When Boomers Go Bad Page 14

  “Hey, Roger, when I didn’t see your mom, I thought I was locked in!”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t she downstairs?”

  “Didn’t see her, man.”

  As soon as the lock bolted behind him, I headed back to the kitchen. The back door was locked from the inside. With one sweeping glance at the rectangular room, it was obvious she wasn’t here. As I headed down to the basement, I heard the unmistakable metallic click of the walk-in refrigerator door. I got to the bottom of the stairs in time to see my mom come out of the fridge, with Michael right behind her. It didn’t look like she was giving him a tour. Her eyes were wide with fright, and his hand was clamped on her shoulder.

  “Michael! What’re you doing here?”

  He was dressed like a bad guy on a cop show: black turtleneck and black leather jacket. The fact that he was also wearing black leather gloves in June made me uneasy.

  “Hey there, Roger, just having a chat with your mother about my family,” he said, in a manner that reminded me of a corporate shark planning a raid.

  “The fridge isn’t as comfortable as upstairs.”

  “Just wanted some privacy.”

  “Well, we have to get going. Come back tomorrow. We’ll have lunch together, just the three of us.” I approached slowly, and as I reached for my mother, he yanked her back. She shouted, then elbowed him in the stomach. He grimaced, but didn’t let go of her.

  That was enough.

  I grabbed his jacket with the intention of kicking his ass out of my restaurant, when he reached over and pulled a chopping knife out of the butcher’s block. “I didn’t plan to do it this way, but if I have to, I will.” He held the edge of the blade under my ear. I released him and took a step back. My mother was frozen in terror. “All I wanted were some answers. If she had cooperated, this wouldn’t have been necessary.”

  “Answers? You mean about that picture?”

  He nodded. “Where’s that baby?”

  “She doesn’t know. It was given up for adoption.”

  “Like hell it was! I found the birth certificate dated Hong Kong, 1958. I found the cheques!” His face turned purplish red as he became enraged. “My mother wrote cheques to your mother for over forty years with a note saying it was for Renji. Renji’s birthday! Renji’s high school graduation! The same name on the birth certificate!”

  I was dumbstruck. It couldn’t be.

  Michael held the knife threateningly. I was certain he had no intention of welcoming Renji as a sibling.

  “I hear the hospital is investigating your mother’s death,” I said, scrambling to stall for time. A gasp escaped from my mother. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “What do you think this is, TV? That I’m going to confess to the good guy before I kill him?” His words chilled me to the bone. “Nobody is going to find out about that baby. I thought only your mother knew, but now, I’ll have to take care of you, too.”

  Knives are dangerous, but they can’t accidentally go off like a gun. I grabbed a roasting pan and slammed it against his hand. He cried out in pain, and the knife flew out of his hand. I lunged at him, and we both fell onto the concrete floor. He was getting the upper hand when suddenly, his head jerked backwards and a long, sharp blade was firmly pressed against his throat. My mother had him helpless in her grip, like the chickens she slaughtered every week.

  I quickly got up and reached for the phone on the wall. “I’d advise you not to move, Michael. You know they lose their balance at that age. Accidents happen.”

  It took almost a year before Michael’s case was heard in court. His battery of lawyers tried to suppress every piece of evidence and challenged every witness’s testimony: the hospital doctor, who said Violet McIntosh had been asphyxiated; the CFO of McIntosh Enterprises who swore that Michael had ordered him to fix the books, inflating the company’s shares, and that only days before her accident, Violet, suspicious of the numbers, had ordered an investigation.

  And then there was my mom, the only person alive who could confirm that Violet gave birth to a baby boy in Hong Kong in 1958. Violet’s Last Will and Testament clearly stated that the bulk of her estate, including the controlling shares of McIntosh Enterprises, were to go to her eldest son. As long as the world didn’t know about that baby, Michael stood to inherit everything. The prosecution maintained that Michael had planned to destroy all evidence surrounding that birth—even if it meant committing murder. He had discovered the photo when he broke into his mother’s safe and recognized his mother’s maid as the chef pictured in the Gazette, the same issue that had reported his mother’s accident.

  As for me, the eldest son, I have many new responsibilities to assume.

  You see, Renji is my Chinese name. I am Violet’s son.

  The morning after Michael’s arrest, my mother sat Peter and me down for a talk. Violet had had an affair with my uncle, the one who had disappeared. He had fled to escape her father’s wrath and responsibility for the situation. Violet’s parents had sent her to Hong Kong, not only to hide the shame of her unmarried state, but to hide the fact that the baby was half-Chinese. The plan was for her to leave the baby there for adoption, but my mother could not abandon her nephew. The two women made a secret pact: my mother would raise me as her own with Violet’s financial support. A fake birth certificate was paid for, and I returned to Canada as my mother’s son. My father knew I was a product of one of my uncle’s affairs, but had nonetheless raised me as his own. A year later, Violet had married into the McIntosh family, and Michael was born in 1960.

  It was Violet who had sent me on those trips to Hong Kong and who had paid for my education. She also gave my parents the money to open the Red Pagoda.

  My mother had kept the secret out of loyalty to Violet, and out of the fear that I’d leave her for Violet’s lavish lifestyle.

  Peter runs the restaurant these days, having sold the magazine to his assistant for a small profit. I visit at least twice a week, whenever I can get away from the office. It’s going to take a lot of time and work to win back shareholders’ confidence. Michael was found guilty, and his lawyers are filing an appeal.

  My mother says she is lucky to have two eldest sons.

  Day’s Lee has been short-listed in several contests, including the 2001 CBC Radio Short Story Contest. Her first children’s book, The Fragrant Garden, will be published by Napoleon Publishing in the fall of 2005. She is a member of the Quebec Writers’ Federation, is a recipient of a grant from Conseil des arts et des lettres du Quebec, and is currently working on a novel.

  Life Sentences

  Joan Boswell

  Banging bars, clanging gates, shouting—the noise drove Foster crazy. He sat back on his bunk. Fifty, the big five-o—no birthday parties in the Big House. What kind of a life was this? How many times had he been in and out? Too many. Thirty-one months done; five months left until he was eligible for parole. Maybe this time, he’d stay out. Now that was an original thought. How many guys had he heard say, “never again”, and six months later the wagon pulled in, and guess who got out?

  Maybe if he’d been to university when he was young, he’d be a household name, one of those financiers he read about in the paper. Those guys made millions and hardly ever went to jail and, even if they did, they stashed money away and lived like kings when they came out. If he’d taken commerce and headed into that world, he could have made those Bre-X guys look like amateurs.

  He’d aced the Queen’s University TV courses he’d taken while he was in jail. Psychology had been a joke. Separating the gullible from their money, playing on their greed and hope, that’s what he did professionally; he could have written a how-to book, but why let others know his methods? Not that they’d worked last time, but how could he have known the woman’s daughter was a cop? Instead of writing a book, he’d taken more courses. Although he enjoyed learning, what he really loved was being in the quiet library. He had time for one more before they sprang him.

  The big five-
o—when he got out, he needed one final score, and he’d retire.

  Pre-Confederation Canadian History: he picked it because the instructor, Dr. Mary Beth McNab, was a woman, and there weren’t too many in his life. Taking a course on TV was okay, but for him the hook was knowing the instructor would visit the class several times a term.

  He liked to learn the background of his professors. He figured you did better if you got an idea of what they’d done, what made them tick. None of the other six cons taking the course knew or cared. Since he did, he researched her in the university calendar and online.

  She’d written five books, four of them on Canadian Arctic history and one, The Montreal McNabs, about her family. He remembered reading in the business pages how the McNabs differed from other Canadian families whose involvement in their companies tapered off as grandchildren lost the work ethic that had made their grandfathers rich. The fourth generation McNabs continued to run their enterprises and rake in the dough. The librarian ordered the book from interlibrary loan. After he skimmed it and studied the genealogy charts, Foster concluded Dr. McNab rated as one very rich woman.

  Pen and paper in front of him, Foster turned on the TV to catch the first class. Professor McNab was probably about his age, and not bad looking. Not a beauty, but not bad. Better if she’d cut her scraggly hair, wear a little make-up—those blue eyes needed some help. She was walking back and forth, making notes on the board. Those shoes, what were they called, Birkenstocks. He couldn’t be sure, but she probably didn’t shave her legs. What was it about feminists and hair? No ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She wore a brown saggy skirt and some kind of striped top. If she was on a TV make-over program, they’d do a job on her. Hell, with her money, she could hire a pro to fix her up.

  Two essays a term, a test and a final exam. “You may write your essay on any topic on the list you received earlier,” she said.

  His eyes scanned the twenty topics and brightened when they settled on “Franklin’s Arctic Voyages—Lessons to be Learned”. The Arctic was her field; it might be risky to trespass, but he’d bet that if she was like most “experts”, she’d be pleased a student was interested. And it was a no-brainer. The Toronto Star had run an article on Franklin and lead poisoning a couple of weeks before, when somebody discovered the grave of one of Franklin’s sailors. The permafrost had preserved the guy. They did an autopsy and found he was full of lead. In those early days of canned food, the lead used to seal the tins leeched into the food, poisoned it and made those who ate it raving mad. The phrase “mad as a hatter” came from hat-makers, who also used lead to do something to the felt for hats. Lesson number one; don’t eat canned food.

  With the librarian’s help, he decided on the books and journals he needed.

  “I skimmed several of your books. You’ll really relate to the crew,” the librarian said when the volumes arrived.

  Foster knew his eyebrows had risen. “How so?”

  “You won’t believe this, but on Franklin’s second expedition, his ship stuck in the ice for three years; the ice never broke up. You know what three years in here is like; can you imagine what it was like in the Arctic?”

  Foster collected the material and moved to a quiet corner, where he thought about those guys up there surrounded by miles of quiet; nothing to see or hear, except on the ship. All of them stuffed into a tiny boat in the middle of nothing. Hundreds and hundreds of miles of white nothing. When they decided the ice would never break up, they’d left the ship and set out to find land, but by then with all the lead they’d eaten, they must have been crazy as coots. No one ever saw them again. Now that was what you’d call a “cool” jail break. He laughed at his own joke, but he felt for those guys; what a rotten way to die.

  Later in the term, Professor McNab returned their essays and scheduled a ten-minute discussion with each student. Foster couldn’t believe he felt excited about talking to a middle-aged woman about Franklin: it showed you what happened to a guy after three years inside. He didn’t have much of a wardrobe to choose from, but he did visit the barber.

  Sitting in the barber’s chair, he studied himself in the mirror, imagining what kind of an impression he’d make on Professor McNab. What would she think? Pretty good looking guy for five-o. Not all that tall. Who was he kidding—short, but probably taller than her, although it was hard to judge her height on TV. Working out kept his muscles toned and made his tattoos look good. Tattoos, but not anywhere she’d see them. He’d been smart enough to know little old ladies didn’t trust men with snakes twining around their arms, and he specialized in scamming the old dears. No glasses yet, and he wasn’t, what did the jokers say, follically challenged. Lots of grey curly hair on his head, his chest, his arms; if she liked hairy, she’d love him.

  Professor McNab, accompanied by a guard, strode into the room set aside for meeting the students. She parked her battered brown briefcase on a table at the front of the room and took a moment to study the seven men sitting on folding metal chairs. When their eyes met, Foster knew as surely as if she’d sent him an e-mail that she found him attractive. And to his surprise, she looked better in person than on TV, thinner for one thing.

  “I have your essays, and you impressed me with the amount of work and thought you put into your writing. Of course there’s room for improvement, but some of the essays, particularly Foster’s on Franklin and JC’s on Henry Hudson, were very good.” She handed the work back. She’d written, “Excellent, but you can do better. You have a gift for research and writing.”

  He laughed to himself; good con artists specialized in good communication skills.

  Interview time. They talked about his paper.

  “If you haven’t finished your degree, you should,” she said.

  “I haven’t. Are you giving a course next term?”

  Her turned-up lips and slightly raised eyebrows told Foster his remark had pleased her.

  “Queen’s has many excellent professors. Actually, I’m taking a leave of absence.” She pursed her mouth then gave a small, neat smile. “It’s probably immodest to say this, but I’m considered the expert on Arctic history.”

  Immodest his ass; she wanted to brag. “And I have been invited...” Again the smile. “Invited by the government to act as one of the go-betweens in the Department of Indian Affairs Land claim negotiations in Ottawa. It will mean doing quite a lot of research and attending meetings to substantiate the claims made by either side.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “It’s a great honour to know that both the Dene and Inuit trust me.”

  A germ of an idea wormed its way into Foster’s brain. “Congratulations. After the research I did on Franklin, I find Arctic history truly fascinating. I’d like to hear how your work is going.” Would she buy it?

  She tilted her head to one side and considered him. “Why don’t you write to me?” she said.

  Dear Professor McNab, Please do not answer if you’re too busy, but I would like to hear about your progress with the negotiations, Foster wrote shortly after she left.

  Her reply arrived within the week. Dear Foster, Please call me Mary Beth.

  Following three single-spaced pages describing who had said what, she wrote, Now, tell me about yourself...

  Given the green light, Foster created a wonderful sympathetic repentant man intent on reform but worried about re-entering the labour force.

  The letters flew back and forth.

  When you’re paroled, I realize it will be difficult for you to land a job. Is there any chance you’ll come to Ottawa?

  I’m amazed. Youve read my mind. I’ve already applied to locate there, Foster assured Mary Beth.

  I don’t think I’ve mentioned my health problems, but they drain my energy. Since I arrived in Ottawa, Vve found there’s more material than I can handle in the time I have. I need an assistant. If you’re interested, I have grant money, although not enough to pay you very much.

  Eureka. The big enchilada.
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  It was a piece of cake. She was lonely—he was grateful and attentive. From their first meeting, he’d known she found him attractive, and she responded to his overtures.

  After three years inside, regular sex was great, even if the quality wasn’t the best. Mary Beth lived in the dark ages in terms of experimentation and variety. Maybe it was because she believed she’d saved him that she insisted on the missionary position to the exclusion of anything else.

  “It’s crazy. We’re so different, but you make me happy,” she said one night.

  “Me too, what would you think if I proposed?” Foster held his breath. This could be the answer to everything.

  “I’d accept,” Mary Beth said. Three days later, after Foster signed a prenuptial agreement, they trotted off to City Hall and tied the knot.

  Foster had landed in another prison.

  During their brief courtship, he hadn’t seen the “real” Mary Beth. As a husband, he discovered she held fixed opinions on many subjects, and he didn’t share most of them.

  It began right after their wedding, when they went out for a celebratory dinner, and he ordered spareribs.

  “Foster, how could you? Don’t you know that pigs are close genetic relatives? In fact, we already use pig heart valves for humans. Eating pork is tantamount to cannibalism.”

  She launched into a long spiel about the virtues of a vegetarian diet combined with an attack on his food choices. She said it was for his own good. She claimed her diet kept her from dying from the after-effects of a bout of childhood rheumatic fever that had damaged her heart.

  Hoping to cook food he liked, he offered to take over in the kitchen. Mary Beth enjoyed his pancakes, bread and trail mix but refused to allow even a whiff of meat or poultry. Foster, a confirmed carnivore, hated tofu, yogurt, stir fries and vegetables. He’d never known there were so many vegetables, and when he sneaked away for a food fix, he rejected all of them except fries and ketchup.