cloud and mist cover and his plane took advantage of it and dove through. It was April and the weather on the Island, and the region in general, was terrible. They landed at the Sydney airport. The pilot called it Industrial Cape Breton.

It would take about one day for Jimmy to figure out why.

He had a lot to his name. Jimmy was experiencing a string of hits on the various charts. His music had qualities that appealed to different people and he was young. He made it onto the country charts but they put him on the pop charts too because of his age but really because of the way people danced to his music. They called it rock and roll or rockabilly or other things. People said it was the devil’s fault but Jimmy knew that it was his guitar player’s. And his drummer’s. Those guys liked to boogie: it was as simple as that.

Where he came from, they just called it music.

But what the hell. He couldn’t control the music scene or his plane. He couldn’t control other people. He could only control himself. Even this was becoming a problem in recent days. A person lost complete ownership of themselves when they depended on public attention for their livelihood.

Plus, Jimmy R. Kansas loved the liquor. He didn’t even consider beer to be part of the alcohol family. It was more of a breakfast food for him, like orange juice. Jimmy liked the way drinking opened up doors. He met people that way.

But there were other issues as well. He couldn’t remember when or where he had first taken speed. It was a result of the constant traveling: they had to make their dough while they could. Some promoter or manager had given him the stuff one night before a show. The guy had described it as a job perk.

It was a whole new world for Jimmy. He knew right away, thirty minutes into the first buzz, that his marriage was over.

He could stay up for days after that. He could drink all he wanted and he didn’t have to sleep. He got an apartment in New York City and hid out there whenever they came off the road. He never thought he’d like the north so much and a big city at that. But he loved New York. Nobody paid him any attention there.

It was quite a party.

The airplane tilted over onto a severe angle. The pilot found his opening and jammed the controls down. The engine screamed and shuddered. There was loud banging as the wind and the body of the plane battled for the wings. The nose pitched forward and Jimmy spilled his drink.

Welcome to Industrial Cape Breton, said the pilot after the landing.

Jimmy was irritable; his shirt was sticky and wet from the Pepsi-Cola. He itched all over. He had run out of speed a few days before. He lit a cigarette and put his sunglasses on. Now that he had survived, he took the opportunity to break out into a cold sweat.

Jimmy looked up at the sky. A sunbeam ray poured through the cloud cover like a scene from one of those alien-space movies. The clouds hung very low. He had noticed this about all these North Atlantic islands. He yearned for elevated skies. Montana, the Dakotas. His brain could use a bit of space.

The air was damp and thick. The wind shifted and the opening in the sky that Jimmy had just traveled through closed in on itself. The sun disappeared.

Welcome to Cape Breton.

That’s what the pilot had said to him.

He had run out of pills, originally, in Iceland.

The mainland of Europe was no problem. Hamburg, Amsterdam, Paris. He had all the chemicals he wanted and then some. Also, Jimmy had never tasted beer so good: the German pilsner and the thick, dark stuff in England.

They had worked real hard. They played shows all over the place. Some were exciting and profitable. Others were questionable and basically dangerous. Sometimes, they’d played two or three shows per night.

But, of course, his manager wanted more.

They planned to stop for a few shows in Reykjavik. Then skip over to Newfoundland where they’d play a USAF gig along with a couple of paying, civilian ones. Jimmy was excited about getting back to New York. But instead of flying directly down to the States, it had been decided that they’d tour Eastern Canada and New England. They’d drive the whole way. It would take several weeks to get back. Maybe a few months.

Jimmy’s manager, Roger, had revealed the band’s new itinerary in England.

Roger, Jimmy had told him. You are one crooked, low-down snake.

Jimmy! Roger shouted as Jimmy walked out on-stage to do the show. They were up north somewhere, where the people sounded Scottish. Don’t do anything stupid!

Jimmy was in a rage. He kicked out the stage footlights and smashed his guitar to pieces.

The audience loved it.

In Europe, they traveled light: just their instruments and a few amplifiers. The guitar player loved his ElectroAcoustic brand amps and had to bring them along. They produced an echo that sounded spooky yet energetic. The amps and the drum kit occupied the most space.

They planned to gear up with their regular show once they returned to North America. They’d have their own lights, sound, P.A., and a full complement of guitars. When the flight from Iceland landed, their driver, Freddie, would be waiting for them with the regular bus. At least they’d be properly equipped. The idea was to finish up the tour with several shows at Carnegie Hall in New York. This was a dream for Jimmy but it seemed very far away. He loved his apartment. It was decorated just the way he liked. It was his real home. Nobody in his music world even knew where it was.

Then tragedy struck Jimmy. And, since he was the star of the show, it struck the whole entourage. He ran out of pills in Reykjavik; the shows were terrible. The crowd stared at Jimmy as he shivered and sweated on-stage. He ordered the band to play even their slower songs double-time so that people would think that he was moving to the music when really he had the jitters. He couldn’t sleep after the show and he couldn’t eat. He couldn’t even keep a glass of water down. The only thing that seemed to help was tobacco.

This is serious, Roger told him. You’ve got to keep better care of yourself.

I thought you were supposed to be taking care of me, said Jimmy. Besides, asshole. You’re the one that gets me my pills all the time.

We all have to take care of ourselves, Jimmy, Roger said. That’s the way the world works.

Then you’d better help me, said Jimmy. If you know what’s good for you.

Roger thought this over for a few minutes. He was nothing without Jimmy R. Kansas. He left the hotel room to make inquiries and take up a collection from the entourage. An hour later, he returned with various prescription pills and a bucket full of beer in crushed ice.

You better make that last, said Roger. I won’t be able to help you once we get to Newfoundland.

They were supposed to play a USAF base on the island but Roger changed his mind: he had different plans for Jimmy. The two of them would stay behind for a photo shoot. Then they’d fly out and meet the band in Nova Scotia.

Why don’t we all just fly together? said Jimmy.

Too expensive. Besides, the boys can still play the base. We’ll just say you had some health difficulties. It’s a win-win: you get to stay behind, but we’ll get some publicity out of it regardless.

What’s the photo shoot for anyway?

Walkie-talkies, said Roger. He retrieved a bottle of beer from the ice bucket and popped off the cap. Jimmy had taken a few pills and was starting to feel better.

Walkie-talkie? said Jimmy. What the fuck is that? Chinese food?

It’s a communication device. A radio. But you can talk into it and another person can hear it with their own walkie-talkie. They’re portable. They’ve used them in the military for years. Now some company from Jersey wants to promote them to hunters. So we’ll stay over a few extra days. Get some shots of you out in the bush with a rifle and radio. And that will be it.

Jimmy cracked open his own beer, lit a cigarette, and pondered this for a few minutes. He wore sunglasses in the hotel room, although it was pitch-dark outside the window. They had a few more nights in Iceland.

It sounds stupid to me, he said.

Nevertheless, said Roger. It will pay very well.

So Freddie will be coming up with the bus to pick the guys up?

Roger shivered and lit a cigarette. Everyone hated the bus-driver, Freddie. During the European tour, Roger had often remarked that they should tour only in places where Freddie’s services were not required.

That’s the plan, Roger said, finally.

Where is Freddie now? said Jimmy.

How the fuck should I know? said Roger. On the road somewhere.

What time is it at home?

What, in Tennessee? said Roger. I don’t know. Maybe eleven o’clock?

One of the roadies found Jimmy in the hotel bar. There was a phone call for him, and it was supposed to be important. Jimmy hoped so, because he had some drinking to do and he was behind schedule. That’s what he told the roadie, anyway.

Hello?

Jimmy R. Kansas heard Freddie’s voice crackle through the underwater lines. Freddie had a pinched, nasal voice that sounded like he was on the telephone even when he was talking right in front of you.

Freddie? Jimmy, here.

Jimmy, man. How are you?

Iceland, said Jimmy. Reykjavik. You figure it out. Where are you?

Some motel in Maine.

Still in Maine? said Jimmy. There was a delay between speaking and the other person receiving the signal. By the time Freddie heard him, Jimmy’s voice was already demoted to the past.

That’s right, said Freddie.

I want to hear good news, Freddie.

They kept Freddie around because he was spineless and unashamed. He was fun to abuse and his only weapons were gossipy ones. He worked for practically nothing because of the self-induced importance he attached to the job.

That’s what I’m calling about, said Freddie. I’m not sure if I can go through with our plan.

What do you mean? said Jimmy. We had it all worked out.

There’s a border, said Freddie. I didn’t know that. I’m gonna have to cross a border tomorrow. They have guards and searches and everything.

What the fuck are you, Freddie---eight years old? Of course there’s a border. It’s a different country, for God’s sakes!

I don’t think I can do it, Jimmy. Even the way people speak up here: they pronounce all their letters. It’s creepy.

You better do it, Freddie. Or else. You know what’d be creepy? You working back at your pa’s auto-body shop, cutting your hands to shreds on sheet metal every day.

Roger will kill me if anything happens.

Don’t worry about Roger, said Jimmy. Worry about me.

Of course, he chickened out on Jimmy. He mailed Jimmy’s supplies back to the band office down south. He broke the news as soon as they were together at the hotel in St. John’s, Newfoundland.

But they were fucking pills, Freddie! Jimmy said. Medications! How hard could it be to cover your ass with that? You could say that they were vitamins for Christ’s sake!

Like all of them, Freddie was a southerner. But he believed that Virginia was as far north as anyone should have to go. He was horrified at the weather and ice as he piloted the bus up through New England and into eastern Canada.

But Jimmy, he said. I couldn’t figure out where to put ‘em.

How about in some pill bottles? said Jimmy. How about up your ass?

But what about the other stuff you wanted? said Freddie. The grass? Where could I have hidden that? I don’t think Roger would be very happy about me carrying stuff like that across a border in the band’s bus.

Don’t threaten me you little shit, said Jimmy. It’s my bus.

Maybe so, said Freddie. But Roger is the boss.

Jimmy got drunk and kicked in the television screen. He passed out in bed with a lit cigarette and a blanket caught on fire. Luckily, it was extinguished almost immediately. Roger had to exert significant influence (and execute a small bribe) to the hotel manager so that they weren’t kicked out of the place.

The shows, however, went well in Newfoundland. Jimmy did not suffer such pronounced withdrawal this time around. It wasn’t pleasant, but he was at least able to function. The guys in the band were happy to have their own gear back. They played in a hockey arena and the audience knew how to have a good time. The locals there loved their music. Even their speech-patterns sounded musical. The day after the last show, Jimmy watched from his hotel room as the band and his bus (with that little, piss-ant Freddie at the wheel) pulled out of the parking lot and started their trip across Newfoundland. The guys seemed happy to be going and Jimmy understood. He wished he were with them. Once a person was on the road, movement became important. It lifted the spirits and helped with morale. The possibility of accomplishment waited ahead. He was jealous. He was stuck for a few more days. Not only that, but he’d have to smile and pose for a camera for hours on end. And pretend to talk into some god-damned hunting radio that probably wouldn’t even have a battery in it. Who would he talk to anyway, now that the guys were gone? Roger?

It was a living.

Jimmy couldn’t take it anymore. He felt sick and he hated the photographer. They brought him all over the place to take pictures. For two days, Jimmy had to pretend to be moose-hunting. It wasn’t even hunting season and the winter-moose that they saw were hungry-looking and beat up. Jimmy related to them and was glad that he didn’t have to shoot any.

Roger loved the walkie-talkies. He kept talking to Jimmy with them.

I think that we should get a few of these for the road, he said. They could really come in handy.

Jimmy wanted to smash them. He couldn’t figure out how walkie-talkies were supposed to help with hunting. They had to be turned on at all times in order to receive signals. Then they kept scaring the moose. He was skeptical about the whole idea and felt guilty that his name would be attached to such an enterprise.

Apparently, the people in charge felt the same way.

Now don’t get upset, said Roger. But they want you for one more day.

One more day? For what?

This is Newfoundland, right? They want to get some pictures of you fishing with the walkie-talkies.

Fishing? said Jimmy. Who the hell would I be talking to when I’m fishing? The guy sitting next to me in the boat? Or maybe the fish carry them around underwater so I could talk to them. That’s why people go fishing in the first place: so they don’t have to talk. I’ll tell you what: I’ll send them some pictures of me fishing and they can glue little walkie-talkies onto them. Replace the cans of beer.

Jimmy, said Roger. Be reasonable.

The next morning, Jimmy got up early and took a taxi to the St. John’s airport. He bought a ticket and, an hour later, watched Newfoundland drop away from him. He planned on being reasonable. Once he landed in Nova Scotia, he would leave a message for Roger. He’d meet them for their shows in Cape Breton. In the meantime, he’d be alone.

So long, suckers, Jimmy thought to himself once the plane had leveled off. Jimmy lit a cigarette and ordered a rum and Pepsi-Cola.

He stood on the open tarmac. The air was damp and smelled of salt.

Hey buddy, said one of the airport workers unloading baggage from the little plane. No smoking out here. Say! Aren’t you Jimmy R. Kansas?

That’s right, said Jimmy.

We’ll, I’ll be…, said the worker. That’s amazing. I’ve got tickets for your show. You go ahead and smoke, buddy: no problem. Just stupid rules, you know. And the fuel, of course.

Er, thanks, said Jimmy, who was wearing ointment-soaked, gauze bandages along the left side of his torso.

Jimmy carried his bags into the airport which seemed more like a bus-terminal. He looked around to see if he could get a car. They finally found one from a Ford dealer in town which sent an employee out to the airport to deliver it. Jimmy had to return him back to his dealership.

Is there a nice hotel in Sydney? Jimmy asked him.

I’m not sure, said the guy. He was a mechanic and wore green work clothes covered in grease. They reminded Jimmy of the colour pictures he had seen from Russia and China. There’s a hotel. A few of them.

Jimmy threw his bags into the trunk and they drove into Sydney.

His band was due in town the next morning on the ferry from Newfoundland. Then they had three nights of shows in a town called Glace Bay, not far from Sydney. He planned on having some fun. These days, fun for Jimmy meant getting away from people like Roger and Freddie. People who lived off of Jimmy’s gifts but somehow ended up ordering him around. He didn’t care if he stayed in a flophouse for the night. He just wanted to get drunk and not have to answer to anybody. He never should have let the band leave without him. He needed the motion, even more than he needed his various medications.

Sydney ended up being a large town, as opposed to a proper city. There was one main street down along the harbour and all the hotels were on this strip. He picked the nicest one, parked the car, and went in to ask about a room.

No problem, said the desk clerk. We’re all emptied up.

Is there a restaurant here?

Right over there, said the clerk. He pointed to a side room. It was empty except for a bunch of tables covered in white tablecloths, silverware, and water tumblers. Would you like to make a reservation?

You’re a real wise-guy, said Jimmy.

Sorry, buddy, said the clerk. I just get bored sometimes.

I know what you mean, said Jimmy.

Can I have your name, please?

Jimmy took out his wallet and looked at the clerk.

How about if I just pay cash and leave it at that?

Whatever you say, mister, said the desk clerk. I’ll call myself to get your bags for you.

Jimmy called the hotel in Newfoundland and left a quick message for Roger with the front desk. Then he went downstairs for lunch. The desk clerk was his waiter. He served Jimmy a nice piece of steaming-hot whitefish and boiled potatoes.

Is there a bar in town where I could go to tonight? Jimmy asked him.

There’s the Dance Hall, said the clerk. He looked down at Jimmy. But that’s probably not what you’re after. There’s the Black Diamond Bar. Then there are the clubs.

The clubs?

Yeah, said the clerk. He extended his hand and ticked off a finger with each item. There’s the French Club, the Ukrainian Club, the Irish Club, the K of C, the Cedar’s Club (that means they’re Lebanese), the Officer’s Club, the Italian Club. All the different clubs. And the Legion, too, of course.

They all sound like trouble to me.

That’s possible too, said the clerk. As long as a person doesn’t get too mouthy. You know what I mean?

Jimmy shrugged. He went to his room, took several sleeping pills, and napped for most of the afternoon. Then he picked up the phone and asked for delivery of some supper and a bottle of wine.

Later, there was a knock on the door.

Room service, said a voice.

Jimmy opened the door; the desk clerk stood there with a tray of food and the wine.

Why am I not surprised? said Jimmy.

It got dark and Jimmy went out. It was a tough-looking, big-boned town with coal smoke pouring out of chimneys. Unpolished faces roamed the streets. Ruddy, wind-blemished faces. Some looked healthy and others were pockmarked. There were nice neighbourhoods but they were balanced by grit. This appealed to Jimmy. It was a steel and coal town and he could relate to that. The desk clerk had recommended the Black Diamond Bar with the comment that Jimmy should be alright there. Jimmy couldn’t wait. Clouds of smoke rose up from across town: great plumes of orange, lit from below. Mustard-amber smoke drifted from some kind of mill or factory. He heard metallic rattling and the unbelievable squealing vibrations of wheels screeching on track as train cars smashed against each other.

Jimmy threw his smoke aside and stepped into the bar. He heard party sounds descending from a flight of stairs. He heard music above the prattling chatter of a drinking crowd. It was one of his own recordings. The electric thumping and chugging of the guitar and drums plodded and traveled over the noise. Then he heard his own voice echo through the bar and down the stairs. His earliest hit: one of his train-songs.

It was going to be a good night. He could feel it in his bones.

TORONTO TO HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA; EARLY 1990s

Kathy McKay had always enjoyed the after-school shows on TV: ones that depicted the various traumas of kids on their way to school, at school, or coming home from school. But she could not concede that these experiences were typical. She thought of school as a type of warm embrace. She was a good student and enjoyed learning. It filled the time: what else was she supposed to do? She participated in various extracurricular events: gymnastics, school dances, jazz-band, the chess club. It was a place to be. She found friends there.

At a certain point, Kathy grew tall for her age. She felt gangly. Around the same time, her mother agreed to the fitting of braces. It was difficult, but she was a trooper.

She joined the basketball team and got on with life.

By the time Kathy McKay began university, her body had caught up to her height. Her braces were long-gone. She was tall and pretty. People stared at her in the line-ups of video stores and at McDonald’s. They weren’t even people who would normally seem rude or creepy: new grandfathers, preppy girls her own age, little boys. It was just pleasant to look at her. She became captain of the basketball team in her third year. She was funny and outgoing with a lot of friends and a few boyfriends during her four years.

After graduation, Kathy went backpacking in Europe. She made sure to stitch a Canadian-flag patch onto the upper part of her pack so that people wouldn’t think she was American. She trekked all over the place: reading, working in pubs, and partying with other travelers.

It was the thing to do.

After one year, she returned to Canada with a simple question: what to do next?

Kathy loved to talk. About many things. She was a social creature. She liked being involved in groups and she wasn’t opposed to occupying the centre of attention. She couldn’t picture herself in a cubicle, in a lab, staring at a computer screen, counting out pills, or cooped up in a car.

She decided to become a teacher; she signed up for a program in the city.

Kathy McKay was from one of those small towns in Southern Ontario that got swallowed up by Toronto’s expansion. Her town had once been a discreet community---with a busy Main Street, a Town Hall, a park, and Victorian-style houses---surrounded by farmland. The soil was soft, rich, and fragrant: almost oily with nutrients.

Then (roughly during the era of extreme dental work) the projects exploded. Farms disappeared and transformed overnight into suburban developments. Thousands and thousands of the same brick house were assembled, production-line style. The boom was inter-connected by a web of shopping malls, colour-coded bus routes, and four lane boulevards.

Some people idolize the status of things that existed during childhood. Kathy was one of those people. But she also admired the brutal efficiency of the new city as she commuted back and forth to school in Toronto. She transferred at the old Town Hall. It had been converted into a courtyard plaza with a pharmacy, an express Post Office, a food court, a Hallmark store, a cocktail lounge with hanging ferns, a lingerie franchise, and other shiny outfits. The Musak of the Beatles simmered through the courtyard.

One day, Kathy was returning home from school when she realized that she had forgotten to return her monthly invoice for the Columbia House music club. She also had to pee.

Kathy was rushing through the plaza when something caught her eye. She noticed one last store tucked into the corner before the bathroom hallway. It was a used bookstore. This interested Kathy. While in Europe, she had picked up the habit of reading. Fellow backpackers gave her books for the trains, the hostels, and for waiting in stations. She’d discovered a love for books.

The presence of this shop---its awkward sign and dusty contents---clashed with the contemporary digs of the plaza. Why would anyone risk such an enterprise here? Either bravado or stupidity. In this little courtyard mall---amongst the rapid transportation, the fibre-optic cables, and the modern systems that allowed a house to be built in a week---someone had the bright idea to open a used bookstore.

Kathy washed her hands and went inside the little shop. A young woman (younger than Kathy) was sorting books at the back shelf. Kathy browsed through the mystery section until she was near enough to start a conversation. She asked about the store.

My brother owns it, said the girl.

Why did he open it? said Kathy.

He loves books, said the girl. Plus, there were no other used shops around. People had to go into the city. Or else buy new books at the Oakwood Mall.

It’s a great idea, said Kathy. The shop was empty. Her voice sounded hollow beneath the florescent lights.

He never wanted to leave his hometown, said the girl. He never thought that his hometown would leave him.

Kathy understood. She wanted to meet this brother.

She incorporated a stop at the Town Hall Courtyard Plaza into her commute home. She’d get a decaf from the coffee joint in the food court, and visit the bookstore. The sister worked that shift and she was cool. One day, a different girl was working and Kathy’s heart skipped a beat. But she was just a friend of the sister’s. Kathy couldn’t figure out why she should feel relieved.

One evening, she decided to buy a science-fiction novel for her sister. Kathy did that sometimes: she’d pick up little treats for her sister, her mom, or a friend. She was that type of person.

Kathy walked through the door and bumped into the owner-brother. He had a pile of books in his arms and they went flying. She knelt to help gather them. He wore an old-fashioned shopkeeper’s smock. The sleeves of his collared shirt were unbuttoned and rolled up past the elbows. Kathy thought that he was a beautiful man.

You scared the crap out of me, he said.

You’re not expecting customers? she said. He laughed at this.

Maybe not, he said. That can't be a good sign.

Your sister told me about you, said Kathy.

Oh yeah?

Yes. I asked her why anyone would open up this store and she said that you lived in the past.

He laughed again; she was on a roll.

It’s true, he said.

Why did you start this store? said Kathy.

You’re interested in my business, he said.

I’m interested.

But it’s not your business, he said.

Not yet.

Do you like it?

Very much, said Kathy. I come in here all the time.

Well, there you go, he said. I started it because I needed to do something. I figured that it would be good experience to own a business at a young age. Plus, the rent was cheap.

And has it been a good experience? said Kathy.

Today, yes, he said.

He scribbled his phone number on the back of his card and gave it to her.

I close at 7:00 on Friday night, he said. Why don’t you come over? We could go have a beer at the bar.

You close at 7:00 on a Friday night? said Kathy.

Oh, this place is dead in the evenings, he said. I mean empty. Everyone goes to the big mall.

Kathy looked at the card. His name was Rob.

Kathy, she said. The Oakwood Mall.

They were a couple from the moment those books went flying.

Rob was fit and muscular without being bulky. There was a leanness to him that appealed to her. Her previous boyfriend had been a basketball player and she realized (when they broke up) that he had been too tall for her tastes. Rob was just the right height. And he possessed just the right amount of nerdiness: it suggested an air of responsibility. He had strong hands (possibly from filing books all day) and this was a major turn-on. He was a health nut who made his own squash soups, but he also liked to have a few beers in the evening. He was a good listener. This was important.

When he wasn’t in the store, Rob assisted with some history professor’s research. Kathy had school in Toronto. She picked up a job at a ritzy, Japanese paper shop near the school. Also, she spent at least two hours each day trapped in the city transit system.

They saw each other often.

One cold, Friday night before Christmas, they met at a Vietnamese restaurant in the Chinatown area of Toronto. There was something delicious about the whole evening---cold, windless, crisp air outside---and fresh snow covered everything. People walked the sidewalks under the opiate effects of shopping. Cops carried Styrofoam cups of coffee and listened to the Leafs game on portable radios.

The steaming heat of the restaurant warmed the bones. They sat in a corner booth.

I’ve got big news, said Kathy.

School was fine.

But the owner of the paper store was driving her crazy. Kathy was big on communication. She liked to sit and talk with people the way others would go to a movie or watch TV. It was a hobby. She enjoyed expressive people, or else people who could listen (like Rob). But the owner at work---a poker-faced woman named Michiko---never spoke to her. About anything. Everyone else in the store was Japanese. Michiko talked to these people constantly. Kathy received orders and criticisms through her co-workers. The owner stared and smiled at inappropriate times. Then she’d bark in Japanese and one of the other girls translated some message about origami paper or watermarked stationary. The language barrier isolated Kathy. She never knew what Michiko was thinking. She provided Rob with daily updates about this cold presence in her life. They called it the ‘Michiko Report.’

It’s about Michiko.

What about her? said Rob.

An accountant came by the store today, said Kathy. He had a business meeting scheduled with her.

Sounds reasonable, said Rob.

He came up to the counter and asked for her, said Kathy. He was just a regular business-type guy---a white guy. I asked him where he’d learned Japanese. He told me that he hadn’t. But he loved sushi.

Their soup arrived. It was filled with noodles, shrimps, and cilantro. They squeezed lime-juice over the top. The broth was delicious and it was Friday night.

I asked him how they did business, said Kathy. He says---‘what do you mean?’ I said---‘you know, with Michiko. Does somebody translate?’ Just then, Michiko arrives from the store-room. She sees this guy in the suit. And guess what?

What? said Rob. He slurped at his noodles.

She comes up, all smiles, and says hello. And then starts talking to him---in English! Can you believe it? She can speak English! I mean, it’s perfect. She’s been ignoring me, ordering me around in Japanese, this whole time. Can you believe that?

A black and white TV hung from the corner ceiling. The hockey game was on. The Leafs scored a goal and Rob gave a little start. He nodded and paid close attention to Kathy’s story.

That’s really weird, he said.

She obviously hates me, said Kathy. She talks to the Japanese girls all the time.

She’s always smiling and pretending that everything is nice. The other girls, too: they never get mad, and if there’s a problem they smile even more. In the meantime, they’ll be going behind your back to Michiko. I have no idea what they’re thinking. It drives me crazy. That can’t be the extent of their feelings.

Kathy was on a roll. Her anger gave Rob a thrill. Michiko was a strange creature. But he had heard similar reviews before: about her sister, her ex-boyfriend’s mother, a classmate who didn’t participate in group-work, an old friend from highschool, her lazy faculty advisor, her mother’s ex-boyfriend. Rob was wrapped up in a dangerous game. She needed to vent and his nose was jammed tight into the exhaust manifold. She created critical arguments against people in a way that left no room for maneuvering. She stabbed the air with her index finger. She dissected offenders---almost down to a cellular level---with words.

It took a few minutes before Kathy calmed down.

Rob was going to wait, but he wanted to change the subject.

I’ve got some big news too, he said.

What’s that?

Rob looked across the table. She was dressed for business. Since starting with Michiko, Kathy had changed her style. She could no longer wear jeans and cowboy boots every day. She chose dress-shirts, fitted skirts, ironed slacks, heels that made her even taller, subtle make-up, ethnic jewelry. The top two buttons of her collared shirt were undone and he saw the lower neck, collar bones, and sternum. He lost part of his breath, sometimes, when he looked at her.

He never had a chance.

Rob reached to the wall and retrieved his winter coat from the rack. He put his hand into one of the pockets, and pulled out a little box. He passed it across the table. She squinted and looked at him. He gestured for her to continue. Kathy opened the box and found the ring inside.

She cried at the sight of it.

Plans for the wedding began immediately. Rob slurped at the rest of his noodles. Snow drifted slowly down into the windless streets of Toronto.

Kathy got a job teaching highschool English in the Etobicoke area, just west of Toronto. She had her first year’s lesson plans ready; she organized them with index cards. She would have to move: their town was east of Toronto and a commute through the city would be impossible. She helped Rob reach a decision about the bookstore. He made a small profit when he sold the business to the history professor’s wife. Kathy pointed out that Rob had a business degree and that he could use this to get a decent-paying job. Rob agreed to look around and, before he knew it, accepted a position with an insurance company in the city. The salary was three times what he took from his store.

You can take the GO-Train into town, said Kathy. You’ll have time to read.

Not bad, eh? said Rob. He flipped through a mountain-bike catalogue.

I knew you could do it, said Kathy.

Rob stayed out of the wedding plans; things went well.

Kathy’s best friend from university would be the maid of honour. Rob’s younger sister from the bookstore became a fast-friend of Kathy’s, and was included in the wedding party also. They worked and shopped and lunched around the project together. Kathy’s mother went with them sometimes. They decided to keep things simple and elegant.

What about Becka? said Rob.

She doesn’t want to be in it, said Kathy. It’s not her thing.

She told you that?

I don’t have to ask, said Kathy. I know what she’s like.

Maybe you should? said Rob.

Becka was Kathy’s older sister, but they were not close. They maintained an agreeable silence with each other. Becka was quiet and brooding and drawn to eccentric things. Her boyfriend was in his mid-fifties. She seemed angry---to Rob---about the effortless affection that their mother displayed towards Kathy. Kathy was a knock-out with style and social charms. Becka was an awkward, bookish recluse with a weight problem. Becka lived with, and idolized, their mother: she had structured her life around the intention of taking care of the aging woman. But the mother doted over the younger daughter’s every move---always had. Like everyone else, she wanted to be Kathy’s pal and confidante.

At Rob’s suggestion, Kathy asked Becka to be in the wedding party. Becka declined to get fitted with the rest, but she did accept the offer. Kathy understood.

Thanks for making me ask Becka, Kathy said to Rob. It was the right thing to do.

The wedding was a success. Kathy’s father had died when she was very young, so her old basketball coach gave her away. Everybody drank too much and the buffet was good, although the chicken breasts were not piping hot as they should have been. Becka’s boyfriend was upset because the caterers had forgotten to prepare his vegetarian option. Kathy was secretly pleased about this as she watched the dirty old man munch dinner rolls.

Two days later, the newlyweds jumped into a brand-new Honda Civic to begin their honeymoon.

ANTIGONISH, NOVA SCOTIA; 1974

It had been Mac’s idea and it was the most popular thing on the station. After two weeks of hosting the show, however, he had already grown tired of it and wished that he had never started it. But it was too late. It had been an instant success and maybe his greatest success.

That was over ten years ago. His call-in was still going strong.

He couldn’t get out of it. Like the performer who has one hit and spends the rest of his life singing the same song. He tried everything. He tried to get other people to host Your Turn, but that hadn’t worked. The new hosts had lost their minds within a few weeks and found jobs in Halifax. Plus, the audience loved Mac. He had a great radio voice. It was deep and resonant with an old-time lilt that comforted.

Your Turn was the flagship show. The idea of replacing it was absurd.

The problem was that Mac was also manager of the radio station. This meant that he was responsible for filling up a huge amount of air-time. Besides Your Turn, he also hosted the Farmer’s Hour on Saturday mornings, the daily Phone Mart, and various music shows. He did what he could. If he couldn’t guarantee quality, he could at least provide quantity.

He received complaints on a regular basis: from the federal regulating agency, from the Church, from the station’s owners, from strangers on the street, from the two political parties, from his friends. He found it difficult to muster up energy to defend it. People appropriated possession of a radio station. As if it was a community-service project. Radio was so intimate: just the announcer and often a solo listener. It left people believing in the notion of abstract friendship. Such was the power of the human voice.

One summer he was down at Huang’s Restaurant. In the booth behind him, there was a tourist family mocking the station. As he listened, Mac’s face sunk lower and lower into his hot-turkey sandwich, until he had to wipe brown gravy from his chin. Then, one of the tourist kids, a quiet one, said something that changed Mac’s life.

At least it has personality, the kid had said.

AT LEAST IT HAS PERSONALITY.

Mac liked that. It was quick, accurate and implied that critics lacked something themselves. It became his mantra. He repeated it countless times after that. He used it on-air and during business meetings. He repeated it to the church and to his friends. When he met drunken strangers at the bar and they complained, he used it on them. He showed his teeth to suck back a little bit of scotch, with an ice cube tucked behind. It created a cool spray on the palate and allowed him to tuck the drink away. People thought he was smiling.

It was one of the best presents he had ever received.

It was very hot outside. They were in the depths of a heat wave. The town of Antigonish had been one of the hottest places in the country for the past few days. The radio station was located in a big, old, three-story house that overlooked the town. Mac had a nice view from his office. He could see the downtown and hear the dump trucks, dairy trucks, and cars cruising on Main Street. On the hills across the valley, he saw vehicles moving across hay fields.

He liked the place. One of the things he liked about it was that people came downtown. It was the place to be. People cruised Main Street as a hobby. It created the only traffic jam in the province outside of Halifax. This was often a topic of complaint on his show. People complained about the ambulance service.

---BUT THERE IS NO OTHER ROUTE, MA’AM.

---THERE ARE SIDE STREETS, MAC. AT LEAST UP TO THE BRIDGE. BESIDES, THERE’S NO REASON TO BE CHATTING-UP SOME YOUNG BRUNETTE AT ONE OF THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS WITH A PATIENT DYING IN THE BACK.

---YOU HAVE TO AT LEAST SLOW DOWN AT THE LIGHTS, MA’AM.

---NOT WHEN IT’S GREEN, MAC. POOR ANITA. SHE’S IN A BETTER PLACE NOW.

---OH, I’M SORRY. SHE PASSED?

---NO. ONCE SHE GOT OUT OF THE HOSPITAL, SHE MOVED UP TO DARTMOUTH TO LIVE WITH HER SISTER.

Mac pulled at his tie and leaned away from the glare of the window. A small, electric fan whirled on the filing cabinet. It was old: there was no cage-guard protecting the blades as they circled. For several years, Mac had often meant to get a new one. He never got around to it. There didn’t seem to be enough time and it turned out that he had an attachment to it. He liked to stick a pencil into the spinning blades and listen to the rapid clicking sounds.

He had just finished the Phone Mart. It ate up at least twenty minutes of the sleepy, post-lunch time slot. Mac had invented the Mart for this very purpose. He read the news, a bit of chit-chat (IT’S A HOT ONE OUT THERE, FOLKS), Charlie Pride’s latest, and then the Mart. On a good day, he could count on an hour by exploiting this formula.

---GOOD AFTERNOON. YOU’RE NEXT ON THE MART.

---HI MAC. I’VE GOT A USED BOX-SPRING AND MATTRESS FOR SALE. RECENTLY CLEANED. WILL SELL INDIVIDUALLY OR AS A SET. THERE ARE TWO DIFFERENT TYPES OF SQUEAKS TO THE BOX SPRING. OTHERWISE, JUST LIKE NEW. PLEASE CALL 863-####.

---THANKS FOR THE CALL. THAT’S A USED BOX SPRING AND MATTRESS FOR SALE. RECENTLY CLEANED. HAS A FEW SQUEAKS. TWO DIFFERENT TYPES. CALL 863-####. HELLO, YOU’RE NEXT ON THE MART.

---HI MAC. I’VE GOT MY SON’S OLD GUITAR FOR SALE. HE MOVED OUT TO ALBERTA TO WORK. IT IS MISSING A STRING, BUT SHOULD STILL BE PLAYABLE WITH FIVE GOOD STRINGS LEFT. ALSO FOR SALE. SEVEN CASES OF EMPTY CAPTAIN MORGAN 40 OUNCER BOTTLES. SUITABLE FOR THE COLLECTOR OR THE HOME BREWER. PLEASE CALL 863-####.

---THANKS FOR THE CALL. THAT’S A USED GUITAR FOR SALE AND SEVEN CASES OF EMPTY CAPTAIN MORGAN BOTTLES. MISSING A STRING. GOOD FOR HOME BREWING. CALL 863-####. HI THERE. YOU’RE NEXT ON THE MART.

---RUSTY BEECHER IS AN ARSEHOLE! [click, dial tone]

---WELL. PLEASE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ANY FURTHER OBSCENITIES OR ACCUSATIONS. PLEASE. THIS IS A FAMILY SHOW AND STATION. ALSO, AS ALWAYS, NO CARS, RECREATION VEHICLES, OR FIREARMS PLEASE. HI THERE. YOU’RE NEXT ON THE MART.

He had a corner office. He could see the church from the side window. The twin steeples of the Cathedral projected deep shadows. It was just up the hill, on the other side of the university’s Jazz Department. He liked the contrast in this view. A symbol of Rome’s authority, steady and rock-solid, next to the school for the American, improvised art.

The word excommunicate made him uncomfortable. He respected it as a word: all those hard, consonant sounds. Mac had an affinity for words that contained the letter X. The design of the letter stood the test of time. Its mechanics, one line slashing through the other, suggested finality. An ultimatum. He thought that they should replace the word divorce with this word.

WE’VE GROWN APART, MAC. WE DON’T COMMUNICATE ANYMORE. WE JUST LIVE TOGETHER. I’VE DECIDED TO EXCOMMUNICATE YOU. I WANT AN EXCOMMUNICATION.

He was not a naturalist or the sporty type. Anyone could look at him and see that he spent most of his time indoors, that he ate poorly, that he drank too much. He squinted in the sun; he felt the cold in his bones. He did not stride through the natural world. He constantly forgot umbrellas and was a pathetic sight to see downtown in a rainstorm. His white hair soaked up water like an old mop. He didn’t ski, hike, fish, boat, ice-skate, or watch highschool girls train for the track team down at Columbus Field.

He was a large man with secret dizzy spells. Mac was not opposed to the planned shopping mall just outside of town. He liked the idea of being able to walk indoors.

Despite all this, he liked the climate. Mac had an active, internal barometer. The changing of the seasons allowed him an illusion of progress. A buried reality simmered, however. Sometimes it startled him with terror. His hair, grey as a young man, was pure-white now. His glasses were as thick as the bottoms of pop bottles. His knee joints lacked the certain elasticity of youth and frequently ached. The clarity of his hearing had declined from exposure