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