Chapter One
I
saw the guy coming half a mile away, the dust from his pickup blowing across my
cornfield. Not many vehicles use the gravel road past my farm, so Chevy and I
both stopped to watch. By the time the truck was halfway up my lane, the dog
was off the front stoop and running toward him. Tail wagging, tongue lolling.
Chevy never has been much of a guard dog.
The truck had Alberta plates, so the dude
was a long way from home. He took his time climbing down, like he was stiff
from hours of traveling. He limped toward me.
ÒCedric Elvis OÕToole?Ó he said.
I bristled. IÕve heard that little sneer
often enough. My mother saddled me with that name, but she is long dead, and
she couldnÕt help her love for Elvis. With his wraparound sunglasses and his
leather cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, the guy didnÕt give much away. But
he wasnÕt smiling. About three feet from me he stopped.
ÒI think you might be my brother.Ó
Now, I should say here that I have no
brother. ThereÕd only ever been my mother and me when I was growing up. We
lived together out on this worthless scrub farm. She died when I was seventeen,
and no one ever came to claim it from me. The only one of my motherÕs relatives
who actually spoke to us was her aunt Penny. Getting pregnant at sixteen was an
unforgivable sin in the OÕToole clan, Aunt Penny said.
So there could be a whole lot of cousins
I know nothing about, but IÕd have noticed if there was a brother underfoot.
I said that to the man standing in front
of me. I couldnÕt see much of his face, but he was built like an oil drum.
IÕm a beanpole, even though I spend most of my days working on my farm and
doing construction.
He grinned. ÒHalf brother, I should have
said. Steve LilleyÕs my name.Ó He shoved out his hand. It was rough and
callused, but his grip was friendly. He gestured to my front stoop.
ÒCan we sit down, Cedric?Ó He cocked his
head at me. ÒDo people really call you that?Ó
ÒOnly my great aunt when sheÕs mad at me.
Rick will do.Ó
Steve limped over to my stoop and eased
himself down. ÒYou got something cold to drink inside?Ó
ÒUmÉCoke?Ó
Steve made a face. ÒI guess that will
do.Ó
I went inside to get two Cokes. I donÕt
drink the stuff often. ItÕs so sweet it makes my teeth ache. But there were a
couple of cans in the back of the fridge. IÕm guessing they didnÕt have an
expiry date. While I was opening them, Steve came into the kitchen and stood
looking around. His eyebrows shot up.
I know the farmhouse is nothing fancy.
ItÕs about a hundred years old, and my mother couldnÕt afford to fix it up. She
put in electric appliances and painted the pine cupboards and the old farm
table bright yellow with blue flowers. But we pretty much left the rest of the
place alone. I live here by myself, and so far itÕs suited me fine. IÕve been
thinking I should fix it up a bit now that Jessica is coming over, but thatÕs a
story for another time. Now I could see it was pretty shabby. I felt the tips
of my ears grow red.
He peered over my shoulder into the
fridge. I grow or raise most of what I eat myself. The fridge had a few
vegetables, milk, eggs and goat cheese. ÒI donÕt have much right now,Ó I
mumbled.
ÒI passed a pub in town,Ó he said. ÒWe
could grab dinner and a couple of beers there instead.Ó
I thought of all the flapping ears that
would be listening to our conversation. By morning the whole town would know
about Cedric OÕTooleÕs long-lost brother coming to town. My poor mother had had
enough gossip in her time.
ÒIÕll fix us something. And IÕve got beer
in the cellar.Ó
He seemed happy with that news and
settled in to watch. I cut up some goat cheese, homemade bread, peppers and
carrots, and put them all on a tray.
Back outside on the stoop, he downed half
his beer before he said a word. He seemed to be having trouble getting started.
ÒYour mother dead?Ó he said finally.
I nodded. ÒLong time ago.Ó
ÒMine died three months ago.Ó He drank
more beer. ÒCancer. That was a bitch.Ó
Words have never been my strong suit. But
I know it must be hard to watch someone die bit by bit. ÒSorry,Ó I muttered
when heÕd been quiet too long.
ÒThere was just me and her at the end. My
dad died ten years ago. At least, I thought he was my dad. He was the only one
I knew, and I always thought he was my real dad. But when my mom was dying, she
told me he wasnÕt.Ó
I finally saw where this was going. My
heart raced as I waited. He drained his beer can and crushed it in one fist.
ÒThis is hard,Ó he said. ÒIÕve been going over it in my mind this whole trip,
how I was going to explain it.Ó
ÒYou want another beer?Ó I needed one. I
was about to get the answer to the biggest question of my life, and I wasnÕt
sure I was ready. Down in the cellar, I breathed in and out to settle my
nerves.
ÒI brought us the case,Ó I said when I
went back outside. The sun was setting, and long shadows were creeping across
the yard. Steve was scratching ChevyÕs ears. ÒWe used to have a dog,Ó he said.
ÒGod, I loved that dog. When I went into the service, my mother had her put
down. Said she was old and sick, but IÕve always wondered.Ó He paused and took
a breath. ÒWe grew up in Calgary. ThatÕs the only home I know. My mother said
my real father worked in Fort McMurray during the oil boom. HeÕd come to
Calgary for his holidays. He met my mother there, one thing led to another. But
when I was a baby, he went east to visit a buddy. Never came back. She never
heard from him again.Ò
He stopped again to scratch ChevyÕs ears
and drink more beer. ÒWhoÕs your father, Rick?Ó
I wasnÕt ready to tell him that story
yet. I was already about to jump out of my skin. ÒWhoÕs yours?Ó I shot back.
ÒThey were never married. My mother
called him Wild West, and she said there was a rumor
he had an affair back here. Fathered a kid.Ó
Wild West? In all the years IÕd been
wondering about my dad, the idea he was from out west had never come up. But why
did that name sound familiar?
ÒMe?Ó I croaked.
ÒShe thought I should know.Ó
I was thinking, What
kind of mother drops that bombshell on her deathbed? I thought mine was bad
enough, carrying the secret of my father to her grave. But since IÕm not great
with words, only one word came to mind. ÒWhy?Ó
ÒI was home on compassionate leave. IÕd
just finished three tours in Afghanistan. With this busted-up knee, I was on my
way out of the army. I guess Mom thought finding my dad would give me something
to do when she was gone.Ó
ÒSo thatÕs why youÕre here? To find him?Ó
ÒNot especially. He left my mother with a
two-year-old boy and a pile of grief.Ó He looked at me, his eyes glinting in
the sunset. Silvery blue, just like mine. ÒBut it would be nice to know if I
had a brother.Ó