I wheeled the car off the pavement onto a worn-down patch that served as a laneway and car-park at the edge of the grassy clearing. I found myself at the end of a rectangular opening in the forest that had lined the road for the last eight miles. The pines were all uniform in height and girth the way cultivated trees are, looking too perfect to be a real forest, more like an enormous giant's garden. The trees were mature, but small by British Columbian standards, about ten inches across at the height of the man's waist. I figured that the area had been replanted perhaps twenty-five years ago, but I don't know anything about forestry really; it was just a guess.

The scene was almost identical to one I had passed a quarter-mile down the road. A single-story structure of white clapboard with a blue roof stood in the centre of the clearing and appeared to be two small cabins attached together. Indeed there were two front stoops, each with a roof over, one of which was completely screened in and obviously served as a summer kitchen while the other was used as the entrance to the house. A chimney, one of those prefabricated ones, fixed with a conical rain cap, ran up the side of the building behind the screened-in porch to reach two or three feet beyond the peak of the roof. There were two windows visible at the front of the building, each just to the left of a porch. The entire structure had been recently painted, the galvanized eavestrough that emptied at the right-hand corner into a rainbarrel appeared to be new, and the entire area had a well-tended look, the lawn was recently mowed and clusters of wild phlox formed a rough margin to the setting. To my right at the edge of the trees stood a rough-hewn table of weather-beaten boards and trestle-type legs and beside it another barrel from which water trickled continuously, darkening the oak staves down one side. A piece of black plastic pipe, again supported by a series of trestles, carried the water down the hill from a cold spring somewhere above.

I removed my sunglasses and placed them on the dashboard. Noticing there was no vehicle anywhere in view I concluded there was no-one around, but I opened the car door and stepped out, allowing it to swing shut with a dull clump behind me. At this sound a large dog burst like a black fury from under the wooden porch floor and sprang toward me barking loudly and continuously and showing his teeth. As the dog had about a hundred and fifty feet to travel I had no trouble re-opening the door and getting back inside. He reached the car and continued to growl, stopping periodically and only long enough to smell the car door and the two near tires, keeping a wary eye on me all the while. The dog had given me quite a start, such was the ferocity of his attack, and while my heart raced loudly I fumbled frantically for the car keys, for although I was quite safe in the car I wanted to put as much distance between me and that black devil as I could.

"To think I could have been much closer to him when he woke up," I thought, "that son of a bitch would tear your leg off."

I at last retrieved the keys and was inserting the correct one in the ignition switch when I heard a shrill whistle. The dog immediately turned his attention from me and trotted obediently toward the house. A man stood on the porch, a big man I'd never seen before, and from where he stood above the top-most of the three steps he had to squint into the sun to see me in the car. He raised one hand to shade his eyes and waved toward me with the other. I cautiously opened the car door and stepped out. The dog had by this time reached the steps and turned to watch me.

"Come on in," the man called to me, and to the dog, "You stay put!"

I felt a sinking, pulling sensation in the pit of my stomach, and a funny crawly feeling on the nape of my neck as though something eerie had occurred. The voice was his: the way he drawled "C'mawn in," clipping off the first syllable and drawing out the remainder, and then to the dog, "Stay put!" As I drew closer I could discern the features I had known so well; the receding hairline (despite the shoulder-length hair I would never have imagined on him), the brows were bushier and a full and greying beard all but disguised his face. But there was no mistaking those eyes. As a child I had learned to read every mood, reaction and emotion in them. They could look into you somehow, so that if you were telling a lie your body would lose it's nerve under that gaze and betray you by refusing to return it openly.

"He must have gained fifty pounds" I calculated as I came within twenty feet of him. The dog was lying facing me with his paws out front, "Ready to pounce," I thought wryly, but obviously no longer a threat as long as the owner stood over him.

"Hi Dad" I said quietly. "I didn't know you."

"You've changed some yourself in twelve years" he replied barely moving his lips in that taciturn way he had of speaking to strangers. I could sense his discomfort, it had been such a long time without any communication and I supposed he felt as unsure of the situation as I.

"What brings you to this part of the country?"

"I came to see you, all the way from Toronto. I took my annual vacation and motored out, been planning it for months. I didn't know how to reach you, so I just figured on tracking you down when I got here. So here I am!… I think it's time you and I buried the hatchet," I concluded matter-of-factly.

His eyes crinkled up first, then the rest of his face followed into a broad grin as he stepped off the porch and came forward, both hands extended. He grasped my hand in one huge powerful grip and placed the other hand on my upper arm.

"Nothing to bury Rodger. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, but not because there was any hard feeling about anything; time just kind of slid by you know, and after awhile I just kind of waited … I guess to see if you'd write first or whatever, and I expect maybe you just did the same." He dropped his hands to his sides and continued, "So you drove out eh? By yourself?"

"No," I countered hesitantly, "I had help with the driving. A friend wanted to come to Vancouver to find work. He's an actor. We took our time, six days in all, arrived Friday, then I headed out here first think this morning. The lady at the general store sent me here. She said there were two places exactly the same, and yours was the second."

"Well, there are actually more than two. There were eight little overnight cabins here, two in each clearing. We put these two together to make one house, and next door we did the same. We made two into a garage to work on the cars and down the road there are still two cabins as they originally stood. There was a motel too, but it burned down years ago after they by-passed this section of road to straighten the highway. I bought the whole place for seven thousand dollars, and Tom and I moved things around a bit."

"Tom?" I stammered, incredulous. "You mean to say he's here too?"

"Sure. Tom and Leila are both here. When I was released on parole I arranged to move west. Tom joined me here later … I had neglected to tell them about him." His eyes laughed at me.

"So it was Tom all along" I said, vaguely aware I was gaping like a school-boy who has just learned some scandalous adult secret. "I can't believe we're standing here openly discussing this Dad", this last with wide-eyed emphasis.

"Well, it's been a long time now, I don't think we've anything to fear, and certainly not from you. No-one around here knows of course. It was in all the papers when it happened but by the time it was all over and I came here no-one even recognized my name. And then, Tom and Leila were never implicated."

"Leila!"

"Yeah, Leila. She was the third man." He chuckled heartily.

I felt the sinking sensation return to my stomach and my legs turned to a gelatinous substance of some kind. I looked silently at the man before me who had undergone such a metamorphosis in twelve years. From a seething lean, overwrought fellow of impeccable grooming and intense singleness of purpose had emerged this great hairy bear of a mountain-man in blue denim overalls and plaid workshirt. There was no trace of tension in this robust, jolly character. And here he was, open in discussing the very subject I thought would be taboo between us, that had been responsible for the long years of silence. It had hung so heavily over me for so long and now I realized that to him it was simply a long-ago event, a milestone from his past he could now joke about. It left me feeling disoriented, my whole sense of reality had been given a sudden acute twist.

"Come on in son." Again the crinkly crow's feet around the expressive blue eyes. "I can see we've got some catching up to do."

I followed the broad grey tartan shirt and shoulder-length hair up the steps and entered the front door which had been standing open. Immediately inside was a square entrance-way constructed to close off the door to the bedroom and to provide access to the other room formed when the second cabin was attached. Through the bedroom door I glimpsed a pine bed covered with a plain green patchwork quilt, a matching pine dresser, and along the opposite wall under the window a large book-case filled with books. The floor was carpeted and someone had wainscotted the walls and painted it a deep green. We turned right into the second room which served as kitchen and sitting room. Along the rear wall stood a refrigerator in the inside corner and then a white countertop with aluminum sink directly under the window. I could see a weathered board addition extending out from the corner of the building, accessed through a narrow door in the right-hand corner. The room also contained a large wood-burning range, with a white enamelled back and warming closet above, this about the centre of the wall directly opposite. A rocking chair stood to the side, next to the hot water reservoir, and an antique pine settle with a patchwork-covered pad stood under the front window. At either end of it stood a large black stereo speaker, one of which doubled as a plant stand, supporting a large fern-like plant I couldn't identify and protected from accidental water spillage by an aluminum pie plate. In the center of the room stood a dark rectangular wooden table surrounded by four chairs, all with arms and rounded back supports, the kind you often see in taverns and brasseries in Quebec. Along the interior wall, to the left of where we had entered stood another book-shelf, this one built to the ceiling and containing more books, stereo components, a wooden box, some coffee tins and assorted bric-a-brac.

I surveyed the room slowly, drinking in the feel of it, the atmosphere of this man's private space. It was a sparse room, unadorned and not spacious, yet completely functional, warmly inviting and definitely complete. One needed nothing more. I strode to the door leading to the screened porch. It contained a white painted round wooden table on which were salt and pepper shakers and a coal-oil lamp. A modern gas range stood against the wall near the corner of the house. I stood gazing toward the road.

"Have a seat out there" he called and I heard him rustling beer bottles in the refrigerator..

"Glass?"

"No thanks."

He left the kitchen bearing four long-necked bottles, two in each hand. He placed two in the center of the table, twisted the caps off the others and passed one over to me. I pulled out a chair next to the wall, turned it sideways and sat. He did likewise.

"Who reads all the books?" I wondered aloud. "Don't tell me you're becoming studious in your old age."

"I like to read," and then in mock testiness, "And, I will remind you, I am only forty-nine! Besides, most of those aren't mine, they belong to my friend. Clara lives here with me, at least most of the time. You'll meet her later. I assume you're staying awhile; a few days I hope."

"I didn't know how you were set up here, so I left it open. I'll just call my friends in Vancouver and tell them what's happening. I'm not starting for home until next Monday so we'll have lots of time."

"You'll have to wait till Clara gets back with my truck to call. The phone's in it." He raised his eyebrows and turned down the corners of his mouth in an expression that said "What can you do?"

I smiled inwardly. "That's my old man; Marcel Marceau. You can read every thought on his face." I could never picture him as being devious enough, having the duplicity, the bravado to calculate, engineer and carry out such a daring plan as he had, all the while performing his duties as a minor figure in the very security system he intended to breach. How had it happened? Surely this fellow opposite me now would never have been suspected of such treachery, yet he must have one hell of a poker face in his repertory of expressions. I watched him take a large mouthful of beer, holding the bottle between large thumb and two forefingers and allowing it to splash, blub, blub, blub into his mouth before compressing his lips pensively and swallowing.

"Guess this seems primitive, compared to your Toronto lifestyle … no phone, no power … an outhouse …," his voice trailed off reflectively, then, "we have cold running water though, comes down off the hill, free of charge, and time is something we have plenty of, so it isn't so important to be able to turn a tap and have instant hot water."

"You don't appear to be suffering any," I countered. "In fact, in just physical appearance you look damn prosperous."

"Not prosperous son, just happy. At my age needing a haircut doesn't look cool or rebellious; just poor. But you're right. I've all I ever wanted here, and for the past ten years I've had no long-range plans, I just go along from day to day, enjoying my good fortune, and sometimes chuckling to myself over how it all came about."

We chattered and laughed and drank the afternoon away, he getting up twice to fetch beer from the refrigerator, not that I tried to keep up with him, as his new size seemed to have conferred upon him a new and enlarged capacity. We talked of my career in Toronto as a copywriter for magazine ads, of all the entertainment life there (of which he knew more than one would expect of such an obvious rustic), of my years at university, and how I had accomplished it independently of any family support during the years of silence between us. He told me he felt very proud of those accomplishments, and I could see the sincerity in his eyes. I bragged a little after that, and told him about the university magazines I had edited, articles written and manuscripts (as yet unpublished) completed and submitted to publishers. At about five o'clock he got up and lifted the largest kettle I had ever seen from the gas stove and took it into the house. I heard him, filling it at the sink and he returned to place it on the stove and turned the burner on full. He disappeared again and this time re-appeared with a bag of potatoes and a piece of newspaper. Spreading this on the table before him he took a red jack-knife from his pocket and the peelings began to drop swiftly in long strands onto the paper until there were twelve naked tubers ready for the pot. He folded up the paper and took it inside, returning with an enamel pot partly filled with water. The potatoes were dropped into this and the pot was placed to the side of the table.

"Are we going to eat all those?" I observed quietly.

"No, some are for breakfast."

He explained to me various innovations and gadgets by which they (meaning he and Clara, about whom I was growing increasingly curious), enjoyed many modern comforts, all without the benefit of hydro electricity or extensive plumbing. I was directed at one point to the "washroom" to which the directions were: "Out the back door, down the alley-way in the woodshed, door on the left at the end". To my surprise I found this to be whitewashed inside and decorated with humorous clippings and political cartoons, which had been pasted to the walls. A double hung window with a screen ventilated the little room.

"What do you think of our modern facilities?" he asked in a smart-alecky tone and with a couple of lifts of his eyebrows.

"Surprisingly clean," I said seriously, then with a grin, "and entertaining too."

We then began a lengthy discussion of the job he shared with Clara, Tom, and Leila, of the schedules, duties and perquisites of working together in the greenhouse operation that belonged to Clara's father, how they time-shared in order to have enough help on hand when needed but juggled hours and paychecks from one week or season to another to maximize unemployment insurance benefits and minimize income taxes. There were two periods in the year requiring lay-offs during which vacations were taken, one in early winter, just after Christmas, and the other in the summer after the spring gardening fever broke. At the present time, I learned, they were working reduced hours and so he could arrange to have Tom and Leila spell them off for a few days. I couldn't recall ever spending three full days with my father in my entire life! I reflected on this as he rose and made yet another trip to the bathroom, and while he was gone a green half-ton entered the yard, parked beside my car and a dark-haired woman stepped onto the running board. She reached into the truck-box and retrieved a laundry basket, piled full and neatly tucked down with a towel on top upon which lay a bottle of bleach and a box of detergent. She shifted the bulky load with ease under one muscular arm and walked briskly toward the house. She looked curiously at my car while passing and I saw her remark the Ontario plate. She was dressed much like the old man, in faded plaid workshirt and jeans, except hers fit more tightly and revealed a full-figured muscular build. As she neared the house I realized she was very pretty, perhaps Italian-looking, with dark hair and eyes, and though older than me, several years younger than my father. She glanced at me quickly and entered the house. She must have taken the laundry into the bedroom because it was several minutes before I heard her greet Dad in the kitchen as he returned.

"Hi."

"Hi, Rodger's here."

"Your Rodger?" Surprise registered clearly in the question.

They appeared in the doorway, she standing shyly under his arm and both smiling broadly.

"He arrived about one o'clock … we drank all the beer," he added sheepishly.

"Oh well, we've lots of tea, but you'll have no beer until Thursday now," she smirked wickedly, as though the subject of his beer-drinking was a familiar subject of repartee.

"Rodger, I'm so glad you came! I thought we'd never meet! You know, your father is so stubborn he would never phone or write, although Tom often encouraged him to. He really thought you wanted nothing to do with him you know, after the 'fiasco' as he calls it."

"I know. And I thought he didn't want to see me" I replied, then quickly added, "but we've had a great afternoon, and have quite caught up on each other's news. I must say you two have an idyllic spot here." I was by this time standing and she gripped my extended hand in a firm solid handshake, just as a man would.

"Nice to meet you at last."

She began to clear away the mess from the table, grasping two handfuls of beer bottles and chattering animatedly all the while about how they must take me to their favourite trout pool to fish, and to see the greenhouse operation at her parents' farm; how I could stay in one of the spare cabins, for as long as I wanted, provided I didn't mind sharing accommodation with a couple of mice, and how she would have to take fresh blankets down there for they got damp if left while the cabin wasn't in use; but if I'd rather I could stay with her parents, there was plenty of room and her mother would want all the latest news from Toronto. My father leaned back on the hind legs of his chair and with his hands laced behind his head beamed fondly at her while she kept up this amiable commentary. Her immediate acceptance and enthusiasm made me feel as though I had known her for years. She soon had the potatoes rinsed and on the stove and was deftly slicing cold roast meat onto a platter.

I learned at dinner that Clara's people had come west from Toronto in the mid-sixties, her father had operated a small bulldozer for a landscape firm in Vancouver for several years before gambling on the fledgling greenhouse business, about an hour and a half drive from the city. The family venture thrived until there were now six people dependant on it for their livelihood, all of whom shared the same enthusiasm and pleasure in producing seedlings and holiday flowers for the Vancouver market.

Finally, as we sat back with steaming mugs of strong tea, I ventured carefully, "Dad, did any of those reporters or writers ever get in touch with you at the time they were hounding me on the telephone?"

"Yes, I got some letters, and there were two visits at the detention centre that I didn't know the names of, so I just refused to accept them. You know, you're only allowed two a week so you don't waste any. I wasn't interested in talking to any writers; I was still very bitter about how things fell apart. Today, of course everyone's forgotten about it, and my conviction didn't really create much interest. The big story was over by then".

"Would you tell it to me? I mean, it would be a great story, even better now that time has blurred everything … for posterity, if for no other reason. I'll write it up, in your own words to the best of my ability, and you can authorize it, or not, when it's completed."

He said nothing in reply, so I let the matter drop. I knew he hadn't forgotten though, and after dark when he and I walked up the lonely road with an armload of blankets and a lantern to the cabin which I was to use during my stay, he volunteered quietly. "About that story, I guess you can have it. It can't hurt anyone now, and who knows? Maybe you'll have some luck with it."

I organized a record of our conversations and the material from many question-and-answer sessions held over the following three days. Whenever I had a few minutes alone, and faithfully before bedtime each night I wrote notes of what I had learned that day and tried to be as true to his vocabulary and manner of speech as I could. The completion and re-writing took six months, working on and off, and in the end the old man gave his whole-hearted approval.

The following pages then, recount the story of the great "fiasco", as told to me by E. Frank Wilson in the summer of 1988.