Thunder Bay (38 page)

Meloux stayed in Canada. He spent ten days with his son and his grandchildren, who came from British Columbia and Toronto to be with him and their father. I had no doubt Meloux’s heart was as light and healthy as it had ever been.

Immediately after the shootings, I spent a night in Ignace making sure Schanno was okay in the hospital there. The doctors wanted to keep him a couple of days for observation. The provincial police had given me permission to return to Minnesota, with the understanding that they could call me back if I was needed. The next morning, I took off for home.

At a gas station in Grand Portage, just south of the border, I called Jo. I tried her office first, but Fran, her secretary, told me she wasn’t going to be in all day. She wouldn’t tell me why, and I didn’t like the reservation in her voice. I called home. Jo picked up. I could tell something was wrong.

“It can wait until you get home. You’ve been through enough the last couple of days,” she said.

“Jo, what is it?”

She was quiet, considering whether to put me off or let me in.

“It’s Jenny, Cork. She started bleeding last night. I took her to the hospital. She lost the baby.”

“Ah, Jesus.” I leaned my forehead against the wall above the pay phone. “How is she?”

“A mess.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can. No more than three hours.”

“Don’t push it, Cork. It’s over. Just get home safely.”

I spent the rest of the drive feeling shitty, railing at God, beating myself for not being there for my daughter when she needed me.

I pulled into the drive in the late afternoon and parked in the shade of our elm. Stevie came running from the backyard with Walleye not far behind. My son was all bounce. Walleye ambled along with a kind of patient obedience. His tongue was hanging out, and I felt sorry for the old boy. Stevie had clearly worn him out. Walleye was probably hoping Meloux was with me, a sign that they could both return to their quiet lives as over-the-hill bachelors.

“Dad!” Stevie cried. “Watch this!” He turned to the dog. “Come on, Walleye. Come on, boy.”

Walleye took his time but eventually joined us under the canopy of the elm.

“Okay, boy, sit.”

Walleye sat, blinking tolerantly.

“Now roll over, boy.”

Stevie used his arms in an exaggerated rollover gesture, but Walleye didn’t get off his butt.

“Here, like this.”

Stevie eased the dog’s front legs forward so that Walleye’s whole body settled on the ground. With his small, eager hands, my son urged the dog onto his side, then his back, and finally onto his belly once again.

“We’re still practicing that one,” Stevie explained.

“Good work,” I said. “Your mom inside?”

“Yeah.” Stevie’s face clouded and his dark young eyes got painfully serious. “She’s with Jenny.”

“Don’t work him too hard.” I nodded toward Walleye, who’d lowered his head onto his paws and was relaxing in the grass. “There’s a saying about old dogs and new tricks.”

“I know that one,” Stevie said. “But Walleye is extra smart. Come on, boy. I’ll show you how to catch a Frisbee.”

Walleye’s placid brown eyes gave me a brief, pleading look.

“Come on,” Stevie said. He nuzzled the dog’s nose against his own.

What could Walleye do? What could any good heart do in the face of such uncompromising affection? The old dog staggered to his feet and lumbered after Stevie.

Jo met me at the door. She kissed me warmly and gave me a long, heartfelt hug. She whispered against my neck, “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been watching the news reports of what happened up there. It sounds awful.”

“I imagine what’s happened here hasn’t been easy either. Jenny upstairs?”

Jo nodded. “She hasn’t been out of her room since we came back from the hospital.”

“Does Sean know?”

“I called this morning. He wanted to come over right away, but I told him that wasn’t a good idea. She needs some time.”

“Okay if I go up and talk to her, you think?”

“She could use you right now.”

Jo went to the kitchen to make some coffee. I started up the stairs. My legs felt heavy.

I was thinking about all the things we leave behind us, or lose, or whose value we don’t recognize until it’s too late. Sean had been a part of something that could have been beautiful for him, if he’d let it be. The chance was gone. No matter how much he loved her, Jenny was beyond him now.

A part of Jenny had been lost. Not just her baby, but also who she’d been. And the truth was that she’d lost it even before the blood began to spill from her womb, taking the tiny life with it.

I was thinking about me as well. Two days before, I’d killed a man, the greatest of sins, but it mattered so little to me compared with the question of what comfort I could be to Jenny. Somewhere along the way I’d left behind whatever it is in a human being that grieves when violence becomes the answer. If Benning stood before me again, I’d shoot him again.

I knocked, opened Jenny’s door, and offered my precious daughter the only comfort I had: my arms to hold her as she wept against my chest.

O
n a Sunday morning near the end of August, after we’d all returned home from Mass, we stood outside the house, gathered around Jo’s Camry, which was packed with boxes and suitcases containing all the things Jenny was taking with her to Iowa City. She and Jo were driving down together, a mother-daughter road trip. I was staying back to tend the home fires.

Anne and Jenny had already said their good-byes. They’d been up most of the night talking in Jenny’s room. Stevie suffered his big sister’s parting hug. I kissed my daughter and told her how proud I was of her and that I knew she was going to set the world on fire.

“I’ll just be happy if I don’t flunk out, Dad.” She smiled. Like all her smiles those days, it seemed like a bird struggling to fly.

“There’ll always be an apron for you at Sam’s Place,” I said.

She got in the car quickly and stared straight ahead, waiting for her mother.

“Let me know you’ve arrived safely, okay?” I told Jo.

“You know I will.”

We waved good-bye as the Camry shot off down Gooseberry Lane, taking Jenny to a different life, one that we would know about in letters and emails and in the stories she would tell at Thanksgiving or Christmas. We would know only what she wanted us to know of the life that was all her own now. And even for that we would be grateful.

Anne and Stevie stood looking at the empty street.

“Wish Walleye was still here,” Stevie said sadly.

“Let’s take a drive, too,” I said.

Ten minutes later, we pulled up to Schanno’s house. He was standing in the front yard with Trixie yanking on a long leash and investigating
every bush that the length of her tether would allow. There was a
FOR SALE
sign stuck in the ground near the street.

Stevie had been quiet on the drive over, but when he saw the dog, he brightened and ran toward it. Trixie jumped all over him. Annie joined them while I spoke with Schanno.

“You’re sure about this, Wally?”

“I’m sure. Hell, an old man shouldn’t have a young dog. Besides, every time I call her name I think of Trinky.” He walked to a little redwood bench in his yard. He had to use a cane. He looked old beyond his years. I’d thought—hoped—that in asking him to back me up in Canada, I was offering a way for his spirit to rebound from the loss of his wife. Instead, something in him had died, died out there with Trinky Pollard, died for good, I was afraid. He sat down and stared ahead. “Realtor says the house’ll move fast. My daughter’s looking for something for me near her in Maryland. Condo, town house, something like that.”

“Mind’s made up, huh?”

“I’m tired, Cork. I’m just so damn tired.” He nodded toward the kids. “Have you told ’em?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t you think it’s time?”

“Hey, guys,” I called. “I’ve got a surprise. Trixie’s coming home with us.”

“We’re taking care of her for Mr. Schanno?” Stevie said eagerly.

“We’re taking care of her for good. She’s ours now.”

“Really? I love her, Dad. I love you, Trixie.” Stevie put his face to hers, and she licked him like a lollipop.

The biggest word in the human vocabulary has only four letters and no definition that’s ever been adequate. We love our dogs. We love our children. We love God and chocolate cake. We fall in love and fall out of love. We die for love and we kill for love. We can’t spend it. We can’t eat it when we’re starving or drink it when we’re dying of thirst. It’s no good against the bitter cold of winter, and even a cheap electric fan will do more for you on a hot summer day. But ask most human beings what they value above all else in this life and, five’ll get you ten, it’s love.

We’re a screwy species,
I thought, as I watched my son and daughter roll in the grass with the puppy slobbering all over them.

“Dad,” they squealed happily, “help us!”

And I did my best.