they hang up, Peter takes another close look at the photograph attached to Nolin’s file. Something in the guy’s eyes gives him pause.
That same morning Peter picks a note from regional personnel out of his office mail slot: “Due to the current budget freeze no advanced training will be approved until further notice.” His name remains on the eligibility list. He tosses the page into his recycling box with a nasty oath. It means he’ll continue doing all the work of a trained probation officer, yet with no job security and for a fraction of the salary. Or will he? The local newspaper is looking for a reporter, but Peter can’t quite see himself covering town council meetings and bowling tournaments. He might just file a grievance with the union, though he knows that stands a snowball’s chance in hell of helping him.
A little later Woodgate calls out, “Alice?” and Peter drags his feet to the manager’s office. He’s got half a mind to challenge Woodgate on the training issue, especially since the man forecast such an easy progression through the ranks at the hiring interview. But it’s going on two years now, damn it! Peter thinks. Of course, they’ve had the discussion before — three times, actually. Woodgate always waves his gorilla fingers in a helpless gesture toward the top of his bureaucratic pyramid, saying, “You know, the bean counters tell us… What can I say? It’s out of my hands.”
Yeah, Peter thinks now, but it saves this particular office some money, which looks great in Woodgate’s year-end report.
“Your letter from personnel was copied to me,” Woodgate informs Peter when he enters the manager’s office. “Sorry to hear your training’s postponed.”
“Me, too,” Peter replies curtly with all the challenge he can muster at the moment. Maybe he could get a job with the city in park maintenance or dog-catching or something.
“Stick with it and you’ll get there,” Woodgate mutters.
How motivational, Peter thinks, heartwarming really.
“Say, the young guy in your office a while ago, was that Todd Nolin?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that all about?”
Peter provides a summary.
Woodgate shakes his head. “That boy was a good hockey player. It’s a shame.”
Peter isn’t exactly sure what Big George means by this, nor, at the moment, does he give a shit. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Right. That’s all for now, Alice.”
Peter returns to his desk, considering his lack of future. He ponders the scales of small-town justice where potential as a hockey star brings celebrity status, and in Nolin’s case, entitlement to be an outright prick.
Slouching rebelliously in his chair, Peter props one heel on the windowsill. The news about his training, the lack thereof and the implications, has sapped his zeal for the job. An early lunch is in order, maybe a pint or two. But it’s only five after eleven, so he’s got at least a half-hour to kill. He clips his fingernails, mentally daring anyone to interrupt him. That takes three minutes, then he stares out the window for a while. Finally, he glances back at the documents and notes re Nolin on his desk. The victim’s name and phone number catches his eye — Marina Faro.
At the first ring an answering machine clicks on. She’s not taking any calls. No message on the machine, just a moment of static, then the beep. Peter states his name and reason for calling, recites the office number.
chapter three
After work Peter climbs into his rusty green Bronco and lights a cigarette, verging on a habit for him recently. Living alone, he rarely troubles to cook anymore. Whereas he used to faithfully prepare dinner for Karen and enjoyed that hour of the evening, he’s become a regular in the frozen aisle and the deli section at Safeway, and this evening opts for chow mein and spring rolls.
It’s a fifteen-minute drive home to a neighbourhood community that over many decades developed around a log-built roadhouse, dating back from when the highway was a wagon trail. Peter stops by the general store for a case of beer, since he drank a number last night and fears the stock is low. God forbid.
Approaching the house, he tries to ignore the condition of the place, now in its second season of neglect. The grass is long overgrown because he wasn’t able to start the lawnmower come April, nor did he bother to get it fixed by the end of May. Dandelions are rooted and blooming yellow in the gravel driveway. The neighbour kids are out playing ball hockey again this evening as they have been for weeks since the National Hockey League playoffs began. He recalls the same boyhood tradition. They prop a sheet of plywood against the fence as a backdrop to their net, and for hours he hears the repeated whack of near misses and wild shots, big saves, and shouting. Peter sits at the kitchen island, eating chow mein, drinking beer.
Buying the house seemed a huge step at the time, for him and Karen, a decision weighted with all sorts of implications. Such as children. They considered two or three places that were barely more than cabins, with acreage in picturesque settings. Room for two, but no more. That was the reason they ended up in a fairly ordinary older house with four bedrooms, two baths, a full basement, a fenced backyard, and even a swing set waiting. Because they imagined children, cribs, toys, bicycles, and the required guest room for visiting grandparents.
For a while then they seemed almost prepared and stopped using birth control. Karen guided their positioning in bed. A few times she thought she was pregnant, and at first was disappointed when it wasn’t so. Yet the last time the possibility appeared to cause her only anxiety. Peter picked up the test at the drugstore. The result was negative, and Karen was clearly relieved. Children never to be. He challenged her, which prompted a quarrel, one of the more serious he could recall. Looking back, it made more sense.
He’s left with chow mein and beer, the house in disrepair, the cat rubbing against his leg starved for attention. And the sounds of the neighbour boys playing road hockey, the scrape of sticks, ball whacking plywood, and their carefree shouting. Peter taught at the local college for a couple of years, mostly remedial English and upgrading courses. Only part-time, with nothing over summer months, and the chances of a full-time position were remote. So he was wide open to ideas, to anything short of telemarketing. Then he heard about the job with the probation office. Karen didn’t like the idea. Socially conscious to a fault, she viewed the entire justice system as reactionary.
“Incarcerating people by the thousands is just plain medieval,” she said. “I mean, apart from those who are truly a threat to society. The majority have mental health problems, disabilities, addictions — what possible good does it do to lock them away?”
“Well, it’s called deterrence, I think —”
“It’s called discrimination, too! Look at the percentage of prisoners who are aboriginal. It’s something like twenty percent. And they make up less than three percent of the general population.”
“I’m not defending that,” he said in his own defence. “And I’m not signing on as a jail guard. It’s community supervision, and it involves trying to help the same sort of people you’re concerned about.” He was excited about applying for the job, and a bit taken aback by Karen’s reaction. Even then perhaps he missed a deeper level of significance in their different points of view.
And another thing: he didn’t much like bringing home one-third of what
