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.

CHAPTER TWO

Frank was in a sultry mood the morning he first met Tom McDermott. They were running late already, and would lose more time by hitting the morning rush-hour traffic. Being on a tight schedule as they always were in the armoured car service, it would mean curtailing or perhaps missing their customary morning coffee break. The usual procedure was to leave early enough to beat the traffic, get out of the city and then pull into a truck stop to have coffee before the first pick-up opened its doors. The earlier they arrived, the longer the coffee break. It doesn't sound like much, but to get out of the back of that truck for a half-hour and talk to some strange faces was a break from routine that Frank relished. Besides, halfway through someone had to go out to the truck, sit in the driver's seat and let the driver come in for his coffee. The guard and the messenger took turns doing this on alternate days. Frank particularly looked forward to coffee break on Mondays because there was a waitress he liked there, who always seemed to work the end of the counter where they sat. There were other regular customers there at the same time, but he liked to think she was particularly friendly to him; no big romance in his mind (she said she was married to a local farmer and lived nearby), but she was a happy person, joyful sort of and always had a sunny smile for everyone and laughed heartily at the jokes and jibes the fellows directed at her. That half-hour was probably the brightest spot in Frank Wilson's whole week.

Anyway, here it was Monday and they were already twenty minutes late and Frank was steaming. The new man was still in the branch manager's office, with the door closed, discussing God knew what.

"Funny God-damn thing," he fumed, "schedules are all-important until that fat wind-bag starts talking."

François the driver took a final puff on his cigarette and said nothing. He threw the butt on the floor under the truck.

"Fatso will see that after we leave and have a fit", Frank reflected with satisfaction.

"No coffee this morning," said François in his heavy French-Canadian accent.

The two men had worked together in the same truck for four years and liked each other well. François was the most taciturn man Frank had ever known and never seemed to get lonely driving all alone up front all day, yet he was good company to go out with on a Friday night. Most everyone off the job called him Frank, but between themselves he was François to avoid confusion and because Frank had a better claim to the name.

"Don't remind me," Frank growled.

At last the door opened and a slightly-built blond-haired kid stepped out. The manager followed.

"Frank, François, meet your new guard. His name is Tom McDermott."

"How are you?" François shook his hand.

Frank looked him up and down and nodded curtly.

"Let's go." He gestured with his arm toward the open cargo door of the armoured truck and the kid climbed in. Wilson got in after him and closed the doors leaving the branch manager, George Wells, beaming benignly after them.

"What the hell is he looking so jovial about this morning?" he asked the kid, although he knew full well that the manager relished his little pep-talks to the rookies. Everybody else ignored him for the most part, unless arguing about their hours or overtime pay, or refusing to volunteer for extra duty. He in turn retaliated by re-arranging the duty roster to punish those who "undermined his authority", or "showed no respect for regulations". François and Frank were senior to him, and had been with the company a long time before he arrived from head office, and so they intimidated him, and they knew it. Anyway, he liked to get the rookies aside and give them his patronizing advice on the importance of rules, schedules, and good grooming; to tell them how he had worked his way up from a guard and why it always paid to volunteer when needed because the most conscientious employees were considered first for the more responsible duties, meaning layover trips to Toronto with lots of overtime money, and other little perks.

The kid grinned. "He was telling me how I should get my hair cut, and keep my boots polished and be a credit to the uniform." In this last phrase he mimicked the branch manager exactly: perfect pronunciation in what Frank called that "silly overdone cultured Toronto accent," and the inflection in his voice was George Wells to-a-tee. Their laughter broke the ice and took the edge off Frank's temper.

"Frank Wilson." He thrust his hand at the younger man.

"Tom McDermott," he answered and dropped a rough calloused hand into Frank's. The two sat on the seats opposite one another and as the truck began to roll Frank surveyed his new guard coolly. He leaned back, pulled off his clip-on tie and loosened his collar. As he began to half-roll his sleeves he watched the kid begin to do the same.

"You must have thought that was a hoot, him lecturing you on appearance after handing you a used shirt that doesn't fit right," he observed, beginning already to feel somewhat conspirational. The rookie was older than he had expected. Usually the university students hired for the summer were just over the minimum age of twenty-one. Tom was twenty-six or seven, and had none of the innocent look of other student part-timers Frank had seen. His blond hair was long, really long for a uniform job, and he had one of those droopy moustaches like a Mexican cartoon character. He had a funny direct way of gazing right into your face when speaking too, that gave him a no-nonsense attitude.

"This guy's been around," Frank thought. "I must have heard wrong," he stated, "I thought you were a summer student replacement."

"I am," Tom replied and went on to explain how he had returned to school the previous autumn at his wife's insistence after knocking around at several dead-end jobs since their remarriage five years earlier. From short order cook to auto body painter, he had learned enough about a number of trades to know he didn't want to grow old at any of them. His wife had kept at her same job on a high-tech assembly line since high school graduation. They had no children, which left them free to "ride" with friends on weekends. By "ride" Frank assumed he meant motorcycles, which explained his appearance, and maybe some of his attitude as well. He began to suspect that Fatso had set him up, had deliberately assigned him this "square peg" so he would be put in the difficult position of having to make him conform. As courier, and therefore officer in charge of the unit, he was responsible for the appearance of the entire crew. Somehow he didn't think the hair was that length because Tom didn't have the price of a haircut. He finally asked the question he knew was in the other's mind.

"You gonna get it cut?" he ventured.

"No," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

"Look, Frank, we all have the right to wear our hair any way we want to. Nobody has the right to tell us to alter our appearance to suit their preferences. Now I can do this job with my hair long or short, and I don't intend to cut it for this lousy four-buck-an-hour job. They didn't tell me at the student placement office about this, they said clean and well-groomed; and I'm clean and well groomed. I figure that's the end of it."

"It's the end of it as far as I'm concerned, but I'm going to have to back you up to the brass, and I'm not sure if when you take a uniform job, regardless of the pay, that you shouldn't expect to have to become uniform to some degree yourself."

They said no more about it and Frank got up and looked out the rear window.

"Hey, we just passed our coffee shop," he exclaimed. He stepped quickly to the intercom. "François, what about our coffee break?"

"If we stop for coffee now we're going to be late Frank," the voice crackled through the little metal box.

He stabbed his finger irritably into the "talk" button. "Fuck it. Turn around. If we hadn't been held up this morning we wouldn't be stuck in 'traffic' right now would we?" he lied. He felt the truck slow and then turn right. They made several more turns and then pulled into the parking lot at the truck stop. Tom and Frank stepped to the back door and Frank twisted the lever downward and the heavy door swung open. They climbed down and entered the restaurant. As they approached the counter Frank noticed the little waitress wasn't there. There was a new girl working her end of the counter. He stopped by the cash register.

"Three coffees to go, two cream no sugar." Then to Tom "How about yours?"

"Regular" he replied.

The waitress selected three large-size paper cups and prepared three coffees, pressing the plastic lids down firmly with the palm of her hand. She handed one to Tom and set the others on the cabinet-top in front of Frank. "Sixty cents."

He placed two quarters and a dime on the glass, picked up the coffee and turned to leave.

"You guys are in a hurry this morning," she called after them.

"Yeah, we're late" as the door swung open.

"Change your mind Frank?" said François as he opened the armoured door to receive the coffee held out toward him.

"Yeah, might as well stay on schedule if we can. It's not as though we're overworked and need the rest."

François grinned as he poked a hole in the lid with his ballpoint. He lit a cigarette and then turned back into driving position, reaching for the door handle as he did so. The two men waited for the familiar latch click as Francois activated the solenoid relay, then Frank opened the door with his key.

"By the time we finish these, we'll be at our first stop, Tom."

Tom slammed the back door and then leaned his shoulder against it so he could watch out the rear window and brace himself as the truck moved. He stabbed the lid of his coffee cup as he had seen Francois do and began to sip carefully at it.

"How long you been doing this Frank?"

"I started as a driver part-time, then worked as a guard full-time for seven years. I've been a courier three years now. I guess ten altogether, ten and a half. I was a milkman before that, had Wednesdays off, so I used to work one day a week here to make some extra money. Finally got fed up with the dairy, being outside in all kinds of weather, getting stuck in winter and never making any money. I only made sixty bucks a week, and there was so much credit you never knew when you would see it. Driving one of these seemed a better job, nice and warm and safe in an armoured cab, but then when I started with the company it wasn't as a driver but as a guard. It paid an extra thirty cents an hour. Couriers get a little more, on the theory that it's more dangerous, and besides there's more responsibility. You, as a part-timer, are right at the bottom of the pay-scale; that's why you might feel some antagonism from some of the guys.

It's hard to bargain for benefits when so many of the employees are part-time. Most have army pensions or full-time jobs and so they can afford to work for low wages. We see it as unfair competition and the company really takes advantage of it. Another thing, you can't get some of these part-timers during the holidays because they have other jobs as cops or firemen and can afford to take the summer off. That's why they hire students; they work cheap, are available all summer when most people want their vacation, and they don't get involved with union affairs. You a union man Tom?"

"No, well … maybe I am at that. I never worked anywhere that had a union, but maybe that's what makes me sympathetic to the labour movement. I worked in an auto body shop one time where we got paid a weekly salary. It was hard dirty work with all the dust and smoke from the welding … bad fumes too. We often had to work late to finish a job but we never got overtime for it. The boss said he'd give us the time back later when we needed it, but everybody said you never got it back. We didn't always get our holidays either, if there was a holiday during the week, sometimes we had to work Saturday to make it up. People working in union shops got twice the money we did for the same work, and they got all their benefits too, but you couldn't tell that to any of those guys. They said if the union came in they'd be expected to produce more with fewer men and there would be lay-offs. The boss told them that of course, but they figured he was infinitely more wise than some smart-mouthed kid like me, and had their best interests at heart. I finally packed it in when he told us to buy new coveralls. He'd decided we were all going to wear the same colour; thought it would look better … at our own expense of course! I told him to stick his job in his ass, and I demanded the three days overtime he owed me or I'd go to the labour board. I was lucky I guess, my old lady could keep us going until I got another job, but a lot of those guys are still there, or in places just like it." Tom became increasingly excited as he warmed to this subject, and his voice had risen slightly in volume and pitch.

"He's a good speaker," Frank thought, "interesting," but their conversation was interrupted by the truck stopping for the first delivery.

Frank rolled down his sleeves and put his tie on. He smoothed his hair back and put his cap squarely on his head. Tom did the same, handling the brim and therefore getting the visor all smeared with finger-prints. Frank winced inwardly when he saw the look of all that hair under his hat. He picked out the bag marked for their first delivery, verified that the seal was intact and checked it against the log book. This he had ready for signature by the manager of the small-town bank who in turn would have a sealed package ready and would require Frank's signature on the deposit slip. There were several banks in the town but they delivered to only one; other armoured car firms had won the contracts for the others. Frank took a quick look out the side window and strode to the door. Tom looked out the window on his side and followed.

"Good," Frank thought, "he took his training seriously." It wasn't much of a run they were on, and the pickups and deliveries were normally small ones. The risk of a robbery was ever-present however. "Almost all bank robberies are for peanuts," he remembered being admonished during his own training, "and when you take a couple of wise-guys who maybe aren't too bright to begin with, put guns in their hands and place them in a dangerous scary position, people tend to get shot. For peanuts!"

The door opened and Tom got out first. He nodded to the messenger, who stepped out next, the bag and aluminum-bound log book in his left hand, his right hand free, close to his weapon. Tom waited until he passed and then followed a few steps behind. A young cashier standing near the front of the bank opened the door for them and smiled a greeting. Frank walked around the counter and approached the vault, while Tom selected a position near the wall where he could watch both him and the door. He spoke quietly and in a friendly manner to the girl, "Too nice a day to have to work," or something like. He was doing things by the book and Frank remarked this to himself, impressed by the way he required no reminders on procedures, yet didn't appear obvious in what he was doing; kind of casual, yet careful too. Perhaps more common sense than memory-work, he realized.

As Frank approached him to leave, Tom stepped out in front, arrived first at the door, and then waited for his partner to pass, calm as you please. He stood to one side as Frank unlocked the doors and they got in. Frank consulted the log and marked the time, then checked the next stop; the local arena, of all places. Still, it wasn't so strange. Sometimes community groups held bingos or auction sales and had large sums of cash to be deposited which they didn't want to carry. They picked up there, then made a pick-up at the department store.

The next stop would be in another town along their route up the valley, and so they had a fifteen or twenty minute ride. They settled in and Frank leaned back and closed his eyes a moment. This guy might not be so bad to work with after all, he seemed to know the job all right, and to use his head, yet he didn't make a big deal out of the fact that he was carrying a gun or the seriousness of the work. Frank remembered his own first day on the job, and to be fair he thought Tom seemed more relaxed, had none of the appearance of a newcomer trying to get things right. As the years had passed he had learned to expect each day to be like the last, pretty much boring and eventless in spite of the nagging recognition that such boredom could be punctuated by terror at any moment. Frank thought it peculiar that he never considered the danger while he was out of the truck making a delivery and taking care of the associated paperwork. The mind seemed to block out such ideas when it had anything else to occupy it. It was during moments of quiet like this that the fear sometimes came creeping from the inner recesses of the mind — graphic images of someone shoving the muzzle of a gun into your guts and pulling the trigger. Then, and sometimes late at night when he was troubled by insomnia such scenes would intrude unbidden into the restless dark, forcing his heart and mind to race as though there were a real and present danger, far in excess of any such feelings of alarm during a real work-day.

When Frank quit his job at the dairy it had never occurred to him that the job would be frightening. He had often worked for the guard service on his day off and had become quite accustomed to his duties as a driver. A week after joining the service however the branch manager (an ex-officer from the R.C.M.P.), had summoned him to the office. He would be needed as a guard, it was explained, as part-time help preferred the driving positions. He would be paid more money and the manager would personally ensure that he got preference for overtime hours. Frank didn't argue, but he wasn't aware then how vulnerable he would feel escorting a messenger through a large crowded shopping mall. It had been so secure locked inside the cab of the armoured wagon; his only responsibility in the event of a robbery being to sound the alarm and stay put. Still, he had learned to live with it, and had subsequently been promoted to messenger, a position which carried its own added responsibility and danger. Whenever Frank's colleagues began complaining about the low pay it was always this element of danger they alluded to, yet to him it was not the most stressful part of the routine. The boredom and inactivity wore upon him inexorably. Eight or ten hours inside a locked steel box caused time to march so slowly that every lunch and coffee break was anticipated, each stop an event to be looked forward to, if only for the space of a few minutes, to pick up a cold drink at a store, or to say hello to a familiar face in a bank. Upon climbing back into that box he often felt something akin to claustrophobia; it would feel so good on a spring day just to ride with the rear doors open for once and allow a cool breeze to waft over you. There weren't even any windows one could see out of while strapped in the seats. The inactivity left his body jumpy by the end of the day so that often lying in bed at night he would begin to itch all over. The muscles of the legs would twitch, feeling as though they were about to go into spasms because the energy being pumped to them all day had not been consumed. He had developed the habit, since the beginning, of walking a brisk three or four miles each evening when the weather was fair, but this wasn't always possible, and the inactivity had a way of perpetuating itself: doing nothing all day often led to a lack of ambition in the evening as well. Listening to a radio in the truck would have helped alleviate the boredom, but was impractical from a safety standpoint and was in direct contravention of the rules. Reading was also difficult. Frank sometimes read the newspaper, but a book was impossible in the jostling, bumping heavy truck; trying to focus on the small print caused headaches. Talking with François through the armoured glass that separated them was next to impossible so Frank had only his thoughts to occupy the time, and the conversation of the guard beside him. This meant that in the selection of a steady member of the crew personality factors weighed heavily.

There were some guards that Frank had worked with that worried him from a safety point of view, he hadn't much confidence in their ability to do the right thing in an emergency. But because ninety-nine percent of the time they sat locked in the truck together, the ability to carry a conversation, mutual interests, or personal habits overshadowed security considerations in his choice. After all, didn't the company consider them all to be competent? So Frank looked for someone who would help relieve the boredom of the prison-like hours in that steel box.

In actual fact he didn't always get to choose his partner. This was done by the dispatcher, with the branch manager overseeing and often interfering in the process. Sometimes Frank had spent long months living in cramped quarters with dull, stupid, farting, uncouth people who although always in abject ignorance of the facts nevertheless held strong opinions on most everything. When he had someone he felt comfortable with he dreaded the day he would be promoted or reassigned, because he never knew who his replacement might be. The most senior employees could request certain delivery routes and there had been a number of requests for Frank's that he had managed thus far to forestall.

For this it was necessary to use François. He, being French-Canadian spoke the same language as Claude the dispatcher. This conferred on them that fellowship enjoyed by members of minority communities and especially those who enjoy a separate language. In addition, the two men belonged to the same religious fraternity: the Knights of Columbus. François would disappear into the dispatch office while Frank was completing his paperwork and some time later Claude would accompany him to the door, all smiles and brotherhood. Claude would sometimes lay it on pretty thick, for the benefit of anyone within ear-shot, with endearments like "Oui, mon Frankie", and "Bien sur, mon gars!" Anyway, for the past six months or so they had been able to prevent the appointment of a new guard to their crew, preferring to have this position change from week to week, and sometimes from day to day as part-timers filled in, rather than accept on a permanent basis some of the other possible choices.

The problem was; Wells had confronted Claude a month ago about a schedule change on their itinerary and had announced that Wilson and his buddy had been running things long enough and would damned well do as he said from now on, yet they had continued to get relief guards up until now. As Frank sat in the jiggling truck, his eyes closed, he thought he began to see the strategy. This summer fill-in: Tom McDermott, was to be part of the crew for the next three and a half months, and he had been hand-picked by Wells because he looked like a problem. After all, Frank had in the past demonstrated an inability to work with a number of people, some of whom Wells had rated rather highly. Surely this long-haired rounder would be a thorn in Wilson's side, and this time he wasn't going to have any choice in the matter. It added to the alienation and frustration he already felt about the job. Still, it looked as though Tom might work out all right, he seemed capable and his attitude, though somewhat rebellious, was something Frank could live with. If his hypothesis was correct he calculated Fatso would be making discreet inquiries as to how well he liked the new man, probably before the end of the week.

Frank chuckled aloud, thinking, "Well, if that's the game, I'll certainly never let on I'm happy with the situation. It won't hurt the kid's career any if I bitch about him a little now and then, just to screw Wells around. He doesn't intend to make this his life's work anyway."

"You say something Frank?" Tom sat up straight to face him.

"No, but I was just thinking," a sly smile played around the corners of his mouth, "boredom must tend to make you mean."

Tom thought about this a moment and then replied. "Maybe. I know my old man always said if you want to make a dog cross, tie him up."

They laughed at this construction on his father's conventional wisdom.

"Yup, it might be a good summer after all."

CHAPTER THREE

The workday passed quickly for a change and by five o'clock the truck was back at the office. François backed it carefully into the depot and they unloaded quickly, passing the sacks to the vault cashiers. They removed guns and holsters, Tom returning his to the property desk, François and Frank putting theirs in their lockers. When they had finished, François went immediately to the time clock, punched out and waved good-bye on his way out the door. Tom lingered over Frank, who was still completing paper work.

"You go ahead Tom. I still have some book work to do before I can leave. I'll see you on Wednesday." Then more quietly, he added, "It went very well today."

Tom nodded shyly at this encomium and headed for the time clock. Frank saw George Wells and one of his cronies watch him pass. They huddled together afterward, talking in low voices. He smiled secretly as his head lowered once more over the log.

Twenty minutes later he was on the freeway, nosing into the stop-wait-and-crawl traffic that was the norm at that time of day. He had experimented with every possible route to his home and had found none so quick or direct, but he often took an alternate route just to relieve the routine or to prevent overheating in very hot weather. The block where Frank lived was residential but it was on a major thoroughfare with an access ramp to the freeway just two short blocks away. The houses were all duplexes which had been constructed when the street was a rural road and before the farm property behind the ribbon of frontage lots had been developed into housing projects. Frank, his wife and seventeen-year-old son lived in the upper half of one of these. There was a shared laneway at one end of the building and Frank's kitchen was accessed by an outside stairway and landing above the lane. He arrived home a few minutes before six. His son Rodger had his bicycle turned upside down at the foot of the stairway and he was adjusting the chain.

"How's it going?" Frank asked cheerfully.

"Just fine," he replied sardonically.

"What's wrong?"

"You'll see."

"By the way. I thought I asked you to mow the grass when you got home this afternoon. It's not done."

"I don't have to do it. Mom said you were home all day tomorrow with nothing to do and you could do it. I have homework."

"But you're not doing homework, you're playing with your bicycle."

"I'm fixing it, besides you can take it up with Mom. I started to do it and she told me to shut the mower off, she was trying to rest."

Frank began to climb the stairs. "Funny," he thought, each step sounding heavily on the wooden steps, "I didn't feel this tired when I left work."

He entered the kitchen and surveyed the scene before him. The table wore the evidence of the day's activity; cereal bowls and plates lay where they had been emptied, and at one end stood a teapot, cup and saucer, accompanied by a full ashtray. The sink was piled high with dishes, pots and pans from the previous night's supper and the space of counter-top normally used to prepare meals contained the waxed paper, butter, peanut butter and so on that Rodger had used to prepare his lunch before school. Frank considered removing his shoes and then looked at the floor. He scrubbed them on the mat instead, unwilling to risk stepping on crumbs and grit in his sock feet. The television was playing loudly in the living room and he moved toward the sound. He had his uniform cap in his hand ready to be placed in the front hall closet, and as he passed the living-room door he ventured in a friendly voice, "Well, how did it go today?"

"What do you mean by that?" Diane snapped in reply.

"Oh nothing, I was just trying to make conversation," he answered, resignation in his voice, as he continued toward the cupboard.

She stood behind him in the door-way now. "No you weren't. You know what I mean you bastard. You were trying, in your sneaking weaselly way, to ask me what I did all day. Well, I'm not a slave to you, you know, and I don't take orders from you, and I don't have to justify my existence to you either. I'll clean this place up when I find the time and not when you beat around the bush and hint around that maybe I'm not doing my share around here." This was delivered in a shrill complaining tone and with hardly a pause for breath.

"No you won't. I'll do it tomorrow, like I do most other weeks on my day off. You know, if you got dressed, and took the curlers out of your hair and took a shower you might feel more like doing something during the day. What's the matter, are you sick or something?"

She thrust her face into his wide-eyed, and spat out her reply. "No, I'm not sick … you sarcastic bastard … you see, that's what I mean about you. You don't have the guts to say what's on your mind. You know I'm not sick. What you really want to know is why didn't I get busy and cook and clean and wash today like I'm supposed to be doing while you're out doing your brainless little job. You sat on your arse all day didn't you?"

The discussion, if it could be called that, had now taken a familiar turn. The fact that Frank was paid to do a job that required very little physical effort while on the other hand, Diane was expected to do menial household chores for no remuneration at all, created in her a strong resentment.

"Look, I've told you I don't know how many times, go and get a job! It's not as though we couldn't use the money. There are all kinds of do-nothing sit-around jobs out there. Go and get one!"

"I had one remember? I got laid off."

"You don't call it being laid off when they hire someone else to replace you," he stated matter-of-factly, shattering the illusion that it had been somehow beyond her control that she had lost her first and only job two years previously. He knew this would result in her immediate and complete defeat and that it was cruelly hurtful to her, but he had coldly administered the blow anyway. She pushed past him and stamped heavily down the hallway to their bedroom. Frank felt mean now, as though he had punched her in the face. He and Diane quarrelled often, and knew each other's sore spots, the tender points in their egos that hurt when poked or prodded. There were other points too, he knew, that elicited anger or defensiveness; it was simply a matter of feeling mean enough or tired-and-fed-up enough to inflict the necessary jab. Frank had vulnerable spots too, but his were less easy to detect because he tried not to let on when he had been hit. This, combined with a cool ability to debate point-by-point, gave Frank an edge over Diane so that he could end an argument almost at will. Unfortunately, it also often left him feeling like an intellectual bully.

"If only she wouldn't start in on me like that! I was tiptoeing around her, for christ's sake, … as if I couldn't see how her day went."

"You're talking to yourself again," she shouted from the bedroom and he could tell by her voice she was crying. He crept into the room and sat beside her on the unmade bed.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You're right," she blubbered, "I got fired, I made mistakes, and I wasn't fast enough. Besides the people there didn't like me, nobody ever likes me. I don't have to be reminded."

She sat facing the mirror and was pulling curlers impatiently from her head and throwing them into a little woven basket that served as storage for them. The tears cascaded down her face. She wiped them off her chin with the back of her hand and looked balefully at him in the mirror. He placed his hands upon her shoulders.

"I didn't mean it. You are a nice person. Rodger and I love you don't we? And it wasn't your fault you were fired, perhaps you just aren't suited to that kind of job. Maybe they wanted to hire a younger person, who knows? You'll get another job, you'll see, and I'm sure you'll do just fine. Besides, we can get along the way things are. Our tastes are simple, we don't need much. Come on, don't cry."

They stood then and she wrapped her arms around his chest and placed her head under his chin. Her body shook with uncontrolled sobbing. Their quarrels often began and ended this way, with an unwarranted and unexpected attack on his dignity, manhood, pride or whatever, until some hurled insult or barb struck a nerve and he became angry and hurtful, at which point he would smash out, wanting to hurt back, destroy even, then having been verbally pummelled into submission she turned to him for comfort and compassion. These later scenes could be very tender, and after long periods of abstinence sometimes ended in lovemaking.

Rodger could be heard entering the kitchen and Frank went out to meet him.

"Where's Mom?" he demanded, his eyes wary.

"In the bedroom, it's okay." He knew Rodger had heard the argument, had anticipated it in fact since he returned from school. He would be happy to know the air would be clear for the evening.

"Maybe he'll stay in tonight," Frank hoped without conviction. It seemed lately that the boy found every excuse to be absent when his father was home. He did his homework at the library and worked two evenings a week and Saturdays at a local hamburger restaurant, other times he said he was at the home of a friend, but Frank was never really sure where he was until he returned home after ten o'clock. He was up and gone to work before his son awoke most mornings.

"What's for supper?"

Frank felt himself tense, but answered calmly enough, "I don't know but if you'll just relax a minute I'll see what I can put together. Are you in a hurry?"

The boy didn't answer but watched as his father opened cupboard doors and examined their contents for the makings of a meal. He took out a large tin of baked beans and then checked out the refrigerator freezer. "Weiners, just the thing," he thought aloud. "How does weiners and beans sound?"

"Okay, I guess," Rodger replied over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. Frank knew that would be the last he would see of him until he was called for supper, and afterwards he would rise from the meal and go directly outdoors. After putting the ingredients into a saucepan on the stove Frank began his ritual of clearing the counter and restacking the dishes in the sink, which was filling with hot soapy water. When the first sink full had been washed and dried and the pots and pans were nearly completed Diane entered the room. She had combed her hair and was dressed in jeans and a blouse. Her face, though tearful, looked as if it had been washed. She smiled sheepishly, "I was going to do those after supper."

"There'll be more after supper, you'll have your chance," he stated evenly, "besides, we had nothing left to eat off of." He pulled the plug and collected dishes and cutlery from the table and piled them in the now-empty sink. He wiped the table quickly with a damp cloth and began re-setting it for the evening meal.

"Rodger, come and eat," he called out.

Rodger came and served himself from the pot, helped himself to bread and butter and began to eat quickly and silently. He rose, poured himself a large glass of milk and drank it over the sink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and departed through the back door. Diane and her husband had just begun to eat.

"Where's he off to?" Frank inquired.

"Oh, he has something at the school, he told me about it this morning but I've forgotten. I can't keep up with his schedule, it seems he has something every night … Guess what I've decided to do?"

"I can't guess."

"I'm going to become a songwriter."

"You're what?" Frank started.

"I'm going to be a songwriter," she reiterated slowly and distinctly as though he hadn't heard her correctly the first time. "I even have a publishing company who'll buy everything I write. They send you a guitar and books to teach you how to play it, how to read music, and music paper and everything. Then they buy your songs. Lots of people have done it, even some famous country music stars started out by writing music in their homes."

"Where did you learn about this?" he enquired, mildly fascinated.

"It was in the paper." She often referred to the scandal sheets and police tabloids she purchased at the convenience store as "the papers".

"I already sent away for it today."

He stared at her, incredulous. "You mean to say you sent money away in the mail for this scam? Are you serious? How much have you wasted this time?"

"Only a hundred dollars, and I didn't waste it. I'll pay the rest in instalments. Of course after awhile I'll be making more than the payments will be, so it won't cost anything."

"I see". He fought down an urge to let himself go. "So how much is the total cost?"

"Only four hundred and ninety-five dollars and you get a guitar, an agent and everything. So you see it must be honest, otherwise how could they make any money? It's because they make it on the songs people write."

Frank buried his face in his hands and shook his head sadly. "You are absolutely fucking dangerous" he muttered in amazement. "Did you send these people a cheque? Wait a minute," he said, suddenly hopeful, "you haven't been out of the house all day. How could you have mailed a letter?"

His hopes were quickly dashed. "Rodger took it for me. he's going to take up the guitar too."

He couldn't believe it. "No wonder the little son of a bitch skinned out of here so fast after supper," he thought, "he's plenty sharp enough to recognize this for what it is, but he's doing all he can to abet her. Why does he take such delight in tormenting me?"

"Don't you realize how much five hundred dollars means to us? That's two weeks pay … before deductions. We can't afford this, even if it was a good idea, which it isn't. You're never going to learn to play that thing from a book, and you're not going to write any songs either."

"There you go, putting me down again. Why do you always feel you're so superior to everybody? You think because you earn all the money you can dole it out and make all the decisions around here. Well I have news for you, I have a right to write cheques on that account too. Remember there are two names on them!" She spat this last out emphatically and waved two fingers before his face.

"Sure you can, when there's money in the account; which there isn't, and the car insurance is due next month. Tell you what, put your financial genius to work and figure out where that money is going to come from. I thought I had it covered. Now I don't."

He threw his fork down noisily on the empty plate and left the table. He put on a windbreaker over his uniform, went down the front stairs and out the door. Jim Stanton, the downstairs neighbour, stood on the lawn with his wife's French poodle on a leash.

"How are things Frank?"

Frank managed a broad grin and replied happily, "Never better Jim." He hurried on down the drive and turned left to avoid any further pleasantries. Besides, if Jim knew Frank was out for a walk he might want to come along. He never wanted to walk very far and he had to stop every few yards to permit the dog to piss on peoples lawns, lamp-posts and shrubbery. Jim's dog was a chronic irritation for Frank, though he managed to conceal it well. The landlord deducted sixty dollars a month for the maintenance Frank performed on the property and Frank took pride in seeing the grounds well tended. The dog's urine left little dead circles all over the front lawn where they usually "walked" it, and made the area unattractive for use.

Frank began walking at a moderate pace, thinking that Jim wasn't a bad sort really, it was just that tonight his patience was already spent. He planned to cover about four and a half miles, taking a direct route to the river, then along the bicycle pathway for a mile or so, followed by a haphazard choice of quiet residential streets for the return home. He had travelled about three blocks when he heard a female voice call his name. He froze in his tracks and began to swear quietly but intensely under his breath, a long string of the most venomous invective he could piece together. He turned to watch Diane run the last half block to where he stood, arriving quite out of breath.

"Where are you going?" he demanded gruffly.

"I thought I'd come with you for a walk. What's the matter, can't you even take your wife along for a walk like a decent man? You never want to do anything with me. I haven't been out of the house all day and now you begrudge me an evening stroll. Where are you going that you don't want me to come along?"

"I'm going nowhere. Come along if you like, I don't care."

"I don't know why you're so angry Frank, I think you're just negative about everything I do. You think I'm too stupid to learn the guitar, but I'll show you. Besides I thought if Rodger took an interest in it he might stay home more. You'd like that wouldn't you? Other boys his age have musical instruments and spend a lot of time playing them."

"If Rodger had wanted a guitar he could have discussed it with me and I could have helped him to find one … for a lot less than five hundred bucks I might add. The truth is he hasn't shown any interest in music, this is just another one of your hair-brained schemes."

"There you go again, putting me down. Haven't you ever heard of trying to build up a person's ego, instead of trying to destroy their aspirations all the time? Maybe if you weren't always trying to make yourself look better and smarter than me we'd get along better, and I'd feel more like doing things for you, like making meals and housecleaning." Diane was speaking in a voice low enough that she wouldn't be overheard by someone working in their garden. Then she said more loudly. "Slow down will you, we're not in a race. Why do you have to walk so fast?"

"Because I came out here to get some exercise and work off some steam, that's why! Then you came along and expect me to slow down to your pace. Next you'll want to turn around and go home," he replied irritably. Frank placed his right hand at the back of his neck and closing his eyes began to roll his head in a circle. It was beginning to ache, just at the base of his skull. He slowed down now and they walked in silence for another two blocks before she took his arm and steered him firmly toward home. Frank made no effort to resist, his headache had begun to throb by now and any physical effort seemed to increase its intensity.

"Do I have a clean shirt for tomorrow?" he asked in a tone more curious than peremptory.

"I don't think so … I thought tomorrow was your day off."

"Well it is, but I heard they have a special in the morning to the Bank of Canada. It would mean four hours minimum, but they probably won't call me. It's been quite awhile since I got any overtime; the god-damn part-timers are getting it all. I think they'd like to run that company entirely on part-time help."

"Well I don't think it's fair. Some of those men have good jobs already. This is just pocket-money for them. I don't understand why your company even wants them, they're not making a career out of it like you are."

"That's why they want them dear", he explained in a patronizing manner. "They don't need much money, no-one can live on what a part-timer earns per hour, but because they already have another income they aren't pushing for higher wages. Remember old Joe Quinn? He retired six weeks ago and they haven't created another full-time position to replace him yet. I don't think they intend to either."

"If they're getting rid of full-time people as you say, do you think they might get rid of you eventually?" She looked worried.

"They can't fire me. Not without 'just cause', but you can be sure if they ever get anything on me I'll be gone pretty quick. There's nothing to worry about," he added quickly, "but knowing they're just waiting for their oldest employees to quit doesn't leave a fellow with very loyal feelings toward his employer. I guess I'm getting fed up with my job," he admitted. "Remember when I first went to work there? The pay was pretty good compared to other jobs, but we've been losing ground steadily for the past few years, now there are more part-timers than ever, and we've won no new benefits like other labour groups; we're too busy trying to hang on to what we've got. I'd quit, but to start at the bottom somewhere else would mean even less money, and anyway who wants a thirty-seven year old guy with no trade?"

"Well, don't worry, maybe soon I'll be making lots of money."

He didn't answer, thinking, "Jesus, if she brings up that songwriting bullshit again I think I may lose it right here on the sidewalk."

They turned into the laneway and walked toward the kitchen steps in the gathering darkness. Frank couldn't wait to take the pain tablets for his headache and lie down in a dark room. That was the only thing that relieved the pounding in his head, and when it occurred at work there was nothing he could do about it, no remedy seemed to work in the steady banging and jostling of the truck. He chased four aspirins down with a glass of water and retired to the bedroom to undress and lie down. First however, he did something that struck him as odd. He made the bed, pulling the sheets tight and plumping up the pillows, placing them on top of the blankets where he had folded the top of the sheet down over. Then he turned down one corner of the bed and got into it. This was the kind of fastidious behaviour that drove Diane crazy. He could no sooner leave that bed unmade than get into a dirty one. He would press uniform shirts and trousers that she said were wash-and-wear; meant to be placed on hangers as soon as they were taken from the clothes dryer. He insisted that all members of the family remove their shoes in the house, yet if he detected any dirt on the floor he would leave his own boots on. While Diane had at one time tried to meet his expectations, she no longer bothered, accusing him of being neurotic and unreasonable. Frank piled his soiled clothes on top of a hamper that was filled to overflowing and in less than ten minutes he was asleep.

He awoke some time later feeling refreshed, the headache gone. He listened intently for a moment, not hearing the television which should have been on, as Diane had not yet come to bed. He looked at the luminous dial on the clock behind his head. Four-thirty! He knew now what had happened. Diane had fallen asleep in front of the t.v. again. It happened often enough, Frank would go to bed early to be up at six, while Diane found she couldn't sleep at that hour, having risen after Rodger left for school, at some time between nine and eleven.

Frank switched on the lamp at the headboard shelf and padded barefoot in his underpants to the livingroom. The television was emitting a low whistle. He turned it off. Diane started up from her semi-prone position on the couch.

"Hey, I was watching that."

"Watching what?"

"The movie."

"The movie has been over for hours. It's time to go to bed." He turned off one of two lights still burning.

She yawned, stretched and finally rose and left the room. Frank extinguished the remaining light and followed. Diane was undressing.

"I suppose you're all wide-awake and bushy-tailed after going to bed at eight-thirty" she accused him crossly.

"Wide awake," he countered with a broad grin.

"Well," she snorted, angry now, "I hope you don't have any ideas that include me. I'm tired you know; it's four-thirty in the morning. I know what's on your mind, you're so selfish sometimes!" She turned her back to him, and reaching behind, unhooked her bra. Frank watched her, his hands laced together on the pillow behind his head. She donned a heavy cotton nightgown, slipped quickly between the covers, and with her back toward him proceeded to resume her interrupted slumber.

Frank reached above his head and turned off the light. He knew it was pointless to attempt any further sleep. His normal wake-up time was a little more than an hour away, and he'd already slept eight hours. He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling; alert, frustrated, angry, his hands clenched into fists. "I'm quite aware it's four-thirty in the morning," he reflected resentfully, "but now what the hell am I supposed to do for two hours? Maybe it is a little thoughtless to expect sex at this hour, but it has been three weeks, besides it seems like every night we get maneuvered into a position like this, a sort of 'how could you under these circumstances' type of situation."

Frank could remember a time when sex hadn't been such an overpowering urge in him, when he had a more take-it-or-leave-it attitude, but Diane and he had been more affectionate then, so maybe he hadn't needed it so much. Certainly there had been no question of sex before their marriage. Frank began to realize later that this had meant no real hardship for Diane. Although she had once loved him, the idea of sex with him had never held any strong allure, indeed it was unattractive to her almost to the point of revulsion. She had tried at first to accommodate him, but as they grew more accustomed to one another she became more honest about it. She resented the forced intimacy of marriage, the sharing of a bed, and a bathroom, the picking up of smelly socks and dirty underwear, and a dozen other routine tasks that spoke of close human contact.

Diane had never been denied much as a girl. Her parents, somewhat late in life, had raised one child and had provided her with every amenity, requesting no assistance with household chores in return. Unlike Frank who had grown up in a tiny war-time home with five siblings, and parents to whom poverty and large families were as natural as rain, Diane and her folks shared a spacious bungalow and two incomes. Frank, having been the oldest, was well-used to the intimacy that a crowded home engenders. He had changed his little sisters' diapers, cleaned up their vomit, and washed huge stacks of dishes as he grew; while Diane's only responsibility was to make her bed and place the laundry hamper in the hall on Tuesdays, a task she routinely forgot. She found Frank's home crowded, and thought it smelled disgustingly of human habitation, but of course she made no mention of it at the time, and Frank had remained unaware of her feelings.

"I should have foreseen all this," he mused, angry at himself. He recalled two incidents from their high-school romance that to an older or more experienced person, would have held ominous portent.

The first time he had tried to French-kiss her she had jerked away, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth frantically; with a grimace she blurted, "Don't stick your tongue in my mouth, I don't like that."

As time went on she became more receptive to his attentions, but only at times, and he had never been able to predict when those times might be. Once during the excitement of a long kiss he had placed his hand on her deliciously nylon-encased kneecap and had had it roundly smacked in response. The subject of sex had never been discussed in any but a peripheral manner, but Frank had assumed, that like his parents, and he supposed, Diane's parents too, they would enjoy a regular and satisfying sex life after marriage. "Yeah right," he growled, "and I'll have a regular and satisfying life after death too!"

When Frank realized that his newly aroused biological drives were to be consistently denied, resentful arguments had ensued. These grew increasingly bitter, until the criticisms and recriminations of heated debate had cooled all passion for one another, spilling over even into the quiet times until a mutual apathy and low regard came to overshadow their lives. There were other problems as well, but none so demoralizing or insistent.

If he could only get laid once in awhile, anywhere, it would be easier to overlook Diane's stupidity, lack of effort and inability to cope with her daily responsibilities. It would put him in a better mood, he thought. "We might even get to be friends again," he raged silently, "and stop this relentless bickering. Oh, I am so sick of it all." And so he was, sick of it: emotionally drained, psychologically damaged, and now with the recurring headaches, perhaps physically ill as well. The need for companionship was becoming the most powerful underlying force in his life. He yearned for the feel of a loving suppliant body next to his; his need was ever-present, but at times like this, having just seen his wife's body naked before him he felt an insistent tugging in his loins which being unattended, would soon give way to a dull ache in the groin, spreading through out the entire pelvis and into the small of his back.

"They say the needs for food and shelter are more primal than the need for sex … but if I could get laid right now I think I'd rather be like the tom-cat, getting home after three days away, half-starved and suffering from exposure." He rose carefully from the bed, and taking his housecoat from a hook behind the door, tiptoed silently from the room.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Rodger entered the kitchen at seven o'clock to put on the kettle for his breakfast he was startled by the silent presence of his father at the end of the table. He wasn't doing anything, just sitting, an empty coffee mug before him.

"Hi."

"Hi, what time did you get in last night?"

"Ten o'clock, same as always. Kettle hot?"

"Probably not. I made this awhile ago."

"Must have been quite awhile. It's stone cold now. What time did you get up?"

"Around five. I couldn't sleep."

Rodger filled the kettle at the tap and placed it on the large front burner. He turned it on and left the room, headed for the shower. A sudden thought occurred to Frank, "Rodger?"

The blond head re-appeared around the corner of the kitchen wall. "You rang?"

"Yeah, I was wondering, if you don't have anything after school, maybe you and I could do something; play pool maybe," he added as the idea came to him.

"I don't play pool. Besides, I work tonight, remember?" The head disappeared and Frank heard the bathroom door close. The shower began to hiss. Frank sighed audibly, "That's right, I forgot," he said aloud to the empty room.

When the kettle boiled Frank took three eggs from the refrigerator and placed them gently in a saucepan. He poured the boiling water over them until they were almost covered. Immediately one of the eggs began to make a faint whistling noise, emitting a tiny column of bubbles where the shell had cracked.

"Damn. I forgot, supposed to start with cold water." He placed the pan on the stove and stood watching it impatiently until the water began to boil once more, then he noted the time. He began to search the fridge for the remainder of Rodger's lunch. Finding no fruit, he packaged a handful of raisins, carefully folding the waxed paper over to seal them completely. Next he found some graham crackers in a cupboard, and after coating them liberally with strawberry jam, wrapped them face-to-face in another neat parcel. He removed the eggs from the heat and filled the pan with cold water, and placed it under the faucet where the water could trickle slowly into it. Frank pulled several plastic containers and bags from the refrigerator and examined them, throwing much of it directly into the garbage. He found a wilted celery, and discarded most of it, keeping the heart, and salvaged enough of an aged lettuce to garnish the boy's sandwiches. By the time Rodger re-entered the kitchen Frank had completed the egg salad and was wrapping sandwiches.

"Coffee's in the cup there, just pour in the hot water. Toast'll be ready in a minute … I made your lunch: egg salad!"

"Gee, thanks Dad. I usually just take peanut butter, or sometimes I buy my lunch in the cafeteria. I really like your egg salad." He smiled brightly at his father for the first time Frank could remember in a long time.

While the boy was seated at the table, happily eating his breakfast, Frank showered and shaved and then stepped quickly across the hall to the bedroom. He quietly searched out clean socks and underwear, then opened the closet door to find his blue jeans and a shirt. When he did this, he dislodged several board games that had been piled carelessly atop some blankets on the top shelf and had subsequently slid down until they were precariously balanced between the shelf and the closet door. Frank reacted instantly to the impending disaster, scrabbling helplessly, trying to catch the boxes as they tumbled to the floor, but they landed with a clatter, the Checkers game bursting at two corners and noisily scattering tiles in all directions. Diane jumped upright in the bed, and upon comprehending the situation, turned on Frank with all the caustic vindictive she could muster. Frank hadn't time to compose any kind of a reply, the attack had come so quickly on the heels of the accident, but as Diane showed no sign of relenting in her angry tirade, he slowly began to rally, his temper taking over control. His fists clenched, his arms bowed up slightly at his sides, as he glared at her, his face reddening with his developing rage. He spun on his heel and took three long strides toward the bedroom window. Grasping the curtains at the center one in each hand he threw them open in a single violent sweeping movement. Sunlight streamed into the room, capturing in the air the cloud of dust he had disturbed in the material, and creating oblique bars of illuminated particles which, as the cloud grew, extended further into the room.

"Now, if you'd get out of that fucking bed, and get some fucking work done today, maybe you won't be such a fucking night-owl this evening! he bellowed. "And while we're at it, are you so useless you can't go to the store and get a few groceries?"

Diane flinched every time he used the course acronym, delivered at the full of this lungs. It was one she found particularly offensive and Frank used it rarely, but he relished the use of it here, enunciating it clearly, repeating it for emphasis as though slapping her with it. Diane's face adopted a haughty expression of contempt, and administering a final withering sneer upon the hapless Frank, crossed the hall, loudly locking the bathroom door behind her. He found his jeans and pulled them on angrily, the legs snapping into place, and flinging his shirt over his shoulder, returned to the kitchen. Rodger was nowhere to be seen, and piled neatly on the kitchen counter were the careful packages Frank had prepared for his lunch.

Frank put his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, left it unbuttoned and went in search of his boots. He dropped them onto the porch floor and having stepped into them without lacing them, clumped hollowly down the kitchen stairs. When he reached the bottom step he sat down and slowly tied the heavy work boots he wore when working in the garden. He sat motionless for some time, pondering the morning's events. The incident involving Rodger's lunch bothered him most, discouraged him, and would create a pall over the entire day. The quarrel with Diane was nothing unusual; though the swearing was and had probably been a mistake. It had given Frank some momentary satisfaction but would result in several days of frosty silence from his wife.

This morning Frank had felt a minor break-through with his son, a softening in the boy's normally cool attitude toward him, and had hoped a rapprochement of sorts might be possible. He had seen on Rodger's face a warmth not usually there, and had hoped to build further upon it. Surely as the boy grew older he would begin to see his home in a clearer light, and recognize much of his mother's behaviour and attitude as aberrant. He would become less likely to side with her, avoiding Frank as a natural consequence of being forced to choose sides in the constant conflict. Frank felt it was unnatural that the boy was so little influenced by his father, and believed he had so much to pass on, if only they could spend more time together. Now of course, the small gain he had felt this morning was gone, ruined. Rather than sit down to the lunch Frank had so carefully prepared for him the boy would have nothing at all. Frank hoped he had pocket money, or else he might go hungry.

He looked at his watch: almost eight. School started at nine. Rodger would be somewhere on the school grounds no doubt. Frank returned to the kitchen, packed the lunch in a brown paper sack and returned to the garden. The school was ten or twelve blocks away, just over a mile; it would make a good walk for a fine spring morning, and the exercise would take the edge off the tension that was beginning to mount in him. He would feel much better knowing Rodger had that lunch.

Frank covered the distance quickly, stretching his long lean legs and feeling the first dull pleasurable burning sensation of the brisk exercise. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing deepened as he swung his arms to the steady rhythm of the heavy boots and enjoyed the first deep draughts of fresh air in several days. The walk last night had not satisfied him, had further frustrated him in fact, and this errand to the high school acted as a safety valve, drawing off the volatile pressures created by the hopeless, inalterable situation that held him.

As he approached the school he searched for the red shirt he knew Rodger was wearing. There weren't many students about yet and it should have been easy to spot. Perhaps he was inside the building already. As Frank approached the heavy plate glass doors he could see no-one in the lobby or in the hallway immediately beyond. He would have to deliver it upstairs to his "home" room, and if Rodger wasn't there he could leave it with someone. What was it? Room 216? It was on the second floor anyway, he would recognize it when he saw it. He had visited it one evening before Christmas to view Rodger's science experiment: a prize winner. At the top of the stair he turned left and recognized the familiar laboratory benches through the third door he approached on his left. The teacher, whom Frank had never met, stood at the chalkboard copying from a notebook in his hand. As Frank entered the young man completed this task and turned to find him standing in the doorway.

"Are you looking for someone?" he said, not unkindly.

Frank realized suddenly what an impression he must make on a stranger, dressed as he was in his gardening clothes. He needed a haircut too, something that made him feel increasingly self-conscious as he grew older and his hair slowly thinned out.

"He probably thinks I'm a delivery-man or something," he realized glumly. "Yes, I'm looking for my son, Rodger Wilson. He forgot his lunch, and when he wasn't outside I thought he might be working on something in here."

"No … he's not here, but I'm glad you're here anyway. I want to discuss Rodger's progress with you. Please come in." He rounded the end of the long bench that traversed the front of the room and extended his hand. "I'm Bob Horowitz," he volunteered cheerfully.

"Frank Wilson," the older man stammered as his hand was pumped enthusiastically.

"I'm Rodger's home-room teacher this year, though I've had him other years for science class. A good student … very bright … but lately he has begun to worry me. He seems to have lost interest, just in the last few months really, and other teachers have begun to notice it as well. He's still well above a failure of course, Rodger doesn't need to work to achieve what we call a passing grade, but he's putting in the very minimum of effort, and he never stays to complete experiments after school as he used to. I thought perhaps you could shed some light on the situation for us. You know, next year he's in grade thirteen, and the sort of marks he will need to get into university will require considerably more effort than he has shown this term. He is still planning a career in journalism, isn't he?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure he is. I can't think of anything that has changed. Rodger works part-time and perhaps that has become too much for him. But then, he's done that for two years now. I thought he was working really hard in school, I know he goes to the library a lot in the evenings … maybe he's just found some other interests, something new to read for example."

"Perhaps it's nothing to worry about. Sometimes a student will go through a period like this and then snap right out of it. This could all be over a girl for instance, and of course he has had a lot of illness this term."

The words hung heavily on the air for a long minute while Frank digested this news. Rodger had missed no school that he knew of. Of course Frank was never there when the boy left home in the morning, but there had been no mention of any absences. He hoped his expression didn't betray his surprise, and he replied casually. "I'll try to get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile let's hope it's nothing serious."

Frank left the brown bag on the instructor's bench and recovered the distance home in even less time than before, being ever watchful for his son. He didn't see him however, and arrived home in a real stew, growing increasingly concerned about the boy. As he entered the kitchen he heard the steady rush of the shower, and he knew that Diane was probably not aware he had been away. It was just as well, as her reaction to Rodger's truancy while unpredictable, would be totally inappropriate, and out of all proportion to the situation. It would be better to say nothing and wait for a chance to talk to him quietly in private. Frank saw the inconsistency in this: by excluding Diane in the matter he perpetuated the very alienation that was at the root of the problem; but this could be an opportunity to regain Rodger's confidence.

As his heart rate subsided Frank realized he was feeling very thirsty, and after turning the cold water faucet on full, reached into the cupboard for a drinking glass. He was immediately arrested by a loud screech from the shower, where Diane had received the temperature change caused by Frank's forgetful use of the water. He turned it off quickly and retreated out the door and down the steps, hearing Diane's railing voice diminish behind him. This latest foible left him almost completely unhinged. He felt tears of anger and frustration well into his eyes. He had to get out of there for the day somehow, lately he had been growing less and less able to disguise his lack of feeling for her. The powerful affection he had once felt for his high school sweetheart had now simply dissipated, leaving only apathy in its place. It had gradually eroded through periodic bouts of rejection and emotional turmoil and finally reversed itself into the present absence of any emotion whatever. He felt nothing for her, his anger was precipitated solely by his inability to alter his condition, by the hopeless despair that arose out of so many personal factors. His belief in monogamy, his relative poverty, his obligations to family, and his need to maintain appearances had him trapped in a narrow existence, a tunnel faintly illuminated by what appeared to be a very distant exit.

Frank strode to the aging power lawnmower and tugged on the cord angrily. The motor spun uselessly and he jerked the starter again and again until it roared to life and he began to rapidly follow the perimeter of the lawn where Rodger had begun to cut it the previous evening. He would finish this quickly, go pick up a few groceries at the store, buy a dozen beers and go visit his old man. Frank's father rarely drank but he enjoyed a visit from his eldest son. By supper-time the effects of a half-dozen beers each would have them feeling warm and convivial with one another. Yes, that was the answer; just disappear for the day.

CHAPTER FIVE

Frank arrived at the depot next morning at a few minutes before seven. He nodded to the guard in the tower who, by remote control, opened the door for him. When he entered the building he saw a knot of people in front of George Well's office at the far end of the building. As he approached, Wells stopped talking and all four men were obviously watching Frank. He waved his left hand lazily toward them and turned right into the locker room to fetch his equipment.

"I wonder what they're up to," he wondered as he strapped on his holster. The four men comprised what Frank often referred to as "the rat patrol." The three guards, all part-time employees, were George Wells' favourites, the men most likely to be assigned overnight trips out of town, air courier assignments, and other jobs which paid the lucrative four hour minimum for an hour or two of work. Reeves and Kowalski were frustrated, would-be policemen, and would probably have realized their boy-hood ambition to wear a police badge had not the police profession recently added psychological testing and a rigorous interview conducted by a professional interviewer, to their recruitment process. They had discovered through experience that those with a burning desire to wear a police uniform and a gun didn't always make the kind of officer they were looking for. The guard service, on the other hand, was slower to realize this.

The third person in the group was a huge slow-speaking, simple fellow named Chenier, a military type still active as an army reservist at age thirty. He had joined while still a boy in high school and at work he always wore hob-nailed, spit-shone combat boots, and the military style cap was carefully shaped and blocked. His eyes had a vacant starey look to them and took on a concentrated expression as he marched about the place to perform his duties, setting his boots down in sharp even steps, and swinging his arms in perfect time with the clatter of metal cleats. Frank thought Chenier was possibly dangerous.

These three men were frequently in company with the branch manager and were seen entering or leaving his office, for they discussed the job interminably, and were privy to information that, while not technically confidential, or privileged to the branch manager's position, was not known to company employees as a general rule. This gave them the belief that they were in an inner circle with management and "in the know" regarding company policy matters. In turn they relayed information and opinions about other employees to Wells. The four men were friends off the job as well; were on first-name basis with each other's wives and formed a familiar group at social functions, such as the Christmas party. On Tuesday afternoons they were invariably present for the weekly firing practice at the company pistol range. Afterward they could be seen holding court over coffee in the lunchroom; each of the guards directing his comments to George, and the three listening reverentially as he expounded on an article he had read in the company news bulletin, or as he examined some upcoming change in procedure. The four looked so uniformly alike it was remarkable. Each wore his hair cut in the military style, with very little hair showing below where the cap-band would normally sit. Their heads made Frank think of white side-wall tires when he saw the four of them seated at the table. The thick-soled, round-toed police boots were polished to a bright gleam and each took pains to see that his uniform was immaculate, creases razor sharp, cap brims and badges lustrous. Wells believed that these three were an inspiration to others and a credit to the service.

George had himself been a military officer, actually a paymaster in the army, until he resigned his commission at the end of a twenty year career, took his pension, and began a new occupation as a driver at one of the Toronto branches. This had been a perfunctory step toward management however, and he had been promoted to assistant manager eight months later. Within two years he had been assigned to the local office as manager. He continued to look very much a military figure, though now somewhat overweight, his hair was closely cropped, his complexion florid, his eyes round and piggy. He wore a military mustache too, narrow and neatly trimmed. In fact the only one of the four whose face wasn't adorned with one of these hairy affectations was Chenier. Frank often suggested that this was because his wife wouldn't let him handle sharp objects, so he couldn't keep it trimmed.

As Frank left the locker room he heard the group sniggering, no doubt over some clever remark Wells had made, and he turned sharply left to avoid meeting them. He proceeded toward the truck docking area and as he passed the dispatch office he stopped in to greet Claude. François was seated inside and Claude was talking to him in a serious manner. As Frank entered he switched effortlessly in mid-sentence from his native Quebecois to English. The two turned to face him and Frank raised his eyebrows questioningly in return.

"I was just telling François here, we had a little shoving match here yesterday afternoon, Frank."

"Oh, what's up?"

"You know the new guy, Tom, that you had on Monday? Wells told him he wanted to see him at pistol practice to 'give him a few pointers'", he made quotation marks in the air as he cited the manager. "Anyway, the kid shows up; he's got a haircut. I should say, his hair has been cut, but it's still plenty long, he just had it kind of neatened up. Chenier spots him, and starts giving him a hard time."

"Is this downstairs in the range?" interjected Frank.

"No, right there in the lunch room; the kid went in when they were having one of their little meetings, and wanted someone to get him a gun from the armoury. I guess Chenier hadn't seen him before, and started right in on his hair. Called him a hippy, and asked him why didn't he go down the road to work for the competition, since they hire hippies and winos. The kid tried to make a pretty good defense of himself, but Chenier kept overtalking him, you know how he is, and Wells and his pals weren't doing anything to help, just kind of enjoying it. By this time you could hear them all over the building, and Chenier's up and poking the kid in the chest, who finally tells him to fuck off and gives him a shove, knocking him over a bench on his ass. That's when Reeves and Kowalski jumped up and put a stop to it."

"Good thing; I wouldn't want to mess with Chenier. You probably couldn't stop him with a bat."

"Maybe so Frank, but McDermott wasn't backing down any."

The office was silent a moment as Frank digested this news item. At that moment George Wells appeared in the doorway.

"Good morning gentlemen," his tone mellifluous. His face took on a deprecatory expression; he turned patronizingly to Frank. "Frank, I've decided to assign you that new man, what's his name?"

"Tom," replied Frank flatly, knowing Wells preferred to address third persons by their family name as a rule.

"Oh yes, McDermott. He'll be your guard on a permanent basis for the next four months, until he returns to university. I think you'll find you two have a lot in common." Before Frank could reply he turned on his heel and left the office.

Frank adopted a sly grin and winked at the other two. Things were working out rather well.

Tom McDermott was standing by the truck loading dock talking to one of the vault clerks and watched his new partners approaching. He hadn't been informed yet of the news and believed his job was still on the line as a result of yesterday's events. He had realized right away that Chenier must be one of Well's sycophants, but that had not deterred him. Now of course he had had time to think about it: he really couldn't afford to lose this job; it was too late to find another summer placement, and the future of his education might well hang in the balance. He had brought along his civvies this morning in a paper bag, in case he was ordered, or otherwise decided, to turn in his uniform.

"Hi, Frank, François. Guess you heard about yesterday," he began solemnly.

"We sure did," said Frank in a serious tone, his expression dead-pan, "And I have some bad news for you."

The younger man's expression drooped at these words.

"You're going to have to spend the summer working with us!" Frank grinned.

Tom allowed his knees to buckle in an expression of exaggerated relief, then recovered quickly. "This is great," he said animatedly, "I wasn't even sure I still had a job, now I'm getting the exact assignment I wanted." Then more soberly he added, "You know, a regular shift with dependable hours."

"We know Tom," the driver said kindly in his heavy accent, "We're glad to have you too. But were not going to advertise that. We're being punished!" he ended archly.

The three men began the day's work in high spirits. The truck was quickly loaded and they soon found themselves beyond the morning city traffic and on the open highway, headed once more up the valley. When they approached their usual coffee stop Francois wheeled the heavy truck into the parking lot and shut it off.

"I want you to take François' place in the cab Tom," Frank explained as they opened the rear door, "then in a little while one of us will relieve you so you can come in for your coffee," then, "we're really making good time this morning; thirty-five minutes to kill."

Frank stretched as he stepped down, and waited for the two men to exchange places. He and François entered the busy restaurant, dropped their caps on the counter in front of two empty stools and continued toward the washroom. When they returned they were greeted, to Frank's surprise, by his favourite waitress. She beamed down upon him as they seated themselves.

"Hi, I thought you were no longer with us."

She screwed up her face in mock confusion. "What?"

"We came in on Monday and you weren't here. I thought maybe you had quit."

"No, I was here. I had to come in late." Without taking an order she filled two cups with steaming coffee from one of three machines spaced out along the long counter.

"You guys are here early today."

"Yeah … and we have a new man." Frank began to smile slyly at the pretty waitress, "a young guy, college boy … with long hair." François grinned now also.

"Well, things are looking up around here," she replied trying to sound coy and sexy at the same time. She turned to serve other customers with a throaty laugh.

The two men quietly discussed their day off. Francois and his wife Gabrielle had spent all of Tuesday opening their "camp" for the summer. They had maintained, for many years, a lake-front cottage in the Laurentians where they hoped to retire one day. He now outlined for Frank his plans for the summer, a short list of improvements to be completed this season on the property. For these projects François enlisted the support and assistance of various members of his large family, so that the cottage was filled most weekends with siblings, inlaws, children and grandchildren, so much indeed that it was Gabrielle's job during summer to arrange accommodation, and pre-plan visits in order to avoid overcrowding, while still organizing François' construction helpers. Frank had been to the camp a number of times, once he had taken his family there on Sunday to a barbecue, and other times he had assisted on a Tuesday with some project or other. It was always a pleasure for Frank, to be asked to help out that way; it meant an outing to the Laurentians and always a warm welcome and a hearty home-cooked meal.

The two men sat in silence, as they often did, and Frank remembered the springtime fifteen years ago, when François' father had obtained a land severance and had given to each of his children a lakefront lot from the family farm. He had then sold the remainder of the land with the buildings and moved his aged and ailing wife to town. In order to travel to the lake François had bought an old four-door sedan, with a reliable drive-train, but suffering badly from what Frank had called "road cancer". The two men had spotted it during their work day, the car had been scrubbed up and placed on the lawn of a corner residential lot, so that it attracted attention from both streets. A large sign on the windshield stated simply, $100. François rapped loudly on the window between them and pointed excitedly toward the curb, then he stopped the truck and the two men looked it over.

Upon close inspection the ten year old vehicle didn't look like such a bargain. Along the bottoms of the rear fenders, where the mud and salt splashed up from the wheels, there were long torn rusty holes leading directly into the trunk. The front fenders bore similar evidence of age. Frank opened the driver's door and reached under it, pressing upward into the door bottom with his fingers. The bottoms of the doors were rotten too. He opened the rear door and placed his foot on the floor behind the driver's seat. Grasping the roofline at the door opening he swung up onto this foot, placing all his weight directly on the floor. A sickening crunch could be heard from where François stood watching. The carpet under Frank's foot gave away beneath his weight.

"Floor's gone too," he muttered, as to himself.

"What do you think Frank?" François asked comically, "Too much money?"

"No, it's okay. These were good cars, you still see lots of them on the road. It's the salt makes them look bad. Don't forget, in Eastern Ontario the salt destroys bridges and parking garages. What chance does an old car have? But we can fix it. Won't cost too much either."

The two men returned after work that day, test drove the car and then François paid cash for it, counting the bills carefully out of his worn leather wallet. He drove the car home and parked it in the alley behind the dry cleaning store, which was beneath the apartment occupied by the family of six. They began immediately, jacking the car up and placing it on cement blocks and pieces of board until it sat high enough to be able to work on the lower parts comfortably. Gabrielle sat on the wooden steps, chewing her lower lip anxiously as the two found increasingly more damage to be repaired. Everywhere they probed what appeared to be scaly rust, the hammer or screwdriver created another hole. She said nothing, but the worried expression in her eyes betrayed her belief that François had wasted his money.

Next morning, before the couple had finished breakfast, Frank showed up with what tools he owned and several more than he had borrowed, ready to start to work. He and François began by removing the seats from the derelict, an easier job than anticipated, for the rear bench merely popped out, first the seat and then the backrest, and the front seat, though attached to the floor, had proved to be no match for François' powerful forearms. Once he had the wrench securely fastened to the rusted bolts they had twisted and broken readily enough. The seats thus out of the way, the carpets were then pulled out onto the ground. They stared in disbelief at the gaping holes that opened up before them. The entire area from just behind the foot pedals to where the rear seat would normally begin was a mass of wet, brown, thick, loose scale. As François pushed at it with his fingers, more of it fell away, crumbing to his touch and landing with a dead clatter on the earth beneath the car. The raised crown along the centre of the compartment which covered the drive-shaft was solid, but the passenger side of the floor was almost a mirror image of the mess the discouraged pair were presently examining.

"It's no use Frank," the big man said, dejected. "We can't fix that. I should never have bought it."

Frank was inclined to agree with him; he had believed, with reckless enthusiasm, that they would be finished quickly. Now however, the obstacles appeared insurmountable. What could two men with no experience, and a few basic household tools, do with such a mess? He sat down in the doorway of the vehicle and said nothing for a long time while François smoked a cigarette in disgust. If only he hadn't encouraged François to buy the damned thing, they wouldn't be in this fix. The car couldn't even be moved in its present state, for if they put what they could of it back together, the police would take it off the road in two minutes. Unable to speak of it, Frank got up and carried the seat into a patch of sunlight along the brick wall opposite, then he picked up the heavy piece of carpet and laid it over the backrest, inside out so that the sun might dry it.

"Forget it Frank," .. this time his voice was raised somewhat, insistent. "I'm going to call the wrecker."

Frank wavered. The old car would take a lot of time, and Diane had already expressed her opinion of him donating his efforts to this project. Should he defer to the older man's decision, or press ahead, insisting on throwing good money after bad? This option exerted a strong pull; he felt responsible for the present situation. He began cautiously.

"You're right, it's bad, but the worst of it is the floor and the trunk, right? The other holes are smaller, and we already knew about them. But when you think about it, the floor and trunk are the easiest; they're flat surfaces and you can't see them anyhow once we're done. We'll go get some tin, and some rivets and roofing cement and stuff and we'll try and finish that much today. After that the rest won't seem so bad."

François appeared unconvinced. Frank knew he was thinking about the magnitude of the help being offered, and he was reluctant to accept. "Come on," he said as he walked briskly to his own car, "the sooner we get that stuff and get started the better. We're not going to let it defeat us."

François said nothing, but he fell in beside him. The two men worked together, their torsos inside the old vehicle all that day, hammering and shaping the galvanized steel until it was pressed close enough to what remained of the floor to take a rivet. They spoke seldom, quietly murmuring instructions to one another from time to time, drilling holes, pushing and pressing in unison to complete the many difficult joints, cutting the metal where it was reluctant to form the necessary shape and then sometimes applying a second patch over such openings to complete the repair.

By supper time their faces and forearms were orange, their hair caked with the heavy metallic dust and their hands stained with tar, but the job was complete. The floors and trunk were mended and had been coated with thick coats of roofing tar, so that the patchwork job was no longer visible. The big Frenchman put his arm around Frank's shoulders and squeezed him hard, then slapped his back twice. He turned away then, ran up the steps to the apartment door where he quickly reappeared with two sweaty cold quarts of beer. Before he had reached the ground the door re-opened and Gabrielle, a heavy towel around her shoulders, descended with a large pan of hot soapy water. The two men stripped to the waist and laughed at the accumulation of dirt, now made more visible by contrast lines where sleeves and collars had protected them. When they had washed most of it off and Frank was wearing one of François' old uniform shirts, they sat on the steps sipping their beer.

"You know Frank, I never thought we could fix that. It's a big job you're helping me with here." His eyes shone with the emotion of what he was trying to say.

"Don't worry about it, I'll need a hand too, someday. Do you think you and your young lad could go ahead with the rest of the patching up? Then I'll come over on Sunday and we'll finish it off. We can make up a list of materials at work tomorrow." Frank rose to go.

"Okay, … Frank you aren't going now, Gabie has supper all ready. You have to stay for supper!"

The younger man hesitated. "I better call Diane and let her know."

The two climbed the wooden staircase and entered the kitchen. Frank went immediately to the telephone on the wall and dialed.

"Hi, I'm still at François."

Silence.

Frank froze, then attempted to sound as though they were having a conversation. After a pause he continued. "I'm going to stay here for supper. Gabrielle has it all ready."

"Fine," the instrument crackled sharply, followed by a loud click and the grim finality of the dial tone.

Frank hesitated a moment, then replaced the receiver on its hook. He turned to find the couple watching him, looking concerned.

"Is everything all right Frank?"

"Oh sure, everything is fine," but he felt the tell-tale flush as his reddening ears and cheeks betrayed his discomfiture, and from that moment François knew of his young friend's problem, and Frank knew that he knew.

When he returned early Sunday morning he went first-off to the old car to inspect the work that had been going on in his absence. The carpeting and seats had been reinstalled, and François and his son had completed the riveting of patches over the holes and had ground the entire work area with sandpaper disks and an electric drill so that the car was now ready for filler. Frank opened the trunk and found a cardboard box filled with supplies. He lifted this out and put it on the ground, then selected a gallon can of polyester filler. He began to read the instructions on the label.

Soon François joined him and they began once more to work, Frank mixing the fast-hardening plastic on a small sheet of metal and applying it quickly to use it all up before it adhered to his putty knife. This job progressed quickly, and as the day was already quite warm, the mixture hardened so fast that François was able to begin sanding almost at once. The shiny pieces of metal scrap began to disappear, the panels taking on once more their original shapes. Soon both men were lying alongside of the car, their heads raised slightly from the ground as they operated the electric drill sanders above them. The work was gruelling, for their arms quickly ached and the white powder flew off the edge of the rotating disks, so that if they weren't careful in which direction they worked it sometimes would blow directly into their faces, clotting in their eyelashes, burning the eyes and leaving a chlorine taste in their noses and throats.

Frank heard Gabrielle calling to François from the kitchen door; she spoke animatedly to him for a long minute in French. He struggled to his feet and walked to the steps, returning with two pieces of damp cloth to be used as dust masks. "We have to put these on, Frank." François grinned sheepishly.

"Good idea, we'll still have to watch our eyes though."

By lunch-time they had made great progress, the final imperfections were being replastered and François was stirring a quart of black rust-coat paint to be applied over their completed work and along the bottom section of the car. By two o'clock they were picking up their tools and congratulating one another on their accomplishment. The children began to crowd around, impatient for the paint to be dry, while Frank replaced the wheels and began to return the vehicle to the ground. François sent them to find cleaning materials with which to complete the job inside, and they crawled in and out, washing windows and door-pads, shining chrome and wiping dust from everywhere. Finally they could find nothing more to occupy themselves, and at last François declared the paint to be "dry enough". This began an immediate uproar, causing the men to laugh. Maybe they could take a quick drive to the lake, he continued, as the children shouted encouragement; they could be back before dark. Frank would of course come along, but in the end he had refused to do so, and under protest, had watched as the family drove away, the two smallest children waving to him from the rear window. The car was no thing of beauty, he reflected, but it didn't look too bad from a distance. It was the family's first automobile.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

"So what do you think, Frank? It's a good idea?"

Frank snapped back into reality. "I'm sorry François, I was thinking about something. What did you say?"

"I was telling you about this plan they have for anybody who was in the war. I can add on my army time to my pension, and retire earlier."

"You mean you still have an army pension plan?"

"No, I didn't have any money when I left the army, so I got my contributions back, I think it was only about a hundred dollars. Now, with the interest, it would be more, but I can put it back. That means I can retire in December."

"What? You mean this December? Did you just explain all this to me?"

"Well no Frank, I was just getting to that part. I know you're not going to be too happy about it."

It was a shock. Frank had known François would retire soon, perhaps in two or three years, but this event had now been moved ahead into the immediate future. The departure of his friend and colleague would affect Frank's job, for he had cultivated few friends in the guard service, and his continuing enmity with George Wells would ensure that he couldn't select his new co-worker. Frank would certainly be at loose ends come the end of summer. François dropped several coins on the counter and rose to go out and replace Tom.

When Tom sat down he noticed at once that Frank's mood had changed. He remarked lightly, "What's the matter? You look like you just lost your best friend."

"You're not far wrong Tom," he answered with a bitter smile, then to change the subject, he signalled to the waitress for more coffee.

As Frank turned off the expressway on his way home he found himself still pondering François' approaching resignation. It had bothered him on-and-off the entire day. To regret his driver's good fortune and early retirement seemed to him a trifle selfish, but Frank was surely going to miss the presence of that big Frenchman who had been a part of his working life for so many years.

Still, the news wasn't all bad. Tom McDermott was working out well; Frank had observed him carefully all day and found him very capable as a guard. He had made some preliminary inquiries, tentatively testing his attitudes on several subjects of interest to himself. The younger man was interesting, informed, and possessed a receptive tolerance to the ideas and opinions of others, even if not always prepared to agree with them. Frank respected that in him and found, perhaps prematurely, that he was beginning to like his new partner.

As Frank turned into the laneway Diane was standing on the front lawn talking to Joan Stanton, who was waiting for her dog to finish its business with the grass. The little poodle continued to circle, sniffing carefully, always in the preparatory semi-crouched position.

"Got to find the exact right spot," Frank raged inwardly, "Wouldn't want to piss anywhere that the lawn's already dead." He parked the car beyond the corner of the house, out of sight of the two women, and shut it off. "Damn, I haven't been home ten seconds and already I'm upset. I've got to learn to take things more in stride. Nothing here is going to change, and refusing to accept it just makes my head ache." As he entered the kitchen the heavy aroma of cooking met his nostrils and he realized he was hungry. The food smelled good. Diane could be heard climbing the front stairs and soon she joined him.

"Hi, you're home early. I was hoping to have dinner ready when you got home." She smiled warmly at him.

Frank placed his hands on her waist and kissed her quickly on the lips. She was cooly responsive. Frank was suspicious; this was nothing like the reception he had anticipated, after the row that had occurred when he arrived home yesterday evening. She had accused him of being a drunk, and failing to show consideration for his family. What had brought about the dramatic change in climate? Surely not any feelings of regret or remorse over the events of the past two days, for normally the atmosphere would continue to be frosty for some time yet. "No, there's something in the wind", he thought ironically.

"How did it go today?"

"Oh fine, I was up before Rodger left, did housework all morning, then watched my shows this afternoon. I had a nice day."

"Oh … well that's good … No calls or anything?"

"Nope."

Frank began to walk away, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He remained nonplussed at this turn of things. "Who knows, maybe she's as sick of the way things have been going as I am, still …"

When the family sat down to dinner Frank watched his son closely for some sign that he had been caught. There was none, indeed at one point the boy felt his father looking at him, and boldly, had returned his stare, a quizzical yet offensive "yes?" in his eyes. Frank was puzzled.

"Did you get your lunch okay yesterday?"

"Well no, actually, I got it today. I didn't go yesterday," delivered in a matter-of-fact manner, with no apparent note of apology.

Frank pushed his plate ahead slightly and rested his arms on the table. "I see, and ah, why not?"

"Now Frank, don't get angry," Diane interrupted, "I explained everything to Mr. Horowitz when he called this morning."

"You explained things, and how did you know he was absent yesterday?"

"Well, I didn't know before, but they were going to suspend him Frank. For truancy, and I might add, none of this would have happened if you hadn't gone nosing around the school yesterday."

Frank ignored her. "Where were you yesterday?"

"He was in Toronto".

Frank continued to look directly into the boy's face. "And what were you doing in Toronto?"

"Looking for an apartment. That is, Jimmy and Suds and I are. We're going to T.O. for the summer to work and we're going to share expenses."

"I see, but aren't you forgetting something? You need jobs before you can look for an apartment."

"We have jobs. This isn't the first time we took a day off. We have jobs already and now we have an apartment too. We paid the first month's rent yesterday."

"Don't you think you'd be further ahead staying home for the summer and working full-time? You don't have to pay anything here. Look at the money you could save. I'm against this!"

"Dad, I'm not asking for your permission. I'll be eighteen next month, I want to work in Toronto this summer, and I'm going!" He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat quickly, his eyes on his plate. Frank and Diane did likewise. They ate in silence, Rodger finished his meal and rose from the table.

"I've got to go. I'll be late for work." He hurried from the room and presently Frank heard the front door bang shut.

"Tell me. How much did you know about this?"

"This morning before school, Rodger got me up and told me about the Toronto plan. He said one of his friends warned him the teachers were asking questions about him yesterday. So I wrote him a note, what else could I do? Anyway, about eleven o'clock the teacher phoned to ask whether I had written a letter excusing Rodger from school. Of course, I said I had. Then he asked me why my signature looked so different from all the other notes I had written. I told him I suffer from rheumatism and sometimes I don't write so well. He laughed at that. Laughed at me Frank! I was so mad, but I couldn't say anything. I was afraid they were going to suspend Rodger."

"And I suppose you think that would make a difference?" Frank demanded through clenched teeth. "Or are you really not sharp enough to understand what's happening here?"

"What do you mean? What's happening Frank?" she replied stupidly.

"He's quitting school, that's what! Those pals of his have no intention of going to university, and Rodger won't be coming back here this fall either. Once he gets down there in Toronto, earning a full paycheck, making his own rules, and tom-catting around, he won't want to return here."

"Oh Frank you don't know anything of the sort, and I wish you wouldn't be so vulgar. Roger has more self-control than you do, and he probably isn't morbidly fascinated with sex like you are. He just wants to be on his own for awhile, that's all." Her face softened. "Remember, when I was eighteen we got married." She smiled at him over this reminiscence.

"Don't remind me," he glared at her. "I hope you wouldn't be satisfied to watch him do a replay of your life! … Or mine," he added quietly after some reflection.

CHAPTER SIX

Frank often wondered in the following weeks and months whether he and Tom would have grown so quickly into close friends had George Wells not provided the initial impetus. For in the running afoul of Wells and his group of "management sucks" as Frank referred to them, Tom had earned the admiration of his new partners, who harboured a number of grievances they wouldn't normally have shared with a summer replacement. The incident had placed him on the right side of the fence as far as they were concerned and this united their opinions on a range of subjects, touching on management rights and abuses in general, and George Wells and his cohorts in particular. The situation at the depot didn't improve as the summer wore on, and on two other occasions Frank found himself taking Tom's part in confrontations contrived by one or another of the "rat patrol." His avoidance of those men had never endeared him to them and they began now to describe Tom as "Wilson's little pal." This labelling lent greater cohesion to their burgeoning friendship, already flourishing within the confines of the steel box, where defences and pretenses tend to break down or become transparent in the magnified, closed atmosphere.

Once they locked themselves in at seven AM there was neither relief nor escape from one another for ten hours. Those hours could drag on infinitely within the bleak confines of their employment. Frank had found this especially so in the past when he had been poorly matched with a guard. Being somewhat introverted, with a propensity to solitude, Frank would have sooner spent those hours alone than be locked up with someone he preferred to keep at a distance. On the other hand, in a one-on-one situation with the right person, Frank loved to talk and discuss a wide range of topics. In the case of Tom McDermott, Frank never found close contact a hardship. They found each other's company neither unpleasant nor boring, the younger man was conversant on a variety of subjects and politely attentive on others. The numerous quiet spells were not sullen uncomfortable silences as Frank had experienced in the past, but were used most often as periods of reflection, leading to agreement or conclusion on their discussions.

And so the two men came, in time, to think of themselves as partners, and this partnership once begun progressed quickly. The inevitable questioning and testing of attitudes that occurs during the formation of a relationship elicited personal histories and rough personality sketches; and through a series of hints, subtle tests and trials each came to know and predict the other's responses. A bond of mutual trust was thus forged between them.

Usually when they stopped for coffee in the morning now, one of them would pick up the local newspaper and they would read and discuss this at length, being always careful at the end of the day to stop somewhere before returning to the depot, so they could dispose of the forbidden reading material. The crew spent so many hours on the open highway when they were working the regular Monday-Wednesday-Friday route, that Frank saw no harm in violating this rule while in transit. It was during their review of world events, political behaviour and scandal that Frank became aware of an intellectual imbalance between them. Though Tom was twelve years Frank's junior, his years of knocking around had instilled in him a street savvy that neatly complemented the university education he was enjoying so much. His views on human nature were such that he had a skeptical or cynical explanation for just about everything. It was clear that he read the news merely to pass the time, for he invariably concluded with some remark about the inaccuracy and possibly deliberate fabrication of the news stories they discussed each day. To take any of it seriously, or even at face value, would betray one as naive or gullible. Tom could always spot an angle in a political announcement, or a failure to consider all the facts in any article. One should always begin with the premise "how much of this is true?" he once said, "and never, simply whether or not it might be true." And yet he took no great relish in debunking popular causes or beliefs, he was no verbose malcontent, but rather added as an afterword that after all was said, they had no real idea what was happening; it could all be a complete hoax and they musn't let any of it concern them.

Frank was, on the other hand, more ingenuous, likely to accept things at face value, to trust in the printed page, and to forecast events on the strength of what he read. Tom would then re-interpret for him from within his own pessimistic world-view, at the conclusion of which they would laugh, Frank conceding the point to him. This became something of a game between them, so that Frank would deliberately bait Tom, reading him the essential part of some news item, all in apparent innocence, to provoke his cynical wise-cracks and ironic observations. Tom didn't like to be conned.

"Tom, the Minister of Finance says here the recession is over."

"Right, that's because we're now entering a depression."

"No, seriously. It says here several economic indicators from Stats-Can prove that the economy has already achieved its lowest point and has now begun to accelerate once more."

"You know what that means? It means they can't predict anything, but they're getting scared about the situation so they're hoping they can generate a little activity with bullshit! And when the recession is over, they would have us believe it to be due to their efforts. I think it's fortunate they don't have as much control over things as they would have us believe, Frank."

In the face of adversity, moreover, the two men stood together well. Each possessed an adaptable nature and an uncomplaining toughness that kept them together, rather than at each other's throats when things went badly, like the day the air conditioning went awry.

The air handling systems in armoured trucks are notoriously undependable and will inflict upon hapless guards either freezing cold or unbearably stuffy conditions, depending on the season and the nature of the problem. In winter the situation was never too serious, for though the heater was never adequate during a cold snap, Frank dressed for long hours of inactivity in the cold and faced it stolidly. In summer however, it wasn't possible to prepare, and during hot weather the van was always uncomfortable. Such was the case for two days in late June. Tom and Frank had two pickups to make Saturday morning and when they quit work at noon the mercury had climbed to a humid 95°F. The heat continued through Sunday and when Frank arrived Monday morning his eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and his shirt already showed the tell-tale signs of his discomfort. When the truck was on the expressway headed west, Frank stood looking out the rear window at the receding image of the city. Interspersed with glass and concrete towers, it lay like an island of greenery under a shimmering hazy blue dome, giving it a hothouse appearance. To the north across the river the rolling hills of the Laurentians were an indistinct blue mass, which to a stranger entering the city, they might have been mistaken for an encroaching cloud bank in the heavy air.

About this time it became obvious there was something wrong with the air conditioner. Frank checked with François, who replied that though there wasn't enough cool air it wasn't too hot in the cab. In the rear of the truck however it was becoming very warm. By their third stop the outside temperature had already reached it's predicted high for the day and it was only marginally cooler inside. Frank abandoned his hat and tie, leaving his collar and sleeves loose, and invited Tom to do likewise. Their shirts quickly became soaked wet and stuck to their backs and sides. Their hair became plastered to their scalps, which tickled with trickling sweat as though lousy, and despite wiping their foreheads until their shirtsleeves were sopping, the stinging saline ran into their eyes and dripped off their noses. They bought large bottles of cola and having drained them, filled the containers with water at the next stop. It was important to keep the water replaced, Frank emphasised, or they would begin to feel nauseous.

"My God, you guys look awful," exclaimed the vault clerk at the Royal Bank. "Don't you have air conditioning?"

"We do, but it's not keeping up today I'm afraid," Tom replied as pleasantly as he could.

"Why don't you sit in the lunchroom for a few minutes," she invited. "It's cool in there."

"No thanks ma'am. We'll break for lunch soon and we'll find a cool spot then."

The situation didn't improve much through the day, but neither did it worsen, and Frank slept the sleep of the dead that night despite the continued oppressive climate.

Upon arrival at work Wednesday morning Frank checked immediately with Claude to see that the truck had been serviced over night. He was assured it had been; the system had been low on freon and was now operating normally. The morning went well, and after lunch Frank and Tom were hunkered over, on the edges of their seats, playing cribbage on a neatly constructed stack of money bags between them. They sometimes did this, using a tiny folding crib board that Tom smuggled in in his pocket.

"Fifteen two, fifteen four and three is seven and the jack is eight," Frank calculated, then, "Jesus, is it getting warm in here?" he wondered as he pegged.

"Yeah, it is, just in the last few minutes or so. I wish we'd get a storm, then maybe this weather would break."

By two o'clock it was obvious the air conditioner had broken down entirely. François was finding it very uncomfortable in the cab, surrounded by heavy glass and unable to open any windows. He shut the air off completely and opened vents instead, but because there was no way of creating a draft, this accomplished very little. The heat accumulated steadily within the box, turning it into a veritable torture chamber. The men rode in silence, counting off seconds until their next stop and a brief respite.

"Hey Frank, this is just like in The Bridge Over the River Kwai. We're locked in the hot box because we've defied the fat camp commandant." Tom giggled as they made their way through heavy traffic back to the depot. "Maybe we'll be life-time buddies now because we endured 'the cooler' together during the war."

"Yeah maybe, but seriously Tom, I've been meaning to mention to you."

"What Frank?"

"Your deodorant's not making it." They laughed in delirium at their foolishness, the heat making them giddy, yet the experience bringing them somehow closer, removing whatever final vestiges of formality there might have remained between the two.

Tom and Frank and François shared advice and compared notes on a variety of personal projects. The working-class background common to each of them had through necessity given them a rich education in simple construction, home improvement, appliance and auto repairs, and a wide assortment of related skills. They had improved over the years, through first-hand trial and error, or an inherited ability to make do. These lessons they shared freely amongst themselves. Of the two partners, Tom was the more knowledgeable in this, for he was a valley farm boy in origin and had knocked about the trades some. On the other hand Frank was older and had taken on the duties of a husband and father quite young, from which he assumed a superior wisdom that Tom neither questioned nor resented.

Frank quietly admired Tom's superior experience however, for while he had exchanged his youth for the responsibilities of marriage and parenthood, Tom had grown up wild and free. Being the youngest of three children, there had been little expected of him in the way of chores, and so following the example of a roving and incorrigible father he had begun absenting himself from the family home for periods of time while still in his early teens. He had learned young about girls and all of the illicit activities available to a young man of the streets, and he had been into more scrapes than he cared to remember. His record had remained clean however, due to the intervention of parents who would go to any length to keep their boy from harm, and perhaps no less, to the intervention of Lady Luck. Eventually he had not returned from one of his lengthy absences, and had called home to say he had quit school and was living in town, where he had a steady job. A series of live-in girlfriends had kept him from harm while he bounced from one dead-end employment to another, until he met and quietly married Leila. She, believing him capable of greater things, convinced him to return to school.

Tom studied with a seriousness that surprised his former associates, reading avidly, and consuming knowledge thirstily. He constantly improved upon his speech, so that it became a colourful blend of academic and intellectual vocabulary interspersed with a selective use of street argot. It lent him the appearance of being widely informed.

Frank derived a vicarious experience from Tom's tales of past exploits and adventures, but these were not offered boastfully; they were used simply in a casual matter-of-fact way to illustrate some point in the conversation. He would shock Frank by admitting and describing his involvement in situations that Frank could never have pictured himself in, yet Frank never let on. Instead he listened soberly and smiled knowingly as such tales were recounted as though he were in complete agreement.

Tom began to suggest, at first tentatively, and then more forcefully, that he and Frank begin to see one another socially. Perhaps they could go for a beer after work? Frank begged off, explaining that he went straight home after work, a habit he rarely broke. An evening with the ladies then? Nothing elaborate, just an evening of drinks, cards maybe? Frank drew back each time the subject came up. He knew from past experience that this was sure to fail. Diane would find something unacceptable in Tom and his wife. They were too young, for starters, and even if Tom made no reference to his past, she would spot his background. She was good at that sort of thing. Then there was the unknown element. Frank hadn't met Leila himself, and so couldn't begin to guess at his wife's reaction to her. No, better to leave things as they were, and avoid the embarrassing snub that Diane would deliver sooner or later. Frank valued this work-related friendship, and he had no intention of jeopardizing it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . On Monday morning as the truck rolled westward at seven o'clock Tom approached Frank with a problem. Frank and François had been recalling an incident that occurred while they were building on François' cottage. The conversation had ended just as they closed the rear doors and Tom had been silent ever since.

"Frank, you know how you and François work together on projects when you need an extra hand? Well, I was wondering if you could help me out with something tomorrow. Leila has the day off and we're planning to go to the farm and take in the hay. It's all cut and raked and if it lies on the ground too long it may be ruined. It's already pretty late for a first cut, and if it gets too dry we'll lose the grain off it."

"Can you and Leila and your father not do it?" Frank asked quietly, thinking of Diane's reaction to his spending the day away from home.

"Well, that's the problem. Mom called this morning before I left for work to tell me the baler broke down yesterday morning. She said a chain broke; it must be the main drive chain from the sound of it. Anyhow, the old man took off to look for parts right after lunch and hasn't been heard from since. So, not only will he not be there, but we have to fix machinery before we start as well."

"Surely your father will be back by tomorrow?"

"There's no guarantee of that. He could be gone three or four days. Mom says it's been quite awhile since he took off like this, so who knows? Besides, if it's the main drive chain that's broke he's going to have a high time finding a replacement part. That's an old baler. I'll probably have to jerry-rig it some way."

"I guess it will make a long day, if you have to fix machinery and then draw in all the hay, just the two of you. I won't see you stuck Tom, but there'll be hell to pay at home, I think."

"Bring her along," Tom coaxed him. "It'll do her good to get out of the city for a while, and she needn't do anything, just green around for the day."

"Yes, you're right, it wouldn't hurt her any."

But when Tom and Leila arrived next morning before six Diane was still in bed and had no intention of accompanying them. Frank didn't want to invite her, but had done so, hoping to placate her, for she had been angry at his plans. She had reminded him that she didn't like farms and had gone into a tirade about how last time they visited a farm there had been boots with feces on them inside the kitchen door, and how the men's clothes, the air, and the very food they ate had been permeated by the smell of manure. Frank remembered. Diane had acted badly the entire day and they had never been in touch with the farm couple again.

So Frank rose quietly, dressed and left without a word to the sleeping figure on the bed, and was waiting in the laneway when Tom turned the corner of the street in his aging half-ton. The truck stopped on the street and both people got out.

"Guess we won't need my car after all Tom, Diane's not coming. She had some other things she wanted to do today."

"Oh good, so everything's cool then?"

"Sure. Cool."

A tall girl wearing blue jeans and a Mickey Mouse tee-shirt, the back of which was covered midlength in flowing straight brown hair strode up to him and thrust out her hand. "I'm Leila." Her smile lit up her entire face, causing her eyes to flash warmly.

Frank was taken aback somewhat. Tom spoke often of his wife and Frank knew they shared many common interests. He had been expecting someone who might be described as a tom-boy, but he was not prepared for the image that stood before him now. She was beautiful, not in any cover girl, commercially prescribed sense perhaps, but had a clean unpainted out-doorsy look about her. She was big, robust and healthy, and as Frank always described her afterward, infectiously happy.

Frank became aware he was gaping, just as Tom chided, "Let's go, Mom will have breakfast waiting."

He and Leila hopped into the cab, leaving Frank the seat next to the window. The truck was already in motion when he closed the door, and he rolled the window down and rested his elbow in the opening. He felt good; his day off, a beauty for a change, and he was headed out to a day in the country without Diane.

The trip took forty-five minutes, during which Leila turned her undivided attention on Frank. He had been unaware how many interesting facts could be learned by asking questions about one's background. In return he acquired a wealth of information about her. Leila had grown up on a small farm in the upper valley, her father subsidizing the produce of their rocky farmstead by plowing roads for the township. She and seven siblings had been raised in a tiny log house that dated back to the days of the early timber trade. Upon graduation she and two high-school friends had taken an apartment in the city where Leila had found employment with a high-tech firm. Her supervisors liked her; she was steady and reliable, and thought enough of her employers not to leave the firm shorthanded when there was work to be done, so that this summer she had been permitted to use her annual leave a day at a time, on Tuesdays so that she might share Tom's day off.

The truck turned off the paved road and for several miles followed a narrow stretch of gravel road. It was poorly maintained, the weeds and growth along the sides reaching to the windows of the truck and often whipping Frank's arm as the truck swerved to avoid pot-holes. Tom managed to maintain a good rate of speed however, by riding the centre of the road and expertly dodging between the softer spots where the gravel had been kicked out, leaving sharp-edged holes. Tom down-shifted a gear and the truck finally turned left through a gap in the second growth white cedar that grew on both sides of the road. The lane consisted of a set of wheel tracks worn smooth, so that the center appeared as a lump above the roadway, the weeds and grass that grew there clipped neatly by the passing of low undercarriages. The lane emptied into a large clearing in the trees and the ground began to rise at that point. They drove through what appeared to be a cemetery for discarded automobiles and outmoded machinery, and finally entered a yard where the house and buildings stood. Frank looked about him as he descended from the truck.

He stood atop a rise in the land, at the toe of what appeared to be a horseshoe-shaped clearing of perhaps fifty acres in size. The ground obviously got better beyond the house for there was abundant growth, the freshly-cut fields already showing swaths of new green, and the entire area was surrounded by deciduous trees in full summer foliage, the shaded parts appearing in the distance as a misty blue-green that brightened into green-gold where the sunlight caught the crowns. Frank stood transfixed, trying to picture the panorama before him dressed in various seasonal colours.

A woman's voice calling from the house brought him out of his reverie and he turned towards it. A very short, and somewhat stout woman stood holding the screen door open, exhorting Tom "get a move on, or the meal would be cold." Tom bent over her as he passed to peck her on the head.

"Look who was sitting at the table when I came down this morning," she said quietly to Tom, then turned to greet Frank warmly, "You must be Frank. I'm Tom's mother. Everybody calls me May. You can do the same."

Frank followed Tom and Leila into a large country kitchen, one end of which was taken up by a large table, set for a meal. At one end sat a grizzled old man with a shock of white hair and craggy eyebrows to match. His face and forearms, where they protruded from the faded half-rolled sleeves of the blue workshirt, were the colour and texture of tanned leather. He eyed them balefully as they entered and said nothing. He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke upward to form a cloud over the table. Frank noticed by the set of his jaw that he probably had no teeth. Tom placed himself in front of the old man.

"When did you get home?" he demanded.

"About an hour or two ago, why?"

"Well, if I'd known you were going to be here I wouldn't have asked Frank to give up his day off to help us, would I?"

Frank began to feel uncomfortable. He blurted, "That's okay Tom. I don't mind, really."

"Excuse us, young fella. We'll get to you in a minute," interjected the old man. "Now, did I tell you I'd see you here Tuesday morning? Did I … or not?"

"You did. But that was before you fucked off for three days without telling anybody you were going."

The old man ignored this. "And am I here now, when I said I would be, or not?" he demanded.

"You are but …"

"Then that's the end of it. I been on this earth long enough I don't have to take any shit from any god-damn pups." He turned now to Frank who had seated himself at the table next to Leila. "And now young fella, I would like to say welcome to you. Thanks for coming, though how these mixups occur I have no idea." He glared malevolently over Frank's head to where his wife hovered by the stove. "An extra hand will make light work of it. What is it they call you, again?"

"Frank Wilson."

"Well, we're sure glad to have you Frank. Was a time we had lots of help here at haying time, but the last few years there's been just us. Course it's a lot easier with the bales than it was with the old loose hay."

May McDermott placed a steaming bowl of fried potatoes on the table and returned to the stove. Leila got up and began to carry various containers to the table as well. There was a plate of cold sliced pork, a covered dish of scrambled eggs, freshly sliced bread, and a pitcher of cold milk. Home-made pickles and relishes appeared as well, and finally the largest teapot Frank had ever seen was placed next to May's plate.

"Would anyone like their tea now?" she enquired when she was seated.

"I'll wait," replied Tom.

"No thanks," said Frank.

The old man passed his cup and saucer down the table where it was filled with scalding hot, boot-black tea. Frank watched, fascinated, as he poured the contents of the cup into his saucer and then blew on it as he balanced it in one hand before his face. He began to sup it loudly. He continued until everyone had served himself and had begun to eat, then having finished his tea, began to reach for dishes and serve himself from them.

When this required a long reach, Tom suggested, "If you need something there Dad, we'll be happy to pass it to you."

The old man did not reply, he simply continued to pile his plate, and he bestowed on Tom an insolent stare.

"By the way, how did you get home?" Tom persisted. Frank wished he'd let the matter drop, and ease the tension in the room.

"Why do you want to know that?" his father returned, testily.

"Well, I noticed your truck isn't here, that's all."

"I left it in the village. Maybe we'll go in later and get it … or it can wait until tomorrow, I don't care."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Dad. Of course we'll take you to get your truck."

Later when the meal was finished and Leila and Frank found themselves alone for a moment in the yard, Frank asked her, "Is he always like that; so cross and cantankerous?"

"Old Tom? Most of the time. Maybe a little more today because you're here. He shows off some. But you know, this will all come out in time. In a week or so May will be able to tell you where he was and what he was doing. Nothing much probably, just visiting one of his cronies and got plastered. And don't let the bickering between him and Tom fool you either; those two are pretty tight. The old man has won Tom's undying loyalty more than once I can tell you."

At that moment the other two joined them and together they crossed the yard to where a faded red baling machine stood outside the door of a small building. A cover had been removed from the side of it revealing a set of broad-toothed sprockets. The heavy flat drive chain lay across the top of the machine.

"This old chain has had it really," Tom explained to Frank, "I had to fix it twice last summer; replaced two links, the last two old spares we had."

"I know where there's another of these machines, down near Welton's Corners," added Old Tom, "but when I checked it out Sunday the drive chain was already gone out of it. I guess we'll have to wire it up some way, Tom."

"Maybe, but I got a better idea. Are those welding torches still around that I brought here that time? You know," he added pointedly.

"Yes, they're in the shop…at the back behind that old door and boards and things."

Tom entered the little building and could be heard rummaging around inside, presently he returned, pushing a cart on which were oxygen and acetylene cylinders and a cutting torch. "There's still gas in them," he declared happily. He parked the cart next to the baler and disappeared once more into the shed, returning with a piece of flat steel stock of about the same width as the chain. He unwound the hoses and began to fiddle with the taps and gauges on the welder. He began by removing the broken piece from the chain, heating the next link red hot and folding it back carefully with a hammer and a dull chisel. He heated and flattened out the broken part on the vise until it could be used as a pattern for a new link. Tom used a scratch awl to trace out the piece on his stock metal, and added a little extra where the steel would be folded to compensate for the heavier stock. Then he began to cut it out, and Frank marvelled in a few minutes how quickly the new section of chain was taking shape. It was allowed to cool slowly, then Tom's father placed it in the vise, and with a selection of files smoothed it into a perfect copy. This done, Tom reheated the ends once more, rolling them carefully with the hammer until the new piece would readily form part of the ancient chain, heated it one last time and then hammered it into place. The job had taken less than half an hour and while Old Tom put back the chain, checked to be sure that the timing hadn't been lost, and replaced the cover, Frank admired the way the two worked together, and privately envied Tom's talent around machinery.

"There," the old man cried when the last screw had been replaced, "and I'll be dammed if it isn't a better part than what came on it!"

"Made of better stuff anyway," added Tom. "Let's hitch her up and try a couple of bales before we go get the wagon. I'm sure it will be okay though, unless something else is broken." They began to work at about 8:30; Old Tom drove the tractor and the others rode the wagon, carrying the bales to the rear as they chugged steadily to the top of the conveyor. Frank found there wasn't really enough work for three, each of them taking a turn and then standing by while the others toted their share. This became even more apparent as the wagon filled up toward the front until finally Frank and Leila sat atop the load and talked as Tom carefully built the last bit by himself. When unloading into the barn however, the extra pair of hands became more valuable, and sped things up a lot. There was no slow waiting for the baler to do its job, and the load could be stowed away as quickly as they could move it. The result was that by lunch-time they had made several trips to the barn and had completed more than half the field. May McDermott must have been watching their progress while they unloaded the wagon, for as the last bale was sent into the loft she called out from the kitchen door.

"Leila….Leila, tell those men to come on and wash up; dinner's near ready."

Leila disconnected the electrical cord to the conveyer and called out, "Dinner" as she turned toward the house. Frank was first to the barn door and as he waited for the others he watched Leila's backside cross the barnyard to the house. The heavy faded denim supported and enhanced the shapeliness of her thighs and buttocks. She took long purposeful strides which gave an appearance of power to her large muscular frame.

"My God," Frank muttered under his breath, then was startled to realize Tom had crept up silently behind him as he daydreamed. He flashed his usual good-natured grin and Frank knew he had been caught out. He knew he looked guilty, but this appeared to amuse Tom even more.

"Nothing like a pair of blue-jeans, eh Frank?"

Frank was able to laugh then, but when they reached the house Tom's first words were, "Frank likes your jeans."

Leila turned and looked directly into Frank's face, which was now flushed hot and his eyes had begun to water. He knew he looked foolish but Tom and Leila were laughing at him affectionately, and in such obvious good spirits he too began to laugh. This girl was something of a novelty for him. He had never known anyone who handled her sexuality so effortlessly and with such self-assurance.

Leila filled an enamel-ware dish pan with warm water from the sink and hefted it onto the counter near where Frank still stood. She placed a heavy towel beside it and a bar of soap on top.

"Here, Frank," she giggled some more when she looked at him, "You wash up first."

Frank did as he was instructed, first pushing his sleeves past the elbows and washing and rinsing forearms in the grey soapy water. When he had dried them and reset his sleeves Tom took the basin and refilled it and Frank took his seat at the table where he had sat in the morning. As he gazed out the window he realized that from Old Tom's customary place one could survey not only the barn and yard, but down the lane toward any approaching visitor as well.

The old man entered the kitchen now, strode immediately to his chair and sat down. Frank noticed that the bottoms of his sleeves were wet.

"He must have washed up at the barn," Frank thought. The chair he occupied had arms, and he positioned himself slightly to one side, the better to watch the window, lit a cigarette and fell into a reverie. Frank regarded him more closely now. He was seventy, or perhaps less, for the wind and sun had weathered his face and arms, obscuring his age beneath the years of hard work. He had been freshly shaved when Frank met him that morning, but a white shadow was now creeping onto his cheeks and neck. The skin, above the line where his hat normally rested, was of a shocking whiteness when contrasted with the leathery face so that it seemed to emit an eerie glow. It didn't seem possible for his skin to be that colour naturally. His frame was spare, but he was terribly strong, as evidenced by his forearms, the sinews visible under the taught skin, the hands appearing to be too large for his body. One arm lay on the table next to Frank and he noticed fresh cuts on two of the knuckles; the others showed evidence of similar injury. They had been torn and skinned so often that they seemed always in a state of healing, so that the skin barked off at the slightest blow. Frank realized he was staring, and then, as though sensing his scrutiny, the old man turned to him abruptly.

"You know, Frank, I was just thinking: if everything goes like it did this morning, we ought to be done with the hay at about four o'clock. Are you in any great rush to get home?"

Frank felt trapped. What did he have in mind? A long delay? Of course it didn't really matter, since Diane would be on the warpath whatever time he got home.

"I guess not, why?"

"I'd like to go to the village to get my truck. I'll tell you, there's a cooler full of beer in it. I picked it up yesterday for you young folks. Also there's a bottle of rye, but that's for me. Now, if you wouldn't mind to drive the tractor for awhile this afternoon, May and I can take the young lad's truck, and be back here in three quarters of an hour, and we can all have a few drinks when we're done."

"And we can go swimming!" Leila cried. "Frank, you won't believe it, we have the most incredible swimming hole, there's even trout in it! You can stay, can't you?" Once again her infectious enthusiasm reached him.

"Sure," Frank grinned at her effervescence. The mention of trout sparked his interest. He had eaten trout, at François' Quebec cottage, but he had never actually caught one.

"Do you mean there are brook trout near here?" he asked Tom who now stood behind Leila.

"Well, we put them there," Tom said, "there's an old pit on the next hundred acres. Dad owns it. It's filled up with water. Anyway, one summer when I was, oh, about ten, my brother Andy and I spent most of our summer over there, clearing stumps, and making a little beach at one end, and a rock ladder out of the deep end, and we made a little lake, sort of. We used to camp out over there. One night, when it was almost dark, Dad came over, whooping and hollering for us. He'd been away all day." A flicker of mischief crossed his face as he paused, and the old man shot him the same angry glare Frank had seen that morning. Tom grinned and continued. "Anyway, he had a plastic garbage bag in his hand, full of water. He sat it down and opened the top but I couldn't see anything, it was getting dark and the bag was dark green. When I got my flashlight and looked into the bag it was almost black with little fish. Speckled trout, he said they were. So we poured them in and by next summer we were catching them. Been there ever since."

"Mind you," Old Tom pointed out, "they're only there because nobody knows they're there. If word ever got around they'd be gone pretty quick."

"I'm sure," Frank nodded gravely.

Dinner was boiled potatoes and roast meat and corn on the cob. Apple pie and strong black tea were for afterward. Frank surprised himself by eating heartily. He was unaccustomed to very much at lunchtime, and they had begun the day with a heavy breakfast. When they were finished Frank noticed that each person carried his plates and cup to the sink and stacked them there, before retrieving his cap and leaving the house. He did the same, and as he and Tom were leaving May stopped them.

"I'll have sandwiches ready when you're through Tom. If you're going swimming you'll want a bite to take with you."

"Thanks Mom." Tom leaned over to kiss her head as he passed, then outside, "she used to do that for us when we were kids. Now whenever Leila and I are here in summer, helping out, we have to take our supper over with us. You're sure you're in no hurry eh, Frank?"

"Absolutely none," he replied mightily, "it'll be more fun than I've had in a long time."

The afternoon passed, if anything, more quickly than the morning had. By three o'clock they were heading back out for what promised to be the last load, or nearly so, and the old man left Frank to drive as arranged. When they had unhitched the baler and were drawing the full wagon to the barn they saw the two half-tons return, and Old Tom carried a Coca-Cola cooler to the house and placed it on the grass by the door. While they began to unload, he took the tractor to the field and retrieved the baler. By the time he had done that and put it and the tractor away under a low sloping roof attached to the barn wall, the others had finished unloading. Tom and Frank pushed the wagon by hand into its customary place in the corner of the yard.

"Done," Tom shouted as he tossed his cap in the air, and then catching Leila's eye he began to race her to the house. She, though having a good start, was no match for his superior size and speed and they arrived at the beer cooler at the same time, Tom scrabbling into the ice for a beer with one hand, pushing Leila away with the other. He came up with a blue can in one hand, and after shaking it vigorously, tried to pop the tab with his thumb, Leila doing her best to prevent him from doing so. He ducked and retreated slightly, then whirled once, opening the can as he did so, and the beer spewed in a steady stream at his shrieking spouse. She stopped laughing now, her eyes closed, beer dripping from her chin and nose, looking silly. She walked, shaking her dripping hands, to the wall of the house where the garden hose was attached, and picking it up, began to rinse her face and arms under the cold water. She sipped a drink from it, appearing to pay no attention to Tom, who remained just out of range of the nozzle. Finally, she put it down and fetched two beers from the cooler and tossed one underhand to Frank.

May McDermott had been standing inside the screen door watching all of this, and she now informed them that she had dug out their suits and an old one of Andrew's for Frank to wear.

The trail through the woods to the pool was not long, perhaps five minutes' brisk walk. Frank noticed that the terrain they passed through could hardly be termed "woods". It consisted of clumps of second growth cedar; each tapering perfectly upward from a number of small trees around the periphery to a few tall poles in the center, so that each clump appeared from a distance as one perfectly shaped tree. None of it was of any value as lumber, Frank knew, for not even the largest could be economically sawed. The cedar grew sparsely in sandy bare spots, among piles of black-patched, lichen-covered stone and tufts of wiry yellow-green grasses.

They crossed over a patent rail fence, straddling it at the centre where it was lowest, the grey weathered rail sagging obligingly under their weight. As the trees opened out somewhat, here and there were white birch and sumac amongst the ubiquitous cedar. There appeared a long low hillock, as high as a man and covered with the sort of plants associated with poor ground; mullion, hops, wild raspberry and bramble. The trail led over it, and atop the hill Frank stood and stared in rapture. It was a perfect miniature lake! The bedrock had been scraped bare and the hardpan piled into the long hill they stood upon. The stone had been cut in a rectangular shape, perhaps thirty-five or forty paces wide and twice as long, (they stood now beside the long side); the far end sloped upward toward the shoreline where grass grew to the water's edge. The nearest end, in the stillness of the late afternoon, appeared to be quite deep, though the stone bottom could be readily seen through the clear water. As they walked along the stone face Frank peered over the edge into the water; a cloud of dark figures floated lazily along the wall.

When they reached the shallow end, Tom and Frank put the beer cooler they had carried between them on a hand made, rickety pole picnic table that rested in the shade of two silver birch trees. Tom was first into the water, peeling off jeans and shirt to reveal his swim trunks, and taking an expert running dive off the centre of the long wall. Leila and Frank took their time, undressing more slowly while Frank drank in the feel of it; the solitude, the smell of the water, and the hot sun slicing through the tree tops to dapple upon the gently rippling water. He walked carefully in bare feet to where Tom had gone in, where a patch of stone had been carefully swept clean of gravel, and he dove deep, his eyes open. There were no fish nearby now, though he could see bottom clearly. Leila's form flashed past him, her long hair flowing along her back, a trail of silvery bubbles following in her wake, then rising leisurely toward the surface. The water was a lot colder than he had expected, but it felt good after the hot dusty day's work. He scrubbed his face and scalp vigorously with his palms and fingertips, then kicked upwards toward the light. Leila swam with strong steady strokes to the far end where Tom was scaling the rock face using a set of footholds cut into the wall. Frank left them alone, paddled around happily for awhile and then returned to the picnic table for a beer. He pulled the table around some, until it sat in the sun, and was basking drowsily in the warm light when he noticed Old Tom making his way slowly along the trail, hands in his pockets, and watching down into the water as they had done, the whisky bottle tucked under his arm. He sat down in silence, and fetched a plastic glass out of the cooler, which he filled to the top with ice. He carefully drained off the water, then covered the ice with rye and set it aside to melt. Frank watched him light a cigarette.

"How long has this been here Tom?"

"About…um, twenty-five years. The township took that stone out of there to build up the road. There was never a proper road into here before that. It would turn into mudholes in the spring and they would put some material over the mud but it was often not passable. So I bitched and complained until they agreed to build it, and then, since I was the only taxpayer actually living down here, I insisted that I get the contract to supply the stone." He smiled in a conspiratory manner, "I just sent the kids over here every day to count the loads going out. Next spring I was over here one day and I saw it had filled up with water. The boys fixed it all up like you see it now."

"So you grew up here did you Tom?"

"Hell, no! I bought this place during depression times. These two one-hundred acre lots for three hundred dollars. My mother loaned me the money. There was no house nor buildings here; I built all that. Anyway, we moved in here in the winter, 1935 it was, I went to pick up Mother in the sleigh. Yes sir!"

The old man paused and regarded his drink carefully. The melting ice was beginning to stratify with the rye, appearing as pale swirls through the amber liquid. He picked it up and tossed off half the glass, sat looking at it reflectively for a moment more and then drank off the rest. He sat the glass down and continued, obviously warming to the conversation.

"I batched here for eight years before I met my wife. Mother lived here with me, or sometimes with my sister in town. I did all manner of work here; I shoed horses, made tools like axe-handles or cant hooks, I bought and sold horses and livestock, cut posts and rails, anything at all."

Frank stared at him in disbelief.

"You mean to say you never held down a steady job or worked for anyone in your life?"

"I worked for lots of people. I had a steady job as a teamster before I came here, but that didn't pay much, less than a dollar a day. Then later, anytime I could hire out and make a day's pay I did, but you must remember, though there was lots of work then, like farm or labour work, most people didn't pay much; on the farms they didn't pay at all. No sir! You worked for them at a sawing or a threshing, and then they came and helped you. What I used to do was; I'd work for the neighbours around and save up this work, and then I'd have a lot of help coming for a few days at my place. Nowadays, of course, they don't need much help. They have tractors can do all the ploughing, Christ, ploughing, they don't do that anymore. But anyway, they have equipment big enough to do all the disking and planting in about three days, and one man can handle it all alone."

He dumped the ice from his glass and made a fresh drink.

"Now, where was I?"

"People used to come and help."

"Right. We'd have these big gangs, to put up a barn or whatever, and Mother would make meals for however many of us there were, and that's how this place got built. That, and what May and I did together. And you know Frank, there wasn't a year I didn't come ahead a little. I'd have a little put aside in the bank, or another piece of used machinery bought, or some little project done, even if it was just some more stumps pulled or rocks piled in that field we were in today. There was always something each year, you know. It was always kind of satisfying."

"Sure….but to do it without working at a regular job! I've been working for wages since I was sixteen. Seems like I haven't stopped, and I won't either for another thirty years maybe. You must understand, what you've done here, it's well, like freedom. You couldn't do this today! There are too many little laws and traps, regulations and inspectors."

"Well, mind you, we have never lived like royalty here. We made do with what we had and that wasn't much sometimes. But when I look back on everything, I would have to say I haven't a thing to complain about. There's not many will say that, now is there?"

Frank had to admit there were not.

After awhile Tom and Leila swam back over to where Frank sat, and old Tom left shortly after that. The three stayed on however, eating sandwiches and consuming all of the beer; Tom and Frank drank most of it, so that Leila had to drive the truck home. It was past dark, perhaps eleven o'clock, when they dropped Frank off at his home. As they drove away he listened to the steady acceleration, pause, and then smooth increase in speed once more as she expertly shifted gears in the old truck.

Frank felt flushed, invigorated with the delicious fatigue that comes from a day of real work, and a pleasant drunken numbness, and something else; an excitement he couldn't define but which came, he knew, from being around that girl. As he approached the house, which was all in darkness, he thought he saw the edge of the curtain move, but when he went inside he found Diane sleeping so soundly she didn't waken as he prepared for bed. He thought again about Leila, and how she wakened in him a hunger that was as much emotional as physical. He realized his position, she was Tom's wife and they were devoted to one another, but her interest in Frank, though purely platonic, had awaked something that had lain within him silent and suppressed, something which now began to ache.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It just seemed natural after that for the two men to see more in, and of, each other. Whenever the weather was fine Frank left home early and walked the twenty blocks or so that separated their homes, and then rode in to work with Tom, and sometimes he would linger awhile after work, talking to Leila or sharing a cold beer with them before setting out on foot for the sullen solemnity that awaited him at home. The hours of work slid by more quickly now, hours of tedium that Frank used to dread were now transformed into periods of animated discourse, leisure hours, flying along as the two men cemented a partnership which was to become life-long. Even when they were apart Frank often found himself in silent conversation with his new friends, and made mental notes of subjects or events he wanted to discuss when they saw one another again, or of something he wanted to add to some previous discussion.

Frank even began to read, at Tom's suggestion, who exhorted him that most people could have the equivalent of an arts degree if only they would spend some of the time reading that they now spend watching television. Beginning slowly at first, Frank borrowed a book from the library that Tom had recommended highly, but he found it tough going. After reading a few pages in the evening he began to yawn and soon found himself preparing to turn in. Noise from the other room annoyed him, and he found he was often interrupted by household activities and outside thoughts. Reading put him to sleep so readily that he began to take the book to bed with him so he could simply put it down and turn out the light. When Tom asked him after several days how he was enjoying the story he had to admit he was a slow reader. Although he found the story interesting and easy to understand he simply could not stay awake through more than a chapter at most. Tom was sympathetic, but mystified, and the next day his first words to Frank were, "Leila says you probably need glasses."

"What? I can see perfectly."

"Maybe, but she says you need glasses for reading. You're working so hard to focus on the print it's exhausting you. Why don't you try some? Get a pair at the drug store, and if they don't work, take them back!"

"Good idea. We'll look after that today."

Next morning Frank arrived triumphant. He had not only read for two and a half hours the night before but he was so completely wrapped up in the story that he couldn't wait to get back into it that night. The two spent part of their spare time that day discussing what Frank had discovered so far about the book, and Tom pointed out several aspects of the writer's skill and technique that had interested him. And so, as in many things, Frank began to see literature through Tom's experience, to gain second-hand from his ability and university training. He knew he was beginning to identify strongly with the younger man but he could see nothing but benefits from their association, and Frank's life was more full and interesting than it had been for many years.

Meanwhile Diane was also aware a change had come over her husband. Her relationship with Frank had always been cool and somewhat distant, but he had always been punctual and dependable. Now he was often late arriving home from work, and without very good reasons. On his days off he had begun traipsing through the woods on a nature trail he had discovered, and though she had once accompanied him on one of these hikes she wasn't convinced that he was always there when he said he was. He went regardless of the weather, for example, and although he took along a slicker and rain hat she remained unconvinced. And these people he was running with! They looked like hippies to her, at least from what she had seen of them that morning when he went with them in that old truck, and then later that night when they dropped him off.

He had begun to take less interest in her, and in the house as well. At one time he would have pitched in and helped out more if she got a little behind, but now he ignored the unmade bed, the dishes stacked in the sink. He took his book into the bedroom and read instead. At first she had thought it was simply Rodger's absence that had brought about the change, but she now suspected there was something else, and it's onset had coincided with his interest in this new partner; Tom McDermott. Diane wished she knew some of the other guards' wives better, she would like to know more about these people. This new independence of Frank's worried her, she was far too reliant upon him for everything, and his attitude now made her wonder if he weren't having an affair. One time she had straightened out and cleaned the entire house, and he hadn't made his customary fuss over her efforts; and now when she hinted to him about sex he wasn't as instantly attentive as he usually was after their long periods of abstinence. In the past when Frank had become disillusioned with their relationship, there had always been that one fail-safe to bring him around. Now it appeared she had lost the ability to coerce, control and manipulate him in that way. With Rodger gone, she could feel the distance between them increasing as he grew progressively more attached to his new friends.

Frank, on the other hand, continued pretty much unaware of the change he had wrought in Diane's peace of mind. After all, he had never caused her any concern; never been unfaithful in any way, nor contemplated it even, so it never occured to him that she might suspect him of it. He was neither a drinker nor a gambler, had always brought home all of his paycheque, and his little interests; his nature walks, his reading, and now his new friendship with a man from work could in no way seriously threaten Diane's cocoon-like existence. He was of course aware that next to Leila McDermott, despite her pretty features Diane appeared a sour and lifeless shadow, but he wasn't aware his change of heart was readily noticeable. Moreover, having never had reason to be suspicious of Diane, and not being of a suspicious nature himself, he was unaware how closely he was being observed without his knowledge. The contents of his wallet, pockets, automobile ashtray and car interior were scrutinized daily, close inspections of his clothing and boots were made to glean tiny observations about his whereabouts whenever he was absent from the house. A suspicious mind, like a guilty one, is therefore trained in deception, and in this regard Frank had very little training indeed.

Then one day something happened, out of the blue, that made Frank conscious of a new image of himself. He hadn't been brooding over his life with Diane, but during a conversation with Tom he experienced one of those involuntary, unexpected epiphanies that in retrospect revealed he had some strong regrets. He and Tom had purchased a lottery ticket together, and Tom was telling him how he would spend his share of the winnings. He wished for very little really, he and Leila were happy and their needs and tastes were simple, so that he could think of nothing he wanted more than to maintain his present lifestyle without working for it. The idea effected Frank somehow, poingnantly, bringing home to him the inadequacy of his own situation, and he quietly lamented, "If I win the lottery I'm going to buy a new life!"

Tom said nothing in reply but gazed steadily at him so that he felt obliged to explain.

"I mean, now that Rodger has left home there's only Diane and me left, and my future looks something like this. I work another twenty-five years or so at this job and then I get to retire and stay home with her full-time, right? That doesn't look so inviting, Tom. The divorce option looks even less appealing. She refuses to get a job, pleads inability or whatever, so I pay everything I earn to her and live in a rooming house somewhere without a penny in my pocket. If I win the lottery I'll pay her off, and then I can kiss her, this job, and this valley good-bye forever. I'll start over completely, somewhere else. There's nothing to hold me here now; only my parents, and they have enough kids they don't really need me. If we win tonight, man, I'm gone!"

Tom grinned. "Jesus, Frank. What if we don't win?" he asked in mock concern. "Lotteries aren't very reliable you know. I think you need something a little more in the way of a plan to get out of your situation." Then seeing Frank wasn't lightening up as expected he suggested, "Like knock off one of these maybe." He spread his arms to indicate the armoured chamber and the bags of money that surrounded them.

Frank was in no mood for humour. He remained serious and replied soberly, "That's not a bad idea either, and I know exactly how I'd go about it."

The statement dropped into the confined space like a stone. Tom said nothing, and after a moment of watching his friend closely he dropped his gaze to his lap and began unrolling and then re-rolling his shirt sleeves. Frank finally cleared his throat as though to speak, but then rose and stepped to the rear door, where he leaned on one shoulder and stared out the window for a long time. The silence continued until both men began to feel uneasy. Finally they both spoke at once, causing them to laugh at one another.

"You know Frank, that's pretty funny, you planning something like that. I mean, I think about it all the time, but you - you're kind of an unlikely armoured car robber."

"I guess I've just had a lot of time to think about it. Besides, you can't help but be constantly considering possibilities in this trade, it's what helps to keep you careful. That's why case studies are part of your training when you come on this job, and why they form an important part of our um … 'worklore' or whatever. You ever notice when there's a bank robbery or an armed robbery of any kind, how the guys all discuss it to death in the lunch room? We identify with guards all over this continent; and their experiences and mistakes help to train us, and tighten up our security measures."

"Yeah, I've noticed also how we use American statistics whenever we're talking about how dangerous this job is. Hell, Canada's pretty tame compared to the U.S. when it comes to crime statistics."

"True enough, but the point is we learn from them. And that's how we know what works and what doesn't. So what do we know Tom? We know for example that many thefts from armoured cars are inside jobs in some way. Sometimes the thieves make no pretense about that, they just turn up a back alley or an old road, unload the money into a car and run away with it. Trouble is, I don't know if I'm adventurous enough to run half-way around the world to live out my life in permanent exile. Besides, the probability of getting three guys on one route who are crazy enough to do it is slim. Can you imagine us talking François into something like that? He's got six more months to go and then he and Gabrielle are moving to the lake to live. So that's out."

"Another way would be to arrange to have someone rob the truck, by telling them exactly how, when and where. Or maybe, just give them the money and pretend a robbery took place. Both bad ideas. One's dangerous, you never know what can go wrong and somebody could get shot. Besides, you're throwing in with people who are known to the police and to the so-called underworld as well. And, of course, one of the first things they do after you get robbed is give you a polygraph test, so both those ideas are out too. I mean, so what if they can't prove you were in on it, if they know, you can't ever spend the money, so what would be the point? The idea is to avoid suspicion entirely, and what's more important, to do it in such a way that nobody gets hurt. I don't think I could ever be desperate enough to risk killing someone for money, Tom."

Frank paused for a moment, looking reflective, and then sat down in his usual position facing Tom. "I've thought up a number of ways, over the years, that I thought might work, but they all involve actually robbing an armoured car, not pretending to rob my own. But think of the risks involved. Even, let's say if you got a messenger and his guard away from their truck, in a large shopping mall, or maybe in an elevator; they're going to be jumpy to begin with, since those are prime target areas, and often when these robberies take place the guards aren't given a chance to give up the money, they're simply gunned down. Then, to complicate things, you could be dealing with a couple of turkeys like Chenier and Kowalski, who are prepared to kill somebody to be employee of the month. I've often suspected that those bonuses they pay out are larger if you kill the perpetrator than if you merely wound him."

"Could be Frank, after all it makes things a lot less messy, from a legal standpoint that is."

Frank paused to consider this. "Anyway, it's too risky. The secret as I see it is to have them trapped inside the truck where they're not likely to hurt anyone, and convince them to throw the money out. And at the same time, prevent them from radioing in the alarm. What do you think of that?"

Tom looked skeptical. "Can you really do this, Frank?"

"Yes, I think so. I haven't worked out the fine details yet, but I have a plan that would work. No risk, no guns, nobody gets hurt; but above all I could not only get away with it, but I would be beyond suspicion. That's important, otherwise you never get to enjoy the money."

"Well you wouldn't want to be obvious about having the money. Isn't that how a lot of otherwise successful thieves get caught?"

"Sure, even if you were successful, you would have to be very patient, continue your life as always and make no changes, or make them appear gradual and due to other circumstances. For example, in my case the object would be to change jobs, and my mate if possible. So I wait until you go back to university this fall, then François retires, and I become despondent, grow less dependable, and maybe even break some of their security regulations, quarrel with some of the Rat Patrol, maybe even Wells himself. See what I mean?… Do the same thing at home, gradually lose interest, become an undesirable mate in some ways so that Diane actually wants a separation, that way she's not likely to be so demanding when it comes to a settlement. The point is to make it all appear natural, a consequence of Rodger leaving home, losing my job and so on; I mean this happens all the time. The kids leave home and first thing you know the parents are separated. There's just no reason to put up with one another any longer.

So the game plan would be to get slowly and carefully unencumbered and generally down-and-out enough that no-one will mind when I move away somewhere else, or be too interested in me when I get there. I don't want much anyway, just a fresh start with a few dollars in my pocket. I figure Diane will end up in another relationship quickly enough; she's pretty to look at and not too bright. That's a combination some men can't resist. I know I couldn't", he added morosely.

"Frank? You know, maybe it's not a bad plan, even if you don't rob a bank or anything. For the most part this game plan of yours doesn't require money, just determination. I mean, let's see if I've got the right. You're going to rob an armoured car, in order to live poorer than you do now. Seems to me you could leave out the robbery and still be poor, if that's what you want."

"It's a question of how poor I'm prepared to be, Tom. I'm just getting by now, and I'm going to work every day to a job I don't like. If I get away, let's say to British Columbia, … or maybe Washington or Oregon, I want to work outdoors, at something peaceful. Maybe I'd need to retrain for it, and that costs money. Or maybe I'd have to work at something that pays even less than this. I'd need a subsidy of some kind. Besides Tom, when you're really poor, irritating things happen, like when you have no money for gas, or for bus fare even, or when you run out of groceries before pay-day. No, I'd rather have some money stashed somewhere, just for emergencies."

"Even so, Frank, your plan requires an awful lot of patience."

"You think another twenty-five years of this job, and then retirement with Diane isn't going to require patience?" he roared, incredulous. He added bitterly, "To me it would be just like the guy tunnelling his way out of the dungeon, he has all the time in the world."

By this time Tom was laughing whole-heartedly while Frank permitted himself a wry smile. When Tom could speak properly again he returned the conversation to the point where Frank had said he would try to look very down-and-out in case he should end up in divorce court.

"You know Frank, how when guys who are charged with crimes clean themselves all up for court, so you wouldn't hardly know them? Well, you could do the opposite, buy a second-hand suit too small, and be about a month late for a haircut, that sort of thing. I can just picture you now, up in front of the judge, looking seedy and down on your luck, while you secretly hoard a bag of money somewhere."

Both men laughed once more.

"That's why I like you Tom, you get on my wave length and ride right along with me, even when I'm being crazy." He paused for a moment. "Leila does that too!"

Next morning was their out-of-town run. When they had settled themselves comfortably for the half-hour drive to the coffee shop, Tom brought up the subject of Frank's robbery once again.

"Okay Frank, I know we got busy yesterday afternoon, but you never did tell me how you planned to knock off one of these things. I wondered about that all last evening. What is the plan?"

"Do you remember, back about a year ago, there was a robbery in Quebec where a van pulled in front of an armoured car and opened the back doors to reveal an anti-aircraft gun?"

"Sure, they got the idea from a t.v. show the week before."

"That's the one. Well, we now know that an anti-aircraft gun can't be fired from inside a van, but it was enough to intimidate those guards, to say the least. My idea is a variation on that, something original, I intend to use a bomb."

Tom's jaw dropped. "Wait a minute. Yesterday you didn't intend to involve guns; too dangerous, but today you want to use a bomb?"

Frank laughed. "It doesn't have to be a real bomb, just convincing enough to frighten the living shit out of whoever is driving that truck; say a couple of phoney dynamite sticks and a little radio with an antenna, taped together, with maybe some wires. Something like that. That has the added bonus of convincing them not to use the radio transmitter."

There was a long silent pause as Tom mulled this over. Finally, he broke the quiet. "Where would you propose to do this Frank, right here in town? A lot could go wrong, you know."

"That's another key element. The setting has to be rural. There wouldn't be as much money to take, but after all we don't want a lot. Nothing spectacular," Frank grinned.

"We, Frank? Up until now we haven't been talking about any we. This is entirely your project." His chest heaved as he chuckled around the words. Frank was laughing also.

"Okay, theoretically then … um, 'hypothetically' as you always say, what do you think?"

"Not bad … not bad. I like the non-violent aspect of it. I think it would work." There followed another long period of silence punctuated once when Tom mused quietly, "Yep, it would work."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frank trudged steadily along the nature trail, his head held down into the stiff breeze which blew through the valley from the north-west. Though it was late July he was dressed in a windbreaker against the chill.

He had walked many miles every Tuesday as a habit, in winter and summer, but this spring he had discovered the charm of the government-maintained nature trails situated around the outskirts of the city. One of these was only five minutes by car from his home and now he used it regularly. He had followed his usual routine this morning: up at seven, an hour later than on workdays; then breakfast and a couple of hours of maintenance and work about the duplex. He had left for his hike without waking Diane, whose practice was to sleep until ten or eleven each day.

Frank was perhaps fifteen minutes into his walk when he saw the dog. It was a large heavy-coated collie, its eyebrows and muzzle turned white with age. It wagged its tail slowly as it barked toothlessly at him from where it stood blocking the pathway ahead. He had often seen it before, it belonged to an old woman who frequented the paths, possibly every day, and wore field glasses about her neck. Frank picked up his pace, adopting what he hoped was a purposeful stride, and as he passed the woman he nodded curtly. "Morning," he added, passing by and was relieved to see that she didn't stop him this morning. She sometimes did so, and though he didn't mind talking a moment, she had proven hard to shake in the past, rambling on endlessly about birds she had spotted, and wildflowers in bloom, and where exactly to witness these spectacles, until Frank had learned to appear too occupied to stop when he encountered her. This seemed to work, and when he did speak he contrived to do so without appearing to actually stop, edging steadily past as she spoke, then waving a cheerful goodbye as it became evident he hadn't time to visit that day. They usually met at about the same place each week, especially if he was punctual in beginning, she being near the end of her customary circuit, and he just beginning his.

Being a slave to habit, Frank customarily followed exactly the same path, and so he could predict within five minutes at what time he would return to where his car waited; he could tell whether he was early or late by glancing at his watch as he passed certain milestones along his route. Today however, he left the travelled pathway and followed along an old rail fence that passed through the forest. After a time the other side of the fence became pastureland, the fence was in a better state of repair, and there were No Tresspassing signs posted at regular intervals to keep hikers out. In the distance Frank could see a small herd of beef cattle standing quietly watching him, their white faces turned in the same direction in mute curiosity. At this point a large basswood had fallen alongside the fence, and he climbed up onto it to afford himself a better view. He watched the peaceful pastoral scene for a few minutes, then walked the length of the huge log to where he intended to jump down at the butt end. His boots rang hollowly as he stepped on the naked bone-white wood, and after returning to the ground he peered into the end of the hollow tree. It must have been dead a long time, to be hollowed out so far up in the trunk, the bark and upper branches had disappeared long ago and the wind had completed its final destruction only recently. The cavity was at least twelve feet deep and about one foot in diameter, the surrounding tissue soft and pulpy, and when Frank pulled at it he found it to be dusty and ridden with insects. Fearing wood ticks in his skin he left it alone, but sat contemplating it for some time. Surely something must live in there?

Finally Frank checked his watch and realized his detour had put him a half-hour behind. He would take a short-cut to stay on schedule, he thought, although he couldn't have explained why he bothered; there was nothing waiting for him to hurry home about, in fact he usually found excuses to further absent himself from the house. He visited his parents for an hour sometimes, or dropped in briefly to see Tom, knowing Leila was always home on Tuesdays. Today he did neither, and since he didn't need books at the library, and couldn't think of any other errands to run, he returned home directly, arriving there shortly after two o'clock.

Diane was still dressed in her housecoat, and was seated in the livingroom watching a soap opera. A cup of instant coffee sat balanced on the arm of the chair, and her uncombed hair was clipped alongside her head with combs.

"Been up long?" Frank queried sarcastically as he examined her appearance.

"Quiet!" she replied irritably, and returned her full attention to the set.

Frank was in the kitchen running the tap to get a cold glass of water when the commercial break started. Diane brought her coffee cup out and began to push things around, clearing space for it on the counter next to the sink.

"I don't know why you feel compelled to interrupt so Frank. Nobody interferes with you when you take off for four hours to do your thing, whatever it is. And you needn't feel so superior. I've been asking you for three days now to change that light-bulb at the end of the hall. And furthermore, did you stop to consider whether I might want the car before you took off traipsing through the woods for four hours, leaving me stranded here? You're so selfish, Frank, you make me sick!"

"For Christ's sake, I've been walking to work half the summer, and you haven't shown any inclination to do anything ambitious enough to require the god-damn car! And 'furthermore', as you are so fond of saying, do you think it's normal to require a man to change a fucking light-bulb Diane?" He was shouting now. "How can you be so useless?"

"I don't need you to change it. I just want you to do a little bit around here, help me out for a change. You live here too, you know, you ate off these dishes just as I did. Housekeeping is the most mundane thankless work there is, and I don't see why I should do it all. You're just a male chauvinist pig!"

"Right Diane. Where did you hear that one, on t.v.? Fine. I'm not going to listen to you harp about it all afternoon. Turn your idiot box off. We'll do it right now." On impulse he strode angrily to the television and slammed the volume button in with the palm of his hand. "And, if you turn it back on, I'll throw my boot through it!"

He turned to the housework with his usual energy, perhaps accelerated today because of his anger. He moved quickly, in precise efficient movements, and argued quietly to himself as he worked. Quarrelling with Diane never failed to upset him; he normally didn't raise his voice or swear much, but today he had threatened her. He hadn't done that before and to realize he had bullied her made him feel small and mean. Still, he determined not to fall into the old trap, making up to her and heaping blame on himself as always. He was right, by God, and things just had to change, but still his stomach burned and the anger left him with a shaky, keyed-up feeling.

He worked steadily for an hour and a half, until things began to look a lot better to him. He had washed several meals worth of dishes, pots and pans, and while the water was hot and soapy he had cleaned the countertops, stove-top and table. He straightened out the livingroom and swept the kitchen floor. He dampened a sponge-mop in the sink and cleaned the floor, working towards the hallway as he scrubbed. That done, he leaned the mop against the door frame and went to see what Diane had accomplished. As near as he could tell she had dressed herself and had made the bed. There was a pile of clean but unfolded clothing in a rumpled pile on top of the bureau, it had been there several days, and she was now beginning to put it away. As he entered she looked at him with an insolent wide-eyed stare, and he felt his ire returning. He took his novel and glasses from the bed-side table and left without speaking to her. He stepped into his boots and went outside where he dropped into one of the wooden armchairs provided for the tenants downstairs.

Frank tried to read for an hour or more, but finally gave it up as a bad job. His eyes would skim uselessly over the words and when he reached the bottom of the page he would realize he had understood none of it. His mind was occupied with Diane, and with that foolishness he had begun yesterday with Tom McDermott. Why had he done it? Tom was just a seasonal replacement, a casual acquaintance who would move on out of his life when summer ended. Frank had learned in the past about trusting these transitory, work-related friendships, he had made the mistake of sharing private thoughts and emotions only to have such confidences betrayed after the person moved on to other assignments and the inevitable drift occurred. Now he had done it again. Not that planning the robbery was such a serious affair, and Tom would probably never repeat it to anyone who might harm Frank, but this was a daydream he had nurtured over the years, he had taken it out and refined it when he felt low, and now he could never again pretend he had a secret failsafe caper planned. Should such a robbery ever take place, there would be at least one person, perhaps more, who would know who had engineered it. The idea left him with a sense of loss.

The sun had dropped behind the house now, and it was cooler in the shadow, too cool to sit comfortably without a sweater, so Frank took his book and returned to the house. The television was playing again, Diane seated in front of it watching a game show in which contestants spun a roulette wheel for prizes. He made himself a sandwich and washed it down quickly with a glass of milk. "I'm going to the store," he said as he stepped through the kitchen door, without waiting for a reply, if there was any. He took his time, sauntering along, intending only to purchase a lottery ticket at the convenience store and return home, but when he had the ticket in his hand, he turned not toward home, but in the direction of Tom McDermott's. As he neared the corner of Tom's street he could see the aging half-ton in the laneway and decided to stop in for a moment, but when he got there he found no-one at home. Disappointed, he retraced his steps toward home.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frank allowed himself some extra time next morning in order that he might ride to work with his partner. The weather had changed overnight and it was almost as warm at six-thirty as it had been the entire previous day. He covered the distance quickly, then rapped softly on the kitchen door. He saw Tom look up from the coffee he was stirring and signalled for him to enter.

"Hi. Did you make me a coffee?"

"Sure. There's lots in the pot, help yourself. You know where the cups are kept."

Tom was never cheerful first thing in the morning and his manner now reflected this. Frank paid no mind. By the time they were halfway to work he would come around and be as talkative as ever.

"I dropped by last night, around supper time. There was nobody home though."

"No, we went out riding all afternoon and didn't get back much before dark. Damn cold wasn't it? We had to wear our leathers. Had a very interesting day though, I'll tell you all about it on the way in."

This morning Frank drove while Tom hunched over a second cup of coffee in the passenger seat, sipping it down carefully until there was no danger of the hot liquid spilling over in the moving vehicle. Then he slouched back in the seat and addressed his partner thoughtfully. "Yes, I had a very interesting day yesterday, Frank."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I got to thinking about the 'lottery', you know, or rather I didn't get to thinking about it, it's all I've thought about for three days. I remembered one time, I was on my way out home., I was following an armoured truck through East Wessen, and it turned left at the bakery, heading towards New Stamford. I didn't remember which company it was, or even the exact time of day. So … yesterday I took a little ride, and stopped for coffee at the restaurant next to the bakery. I nearly missed them, I had just got my coffee when the truck went by. It wasn't one of ours. I knew I had lots of time because their next stop had to be New Stamford and there's only one possible delivery there, so I finished my coffee and then followed.

After they left the Royal Bank they took the old highway to Upton, and this is where it gets interesting Frank, you know the way the road weaves along and crosses and recrosses the new highway for about eight miles? Well, it actually crosses three times in all, and there are a couple of great spots along there where your plan might work well, only problem is, they could decide to follow the new road for any part or all of the distance, and we might miss them."

He looked at the amazement registered on his friend's face and laughed. "However, the last part of the way into Upton, they have to follow the old road. It's not travelled much and there's a spot where the traffic could be detoured down a gravel road to the new highway. There's an S-turn along there and between the curves is a spot that can't be seen from either direction. On one side of the road is maple bush, and on the other side is a big farm. So if we were to…"

"Tom, have you lost all contact with reality? We're talking about armed robbery here aren't we? Do you usually get inside your fantasies and walk around in them like this? Why did you go to all this trouble?"

Tom snapped at him crossly then. "Because I am serious about this Frank. If you're not interested in utilizing this plan, I know some people who will be. Now, do you want to win the lottery or not?" He was visibly excited, and had raised his voice until he was almost shouting across the seat. He realized this now, and checked himself, lowering his voice until he appeared calm once more. "I mean, Christ, Frank, did you just dream this up for entertainment; is it just pure fantasy to you? If you don't want to make use of it that's fine, but don't feel cheated if someday you read in the newspaper how your plan has made somebody else rich."

The rest of the distance was travelled in silence, Tom apparently disgusted at his partner's indecision and lack of interest in his findings. Frank, on the other hand, was in a quandary. Now that the proposal was being serious considered he found discussing it excited him physically. He felt light-headed and his senses seemed honed to a sharper perception of things, giving them an unreal quality. He felt stronger and more able than he was accustomed to do. Was this the 'high' that men became addicted to when they learned to face danger for thrills? Surely not, for concomitant with these symptoms were an uncomfortable pulling in the pit of his stomach and a feeling that his bowels had turned to water.

When they had arrived at work and Frank had backed the vehicle into its customary spot neither man moved for several minutes. Frank weighed the pros and cons, unable to make a decision either way, feeling increasingly under pressure as the seconds ticked by in the silence.

"All right, we'll have a look … it doesn't mean I'm in … and even if I like the location I might still not want to go along, in which case you can do what you please about it and no hard feelings. Okay?"

"All right!" Tom exclaimed animatedly, his fist raised in rebellious salute. He offered his hand to seal the bargain, and when they shook hands he converted it upward into the brother's handshake he and his biking buddies used to demonstrate their affection and solidarity.

"Now settle down, Tom," the older man admonished, attempting to conceal his delight at the other's reaction. "I don't need you bouncing off the walls of the truck all morning, you'll drive me crazy."

They discussed the matter no further that day, though several times when their eyes met Frank would shake his head in consternation. When the day ended Tom insisted they go at once to further investigate his findings. When Frank demurred he enticed him with the suggestion that afterwards they travel overland to his father's farm and catch some fresh trout for supper.

"Let's drop by home first. I'll tell Diane where we're going and change out of this uniform. I suggest you do the same. We can take my car for a change."

The site Tom had found appeared to be made to order for their purpose. The old narrow pavement ran more or less parallel to the new highway at that point and the distance of a mile or so between was covered with maple bush. Every mile or so gravel concession roads crossed both of them and joined the two so that traffic might be diverted to isolate any one stretch of it. The driver of the truck would be unlikely to use any of the gravel roads and so would use the only paved approach to the village. At one point there was a sharp S-turn in the highway, and it was here Tom proposed to block the progress of the armoured transport. The only thing that bothered Frank was that the best location stood along the front fence of a farm, whose house and buildings stood some distance from the road.

"I don't like it, Tom. That house being there means witnesses. What if they get suspicious and call the police before we even see the truck? You think we're going to set up a roadblock right in front of a farmer's house and he won't come out to ask what we're doing?"

"If we're convincing enough to get the truck to stop, we can convince some farmer and his wife, and the house is a quarter- mile away, Frank. There has never been a safer place for a robbery. Admit it."

"Yeah, It's about as good as you could ever want. Maybe you could check out what kind of activity goes on in there on a normal day. Maybe there isn't even anyone home during the daytime. On the other hand we don't want to try to close the road the day the local ladies meet here for their quilting bee or whatever. The more familiar we are with traffic patterns and people's habits around here, the better. Now, let's go fishing!"

Later that evening Frank and Diane picked the last fragments from two one-pound trout.

"Frank, this is wonderful. I haven't eaten a fresh trout since I was a girl. My father used to bring them home from Algonquin Park. Thank your partner specially for me, will you?" "Sure," he replied, deep in thought, as he extracted a bone from his mouth. He was troubled. Tom was wild and daring enough to actually go through with it, and he was probably guilty of something, counselling crime, no doubt. Moreover, the idea was dangerous even under such ideal circumstances, and he worried about that. Frank's cautious and well-reasoned approach to things would be indispensable if the plan were to succeed.

All during the next day Tom pursued the topic relentlessly. He began with several well considered questions. How did they propose to halt the truck? It would have to be very convincing or the driver would never ignore his training and jeopardize his cargo or his mates on any suspicious pretext. How would they make good their escape afterwards? After all, it would be more difficult to disappear into the back country than it would be in the city. They would be a long distance from any safe place and from the air their vehicle could be quickly spotted. How would they detour traffic while they were about their mischief and would they require more people to affect this precaution? Most importantly, what about an alibi?

Frank patiently worked out these and a number of other problems in detail until Tom should have been satisfied, but he continued to worry about it, mulling it over quietly and then beginning once more, with specific concerns too minor or hypothetical for Frank to have considered before. Finally he asked Tom to give it a break, he was getting tired of the whole idea, and each time the subject got serious he felt the familiar butterflies in his gut, the warning that his very anatomy recognized this thing as dangerous and wrong.

Monday morning Tom started right in again first thing, with renewed vigour, but Frank was better prepared this time. He had found himself plotting all weekend despite himself, and he had worked out many of the finer details to his satisfaction. There would be a great deal of preparation required beforehand, but that would make things go more smoothly and guarantee a safe getaway. Many of these preparations would require planning in themselves, for they involved the commission of a number of lesser offenses. The in-depth discussion slowly produced a master plan which provided for every eventuality. Hypothetical problems were worked out and as each man became more familiar with the intricacies of the plot, the familiarity emboldened them, for though they were merely discussing it, they mentally ran through the entire crime repeatedly, until Frank realized his body no longer quaked at the idea, he had placed it under his mental will. He had reasoned the fear away and now felt secure. Still, he had not committed himself. He continued with half his mind to say that the whole situation was pure conjecture and he need not involve himself beyond the planning stage in any case. Finally, a glitch appeared that seemed to save him. A third person would definitely be essential to the perfect plan. Traffic from one direction could be easily rerouted; all they would require would be a couple of stolen barricades and a detour sign. Upton is a sleepy little village isolated from the main highway, so traffic would no doubt be light, but Frank wouldn't feel comfortable unless all possibility of witnesses were eliminated. He therefore proposed blocking off traffic from the other direction after their quarry had passed a certain point. A third man stationed at the crossroads could also advise them when the truck was approaching.

Frank had become fascinated with the concept of creating the perfect robbery and he could find no way of safely eliminating the third man. He was relieved at this really, for it effectively put an end to their plans and he began to feel more relaxed. He would simply refuse to accept any suggestions Tom might make regarding this third man; he had no intention of trusting a stranger, and he could easily discredit any rounder of Tom's acquaintance that he might propose. When they agreed about the necessity of an additional accomplice he felt confident the subject was finally closed. For several days the topic barely arose. Tom was satisfied they had gone as far with the planning as possible, and Frank remained adamant in his rejection of any new proposals from him. Things returned to normal, they began to play cribbage once more, and Frank believed the matter was finished.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"The summer has passed so quickly," Frank was thinking as he rode in the half-ton towards Tom's house at the end of an uneventful day. "It seems like only a couple of weeks since I first laid eyes on this guy, and here it is getting on toward the end of August. In another two weeks he'll be gone. I wonder how much we'll stay in touch once our paths diverge once more."

He preferred to return to Tom's house in the afternoon and then go the remainder of the way home on foot. After being cooped up all day he found he had no appetite if he didn't exercise in some way before supper, and the distance between their homes made a good twenty-minute work-out. When they arrived today however, Tom wanted his partner to visit awhile.

"How about a pint Frank? Leila was saying this morning she hadn't seen you in awhile."

"That's true. I've been pretty punctual lately, haven't I? I'd better watch that, Diane will think she's got me retrained." In fact he was pleased that Leila had been asking after him. She was pretty, and good company, and Frank enjoyed the company of women. He always missed the contact with that fifty percent of the world from which his employment and his possessive wife segregated him.

They entered through the kitchen door. "Lee, I'm home! Frank's here too!"

Leila joined them then, her long dark hair flowing down over one of Tom's plaid work-shirts, which was knotted at the waist. "Hi Frank," she smiled warmly at him before she nuzzled into her husband's neck. "Have a good day?"

"Boring as usual, but otherwise okay, I guess. Things just haven't been as interesting since we cancelled the lottery, eh Frank?"

The offhand remark startled him, coming so unexpectedly, and he shot his partner a sharp glance. Leila's laughter made him realize the cat was already out of the bag. It was apparent she had understood fully what the remark really signified.

"Relax Frank. She knows all about it. Christ, she went along with me when I first scouted out the location. I mentioned it to you then but I don't think you were really paying attention. Then, you got so paranoid about perfecting the plan and taking every precaution I was afraid to remind you for fear you would scuttle the whole idea … which you did in the end anyway," he added glumly.

"But how could you do this? I mean, involve Leila. Don't you realize that if we had gone through with it, which we very nearly did, she would have been an accomplice? That was never my intention, and I think you were wrong to do it."

"No Frank," Leila began to explain calmly. "He was right. I know things are different for you, but Tom and I are partners in ways that you and he could never be. I know you depend on one another, but he and I are biologically programmed to complement each other as well. What is more, Tom would never make a decision of that magnitude without getting my approval. Our very future together would hang in the balance." She paused for a moment while he watched her organize her thoughts for a second onslaught. "So you see, I not only knew what you were contemplating, but I approved of it. That's not to say I didn't worry for you, but the plan was such a good one in the end that I couldn't fault it. Tom had an answer for every objection I could find. There is a risk of course, but if Tom wants to take it (and it is after all, a well calculated risk), why shouldn't he? I'll stand by him if it doesn't work out."

She went to the refrigerator to fetch beer and Frank watched his friend smiling at him from his seat at the table. He was quite without a reply, never before had he witnessed such an avowal of loyalty, solidarity and trust. He could never in his wildest imagination expect it of Diane, although this kind of interdependence must once have been more commonplace between couples. What had been a strong attraction and affection for this woman had now been transformed into an honest admiration. He was reminded of one of Tom's current clichés. She certainly "had her head together."

He also realized that as he extended this trust to Leila, his co-conspirators had grown in number. There were now three friends who knew of the plot. Leila handed him a beer and he sipped it from the bottle.

"I tried to talk Tom into letting me go along, and he wouldn't hear of it, but I finally convinced him. After all, there is very little risk for me. I hide near the corner, and watch for the truck. I signal to you guys that it's coming and then close the barricade after the truck passes. Then I leave; go home. I want Tom to get me a little motorcycle, one that's equipped for the highway. I'll drive it back to town and then ditch it somewhere and come on home."

"You can drive a motorcycle?"

"I drove Tom's Harley."

Frank laughed at that. "I'm not surprised. There could be more to it than that. What if there's a car behind the truck, or in front? You'd have to try and separate them some way."

"Maybe, but no-one stays behind an armoured truck for long, and this is a back country road really. Besides, if things look awkward, we simply abort and do it again another day," said Tom. "What do you say? Want to reinstate the lottery? Think of it Frank. We pull this, and no matter what happens, whether we succeed, or even if we should fail, your life will never be the same again."

It was just the sort of clear-sighted, truistic statement that makes for good oratory, that exhorts a man to raise his voice in assent, to demonstrate his support, and Frank felt compelled to state irrevocably whether he would stand by his comrades or not.

He threw up his arms in mock surrender. "All right! I give up. You've worn me out." He grinned at each of them in turn while they whooped and laughed with excitement.

His steps were light as he neared home that evening. He was late and he knew Diane would be virulent. It didn't matter. He had a secret, the most important of his life, and though his outward appearance had not changed, he had left the beaten track of his narrow habit-ridden existence for ever. Things could never be the same again. Once consensus had been obtained on the project at last, he and his partners had set to work in earnest. They had set a date for the robbery: six weeks hence; the first Tuesday in October.

There were preparations to be made, some of which would be evening projects; fabricating signs, disguises and equipment. Materials would have to be purchased for this purpose and carefully stashed somewhere. A truck would have to be spotted also and later on someone would have to steal it. A small motorcycle would have to be added to their apparatus. Detour signs, barricades and hardhats, binoculars and lineman's spurs were all needed. More importantly, alibis and cover stories would have to be fabricated and supported as nearly as possible. He warned himself to slow down as he took the kitchen stairs two at a time. He would have to remain cool at home throughout all of this; very cool, making up good excuses whenever working on the project, and never letting on for a minute how wonderful, alive and adventurous he was beginning to feel as preparations went forward.

CHAPTER NINE

The first Tuesday in October dawned clear and sunny after a heavy ground frost. Frank had lain awake most of the night, careful not to toss and turn and thereby alert Diane to his case of nerves. Finally at six-thirty he rose and quietly shaved, and made coffee. He had no appetite; he felt like he had a ball of lead lodged in his stomach, although he had been calm up until now as they had made their preparations. The night he and Tom stole the motorcycle and transported it to McDermott's farm he hadn't felt nervous. They had hidden it under a brush pile in an unfrequented part of the bush and Frank had felt exhilarated doing so, having accomplished the first major step of their exploit. His stomach hadn't bothered him then, and maybe one he got moving this morning the activity would tap off the nervous energy and calm him some. He knew the coffee he was drinking probably made the problem worse, but he had too much time on his hands. He got his book and tried to read a few pages but his mind wouldn't focus on anything but the task ahead. Facts and details raced through his mind, he made mental notes and prepared lists of things they must do before they could set out this afternoon. Perhaps it was the burden of so much detail that was putting him off, and once they began to reduce it he would feel progressively more in control. He threw the book down in irritation, and dumped most of a fresh cup of coffee into the sink. He would have to find something to do until ten o'clock or he would be off the wall by the time they were to meet. He went out into the yard, but there were no chores at this time of year; he had already prepared the flower garden for winter. Where the sun had not yet warmed the grass the lawn wore a coat of silvery hoar-frost, so washing the car was out too; the hose would be frozen solid for another hour yet. Frank wandered about aimlessly in search of a project, then decided to work up the dead spots left on the front lawn by the neighbour's poodle, and re-seed them.

It took less time than he thought and he was soon at loose ends once more. Eight o'clock. If only he could do his usual Tuesday hike now, he would feel a lot better, but no, it was important to do everything according to his usual habit. He must remain there until after he saw the old lady, and she had gone home, before he left to meet his friends. It would have helped just to walk as far as Tom's and back, but they would have left already for the farm; probably they would be eating breakfast now, Frank figured.

When the frost had melted and the grass around the house was merely wet, he started the lawn mower and began making rapid circuits around the lawn. The space wasn't large, and in a short time the patch of uncut grass in the centre had shrunk to a small rectangle. He began to feel better as he warmed to the exercise, and then he heard Diane shrieking at him from the kitchen window. "Frank," she called several times while he pretended not to hear. Finally he turned a corner, and facing her, had no choice but to acknowledge her. "Are you crazy? Cutting the lawn at this hour while people are trying to sleep … and it doesn't even need cutting. Why don't you go for your nature walk or something, and quit being a pain in the ass." She slammed the window shut and shouted "Fool!" at him through the glass before disappearing from view.

Frank continued to cut the lawn, he was nearly finished anyway, and what the hell, he might as well start his campaign of ignoring and tormenting Diane now. When he had completed the back lawn he began to cut the front, carefully avoiding the bare spots he had scratched up with the garden rake and seeded down. When he finished he turned the mower on its side in the garden and scraped all the clippings from the under carriage before putting the machine away in the garden shed. Nine o'clock. Good enough, he had one errand to run this morning and he could do that now. Saying nothing to Diane, he got into the car and drove off, a smile playing around his eyes as he contemplated what would have taken place by the time he saw her again.

He drove to a large hardware store in the west end, not far from home. He loitered aimlessly through the sporting equipment and tool departments until he came to the tool boxes. He selected a deep one, with the top slanted front and back, and double clasps to keep it closed. He opened it and removed the tray. Then he saw one with a blue hammer-tone finish the same size and picked it up. The price was higher but he preferred the blue to the bright red one. He put the first one back together and replaced it on the shelf. Then he opened the second, removed the tray and placed it on the back of the bottom shelf, behind the merchandise. He paid for his purchase at the cash, disposed of the receipt in the garbage container in the car park, and stowed the tool box in the trunk of his car.

Frank's next stop was the parking lot where he began his weekly hike. He was a little early but that wouldn't matter. He couldn't leave until after the old lady did anyway. "Of course, seeing how it's important, she'll probably find something to delay her today," he thought wryly. But no, he met her on the trail after about twenty minutes and once he had greeted her and passed, he stopped, waited for about five minutes and then followed after her. He kept a good distance behind, so he wouldn't alert the dog, and when he neared the parking lot he heard the distinctive sound of the Volkswagen beetle as it roared into life and then quickly subsided into the distance. "Good old gal," he chuckled slyly, "I must remember to chat her up next week and remind her how we haven't missed seeing each other a single Tuesday all summer." He wasn't sure which direction the Volkswagen had taken so he waited a couple more minutes before he started his own car. He stopped at the exit to fasten his seat belt and then observed the speed limit scrupulously. He felt good then, relaxed once more, and his appetite had returned. He was ravenous, but he hadn't time to eat. He stopped at the bakery in East Wessen and picked up a half dozen chocolate doughnuts, which he devoured over the next eight miles. He was delayed once by a road crew, and waited patiently for a young woman in cut-offs and a fluorescent vest to turn her long-handled sign from STOP to SLOW. He continued on the pavement for another two miles and then followed the gravel road for six miles until he reached the back end of McDermott's farm. Tom had already removed the set of rails that permitted access to the wood- cutting trail he now followed, and he knew he and Leila would be already at work preparing the vehicle. Frank took his car only far enough to hide it from any prying eyes travelling the road and then walked the short distance to the white Ford pick-up; a new model to which Leila was busy affixing wide strips of red and orange fluorescent tape. These had been previously cut to form the familiar pattern one sees across the hood and tailgate on Ontario Hydro service trucks. Tom was creating a similar disguise on the driver's door, this one more elaborate since it recreated the familiar logo; he worked carefully from a diagram and a list of numbered cut-out sections. He peeled the pieces of release paper from each part in turn, and then placed the refuse in a green garbage bag. Leila was taking similar precautions. They acknowledged him as he approached but didn't pause from their work. Preparing the truck would take almost an hour Frank knew, and they would have no time to waste.

"You had no trouble getting the truck?"

"No, I picked it up this morning and drove straight here. Leila followed in my truck and we were here in time for breakfast."

"Gee, you left it late enough. I thought you were going to do that last night."

"I know, but I thought it would be best to make only the one trip, and this way the truck hasn't been here overnight for somebody to find. Things went perfectly, it wasn't even locked. I hammered a screwdriver into the ignition switch just before daylight and drove it directly here. I had an hour to kill before Leila got here but I didn't want to start dressing it up yet. Just in case."

"You did good Tom. I'm going to dig out the equipment and load it. Then one of us had better get started on make-up."

Frank followed the car-track until it emptied into a little stump-covered clearing littered with piles of barren slash, through which wild raspberry canes grew in profusion. He donned a pair of white cotton gloves and began to pull the branches off one pile, throwing them to one side until he had uncovered a small-wheeled motorcycle with full fenders and highway lights. Beside it lay an assortment of items which he began to carry to the truck. He started with four wooden trestles, two in each hand; the uprights for the barricades. There were eight of them in all, and four two-by-six bars with yellow flasher-lights. They too went into the back of the service truck. Next he dug out a metal car-top carrier to which they had attached a yellow rotating light. He placed it on the roof of the truck and secured it to the rain gutters with the straps provided, then ran wires from the light down the windshield frame and disguised them with white tape. He passed them under the hood and along the inner fender to the battery. The wire ends had been stripped of insulation to a distance of about four inches, and Frank wrapped one of these around the ground cable of the battery. When he touched the other wire to the live side, the connection snapped as the motor cut in, and the bright caution light began to turn. He released the wire, allowed it to drop beside the battery and closed the hood. Next he stowed away a coil of half-inch rope (which they had pains-takingly painted black), several road-signs and a cardboard box. All that remained were the motorcycle, and two bundles wrapped in green plastic, which he left where they lay.

Leila had finished taping the tail-gate and Frank began to do the front. "Let me finish this, Lee. You start getting ready. We'll need you to help with ours." He began the careful job of peeling and sticking the tape as Leila took off in the direction from which he had come. "How's it coming, Tom?" he called out over the truck hood.

"Almost done one side. The other will go a lot quicker now that I've done it once."

They completed the work on the truck before Leila returned, and walked to meet her, carrying garbage bags with them. She had disappeared, and in her place a young man now stood, clad in overalls, checkered bush shirt and yellow hard-hat. He wore his dark hair in long side-burns and his moustache and bushy eyebrows were dark as well. He was heavy-set, with full cheeks and dark complexion. The tan work boots were new.

"Better put some dust on our boots when we get there," Tom suggested. "Those boots have never seen a day's work. You look great, Lee, but are you going to be all right on the bike like that?"

"Oh sure, I picked up an old full-face helmet so my make-up will be okay. These theatre props I picked up in Toronto last week are the real thing, you know. They won't just fall off or anything. Come on Tom, I'll get you ready first, then you can dress while I get Frank made up. Do you realize we're exactly on time? What professionals!"

Tom was quickly disguised in a red beard, which matched his hair well enough to be acceptable from a distance. A pair of eyeglass frames completed his costume. Meanwhile Frank had removed his boots and windbreaker and rolled them into a tight bundle. He pulled on a pair of khaki coveralls, buttoning them almost to the neck. The quilting Leila had sewn into the garment filled it out and made him appear to weigh two hundred pounds or more. His face took more time, for his would be most critical. He would come face to face with the driver. Most difficult were the eyes, for he had never worn contact lenses, the coloured irises Leila used to change his eye colour were difficult to put in. They had practised this before-hand but inserting them was a tricky manoeuvre and Frank lost time trying to do it himself. Finally Leila assisted and together they were successful. She began now to darken his skin as she had her own and she gave him inserts to place in his cheeks. All of the hair that would show beneath his hardhat was darkened and a very bushy, droopy black moustache completed the effect. He looked into the mirror Leila held for him, smoothed out the moustache with the back of his hand and grunted in satisfaction.

He threw what was left of their makeup materials into a garbage bag and checked for anything else left lying about. He examined his partners carefully, but he could see nothing out of place. He switched on the key and kick-started the motorcycle for Leila.

"See you shortly." She signalled thumbs-up to them before she drove off.

Next Frank backed his car out of the narrow lane, Tom following directly behind in the Hydro truck, and he watched in the rear-view as he drove away. Tom had taken the time to replace the bars in the fence opening. They left some distance between them so they wouldn't appear to be together. After fifteen minutes of back country driving they arrived at the spot where they had planned to leave his car. It was about five miles from the target site and appeared natural enough, parked under a large elm, off the road by a small bridge: Somebody gone fishing. Frank carefully locked all four doors, then he put two bundles, containing his and Tom's boots and windbreakers in the trunk. Tom pulled up alongside him in the service truck, Frank got in without comment, and they drove the next five miles in grim silence, each man's attention fixed on the matter at hand and the importance of playing his own role to perfection.

The truck followed the highway briefly, then turned off at the next exit, marked "Upton, eight miles." Frank saw no sign of Leila ahead but she would be there, out of sight amongst the maple trees. As they slowed down near the corner she stepped into view and they began unloading one set of barricades into the ditch, Tom quickly driving a single nail into each to permit them to be picked up and moved in one piece. Frank handed Leila her hardhat and a highway stop sign attached to a five-foot length of steel pipe.

"Let's hope you won't need this, that way no-one will even see you. Give us the signal, stay out of sight 'til they go by, then seal her off, okay? Be sure to keep the second barricade far enough onto the road for us to get by quickly."

"Okay, then I'm out of here, right?"

"Right. See you at home later," Frank added, thinking how strange it was to hear her voice coming from the young man before him. As they drove away he checked his side mirror to see her slip into the forest once again.

Next they stopped at the farmer's gate where Tom got out and removed the rope, the lineman's spurs and a long belt, which he threw on the ground. He reached into the cardboard box and removed a walkie-talkie transmitter; half a small set they had purchased in a toy store. He banged on the tailgate twice and began to put on his climbing equipment as Frank drove on. He shook out the rope and, leaving one end in the ditch, he began to climb the pole with the other end hooked through his belt. When Frank stopped the truck he could see Tom slowly inching his way up the pole. The homemade spurs they had fabricated at the farm worked fine but Tom was unused to them, and despite some practice before-hand he found the climbing difficult. One slip could mean a painful fall and a bungled robbery attempt.

Frank removed the barricades from the truck and began nailing them together. As he completed the first one he heard a shrill whistle.

That couldn't be the signal! They had at least fifteen minutes yet! Frank hesitated only a fraction of a second; he had to move quickly. The first barricade moved readily into place, but when he lifted the cross-bar on the second it collapsed onto the highway, the two trestles being unfastened. Frank threw the two-by-six into the highway and scrambled to gather up the fallen A-frames. He ran into the roadway, held one trestle upright and slipped the cross-piece into its slot. The barricade now stood crazily up on one end, the other on the pavement. When Frank lifted that end the first piece threatened to collapse again. His heart slammed into his throat, he could hear the frightening mad pounding of it, as it threatened to hammer its way out of his abdominal cavity. His knees turned to jelly, yet his limbs continued to function as he commanded them, his hands shaking crazily yet able somehow to set the second upright in place and carefully return it to the ground without upsetting the structure once more. He ran now to the truck and jammed it into drive without closing the door. It was important to have the truck in place before the guards could see what was happening! Everything rode on their being completely deceived, if only for a few seconds, and Frank had lost valuable time. The truck accelerated quickly and as he passed the pole where Tom was perched he began to brake, and pulled across the approaching lane. He had forgotten to turn on the rotating light! No matter, there was no time for that now, the armoured truck was turning the corner.

Frank checked the front seat where the bomb and the robbery note lay. They weren't there! Another thing he hadn't had time to prepare. Oh, why hadn't he aborted when their plans had been pre-empted? He slammed the selector into park and jumped out. He reached into the cardboard box and removed the bulky apparatus. Hidden from view by the truck box he slipped it into the double-sized pocket sewn into the seat of his overalls. He reached once more into the box and retrieved a large scroll of cardboard, rolled up to resemble a set of blueprints. The armoured truck had now stopped, staying back about twenty feet from where Frank had blocked the road. The driver, an elderly grey-haired man eyed him impatiently. Frank walked toward him, slowly unrolling the paper in his hands. He managed a weak smile, but the driver didn't respond. Frank walked directly to the driver's door before reaching up and pressing the instructions onto the glass, where they adhered firmly, blocking him from view. Now, Frank moved quickly. The bomb had to be placed before the driver had time to react. He pulled the hidden device from his pocket and with one hand on the mirror and one foot on the running board he reached up and securely fastened it to the windshield. He dropped off the vehicle and sprinted back to the service truck where he crouched behind the box, as though seeking protection from the impending blast.

He watched the driver for what seemed like an eternity. He examined the explosive device, and then looked at Tom, atop the utility pole, who waved his walkie-talkie at him. He then began re-reading his instructions. Frank could hardly blame him. The bomb appeared to be a formidable one. Three sticks of dynamite had been constructed and taped together; then attached to these, with wires running from the tips of brass caps, was the little radio, well bound with electrical tape, with the tiny antenna fully extended. The contrivance was securely pressed against the bullet-proof glass, strips of windshield mastic seal had ensured a good bond. Frank watched the driver reach to the centre of the dash and knew he was complying with instruction number one: TURN OFF RADIO TRANSMITTER.

"So far, so good." He sucked in a cool draught of air and released it slowly. This was the hardest part; waiting, his legs shaking so badly they would barely support his weight. "Good thing he can't see that," Frank admitted, but then he was struck by something, something was going terribly wrong, he sensed it but he couldn't figure out what it was. He looked at Tom, leaning back on the heavy belt as he watched anxiously, the phoney downed wire running outward from the pole and into the ditch. Tom gave him the high sign, "Everything okay."

The driver was talking through the rear window into the back of the armoured car. After a moment Frank heard the cargo door open and he knew money bags would be dropping onto the pavement. He climbed into the driver's seat and put the pick-up in reverse. When he heard the door slam shut he backed up to allow room to pass. The truck moved slowly, the driver careful not to jostle the bomb, and as it passed Frank saw two faces watching him through the rear window. He moved quickly now, stopping the truck and jumping out in a flash, dropping money bags quickly into the back of the truck. He saw Tom running awkwardly toward him, encumbered by the spurs strapped to his feet and legs. He was gasping for breath, from the excitement and the mad scramble to escape quickly from his vulnerable position, and he shouted breathlessly as he approached. "Jesus, Frank, they're coming!"

"Coming?" he shrieked hysterically, "What the fuck do you mean they're coming? They were supposed to stay in that truck until they got to Upton."

The two men dove into the truck. "There they are, they've got their guns out, Frank. Jesus."

Frank threw the truck into gear and the two guards soon dropped away into the distance. "Okay, they've stopped chasing us now," Tom informed him as they swung into the curve, the tires squealing. The barricade approached quickly and Frank slowed down and squeezed past. "Leila's gone, that's good," said Tom as they drove by. Things were beginning to look good.

"What happened back there?" Frank shouted, incapable of moderating his voice.

"I don't know. The truck didn't knock over the second barricade like it was supposed to, it stopped instead. The back door opened and two guys jumped out. They started running toward me, and I was stuck up the pole; then when I got to the ground, I had trouble getting my belt undone. Ever try to run for your life in a pair of these Frank? Jesus, that was close!" Tom shuddered.

"Yeah, well we're nearly there now Bud!" But still something nagged at him. They had covered another half-mile before he realized what it was. The tires screeched, and Tom was slammed violently into the windshield as Frank applied the brakes. He checked the rear view mirror, then looked over his shoulder to be certain. A figure stood waving frantically at them by the side of the road. "We're going back!"

"Back? Are you crazy?" Tom was screaming now, wild-eyed, as Frank made a furious three-point turn. He was incoherent, making no sense whatever, as he tried to wrest the wheel from Frank's hands. Frank pushed him hard, from the shoulder, the strength in one arm sufficient to throw his partner, like a rag doll, against the passenger door.

"Leila's back there! I knew there was something wrong. I never heard the bike start up!"

Tom's eyes registered comprehension slowly, the mind unwilling to accept the unwanted news. Frank tramped the accelerator to the floor. He saw Leila cross the road to the passenger side, and as he slowed down Tom opened the door and dragged her into the moving vehicle. Instead of reversing direction again he turned right onto the gravel concession road and trod the pedal to the floor. The truck began to fishtail now, threatening to go out of control, so he had to lessen speed once more. As the scene of the crime receded into the rear-view he practised deep breathing, letting the air out slowly. He reduced speed even more until they were maintaining a smooth reasonable pace.

"Now, we're on the wrong road Tom, how do we get back to my car? I should take the first right I think."

"Yeah, then left at the next corner. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Frank, that was close!"

Leila had her head down and was sobbing quietly. Frank drove in silence.

"It had to be that god-damn motorcycle," Tom declared bitterly. "Of all the times for something to break down."

"No," sobbed Leila. She held her breath a moment and then went on. "I did it. I turned on the gas, and then kicked it about four times before I realized I hadn't turned on the key. Then of course it was flooded. I kicked, and kicked and kicked the fucking thing but it wouldn't start. So I started running for the road. I was waving as you went by, but you didn't see me. God, I was so scared! She broke down and cried quite openly then, her head on Tom's shoulder.

Frank pulled the truck in behind his car and stepped out and checked traffic in both directions. The money was rapidly transferred to his trunk, each person shifting a double handful of bags, and then Frank started the car. Tom backed the truck up to allow room to manoeuvre and drove on ahead. They proceeded thus past three intersections and abandoned the truck, Tom piling in through the rear door.

"Maybe you should stay down in the back seat Tom," Leila suggested, "I'm going to get some of this stuff off. That way there's only a man and a woman in the car, if anyone notices us." "Good idea", he replied, and soon Frank saw legs kicking upward in the mirror as he pulled off spurs, boots and coveralls. Frank felt vulnerable as he continued in his disguised appearance, while his friends shed theirs. They were halfway home however, had passed only one car, and would soon be safely out of sight among the trees at McDermott's farm.

Frank waited until Tom removed the bars from the gap, then he drove his car along the track to where it had been parked less than an hour ago. He removed his coveralls and boots and Tom stuffed them into the plastic bag with the rest of the disguise materials. Leila walked to the brush pile and returned with a small handbag containing solvents to remove the makeup. Frank opened the trunk. He and Tom removed the canvas bags first, dropping them to the ground, then removed their windbreakers and boots. When they were dressed Frank pulled the blue tool box to him, leaving it open in the trunk and Tom began cutting the bags open with a sharp knife. Leila walked around the car to where they were, and watched in fascination as the two men dumped the contents of the bags one at a time into the car trunk and separated the contents; cancelled cheques, Chargex slips, and other paper-work went into the garbage, the money was stacked neatly in the tool box. She continued to wipe her face, and checked it in a small mirror.

"Come here, Frank," she giggled. He had discarded all the removable parts of his costume, revealing dark hair and skin topped by his own fairer colouring. The contacts were still in place. Leila worked at his face and hairline and assisted in removing the coloured lenses.

"I can't get it all off, Frank. We need soap and water. Maybe we should walk over to the swimming hole and clean up there."

"No, I haven't got time. It's important to get back to town right away. Just get most of it off and I'll use a service station washroom to clean up the rest."

Tom finished with the money bags and carefully tied three garbage bags shut, twisting the tops into two strands and knotting them together. The bags contained the evidence of their day's work and it was Tom's responsibility to get rid of them.

"How much do you think we got, Frank?" he asked as he slammed the trunk shut.

"It's hard to say. I didn't look at all the slips, but there has to be close to a hundred thousand in there. Have a look around Tom, and make sure we didn't leave anything lying around." He slid behind the wheel of the car. A pair of work gloves lay on the seat. He passed these out to Tom and reversed the car out of the narrow lane.

"Go ahead Frank, I'll get the gat," Tom shouted to his partner as the car entered the roadway. The operation was complete. They were in the clear.

Approaching the city from the west, as he would be, there would be nothing to fear from police. He made no stops, drove directly to the parking lot where he was supposed to have been hiking for the past three hours. There was a yellow school bus parked in the lot, but there was no sign of the driver. Frank took the tool box from the trunk and entered the forest. He could hear the chatter of children's voices somewhere off to his right. Good, they were on the other side of the trail, he wouldn't encounter them, provided they were all together. He hadn't far to go anyway before he would leave the main path.

Frank followed the rail fence, too excited and in too much of a hurry to enjoy the autumn foliage. He had a few loose ends to tie up still, but he was no longer frightened. The job had gone badly in some respects, but they had been successful after all, and he felt certain they would never be connected with the robbery in anyone's mind. He arrived finally at the fallen basswood tree and went directly to the hollow end. The tool box fit easily into the cavity, with room to spare, and he pushed it in as far as he could reach. Then he searched along the fence for a rail that wasn't securely wired down, and removed it. He used it to push the box further into the log. It moved easily at first, for another few feet, then the space grew more narrow and the corners dug stubbornly into the wood. Unable to retrieve it, he began to tamp it with the pole, the box moving slowly forward, and Frank gradually had to increase the force of the blows to achieve any further distance. In the end he had to batter it, trying to hit the corners and sides where the structure was strongest, for fear of buckling in the end of the box. Finally he was satisfied it would go no further.

He walked backwards with the fence rail, removing it, and marked with his hands how far into the tree it had been. Eyeing the distance, he judged he had achieved about ten feet. He now began to tamp leaves and punky fibres from inside the tree against the box so that it could no longer be seen from the opening. Content at last, he replaced the rail on the fence, securing it with wire. He noticed the end was marked with blue paint, and took a moment to remove the stained wood with a stone. One more task completed.

He drove to a west-end car wash and had his car cleaned inside and out while he used the bathroom facilities to scrub his face and hairline. While he was drying his face with a yard of paper towel he was interrupted by a man who looked at him strangely while using the urinal, but Frank was beyond worrying about anything so trivial. He paid the bill and stepped outside as a few final traces of water were being wiped from his car. Next he went to the library, took out two books he had selected a week ago. When he returned home it was three o'clock; he had been gone a little less than six hours.

CHAPTER TEN

On Wednesday afternoon Frank completed his day-end paperwork quickly. He had received no word from Tom since he had left them at the farm, and although he was confident they had arrived home safely, he was anxious to visit them, just stop in for a beer and assure himself that everything had returned to normal.

Leila was working at the sink when he rapped lightly at the kitchen door. She looked up, beckoned to him and went on with what she was doing. "I'm not going to offer you a beer Frank, Tom will be down in a minute, and then we're going to have champagne!"

Tom entered carrying three champagne flutes. He put them on the table and then removed the wine from the freezer section of the fridge. Leila dried her hands on a dish towel and sat down next to Frank. Tom untwisted the wire from the top of the bottle and began to carefully work the cork out with his thumbs. It released with a sharp pop and bounced off the ceiling, then he had to move quickly to begin pouring as the liquid cascaded from the neck of the bottle. He splashed a little in each glass, the effervescence rising to the rim, and handed one to each of them.

"Here's to a job well done," he shouted happily. They tossed off the clear sparkling liquid and Tom refilled the glasses.

"And now," Frank intoned solemnly, "Let's drink to the future."

They finished the bottle slowly now, recapping the events of the day before and discussing news reports.

"What did your wife say when you got home yesterday Frank? You must have been pretty late."

"Actually, no, I wasn't. About an hour. She was watching the soaps and was just as happy I wasn't there to disturb her. I put a couple of library books on the table and she didn't enquire why I was late. She was probably afraid I'd expect her to do some work. What did you do with those garbage bags?"

"We stopped at the dump on the way home like we planned, but there were people there, picking through the junk for stuff they could salvage; you know, storm windows and the like, so we were afraid to leave them. We brought them back to town and I put them out with the garbage this morning. I saw them go into the packer; they're gone Frank."

"Good, and I put the money where I told you. If you ever have to get it just follow the rail fence and you'll find the hollow tree. It's going to be tough to get out of there though, I used a fence rail as a battering ram to put it in."

"All the better Frank, anybody else nosing around won't get it out either. Funny thing though, the first news report I heard last night said there was only thirty thousand dollars taken. I'm sure there was more."

"This surprises you Tom?" Leila interjected sarcastically. "You're the one who always says the news is mostly fiction. They probably don't want anyone else getting ideas. I noticed they were pretty vague about exactly how we got the money out of that truck too."

"That's true, though the news on the t.v. last night mentioned a bomb, and the guys at work today seemed to have a lot of information. They were really excited about it. They even said the guards got off a couple of shots at us."

"Wrong! But I guess maybe we were lucky they didn't. They couldn't hit us at that distance anyway, but when I saw them chasing me with their guns out, I just about shit my pants. It's a good thing the shot-gun was in the cab with the driver."

"Who was too scared to use it." Frank added.

"And what about me? I didn't know anything had gone wrong. If it hadn't been for the curve in the road, I'd have run out onto the highway and almost met them."

"That's true Lee. You nearly got left behind! I was so busy I never noticed that the motorcycle hadn't started up. It was Frank who finally realized it … but when we went back, there was still no sign of the guards. I guess they gave up when we drove off in the truck."

"Or they went to the farmhouse to phone in the alarm. After all, they didn't know the bomb was a phoney."

"They probably don't know yet either. I haven't heard that part anywhere in the news."

"Anyway," said Frank, unwilling to relive those few moments of terror, "We did it, and we got clean away. There's no way we'll ever be suspected. It's a strange thing; I got home yesterday afternoon and I lay down for a few minutes and fell sound asleep. It was just like I was exhausted or depressed or something, but then when I went to bed last night I couldn't sleep at all, I kept reliving it all in my mind, and planning what I'll do with the money and all. It seems like I'm on an emotional roller-coaster or something."

Leila nodded in agreement. "I know, but just think … I mean, what we did! It was the most momentous day of my life. I'll never be over it. It's like we really did win the lottery guys … no, better!" She raised her glass to the two men and tossed off the contents. They laughed at her and did likewise.

That weekend a cold winter wind blew down the river from the north and in two days stripped the valley of its colourful autumn plumage. It now began to adopt its characteristic winter colours, mostly shades of grey. The grass lay crisp and white with frost most mornings now, and Frank had to scrape his windshield before leaving for work. The local children celebrated Hallowe'en and the first days of November brought a hint of snow in the air sometimes, accompanied by a few sparse flakes on the north wind. The inside of the truck was more comfortable at this time of year, the heat of summer and vagaries of the unreliable air conditioning system were past; winter's damp dismal days in the cold storage tank were not yet upon him.

François was due to retire on the last Friday before Christmas, somewhat later than he had originally calculated, and Frank and Gabrielle were planning a surprise party for him in the new year. The list of guests from work was not large; Frank and Tom, and Claude the dispatcher, and some members previously retired who had worked with François over the years and knew him well. In addition were all the male members of his large family, and his in-laws. It was to be held in the lounge of his fraternity lodge. Frank, who normally didn't attend smokers was looking forward to this one, he had lost his disappointment over François' retirement, now that he had arranged to be leaving soon himself.

He discovered he had become badly spoiled by Tom's company over the summer. Working hours once merely tedious were now unendurable compared to the way the time had raced gaily along while the two friends had shared their confinement. Now, of course, Frank's future was assured, and he would soon be out of the box forever. The anticipation made him jittery, and sometimes irritable.

For co-workers he was assigned, in quick succession, a number of part-time guards; none of whom suited him, and each seemingly worse than the one before. Had he been feeling as he normally did about the job he would have expressed his concern about the situation, but since he no longer cared about his position he didn't bother to complain to Wells. "A cavalcade of stars" was how he described them to Tom when they discussed work, but despite the dry humour Frank grew more and more disgruntled.

He spent the last week of November working alongside a guard named Miner. They had worked together several times, though always briefly, in the past. He rarely worked for the company, only during peak periods or during summer vacation because he was completely useless as a guard and was too poor a driver to be allowed to drive. Whiner Miner, as he was known throughout the company, lived with his mother, and held no other position than his rather tenuous employment with the guard service. He complained constantly; about his hours, his co-workers, neighbours, noisy children, storehours, virtually everything. He dressed and groomed himself flawlessly, Wells would certainly find no fault with his military appearance, but he was one of those people who had learned from childhood to compensate for his stupidity and lack of ability to think for himself by following even the most petty regulation to the letter, and he watched Frank's every moment to see if he did the same. In dealing with company brass, or even around Claude the dispatcher, he became the most fawning, obsequious sycophant Frank had ever known, but alone in the truck all day he was sullen and barely communicative, watching Frank suspiciously; and uncommunicative whenever Frank was forced to speak to him, which was seldom. He began to find it intolerable. Miner's stupidity and incompetence Frank felt he must learn to live with, it was after all no more than workers in most other fields had to contend with, but the undisguised hostility was more than he could stand, and he resolved to have the guard transferred to another unit. Rather than see Wells secretly after work he waited until near the end of the day and broached the subject to Miner.

"Listen, Richard, it's obvious this isn't going to work out."

Miner glared hotly at him through thick glasses. "What's not going to work?" he demanded stonily.

"You and I, working together. It's evident you don't like working with me, and I don't want to work with you." He held up one hand to silence Miner's objection. "I'm going to ask the dispatcher to change your shift schedule, and if he can't do it I'm going to have to see Wells."

"Oh yeah, Wilson!" Miner exploded, the words seething through clenched teeth. "I have some news for you. Wells isn't going to move anybody. I'm here until at least Christmas, when he's going to find a more permanent spot for me."

The bottled-up frustration of the entire week now erupted in a cold fury. "Are you fucking simple or what?" he growled menacingly. "Do you think if there were any permanent positions coming up that you'd be considered for one of them? Wells will take care of one of his pals first; Chenier or Kowalski, and I'll tell you something else. I happen to know there is a vacancy coming in the near future, and I'll bet you a week's pay that nobody gets made permanent to fill it; they'd have to pay somebody the full-time rate plus benefits if that happened. So smell the coffee, fuck-head!"

Miner smiled in a patient, condescending manner, rolled his eyes upward and shook his head sadly as though it were clear he was dealing with an idiot.

"I didn't say he was going to make me permanent, I said he was trying to find a more permanent spot for me. And, for your information, I do think it's time I was made permanent, I've been with this company for nine years now and if it weren't for the union protecting bad apples like you I would have been full-time a long time ago."

"Bad apples? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means people with an attitude like yours. You flout the rules openly, ignore procedures, made fun of directives, and now, this very minute, you're running down company policy. You're no better than anyone else, what makes you think you can sit there, tie off, sleeves rolled up, and criticize me? And this morning you were reading the newspaper. I think you ought to be fired."

After they had returned to the depot and Miner had left the building Frank entered the dispatcher's office and closed the door. Claude looked up quizzically and motioned toward a chair. Wearing a knowing smile he began with tact. "Nice of you to drop in Frank. How's that boy of yours doing in Toronto?"

"Fine. He got a job writing copy for one of those little community newspapers. There's a chain of them, all owned by the same company, so what he writes for one might go into several. He likes it, says it's good experience. Doesn't pay much though."

"What does?"

"Good point." Frank drew a deep breath. "I wanted to talk to you about Miner. I don't think it's going to work out."

The dispatcher leaned far back in his swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. He raised his hands, palms forward to indicate submission. "Frank, I know what you're going to say, I've heard it many times in the past, what, eight years?"

"Nine, he said today."

"Okay, nine, and I'd move him if I could. But Wells assigned him personally and I don't think I can talk him into changing things to accommodate you … especially not you! You know, I used to assign all the men, the vehicles, deliveries; I ran the whole board, but Wells, he likes to sit in his office and pull all the strings himself."

"Yeah, just like a fat spider. Thanks anyway, Claude. Guess I'll have to go see Fatso."

"Save your breath Frank. You know, I don't even know why Miner is in so much lately. We don't really need him, we have lots of guys looking for hours right now, and it won't get busy until the Christmas shopping season starts. Wells just came in here one day and told me to assign him to you until further notice."

Frank had stood up and was at the door, he paused and thought for a moment. "Can you think of any reason Wells would want to find the Whiner a permanent spot?"

"Who told you that?"

"He did."

Claude looked dubious. "I kind of doubt that, Wells can't stand him himself. No …" he paused pensively and then proceeded. "I think he's got him there just to keep an eye on you. You better watch your ass for awhile Frank; after awhile he'll leave you alone."

After supper Frank went walking and set out immediately for Tom's house. The couple often went out on Friday evening, but Frank was hoping they would be at home. Their happiness and dedication to one another inspired and reassured him when feeling low, as he presently was. It kept him going to know that he was to have a second chance; the financial ability was there, and his aspirations centered around a new life with a new partner, one that would bear a remarkable likeness to the McDermott's situation.

Tom had returned happily to his studies, attending classes, researching at the library each day, and spending several hours each night in the books. He never complained about the work, and often he would explain with animation some aspect of his education he was finding exciting. Though he worked these long hours, he didn't attack it fanatically, rather he went about with the calm complacency of a man who was happy with his lot in life and absorbed in his work. He had one year to complete for a university degree, and not even the money had altered his plans. His immediate future was set and his advice now to Frank reflected this.

"I don't know what you're so upset about, Bud. It seems to me they're playing right into your hands. Instead of trying to create a situation yourself, you're simply going to react to Wells' intentional harassment. Think about this Frank. Supposing you and I had never hit the jackpot, we just finished out the summer and I went back to school. Wells would be pulling this shit now, and you'd have to just take it, for fear of losing your job. You ought to be feeling pretty smug."

"You're right, … you're right. I just got a little carried away is all. I had planned my big exit you see, how I would build up toward my last day, but I didn't expect to be forced out by the company. I mean, have I been that bad an employee Tom? That they should want to get rid of me, I mean? I guess it's just a blow to my ego or something."

"It's not that you're a bad employee Frank. Didn't you tell me the union was pushing to have some of those vacant positions filled? You have one of those vacancies on your crew now; François leaves, that makes two; and if you can be persuaded to jump to another company or something, they could have a very happy Rat Patrol, all assigned to the same unit, all permanent, and all set to scoop up those cushy overnight runs and overtime deliveries. Get it? I know it must rankle to realize they're doing this to you, especially if you let them think they got away with it, but it couldn't suit your plans better. And don't forget, you'll still have your last day Frank. Boy, I'd like to be a fly on the wall in Wells' office that day. You should get started working on your speech," he quipped at last, and the two men began to laugh.

"I guess it's the waiting too. I'm anxious to get started. It's different for you, your plans are progressing nicely, you're really into your work, got a nice little domestic scene going here too. I'm in limbo. Everything is just as shitty as ever, and getting worse it seems, … and we don't even know how much money we've got."

Tom looked up sharply "Is that bothering you Frank? I mean, that money sitting out there in the woods? Would you feel safer if we picked it up and you could keep a better eye on it?"

"I do keep an eye on it. When I go for my walk I usually slide by and just check it over, to make sure animals haven't uncovered it so that the box could be seen or something. But the snow's coming and I won't be able to go near it without leaving tracks. Besides, haven't we waited long enough? I think we could quite safely use a safety deposit box now, couldn't we?"

"I thought we'd leave it there until spring, but I don't care. We have never been even remotely suspected of having that money, so if you'd feel better, go get it on Tuesday and we can count it up. I'm going to stash our share in the attic, but you can do whatever you want with yours."

Frank got up to go. "Are you sure about this Tom? It's not a bad idea or anything, is it?"

"Naw, it'll be fun. Time to cash the lottery ticket."

"Okay. I'll see you guys on Tuesday; ten o'clock." Frank slipped out the door quickly and headed for home. Anyone watching him leave could have surmised something about him had changed. He had a purposeful stride, and an air of resolve that gave him the appearance of a man on important business.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

By Monday afternoon Frank could barely contain himself. He had successfully ignored Miner all day, and there had been no confrontations, each had gone about his work with a minimum of conversation, Miner with a sullen solemnness, Frank with suppressed elation. This could possibly be his last week with the company! And no-one but him suspected it. He caught himself whistling jaunty tunes on several occasions, and often had to cover a secret smile when he thought about the money. He had decided after leaving Tom that he would go to the stash Monday evening after work. It would be near dark then and the area would be deserted. If he waited until tomorrow he would run the risk of meeting the old lady or someone and it would look mighty suspicious walking through the woods carrying a tool box. He had rehearsed his actions mentally a hundred times as the three days crept by, until finally quitting time Monday arrived.

He drove first to a tool rental outlet where he rented a chainsaw. The clerk checked it to be sure the fuel and chain oil reservoirs were full, and started it before giving it to him. He put the saw in the trunk of the car and drove to the trail site. He transferred the saw from one hand to the other occasionally as he walked through the forest. The load wasn't heavy, but it threw the body out of balance, tiring the muscles easily. "The load will be balanced when I come out," Frank grinned with satisfaction, "I'll have something in each hand."

He went directly to the log fence and removed the cedar rail he had used to ram the box into the log. He pushed it into the cavity until he felt it bump against the metal container. Marking the spot on the rail he removed it, then laying it on the ground next to the log, calculated the exact location of the box. He added several inches for safe measure and started the saw. The thin veneer of the log wall was easy to saw through and by moving to the other side to complete the cut Frank soon had the old tree in two pieces. He used the fence rail to lever the heavy empty portion out of the way. There was the tool box, shiny new and unmolested. He slid his fingers into the spaces at the sides and attempted to pull the box out. It wouldn't move. He tried wiggling it sideways at one end, then up and down, but without success. It was getting quite dark. Frank took up the saw once again and began a second cut, this time a couple of inches to the other side of the box. This completed, he lifted his foot to the center of short log he had created, and pushed. It rolled easily and he kept it going until the tool box was standing upright inside. He gave it a sharp kick with the toe of his boot and felt it move slightly. By kicking and pushing he got it to slide freely and was able finally to dislodge it from its resting-place. He picked up his prize and the saw and set out for home, the travelling slower now because of the darkness, though he knew the trail well. He locked everything in the trunk and arrived home a few minutes later.

"What's all this mess?" Diane demanded of him as he pulled off his boots, the coarse chips of wood spilling out of the tops onto the floor. "Sawdust," she accused. "Where did you get that?"

Frank started unvoluntarily, and hoped he had appeared too occupied with removing his coat to answer immediately. "A big branch fell down in Tom's backyard. I was helping him cut it up. That's why I'm late."

"Well you might show a little consideration for your wife for once. Here I have dinner all ready and you don't show on time. No wonder I never feel like making meals any more."

"I used to be on time every night," he shouted into the closet as he hung up his coat and cap. "I don't remember any meals being ready though."

"Another one whose time has come," he thought smugly as he pushed the center of the bifold door.

When he had finished eating Frank began to remove plates and cutlery from the table as was his usual practice.

"I'll do that, I'd like you to go and get me some milk at the store. And my papers, please."

"All right," he replied, and put on his winter coat and gloves before stepping out the kitchen door. He contemplated for a moment whether he should take the car, but decided that would be too out-of-character, and he would be gone a few minutes only. There was no reason to worry about his precious cargo. He returned immediately from the store and could see the blue glow of the television through the living-room curtains. He stole quietly up the steps and peered in the window. No-one. He stealthily opened the car trunk, determined that all was as he had left it, and then clumped up the stairs. He put the scandal sheets and the carton of milk on the counter, and when he put his coat away he saw Diane, intent on a television sit-com. He picked up his current novel and took it to bed with him.

Although Frank found it impossible to concentrate on his reading, he realized he hadn't felt so much at ease since the robbery. Things were going smoothly forward now, he could feel it, and he fell into an untroubled sleep that was interrupted only when Diane came to bed at about two-thirty. He was therefore up at an early hour and spent some time with his book and a pot of coffee before setting out for the day. His first stop was at the equipment rental store where he returned the saw and collected what was left of his deposit. Next he backed his car carefully into Tom's laneway until it was parked behind the front corner of the house. He and Tom and Leila lingered over another coffee before they went out together, in high spirits, to retrieve the package they had anticipated for so long.

The other two stood beside him as he opened the trunk, revealing the large blue container. Frank grinned at his friends, then reached inside and grasped the handle, and tugged it toward him. He lost his balance, the box came away so effortlessly, and he released his grasp in order to recover with a few short steps backward. He looked at Tom, his face filled with amazement, which turned then to a look of horror as he realized the full impact of what he knew for a certainty.

"Tom, …. Tom," he was breathless, unable to speak. "There's something gone very wrong." He reached for the box once more and began to fumble clumsily with the latches. "Jesus, God, this box is empty!"

"It can't be," the two others peered into the trunk as he opened the box. Nothing.

"Someone got to it after all," Leila suggested in wonderment.

Frank shook his head in silence, unable to form words. His face was the colour of wet ashes, his mind raced in hopeless bewilderment, struggling to make sense of a cognition too enormous for his mind to grasp. "I can't think …. can't think," then at last, "no, nobody got to it. I know that. I had to cut the log into three pieces to get at it, then kick it to loosen it! Besides, I carried it to the car. You'd think I'd have noticed it was empty then, wouldn't you? No, that's ridiculous, that box was full of money when I put it there last night. No, I…

"Last night?" Tom interrupted him.

"Yeah, I decided…." his eyes met Tom's for a second and lit up in a sudden flash of understanding.

"Diane!" they said in unison as they both rushed to get into the car.

"Wait." shouted Leila, "Tom might as well stay here, there's nothing he can do that you can't." She pulled at Frank's sleeve. "Stay calm, that will be very important now. Find out what's happening, and then call us, okay?"

Frank nodded blindly, then stalled the car by putting it into gear too quickly. He waited a moment, took a few deep breaths and tried again. He managed a weak smile at Leila through the glass before he drove off. He couldn't figure out how it had happened. It was all so impossible. Diane had been in bed asleep when he left that morning. He was beginning to think it more likely that someone had robbed his car during the night. After parking the car in the laneway he inspected the area around the trunk latch to be sure no-one had tampered with it.

That was when the plain grey sedan pulled in behind him. The driver was a man about Frank's own age and build but more athletic-looking, and dressed in a jacket and tie. Two men stepped out of the car and walked toward him; a larger, heavier, and older man smiled at him as he approached. He reached into his pocket for the badge Frank knew must be presented next. "Why don't we go inside Frank, where we can talk."

Frank murmured something incoherent and progressed unsteadily up the stairs. They followed him into the kitchen.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he said.

"You're going nowhere right now," the younger cop bristled at him.

The older policeman continued into the living room but returned right away. "Frank," he said kindly, "it appears to me you're involved in something serious here, and it's only fair to caution you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence. Understand?"

Frank nodded dumbly. He was becoming frantic.

"Now, you don't have to answer any questions and you can have a lawyer present."

"Yes, I understand all that," he blurted desperately. "Please," he pleaded with the older man.

"Okay, but leave the door open. My partner will be where he can see you."

Frank had already begun edging away, he now ran headlong through the corner of the living room and down the hall. He was aware for an instant of Diane's image, seated on the chesterfield, a pile of money packets neatly stacked on the coffee table in front of her. But Frank hadn't the wits to process this information; his need was more deep-seated, urgent and irrepressible. He very nearly didn't make it, fumbling frantically with fasteners and clothing, racing against the tremendous pressure building within him, his body threatening to expose his ignominy and fear at any instant. He made it though, and under the belligerent and scornful sneer of the young cop he evacuated a powerful steam of scalding liquid, lowered his head in fear and frustration. Disillusionment and despair swept over him and in shame he wept.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Frank recovered quickly enough, forcing himself to regain control, then maintain his composure, but the harm was done. He was completely demoralized now, and when he saw his face in the mirror over the sink he was shocked to see how haggard and bleary-eyed he appeared. His face had lost colour and appeared waxen as a result. He felt cold as well, so that when he passed the hall closet he took out a heavy sweater which he put on. Even so he felt as though he were about to shiver and he kept his teeth clenched to prevent the tremors that threatened to convulse him.

"Are you cold, Frank?" the older, fat cop looked directly at him as he waited for an answer, in his eyes an unmistakeable knowing expression.

"A little," Frank replied, attempting to appear calm now, his knotted fists driven down into the bottoms of his pockets to control the trembling.

Frank was staring without full comprehension at Diane who was seated in her usual spot, facing the t.v. Piled in front of her were the packages of money, still neatly bound in the bank wrappers, that had been removed from his trunk during the night. She was attired in a blue housedress, and had made her face up some, put on lipstick at least.

That puzzled Frank. "She must have been expecting someone, … the police obviously." Then it struck him. He had been afraid the police might have been watching him all along, waiting for him to go to the stash and retrieve the loot. Not so! He could see now as clearly as that pile of money, how much these police officers knew. Diane had been snooping around last night some time, and had simply found that money, and she had called the police this morning. She felt his eyes on her and returned a defiant stare.

"Damn right," he thought, "and these cops are simply wondering where this money came from." Calm now, he asked "I beg your pardon?" suddenly aware the older man was addressing him.

"I said, could you please explain to us how you came to have all this money in your trunk."

Frank looked directly into his eyes and replied evenly. "I found it."

"You found it."

"Yeah."

"Frank, … you work as a messenger for a guard service, you have over a hundred thousand dollars in your trunk, all tied up in bank bundles, and you expect us to believe you found it. Where? At work?"

"No. Those aren't even our wrappers. I don't know whose they are. I found that money last night, and I can show you where too."

"So where?" the younger policeman demanded, his expression clearly hostile.

"Out where I hike on my day off. It was jammed into a hollow log. I spotted it last week, but I only found out it was a box of money yesterday when I sawed it out."

"So that's where the sawdust came front!" Diane exclaimed loudly, proud of her powers of deduction. "You lied. You said you were cutting up a tree at Tom McDermott's."

Frank snarled at her, "Why don't you shut your big mouth? Just shut the fuck up."

"All right Frank, that's enough," the older man admonished quietly. "Would you take us there and show us where you got it? You see, we can't let you keep it until we find out whether or not it's stolen, and that will require a full investigation."

The younger cop snorted disdainfully, but said nothing.

"Sure, I'll help you out any way I can," Frank volunteered. He dropped into a stuffed armchair, hoping to appear relaxed and confident. He was beginning to feel better now, this older guy seemed reasonable enough, and they couldn't really tie him to the robbery, even though they might suspect him strongly. Really the worst of it was the money was lost … his plans shattered … and Tom and Leila's shares gone too, because he had been too impatient to wait. The indescribable stupidity of it!

There was at this point a quick knock on the kitchen door, and it opened. Frank didn't get up, assuming it to be more police, but he was surprised to see George Wells enter the room.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Frank demanded. "There's no need for him to involve himself in this."

Wells looked him over and said nothing. He turned his attention instead to the two policemen.

"I'm detective-sergeant Ford," said the older one, "and this is detective Saunders. You did the right thing in calling us right away."

"Well, we weren't short any funds that I knew about, but there's obviously something wrong." He looked at the pile of money. "That's not ours," he said, puzzled.

"I just told them that much" Frank added sarcastically, "and now, since you won't be of any further assistance here, you can leave." Frank began to pull himself out of the depths of the chair.

"You leave him alone," Diane flared at him, "I called him, and I asked him to come here. Lucky for me he called the police. Heaven knows what you might have done to me if you had caught me here with all your precious stolen money. I've known you were up to something for quite a while now."

"How about we go now Frank? This is getting us nowhere. Jeff, you get an evidence kit from the car, we'll take this downtown too." he gestured toward the coffee table. "Can we have your car keys Frank? I'd like to have a book at that tool box if you don't mind. Maybe we'll take it along too .. It will be easier for us to talk downtown."

"I thought you wanted me to show you where I found the money," Frank reminded him, seeing now that despite his polite ways, Ford was taking him in for questioning.

"Oh sure, we'll get to that too, but I'm more interested right now in who this money really belongs to. I have a pretty good idea though."

"Where, where did he get it," Diane wanted to know. Everyone ignored her, including Frank, who went to the hall closet to get his coat. He couldn't find it right away, and then he realized that in his haste he had left it behind at Tom's. He selected a fall jacket and pulled it on over the heavy sweater, and hoped Diane wouldn't notice. No-one seemed to, so he suggested finally, "Okay, I'm ready."

During what seemed an interminable delay, Frank waited quietly while the evidence was counted and itemized according to packages and denominations. It was finally put into a large bag and sealed. The tool box was likewise prepared. Meanwhile Diane had been asked to make some coffee; Frank knew that was to get her out of the room.

"One hundred and thirty-two thousand bucks," Saunders sneered at Frank. "So much for best-laid plans, eh Wilson?"

"I didn't have it long enough to lay any plans," replied Frank with a pained expression, but the cop merely smiled smugly.

Ford went into the kitchen and made several telephone calls, and though Frank listened carefully, he could decipher nothing from the quiet murmuring of his voice into the instrument. At last he appeared ready, the two detectives picked up the bags of evidence and issued some parting instructions to Diane and George Wells. "Please don't touch the car. The lab boys will want to go over it. I've already called them but there may be some delay."

Diane nodded obediently. "Okay," she agreed.

Wells now took the opportunity to inform Frank that he was suspended without pay pending the outcome of the investigation. "You understand our position," he concluded.

Saunders sniggered meanly as Frank received the news in silence, and at this Frank lost the last of his despondency and fear. The bitter hopelessness of his present situation, just when he had thought himself delivered out of the frustration of eighteen years with Diane; what seemed to him the injustice of this utter fiasco, was transformed into an articulation of anger that surprised everyone.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you? You red-headed prick! You get off on people's misfortunes, needling them and bullying them when you see they're vulnerable and helpless. You've probably dreamed about being a cop since you were three!"

"I do when I'm dealing with wise-guys like you." He opened the rear door of the police car and Frank began to get in. When he had his shoulder and one leg in the car Saunders grasped his left shoulder roughly and thrust him so violently into the car that he was thrown across the seat. Then he kicked Frank's leg, not hard really, just a peremptory reminder to get it into the car before he slammed the door on it. Frank realized now that there were no handles on the insides of the doors. He was effectively locked in. Ford slammed the trunk lid and was getting into the passenger's seat as Saunders started the car.

"Now, Jeff, just settle down. Frank here is co-operating with us. There's no reason why we can't all get along. Where did you say you found this money, Frank?"

The two men listened carefully as Frank described the exact location, and then he went on to explain his usual Tuesday routine, and how he had spotted the blue box in the hollow log, realized it was meant to be carefully hidden, and returned last night with a saw to remove it. The car, meanwhile, was headed not westward, but downtown toward the police station.

Frank saw Ford watching him in the rear-view.

"We're going to drop you off downtown for a little while. Just while we check out your story and find out where this money came from." The two policemen now entered into a series of quiet comments to one another about subjects that had nothing to do with Frank, and so he rode for ten minutes in silence. The police car turned into an underground garage beneath the police headquarters. It was filled with cruisers and unmarked sedans like the one they were in, Frank noticed they all wore the same parking-lot dents along the centres of the doors. They rode by elevator to the top floor where they were met by the biggest man Frank had ever seen. He was the full height and size of a doorway, and weighed, by Frank's estimation, three-fifty at least. He sat heavily behind the counter, and by means of a series of gruff questions filled out a report that contained Frank's name and the names of the two officers, Ford and Saunders. Then he demanded that Frank remove his jacket, belt and bootlaces, and turn out the contents of his pockets. These were placed in a large brown envelope.

"The sweater too," added Ford as an afterthought, and the turn-key put out his beefy hand to receive it. It disappeared under the counter with the rest of his belongings. Frank's pants were loose enough that he now had to hitch them up from time to time as he preceded the turn-key down the hallway and through the solid door into the cell-block. They stopped at the second cell on the right, though why Frank couldn't figure out, for all the cells he could see into were empty. The heavy gate slammed shut behind him, he turned and watched the huge man twist the key to seal him in.

"There's no need for that," thought Frank, "I'm not going to run away," but the turn-key would have had no interest in the voluntary nature of his detention, and he left Frank alone in the cell-block. The light from a large naked blub in the corridor ceiling illuminated the concrete cubicle, the walls striped at crazy angles by the shadows thrown through the steel bars. There was a toilet in the corner, with a seat but no tank, and a button inset in the wall to activate the flush; a small sink on the wall operated by a similar device. The only other item in the tiny cell was a steel platform that served as a bed, attached to the wall and suspended from it by two chains. There was no mattress or pillow, simply a bare steel slab.

Frank sat down on it, but didn't rest there long, the steel was icy cold and he found it more comfortable to stand, or to pace the small floor area, as inevitably he began to do. He covered the distance from the barred doorway to the rear wall in three paces and reversed direction, spinning his weight on one foot and beginning the return trip in one movement. As he paced he worried his mind for an answer to his problem. He assayed one crazy solution after another, arriving always at the same conclusion: his position was quite hopeless. They had after all caught him with the stolen goods in his possession, and as Ford had pointed out, the fact that he was a bank guard made his story too coincidental to be true. After all, if he were only the accidental discoverer of the stolen money (which the owners would be happy to get back), what was he doing locked in a jail cell? Ford knew he stole that money all right, despite his affable demeanour, and Saunders was making no secret of his feelings. And yet he could never admit his complicity, for then he would have to name his accomplices. He would go to jail no doubt, but at least they wouldn't convict his friends on his testimony. He ran back over the robbery in his mind, seeking out any detail that might have been overlooked and serve as their undoing. There was nothing. Even if the police could trace every move they made that day there had been nothing left behind; no finger prints or articles of clothing; nothing they had forgotten could be traced. Frank was confident enough in his disguise to say definitely there were no witnesses who could identify him.

He slowed his travel down now to short steps, placing one foot directly before the other to achieve seven paces instead of three. To further slow his travel he stopped at the end of each cycle to check to his left through the wired-glass window of the corridor door to see if anyone were coming yet. He calculated that the detectives would be gone more than an hour. It would take at least that long to drive to the nature trail site, then find the hollow tree on foot, and return. If they went for lunch he could calculate an additional half-hour. He recalled what time the turnkey had filed his report: eleven-thirty-five. He had until twelve-thirty or one o'clock to perfect his story before they would begin to interrogate him, a process Frank began to worry might be quite unpleasant, and yet there was so little he could do to prepare himself. His story was so simple and could be told in so few words. What could they possibly use to break it down? It was really very tight, and so long as he stuck to it, no-one else would ever be implicated.

As he reached the front of the cell he saw the blue shirt covering the little window, and then heard the dull heavy click of the latch as the door swung open. He appeared, carrying before him the almost inert figure of a derelict who, though his eyes were open, appeared unconscious of his surroundings, his feet moving weightlessly as he tried to walk for himself, his weight being supported, without apparent effort, by one huge hand at the collar of his filthy suit coat. His face and hair had been neither shaved nor cleaned in a long time, and he had soiled himself sometime in the past few days. The two passed in front of Frank's cell and Frank watched as the policeman held up his charge effortlessly while turning the key in the cell door, at no time allowing any part of his prisoner to touch his uniform. He could no longer see what happened next, as the partition walls were of concrete, but soon the turnkey banged the heavy door shut.

"Officer. What time is it? " Frank enquired.

"Twelve-thirty," was the reply as he walked away without looking at Frank. The corridor door shut loudly once more.

Twelve-thirty! Frank would have thought it was much later. In fact, he had been expecting Ford and Saunders momentarily. He sat down now, determined to stay there until his body heat had warmed the metal enough to sit comfortably. The wino next door began to snore, and Frank became vaguely aware of an obnoxious smell coming from that direction.

He was accustomed to hours of isolation, but this was different. He was in such serious trouble, and desperately needed someone he could talk to. It was cold in the cell block, not freezing, but just cold enough to become uncomfortable during a long period of inactivity. Worse, he had no idea how long he could be left there. If he could be placed in a cell block and left for an hour and a half, why not six hours, or twelve? The facts, as he saw them, were becoming repetitive and pointless in his mind, and yet he couldn't seem to let it go. He willed himself to think of other things, but he couldn't. Loud snoring could be heard from the cell next door, over the roar of the air-handling fan in the ceiling, and it began to irritate him. Finally he struck on the idea of using the noise to keep his mind off his problem and keep track of the passage of time; twelve breaths to the minute. He pulled his knees up before him on the steel bunk, put his forehead against them, and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs. He began to count off the minutes, first counting to twelve, then later to multiples of ten, one hundred twenty breaths to a period of ten minutes. Next thing he knew he had lost all track of time, and had no idea how long it had been since he began. He heard the corridor open, and the turnkey appeared with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. These had been purchased from a vending machine somewhere in the building, for the sandwich was wrapped in cellophane and the coffee was in a paper cup, additives and stir-stick piled on top. They were passed through the bars to Frank who attempted to get up to receive them, but found his legs had gone to sleep and he was unable to stand. He enquired once more about the time. The guard didn't even consult his watch.

"One o'clock" was the cursory reply, and Frank was left alone again. The liquid in the cup tasted only faintly like coffee but it was hot and sweet and he found it soothing. He ate slowly and his thoughts returned once more to his predicament. He knew he was entitled to say nothing and could demand a lawyer, but what good would that do? His story was simply that he had found the money and had no idea where it had come from. Why would a person in such circumstances require a lawyer, and why would he keep his information from the police? Especially when they were being as open-minded as Ford pretended to be? Besides he had no money; no savings whatever, and lawyers were expensive, Frank knew that, and involving one was sure to turn this into an expensive procedure. No, he was frightened and worried and alone, but he felt he could handle it on his own. After all, his story was unshakeable, and they could have no proof against him, he was confident of that. He would simply have to tough it through until they released him, which they must surely do sooner or later.

Two facts combined to give him the strength to resist indefinitely; first, he could never admit his complicity in the robbery without sending Leila to jail, and secondly, his belief in Tom McDermott was unquestionable. Whatever his faith in himself, he knew Tom to be stronger, more dependable. Tom had had experience of this kind before, and had come away clean, and Frank knew Tom would never be tricked, cajoled or bullied into talking.

Suddenly a sickening thought occurred to him. What if they beat a confession out of him? Frank had often heard such stories, of people being beaten up in the elevator, of police in Quebec putting a telephone book on your head and hammering it with a billy club. If they left no marks and permitted no witnesses, what was to prevent them? Frank began to shiver as he contemplated this, and he felt slightly nauseous.

The snoring from next door ceased abruptly and Frank heard a series of groans, followed by retching and the unmistakeable sound of the man falling off his bunk onto the concrete floor. It was quiet for several minutes during which Frank called out tentatively whether the man was okay. He got no reply and then finally came the familiar snoring sounds, this time at irregular intervals and Frank knew he had slipped into unconsciousness once more.

Frank paced the cell some more, painfully at first as the circulation returned to his legs, and then more quickly, the light exercise started to warm him and helped to control the trembling. He was thus occupied when the corridor door opened an hour later and the turnkey released him from the cell and followed him into the outer office. Saunders and Ford were waiting.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Frank," Ford smiled as he spoke, "we had to wait for the lab guys, and then show them where you found the box. You say you handled it eh? Of course, you must have," he laughed somewhat selfconsciously at himself, and then, "Anyone else touch it? That you're aware of? That is, other than your wife?"

"No-one. I cut it out of the log last night, left it in the trunk, and discovered it empty this morning when I took the chain saw back to the tool rental store."

They walked the length of the hall and down a flight of stairs to a floor filled with offices surrounding a common secretarial area. Ford opened one of the doors for Frank and they entered a small plain room, unfinished except for a metal desk with a swivel chair and two straight-backed wooden chairs in front. Frank sat on one of those while Saunders moved his so he could face Frank from the side of the desk. Ford took the swivel chair, removed a writing tablet from a drawer and handed it to Saunders who began to write on the top of the page.

Ford became all business now, and recited a litany he knew from memory. "You are presently held regarding an armed robbery perpetrated on October fifth at twelve hundred forty hours at Upton, Ontario against three armoured car employees, during which one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars was stolen. Do you wish to say anything in connection with the said charge? You are not bound to say anything, but whatever you do say will be taken in writing and may be given in evidence at your trial. You must clearly understand that you have no hope from any promise of favour and nothing to fear from any threat to induce you to make any confession or declaration. Did you fully understand the meaning of your legal rights just read to you?"

Frank nodded in the affirmative; Saunders wrote.

"What is your name and address?"

Frank told him.

"And you work for an armoured messenger service?"

Frank explained in detail what his responsibilities were at work and Saunders wrote it all down. He answered several other questions of a very general nature and then Ford began to zero in on the tool-box full of money. The first time through Frank realized that his story really did sound quite plausible. As he detailed his usual Tuesday routine, and how he came to be in possession of the stolen money, he appeared to himself to be a very unlikely bandit indeed. His habits, his lifestyle and his long and exemplary record with the guard service all pointed toward his innocence. Perhaps after all, he would be exonerated and released.

Then the detective began a new tack. "Where were you on the afternoon of October fifth?" The question took Frank by surprise, he had been lulled into thinking perhaps this was merely a witness statement he was making.

"I was at home."

"All day?"

"No, I went for my walk as usual."

"Usual time as well?"

"I think so, yes, from ten until two or thereabouts."

"You're sure? Anybody see you?"

"Yes, an old lady I often meet on my walks."

Saunders exploded. "How the hell can you remember exactly what you did on a given afternoon almost two months ago? We never said it was a Tuesday."

"I know it was. I'm a guard remember? I take an interest in armed robberies." Frank was aware of a growing hostility between him and Saunders and he could recognize it in his own voice when he replied. "I remember everything I did that day, because I heard about the robbery on the radio as I was coming home from my walk."

Ford took over once more. "Did you do anything else that afternoon that anyone might remember?"

"I went to the library, browsed around there for a while and borrowed a couple of books."

"I suppose you remember the names of the books too," Saunders suggested sarcastically.

"Of course."

"So what then? You went home?"

"Yes, and I stayed there the rest of the day, listening to the news reports on the radio and t.v."

"Well, we're not really interested in what you did after the robbery anyway. It's where you were while it was being committed that we have to establish. Now let's begin again and make sure we haven't missed anything."

Frank explained again his Tuesday routine and how he never missed seeing the old lady and her dog just at the start of his walk. He described her car, and on the day in question, he remembered, there was a yellow school bus parked in the lot when he emerged from the forest. Saunders continued to write. When they had exhausted every detail Frank could provide Ford struck a new direction.

"Who do you hang out with Frank? I mean, who are your friends?"

"Well, nobody really. I'm kind of a loner I guess."

"What about Tom McDermott. Your wife says you're with him all the time. That true?"

"No. Tom used to be my guard at work, sometimes we would travel back and forth together, that's all. We don't see much of each other now."

"Well your wife says otherwise," Saunders snapped.

"Well my wife is full of shit!" Frank snapped back.

"Okay, this is getting us nowhere." Ford stood up and arched his back, palms flat upon the desk top. I'm going to get some coffee. Cream and sugar Frank?"

"Please." He was avoiding Saunders' steady glare. The moment Ford left the room he attacked Frank anew.

"So who else was with you the day you pulled the robbery, Wilson?"

Frank received this in stony silence. He would wait for Ford to return before answering any more questions, and when Saunders realized this he grew furious, his face crimson, his eyes wild with fury.

"Listen you asshole," he had a hold on Frank's shirt front now, he was shouting loud enough to be heard in the outer office. His face was so close Frank could feel his hot breath as he raved. "I know you stole that fucking money. Now you've got this cute story cooked up and you think you're pretty safe; got all the angles covered. Well I'll show you! I'm going to see your ass in jail yet."

The door opened and Ford stood in the doorway. "What's going on here, Jeff?"

"This guy thinks we're a couple of goofs, Sergeant. I'm just telling him the score."

"Well, keep it down. They can hear you all over the building." He sat down. "I'm making a fresh pot. You want to go get it?"

Saunders stormed out of the room, banging the door loudly behind him. Ford grinned at Frank. "You'll have to excuse my partner. He sometimes takes things a little too seriously …. he doesn't like to be conned." He gazed directly into Frank's eyes but Frank said nothing. "You know Frank, I think you'd feel better if you got this off your chest. Why don't you just tell me the truth."

Frank said nothing.

"You know it's bound to go harder on you if you force us to go to work and build an elaborate case and waste all kinds of the taxpayer's money convicting you. Now that we know who did this, it's only a matter of time before we prove it. Why don't you make it easy on yourself?"

"Sergeant, you've got my statement there," Frank indicated the writing pad on the desk. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it. If you think you can prove otherwise, go right ahead and try, but I'm not going to answer any further questions. Now are you going to charge me or let me go?"

Ford received all this with calm patience. "It's not that easy Frank. We have a right to keep you here for twenty-four hours. I'll want to have a police line-up later, and Jeff and I will check out your story in detail, then we'll talk some more."

"It won't do any good. I'm not answering any more questions."

"You might change your mind about that. In the meantime maybe you'd like to rethink your story and see if maybe there isn't anything you want to change."

Ford stood and indicated the door, and Frank knew he was being returned to the cell block. The clock on the wall in the outer office read three-fifteen.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Frank languished in the cell block for another four hours before the detectives returned. The wino had called out drunkenly to him a number of times but he didn't answer. Later, he began to talk to himself, swearing and raving incoherently, and Frank felt glad he hadn't spoken to him. Whenever Frank moved about or used the toilet the wino would call out drunkenly again, cursing Frank because he didn't reply, but as long as he remained quiet the other man seemed to forget he was there.

Saunders entered the cell-block to get him this time, unlocking the door while enquiring how he had enjoyed his accommodations. Frank was freezing and very hungry, but he refused to complain to Saunders about it. They returned to the little office, where Ford sat waiting for them. He was reading over the statement they had prepared that afternoon.

"Have a seat Frank," once again, his easy-going friendly manner. "Sorry to keep you waiting like this but I think you'll find we're much better prepared now." Ford's smile exuded confidence.

Saunders was watching Frank intently, wearing his most sneering, supercilious smile. God, how Frank was beginning to hate that red-headed bastard, but he was worried too, they both seemed so cock-sure; they had acquired something during their absence.

"Now Frank," Ford continued, "Are you sure you wouldn't like to change some details of this declaration before we have it typed up?"

"Yeah, like all of it?"

"No."

"No, you're not sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. No, I don't want to change my story."

"Hang on a minute Frank." Ford stepped out the door and returned immediately with Frank's winter jacket. "You forgot this at your friends' house this morning when you discovered the money missing. You know, it was a stroke of pure genius. We just walked up to the door, showed that young sweetie our badges and told her we were there to pick up your coat, and she went and got it for us. Jeff here thought of it. Now, one lie pretty well negates the whole statement wouldn't you say, Frank? You're in possession of virtually all of the loot from an armed robbery, and you're lying to the police about how you came to have it. The judge is going to take this into consideration when he sentences you Frank; I'd say you're going to do some hard time. How about it? Are you sure you want to protect McDermott at your own expense?" Ford stared evenly at him all the while. He thought for a moment and then continued, "Well, I have some bad news for you, we brought your pal in, and he's being a lot more co-operative than you are. He says you planned the whole thing right down to the details … and he's going to get off with a light sentence. So how's it going to be, you going to take the rap for him?" Ford waited now for an answer.

Frank could say nothing. His mind was in a state of confusion, and he needed time to program this new information, figure out its implications. One thing bolstered his courage, there had been no mention of the identity of the third man. Until they knew that, he would remain silent.

"Tom McDermott was at his father's farm all that day," Frank volunteered under Ford's expectant gaze. "His wife and his parents were with him."

"Yeah, we checked out old Tom senior," interjected Saunders. "He's got a record of petty convictions as long as your arm. He's not much good for an alibi."

"Does Mrs. McDermott have a record too?" Frank demanded sarcastically. For the first time he saw the older man's mask slip, just perceptibly, but he was growing impatient. Perhaps they hadn't so much on him after all. One thing was certain: If Tom McDermott was in the building, he was telling them nothing, and neither would he.

They questioned him for two hours, beginning innocently enough, rewording and recovering parts of Frank's statement, getting the conversation moving amiably once more and then zeroing in on Tom McDermott, or the jacket, Saunders taking the offensive at such times, bullying and cajoling, trying to make Frank angry or frightened. Ford placated, pacified, smoothed things over to prepare for another onslaught. Frank often wavered, had doubts, but he held firm to his trust in Tom. Finally they gave up. Ford said he had phone calls to make and Saunders left with him. During the time he was alone in the office he began to feel more sure of himself. They hadn't broken his story, apart from the fact that he was at Tom's that morning, and despite two hours of interrogation they were no further ahead. He put on his winter jacket now, and as his torso warmed up, the tension in his body lessened and he grew more confident.

The two returned, Saunders wearing a broad grin. "They too have recovered their composure," thought Frank drily, "they're probably good for another two hours."

This time Saunders took the swivel chair, and Ford stood by the door, leaning against the wall, where Frank could no longer see him.

"You know Wilson, you've never seen the inside of the Federal Prison for Women up in Kingston, but I have. It was built over forty years ago when penal philosophy was a lot less humane than it is now. The hardest cases the Canadian system produces are kept there. They kind of graduate from one level to the next; probation, reformatory, reformatory again, and finally they end up in Kingston. I tell you Frank, there are women in there with tattoos and knife-scars who work out on the barbells all day long; they scare me! Now, along with them are a number of young ladies who have been caught smuggling pot and have been sentenced to the mandatory seven years. Since there is only one institution to put them in, they're held at the Prison for Women. Seems kind of like a travesty to me; they're nice kids from middle-class homes, but it's a paradise for the butches. They're not behind bars long before they see the advantages of having an 'old man' to protect them, and then you see them walking hand-in-hand in the corridors. "Do you have any idea what I'm driving at here, Frank?" Saunders had lost all of his smart-alecky insolent manner now, and a compassionate side to his nature was beginning to show.

Frank nodded weakly. He was beginning to feel sick. Saunders eyed him sympathetically and continued. "While we were out, we had a meeting with the Provincial Police; they have two officers assigned to the robbery investigation. They were satisfied to let us continue with our research. They thought there was good reason to suspect you and McDermott, given your wife's testimony, the fact that you were off work that day, and, … just a lot of little coincidences, but we had no ideas about the third man. We know he rode a motorcycle to the scene and then abandoned it there. That kind of threw us for awhile. But he also abandoned a motorcycle helmet, and guess what they found inside that helmet. I'll give you a hint; it's better than a fingerprint."

Frank's eyes began to water and he put his head down so they might not see the extent of his shock. "A hair," he mumbled.

"That's right; a long, lustrous, chestnut-coloured hair. Tomorrow morning I'm going with a search warrant to McDermott's house, to search for Chargex stubs and receipts that weren't recovered with the money, but what I'm really after is a sample out of that girl's hairbrush. He stood now and leaned over the desk, towering over Frank's dejected form. "Now, would you like to change your statement, Frank?"

Frank nodded dumbly, but would not lift his head to face his inquisitors.

"How about some coffee, Len?" he said quietly and the older man left the room. He gave Frank several minutes to compose himself, leaning back in the swivel chair, his feet on the desk, hands folded across his chest. If he felt smug and self-satisfied it didn't show. Frank calculated he had been at work fourteen hours already, and he was beginning to look it. He spoke gently now. "I gotta hand it to you Frank, it was a clean job, no guns, nobody got hurt. It would have worked too, if it hadn't been for your wife spying on you all the time."

"Spying on me? Why?"

"She thought you were having an affair or something, said you'd been acting queer ever since the summer started. She took to calling George Wells to see if you were really at work, and searching your car and pockets; stuff like that."

"And that fucking Wells never told me."

"Hell no, they got to be on first name basis after a while. Anyway, I have to hand it to you, it was a slick job. And you stuck by your friends too; a lot of people we question here aren't that solid, believe me."

Ford returned with mugs of steaming coffee and Frank grasped his in two hands. They drank it and made small talk, and then Saunders reached for a fresh note pad and prepared to write.

"Okay Frank, let's just start over and you can give me the whole story in your own words."

"I don't know what you want."

"Why not start with how you and McDermott planned the robbery?"

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not going to spill my guts. What do you want from me? You got all the money back, you've got me, and I'm willing to plead guilty, but I'm not giving evidence against anyone."

"I see. The girl goes free in other words."

"McDermott too."

"Now just wait a minute," Ford interrupted from his new position at the side of the desk. "Jeff, I think we should talk about this." They left Frank alone again, returning after ten or fifteen minutes.

"We talked it over, and we talked to the provincials. Here's what we propose. You plead guilty to possession of stolen property, and we can consider the case cleared, but we can't leave any loop-holes for you to wiggle out through later. Now, I assume you put the money into that log, as well as took it out, right?"

"Right."

"And you knew it was stolen, and had no intention of returning it to its rightful owner?

"Right again."

"That should do it. Now if you'll just dictate a formal statement, we'll get it typed up and then we can all go home."

The statement was brief, and began with the standard warning and ended with a similar paragraph stating he had made it of his own free will and without threats or promises. Frank read the document carefully and corrected several small errors in time and detail and then signed it. He was asked to initial whatever changes he had made and he did so. Ford then declared that he was "free to go," and accompanied him to the property desk upstairs, and then down in the elevator and out of the building.

Frank looked at his watch. It was half-past midnight. He stood on the broad concrete steps of the police station and fastened his coat securely. There was a damp icy wind from the east that promised snow, and it cut through his winter clothing. He shuddered once, hunched his shoulders against the cold blast and struck out on foot for home. Frank raged silently as he walked below the looming stone fortress-like walls that encircled the prison yard of the old county jail. He had no home to go to now, for he had no intention of returning to Diane. He felt too sick at heart to be subjected to her stupidity, and he fervently hoped, as he turned west over the bridge, that he would never set eyes on her again. He adjusted the summer jacket he carried over one arm and adopted a quicker pace. The weather seemed less inclement as he warmed to the exercise, his back to the wind, and he covered the distance to Tom's house in slightly over an hour. The house was all in darkness as he approached, but Tom's truck was parked out front, so they were no doubt asleep. He walked around back to the kitchen door and rapped loudly. Then he tried the latch to see if it was locked and the knob turned freely. With his head inside the door he called, "Tom? Leila?"

The room was instantly flooded with light, Tom stood by the switch clad only in his underpants. "Frank, Jesus, we just went to bed, I thought they were going to keep you overnight. Not that we could sleep anyway…"

Leila appeared beside him, dressed in her blue terrycloth robe. She looked a mess, her eyes red and rheumy from much crying, her nose red and sore-looking. "Frank," she whimpered in a barely audible voice.

Frank was breathing heavily, for he had walked seven miles at the double and was hot and winded now that he had arrived. He removed his jacket and dropped into a kitchen chair. "Could I have a glass of water?" He got it while Tom disappeared to dress, returning in his usual tartan workshirt and blue jeans. He sat next to his friend.

"Christ, Frank, what happened? When you didn't come back after an hour I called your house and some guy answered. I figured it was a cop so I just hung up. Then when you sent them here for your jacket I knew they'd been watching you."

"We didn't tell them anything Frank," Leila added, wide-eyed. She stood by the sink, the coffee pot in one hand.

Tom took over once more. "That's right. They asked us if we knew anything about the money you found and we said no. They asked where I was on the afternoon of October fifth, then they took down my parent's address and phone number so they could check my alibi; but when they began to get too pushy I asked them to leave."

"Are you hungry Frank?" Leila interrupted once more. "I could make you bacon and eggs."

"Thanks Lee. I'm starved."

"Didn't they feed you?"

"A sandwich, this afternoon sometime, nothing since except coffee. You know, at one point they told me that they had you upstairs and you were singing like a canary." He grinned, "I didn't fall for that though."

"So we're in the clear then," Tom declared proudly. "Right on!"

"Hell no, we're not in the clear. First of all, it was Diane who blew the whistle on me. She'd been spying and checking up on me all summer. Seems she couldn't stand that I began to be away without her sometimes, and she thought I was up to something. I mean, this was long before we began to plan the robbery. I guess it drove her crazy to think I had friends that didn't include her. Anyway, she found the money last night I guess, after I went to bed, and took it out of the tool box. This morning she called George Wells and told him about it. He called in the cops."

"George Wells! How did he get involved?"

"It appears they've become something of telephone pals over the summer. He was there this morning. In fact he probably answered the phone when you called. When the police took me down-town he was still there, probably holding her hand in her hour of need," he added cryptically.

"The dirty bastard," Tom muttered, disgusted.

"Oh, don't feel that way Tom. Maybe those two ass-holes will end up together. Wouldn't that be justice? … nemesis? … whatever?"

They laughed but when Frank continued to enjoy the joke much longer than the others, Tom turned serious. "Easy Frank, it wasn't that funny."

Frank got it under control. Tom was right, he did feel giddy. He'd better keep a lid on it. He continued his review of the day's events. "So the first the police knew of it was then. They didn't even get to my place until after I did, then they walked up and flashed their badges. I can't describe to you what a shock that was." His eyes scalded now at the memory. "I could hardly climb the kitchen steps .. so anyway, I told them my story and we went downtown, where I've been ever since, waiting while they tried to pin the robbery on us … Another thing! I didn't send them here for my coat. They figured that out themselves. At least the red-headed one, Saunders did."

"We didn't know. We just assumed you sent them," said Leila as she put cups on the table.

"That's what they wanted you to think. Then once you gave them the coat they knew for sure we were in it together. They didn't even bother to check your story. Anyhow, they got me for possession of stolen property; you guys are in the clear.

"That's the charge, possession? That's going to be hard to prove. Your story is pretty good, and it's been two months since the robbery."

"They don't have to prove it. I'm going to plead guilty. I already signed a statement."

Leila sat down opposite the two and stared at Frank in astonishment.

"Tom, they had us, they would have kept digging around until they proved it. It was easier this way. After all, how serious can a charge of possession be? People buy stolen goods and stuff all the time."

"It depends on whether or not the judge believes, when he's sentencing you, that you actually planned and committed an armed robbery, and then remained silent to protect your accomplices … As he's going to believe in your case. Jesus, Frank, why would you ever make a statement? We were in the clear."

"No, we weren't, they had Leila. They found a sample of her hair in the motorcycle helmet. Saunders said that was as good as fingerprints."

"Well it isn't. I know that for sure. But I guess it would be enough to make it pretty hot for us."

Leila watched them with a puzzled look, and then, tentatively, asked "Didn't I have that helmet on when you picked me up in the truck? I know I had it on when I ran into the road, and the hard-hat was in my hand. I thought I threw them both into the back of the truck."

"That's right! Tom shouted, "I put them in the garbage." The look of triumph drained away then. "But you've already signed a statement," he admitted sadly.

"But they tricked you Frank! Doesn't that make it inadmissible or something?"

"No Lee, I don't think so. Besides, they had us. It was only a matter of time, and I had very little to lose, and you two have a great deal, so I bargained with them. It's okay, don't worry about it."

"But I am worried about it. We've got to get you a lawyer. You should have had one this afternoon."

"If I didn't have one this afternoon why would I want one now." Frank began to feel defensive. He had struck a good bargain, his one consolation was that he had stood by his friends, and now it seemed they were criticizing him for it!

"She's right, Frank. Even if you plead guilty you'll need a lawyer. For one thing the judge probably won't accept your plea without one. Besides a good criminal lawyer will know which judge to get for your case, and he'll probably be able to tell you what the sentence will be before court. He'll set all that up beforehand with the Crown Attorney."

Leila began to fill their cups with steaming black coffee. She put sugar on the table, and a liquor bottle of amber liquid. Frank turned it to face him: Rum. "By the time this is gone we'll be able to sleep," she commented.

"How much will a lawyer cost, Tom?"

"I don't know. A court appearance will probably cost three hundred. One thing is sure, it would have been a lot more if we'd got to keep any of that money."

"No doubt. But I have no money, Tom. And another thing, I want to get this over with soon. There's no point in putting it off. The sooner I start doing my time, the sooner I'll be out."

Leila grew angry now and turned on Frank, her eyes blazing. "I'll hear no more of that. You will have a lawyer, and you will not rush into this. Remember how you guys planned the robbery, the time and detail that went into it? Well, you're going to take your time about this too. Tom has some friends that have been around quite a bit; we'll get some advice on how to go about 'doing your time' as you so cavalierly refer to it, and then you won't be going into it blind. And you're not to worry about paying a lawyer. I have employee shares in our company, and I can borrow against them." She saw he was about to argue and admonished him with her finger. "Not another word Frank! I mean it." She began to clatter the frying pan and prepare his meal while the two men helped themselves to liquor and drank their coffee in silence.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Frank remained at Tom's house for a week, sleeping on the sofa and taking his meals with them. During the hours while they were away he read books and walked. He experienced the freedom of a man whose destiny has been taken entirely out of his own hands, all responsibility and care removed from his shoulders, thus he waited for the wheels of justice to grind slowly down upon him. Diane phoned, but Frank refused to speak to her, and she informed him, through Leila, that he was to make no attempt to see her or to come near the house. On Saturday Rodger would be at home and she would be away in order that he might pick up his belongings.

On Friday he went to the Unemployment Insurance Commission and completed the claim forms so that he might begin collecting benefits. The woman who reviewed the form seemed suspicious, and questioned him closely. Frank told her he had been fired for sleeping on the job, and that he was seeking other types of work. He had no intention of accepting any job of course, but he would deal with any problems as they might arise. The important thing was to get some money soon. Wednesday was payday and he had only one day's pay owing to him.

Early on Saturday morning he borrowed Tom's pickup and drove home. Snow still lay in the driveway from the Wednesday night storm, with several car-tracks ploughed through the drifts and a footpath worn to the kitchen door. His car was absent so he parked in the laneway and entered the house. Rodger met him in the living room.

"Hi Rodge, how are things in T.O.?" Frank grinned at him.

"Nice going Dad."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing you know, when your father goes to prison for armed robbery."

"Oh, I don't know, I would have thought for a boy your age there might be a certain popular notoriety in it," Frank chided. "It's not funny Dad," the boy blurted, his eyes watery.

Frank felt sorry now, and tried to lay his hand on Rodger's shoulder. "Come on, nobody in Toronto knows about this."

"Don't!" He twisted away from him crossly and led the way to Frank's bedroom. "Just get your stuff, will you."

"Why doesn't your mother want to see me?"

"I guess she's afraid of reprisals, you know, for turning you in."

"She needn't worry. She's been this stupid before and I never did anything to her. So tell her not to worry. In fact I have no intention of seeing her, ever again."

"I'll tell her. What is she supposed to do for money?"

"Tell her to go to welfare. You can tell her also that I think it looks really good on her."

The boy turned on his heel and left Frank to clear out his belongings. They didn't amount to much. He packed underwear and socks, and a couple of tee-shirts into a cardboard box he had brought along for the purpose. He left behind all remnants and reminders of his uniform, and laid shirts and trousers, jeans and sweaters on the bed, still on their wire hangers. He stowed spare shoes and boots into another carton and finished the pile with a hardwood box that had stood on his dresser since he was a boy. Into this he placed shaving gear and what small items he had accumulated in thirty-seven years; a pocket-knife, a stainless steel pen and pencil set, spare shoelaces, birth certificate and other personal papers, several sets of cuff-links and an old wrist-watch. "Not much," he considered wryly. He carried the little pile to the truck and returned for the hangers. Rodger followed him to the door this time. Frank shouldered the load and extended a handshake to his son. The boy refused to accept it.

"All right, if that's how it's to be," muttered Frank as he heard the door latch behind him. "He'll soon get over this", he thought as he backed the truck out of the lane. "Besides, he might just as well get on with his life in Toronto and not get into visiting his old man in prison."

He remembered his own father admonishing him as a boy when he had been disappointed in some mistake or oversight the older man had made, "When you're older you'll understand things differently." And it had been so, during each major period of his life he could look back on things and see his perspective had changed. As time went on he became more prepared to understand, more tolerant and less judgemental; as he had his own foibles and excesses to measure others against. And so also it would be with Rodger, he concluded with satisfaction, but he wished he had thought to pass those few words of wisdom on to his own son.

. . . . . . . . . .

On Wednesday morning Frank left the house at nine-fifteen exactly, calculating a forty-five minute walk to the depot to collect his pay. The cheques would be available at ten o'clock, he didn't want to arrive early and have to wait around for it. He wanted to be in the building while most of the employees would be on the road. The guard on security was an old man who knew Frank well. He hesitated a moment before opening the door, unsure whether he might be a security risk, then in the absence of orders made his own appraisal and Frank heard the familiar click of the electric lock admitting him to the building. He avoided the loading and dispatch areas and went directly to the clerical offices. No-one rose from their desk to find his cheque, which Frank knew was in a drawer below the front counter. One of the secretaries broke the uneasy silence and asked him if there was anything she could do for him.

"I want to get my pay for the day I worked last week," he tried to sound non-chalant. The young lady approached the counter.

"It's all ready Frank. We made up your severance pay too, and you had a week's vacation pay coming. But Mr. Wells has it. He came in and got it a few minutes ago. Gee Frank," she added softly, "I wish you weren't in so much trouble."

"Thanks Marie. Well, I guess I'll have to go see old Fatso." He winked at her and she gave him a brave smile in return.

George Wells was writing something at his desk when Frank opened the door without knocking and closed it behind him. "What's this I hear, you've got my paycheque?" he demanded.

"That's right. Your wife called and asked me to hold it for her, and that's what I'm doing."

"Yeah? Unless you have a legal paper to withhold my pay- cheque you'd better hand it over." Wells picked up the telephone but Frank reached over the desk and depressed the disconnect button. "I might remind you also," he snarled through clenched teeth, "that you are now dealing with a man who has nothing to lose. Get it?"

"Here, take it and get out," he fumbled clumsily in the top drawer and threw a sealed envelope on the desk. "This company is well rid of you, and so is Diane."

"I couldn't agree more," Frank retorted as the heavy door glided silently into place behind him.

Claude was waiting for him in the doorway of the dispatcher's office as he approached. "Come in a minute Frank, and close the door." Frank obeyed quickly, knowing it was unwise for Claude to be entertaining him in his office under the circumstances. Claude outstretched his hand and grinned. "Boy, Frank, when they told me you robbed that truck I had to laugh. You, who probably never stole a thing in your life." His face sobered. "I guess you're in a lot of trouble." He still held Frank's hand in a firm grip.

"It's not as though I didn't go looking for it Claude."

"No, but still, it was pretty rotten, how you got caught. Everybody seems to agree about that."

"You know what Tom said? 'If you pick up a stray dog, and take him home and feed him, that dog won't bite you, and that is the principal difference between a dog and a man," he chuckled. "Yeah, he's a pretty funny guy, that Tom."

"Well, I think he borrowed it from Mark Twain or someone, but it's appropriate anyway."

"She was after you for a long time, eh?"

Frank, who had been sliding comfortably into Claude's swivel chair, now jolted upright. "What do you mean?" he demanded sharply.

"One day, way back in the summer it was, she phoned here, the switchboard put the call through to me, and a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Wilson wanted to know if you were at work that day. I remember it was a Saturday morning and you guys had a special."

"I remember."

"I told her we couldn't give out that information, and she hung up. Wells was sitting right where you are now, and he asked me who it was. I'm sorry now I never warned you about it, but you know how it is, it's embarrassing to tell a guy something like that."

"Aw, that's okay Claude." Frank got up. "I guess I'll see you at the stag in January? I can't say I'm in much of a party mood though."

"Oh, no. It's off; cancelled. Gaby said she wasn't having a party while you were going to jail. There are some pretty long faces over at their house Frank."

"Yeah? I never thought about that. I'll drop over and see them. Thanks Claude."

"That's okay, my friend. Now you take care of yourself." Frank was almost out of the building when Wells spotted him and began shouting at him down the length of the hallway, "Wilson, what the hell are you doing in this building? You are to leave now, and I'm going to instruct security not to admit you again. Is that clear?"

"Go and fuck yourself," Frank shouted back, as he pushed the heavy door and escaped into the bright cold sunshine. Given time he would have fired a much better parting shot, in fact he had spent most of the walk over rehearsing what he wanted to say to Wells, but when given the opportunity he hadn't had the composure to recite any of it. Still, it had felt good, and now he had seen the last of George Wells, and he would never spend another day confined inside a rolling lock-up. In some ways things were actually looking up.

He took his pay-cheque to the local bank branch where the company employees were known, and pocketed his pay. He went to a nearby coffee shop, occupied a booth and spread out a newspaper on the table. He began to circle ads for rooms to let, looking for one with cooking privileges, and cheap. He discovered that some were available by the week, though more expensive, and he circled these as well. He didn't know how long he would need it, no more than a few weeks no doubt, perhaps even days. He discovered that most of the accommodation was in the downtown core area, where once-opulent family homes had deteriorated into multiple dwellings and rooming-houses. He used the pay phone by the washroom door, got the addresses on several possibilities and started out on foot.

Several days of sunshine had cleared the sandy plowed sidewalks until they were bare and dry so that Frank had no need of winter boots and he briskly walked the length of each block, leaping over the ribbon of salt slush that bordered the curb at each intersection. The first place he inspected was the cheapest, but was, even in his present straightened circumstances, quite unacceptable. His heart sank as he approached a dilapidated brick double, the right-hand side of which was the address he had been given on the phone. The porch was divided in the centre by a sagging partition and the floor drooped toward the street. Three old bicycles littered the stoop, and one of these had fallen in front of the door. It was necessary for him to pick it up to open a screen door that would no longer repel bugs; the screen had been pushed out so that it hung crazily from the top and one side. The heavy hardwood door inside was incompletely closed. It had probably once held bevelled plate in the upper section, but this had been replaced with common window glass. It swung open readily enough but wouldn't shut properly.

Frank paused a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he thought he detected a slight odour of ammonia. Gradually he began to discern his surroundings in the dark hallway. The lino floor was completely worn through where it met the threshold, and bore the white gritty stains of dried salt mixed with sand. The mixture crackled underfoot, and was evident up the centre of the stairs, which ran from Frank's left to the upper levels. There were three doors on the first level, the first two had been formed by filling in larger archways and then installing a door in one side of the covered opening. Frank rapped quietly on the first of these as he had been instructed. As there was no movement from within, he knocked more loudly the second time.

"Who's there?" a voice called out from the second level. Frank looked over the handrail and up the stairs where a young man appeared. His hair was very long, beyond shoulder-length and stringy. He couldn't have been older than Rodger, Frank determined, but where his boy was stocky and robust-looking, this fellow was stick-thin, and appeared to be suffering from influenza. He snuffled loudly, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"I'm looking for the super, she's expecting me," he called up the stair.

"She's gone to the beer store. Probably she'll be back in a few minutes." He came slowly down the stairs until he could look Frank over. "Looking for a room are you?"

"Yeah, but maybe I'll come back later."

"I can show it to you. It's on the second floor here, right next to mine. Come on up."

Frank climbed the ancient staircase, on the second floor he discovered the source of the disagreeable odour. The bathroom was located at the end of the hall, the rotting floor was soaked with urine around the toilet. The kitchen was at the other end of the hallway and was unbelievably filthy. Frank flipped an old-fashioned toggle-type light switch, and the wall behind the sink became instantly alive with swiftly fleeing insects. They disappeared quickly into cracks behind the sink, counter-top and cupboards.

"I think I've seen enough," he stated flatly.

"Don't you want to see the room? It's right here."

Frank heard a male voice call out from the third floor, which he saw was accessed by a smaller, more narrow staircase. "Brian, Brian! Who's there?"

"Nobody. Go back to bed." The young man grinned sheepishly at Frank, displaying a row of front teeth in an advanced state of decay.

"Will you tell the super I was here, and that I wasn't interested?"

"She ain't the super. She just lives here, same as the rest of us, but the phone's in her room. So you don't want it, eh? I don't blame you man, this is a dump. Welfare's got me on a waiting list, and as soon as my name comes up, I'm out of here myself."

Frank fled down the stairs and out once more into the fresh air. The dazzling sunlight reflected off the snow hurt his eyes at first so that he squeezed them shut for a moment to react more slowly to the glare. He drew deep draughts of the crisp clean air. He had never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but while he had been surrounded by the evil smell and dirt he had felt the walls closing in on him. Could this be the sort of accommodation he must accept while he waited for his day in court? Surely, not even jail would be so filthy and so demoralizing; he had simply got off to bad start.

The second place he investigated was almost as bad, also in a sad state of repair, and the hall floors were more gritty than the last. The facilities were cleaner, but were shared by many more rooms, and when Frank saw it, most of the doors were open and the residents were travelling and visiting from one room to the other. Several radios and televisions playing on different channels produced a cacophony that enhanced the unreality of his surroundings. It was better, but Frank knew he would never live there. The social life of people who had nothing but time held no strong appeal for him; he would arrive at that point soon enough.

Frank sought out another coffee-shop now and turned once more to the classified section. This time he selected the most expensive room he could find and telephoned for more information. The phone rang six or seven times. He was replacing the receiver on the hook when he heard it crackle, "hello."

A woman with a heavy German accent gave him the address and described the place as a "goot hows." She said, "I have a lot of work to do. You come now," and Frank felt compelled to obey.

The house was situated in the avenues that ran away from the canal, in an area inhabited largely by young couples renting apartments and by university students. It was a large three storey brick with matching bow windows on the first two levels. The paint was fresh and the front porch floor was swept clean. There was a small foyer in which were several pairs of boots, neatly ranged along one wall. A stout woman in a kerchief and housedress openly evaluated him as she paused from picking up sand with a broom and dust pan. She considered him for a moment. "Unemployed?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"How long?" even more imperiously.

"Since this morning. I'm waiting for a call to go up north to work. Might be a while though."

"I don't like that. For myself I prefer students. Sure, they're usually very dirty! But they do what I say, or out they go. Come."

Frank followed her through one of two partition doors that opened out off the foyer, it led to the stairway and the upper floors. All was clean and fresh paint and the kitchen was bright and tidy. The bathroom was on the next floor, but he didn't bother to inspect it.

"This is how the kitchen is kept," she said pointedly, "the fridge is defrosted every Wednesday, so if you shop you should do so on Wednesday, or else something might spoil, you see?"

Frank saw.

She opened one of several wood-stained panelled doors. The room was large, with an old wooden double bed and matching dresser. It also contained a small writing table and chair. She indicated the large closet, so that Frank might approve. "This is a beautiful room," he volunteered. "Nine foot ceilings." He was rewarded by a broad grin, the nose crinkled up to reveal a row of even broad teeth.

"Ach, I could show you rooms," she responded. "The big one at the end. It was a parlor you know. Beautiful mouldings, ceiling lamp, and stained glass; beautiful." She wheeled upon him now. "You have a t.v.?"

"No."

"That's okay, because if you have a t.v. you have to play it softly. Others may be sleeping, and the students have their studies."

"You sound as though I've already rented the room." Frank grinned.

"What, you don't want it?" she exclaimed loudly.

"Oh sure, I want it, but I don't have enough money to pay the first and last month in advance. I'll tell you what though. Today is the tenth, the month is nearly half over. I'll take it now and pay for the whole month, and on the first I'll pay again. Whenever I get my call to go up north you'll have the balance of that month to re-let it. That way you will gain back a month you had thought you lost."

Again Frank was rewarded by the broad-toothed smile. "Okay," she agreed without hesitation. "I'll get you a receipt." "No receipt. I don't need it," Frank said as he began to count the money into her open palm. The grin broadened. She tucked the money into the pocket of her apron and extended her hand.

"I am Hilda Grabe, and you are?"

"Frank Wilson."

She touched his arm companionably. "You know, I can always pick an honest face! And now, I must get back to work."

Frank entered his room and closed the door. He stood a moment, as though disoriented, taking in his new surroundings. The blind responded readily when he tugged on it and rolled upward to reveal a wide window from which he could see into the backyard next door. The sun had passed over the house now, but wasn't yet low enough for the light to enter the room directly. He inspected the closet and pulled open the drawers of the bureau. Then he tried the bed, and with fingers laced behind his head he contemplated his situation.

Never before had he occupied a room to himself. This would be his very own space, unshared and independent of anyone. These clean, spartan, spacious surroundings lifted him and he saw the bright side of his immediate future. For the time being he had no schedule, no responsibilities, no job, no dependents. From now until his court date he had every day to do just as he pleased. The idea of so much liberty buoyed his spirits, so that he thought not of the impending prison term but rather of how far he had progressed from the stale unpromising existence that had held him always. He had never in his memory known a day that hadn't revolved around work and responsibility, indeed, he had revered these things and now he felt not a sense of loss but rather, a feeling of accomplishment; he had contrived to escape those elements that had held sway over his life and had succeeded! He could look forward now to a future that would revolve about his own selfish interests, and when this period of his life would end, the criminal justice system would take over responsibility for him, then he would continue to read and exercise just as he planned to do now, while he repaid his so-called debt to society.

At supper that evening he told Tom and Leila what he had done and arranged to move his belongings before bedtime. To his scant possessions Leila added some towels and bed linen as a loan for as long as he would need them. And so he spent the first night in his new home.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The provincial courtrooms were located in a down-town high- rise office building, close to the police station. There were many legal practices situated within the building as well, including several attorneys who practised only criminal law. J.W. Bannerman's office was on the ninth floor, just to the left of the elevator. Frank read the hastily scribbled note taped below the brass nameplate, "Please remove boots and bring inside." He entered and found the waiting room empty. Because it was after five the secretary had left for the day, but he could hear the lawyer talking on the telephone in his office. Without removing his coat he chose one of the chrome-framed straight chairs ranged along the wall. He listened nervously while Bannerman completed his call, then rose to meet him when he was summoned.

The office was crowded with bookcases, and gave the impression of disorganized operation. The desk was littered with papers, and fat sloppy files were piled high on the corners, some of which bore the tell-tale brown ring of a dribbling coffee cup. Bannerman wheeled an oak chair to the side of his desk so that the two men could talk without the table top between them.

"Have a seat Mr. Wilson. Perhaps you could just throw your coat over the back of that chair." He was short and overweight, with a billowing midriff that hung over his pants, which in turn hung from a point well below his waist. His shirt had pulled out in places in the wake of the elusive trousers and emphasized his lumpy physique. His collar was unbuttoned and the loosened tie hung askew, adding to a generally dishevelled, rumpled appearance. His round face was topped by damp-looking tight curls and as he introduced himself he pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

"I find it kind of warm in here, don't you?" Frank noticed that he didn't close his mouth when he finished speaking, he just left it hanging half open, and the corners turned downward in a slightly fawning expression when he smiled. He peered at Frank through heavy lenses. "Mrs. McDermott was in to see me, and has retained me as your lawyer."

"I'm not really sure I need a lawyer. I signed a statement, so I've basically already pleaded guilty, right?"

"That may be, but with an offence as serious this one I doubt that the judge will proceed unless you have representation, and he'll probably bawl the shit out of you for wasting his time. Did the police give you a copy of your statement?"

Frank dug it out of his pocket and handed it over. Bannerman glanced at it quickly.

"So how do you come to be in possession of the loot from the Upton armoured car heist?" Again Frank saw the obsequious smile. "From the beginning?"

"Sure, we have lots of time."

"Well, I was out drinking one night last summer, in one of the strip joints on the Quebec side. I'd had quite a bit to drink and I had bought one of the peelers a beer. She was seated at my table, and a couple of her boyfriends came over and sat down. They were friendly enough, despite their menacing appearance, and we got to talking about what did I do for a living and so on. This led the conversation around to the subject of robberies and how so many have inside help, and the next think I knew I was listening to a plan they had to rob an armoured truck. They explained to me how they would go about it and I admitted it would probably work very well. You must remember, I had had quite a lot to drink."

"So you fell in with them," Bannerman interjected excitedly; peering, grinning.

"No," Frank said irritably, "I didn't. We all went home. A month or more went by, and one night I was there again. I don't go there often, but I suppose they practically live there, because when I sat down they joined me at my table right away. After awhile they brought up the robbery idea again, but I got kind of scared then, and I told them I didn't want anything to do with it.

That made one of them mad, and he told me they had spent a lot of time planning the job and I better keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. The next Tuesday afternoon I heard about the Upton robbery on the radio, and as the news reports became more detailed I was certain I knew who had done it. I was really scared then; if those guys got caught, I was directly involved. But a few days passed and there were no arrests or news of any kind, so I knew they had gotten away with it.

Then one day a car followed me home after work. I spotted it in the mirror, they weren't trying to hide, and I recognized the two guys from the bar. I turned into a quiet street and pulled over to the curb, and then I got out of the car real quick and went back to talk to them. They said they had been waiting to see if I kept my mouth shut, and now they had a little job for me. I was to rent a large safety deposit box and put the loot in it, and in a few months they would have me pick it up for them again. They put a blue tool box in my trunk. So, I was really screwed. First of all, these are guys you would not want to double-cross, and I was already their accomplice. And why were they bringing the money to me to hide? Maybe they were being watched or something. The idea of walking into a bank and renting a safety box for a big bundle of money didn't hold much appeal for me either."

"I can appreciate your reluctance," Bannerman beamed upon him, "So you kept it at home."

"No. I took it out to the woods to bury it, but I found a hollow log and hid it in there. A couple of months went by, and I heard nothing from the gang, and there had been still no news about the robbery. It was late autumn by then and threatening snow, so I decided to get the money before winter set in, and do as I had been instructed with it. That's when my wife found the money in the trunk."

"And she blew the whistle."

"Well, yeah, sort of. She thought I had stolen it from work, and being not too bright, she figured the best way to protect me was to call my boss and 'tell the truth', as she was taught as a child."

"So you cut a deal for a possession charge." He shook his head sadly. "I could have got you off! After that much time had elapsed, it would have been pretty hard to tie you to that money. You could have found it even."

"But I didn't. Besides it's not the law I'm most worried about. Those guys are going to be pretty pissed off when they find out what happened to their money. Mind you, they don't know where I am right now, I've moved into a rooming house."

"Whew, Christ, that's quite a story!" There was no smile this time.

"Thanks," Frank thought dryly as he watched him hitch his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "So what happens now, I mean, how much time will I have to serve?"

"I dunno, let's check the bible." He reached across the desk to a thick book, bound in green leather-look vinyl. He held it up for a second so Frank could read the gilt lettering on the spine: Martin's Annual Criminal Code.

"Let's see, Possession of Property Obtained by Crime; Section 312." He began to mumble as he scanned the pertinent sections. "Here, 313 (a) indictable: value exceeding two hundred dollars; liable to imprisonment for ten years."

Frank felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. "Ten years!"

"That's the maximum. You won't get that. You obviously don't have a criminal record, or you wouldn't have been a bank guard, and you're a family man. These things work in your favour. And then there are some extenuating circumstances in the commission of the offence: although you aided in concealing the money, you didn't convert any of it to your own use; and you played no part in the robbery itself. I don't know … with the right judge, maybe with a joint submission regarding sentence from me and the crown … still … a hundred and thirty thousand is a lot of money. I'd say you're going to serve some time."

"Well, how much time?" Frank cried in exasperation. It irritated him, the nonchalant way in which the lawyer dispassionately weighed the facts and calmly contemplated his future.

"Probably … about two years. Yes, I think I can guarantee that. First we have to get a court date. That could take from three months to a year. Are you in any hurry?"

"No, not really. I wouldn't want to run out of pogy of course. But the sooner begun, the sooner finished, right? I don't want it to drag on indefinitely."

Bannerman rose with some effort, his face beaming once more. "Leave it with me. If we need to talk, where can I reach you?"

"I'll call Leila McDermott every day at noon, you can leave a message with her."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At dinner that evening Tom laughed and congratulated him as he described his meeting with the lawyer. Leila wasn't so pleased.

"I don't understand how you two can treat this so lightly. Two years in prison is nothing to laugh about. Aren't you worried?"

"Of course we are Lee. It's just easier to look on the light side for awhile first. We'll get to the worst case scenario, and when we've examined that, the situation won't seem so grave. Meanwhile I think it's healthier to enjoy the humourous side of the situation. Besides, I have something planned for this evening that will help alleviate some of Frank's concerns. A couple of the boys are going to drop over."

"Tom, you promised me."

"Relax, will you. I know what I'm doing."

The meal was resumed in an uneasy silence until Leila broached a new topic. She suggested that Frank accompany them to the farm for the Christmas holiday, an invitation which Frank readily accepted. He would visit his parents earlier in the season and thus avoid the massive family Christmas where he would no doubt make others ill at ease; to say nothing of himself. They were discussing this over coffee when there was a gentle rap on the glass of the kitchen door.

From where he sat Frank was the only one able to see the face in the window. The dark beard was long and uncut, the eyes dark and semi-squinted to appraise Frank in return. Under a brown leather motorcycle cap his hair was long and pulled straight back to form a tail from where it was collected together with a leather thong. What fascinated Frank was the fact that he wore an earring. Except in pirate movies he had never seen such a thing on a man before, but a small gold cross dangled from a hole pierced in one ear. In his expression and demeanour there was a truculence that suggested he would like nothing better than to have someone make a comment on that. When he opened the door another man entered with him. He was younger and of slighter build and his hair, though fair, was as long as that of his companion. His beard, obviously trimmed from time to time had the same unkempt natural look. Both wore faded and well-worn blue denims and long heavy work boots which they removed at the door, revealing grey woollen work socks.

The older, heavier man surveyed the table, smiling only with his eyes as he spoke. "Evening gents, Miss Leila."

Leila sat closest to the door, and stood now to greet them, and having her trapped between the wall and the crush of humanity in the tiny kitchen, he kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"Hi Bobby, we don't see much of you any more."

"Who does? With a wife and two kids I never see anybody anymore. If Tom hadn't called before supper we'd be sitting at home watching the hockey game." He stood aside so that all could see the young fellow standing quietly in the corner formed between the refrigerator and the wall. "This is Jimmy. He works where I do, and boards at my house."

Jimmy said nothing, only grinned and bobbed his head toward each of them in turn. Though the night was cold, minus ten degrees, he wore only a second world war battle tunic over his tartan work shirt. Bobby appeared lightly dressed for the weather as well, though his denim jacket was worn over a fleece-lined leather vest. Neither man wore gloves or mittens. They removed their coats and folded them over the back of Leila's chair.

"Can I get you guys a beer?" Tom wanted to know.

"Please," Jimmy replied.

Bobby wavered. "If there's any more of that coffee, I'll have some of that. The only coffee I ever get is out of a machine at work. I mean, they call it coffee, but that's where the similarity ends."

Tom hooked his fingers around the necks of several bottles of beer and led the way into the living room.

"So, Tom, this is the guy you were telling me about?"

"Yeah, sorry Bobby. This is Frank Wilson. He and I are partners, sort of."

"Nice to meet you Frank." He didn't attempt to get out of the chair and Frank merely nodded in greeting. He leaned back in his seat and put his feet on the coffee table. His chest and biceps strained the black tee-short he wore above a thick leather belt and large burnished brass buckle. Leila brought him coffee and disappeared to busy herself very quietly in the kitchen. Bobby drank from the steaming mug and contemplated it with satisfaction, then rubbed the droplets from his ragged moustache onto the back of his hand and dried it on his jeans.

"So Tommy, how you been for two years?"

"Good Bob. I've been going to school."

"No kidding?" in disbelief. Where are you doing that?"

"At the university."

"Like it?"

"Yeah, I do."

Bob ruminated on this for a moment. "Last time I was in school was in the joint. I took welding, took it serious too. I mean, I read everything I was supposed to, and studied for the little exams. Funny thing, as long as it was new, and I was learning, it was interesting. Now that I'm doing it every day it's boring as hell. I spent all last week inside a three-yard bucket, welding cracks. The smoke was so heavy I had to work outside in an unheated shed. Mind you, there's good money in repairing heavy machinery. They're paying me thirteen dollars an hour."

Tom whistled softly, then he addressed the younger man. "You work there too, eh Jimmy?"

"Yeah, I'm the gopher."

"The gopher?" enquired Frank, interested.

"Yeah, I go for parts, go for supplies, move machinery, sweep up. Anything and everything. I don't make thirteen bucks an hour." He grinned and took cigarettes, rolling papers and a small leather cigarette-roller from his breast pocket. He placed them on the coffee table, and stood up to remove a foil-wrapped package from the front pocket of his tight fitting denims. He sat on the floor next to the coffee table and began to prepare a joint of hashish. Frank had never seen it done before, and watched the elaborate process with interest. He adjusted the little rolling machine, and then after unwrapping a straw-coloured chunk the size of the first section of his thumb, heated it carefully over the flame of a match. He began to crumble the softened material into the leather pocket until he had dispensed about a third of it. Next he squeezed a few fragments of tobacco from the end of a cigarette, rolled and adjusted the mixture until he was satisfied it was evenly distributed, and slipped a cigarette paper into the edge of the machine, turning the tiny wheels until only the gummed edge remained visible. He moistened the glue with his tongue, and with a flick of the wrist, a cigarette tumbled into his palm. He began to tamp one end of the tube until he had made enough space to insert a rolled strip of cardboard. The finished product appeared to be a tailor-made cigarette, complete with tube filter.

The others had been watching this operation, observing the familiar ritual as they discussed times and people Frank knew nothing about. Bobby listened intently to the small sounds coming from the kitchen.

"Leila?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to come in here a minute."

She entered and surveyed the room quickly. Her glance fell upon the paraphernalia on the table and she sat on the sofa next to Frank.

"Here," Jimmy offered the cigarette to her lips, "We'll let you do the honours," as he struck a match.

Leila drew deeply on it, then held it casually between her fingers for a moment; until she exhaled a portion of what she retained in her lungs, then took another quick pull before passing it to Frank.

Somewhat daunted, he accepted the drug and tried to imitate Leila's casual air as he took a large drag. The smoke was acrid, but sweet tasting, heavily aromatic and reminded him remotely of fresh pine boughs. He inhaled it deep, and began to choke, coughing for a long time until the irritation tapered off into a strong burning sensation in his throat and deep into his lungs. The second time it was offered he was more careful, took less, and experienced no difficulty. The air in the room grew heavy with the pungent smoke, it hovered over the area, enveloping their heads in a blue shroud. On the third circuit Leila offered the tiny butt from between the nails of her thumb and forefinger and Frank managed to pinch it likewise, but when he attempted to draw on it the hot end disintegrated, flying through the hollow tube, scattering burning material and hot ashes into his mouth. He gagged, tried to spit, and wound up wiping the ashes from his tongue onto the back of his hand. Someone proferred an ash-tray and he threw the cigarette-end into it.

He took a long drink of his beer, and then raised himself frantically from the sagging depths of the sofa, and stumbled headlong toward the back door. Once outside in the cold air his head began to clear, and he wasn't sick to his stomach as he had thought he would be. He gulped great lungfuls of air and repressed the gagging sensation in his throat. He straightened his shoulders, filled his lungs and took inventory of what effects he could detect.

He couldn't have said what he had expected, except that Tom had often assured him there was nothing to fear. He felt no discomfort, and his head was clear; neither disoriented nor dizzy. He experienced none of the familiar accompanying effects of alcohol, but his lungs still ached from choking and he felt as though there were a weight on his chest. His eyes felt dry and gritty as well.

"Who would risk going to jail for the right to do this?" he wondered, without realizing he had said it aloud.

The night was cold, clear and still and he decided to enjoy the air for a few minutes. He got his coat from inside the house and switched off the porch light as he returned. As he began to pace the length of the laneway he threw his head back and contemplated the sky. There was no moon, but the glittering spectacle above him filled Frank with awe. It was as though the night sky above him had been transformed into an orb of solid glass so dense that light barely penetrated it, yet, it was punctuated by millions of apertures of varying size, that permitted the dazzling light from above the firmament to pierce through to him. It seemed strange he had never noticed that before.

When he re-entered the kitchen Leila was preparing fruit, coring and quartering apples and peeling an orange. She giggled at Frank's appearance.

"You look stoned Frank."

"I don't feel anything, except a gagging sensation. I thought for awhile there that I might be sick."

"That's okay." She offered him a piece of the apple. "Take a bite of this and it will go away."

Frank ate the fruit and instantly felt better, but the food tasted so wet, crunchy and tasty that he wanted more. He reached for the plate, and Leila giggled again. "Feeling better? Here, take this in with you." She handed him the container.

Bobby sat high in the straight-backed arm chair, with one foot on the coffee table and the other crossed over his knee. The air smelled of cigarettes now, and Frank saw that both he and Jimmy were smoking. He had his head back, contemplating the ceiling as he spoke, and with a laid-back, glassy-eyed look he expounded articulately on his subject. A change had come over the gathering;, the atmosphere was lazy, and the tempo of activity had slackened.

"I don't ride much any more either Tom, only to work when the weather's fine. I went camping twice last summer, and I took one of the kids both times."

"Not your usual party atmosphere, eh Bob?"

"Not hardly, course I still get to fix it a lot. I suppose there's some pleasure in that," he chuckled and the others did also. He turned to Frank.

"So. I hear you're in deep shit," he lifted his bushy eyebrows as he spoke and ended with a sardonic smile. "What's the charge?"

"Didn't Tom tell you?"

"Nope. He said he had a friend was going to jail and asked would I come over and cool him out."

"Oh. It's possession of stolen property over two hundred dollars. The money from the Upton armoured car job."

Bobby's eyes grew round, and peripherally Frank saw Jimmy's head swivel toward him. "Yeah, it was found by accident, where I had it stashed in my car trunk. I told the police I found it, and showed them where, but they didn't believe me." This last was stated with an air of despondency.

The result was an uproar of laughter that continued until Frank was compelled to join in. When he did so it began another round of merriment that continued until he became aware that they found something hilarious in his discomfort.

"Okay, so what's the joke?"

Bobby laughed without opening his mouth much, so that his face didn't become happy-looking, he didn't show any teeth either, just kind of "hoo, hoo, hoo"ed through the ragged moustache and black beard. "I'll tell ya. I heard a story the other day about the guys who planned the Upton job, how they pulled it off and got clean away for three months, and then when they went to split it up, somebody's old lady found the money and turned him in. Guess that would be you, eh Frank?"

"That's funny?"

"Yeah. The story has the kind of sick irony so popular in jail-house humour. I'm afraid if this gets around, you're going to be something of a celebrity."

"How the hell would it get out? Nobody knew about this." It rankled, the idea of being held up as an object of ridicule for a bunch of convicts to laugh at.

"Somebody knew. I heard it from a cop, a guy who hangs around the garage sometimes. The foreman is his brother-in-law or something and at noon-time he hides his car behind the shop and has coffee in the lunch room. He told us."

So the detectives must have told everybody around the police station," Frank said angrily.

"I guess so, or maybe your lawyer … who is your lawyer by the way?"

Frank told them. The news was met with additional whoops of delight.

"Now what's so funny? Is he not any good, or what?" He was getting tired of being the entertainment. Leila had come into the room, and was listening quietly to this latest exchange, wearing an expression of worry.

"Actually, he's pretty good, he'll do all he can, and he won't rip you off on the bill. It's his appearance I find funny, I nicknamed him Mr. Dress-up. Picture this. He told me to look presentable for court. So I show up, all squeaky clean, my earring is out, and I've got a haircut and a shave. I'm not looking too prosperous, like crime has been good to me or anything, but I don't look anything like I do now. Anyway, along comes old Jerry; his shoes are all salt-stained, like the cuffs of his pants, his glasses are sliding off his face, his hair is in a mess and his tie is all fucked up. But that's not the best; his fly is down! He opens his briefcase, and dumps papers all over the floor of the lobby, then takes out a crumpled gown and puts it on. Hoo, hoo, you should have seen the look of disgust on the judge's face. I gotta hand it to him though, he got me off … that time. What did he say to you?"

"Not much. He said we could have a jury trial and try to discredit my statement, or he could try to arrange a deal on a guilty plea. He says he thinks I'll get about two years."

"Try to remember Frank. Did he say two years, or less than two years," Tom broke in. "It makes a big difference."

"He's right. Two years or more you serve in the federal pen. Less than two years you go to the provincial reformatory. It doesn't really matter which, since each system has a maximum, medium and minimum security institution, but it would be better if you were in the reformatory because Jimmy and I can give you an introduction to some people. After all, while you're in there you'll have to make some friends Frank, and you'll need somebody to show you the ropes, how to work the system and who to avoid; things like that. Of course, you'll have no trouble. Some guys do real hard time, but you won't. There's nothing about you to attract attention, so just try to keep it that way. And you'll be older than the other guys too."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because doing time is primarily a young man's pastime. Sooner or later most of us grow up, or we take on responsibilities, whatever, and we don't go back to jail anymore."

"Then what's all this about recidivism, and how the system is a failure?" Tom asked him.

"I don't know. All I can say is that most of the people you'll meet in the joint will be the age of Jimmy here, or younger. Now they don't all graduate to the pen, right?"

By degrees the gathering grew silent as Bobby became less talkative. Leila began to play Ray Charles on the stereo and the quiet was interrupted only by Frank's occasional questions about what to expect when he got "inside". He began to feel less trepidation about his fate as the evening wore on, Bobby convinced him that nothing very threatening awaited him, and his relaxed familiar attitude minimized the impact of what was to come. Frank laughed at some of the jail-house argot he learned, and when he used the term "deuce less" to refer to Frank's impending sentence of two years less a day, he began to realize the function of such terminology. It denoted not only a familiarity with the system, but informalized and negated the punitive aspect of his incarceration as well.

When Bob and Jimmy got up to leave Frank consulted his watch. Twenty to twelve? It couldn't be! Frank had an acute sense of the passage of time and could usually estimate the time of day within a few minutes; but here he had lost two hours!

The two men pulled on their long boots and outer clothing. Frank, Tom and Leila crowded around the doorway to bid them goodnight. Bobby said, "Nice to have met you Frank, Tom will tell us when you're sentenced and we'll let our friends know you're on the way."

"Thanks for coming Bobby, and thank you for the party favours," Tom added to Jimmy. "Any parting words of advice?"

"Yeah. It wouldn't hurt to learn how to play bridge. Hoo, hoo, hoo." The door clicked shut and they were gone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was a long time coming, the anticipated call that would begin Frank's odyssey through the corrections process. Each day he called Leila at noon-hour, just as her lunch break began, but each day there had been no word from Bannerman. In the beginning they conversed at some length about their interests and affairs but as time went on he found that the call had become a tedious formality for each of them. After he called one day and received a message from one of her co-workers that there was "nothing new" he arranged for Bannerman to call his landlady directly, and asked Mrs. Grabe if she would accept a call from his union steward should his chance come up to go north. He continued to visit Tom and Leila regularly, for several hours on one evening each week, and was often their guest for Sunday dinner.

For a long time after Christmas the days crept slowly by, the sun wasn't really visible before eight o'clock, and dropped over the horizon shortly after four. The mercury rarely rose above zero degrees fahrenheit, and for several days the city experienced what residents euphemistically call "a cold snap", when the thermometer outside the kitchen window read minus twenty-four as Frank prepared his breakfast, and crept upward only slightly during the day. Throughout the coldest weeks of winter, provided there wasn't a strong wind, each day he donned heavy socks, woollen pants, ear lugs and double mittens and struck out on a long walk. He liked to travel the foot paths that border the canal, and developed a number of circuits along quiet residential streets, enjoying the traffic-free parkland around the canal and pausing on one of the bridges to watch the skaters on the rink beneath. Yellow buses loaded with school children discharged their noisy cargoes onto the ice, mothers towing sleds glided in pairs below, and at lunch time civil servants in small groups sped past, wearing winter boots tied round their necks to be exchanged for skates when they neared down-town restaurants. One day each week he took a different route, following the footpath along the parkway until he neared the city's core and then detoured several blocks in order to visit the main branch of the public library. On those days he dawdled down-town, treated himself to lunch in one of the restaurants, made such small purchases as he needed and strolled through the square by the war memorial before descending the steps to canal level for the return home.

Frank richly enjoyed his newly discovered leisure and the completely recreational nature of his routine. He walked everywhere he wanted to go, and whenever he considered the weather too dirty he postponed his plans until a better day. He couldn't have said whether it was his impending imprisonment disposed him to commune with the elements, or whether it was his release from the long confinement in the armoured van. As the days lengthened, growing perceptibly a little longer, and February drew to an end, he began to think of spring. Though the temperature rarely rose above freezing the blanket of snow receded steadily, growing thinner, more compact and crystalline each day, and when the sun shone the saline slush along the streets turned to brine and ran into the drains. Soon, he thought as he walked along one day, it would really begin to melt and spring would finally arrive. Not late spring though, with its luxuriant verdant days of crocuses and tulip beds in parks and residential gardens, but the first throes of the emerging season; slush and salt, then mud, everywhere the accumulated grime of three months of neglect, and thousands of brown mushrooms rising out of the disappearing snow as spring uncovered tons of dog turds. Frank didn't relish waiting around for that, and he determined to contact Bannerman. It had been more than two months. He wondered if the police had forgotten about him, although he really knew better, so that there was a nagging uncertainty to each successive day. He began to vacillate between the euphoria of his new found freedom and the despair of his impending imprisonment. He was restless, and wanted an estimate from Bannerman as to how much longer he could expect to wait. Perhaps if Frank reminded him of his existence it might speed things up. He found a pay phone and dialled his number.

"Law office, Bannerman and Histon."

"May I speak to Mr. Bannerman, please?"

"He's in a meeting. Who is calling?" she enquired peremptorily.

Frank told her his name. "I'm afraid he can't call me back. Is there some time today I could reach him?"

"He'll be busy all afternoon. Is there a message I could give him?" There wasn't. Frank thanked her and rang off.

Early next morning he tried again, but with the same result. He would be in court all morning, in the afternoon he had appointments, perhaps there was a message? Late that afternoon he gave it another try.

"Law office, Bannerman and Histon."

"Hi, Jerry around?"

"Yes, hang on a minute, he's on the other line." The line closed then, except that Frank heard the occasional "call waiting" tone as he stood by.

"Bannerman here."

"Frank Wilson here," he modulated his voice carefully so it wouldn't sound sarcastic. "Anything happening with my case? I was wondering how much longer it would be."

"Oh Christ, it could be months yet. Wait till I get your file." Frank heard the shuffling of papers and then Bannerman continued. "I've been talking to the Crown Attorney's office, and they've disclosed all the facts and evidence they have, which isn't much. I think we'll be able to agree on a sentence, but we're having trouble finding a suitable court date. I had two openings lately but both were before a judge who is a real law-and-order guy who has some fixed ideas about armed robbers. I don't want to take you before him if I can help it. I had a couple of other clients I thought were more suitable, and they had been waiting a long time. Let's see, I can reach you through Mrs. McDermott right?"

"No. I changed that. If it's urgent my landlady will take the message."

"Okay, I see it here now. Well, all I can say is I'm still working on it, if there is any sense of urgency I might be able to move things along. Do you have enough money to live on and so on?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Well, try and hang in there, and remember, patience will pay dividends."

That was Wednesday. On Friday afternoon he returned home and was climbing the stairs when Mrs. Grabe opened her door to see who had entered.

"Mr. Wilson, I have a telephone message for you. I think it must be the call you have been waiting for." Her round happy face appeared worried. She gave him a slip of paper with Bannerman's name and phone number printed neatly on it. "You can use my telephone if you like."

Frank entered the neat, scrubbed kitchen and dialled the law office as she hovered close by. "This is Frank Wilson, is Mr. Bannerman there?"

Bannerman came on the line. "Hello Frank. Listen, can you be ready to go by Monday morning?"

Frank's heart stopped. This was it. "I guess so. What do you mean by 'ready'?"

"Ready to go. Pack your stuff, put it in storage. Bring nothing only the clothes you wear and eyeglasses if you wear them. I think that's all you'll need."

Frank allowed his body to sag against the wall. "Okay."

"Fine, meet me in front of courtroom number three at nine-thirty."

"I'll be there."

Hilda Grabe was watching him intently, she was wringing her hands now.

"You were right Hilda, that was the call I've been waiting for. I'll be leaving Monday." He considered for a moment. "Or maybe even Sunday evening. But since Monday is the first I'll pay my rent for March now."

The look of concern became a broad toothy grin. "You have been a good tenant. I'm sorry to see you leave, but I suppose you will be happy to be back at work." He agreed, and edged self-consciously toward the door.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frank repacked his belongings in the two cartons he travelled with, then arranged his clothing into two clumps of hangers and packaged them in covers fashioned from green garbage bags. It gave him a strange feeling, this freedom from possessions and the permanence of ties. Tom was to pick him up at eight o'clock. Leila had convinced him to spend the weekend with them; as he would want to visit his folks on Sunday and that would leave them only Saturday night. He collected his books together and stacked them neatly on the corner of the desk. He waited, sitting, staring at the wall. Since his call from Bannerman the day before he hadn't been to sleep; nor had he been able to read, his eyes had simply passed uncomprehendingly over the lines of print, pages turning automatically until he realized he had no idea what was happening and returned to his original place. He couldn't say what he had been preoccupied with really, he was just … waiting.

He heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs followed by the sounds of sock feet on the steps. Tom rapped lightly on the door. "All set?"

"Yeah. Here, take these boxes will you? I'll get the books and the hangers. Frank took one last look around the room. He left the door open, as he had found it three months before, and switched off the light with his elbow. "Let's go."

The truck turned the corner onto Tom's block and he said, "Frank, will you look through the glove box for me and see if you can find my spare house key? Leila has gone out for an hour or so." Frank fumbled and searched in the dark compartment amongst papers, maps and junk until the truck had pulled deep into the laneway and Tom had shut it off.

"I don't see it here."

"Okay, maybe she didn't bother to lock up. Forget it." He arrived first at the kitchen door and opened it wide, standing to one side to allow Frank to enter.

The room was filled with men, all looking expectantly at Frank. Tom had collected together a group of eight; François and Claude were there from work, Frank's father and brother had been invited, Bobby and Jimmy stood by the fridge with pints in their hands.

"Right on," thought Frank, "a party is exactly what I need right now." He wondered why he hadn't noticed the familiar cars on the street, and then remembered he had had his head in the glove compartment. The group drank beer, and laughed and cussed and lied until the small hours. Leila returned with pizza after midnight, after which things quieted down some. Some of the men played cards then, and François and Claude and Frank's father told stories from the war. Everyone got quite drunk, and nobody left before they ran out of beer.

"Great party," slurred Bobby, as he and Jimmy pulled on their boots.

Frank's father remarked soberly, "It seems kind of strange, attending a party to celebrate my son's going to jail."

"Hoo, hoo. You might say it's a tradition, like an Irish wake."

When the last guest had been escorted to the door, Frank discovered Leila collecting bottles and glasses. "Gee, thanks Lee." He tried to plant a sloppy kiss on her cheek and failed.

"Look at you," she said in disgust. "You get to bed," as though admonishing a child. "I put out a clean pillow and some blankets for you."

"Gee, thanks Lee."

He slept soundly until noon Sunday and then spent the afternoon and supper hour with his parents. The meeting with his mother was mostly uncommunicative and he got away as soon as possible after the meal and returned to his friends. He had left messages with Rodger's room-mates asking him to telephone his father, but there had been no calls, and Frank spent his last evening of freedom watching television.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Leila's normally robust features had a pasty appearance and she seemed nervous and upset. She set the coffee cup before Tom and spilled some on the table as she did so. "Would you like breakfast Frank?" she intoned solemnly.

"No thanks Lee. I'll get something later if I get hungry. Shouldn't you be leaving for work now anyway?"

"I'm not going in today. I want to be here when Tom gets back."

"Don't worry, Lee," Tom said quietly. "Probably everything will go just like Bannerman said."

"Right! And Frank will go to prison! Besides, I can't help worrying about what else Bannerman said. Frank could get ten years in the penitentiary. Oh, I'm sorry Frank, I know this isn't helping any." She began to cry, softly at first, and then left the room quickly as she lost control. Soon she returned. "Here, I ironed your shirt for you, it was all rumpled up, and here's one of Tom's ties. Maybe his sport coat would fit you," she suggested, dubious.

"No, I'll just wear my windbreaker. I'm sure the judge has seen lots who were worse off than me."

In the living room he donned his best clothes and when he returned the two men prepared to leave. "I guess that's everything." He patted his pockets, not looking for anything. "Will you call the Unemployment Office and tell them I'm no longer looking for work? Here's my social insurance number." He wrote it in ball-pen on a paper napkin. "And will you return my books for me? They're not due until next week."

"We'll do that on the way Frank. We can go right by the library. We have lots of time, you're just anxious to get this over with."

Frank kind of shuffled from one foot to the other, self-conscious. He looked sadly at Leila's tear-stained face. "Yes, well, I guess we'll see you then."

She managed a brave smile. "Bye Frank." She hugged him a long time, and kissed his cheek. "You'll see me soon. We'll come and visit as often as we can."

Bannerman had said to meet him at nine-thirty but they arrived just before nine. The area outside the courtroom was filled with people; some in groups chatting carelessly, while others huddled with spouses, quiet and apprehensive. Criminal lawyers were evident everywhere, years of experience having inured them and toughened their features until, were it not for their pinstriped suits, many of them would have been indistinguishable from their clients. A large group of high school or community college students collected into a noisy throng, waiting for an opportunity to observe the proceedings. Tom and Frank in turn observed them, speaking seldom, waiting with grim determination. Nine-thirty came and Bannerman did not arrive. At nine-forty Tom began to snicker and poked Frank in the side. He nodded toward the elevators, and Frank began to giggle too. Bannerman stood talking animatedly to a woman in a black gown. He so perfectly matched Bobby's description that the two men could barely suppress their laughter.

"It's got to be the same suit," whispered Tom breathlessly.

Bannerman approached and sat beside Frank. He ignored Tom and Frank offered no introduction. "Hi. We're scheduled for ten o'clock, but I wanted to explain the procedure to you and answer any questions you might have."

Frank wanted to know about the judge. Things had happened so quickly after his telephone call that he was alarmed. Bannerman explained, "He's not a bad old guy. He was never a lawyer, but I'd say that after ten years on the bench he knows the criminal code better than I do. Besides, we're not considering some technical point of law here, just a sentence."

"I don't get it. How can he not be a lawyer, I thought judges had to know the law."

"Provincial magistrates are appointed by the crown; that is to say, by whatever political party happens to be in power at the time. There's no requirement that they be lawyers. This guy was the mayor of some little town up north … and, I think we can safely assume, a loyal Conservative as well. Don't worry, he may subject you to a bit of a harangue but he'll go along on sentence."

Bannerman instructed him on procedure, and how to comport himself in court, then rose and peeped into the courtroom. "Okay, we can go in now. We'll just take a seat until they call your name." They waited while the crown attorney dispensed with a number of remands and transfers. A prisoner was escorted into a glass dock, but his attorney failed to appear, sending a colleague in his place with regrets to the judge, and the man was led away again. When this happened several young men and women, who had been whispering and generally conveying an air of familiarity with the surroundings, left the courtroom.

The crown attorney now declared, "The next case, Your Worship, is Regina versus Edward Frank Wilson, possession of property obtained by crime."

"Very well, call Mr. Wilson."

Bannerman plucked Frank by the sleeve and they rose together as the guard intoned "Edward Wilson." They approached the rail together.

The judge peered over his glasses at them. "You represent the accused Mr. Bannerman?"

"Yes, Your Worship."

"Edward Wilson, you are charged with the possession of property obtained by crime contrary to section three-twelve of the criminal code. You may elect to be tried today by a provincial magistrate, or you may choose to be tried by a county court judge alone, or by a judge and jury. How do you elect?"

"Trial by magistrate, Your Worship."

"Very well, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

A clerk seated below the judge's bench typed his reply slowly into a small black box, from which rolled a broad paper tape. The judge peered at the crown counsel. "What are the facts?"

The lawyer rose and began to read haltingly from rough notes. "The facts are, Your Worship, on Tuesday morning, on November twenty-eight at nine o'clock, Detective Saunders and Detective-Sergeant Ford received a call from Mr. Wells of the Armoured Carriers Company reporting the discovery, at the home of an employee, of a large sum of currency. They were given Mr. Wilson's address and told to contact Mrs. Wilson at that address. When they arrived, Your Worship, they met with Mrs. Wilson and with Edward Frank Wilson who was just arriving home at that time. Mrs. Wilson had one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in Canadian currency piled on the coffee table. It was wrapped in standard bank wrappers.

Mr. Wilson made no attempt to deny that the money had been in his possession, and claimed that he had found it, and had placed it in the trunk of his car. Detectives Saunders and Ford determined that this was the loot from the armoured car robbery at Upton, and further Your Worship, were skeptical of Mr. Wilson's story. Upon further questioning at the police station Mr. Wilson changed his story and admitted that while he had not taken part in the robbery itself he had been custodian of the loot for some time, and was moving it from one place of hiding to another when Mrs. Wilson discovered it in the trunk of the family car. He signed a statement at that time. And those are the facts as I know them Your Worship."

"Do you wish to speak to sentence, Mr. Bannerman?"

Bannerman rose and referred to a single sheet of paper as he spoke. "With respect, Your Worship, Mr. Wilson has no previous criminal record, and has been a responsible employee with Armoured Carriers for over fifteen years. As a result of his acquaintanceship with some minor underworld characters he was involved in a discussion of a planned robbery and was later coerced into safeguarding the money for the gang. This lapse in good judgement has led ultimately to his dismissal from work, and he will never again be employed in any position of trust, Your Worship. It has also resulted in the dissolution of his marriage, and of course to his appearance before the court here today. With respect, Your Worship, I submit that the ends of justice would be served by a reformatory sentence."

"Mr. Quesnel, have you anything to add?"

"Your Worship, in view of the fact that Mr. Wilson has had no prior convictions, and because he has pleaded guilty at the first opportunity, the crown will concur with defense counsel's submission."

"Very well." The judge removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. With fingertips pressed together he reflected solemnly on Frank's fate for several minutes. He then began to address him directly. "Mr. Wilson, I am not entirely content with the outcome of this trial. You have offered a somewhat inculpable explanation of the facts which this court has had no opportunity to either credit or disclaim. It may be that the extent of your involvement in the robbery that occurred at Upton was considerably more than can be determined from your guilty plea to the offense you are convicted of here today. Further, because of your silence I believe other more experienced criminals will remain at liberty.

However, court time is valuable, and because you have pleaded guilty the crown has been spared the expense of a costly trial, and in the face of a joint submission from counsel I feel compelled to agree to a reformatory term. But the interests of the community must be met as well. A brief period of incarceration would in the public mind indicate a tolerance of this type of crime, and lead to cynicism toward the criminal justice process. There must be some element of deterrence for others who might follow in your footsteps. I am therefore sentencing you to the maximum reformatory term prescribed, that is, two years less one day, which you will begin to serve immediately. Go with the officer."

Bannerman began assembling his papers on the desk before him, and the police officer left his post by the side door behind the judge's bench and approached the rail. He lifted it to allow his prisoner to pass as the next case was being called. Frank thanked Bannerman quickly for his assistance and accompanied the policeman to the door. Before stepping through it into the hallway beyond he turned for a final glance at Tom, but his friend had already risen from his seat and was turned away from him, walking toward the exit.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Frank was searched and placed in a holding cell while his paperwork was completed, then he and another prisoner were transferred to the Regional Detention Centre. The fifteen minute trip in a police squad car was made entirely in silence. The officers escorted them through a double set of barred gates, one closing behind them before the other was opened to permit them to enter. Frank and his companion stood quietly to one side until their documents had been signed and had changed hands. He was ordered to remove all of his clothing and wait in an open cubicle until jail clothes were issued to him. He sat stark naked in the cold booth for half an hour, his belongings piled neatly beside him on the bench. Finally a guard came and took them, and gave him a suit of blue denim to wear. He signed a manifest for the articles that had been taken from him, and he was ready to join the inmate population. He was marched through long corridors, waiting time and again for the ubiquitous rolling doors operated by unseen hands to allow their passage, until Frank found himself in a broad circular hallway which surrounded a glassed-in command module. From here the push of a button could control hallways and exits to exercise yards and a guard could see into the cell-block corridors that radiated outward like the spokes of a wheel. These were all identical; maximum in security, but were known individually as either maximum or medium security wings of the institution. All sorts of men were locked up here, from the most dangerous offenders awaiting trial and then transfer to the penitentiary, to those whose involvement in crime was slight and whose knowledge of prison life was scant. Therefore prisoners were classified and segregated into separate wings.

Frank was put into medium security, assigned a cell and left to make his acquaintance with the other men sitting around a table at the end of the corridor. They were for the most part Lebanese immigrants awaiting deportation hearings. There were two other Canadians besides Frank, both were quiet and diffident toward him. He later learned that one was a convicted child molester, doing short time, who was being kept out of the minimum security dorm for his own protection. The other was an embezzler, an educated man who found his present situation intolerable and stared at the walls or the television sixteen hours a day. He sometimes requested permission to use his cell during the daytime, and lay on his cot for hours on end, contemplating the ceiling. The guards kept a close eye on him lest he try to do himself harm.

The Lebanese were amicable enough, though several spoke no English, and all offered at one time or another to share tobacco with him until he could arrange to receive the weekly ration. Frank had never smoked, but he began now, at first fabricating the hand-rolled cigarettes clumsily, but with practice he became adept at forming the perfect cylinders that many of the inmates carefully constructed.

On Wednesday morning, after the breakfast dishes had been picked up, a guard summoned Frank and he was taken to a room that doubled as a theatre and crafts room, a place for A.A. meetings and so on. Because the superintendent's office was in an outer, unsecured section of the jail, he held warden's court here once each week. There were a number of inmates lounging in the corridor under the supervision of a guard, and Frank was ordered to join them. Presently his turn came to enter; within he found three men seated along one side of a table. Two were dressed in civilian clothes, in coloured shirts, and neckties; the other wore a guard's uniform, except his shirt was white rather than the usual pale green, and he wore gold insignia on his epaulets and on the brim of the military cap which lay on the table beside him.

The man in the center, Frank assumed, was the superintendent. He was slight of stature, with a small head. His nose was large for his face and misshapen, and he wore thick glasses. A cigarette burned untouched in the ashtray and his fingers were stained orange from nicotine in stark contrast to the papers he clutched before him. His grey hair was similarly discoloured where he combed it up in front, as though he had the habit of holding an idling cigarette between his lips. When he spoke Frank could see his teeth were cracked, and stained as well. He addressed Frank in a curt though not unfriendly manner, and he didn't introduce his colleagues.

"Well, Wilson, how are you making out down in C corridor?"

"Pretty well sir, I've no complaints."

The lieutenant looked at him sharply. "I would hope not," he interjected in a growl barely audible.

"I don't know that you're aware, but because you've been sentenced we can put you into a dorm now, and I see no need to keep you in a cell. Unfortunately, the dorms tend to be full in the wintertime, as is the case at the moment, so we have to leave you where you are until you're transferred." He turned to the lieutenant. "When is the chain due Harry?"

"It went yesterday."

"Okay Wilson, you'll be with us another two weeks. During that time we'll figure out where you'll serve your sentence. Someone from the classification office will interview you sometime this week. It may be a criminology student. While you are here you'll observe all the rules and practices of this institution. You are entitled to one hour in the exercise yard each day, you may have two visits per week, and you may receive two letters. You can write one letter per day, and you can take two books each week from the library. If you don't see anything on the cart you want they'll try to get something more suitable if you request it. You'll be issued two packages of tobacco per week; when it's gone you'll have to rely on some of the other men in your wing. Any other rules you need clarified just ask one of the correctional officers. Some of the regulations will change when you get to the reformatory; they differ somewhat from place to place. Any questions?"

"No sir."

"Don't you want to know your release date?"

"Oh, yes sir. I didn't know you could tell me that."

"Didn't any of the other inmates tell you? Everybody wants to know how long he'll be here."

"Most of them don't speak English sir, and besides they're just waiting for trial, I think."

"I see. Well you're entitled to a one-quarter reduction as statutory remission. If you keep your nose clean and don't give us any problems you'll also get earned remission. Together these amount to a third of your time. He consulted a large calendar on which the days of the year were numbered. Frank noticed the date, April 2, was numbered ninety-three.

"You will be due for release on August 6 of next year," he continued to operate a pocket calculator, "and you can apply for early release under supervision on December 1 of this year. Whether your application will be seriously considered at that juncture will depend largely on how you conduct yourself in the meantime. Understand?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Now, I'm going to give you some advice, not just as the superintendent of this jail but as a man who has been a member of the prison population for almost thirty years. You might say I'm a lifer," he suggested sardonically. His tone became less formal, "Take advantage of the programs offered to you. A little extra knowledge is always a good thing to acquire, and many of the skills taught in the reformatory are handy for anyone to have. Years ago, when I worked as a correctional officer at the reformatory, I used to bring things from home to be repaired in the shop, because I had neither the skills nor the tools to fix them myself. Such pursuits will help to pass the time."

He paused a moment to light a new cigarette from the butt in the ashtray. "Another thing. Keep your own counsel. One of the worst things about your confinement will be some of the crowd you'll be forced to associate with. They're not people you would seek out on the street and there will be no advantage to knowing them well inside. Just do your own time, and they'll probably respect that. If you can remain in contact with friends and family, whoever you're close to on the outside, that will help too … any questions? If not you can go."

Frank left the room and stood in the hallway until he could be escorted back to his cell. On his return the others crowded around him, curious about the reason for the meeting and what he had been told. Frank recounted the entire episode, remarking how hungry these men were for information, however meagre, about what went on around them.

The next day, in mid-afternoon, Frank was taken to an interview room where he met a young lady not any older than Rodger, whose job was to gather information about him so he could be classified. Because she asked for facts surrounding his crime and conviction Frank assumed her information was scanty, so he told her the same tale he had fed to Bannerman. That was a mistake. She became quite excited and clearly believed his sentence to be excessive under the circumstances. He became worried that she might make something of a crusade of it and in the end he explained to her that the judge had no choice but to make an example of him, and that he should have known better than to become involved with known criminals. Then he told her his relations with his wife and son were on the mend and that he had always been close to his parents, who were old and infirm.

She concluded the interview after telling Frank that, while her appraisal was not final, but subject to approval from Toronto, in her view he should be transferred to the nearby prison farm, a minimum security institution, a short forty-minute drive from the city. She said Frank would be an excellent candidate for early release, shook his hand, and wished him luck.

He remained in C corridor all of that week and all of the next, awaiting transfer to the prison farm. The novels dispensed from the library cart were for the most part detective stories, spy novels and westerns, which he read very quickly. Other men who didn't read English augmented his supply. Most of the time he spent watching television and playing "nines", a card game much like bridge. The Lebanese could enjoy this game without benefit of English and they gambled for hand-rolled cigarettes. Frank would roll up a handful each afternoon before they began, and most days he had won or lost perhaps a half-dozen by suppertime.

Tuesday morning arrived, he said goodbye to the others and was accompanied to the reception area to prepare for transportation. He and two young men barely out of their teens were put in irons and ordered into a delivery van. A heavy chain ran around the walls of the vehicle and they were secured to it. A barrier of heavy wire mesh separated them from the guards up front. Two more prisoners were already shackled inside, and they began at once to speak to Frank's companions in French. They all looked alike, with long hair and dark eyes, and youthful unshaven faces.

"You speak French, you?" one of them directed at Frank.

"No, I don't."

"This van goes around to all the little jails in the area, picking up prisoners. These guys are from L'Orignal, and this guy knows my cousin. Are you going to the farm too?"

"Yes."

"Then we all are. We'll all be doing time together, eh?" He smiled confidently at each of them in turn.

They travelled over familiar roadways for less than an hour and then felt the van slow down to enter the prison drive. From what he could see as they were removed from the van and hustled inside, Frank had the impression of gates, and high fences topped with barbed wire. This, he learned later, was not really the case. Although the prisoner reception area was very secure, the farm was for the most part open, unfenced and designed for prisoners who weren't likely to wander off. The institution was divided into two sections, one with a medium degree of security, and the work farm made up the rest. The prisoners wore either grey or blue according to their designated status.

The first night Frank spent in a cell much like the one at the detention centre, but the next day he was moved to a dorm. The young men he had arrived with were already there, and that afternoon he was approached by two others who brought greetings from Bobby. These six, the first acquaintanceships he formed in jail, were those that continued to be the closest he made during his time there. Though they had few common interests, and little to discuss, they gravitated towards one another whenever two or more found themselves in an area together.

Because Frank was older, and because he was quiet and reliable, he wasn't watched very closely. He soon had the run of the place and had only to ask to have some reasonable privilege granted. He was granted access to any stables, shops or classrooms he wished to visit. The institution had a very progressive administration during his stay, mostly due to the influence of the superintendent, who was respected by staff and inmates alike. A wide variety of programs were offered there; sporting events and hobby classes, trades training and work release, classroom instruction, a guitar workshop. The Alcoholics Anonymous was active, as was an inmate's Christian Association. The variety of interests and tolerance shown one another surprised Frank. Even the guards were viewed with an equanimity that belied all he had heard about "screws" before coming into first-hand contact with them. Most of them simply followed the standing orders as did the inmate population, and showed no animosity toward those in their charge. Others made no effort to disguise their contempt for the prisoners and resented any softening of discipline. Given a decision regarding a privilege they would always say no, sometimes with a lame excuse, but usually with a terse and peremptory dismissal, a reminder of their discretionary power. They emphasised security at all times, and with good reason, since the men were only too happy to assist them to screw up. They would turn a blind eye or feign stupidity at any oversight, omission or mistake these officers might make, their attitude toward passive sabotage worthy of any captive population.

For the most part however, the correctional officers and inmates got on well enough together. Most guards took no pleasure in ordering people about and treated everyone with an even handed fairness that satisfied all but the most intransigent troublemakers. Because the job they did was so like the position Frank had held, he felt some affinity to them. There was one old guy who worked the four-to-twelve shift a lot. He hand-rolled his cigarettes just as the inmates did, because he found he gave away too many filter-tips if he brought them to work. Seated at the desk just outside the dormitory he and Frank would sometimes talk until his shift ended, when he would lock the door just prior to being relieved of duty.

Most of the older prisoners were passive and untroublesome, their problems stemmed mainly from alcohol abuse and they presented no problems to either staff or their fellow inmates. Others, usually younger, looked for trouble constantly, jeopardizing privileges and harassing and bullying others. They would label some (usually weaker) inmate as a "rat" or a "goof" and after soliciting support from likeminded convicts, would terrorize him with threats of a beating or homosexual rape. They held others up to interminable ridicule, pushing them down in sports or in the exercise yard and playing cruel tricks on them. On the whole Frank concluded that jail was pretty much like the school-yard he had known as a child.

As Bobby had predicted, he was left pretty much alone. He never fully disclosed the circumstances of his crime and was never closely questioned about it. He conferred quietly with those of his acquaintance and kept to himself. He studied welding, read books in the evenings when there wasn't a movie or other activity that interested him, and often visited the workshop where civilian personnel and inmates repaired farm machinery and custom-fabricated items for use throughout the reformatory system. He would assist in this work and found the time passed quickly and pleasantly there. There was never enough work to keep everyone busy, but where possible each man was assigned some duties, however light.

Frank was sent to the greenhouse for two hours each day to water seedlings; vegetables and annual flowers that were being prepared for transplant into the truck gardens and the elaborate flower beds that ornamented the front gates and highway frontage of the institution. When the twenty-fourth of May arrived, and all danger of ground frost was past, these were removed and planted, and Frank found himself without a job. He missed the quiet solitude he had come to enjoy, caring for the seedlings, and he obtained permission to use some of the now vacant greenhouse to start an experimental garden. Though it was already late in the year the building would extend the growing season almost until the snow flew, and he selected plants that would continue to flourish when the autumn days had grown short. Inmates assigned to operate tractors scraped topsoil from the fields and brought manure by the bucket-load, mixed it well, and formed it for Frank into a raised bed in the empty greenhouse. They waited with interest for Frank's exotic vegetables to develop. He planted red brussel sprouts and red broccoli, golden beets and chinese michili, blue popping corn and kohl rabi, and a strange assortment of melons which spread from their points of origin to cover distant parts of the building. He cultivated tomatoes of strange shapes and colours, tiny red onions, giant elephant garlic, and an array of fancy peppers and spices. He planted peanuts.

As the garden grew, those who had been involved at the time of its inception dropped by regularly to check its progress, and began to show it to visitors and friends. Because the inception had been a collective project it attracted the attention of many who showed no interest in other farm operations, and they would loiter about while Frank tended it, offering assistance and asking the names and purposes of the unusual produce.

The inmates ate together in a cafeteria, and a corner was cordoned off for the staff, who ate with them. As each tiny crop matured Frank harvested it and brought it to the kitchen door, and it was prepared for a meal the following day. On the last day of October Frank entered the greenhouse to find it had been cold enough overnight to freeze all of the melon plants. He harvested what remained and had the soil removed and stockpiled for the following year. When everything was returned to the condition in which he had found it he looked up the gardener and returned his seed catalogue. He was lounging with several other workers in one of the machinery sheds, smoking cigarettes.

"Thanks Frank," he said when he received the dog-eared book. "You could have kept it, they send me a new one every winter."

"Yeah, I know, but I thought somebody else might use it. I've had a couple of guys ask already if they can do it next year if I'm not here … which I don't plan to be."

"I've had people nosing around too. In fact I said I'd talk to the superintendent about a garden plot program for next year. There has been some interest shown. So you think you'll be out of here before spring Frank?"

"I hope so, I come up for parole hearing in December. Even if I don't make it on the first try, I ought to be out of here by May, don't you think?"

"I don't know, I'm mot on the parole board, but I don't know if they should let you back out on the street or not Frank." They all laughed at that.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frank was out of jail before spring, due to an unexpected turn of events. Tom and Leila made certain, during all of his incarceration, that he had a visit from one or both of them every week. In December Leila showed up one evening with a copy of the Canadian Greenhouse Grower's Guide, a trade magazine published quarterly for the advertisement of greenhouse and market garden supplies. She turned it into the office, where it was given a cursory inspection and passed along to Frank. He read it through, found a couple of small articles of interest and then perused the classified section. It was there that he found the following obscure ad, in the Wanted column.

Required: Agricultural worker

Assistant for Greenhouse operation

required immediately. Room, board

and a small wage offered. It was followed by a box number in rural British Columbia. It sent Frank into a reverie that recurred several times over the next few days, wondering what the position might be like, and then he quite quickly forgot all about it. In January he went before the parole board, and was told that if he tried again next time, he would stand a better chance. He had been prepared to be turned down on the first application and so he returned, undiscouraged, to his routine.

In February Tom showed up with another copy of the Growers Guide and Frank was astonished to find the position still vacant after three months. He replied at once.

Dear Sir,

I read with interest your requirement for a greenhouse assistant as advertised in September's Canadian Greenhouse Grower's Guide. When the ad reappeared this month I felt compelled to write. Could you please furnish me with more details? My present position would require some time to get out of but I have wanted to relocate to the west coast for several years. I have experience in a greenhouse setting. You may contact me c/o Mr. Tom McDermott, of the above address.

Yours truly,

E. Frank Wilson

For two weeks no reply arrived, then on Tuesday evening Frank was told he had a visitor. He expected no-one, and was surprised to find Leila waiting for him. She had received the letter that morning and had brought it to him without delay. He read it aloud to her.

"Dear Mr. Wilson," the letter began in a round childish hand. "Yes, I am still looking for help in my greenhouses. My wife and I have worked together for many years but now she is not so able to help me anymore. Because our farm is quite isolated we have always had trouble getting help and we have decided that it would be easiest to hire someone to live in. We have a spare room fixed up nice and I can promise you will always get good meals. The salary is $250 per month.

I would really prefer to meet you before I decide on whether you can have the job, but maybe you could telephone me instead. I would, of course, want references. Yours truly, Joseph Van der Horne." A telephone number followed.

Leila was skeptical. "Do you really want this job Frank? What if you get out there and you don't like it?"

"Well, I'll already be there, won't I? I can always find another job, and if I have a job and a place to stay I'll get parole for sure next time. The only problem will be transferring from one province to another, but it can be done, I already checked that out. There's some kind of an agreement in place." His eyes shone with excitement as he spoke.

"Now Frank, don't get your hopes up prematurely. This man wants references, and you're going to have to tell him you're in jail. I don't want to discourage you but this really looks like a long shot."

"I know … I know it is, but it just feels right, somehow."

That evening he began to compose a long letter outlining his personal data and work experience, explaining tactfully his present circumstances. The next day he arranged to see the John Howard Society counsellor and was promised a letter of recommendation based on his record at the prison farm and the impression he had made on the corrections workers there. On Saturday he learned that Leila had telephoned Mr. Van der Horn on her own initiative and pleaded on Frank's behalf, and a week later he received a second letter from him, this time addressed to the reformatory.

Dear Mr. Wilson,

I must admit that when I first received your letter and learned that you were in jail I decided I couldn't hire you. You seem to have impressed the people there that you are a steady fellow but Mrs. Van der Horn said she wouldn't sleep with a convict in the house. However, I received a call this evening from Mrs. McDermott and she has convinced us to give you your chance. There hasn't been much interest in the job in any case.

Since my wife can continue to help me until you arrive I am writing to say that you may start whenever you are able to come. If you need something more than this for your parole hearing please let me know.

Yours truly,

Joseph Van der Horne

Frank went before the parole board for the second time in early March, and they agreed conditionally to grant his release. They would contact the British Columbia parole service to have them check his story, and if they agreed to supervise him he could serve the remainder of his sentence as he had proposed. He was released one year almost exactly from the day when he began his sentence.

Tom met him at the front gate on Monday morning. The day was warm, one of the first real days of spring, and sheets of water glistened among brown fields of stubble and mud. In the maple bush scraps of snow lay hidden here and there, protected from the brilliant sunshine, while along the ditchline from time to time Frank saw the crystaline remnants of winter drifts, almost invisible under a blanket of accumulated grime from thousands of speeding automobiles. In farm yards, cattle released from winter quarters stood indolently soaking up sunshine, their sides and hindquarters crusted over with dung, tails stiff and heavy hanging like bats along their backsides.

The two friends kept very much to themselves during the trip to the city; Tom not wanting to talk about jail, Frank feeling not the exuberance at his release that he had anticipated, but something of a sense of loss. He was happy to be out, but had grown to like the unhurried and non-productive atmosphere of the place, and the comfort of familiarity was in some ways enticing. It was now disrupted, and he was striking out for unknown parts, to a new and unfamiliar lifestyle. It was queer; this ambivalence toward prison life, but he had to admit it just the same.

Tom spoke finally. "If the weather holds, the fields won't be long drying up. I bet a lot of these puddles will go today."

"Maybe, it's supposed to be sunny right through until the weekend."

"Really? And you know, the breeze probably does as much to dry things up as the sun does."

There followed another lengthy silence before Tom began once more. "How long do you figure on staying with us Frank?"

"I was just thinking about that. I have to see the parole officer sometime before next Thursday. I don't know, I'm going to play it by ear … maybe go out a little early, get settled in." After a pause he continued, "I'm kind of anxious to see this place, whatever it is … besides, the guy has been holding my job open for me, I guess it would be only fair to get a move on."

When Leila asked the same question later, she saw at once through his placid non-committal reply. She sensed the discomfort he tried to conceal and the uncertainty about the leap he was about to make. She could only guess at the fantasies he had constructed. In his mind he was already familiar with everything about his new environment; he knew the route he would follow during the bus trip northward from Vancouver so well now, that he could recite the names of towns and lakes he would pass and could tell from the way the road curved up and curled back on the map where they would climb or skirt natural obstacles. He saw the lay-out of the Van der Horn place clearly in his mind.

She laughed at his pretence. "You really want to get going, don't you Frank?"

"Well yes," he admitted defensively. "I feel like I've been spinning my wheels for the past year and a half. I'm anxious to go on, get started again, and this job sounds like exactly what I need right now. It's sort of a continuation of the laid-back way of life I learned inside. You know, I don't walk like I used to; that need I had to wear myself out? It's gone. Somehow I lost it, maybe it was getting rid of Diane did it, or leaving the job, but it's gone. Now I want to go on, establish a new routine, set attainable goals and see myself progressing toward them. Such a life doesn't hold many surprises, but there's a kind of comfort and security in that. Do you know what I mean?"

"Okay Frank. We're not going to chain you to the radiator or anything. Stay as long as you want, and when you're ready to get going, we'll lend you the money for the plane fare."

"I think I'll have some money. I'm going to take back my contributions out of the company pension plan. I got a statement while I was away, and I have over seven thousand dollars coming to me. I'll settle up with you about the lawyer's fees too, by the way."

"Frank! I don't want that money, and please do not ever bring the subject up again. I was very happy to do it at the time; it has given us little enough satisfaction when you consider the price that you have paid."

"Just a minute you two. You've got the wrong impression entirely. I didn't martyr myself, going to prison to protect my friends; if I had been stupid enough to confess to the robbery and turn you in, every one of us would have done five to seven years! Besides, it was me that fucked up and lost all the money."

"All right Frank, I'll concede that", Tom arbitrated, "but while you have been 'spinning your wheels' for eighteen months, Leila and I have progressed. I have all but completed my degree, and I've been offered a management training position with one of the biggest insurance firms in the country. Leila has had two raises and a promotion. We've put down roots, invested, and seen returns for our work. You are beginning over with nothing but those two boxes in the shed, and if you'll excuse my saying so, a job as a live-in agricultural worker may appeal to you at the moment, but it isn't exactly what one could call upward mobility. Now, we were all in it together, equal partners, but you have paid a heavy price for our foolishness, and Leila and I have not."

"That's true, Frank, and as far as the money goes, you shouldn't feel badly about losing it. I think it just wasn't meant to be", Leila said in her lovely characteristic valley manner. "We weren't meant to build our lives on stolen money."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

On Thursday morning of that week the three partners rose at five-thirty. Frank planned to fly to Vancouver that morning. After a stop in Calgary the plane would arrive after lunch. He would stay overnight and try to see his parole officer first thing Friday morning when he might be in his office. Then he would be free. He would take the bus north into the mountains and from where it would drop him off on the highway he could walk or hitchhike the remaining eight miles to the Van der Horne farm. He packed his belongings in an army kit bag he had purchased at the war surplus store. In his pocket he had his plane ticket, his release money, and another hundred dollars that Leila had insisted he borrow for emergencies.

At the airport they parted company. No-one spoke much, quiet embraces and good-byes were exchanged, Frank stoic in appearance, but quaking inside over the prospect of his first plane ride. Even Leila was unusually dry-eyed. "Good-bye Frank … good luck … we love you."

He grinned self-consciously. "I know. Goodbye. I'll be back you know. I'll come home on vacation real soon."

But he never did.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The bus ride from Vancouver took two hours and a half. By leaving Friday afternoon Frank had put himself amongst a crowd of weekend commuters who were headed out of the city after their week's work. The bus was nearly full when they left, but as it wended it's way in an overall north-easterly direction it stopped frequently, in several small towns and milk stops, and sometimes simply at an intersection where a vehicle stood waiting. The driver was acquainted with many of the travellers and knew where they were to get off, and was obliged to get down and retrieve luggage for them from the baggage compartment as they dismounted. They took on no new riders along the route, so that the bus grew steadily more empty.

They came at last to the area close to where Frank was to get off. The bus stopped at a crossroads truck stop, one of those Ma-and-Paw restaurant-store-garage operations, and the driver went inside. Frank consulted his map and then he followed him off the bus and stood by the baggage door. When he returned the driver asked, "I thought you were going to Thurelton."

"Not quite. You know where the old road goes left, about four miles this side of Thurelton?

"Sure. I drove that road a lot at one time. Is that where you want to get off?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd get my kit now, save you getting down later."

The driver removed the plastic lid from his cup of coffee and began to sip from it. He was in no apparent hurry to continue his route. Frank reached inside the luggage compartment himself and retrieved the duffel-bag. When they were back on board, Frank sat in the front seat opposite the driver where he could watch for his stop. The other man liked to talk, and Frank was quite happy to join him after two hours of silence. He asked where, specifically, he was headed, and when Frank told him he said he knew where the Van der Horne place was, though the bus didn't go that way any more, and he remembered a regular passenger who had lived there, several years ago now. He had dropped her off every Friday evening, right where Frank instructed him to stop.

The bus slowed and pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the doors opened and Frank carried the duffel bag before him as he stepped down. The driver was certainly in no hurry.

"I don't see anybody here waiting for you. Are you sure they're expecting you?"

"They're expecting me, but they're not sure exactly when", Frank grinned at him. "I'll hitchhike from here I guess."

"There isn't much traffic on that road nowadays. You might have to hoof it." He laughed at that.

"That's okay. I like to walk, eight miles isn't far."

"Well, good luck to you." The doors closed and as the bus accelerated Frank was enveloped in a cloud of diesel fumes and dust. He stood with his back to a white painted guard rail that warned of a steep slope that dropped away from the curve in the highway. Before him lay the old road, a narrow affair covered with a patchwork of MacAdam and asphalt repairs. The bus was out of sight around the bend almost at once, but the noise of its tires and engine receded more slowly into the distance. When it was finally out of earshot Frank became more aware of the solitude of his surroundings. There were no motors, planes or machinery to be heard, and the total absence of man-made sound left an eery quiet to which he was unaccustomed.

He swung the kit bag over his shoulder and adopted a pace that he knew he could sustain for many miles. The late afternoon sunshine penetrated his shirt, it's welcome energy warming him in the cooling mountain air. He listened to the solitary tramping of his shoes on the pavement for two miles before passing a single house. A shaggy farm dog walked slowly out the lane toward him, barking in an unenthusiastic manner, and wagging its tail slowly. Frank had passed by long before it reached the roadway, and when he looked back he saw the dog sniffing his scent on the pavement. A little farther along he crossed an ancient cement culvert with iron railings on either side and he paused to look down through the rippling brook to its stoney bottom. He transferred the bag to the other shoulder and pressed on.

The walking was a lot tougher than he was used to, for much of it was uphill, so that he was grateful when he heard the singing of tires approaching on the highway. A recent model station wagon came into view and Frank saw that it was quite full, containing a family of several children and a small dog. He didn't raise his thumb, but turned and continued uphill, and soon he heard another sound. The road behind him flattened out for a piece, along where he had seen the dog and the little bridge, and there began after that a steep grade that curved sharply to the left. Frank recognized the familiar sound of a heavy truck gearing down for a climb, and he sat the duffel bag on its end and waited for it to appear. It took longer than he would have thought, for his hearing was acute in the mountain air, and he had misjudged the distance. He raised his thumb in plenty of time for the driver to see it, though he was certain that the aging red Chevy would stop.

It was a flat-bed truck, perhaps a five ton, the stake pockets rigged out with wooden farm racks, and loaded with baled straw. He marvelled as it approached, for it was a thing of beauty. The curved hood receded back from a tubular chrome grill between rounded fenders, until it reached the split flat windshield. The paint had faded and turned a chalky pink shade on all but the lower reaches, but the vehicle was without a dent or a patch of rust, and Frank knew it would be constructed of a guage of steel seen nowadays only in a gravel shovel. The truck geared down once more and slowed to a smooth stop to pick him up, and Frank saw on the door, in fancy hand brushed gilt lettering, "Jos. Van der Horne,

R.R. 3, Thurelton." He stepped onto the running board, hung his kit from the nearest post of the rack, opened the door and slid onto the worn leather seat.

A tall raw-boned man in his early fifties, of dark hair turning heavily to grey, and tanned to a swarthy complexion, extended a large-knuckled hand. "So I found you after all. When you said you might be here Friday I timed this trip to meet the bus on my way home. I waited a little while and then I realized I had missed it. You've hiked a good distance already."

"Yes, and I'm not sorry to see you. I'm used to walking, but not this alpine stuff."

The older man flashed a set of even, white teeth in lieu of a reply, then gently released the clutch and the truck began without effort to roll once more. The scent in the cab was like a perfume to Frank's nose, a combination of motor oil and dust, of sunbaked auto upholstery and the fresh sweet aroma from the cargo of straw. The seat portion of the bench had worn through long ago and had been re-covered with a thick tanned hide, now worked soft and smooth by the brushing of cotton-clad posteriors. The dash board was of moulded, painted steel, and contained an assortment of gauges; round dials with florescent needles, each surrounded by a nickel-plated ring.

"Nice truck", he admired, as though to himself.

Van der Horne looked at him and grinned again. "This truck?" He seemed surprised. "It's getting pretty old. I only use it around here now, to haul wood or peat, or maybe a little top-soil. I have a cube van for deliveries to the city. But I suppose being from the east, you haven't seen many old vehicles. I've been lucky finding parts for this truck, and I do my own work, so it has been worthwhile to keep it on the road. Because they don't use salt out here, it hasn't rusted hardly at all."

Frank noticed the large boney work-hands where they gripped the oversized wheel and puzzled how, like Tom's father's, they appeared too large for his arms. It must be characteristic of working men as they grow older, he figured, comparing them to his own slender appendages.

The road levelled out occasionally but continued to rise steadily. Here and there an area of the forest had been cleared but none of the ground was currently in use; they passed houses only rarely in the remaining five miles. Suddenly on the left-hand side Frank saw a clearing, in which stood two abandoned weather-beaten over-night cabins, and a clump of mature lilac bushes, now almost in bloom, grew from where a house or motel had perhaps once stood. He craned his neck to look closely out the driver's window but it was gone in a flash, and then almost at once they passed another such clearing, almost identical to the first and containing, again, two small cabins. The road rose sharply now, through the replanted forest, and then there were two more carbon-copy clearings in the trees. The four pairs of little buildings intrigued him, and he asked Van der Horn about them.

"Those used to be part of a motel once, but it burned down. The people who owned it moved away. Here we are!"

He was prevented from explaining further by the appearance of the mailbox on the right, and became busy shifting gears and turning the oversized wheel hand-over-hand as they entered the long lane. It clung to the edge of the forest, along a gently-sloping grass-covered hillside, the road having been formed by levelling out a narrow strip and shoring it up with stone on the right-hand side. It was covered with gravel, not the crushed slate that roads were constructed of in Frank's experience, but with bank gravel; tiny, many-coloured stones tumbled round from the banks of an ancient watershed.

At the end of the lane the gravel formed a rounded cul-de-sac around which buildings were grouped on three sides. To the left, flanked by trees, stood a white clapboard house, a storey and a half in height, with a steeply-pitched green roof. The windows and trim wore a recent coat of deep green paint, and the building was surrounded by well-tended lawns and flower beds. A matching clapboard garage, with similar roof but in need of paint, came next. On the right-hand side was a very long two-storey structure covered with plank siding, now weathered to a soft grey, with a metal roof, and a high sliding door that permitted access for trucks. The glass hot-house was out of sight on the other side of this building, but a long low plastic-covered greenhouse extended another fifty or sixty feet beyond it.

Van der Horne parked the truck in front of the big door and Frank took down his duffel. He followed Joe around the house to a back entrance leading into the kitchen. They were met at the door by grey-haired woman in a blue print housedress, who wiped her wet hands on her apron, shook his hand, and addressed him as Mr. Wilson. She was quite stout, and so short that Frank looked down onto the top of her head; her hair was pulled back severely and fashioned into a bun. Like her husband, she was much older than Frank, but not by a full generation, and though younger than his mother she had a more grandmotherly appearance, as if from an earlier time. She regarded him candidly, her pale blue eyes appraising behind gold-rimmed glasses. Though he felt no unfriendliness toward him, Helen Van der Horne had an unsmiling, no-nonsense manner that rarely changed.

"I found this fellow along the road", Joe rumbled. His voice, when he spoke softly in the quiet kitchen had a deep timbre. "He'd already walked about three miles".

"Joe said he thought you'd be on the bus today" she told Frank, "but I didn't believe it. I thought surely you meant next Friday. Well, I'm glad you're here. He …" she indicated her husband with a fierce nod, "has been working day and night getting ready. You see, once he knew he would have more help this spring he increased the size of his work load," she explained crossly. "I have no doubt you'll put in long days even with two men, from what I've seen out there."

"Yes ma'am. I thought you might be needing me right away. Uh, where can I put this?" he hefted the duffel-bag.

"Why don't you take that upstairs now? Turn left at the top of the stairs and that will be your room. There's a small bathroom up there you can have for your own."

Frank quickly stowed his scant belongings in the antique dresser provided, and hung the kit bag on a hook at the back of the closet. He pulled a chair around until it faced the double window that looked out to the east, and surveyed what he could of his surroundings. The view was cut in half by the line of coniferous forest that stretched along the north side of the clearing, then swung around to enclose it. The total area might have been ten or twelve acres, with perhaps another ten between the house and the road. Below, he could see, the sloping field had been terraced into wide growing beds, shored up on the lower side by stone walls, and much of this area was now covered in a blanket of straw. The plastic sheds, on two levels, which he could look down into from the window, were clearly empty, he could make out the uninterrupted grey of drainage gravel and flat-stone walks through the opaque polyethylene film.

He was somewhat disappointed, the operation was considerably smaller than he had pictured it in his mind. The glass hot-house, now hidden from his view, was only half the size of the one he had worked in at the prison farm, since it covered only one side of the board-on-board structure that faced toward the house. He had anticipated something grand, more professional in appearance; and yet, Mrs. Van der Horne had intimated that there was a great deal of work to be done. However, he could stick it out until the end of his parole period, and then be free to move on to wherever he liked. Besides, the room was pleasant, of medium size, with sloping ceilings on two sides. The window was large and the sun would wake him as it rose above the tree tops.

Frank heard the red truck start up in the yard below. "He's going to unload it," Frank thought and he picked up his work boots and carried them downstairs. Mrs. Van der Horn was working at the stove when he entered in sock feet and he startled her.

"Sorry," he said, and sat on a chair to begin lacing his boots.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought I'd go help Joe unload the truck."

"There's no need for you to do that. I'm making supper. He'll work out there until I call him."

"I'd like to see the place anyway."

Joe had pushed the big sliding door along the front of the two-storey barn, and had backed the truck inside. He had a conveyor running up into the loft when Frank arrived and he was starting to drop the straw onto it. There was a staircase at the far end of the room and he climbed it, arriving in a large loft used to store all sorts of supplies. He could see where the straw was kept, and he began to carry the bales back and pile them against the wall. Joe was dropping them onto the moving belt as quickly as he could unload them, and they tumbled into a pile that Frank was making little headway against. As he returned from one trip he saw Joe had came upstairs and was watching him.

"You're up here Frank! I didn't see you come in." He assisted in clearing up the backlog. "I'll send them up more slowly now that I know you're here, besides I'll have to travel some with them now."

The densely-packed parcels came at a more evenly-paced rate, Frank worked steadily until there were no more, and the belt stopped. Joe came up again then, appeared satisfied with the job he had done and showed him around the storage area. It was largely empty, for there was far more space than would ever be used. In it were stored all manner of greenhouse grower's supplies; wooden flats, bales of peat, bags of perlite, vermiculite and fertilizer. On wide shelves were stacks of cardboard boxes, containing plastic pots of different sizes, plastic growing flats, wire stakes, and conical wrappers for potted flowers.

Joe had eked out a living from a small operation, reducing costs wherever possible and building tables and flats himself. The boards for this were stored in the loft, stacked between strips of wood to allow air circulation around the drying lumber. A double set of loft doors opened over the gravel roadway below to facilitate their reception and removal.

They descended the narrow staircase and Joe showed him how the cube truck could be backed inside until the rear doors sealed against the opening into the greenhouse, allowing fragile crops to be loaded safely in cold weather. The area downstairs was also used as a truck repair garage, a carpentry shop, and a loading bay for supplies. It comprised about half the floor area of the wooden building. They passed next into the greenhouse and once inside Frank looked about him in wonderment. The wall of the barn, which formed the north wall of the glass greenhouse, was solid stone. The dark grey mass radiated a warmth in the early evening which could be felt where Frank stood six feet away. Much of the floor area was taken up by light-weight benches of Joe's own design, which could be handled and set up easily by a person working alone. The tops were covered with one-inch wire cloth, and held hundreds of potted Easter lilies; most just beginning to form flowers. They saw hundreds more lilies stored in the "cold room", their growth being retarded so they wouldn't be too far along when the holiday arrived.

Another area was taken up by tables covered with plastic, moisture clinging wetly to the underside, under which lay flats of tiny seedlings, some of which Frank recognized as tomatoes, peppers and various members of the cabbage family; cauliflower, broccoli and the like. Joe explained that they were ready now for "pricking off", an operation they would begin tomorrow morning, and was probably, he added, one of the worst jobs about the place.

He explained how they grew only a few crops, specializing in lilies for Easter, poinsettias for Christmas, hydrangeas and azaleas for Mother's Day and geraniums and chrysanthemums for summer. At times in the past, when his daughter and wife had both assisted him, he had started bedding plants, and this year he had tried them again once he knew for certain that Frank had been hired. If successful, the crop would pay Frank's wages for the entire year. He showed Frank the potting room, and the steam chest where tools, flats and potting media were sanitized to get rid of disease, weeds and pests, and to make the soil more porous. As he talked he checked gauges, adjusted ventilators and turned off fans. He explained the function of the masonry wall; with the insulated shed behind it, which drew off heat in the day time and released it at night. The hillside location with a southern exposure provided protection from the north wind, and because the greenhouses required an east-west orientation, permitted the north side of the plastic houses to be set in the ground, reducing heating costs and making rudimentary solar collectors possible.

A short glassed-in passage led to the upper of the two plastic greenhouses, and a ramp dropped from there to another on a lower level. The two were thereby completely isolated one from the other and could be operated independently. Joe noticed a small tear in the plastic. The poly was getting old and brittle but a few simple repairs would get another season out of it. He advised Frank that they would begin to use one of these houses the next day to grow the bedding plants, which could be placed directly on the floor. Soon too, they could begin setting up tables in the remaining house, in preparation for the transplanting of mums and geraniums. They were moved from propagation flats to four-inch pots and finally to six-inch pots, requiring more space with each transplanting. Soon all three buildings would be full, and he would have to calculate carefully to find all the space they would need.

When they returned to the main hothouse Joe selected out a few Easter lilies and put them into cool storage. He asked Frank to turn all the others a quarter turn to prevent stem curvature. A telephone rang in the potting room but Joe didn't stop working to answer it, and it stopped after two rings. "That will be supper", he said, and they finished quickly then and went into the house to their evening meal.

After dinner, as a consequence of a wonderful meal, and the warm kitchen, Frank began to yawn uncontrollably. He hadn't enjoyed a proper night's sleep since Tuesday. He had been in a state of anxiety since his release from prison (could it really have been only five days ago?), excited to get here, in a sweat to get all his past affairs tied up, nervous about his first plane ride, and uncomfortable in the strange surroundings of the hotel room in which he had barely closed his eyes the night before. He felt now the ennui of a five-day adrenalin rush winding down.

Helen Van der Horn poured them a mug of strong tea, and Joe went to the cupboard and fetched a tobacco tin. Frank was surprised to see him extract cigarette papers and begin to build himself a smoke. He watched hungrily as he pulled apart the fine Dutch shag and distributed it onto the paper. Joe noticed him and offered him the tin, which he accepted gratefully.

"I didn't know you smoked Frank. I don't myself really. It's too humid in the greenhouses, besides the nicotine is bad for plants … and other living things I suppose," he grinned. "Still, there's nothing like a smoke after dinner."

"I know. I never used tobacco before I went to jail, then I started, mostly out of boredom I think. I decided to quit when I got out, and I must say I never really missed it until I saw you rolling up just now."

It was long past dark now, and in spite of the effects of the tea, Frank found himself falling asleep at the table. Joe was listening to an old-time music show playing softly on the radio while his wife cleared away dishes. He excused himself for the night and climbed wearily up the stairs to bed.

As he removed his clothes he saw the moon was rising over the mountain; rich gold in colour and of enormous size. In awe he watched it as it rose rapidly, growing smaller in the space of a few minutes, and lighting the yard with its light while changing from gold to bright silver-blue. It shone through the plastic of the greenhouses, diffusing itself as it did so, giving them a phosphorescent glow, while it reflected liquidly where the angle was more correct. He lay down then, and the bright light shone onto his face as, somewhat more alert, he contemplated his situation.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He felt no awareness of sleep, or the passage of time, but his next sensation was that the light on his face had grown warm, and he became instantly alert, awakened by the morning sun. There remained no trace of the tiredness of the night before, and he washed and shaved quickly in the tiny efficient bathroom. When he reached downstairs he found Helen drinking coffee by the window.

"Hello. I thought I was the first up."

"Not hardly. Joe is always up at first light to check everything, and begins to regulate the heat. That's a process that goes on all day, because when the sun is out, you have to keep opening vents and using exhaust fans to keep it cool enough, then a large cloud might come over, and you have to shut down quickly to avoid a big drop in temperature. And of course, when the temperature changes, so does the humidity. When it begins to stick to the glass for example, the air will dry out a lot. Joe is a very good greenhouse man, the temperature out there never varies more than five degrees above or below ideal. That requires a careful operator when you don't have automated systems. And he hardly ever checks gauges! Anyway, he goes out there early and starts moving things around, watching for the temperature to reach a point where he can shut down the heating system for the day, and he usually gets involved and forgets to come in for breakfast. He'd work all morning and never think of his stomach if I let him."

Frank picked up his boots. "Maybe he needs a hand with something," he suggested.

"No, you sit here and have your coffee," she commanded in her stern way. "You'll work long days here as it is, without following him around. We needed someone badly, but I'm hoping it will mean keeping more civilized hours, not just increased production."

Presently Joe came in and they ate breakfast. When he told her what they intended to do she volunteered to help.

"When Clara was home, we always sold bedding plants each spring, and she and I would do the pricking off, our fingers are smaller than his, and you have to pick the plants up by the two tiny leaves, never by the stem. He finds it a terrible job, but we never minded. The two of us could just about keep up with Joe filling and levelling the flats, and dibbling them."

"Dibbling?"

"You'll see" she replied in her ever-serious manner. "You know, that table of seedlings doesn't look like much right now, but by the time we've transplanted them all to growing flats the greenhouse will be packed full. You get three dozen flats from every germinating box."

"That's true" Joe added. "In two weeks everything will be packed full … and that with the lilies gone, too."

Breakfast was ample, but consisted of light foods,and dinner, he was told, would be the same. Heavy foods didn't sit well working in the sun and humidity. The biggest meal of the day was always supper. They ate quickly and by seven-thirty Frank and Joe were ready to begin work.

"I'm going to clean up here and then I'll be along to help."

"Okay, but don't be in any hurry. We have a lot to do first. I thought since it's going to be nice today, we'd carry the potting table out into the sun and work there. See you later."

Frank helped to carefully fold the plastic film off the tiny seedlings, and noticed they were all sitting in sub-irrigation trays. This was done so that the seeds wouldn't be washed out during watering, he was told. Joe talked steadily as they worked at a number of jobs, instructions being few and largely unnecessary, but explanations and background information plentiful. He simply went from one task to the next, Frank accompanying and assisting in each operation. In a few hours the daily chores had been completed, the greenhouse plastic repaired, tools and materials were at hand, and they were ready to begin. Joe sat down on a peat bale then, the first time he had stopped moving all morning, and with a gesture of his hand he invited Frank to do likewise.

"It sure is nice to have two sets of hands at last, the work seems to just fly, doesn't it?" He indicated the table of uncovered seedlings, the soil now beginning to show signs of drying. "I started these at different times so they would all be due for transplant now. Bedding plants are the easiest thing in the world if you're careful about sanitation. Mind you, the competition is fierce, because they only require a cheap plastic shed, and there's more automation now, but there's always a great market for flowers; people want to be able to stick them into the garden or planter boxes at the beginning of summer and have an instant garden, already in bloom." He chuckled at this.

Frank saw that he was happy to have company to talk with, to teach, and to work alongside. It must have been lonely for him working long days in solitude, for weeks on end, as he had been doing. He showed Frank how to operate the shredder, to prepare their materials for mixing, and then after piling measured quantities on the potting table, he began to mix, pushing the shovel all the way to the backboard, and distributing the mixture evenly along the length of the return stroke as he turned the shovel to the left. He repeated the entire procedure several times, alternating from a left-hand turn to a right-hand one each time.

Finally, they began to work. Joe filled the little plastic flats, either sixes or twelves, levelled them off with a single sweep of the trowel, placed them into a wooden flat, and dibbled them with a piece of plywood into which nails had been placed at exact intervals. He pressed this onto the wooden flat, and twenty-four little holes were instantly excavated for the seedlings. Frank carefully pulled the tiny plants from the loosened soil, placed them into the waiting dibbles and pressed down gently with his fingers in a single stroke. Once he had repeated the procedure a few times it went more quickly, the cart filled steadily with the finished transplants, and Joe watered them thoroughly with a fog nozzle before moving them away. Helen arrived and began at once to assist, and the three worked quietly in the spring sunshine until lunch time. Within a half-hour they returned, and worked steadily until six o'clock when they quit for the day. Frank went for the first time into the other greenhouse. He could not believe the volume of work they had put out that day. The plastic shed was getting close to full, and they hadn't finished the job. The sight was rewarding, unaccustomed as he was to work that could be measured at the end of the day in terms of productivity. It made the aching tightness he felt in his neck and between his shoulder-blades worthwhile, and what felt like writer's cramp in his thumbs and fingers. At the end of his first day on the job he decided that if this was as tough as it got, he would learn to like it just fine.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Frank readily adjusted to his new routine and flourished under it. The waiting that had begun at the rooming-house was at an end at last. He began to gain weight, his general demeanour became more relaxed and he lost the determined ardour that had made the idle hours in the guard service so difficult to accept. They worked long, steady days, Monday to Saturday, all through April and May. The flats flourished, bloomed and were sold; gone it seemed, in an instant. The chrysanthemums spread from cuttings which occupied a corner of the glass house, to a full shed of their own. The geraniums grew into a sea of red and green, interspersed here and there with a table of pink or white. Frank enjoyed working among them, it seemed to him a perfect environment, the beautiful plants responding to his diligent care and rewarding him with their progress. Sometimes a radio would be playing softly as he worked, other times without it the meadow and forest around him were alive with activity and song, and could be heard above the steady rush of the circulating fans.

Joe had a quiet comradely manner and worked with a relaxed efficiency that made time fly. He and Helen complemented one another, and slowly Frank became aware of a mutual devotion that required no overt demonstration. Though neither of them was ever reluctant to voice his opinion to the other, it seemed they never knew a disruptive moment. Even during times of adversity Joe remained calm. When the new automatic irrigation system broke down and flooded the hothouse with hundreds of gallons of water, he strode calmly to the gate valve, turned off the water, and after surveying the damage, grinned at Frank. They began at once to repair the damage and were able, without excitement, to save all of the propagation stock and return the operation to normal. Frank was able to compare this to the livid, eye-popping hysteria he had observed in George Wells over a cigarette butt on the apparatus floor, and he felt fortunate.

This new occupation had a wonderful predictable quality to it. If one mixed up a solution in the prescribed ratio and quantities, and fed it to the plants, they reacted in the expected manner. They didn't balk, refuse or screw up the way humans so often do, making things frustrating and undependable. He learned about auto mechanics too, working on the simple, primitive systems of the old Chevy, assisting Joe with regular maintenance and sometimes major repairs, nursing another season out of the beautiful old truck.

Throughout July and August there was less need to work hard, for it was their quiet time, yet they continued assiduously, their hours rarely totalling less than sixty per week. The meals were consistently good, the company convivial, and the atmosphere tranquil and pleasant. If he had need of anything more Frank was unaware of it. He had time to read, and he travelled to the small library in Thurelton for books, ordered others by mail from a used book shop in Vancouver, and more from a monthly club. He often read at the table in the evening while Helen mended work clothing or listened to the radio. Meanwhile Joe, ever occupied, would bring his daily journal up to date, recording weather, dates of planting, propagation, pest control, and a myriad of other facts he might need in his calculations. More often, after supper, Joe returned to work, preparing a new terraced bed, building tables, painting, or resealing glass. Frank would assist him with much of this, though it was not part of his duties and not expected of him, especially if he thought a second pair of hands would be needed. Other times he would reason with him, insisting tomorrow was another day, and Joe would finally capitulate and set his tools aside.

One hot day in late August Joe and Frank were at the bottom of the hill, at the edge of the forest, cutting wood. Frank split the blocks into stove size chunks as Joe cut them, and then threw them into the bucket of the tractor for transportation to the pile forming in front of the barn. As the work was strenuous, when Joe paused to dress the cutters on the saw chain with a small round file, Frank sat down to rest on a block of pine. "There's a car", he said, watching in surprise as a black sedan, an unmistakeable taxi sign on the roof, drove in the lane, following the tree line until it disappeared behind the buildings. Joe watched its progress, a puzzled frown on his face. He started the tractor, raised the half-filled bucket and drove away up the hill toward the house. Frank returned to work, not noticing whether the car left or not, and an hour later Joe returned. His face held a grim expression, but he offered no explanation, except to say that his daughter, Clara, was home.

During supper Frank was aware of someone else in the house, but he didn't see her. A door opened and closed along the hallway while they ate, and he heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. He wondered about that, but no one made any effort to explain, and he made no mention of it. He went to bed without having seen their new house guest; at breakfast and throughout the next morning the subject didn't arise. At lunch the situation continued, the atmosphere growing strained in response to the strange invisible presence among them, so that they ate in uncustomary silence. When Joe had drank his tea, and after wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, he suggested to Helen, "Tell Clara I'll expect to see her at supper. She has to meet Frank sooner or later, and she has nothing to be ashamed of."

They returned to work then, leaving Frank even more puzzled at the increasing mystery of the situation. Because it was threatening rain they left off wood cutting for the afternoon and cleaned the carpentry shop instead. While Frank was sweeping the plank floor he heard a vehicle enter the yard and stop in front of the house. He stepped to the doorway and looked out to see a green Chevelle with a man at the wheel. Joe looked out at the same time, pushed roughly past, and strode quickly to the vehicle before the driver could get out. He leaned over the open window for a few minutes talking earnestly, then the motor started and the car made a U-turn in the yard and drove out the lane.

When Frank sat down to dinner that night there was a fourth place at the table, a bowl of soup had been set out in the space opposite his own, and soon a thin dark-haired woman in a blue housecoat arrived to sit there. She sat with her gaze upon her plate as introductions were made, glanced quickly at Frank as his name was announced, then sheltered her face from his eyes with her hand to her brow. Her face was badly banged up, her nose swollen broadly beneath blackened eyes, a large purple bruise ringed with yellow discoloured her left cheek-bone, and her lower lip and jaw were swollen almost to the chin on the same side. Someone had put two or three sutures in the corner of her mouth.

"I had an accident," she muttered shyly, clearly uneasy that he was looking at her so closely.

Frank didn't answer, but applied his full attention to his meal, which was eaten in an uncomfortable stillness that continued until Helen and Clara began clearing the table. That done, Clara disappeared at once into her room. As the days passed she exchanged the blue housecoat for a shirt and blue jeans, and began to help her mother with household tasks, and when Frank approached the kitchen sometimes he heard them talking to one another, but they grew quiet whenever he entered the room. She began to feel better, Frank noticed; she moved with more vigour. Her hair lost the limp untended appearance it had at first, and her features began to emerge slowly from the wreckage. As her teeth tightened up and the swelling went out of her jaw she began to chew solid foods. The blackness under her eyes receded to small pools alongside her nose, which was narrowing slowly and appeared straight, unbroken. She was rather plain, he thought, and so thin that there was little to attract him in her figure or features, except perhaps for her dark pretty eyes.

He saw her at all meals but she seldom spoke when he was about, sometimes causing him to feel like an intruder; a stranger in the family setting. He noticed, however, that when they discussed the greenhouse operation she lost much of her shyness and reserve and spoke knowledgeably about the work. Frank began then to draw her out some, discussing with her what he was learning of the greenhouse business, so that at times she would lose her diffidence entirely and talk animatedly to him for short periods.

One morning Frank went early to the shop to help Joe load the cube van with potted mums. Directly after breakfast he left for the city, leaving Frank with some final instructions about the regulation of the greenhouse and suggesting several tasks that he could do if he found the time. Frank quickly watered what few plants remained inside and then began to stack firewood, moving it from where it was dumped in a wind-row in the yard, and piling it in neat cord-wood stacks along the end of the building. Clara walked out the lane at about ten o'clock, he knew, and he continued to be near her path as she passed.

"Hello, going for the mail, are you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I hope you don't make the trip for nothing."

"How's that?"

"I mean, if there should be no mail."

"Oh, there's mail all right. I always check with Dad's field glasses to see if the box is turned."

"I hadn't thought of that," he grinned. When she returned she had a parcel and a letter for him and she brought them to where he was stacking wood. "You have mail," she announced as she approached.

"That will be my new book," he informed her as he slipped the letter from Leila into his shirt pocket. He began to open the package and Clara waited to see what he had purchased. To her surprise it was a recent reprint of an old book, by a writer she had studied in high school.

"Have you read many of his stories?" she asked, reading the cover.

"Yes, do you like them too?"

"I don't know, I only read one, and that was in high school. Perhaps I could borrow this one when you're done with it, could I?"

"Yes, certainly. In the meantime, I have quite a few books in my room. It's surprising how many I've accumulated since I came here."

"I know, I took your clothes up to your room yesterday, and I saw them. Mom told me later I was only supposed to put the laundry on the landing." She smiled shyly at him. "You sure keep your things neat."

"I'm not there much, I guess that's why. What are you working at in the house this morning?" he asked quickly as he saw she was preparing to go.

"Nothing much. I made spaghetti sauce, but it has to simmer now, all morning. Would you like me to help you with this?"

"No, it's not necessary. I have all day to finish it."

"But I don't mind really. I never have enough to do, and I used to help Dad a lot before I left home. I find it so different now that he has a hired man. The work is always caught up, and I see you guys working away steadily together, so I don't offer to help him like I used to." She went into the shop and returned with a second wheelbarrow, which she began to pile high with wood. As they worked side by side stacking the heavy sticks, Frank questioned her further.

"How long ago did you leave here?" he wanted to know.

"It seems like an eternity, but it's only been six years. I never left home until I was twenty-two. After high school I spent four years at home, not really looking for a job, helping out Dad in the greenhouse. I used to wonder if they thought I'd never leave, but really they were glad to have me, and Dad was able to make a little extra money by increasing his volume. I didn't realize how much I liked the work until after I left."

"What made you leave?"

"Who knows? I thought life was passing me by, maybe. I had never had a date except for the graduation prom, with a boy who went away to university. I certainly wasn't going to meet anyone here, so I took a job in the glove factory, and travelled home on the bus every Friday evening. Then I started dating Roy, who works as a mechanic at the plant, and one weekend we came home to tell the folks we were married."

They refilled the wheelbarrows and returned to stacking, and Frank suggested, "So that didn't work out, I guess?"

She hesitated before answering. "No, I guess not. I should have known better, but I hadn't much experience. We began spending the weekends together at his place, going dancing in the hotels, drinking a lot and attending parties. All of his friends did the same. He coaxed me constantly to marry him until eventually I said yes, and then he pressed and argued that we should do it right away. I thought he would become more serious and party less once we were married, after all, he had bills to pay — but he didn't change, instead things got worse. He began to go out by himself, and if I questioned him about it he got defensive and angry. Sometimes, if he was drunk he became abusive. This isn't the first time I've been beat up, but it's the first time my parents have become aware of it." They stood facing one another, making no pretence at work as Clara recounted her story. "You know what's funny? Whenever this happened before he would always be around the next day, apologizing and begging to be forgiven; but not this time."

"He hasn't phoned even?"

"No … but he wouldn't phone. We have a party line, and he'd be afraid someone might be listening … and hear him crawling and crying to me," she added bitterly. "No, he'll come in person when he decides he needs me badly enough."

"What kind of a vehicle does he drive?"

"A green Chevelle." She eyed him suspiciously. "Why? Have you seen it around?"

"No," he replied quickly. "I just wondered, is all."

Frank and Clara became friends after that, and they often sat out on the porch together in the evenings, when Frank's work was done for the day. He couldn't have recalled what they talked about for several hours at a stretch, except that they passed the time quickly and enjoyably, discussing nothing of importance. Clara began to be around a lot while they were working too, and was capable at any kind of work Frank was able to do. The work days grew shorter as a result, and Joe rarely found excuses to return to his labours after supper. Clara would challenge her parents to games of cards, with Frank as a partner; games he had grown proficient at while in prison.

At the end of summer, one evening she and Frank went for an evening stroll out the lane and along the highway to explore the overnight cabins. Frank had expressed his interest in them at supper, and as they walked she told him about the previous owner. When she was a girl beginning high school, the main highway had been moved, bypassing the curving mountainous road that passed through the tiny village of Thurelton, and the motel had fallen on hard times. A year later the house and motel had burned to the ground, and the owner had talked of relocating to the main road once the insurance money was settled on him. But the company had balked at paying, delaying and prolonging the investigation into the fire, forcing the owner to hire lawyers and run up expenses during which time he had no income. Finally, he had declared bankruptcy and moved away to the city. A lawyer in Victoria ended up with the property, and to Clara's knowledge he had never seen it. Later, as it became evident that the place was abandoned she and a school friend had become familiar with the empty buildings and found that the keys had been hidden above the doorframes. They began to camp out in one of them on weekends and had put bits of cast-off furniture in it. These were still in place when she opened the door, there was oil in the lamp on the table, the old foam mattress stood on its side against the wall over the rusted bed-springs.

"Well, here you are. They're all the same as this one, they're all empty, and the last time I looked none of the roofs were leaking, so they should still be in quite good shape, even though they don't really look it from the outside. What do you think?"

It was about sixteen feet square, perhaps a little large for an overnight cabin, but smaller than a single car garage. The wall studs were exposed on the inside and the interior had at one time been covered with a heavy coat of white-wash, now grimy and spalling from the walls and rafters in places, turning into grit underfoot.

"I like it," he paced about, examining everything. "I wouldn't mind camping out over here myself" he added meaningfully. It was the first time they had been alone together in a private place, and she smiled at him then, a nice smile he thought; not awkward and crooked as it had been when first he saw her, and it matched her laughing eyes. He tried to kiss her then, but she pushed him gently away.

"What's wrong? I thought you were beginning to like me."

"I am, … I do, but … Frank, are you certain you've never seen a green Chevelle hanging around?"

Frank admitted what he knew, and her reaction was swift and vehement. "What the hell Frank! How could you keep this from me? I thought you were my friend."

"I am, now. But this happened the day after you got here for Christ's sake. I hadn't even laid eyes on you yet; you were just a mysterious unseen presence down the hall, remember?"

"I asked you about it since then, and you lied to me," she responded hotly.

"I don't regret that. He's your father, and my boss, and it's a family matter. I thought if he wanted you to know about it he could tell you himself. In fact, I shouldn't be telling you now, except I guess I thought I might gain something by it."

She thought about that a moment and shook her head, beginning to soften. "You're probably right, Frank. Don't worry about it. I don't know anybody who is very good at keeping secrets; myself included. You were right, really." They sat at the little table, and she continued. "It is an unwarranted interference you know. I'm an adult, this was my husband, that my father said God knows what to, before running him off the place. I'm still very angry about that."

"Clara, he's right. He had to break the cycle for you. You wouldn't have been strong enough to stand up to the kind of mewling, arguing and begging that some people are subjected to by their partners. I expect he simply told Roy it was over, and because Roy couldn't act tearfully repentant in front of Joe, he left. Are you going to look him up?"

"Certainly not! I'm lucky Dad took care of it for me I suppose, and I'm lucky to have such parents; a place to go until I get my affairs arranged again. It's not really right to come back to them now that I've fucked up my life."

Frank laughed at that, she said it so matter-of-factly. "Your life isn't fucked up. You've just learned some hard lessons, is all. The best is probably still to come."

They started for home then in the encroaching twilight.

On the way she slipped her hand into his, removing it only as they entered the well-lit yard, within view of the house.

On Sunday Clara arranged to take Frank on another walk down to the cabins. When they set out, Joe and Helen were sleeping, as was their custom on Sunday afternoon. When they arrived Frank found the door unlocked, and upon entering saw that the room had been completely cleaned, and the mattress had been covered. A double sleeping bag and pillows were laid out on it. He grinned sheepishly as he kicked the door shut behind them, and he took her in his arms.

An hour later he awoke, lying against her back, one arm under her pillow and the other over her side, his nose nuzzled into the nape of her neck. He became aware of his surroundings only slowly, a peaceful narcotic contentment inducing him back toward sleep. She sensed his waking and spoke softly. "I've wanted to do that for some while. I kept wondering what it would be like."

"And was it what you expected?"

"Oh yes, it was. And when you consider that the first time is probably a long way from the best we can achieve, the potential is limitless!" She began to chuckle then, deep in her throat so that it was barely audible, but Frank could sense the laughter moving her frail body as it lay moulded to him.

She continued to explain, her voice murmuring trancelike, "It's been a long time since I have felt like making love. I got sickened to it I guess. Roy would sometimes want to when he'd been drinking. I mean, he was too pissed to get off anyway, but to refuse him would mean more trouble than it was worth. Other times, we'd be trying to reconcile our differences, and getting along okay, so I would be trying to do everything to keep him happy, but in the back of my mind there was always the certain knowledge that soon he was going to treat me to another round of abuse .. and sure enough, come Friday night there'd be a big fight, with all sorts of insults heaped on both sides, followed by the inevitable pleading and whining. That's what I came to dread most, not the fights, I could stand up to those, it was watching the transparent manipulation later that really took the spirit out of me, because I would eventually surrender to that."

"I know. There's nothing so barren as a bad marriage. Jail was easier, really. At least inside there was no sex, period. Of course there were people who found substitutes, but for most of us it just didn't exist. There were no temptations or reminders either, so that abstinence was probably easier to take there than living with Diane had been; feeling I had a right to sex, and having it constantly denied, or contingent upon a set of ideal and largely unattainable conditions."

"Gee Frank," she laughed, "you've thought about this haven't you?"

"Yeah, no kidding. Since a year ago last Christmas. However, it would appear the famine is over!" He was fully awake now, and began to smother her neck, from behind her ear to the slope of her shoulder, with dozens of kisses, so that she squealed with the unendurable pleasure of it. When they had dressed and were walking slowly homeward she told him why she had slipped over on Saturday to prepare the cabin for them. "You remind me so much of my father, Frank. You're both quiet, and strong and hardworking, you're with him all the time, and you're like him. You have even picked up some of his mannerisms and expressions, I think. But what got me, was that you smell like him. You do the same work, and I suppose that explains part of it, but your scent is just naturally similar to his, I think. I was putting one of your work-shirts in the laundry, and I could detect your odour on it; not sour or anything, just a man smell. That's when I first wanted to get close to you, and that's when I dreamed up this little strategy," she concluded happily.

The visits to the cabin became a Sunday afternoon ritual, and as autumn progressed, sometimes they used it mid-week as well, so that it became a standard joke as they approached the door, for Frank to remark how the pathway was taking on a well-beaten look. Clara also took to sneaking up the stairs occasionally, late at night. Sometimes they made love, but more often Frank was only semi-consciously aware that she had silently crept into the room and slipped between the covers beside him. He would barely wake, except to turn and put his arm around her, his work-roughened hand upon her breast, and drift back into sleep. In the morning when he awoke she would always be gone, so that he wasn't always really sure whether she had been there at all.

One morning he awoke some time after dawn to find Clara there, nestled into his back. It had rained steadily during the night and he had slept soundly to the steady rush of the water striking the roof. He turned to look at the alarm clock on his dresser and as he did so, she sprang instantly awake.

"It's seven o'clock," she whispered frantically. There began a hurried consultation, during which it was decided that Frank would go ahead downstairs as usual, and scout the terrain. If the coast was clear he would come back and tell her. If not, they would be caught, he supposed. When he entered the kitchen Helen was seated by the window drinking her coffee, just as she always did at that hour. She made all the usual polite conversation. Did she seem unusually severe this morning? he wondered. It was so difficult to tell with her. Instead of helping himself to coffee, he put on his boots and stammered something about having to help Joe first thing, and escaped, feeling cowardly, but nonetheless content to leave Clara to face her mother alone.

Frank began to irrigate propagation plants, and Joe, absorbed as always with the task at hand, was obviously unaware anything was amiss. They worked together through breakfast-time until Clara came sometime later to call them to eat. When Joe departed for the kitchen she and Frank lingered behind.

"Well?" he asked excitedly.

"It's okay. She knew I was up there. When I came down in my nightie she didn't say anything for a while. Neither did I. It was awkward, to say the least. But it's okay. She's known about us for some time, I guess it's obvious. She isn't sure if Dad knows, but he will now!"

"Do you think he'll be angry?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, wondering. "Mom wasn't. She's going to talk to him about me staying on; I want to see if this might work into something. What do you think?"

"I think it's wonderful! I've been kind of pondering it myself. I've wanted to talk to them about expansion. Joe told me when I came here that he needed one good year to put him on his feet again. Well so far it's been a great year. Maybe he'd consider building another plastic greenhouse and enlarging the operation."

"I have a few ideas; new things he hasn't tried before, but profitable. Dad likes to look at new ideas."

"And maybe I could look into buying the motel land," he cried, elated.

"Hang on Buckaroo. Let's see how things go for awhile first … you know, they just might be really happy to see us getting together. They like you, and before you came they were worried about continuing on here as they grew older, when Dad would be too old to work eighty hours a week anymore, and the place would become run down until they lost it … and they have been curious about what I was going to do, I'm sure."

"You don't suppose they're talking about us in there right now do you?"

"No, after breakfast. It's okay, Frank. I mean, I'm not going to move into your room or anything, but it's okay. Come on."

After breakfast, while Helen was removing plates from the table she announced that they were going to have a meeting. She prepared a second pot of coffee and left it to brew, and then put Clara's proposal to Joe. No mention was made of her earlier predicament, and Joe took the news pretty much in stride, betraying no emotion. Practical and pragmatic as always, he merely suggested ways to increase productivity by spring without any large investment. Immediately, an extra helper would make it possible to put more garden area under cultivation. Stone could be picked out of newly levelled terraces, and retainer walls built with it. Then mineral and humous could be added and tilled under to prepare for spring planting of a variety of new perennial stock. Joe was particularly interested in trying lilies, with an annual harvest of bulbs for shipment out east. If Clara would be willing to wait until spring before beginning to draw a salary, they could add an unheated plastic greenhouse which would make another set of hands both productive and profitable. In the meantime, he concluded, they would be very happy to have their daughter home.

Frank watched Clara's expression as she gazed intently into her father's face as he spoke. He remarked to himself how pretty she was becoming, at least in his own mind, she was healthier and more robust, had added weight, filling out her once-thin figure, and the glow of happiness had softened her features.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Although Joe wasn't to begin paying Clara any wages until spring, he still found plenty for everyone to do. While Helen kept a watchful eye on the greenhouses, the others began at once to work on the new terraces. Frank and Clara were astonished to see how quickly new ground could be put under the spade despite the necessity to level and shore up the hillside garden. They prepared far more ground than Frank had envisioned, and then while the weather continued warm, they levelled ground, installed drainage tile and gravelled the floor for the new greenhouse. They constructed footings and the concrete ramp, built a masonry wall and laid flagstone walkways for the new structure. They assembled the framework and completed the ends, so that only the stretching of the polyethylene remained to be done before putting it into service in the spring. The expensive systems, such as heating and air handling could wait, as the area was to be used solely for bedding plants during the first year.

They would require many new tables, and Clara and Frank constructed them in the carpentry shop over the winter, as well as hundreds of new wooden flats and shipping trays. The Christmas poinsettias cleared the greenhouse just in time to make room for Easter lilies to be planted, and this year Joe made greater use of the cool storage, growing hydrangeas, and experimenting with tulips, hyacinth and narcissus which would require little light or heat during the cold months. Then they worked half-days for a while, the operation partially shut down during the heating season. Everything was in one greenhouse, which required the constant attention of only one person to control the systems, so there were finally opportunities for recreation and leisure.

Twice during the winter Frank and Clara visited Vancouver and stayed several days each time. They attended a play, ate gourmet meals in the hotel restaurant, saw Butchart Gardens in Victoria, travelled by ferry to the Queen Charlotte Islands and browsed in the shops. When they returned Clara exhorted her parents to take a similar holiday; she and Frank could take care of things without any problem. She coaxed, but they demurred. After the second holiday they were more successful. They told Joe about the bluegrass jam session held every Saturday night in the hotel bar, and that convinced him. They left on Friday morning to spend a long weekend, not to return until Monday evening. It was the first time they were away from their greenhouse overnight together in eighteen years.

While they were away Frank and Clara played house, worked short hours, and experienced the innumerable commonplace intimacies taken for granted by most young married couples. Frank dreamed often about buying the property along the road so he could build a private space for himself and Clara. On Monday morning he went to the township office and learned the name and address of the registered owner, and that evening a letter of enquiry went into the rural mailbox. Correspondence was exchanged over the next month and by mid-February Frank was driving to Victoria to meet with the lawyer, hoping to arrive at an agreement. He intended to drive a hard bargain, as the owner had never shown any interest in the property, in fact he had never wanted to own it in the first place. Once he had been ushered into the mahogany-panelled, broadloomed office however, he learned his calculations had been incorrect. The lawyer was quite content to allow the property to appreciate modestly, the only cost to him being a trifling amount annually for the taxes. Moreover, he advised Frank, the land had been signed over to him as the only payment for a lot of expensive legal work. What was he prepared to offer for it?

Frank quickly revised his calculations. He offered more than he had intended, and was quickly bargained beyond that until finally he arrived at his upper limit; the full amount in his bank account back east; that is to say, seven thousand dollars. He wrote a cheque on his local chequing account for a small down payment, and signed an agreement of purchase and sale.

All the way home he vacillated, excited that he now as much as owned the property, while at times he stewed about the certainty of his having been outwitted. He arrived in the early evening and when he was seated before the dinner that had been set aside for him, Joe came in to learn the news. Frank slid the copy of the agreement over to him and saw the dark eyes flick over the figures that had been typewritten into the text. He shook his head in consternation.

"Too much, eh Joe? It couldn't be helped, he wasn't anxious to sell."

"You, on the other hand, were very anxious to buy!" Joe prodded him with a grin. "It doesn't matter, the way things are going it will probably be worth double that amount before too long. You can't lose anyway."

That night Frank wrote a thick letter to Tom and Leila and described the motel property to them for the first time. He informed them of the upcoming purchase, and outlined his plans for the place. Their correspondence had deteriorated lately. After the first glowing reports about job potential and progress, the letters had dwindled in both frequency and substance, lagging simply because their lifestyles, though comfortable, weren't newsworthy. They telephoned occasionally, on special holidays, always late at night. Leila's calls, placed three time zones away, would arrive at the Van der Horn farm at a few minutes past nine in the evening. They always found plenty to discuss when engaged in conversation even during periods when they couldn't find anything worthwhile to write about.

Helen never forgot Leila McDermott, and never failed to ask after her when a letter arrived. Hiring Frank had worked out very well for them, and Helen attributed much of that success to Leila's intervention. They had talked at length during that momentous call, and an acquaintanceship had begun, so that now when Frank was called to the phone it was usually after a brief conversation had already taken place between the two women.

One day a letter arrived that worried Frank. Tom's job wasn't working out as he had thought it would. Being bright and capable, and used to being in the forefront of any academic exercise, he had believed he would soon achieve recognition in his new field, but that hadn't happened. His starting pay had been small, and had remained pretty much unchanged. He was expected to carry work home at night and on weekends without any compensation for overtime. Though the position he held was an unimportant one, he found it stressful, because of the constant pressure to do more. The workload was too large, and while an employee was never chastised for not doing extra on private time, he competed with, and was compared to, those who were willing to do more to curry favour and demonstrate their commitment to the firm. Leila believed his supervisors found him too rough-shod for their middle-class tastes. For whatever reason, he had been passed over for promotion twice, and was becoming disillusioned and unhappy. Although he was apologetic when reminded of it, he had been frequently cross to Leila lately, something Frank knew was unlike him.

He called east that night, waiting until midnight for the reduced rate, and getting Tom out of bed at three in the morning. He made no mention of the job, but concentrated instead on convincing Tom to agree to a summer vacation in the mountains. He would have a cabin ready for them he promised, and they would enjoy a real holiday together. Meanwhile, he chided, Tom was to get his priorities in order. What was more important to him, a job he didn't like, or his relationship with Leila?

Spring came early to the mountains that year, and three full-time attendants working sixty hours a week made it the most profitable the Van der Horne had ever experienced. Helen once more assisted in pricking off and the greenhouse swelled with the product of their labour. Soon the new shelter was ready, and assorted flowers, newly repotted, displaced the bedding plants into the unheated structure. Before very long every available inch of area had been filled and it became a full-time job caring for the burgeoning produce.

There was no time for Frank and Clara to be working on the cottage, nor visiting it much either, it seemed. The closing date arrived, Frank was able to handle it through a local notary, and then he and Clara began to discuss construction. Joe was eager to be involved, at least at the planning stage, and offered sensible, sound advice. There was water available over there, he explained, it ran down the opposite side of the hill, and if they could syphon water to their location, they could mix concrete on site and pour pilings for the addition. The other cabin could easily be jacked off its present mooring and rolled on logs to its new resting-place. By leaving a space between the buildings when they were attached, there would be no need to remove the roof look-outs, and they could add closets and a small foyer, or even another room, at little cost. By moving the outhouse, it could be situated to allow for incorporation into the woodshed later, making it unnecessary to go outside into the dark or the rain. He had lived in such a house, he explained, as a boy growing up in the Holland Marsh. As soon as things got a little less hectic, he suggested, they could accomplish that much; get the structure closed in, and then complete the work at their leisure in the winter time.

At the end of June the work began; Frank and Clara working together each afternoon. Joe's ideas had been simple and unambitious, so that each task proceeded quickly and presented few problems. They hadn't a lot of time; Joe would soon need them for wood-cutting, so they worked steadily, using a rented auger on the tractor to excavate for the round concrete pilings. When they were ready to roll the cabin, Joe assisted, and once it rested securely in its new location, closing in the space between took only two days. They reshingled the roof, and screened in the porch attached to the kitchen. Then they went shopping for a used woodstove; a kitchen range for both cooking and heating. Frank intended to continue living in his room at the farm during the coldest months, and use the cabin only part of the time.

What with steady work and the involvement of building, July passed by in no time at all. It was Frank's second summer in the mountains, and he marked time by the cyclical events he witnessed about him in nature. Wildflowers bloomed, one after another, in a now-familiar rapid succession to mark the passage of the season, and the birds he had observed the year before raised their young, taught them the fundamentals of foraging and flight, and moved on. During the first week in July wood-cutting began and he and Joe worked steadily in the forest while Clara spelled her father off all day in the greenhouse. It was at about this time that Frank became aware of some secret in the house, to which he wasn't a party. Clara and Helen hushed up quickly when he entered the kitchen one morning, and another occasion he thought he caught them acting mysteriously. He concluded they were planning something special for his fortieth birthday, which was during the next week. On Tuesday afternoon Joe and Frank were busy in the woods at the back end of the farm. They had been cutting steadily all day, and were scouting and marking trees to be culled or pruned when Frank heard in the distance what sounded to him like a Harley-Davidson. One didn't hear one often on their quiet road he thought, but then there came the unmistakeable blat-blat of the big bike gearing down for a turn. He cocked his ear intently and became certain it was travelling slowly along the lane toward the house.

"Hear that Joe?"

"What?"

"That! It sounds like a Harley."

"Does it?"

He eyed Joe suspiciously. There was something wrong here. "Do you know who that is?"

"How would I know?"

"Don't give me that bullshit Joe. When a car comes in here you can't identify you're halfway to the house before it gets there. Is it Roy?"

Joe laughed at that.

"It's Tom! Isn't it?" He set off at a trot, and as he broke out of the woods and took the trail for the house he heard the tractor starting up once more. There was no sound of the other vehicle now and he wasn't so sure any more. He might have been mistaken. Being in the trees would have made it hard to judge the direction the motorcycle had taken. He moderated his pace to a brisk walk, but when he turned the corner by the garage he broke into a run once more. Tom and Leila stood by the front door of the house, dressed in denim and leather, Leila was just shaking out her rich long hair after removing her helmet. She shrieked when she saw him, so that it was to her he went first, swinging her off her feet in a wild embrace. He had been so busy here, he had forgotten how attached he had been to them, but the tears threatening to cascade down his face betrayed that he had missed them very much. He pumped Tom's hand with enthusiasm, but when he looked over his shoulder he saw Clara watching, wistful and uncertain.

"You didn't ride that old knuckle all the way from Ontario!" "Did so! I wasn't positive about the idea myself, but we made it just fine except for a couple of minor problems. We were prepared to ship it home by rail at the first sign of trouble; after all, it's over forty years old. What a great trip it's been! Neither of us has ever seen the west before."

Leila cut in then. "Helen told us the cabin was ready to camp in, so we took three weeks holiday and came on out. Surprised Frank?"

All work stopped then for the day; even Joe appeared shortly, and Frank learned that a big barbecue had been prepared in advance. There were even cases of cold beer, an unusual thing in the Van der Horne house, for they drank only rarely. When they had eaten their fill of steak and potato salad, and pie, and Tom and Leila had been given a guided tour, the party got into beer and conversation. Presently the subject of Tom's career came up. He readily admitted he hated his job, felt as though he didn't fit in, and blamed his working-class attitudes as the probable cause. He had felt less exploited as a blue-collar worker he said, at least when quitting time came you laid down your tools, and your employer evaluated you by measuring productivity and craftsmanship, not by listening to the criticisms of the office fink. He had chased the white collar dream, taught to him as an adolescent in school, had acquired the necessary academic training only to find the middle-class lifestyle to be like ashes in his mouth. He and Leila weren't progressing much either, he added, for they had more debt than savings, and nothing permanent to show for it. Finally, he was fed up with the set of ethics held by many of his colleagues, in which company profit and corporate well-being were more important than individual scruples. He described the settlement of two separate insurance claims for two very similar fires. Though the policies were identical they differed greatly in the amount of coverage, but the distinction Tom was making wasn't so much one of the importance of the client, but of his knowledge when it came to making a claim. A mattress fire had on both occasions resulted in very little being burned, but the cleanup of smoke, water and odour damage was considerable. One claimant was offered half the price of a new mattress (the ruined one having been used), and was expected to clean up the mess caused by his carelessness as best he could. The other claimant, knowledgeable about insurance claims, demanded dry cleaning, carpet shampoo, professional painting and deodorizing, in addition to a complete new bed. It seemed, he concluded sadly, that those with advantages, possess all the advantages and they are only too visible to those trained to recognize status.

There were three reasons for their visit, he said. He and Leila needed a period alone together away from the pressures of work. The six-day trip out on the bike had settled him down a lot, and he was prepared for a quiet holiday. Secondly, they hoped to check out opportunities in the west, as he was contemplating a change, possible to revert back to a welding job, or maybe to enrol in a machinist's course. Most importantly though, they were there to help Frank celebrate his birthday; "the big four-oh."

The week Tom had set aside to visit passed quickly, during which Frank and Clara kept busy entertaining and vacationing. They went fishing; the first time since Frank had been there, and were treated to rides on the motorcycle. Because the holidaying could be done only after their daily duties had been discharged, Tom and Leila helped out to free them from work earlier.

They quickly impressed Joe with their hard work and capabilities, and Frank watched as Joe repeated much of the same instruction he himself had received; teaching and discussing technical problems and procedures. As a student Tom was quite different though, for where Frank had listened, absorbed and obeyed without much discussion, Tom had an inventive mind, and his own ideas, suggestions and innovations. He believed in technology and research, and calculating net returns on new methods and equipment. Joe on the other hand had always remained with the tried and proven, the traditional, conventional approach. Still, they enjoyed one another's company. They could be heard consulting, arguing good-naturedly as Tom followed him about, assisting with whatever he might be doing at the moment.

Early one morning, just as Tom and Leila arrived on the bike, Joe confided his affection for them.

"My God, Frank, that's a strapping big beautiful girl, isn't she?"

"She sure is. The first time I met her it almost knocked the wind out of me. But she's no ornament Joe. She's a good worker and always a pleasure to have around."

"Yes. You know, I'm going to miss those two."

Too soon the last day of their visit arrived. They would set out the next morning after breakfast. Five hundred miles made a short day of driving, but it was plenty on a motorcycle, so they wouldn't need to leave very early. There was a fire pit in front of the cabin, and there had been a fire in it every evening during their stay. On the last night Joe and Helen arrived, carrying aluminum chairs, and joined the four friends. The general mood was sombre at first, for Tom and Leila weren't so eager to begin as they had been on the way out, the attraction of a Canada-wide motorcycle trip had lost its novelty, and the return to Ontario promised to be simply a very long drive.

"Don't go!" urged Frank. "Ship the bike back, and stay another week. You could look for jobs!"

"That's not a bad idea Frank. I'm sure it's my job that makes going home seem so unpleasant. I wish we could stay, but we don't really have money to ship the bike home, and then fly."

"I have money. In twelve months here I've barely spent three month's wages. There's nothing to spend it on; I don't have a car even."

"Aw, thanks Frank," said Leila, "but we can't accept it. Besides, a week isn't a reasonable time to look for a job, and you're a long piece from the city here, remember."

"Hell, I'd offer you jobs," offered Joe, "if I thought you'd accept them. I'm sure your wages back east are a lot more than what these two are earning working for me." Everyone looked at him in amazement, while Helen stared steadily into the fire. "We could use you both. You know, I never wanted to be saddled with employees, not as long as we could get along on our own. Nowadays hiring someone means a lot of responsibility and government red tape, and my experience has been that many of them don't work out. There can be a long time between becoming dissatisfied with a bad employee, and finally getting rid of him. You two would work out really well though, I'm positive of that, and Helen and I have been thinking that if we increased our staff to four, we could turn the old family farm into a real business." He paused for a moment.

"Helen has been wanting me to slow down for some time, and after the little holiday we took last winter we decided to spend more time away from work in the future. Frank and Clara have made that possible, but there are a lot of advantages to adopting more business-like methods. If I acted only as a manager here, it would be like retirement compared to how we have worked in the past. At the very least there could be paid vacation time for us both."

"Right on" said Tom, excited now. "We're talking about seasonal jobs here, that means layoffs. We could take turns drawing pogy on alternate winters, and stack our hours during peak periods to maximize benefits," he suggested.

"On second thought, maybe you wouldn't make such a great employee." Joe retorted, laughing. "You haven't even been hired yet and already you're looking forward to being laid off … you know, I can't offer you much for wages until spring when the extra labour will begin to pay off."

"I'm going to think very hard on your offer tonight Joe, and the wage you're offering won't be the biggest consideration. I have never stayed anywhere that I felt more a part of things than I have right here; not even at home as a kid. But regardless of our decision, you should take advantage of the system and the loopholes provided. You're required by law to contribute unemployment premiums, and deduct them from your employees, and the rules are their rules, after all."

"Now Tom," Helen interjected, "I keep the books here, and I like to have everything above-board and beyond suspicion. I've never been audited, not once in eighteen years."

"Then you're probably paying too much. Big companies keep specialized lawyers and tax consultants on retainer to keep track of changes and find ways to minimize taxes. Rich individuals do too. You don't have to get very technical, or dream up legal fictions like they do; just research your own situation well. Revenue Canada people will tell you what you're entitled to — if you ask the right questions. Remember, these loopholes and advantages have traditionally worked to the benefit of the rich. Once enough of us begin to use them, the system will have to change."

Next morning at breakfast time Tom and Leila arrived on the Harley-Davidson as planned. They announced as they entered that they had decided what to do: they weren't going. They were going to fly home next week to quit their jobs and sell the furniture. The excited discussion that ensued delayed breakfast a half-hour, until Leila quieted things with a new proposal. "Why don't you stay here Tom, — don't go back at all, and let Clara and me fly home to settle our affairs. We'll liquidate everything, empty our bank accounts, and sell all the stuff we won't need. I'll keep enough furniture to set up Frank's cottage, and we can share it for the present."

"Good idea," cried Clara, "I haven't been out east since I was ten years old."

"I have to go Lee, what about giving notice to the company?"

"If you were talking about my employers, I would agree, but your's have never treated you so well. When they fire someone, do they give him notice, or do they lock him out of his office on Friday afternoon and tell him not to come in Monday?"

"Okay, I'll concede that point, but who will move the furniture?"

"Oh, we'll manage. You and Frank just have that cabin ready for furniture when we get here."