When I got around to the dirt yard behind the Leonard, the hunters' cars and the cars of the other guests were there, with Remlinger's big maroon Buick parked and cold. Wind and tiny snow flakes were being pushed through the air. The CP yard was fifty yards across a long vacant lot. A switcher was nosing a single red boxcar along an empty rail, switchmen hurrying in the cold with their lanterns, throwing switches and hopping on the car as it pa.s.sed. There was a job I would do, I thought, since I liked working, and if school never began for me again, and if I didn't go to Winnipeg, as Florence wanted me to. Plans didn't always work out, as Arthur Remlinger had said. I was finding this was true.

At the end of the row of parked cars sat the black New Yorker-a two-door, dirty with road grit, and with its green-and-yellow Michigan license plate. "Water Wonderland." I envisioned green-carpeted forests with expansive lakes on which someone-myself-could paddle a canoe. A thing I'd never done. I'd imagined there would be a boating club in the Great Falls high school, and a chance for me to paddle out onto the Missouri. I put my hand onto the Chrysler's hood and it was warm, although cold was filtering down into it. This car came from America, from the place it had been made. It represented whatever my father (and I) a.s.sociated with America. The melting pot. The world drawn closer. I advocated these values. My parents had instilled them in me and my sister. It made me feel again that Jepps and Crosley, and their mission in coming to Canada, were upstanding and right-though I didn't want it to succeed and for Arthur Remlinger to go back to America to jail. I've already said it's a mystery why we affiliate ourselves with the people we do, when all the signs say we shouldn't.

Yet, standing in the car lot, I experienced a great confusion. I might have been near the point of a breakdown of my own. My temples tightened and ached, and my chin and nose got numb (possibly with the cold). My hands tingled. My feet seemed unwilling to move. As odd as he was, and in spite of what I knew about him, Arthur Remlinger didn't seem like a man who'd transport a bomb and set it off and kill someone. He seemed the last person to do that. Again, Charley Quarters could more easily have done it. Or the murderers in the old newsreels. In my view, Arthur Remlinger didn't have "murderer" written on his face.

What he had on his face was "eccentric," "lonely," "frustrated"; and also "smart," "observant," "worldly," "well dressed." All things I admired (though I'd denied admiring it). So that what I decided-which was why I was able to move, and feeling came back in my face, and my hands quit smarting-was that Arthur Remlinger was not a murderer. Possibly these two Americans, in spite of their names and their car and being from Detroit, were not who Charley said they were. This was my habit of mind. My mother had written in her chronicle that to me the opposite of everything obvious deserved full consideration. The opposite could turn out to be the truth. Given my recent personal experiences with the truth, it might've seemed obvious that sooner or later everybody committed crimes, no matter how unlikely a person was. But I wasn't ready to believe it. I didn't know where I would fit into the world if that was true-since I didn't want to commit crimes, myself, and fitting in was the thing I wanted to do most. So I tried hard to believe that Arthur Remlinger was innocent of what he was supposed to have done-since in all ways it seemed better to think that.

Chapter 60.

I performed my standard duties that day. I took a shorter nap because I'd lingered in the lobby, then gone out to inspect the Americans' car. The days now held less light, and Charley and I went out nearer to five to drive the fields above the river and find where the geese were using, and instruct the Ukrainian boys to site the pits. These farm boys-two of them, brawny and large limbed-were brothers and kin by marriage to Mrs. Gedins' deceased husband and were silent and unsmiling, as she was. They said nothing to me when Charley told them where to go and dig. They looked at me contemptuously, as if I was a privileged American boy who had no business even knowing them. I thought I wasn't privileged at all, except that I had the strange privilege of having no real place and purchase on things and could leave, whereas they believed they couldn't.

Arthur Remlinger put in no appearance during the day. Typically I would see him pa.s.s around through the hotel. Occasionally, as I said, he would grab me and put me in the Buick on some made-up proposition, and we'd drive off down the highway to Swift Current or toward the west, while he talked on animatedly about his subjects. None of this happened. And in spite of what I'd "decided" using reverse-thinking while standing in the cold behind the hotel (that he wasn't a murderer, etc.), I believed his absence was related to the Americans' presence. I suppose I knew my reverse-thinking about the Americans was wrong.

Charley Quarters, I knew, had led the Americans out to the Overflow House. Their suitcases were gone when I came downstairs, and their car was no longer in the parking yard. I thought Charley would make some remark to the effect that he'd been right in all he'd told me. But he had become tight-lipped and irritable, and didn't say even the belittling things he routinely said-that I knew nothing; that I was feeble; that life was too difficult for me there; that I never would go to school again. The little he did talk in the truck that day had only to do with knowing about geese and shooting-the things he'd already said to me: that geese fly high with the wind but will sometimes fly under it; that they are smarter than ducks, though it wasn't truly smartness but having good instincts; that Speckle-belly geese liked the wheat but snow geese didn't; that a goose could fly a hundred miles in a night; and that you really didn't need decoys-a "fat farm girl in a black dress" would do as well if seen from the air. I had the feeling that when Charley rehea.r.s.ed these things, what he was saying had nothing to do with me, but was taking his mind off something he didn't like to think about. I thought that had to do with the two Americans.

I ate dinner as usual in the kitchen, then came out into the bar at seven to mingle with the Sports the way Charley had told me to and to listen to the jukebox and talk to the bartender, and to Betty Arcenault about California, where Berner was, and listen to her stories about her boyfriend who she said treated her cruelly. The Sports were drinking and laughing and telling stories and smoking cigars and cigarettes. Two of the groups were from Toronto, and one was Americans from Georgia. These men had accents like my father's when he "talked Dixie." The two Americans from Detroit were in the bar by then, seated at a table to the side of the room under the large oil painting of two bull moose locked in combat, their antlers tangled in a way they'd never escape. Their Fight to the Death, this painting was called. Above it was a black-and-white sign that said G.o.d SAVE THE QUEEN, which people had written profanities on. The painting was a favorite of mine-more than the dancing bear in the dining room. Once, years on, I saw this very painting, or one exactly like it, on a wall in the Macdonald Hotel in Edmonton, Alberta, and sat marveling at its mystery for hours.

The two Americans stood out in the smoky roomful of hunters and railroaders and detail men. They each drank one beer apiece, which they sat beside the whole time they were there. They had on clean shirts and nice trousers and regular brogan tie shoes, whereas the Sports all wore their hunting clothes, as if they were planning to go straight from the bar to the goose pits. The Americans also seemed ill at ease, as if the younger Crosley's nervousness had overtaken the older man. They talked only to each other and frequently looked around the room-at the tin ceiling, across to the lobby door, toward the kitchen, and at the closed door to the gambling den. Arthur Remlinger was who they were waiting for. They'd said for him to find them to talk about goose shooting. But he hadn't appeared-which signaled something important: possibly that Remlinger wouldn't allow himself to be observed and had run off-which would've meant he was who they were looking for.

I stayed near the jukebox, watching, expecting Remlinger to stride in and begin circulating the way he did, joking and buying drinks around and promising everyone good shooting-behavior that never seemed natural to him. Florence's car hadn't been in the parking lot. I a.s.sumed she was away looking after her mother and managing her shop. Though conceivably Arthur didn't want her there where the Americans were.

I, of course, didn't know what the Americans had planned once they laid eyes on Remlinger and had to make their conclusion. Possibly they would see him and-I'd wanted to believe-realize he was the wrong man to set off a bomb and kill someone. In which case they could drive back satisfied and forget about it all. Though if they decided he was the murderer, then what would be their plan of action? It excited me to be in the noisy bar, where the Americans' brains were teeming, and to know who they were when they had no idea I or anyone else knew, and to have that advantage over them. But there was also going to be an outcome to these events. Charley hadn't said that, but it was clear he thought so, and that the outcome might turn out to be bad.

I experienced a second strong urge to talk to the men-although it wasn't my nature to do such a thing. It was as if I wanted to move close to something risky and dramatic. I wanted to tell them I'd been born in Oscoda, which might mean something to them. Whatever I'd felt when I'd stood beside their car and touched the warm metal-the sensation of satisfying solidness, even of liking the men (who I didn't know), of sharing something secret with them-all that, I wanted to feel again and believed I could at no threat to anyone. I would never tell them what Charley had told me. And I still thought they might accidentally reveal something important about their mission-what they thought about Remlinger, what they hoped to do depending on what their observations of him made them think.

But just at that moment, before I could bring up my nerve to speak to the Americans, Arthur came into the bar through the lobby door, and the two Americans seemed instantly to know who he was-as if they had a picture of him in their heads, and he looked exactly like they knew he would.

The red-cheeked, round-faced toupee man-the former policeman-immediately said something to the younger Crosley, and nodded and looked at Remlinger, who was talking noisily to a table full of Sports. Crosley turned and looked and seemed suddenly very serious. He nodded and turned back and put his hands around his beer bottle, and said something brief. Then the two of them sat facing each other in the coa.r.s.e bar light, under the clashing-moose painting, and didn't speak.

Remlinger had on the brown felt fedora he often wore, and one of his expensive Boston tweed suits that made him look strange in the bar. His reading gla.s.ses were hung around his neck. He was wearing a bright red tie, and his tweed trousers were pushed down in the tops of his leather boots. I didn't know this at the time, but later I understood he was dressed like an English duke or a baron who'd been out walking his estate and come in for a whiskey. It was the kind of disguise to prevent the people he'd been expecting for fifteen years from recognizing him-even though he hadn't changed his name, and anyone could know him who wanted to. Possibly he wasn't even hiding, only distracting himself while he waited for this day to come.

Crosley watched Remlinger as he worked his way through the bar. Jepps didn't turn to see, only sat and stared across at Crosley, as if he'd begun calculating something. As if he'd become a policeman again-friendly at first, then unfriendly. I wondered if they were carrying their pistols, since Charley said they owned them.

Remlinger saw me by the jukebox. "Well. There's Mr. Dell now," he said, and smiled and waved a hand indifferently. In a moment, he would come to the two Americans' table. I wanted to be there to observe that. I wanted to know what would happen when the three of them met, with Arthur Remlinger knowing exactly who they were, but they not knowing he knew, and the Americans needing to decide if he was a murderer. Anybody would've wanted to see that. It possessed the possibility for danger-if they all three had their pistols and had decided this could go no further.

I saw Remlinger's eye fall on the two men and stay on them a moment, after which he went back talking to the table of Sports from Toronto. One of these men put his hand beside his mouth to say something, as if he was telling a secret. Remlinger looked at me quickly, then leaned toward the man, who whispered something more that made them both laugh. Remlinger looked at me a third time as if they were discussing me-which I didn't think they were. Then Remlinger turned toward the two Americans and moved in their direction.

The nervous one, Crosley, got immediately up on his feet, wiped a hand against his trouser side, smiled broadly, and extended that hand toward Remlinger, as if he was relieved for this moment to finally take place. I heard Arthur say his own name as he shook hands. I heard "Crosley" spoken. The older man, Jepps, got up and shook hands with Arthur and said his name and something else that caused them both to laugh. I heard Jepps say "British Columbia," and "Michigan." Then Arthur said "Michigan," and they all laughed. Arthur was like an actor playing the part of the last person you'd suspect to detonate dynamite and be a murderer. In most ways I don't believe things like this are true, but his entire life in Canada must've been a rehearsal for this moment. If he was successful-as he thought he should be, since he believed he'd suffered enough-then all would be fine and life would go on. If he wasn't, and he was identified as a murderer and had to face even the thought of going back to Michigan, then no one knew what would happen, but we would find out.

I couldn't hear what else the three of them said. The two Americans sat down. Arthur pulled a chair to their table and sawed at his trouser legs and sat straddling the chair in an unnatural way but did not take his hat off. I was sleepy from being up most of the day, and from feeling apprehensive about the Americans. But I stayed where I stood. Remlinger sat and talked animatedly to the two of them for fifteen minutes. He ordered them beers, which they didn't drink. He looked toward and past me several times as he talked. The Americans smiled a lot about whatever they were saying. At some point Remlinger-in a manner that wasn't like him-said, while laughing, "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Yeeees! You're right there." They all three nodded. Then Remlinger sat up straight and extended his arm and seemed to stretch his back and said, "We'll get this all set for you men tomorrow." Which I believed referred to goose shooting and nothing to do with recognizing him as a murderer. I felt the Americans may have individually arrived at the conclusion that he was not the man they were seeking. Or, if he was, that he'd become so unrecognizable he should be left out on the empty prairie at peace. (I've already said I was experiencing great confusion about what was happening, having had no experience like this in my life. I should not be faulted for not understanding what I saw.) These last thoughts comforted me when I climbed the stairs to my room under the eaves and locked the door and got in my cold bed with the red Leonard sign tinting the air. My shack in Partreau had had no locks, and I was happy to have them, with people roaming the halls at night. I thought everything would be fine now. Arthur had seemed relieved to meet the two Americans. He'd been hospitable, as if the Americans were not who they were, but were the goose hunters they pretended to be, and would leave for British Columbia once they'd had their morning of shooting Charley and I would provide. I understood why Charley had said Remlinger was "deceptive." He'd deceived the Americans by not acknowledging who they were. But I'd already concluded being deceptive was necessary in the world. Even if everybody didn't commit crimes, everybody committed deceptions. I'd been deceptive when I failed to alert the Americans I knew who they were. I'd hidden the money from the police. I'd committed a deception about my ident.i.ty from the moment I crossed the border and sat in Mildred's car and said nothing. The person I was now was not the person I would've been in Great Falls-even though my name was the same. It was unclear if I would ever be that previous boy again, but would just go on deceiving all my life, since I felt I would soon go to Winnipeg and start a whole different and better life there, with everything including the truth left behind.

As I drifted to sleep, I tried to picture a young, tall, blond, awkward Arthur Remlinger putting a bomb in a garbage can, in some place I imagined to look like Detroit. But I couldn't make the thought stay in my mind, which was my way of detecting if something was important. (I couldn't imagine, for instance, what a bomb looked like.) I tried to think of a conversation between the Americans and myself. I pictured us walking down the main street of Fort Royal, not in the cold, batting wind of October, but on a sunny, blue-sky day in late August-the way it was when I arrived. Jepps had his large hand on my shoulder. They both wanted to know was I related to Arthur Remlinger; was I an American; why was I all the way in Canada, and not in school where I belonged; where were my parents; what was this Remlinger about; was he married; did I know his background; did he own a pistol.

In my last wakeful minutes, I didn't think I knew the answers to these questions-except for the pistol-and didn't worry about them. And, as often happened to me, I was asleep but didn't believe I was asleep for quite a while. Though late at night I suddenly "woke up" and heard cows in the abattoir pen, groaning and waiting for morning, and a truck growling and downshifting at the traffic light in front of the hotel. All things seemed as they should be. I went back to sleep for the few hours I still had.

Chapter 61.

The next day, Friday, the fourteenth of October, will never seem like anything but the most extraordinary day of my life-for the reason of how it ended. Much of it, however, happened the way other days happened in that period of time. All morning, I thought about the Americans out in the Overflow House, and later of them being in Fort Royal, wandering through the cold day during which it snowed, then rained, then snowed again. The wind slapped against the hanging traffic light and ice crusted the curbs and citizens stayed indoors if they could. I had no idea what the Americans would be doing, or what would take place. In the red-smudged light of early morning I completely gave up on my reverse-thinking-that they were not who they were, or that Remlinger was not who he was (a murderer), or that the Americans would give up their mission to identify him as the fugitive, and then act on that. I didn't know whether, in one fifteen-minute encounter in a crowded smoky bar, they could make the determination they wanted (see if "murderer" was written on Remlinger's face, or if it wasn't); and then decide what they should do. I remembered Charley saying the Americans didn't expect Remlinger to be who they were looking for. So, likely they didn't specifically know what they should do if they believed he was guilty. They might've been trying to decide at that very moment. Charley had implied-at least I'd thought he had-they might decide to kill him and had brought pistols for that; or abduct him back to face a Michigan judge. But that didn't seem to fit with their natures and the goodwill the three of them had shared in the bar. None of this made a clear picture, though I thought about it constantly during that day. The thought set a continuous whirring going in my stomach and up under my ribs, which let me know it was significant, and I should pay attention.

Charley and I took out our groups of Sports to the wheat fields before dawn. I sat in the truck and counted the falling geese from the three decoy sets. Charley visited the pit rows and did his calling, although the low sky and snow and wind made the geese come low off the river and distinguish the decoys less sharply, and many were shot. Charley and I stood as always and cleaned dead geese in the Quonset. I noticed the Americans' black Chrysler was not parked at the shack. Which indicated to me that they might've left and driven away.

Charley, however, told me that Remlinger had said we would take the Americans to the pits the next morning and should put them in good places. One of the Toronto groups had left, and there was room now. They'd brought their guns and shooting paraphernalia and wanted to go. I didn't ask any details about the Americans: what Charley thought about them on the basis of taking them to the Overflow House; or what Remlinger might've revealed when he instructed Charley about the shooting. Charley was in a morose humor and made several strange remarks in answer to statements I made while we cleaned and gutted geese. One of his remarks was, "A lot of brave men have head wounds." Another was, "It's hard to go through life without killing someone." As I've said, he was often in a bad humor for reasons he didn't divulge, except to complain about his terrible childhood and his bowel problems. It was best not to provoke him, since I wanted to keep my own view and opinion of things, and his bad humor and odd p.r.o.nouncements could overpower everything I thought. All I believed, from what little he said, was that if we took the Americans shooting the next morning-like they were any two Sports-shooting geese was not all that would happen. There would be other things, because the Americans were not just Sports. They were men with other intentions.

Once again, I failed to see Arthur Remlinger during the middle of the day, which was noticeable under the circ.u.mstances. I saw the two Americans eating lunch alone in the dining room, where the other Sports were congregated talking about their morning's shooting. I ran one errand to the drugstore to get a bottle of Merthiolate and another to the post office to purchase stamps for postcards to reach America. The two Americans engaged in an intense conversation and took no notice of me or anyone. It felt ridiculous that they would be pa.s.sing the day talking, in full view, when so much was known about them-their intentions; that a man had been killed; that Remlinger was aware of them and was possibly in his rooms imagining what he would do about them; that they had pistols and were possibly expecting to use them. The prelude to very bad things can be ridiculous, the way Charley said, but can also be casual and unremarkable. Which is worth recognizing, since it indicates where many bad events originate: from just an inch away from the everyday.

The only thing I did to make myself visible to the Americans-because I still believed it would be an adventure to talk to them-was to ask the Sports at the next table (who I knew from the morning) if they had enjoyed themselves. I would never otherwise have asked that, but I hoped the two Americans would hear my American accent (which I a.s.sumed I had) and say something to me. However, neither of them looked around or stopped talking. I heard one of them-the intense, black-haired Crosley, who seemed to take things more seriously than the round, bald-headed Jepps-say: "Nothing's foolproof. That's just a f.u.c.king story." I a.s.sumed they were talking about what they should do, and that it posed them a problem. But I didn't know what those words really meant and didn't want to seem to be eavesdropping-though I was. So I left them alone and went to take my nap.

Chapter 62.

"I brought you this good book." Florence was standing in the shadowy hallway outside my room, at the opposite end from Remlinger's rooms. I'd been taking my nap and was startled, and had answered her knock wearing just my underpants. I instantly believed she'd come from Remlinger's apartment. "This one's got some nice maps inside," she said. "We talked about it. So . . ." She looked down at the heavy book, then put it in my hand and smiled.

A single bulb lit the hallway behind her. Only Charley Quarters ever came to my door-to wake me up early. I wouldn't have opened it undressed in front of him. "You need to put some clothes on." She turned to go, as if I was embarra.s.sed.

She'd said she intended to bring me a book on Canada history. This was it. It had white library markings on its spine. "Medicine Hat Public Library" was stamped on top of its pages. Building the Canadian Nation was its t.i.tle, by Mr. George Brown. We'd already discussed my going to Winnipeg to live with her son, and possibly becoming a Canadian. I'd been considering it. It would be better for me, she felt. Though I hadn't been in Canada long-six weeks was all-and I knew almost nothing about it. I'd need to learn the basic things-the national anthem and the pledge of allegiance (if they had one), the names of the provinces and who the president was. In most ways I thought I still wouldn't have said I liked it, since I hadn't chosen to be here. But being a Canadian didn't seem very different from Berner and myself saying we "lived" in any of the towns where we'd moved and gone to school, then moved away. I'd lived in Great Falls for four years and never felt I belonged in it. The length of time you stayed in a place didn't seem to count for much.

"Just give it back to me when you're finished," Florence said. She stepped back into the hallway, the light making her soft, rounded features indistinct. "I didn't mean to catch you unawares."

"Thank you," I said and held the book across my front. I felt like all of me was visible.

"I've got kids," Florence said and waved her hand. "You're all the same."

She left then. I closed my door back and locked it. I could hear her weight on the stairs all the way down to the bottom.

Chapter 63.

Remlinger found me in the Leonard kitchen, where I was waiting for Charley, so we could go out for our evening scouting. I was drinking a mug of coffee with sugar and milk, a habit I'd taken up from being cold in the truck every morning. I was dressed in my warm clothes-my L-jays, my plaid wool jacket and cap, my wool pants and my Daytons. I was already too hot in the steamy kitchen, where the stove was going. It was no bigger than a kitchen in a family's house-with an old Servel, a wood cookstove, a rick for kindling, a table to prepare the food, and a pantry. Mrs. Gedins tolerated me because there was no other place for me to go, except to be in my room alone. But she never talked to me. She was boiling vegetables and filling tins with meat loaf for the oven. She frowned at Remlinger, as if they'd been having a row-which possibly they had.

"I want you to come with me now," Arthur said to me. He was very intent and seemed certain about something-different from how I'd been used to seeing him. He hadn't shaved, and his eyes looked tired. His breath had a vinegary smell. He was wearing his fancy leather jacket with the fur collar, and his brown felt fedora. He'd come in from out of doors and his cheeks were red. "We have to go on a little drive now."

"I'm waiting for Charley." I was sweating in my clothes. I didn't want to go with him.

"He's left already. I talked to him. He'll do his scouting with the other boys."

"Where're we going?" I knew, or generally knew, so it wasn't really a question. We were going to do something with the Americans, who'd no doubt made their minds up now. I was happier to stay in the kitchen, waiting for Charley. That had already become usual for me, and I liked it. But Charley wasn't coming, and I didn't think I had a choice.

"These two Sports are needing to talk to me," Remlinger said, his eyes flickering. He seemed to be in a kind of motion, though he was there in the kitchen with us. He never talked to the Sports except when he circulated in the bar and the dining room. Charley did it all. "You might've seen them last night," he said. He unexpectedly smiled, and turned his smile toward Mrs. Gedins, who simply gave her back to him and attended to the stove. "It'll be good for you to go. It'll widen your outlook. Be a part of your education. These two are Americans. You'll learn something valuable."

He was speaking in his declamatory way, as if other people could hear him-more than just me and Mrs. Gedins. Or as if he needed to hear himself. No one said no to him, except Florence, who could've kept me from having to go with just a word. She was older than he was. But she wasn't there. Everything in the kitchen suddenly was intensified-the heat, the whirring under my ribs, the light, the bubble of boiling vegetables. I couldn't say no just on my own.

"Are these the two men from Detroit?" I said.

Remlinger c.o.c.ked his head to the side and looked down at me, his smile vanishing, as if I'd uttered something surprising. I hadn't revealed anything I shouldn't have. I'd been present when the Americans arrived and knew what I knew from that. But he didn't know it. It seemed to alarm him. He looked at me strangely. I'd only wanted to have something to say.

"What do you know about it?" he said. "Who did you hear from?"

"He vas dere ven dey got here," Mrs. Gedins said, her back to us. "He heered dem." She was stirring a pot.

"Is that right?" Remlinger pushed himself up very straight and set his handsome head back, as if that would elicit the truth. "Vas you dere?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Vell," Remlinger said. He gave a look at Mrs. Gedins' back. "If you zay zo."

"I have to use the bathroom," I said. I'd become extremely nervous all in one instant.

"Use it, then," Arthur said, stepping past me. "I'll meet you in the lot. The car's running. Hurry up."

He went out the back kitchen door, letting in the cold, and slammed it closed, leaving me in silence with Mrs. Gedins, who didn't say another word.

I did not need to use the bathroom. I needed to think something clearly, which I'd suddenly found I couldn't do in Remlinger's presence. I'd had plenty of time since the day before to route everything through my mind, and observe the things I needed to know, and be satisfied with not knowing all that was true, and to feel that probably not the worst was, and that in all likelihood nothing bad was going to happen because of the two Americans. "Our most profound experiences are physical events" was a saying my father often p.r.o.nounced when my mother, or when Berner or I, was tortured by something we were worried about. I always took it as true-although I hadn't known precisely what it meant. But it had become part of my sense of being normal to believe that physical events, important ones that changed lives and the course of destiny, were actually rare, and almost never happened. My parents' arrest, as terrible as it had been, proved that-in comparison to my life before, where there had been very little physical activity, just waiting and antic.i.p.ating. And in spite of believing what my father said about the importance of physical events, I'd come to think that what mattered more (this was my child's protected belief) was how you felt about things; what you a.s.sumed; what you thought and feared and remembered. That was what life mostly was to me-events that went on in my brain. This wasn't so strange, given the recent weeks-being alone, in Canada, without a future to act on.

Therefore, I'd tried to make my thinking in the last day be the force that determined what would happen-as a result of the Americans' arrival-and to believe the result would be nothing at all. I'd thought, for instance, that because Arthur had been expecting "these two" (he now called them) and knew about them in exaggerated detail-their names and ages, the car they drove, the fact that they were armed but not much committed to their mission-that he would be in complete control of the situation and could make it end the way he wanted. I'd also believed the Americans would never be able to determine anything important about him-not from only looking at him. Murder wasn't written on his face, or on anyone's. I'd considered how it might be possible to approach a total stranger on the subject of that stranger's being a murderer, and had decided it would be very difficult. Which was what the Americans had undoubtedly been realizing when I eavesdropped on them in the dining room. It seemed to me that the Americans would act toward Remlinger in a way that was consistent with their natures. Uncomplicated. Sincere. Goodwilled. They would need to address him, exert their reasoning on him, explain their conclusions, present a plan-after which Remlinger would deny knowing anything, tell them they were completely mistaken, which was what "the interests" back in America believed was the right thing to say. In that way everything would be settled. Whether they believed Remlinger or didn't, the Americans would be forced to accept his denial and-again, consistent with their characters and the small enthusiasm they felt-go home to Detroit. What else could they do? They weren't the kind of men to shoot him. Possibly they would go goose hunting with Charley and me in the morning.

I had even thought of how the Americans might approach Remlinger (since he wouldn't approach them). A word with him in pa.s.sing in the hotel lobby; an approach by Jepps as Remlinger walked out to his car. "Can we two have a private talk with you? We have something to tell you." (Or "ask you," or "ask about.") As if the two of them were arranging for a girl to visit their shack, or to know more about the gambling. Arthur would've been confident, evasive. "Not in my rooms. In your place. In the Overflow House. We can have privacy."

I had thought it all through-the force of thought working against physical events. But now, it seemed, physical events were beginning to take place. Whether my thoughts were accurate or not was no longer worth asking. My father, it seemed to me, had been right.

I looked down through the second-floor bathroom window, my chest still whirring. In the parking lot, in a swirl of wet flakes and rain falling together, Remlinger stood beside his Buick, its headlights shining, the wipers flopping, the engine spewing white smoke into the night. He was speaking to a man I'd never seen-a tall thin man wearing a wool cap and a tan windbreaker and street shoes, hugging his shoulders as if he was cold. The man's cap caught the snow the wind was driving. Remlinger was talking seriously to him, his left arm sweeping first toward the Leonard, then in the direction of the highway toward Partreau, as if he was giving instructions. They didn't look up at me. At a certain point, Arthur put a hand on the tall man's shoulder-the man seemed to me to be in his thirties and was Arthur's height, but thinner-and pointed with his other hand again toward the highway. Both of them were nodding. I a.s.sumed it had to do with the Americans we were going to talk to.

Which made me wonder why I had to be involved, why Remlinger would take me, and what my being a part of it-a point of reference, Charley had said-could mean. Remlinger, just at that moment, turned and frowned up at the bathroom window. The big flakes and cold rain vanished for that instant, like a hole in the storm, and revealed me. His mouth began moving, saying something that seemed angry. He made a wide hailing gesture with his arm-a signal to me that was unusual for him-then said something else to the man in the cap, who looked up at me but made no gesture, then turned and began walking away across the lot into the dark. Whatever I should've been paying attention to for weeks and had ignored was shouting at me. I wished Florence would arrive. I wished I'd taken my saved-up money, which I kept in my pillowcase, and climbed on the bus and gone far away from Fort Royal and Arthur Remlinger, the way Charley had said. I even wished I'd saved back twenty dollars from what I'd given to Berner. I felt trapped and unable to resist. I moved away from the window and started down the stairs to where Remlinger was waiting for me.

Chapter 64.

To say something's founded on a lie isn't really alleging very much," Arthur said as we drove. More fat flakes were dancing in the headlights, the highway stretching out ahead like a tunnel. He was talking animatedly, as if we'd been having an exhilarating conversation. "I'm much more interested in how those lies hold up. You know?" He looked at me, his big hands with his gold ring on top of the steering wheel. I knew he intended to go on speaking. The radio's light was on, but the sound turned down. "If they hold up for your entire life. Well. . . ." He jutted his chin forward. "What's the difference? I can't see one." He looked at me again. He wanted me to agree. Under his felt hat brim his features weren't distinct in the shadows.

"No, sir," I said. I didn't have to agree in my heart.

We weren't driving as fast as customary. He seemed to want to talk, not reach Partreau.

"You can't leave it all behind," he continued. "Once, I thought that you could. Crossing a frontier doesn't really change anything. You might as well go back. I would if I were you. Everybody should enjoy a second chance. I've certainly made some mistakes. We both have."

I couldn't follow what he said. I a.s.sumed I'd made mistakes because my father used to say "Man comes to trouble as the sparks fly upward," which was about mistakes. But I didn't know what mistakes of mine Remlinger knew about. I almost said, I haven't made any mistakes that you know. But I didn't want to be argumentative.

"Of course, it bothers me that I'll die up here," he said. "I will tell you that." He was still speaking in his declamatory style. "You ask yourself, *What am I living for? Just to get old and die?'"

"I don't know," I said.

We pa.s.sed two doe deer on the highway side, their fur and faces and eyes glistening in the blowing snow. They didn't move when we pa.s.sed, as if they didn't see the Buick or hear it. Remlinger was still in the intent state of mind he'd been in-different from how he'd been around me up to then. It made me wonder how he felt. I hadn't spent time thinking about how other people felt-only Berner, who always told me. He hadn't mentioned the Americans while we were in the car. It was as if the meeting was unimportant, and there was nothing to say about it.

He looked over at me again, driving us through the blizzard. "You're a secret agent, aren't you?" He seemed about to smile under his hat brim, but didn't. "You don't speak about it, but you are."

"I speak," I said. "n.o.body asks me anything."

"Parrots speak, too-only out of despair," he said. "Is that why you speak? I'm interested in you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," I said, though I didn't know what "secret agent" meant.

"Now." He straightened his arms and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel and stared ahead into the snow whirl. "You may hear some things said tonight-when we get out here-that may surprise you. These two may say I've done things I haven't done. Do you understand? That's probably happened to you before. Somebody thought you did something you didn't do. That's what all secret agents have to live with. I'm one myself."

I felt I had to say yes or he would suspect I knew what he'd done-which could turn out badly for me. Although I was going to hear the story anyway. Knowing it beforehand couldn't make a difference now. But I said, "Yes, sir," though it wasn't true. I'd never been accused unjustly.

"Now, if you hear me say to these two that you're my son," Remlinger said, "just don't contradict me. Do you understand? Is that satisfactory? Even though I'm not?"

We were in sight of the Partreau elevator, prominent in the snowy dark, the familiar vacant buildings all but invisible along the highway frontage. Charley's trailer sat beside his Quonset, inside light visible through the cracks in the paper window coverings. His truck was missing. The Overflow House also had lights on inside. The Americans' Chrysler sat in the crumbled street, snow acc.u.mulating on its windshield and hood. We were going in there.

But I was shocked that Remlinger would say I was his son. I'd entertained my private thoughts of that nature, but they'd vanished when Charley had said what he'd said in the truck the day before. Remlinger saying such a thing was outlandish and made me begin to feel sick in my stomach, and not able to concentrate on what else he was asking me. No matter what I'd half imagined, Arthur Remlinger wasn't my father. My father was in jail in North Dakota. He wasn't this man in the hat in the dark.

"You don't talk enough. Charley said that." Remlinger looked at me sternly. We'd turned down South Alberta Street, the Buick b.u.mping and swaying over the potholes and chunks of pavement the elements had ruined. The vacant houses were ahead of us in the headlights; the broken carnival rides, the caragana row. "Have these men spoken to you?" We were coming to a stop behind the Americans' car, its license plate covered in snow and ice. It was no longer raining, only snowing.