“Two nights later, the monument was knocked over by spineless scum in the night, just as it is now. A note was left for my grandfather on the veranda of the house, warning him to get the hell out of Pennyluck or suffer the same fate as his cursed family. So he fled, a second time, and never returned.” Corrigan shrugged. “Thus are the ways of the world. Bullies win.”
Travis nodded as the story ended, feeling the need to say something but he didn’t know what. Outrage or shock? Sympathy with the deceased or fury at the sinners? He stayed mute and just kept nodding, hoping it would suffice.
Corrigan cracked both beer cans and held one out to the boy. Nodded for him to take it. Travis’s eyes bugged out of his head. “I can’t have that.”
“Go on, son. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
Travis hesitated, thinking the man was going to punk him. He took it and Corrigan clinked his can to the boy’s. “Work like a man, you get treated like one. Cheers.”
A boy’s first sip of beer. It was godawful to Travis’s twelve-year old tastebuds but he knew this was a test, some rite of passage into the world of men. He felt Mr. Corrigan’s eyes hawking him so he did his best to slug it back and not pucker his face against the bitter taste. No chance.
But the man didn’t berate or mock him for it. Mr. Corrigan simply nodded and looked away, allowing Travis to wipe the foul swill from his lips. Travis looked at the beer in his hand and couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about.
“Do you like soccer, Travis?”
“It’s all right.” Travis shrugged. “I’m pretty okay at baseball.”
“Baseball?” Corrigan sneered at that, then changed topics. “You got a girlfriend?”
“No.”
Corrigan swivelled on the broken headstone and fixed him with a sly look. The boy’s cheeks burned again and then his lips corkscrewed into a smirk. “Liar,” he said. “What’s her name?”
Travis’s eyes rolled down to his kicks. “Brenna.”
“Brenna? That’s a lovely name. Is she pretty?”
Travis felt his cheeks flame on and he turned away. The only way to respond was to keep his eyes averted, to hide what was plain as day. “She’s cool. Pretty, yeah. I guess so.”
“Your mom’s a pretty thing.” Corrigan set his can onto the chipped marble. “Where’s she from originally? Is she happy?”
Travis looked up. “Brenna?”
A cuff across his hair. “No smartass. Your mum.”
Was she happy? Travis had no idea what he was talking about. How the hell would he know? Travis lifted the can to take a sip and then thought better of it. “I dunno.”
“Was she born here in Pennyluck?”
Again the boy looked at him with a zero sum in his eyes. No idea.
“Where are her folks? Your grandparents?”
Travis wagged his chin to the south. “Down in Sarnia. They have a swimming pool.”
They watched the sky burn orange as the sun slanted just above the treeline. Travis tried another sip and it tasted just as bad as the first. He belched and Corrigan laughed, thumping him on the back. He took the beer from the boy’s hand and set it on the marble next to his.
“Go on home. Before you miss your dinner.”
The Records and Archives Office was hidden in the basement of the county office. One floor down from the library, two from the town hall proper. It was grim and dark and the woman who ran the department was named Tilly Cullen. She did not like William Corrigan, thought him rude and demanding and most of all, condescending. The way city folk are. She slid the pull-slip back across the counter to him.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back another day.”
Corrigan softened his tone. “I know it’s a painful chore to pull all that material, Tilly, but its very important and I would be eternally grateful.”
“The office closes early on Wednesdays, Mister Corrigan.” Tilly leaned back from the desk the man was pouring over, retreating from the smell of liquor and sweat. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“Tilly, love,” he said, as if wooing her. “It’s the same material I pulled yesterday. I doubt you’ve even put it away.” He pushed the slip back to her. “Please fetch it for me. It’ll probably be gone by tomorrow anyway.”
“Why would it be gone? You’re the only one who’s been down here in a week.”
“For the inquest. All of these records will be pulled for the mayor’s inquest and God knows how long before I see them again. I’m surprised they haven’t been pulled already.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to. Come back Thursday and I’ll be happy to locate the records you need. Have a nice evening.” Tilly turned back to her computer, ready to shut it down.
Corrigan took her wrist. “Wait a minute. You haven’t been asked to pull these records? By the mayor or the council or anyone?”
She yanked her arm back. “No, I haven’t.”
“No one’s given you a heads-up about an inquest?”
“No. Now if you’ll excuse me, we are closing.”
Two floors up, Corrigan marched to the town hall reception and asked the man behind the desk about the inquest into the Corrigan massacre. The man shook his head, said he had no idea what he was referring to.
“Listen closely,” Corrigan gritted. “Your mayor, the right honourable Kate Farrell, has ordered an inquest into the death of my family in eighteen ninety-eight. Check your agenda again. It has to be in there.”
The man sighed, as if asked to donate a kidney. He clicked and clicked the mouse, eyes darting back and forth in the monitor glare. “There’s nothing here, sir. I even checked the minutes of yesterday’s council meeting.”
“There’s got to be some mistake. Check again, for Chrissakes.”
The man behind the desk made no attempt. “There’s nothing.” And with acid, added, “sir.”
“There won’t be any inquest.”
Corrigan and the clerk turned at the voice. Reeve Thompson stood by the elevators, tapping the down button, listening in on the conversation.
“Are you speaking to me?”
“Are you Corrigan?”
Corrigan said he was. Thompson pressed the button again. “There won’t be any inquest,” he said.
“And who are you?”
“The mayor’s request was turned down. Waste of time and resources.”
“Burying the truth, huh?” Three paces and Corrigan was staring down at the rotund council member. “Can’t bear to face your own dirty past?”
“No.” The elevator door swung open and Thompson waddled in. “We don’t waste time chasing campfire tales.”
“Aye, clearly. No one works past three in the fucking afternoon around here.”
The councilman jabbed the ‘door close’ button until the doors whooshed shut, erasing the man’s grim face from sight. Thompson felt his knees tingle and, safely descending, said; “Asshole.”
13
THE RIDING MOWER was an old John Deere with a chipped and battered front end. Travis sat the rumbling thing, straining to kick down the stubborn brake pedal. Even Jim had trouble with it sometime but he had promised the boy he would teach him how to run the little tractor.
Travis geared up and let off the pedal. The little tractor lurched forward, the mower spewing grass over Jim’s shins.
“Too fast!” Jim hollered. “Slow it down!”
Whether the boy couldn’t hear or simply ignored his old man was anyone’s guess but he took the turn too fast, crunching the guard against the chestnut tree. Bark splintered at Jim and a horrible clang deafened them both before the Deere shuddered and stalled.