greatest charm....”
“You have no charm,” Dan said, emptying his beer. “One of the guys getting married is Bill’s oldest friend. They went to school together. Upper Canada College and a few years of university somewhere.…”
“You and your rich boys.”
“I was still born in the gutter.”
“And you’ll die there, if you don’t stop dating men like Bill. Like most poor folk, you confuse money with class.” Donny peered intently at Dan. “You used to be a regular prolie when I met you — rough around the edges and wet behind the ears — but somewhere along the line you picked up some pretty bourgeois tastes.”
Dan snorted. “Really? And what about you?”
“Moi?” Donny splayed a hand against his chest — Marie Antoinette before the tribunal, disavowing all knowledge of privilege. “I’m as middle-class as they come. Which is why you stopped dating me. It’s okay, though. I respect you now. But do tell about the wedding. It sounds very recherché.”
“Let’s have some Scotch first,” Dan said, rising.
Donny’s hand went up. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Haven’t you?”
“Maybe.” Dan sat back and cupped his hands behind his head. “Anyway, I don’t know much about the wedding yet, but it promises to be fun. I’ve never spent an entire weekend on a boat before. Just me and Bill and a bunch of rich folk.”
“Rich white folk, no doubt. And where does the prideful event take place?”
“Somewhere in Prince Edward County, half an hour east of Kingston. Ever hear of a place called Glenora?”
Donny took so long to answer that Dan thought he hadn’t heard his question. “Yeaaah ...” he said finally. “Something about a freak lake?”
“I don’t know anything about a lake, freak or otherwise, but they make a very nice pale ale.” He held up the bottle of Glenora Red Coat he’d just finished.
“Oh, is that why.…”
“Just sampling the local wares.”
“And here I thought you were getting cheap on me.” Donny shook his head. “No, man — this place is famous. There’s some strange geological phenomenon like nowhere else in the world. It’s up on a mountain somewhere. Apparently it has no incoming source of water, but never runs dry.…”
“Underground streams?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“You sure you don’t want another drink?” Dan asked.
Donny put down his bottle and stood. “Thank you, no. I must depart.”
“It’s about time. I thought you’d never leave.”
“And that’s the only reason I stayed this long.” Donny looked over at Ked. “Say goodbye to the kid for me.”
“Take some cake?”
“Please!” Donny made a face. “Keep it for your doctor.”
Ralph sniffed curiously at Donny as he passed through the kitchen then turned back to his bed.
“Thanks for coming,” Dan said. “Ked was thrilled you made it.”
“Me too.” Donny filled the doorway. “It was fun to celebrate somebody else’s birthday for once.”
They hugged as Donny’s fingers felt around Dan’s midriff. “Still not an inch of fat on you. I don’t know how you do it, with all the drinking you do.”
“Willpower,” Dan said. “That and light beer.”
Donny smiled. “You have a good weekend, Sis. And take notes — sounds like it’s going to be trés elegant. I expect you to come back with lots o’ dirt. I want to hear all about how the rich and filthy-minded live. I need to compare notes!”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
An hour later, Ked was packed off to bed. Dan had cleaned up the porch and headed inside. After pouring himself a final drink, he put away the bottles of alcohol. Upstairs in his study, he turned back to the folder containing the file on the runaway, Richard Philips. He read the report again, and again laboured over the photograph. Something about the boy’s eyes — some vulnerability — wouldn’t let him go. Finally, he closed the file and turned off the machine.
Three
Coffee and Donuts
Dan’s heart pounded beneath the sheet. The phone was halfway through the second ring. The caller ID strip glowed green: bell payphone — 3:34 am. It might be Bill calling to say he’d finished his shift, though he usually crawled off to his own place and didn’t bother to call — if he even thought of Dan when he left work. Then too, Bill had a cell phone.
Dan cleared his throat and picked up, but the answering machine got there first. A dial tone hung in the air. He stared through the blackness at the receiver. “If you’re going to wake me up, you could at least identify yourself so I’ll know who to be pissed off at tomorrow.”
He smacked the phone down. Anyone in trouble would have left a message. Kendra certainly, and Ked was asleep in the next room, so it couldn’t have been anything to do with either of them. But you’d have to be desperate to phone at that hour. His heart was still doing a jazz number.
His thoughts returned to Bill. He might’ve been arrested with drugs in his pocket at some after-hours club. Once he’d been stopped while driving on the verge of being impaired, but it turned out he’d operated on the cop’s mother and got off with a warning. Bill was lucky that way. What if he’d been in an accident? Dan tried not to think about it. In another minute he’d have himself convinced Bill was somewhere out there, hurt or in trouble, and that Dan had failed to be there for him.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the darkness. Anonymous calls pissed him off. He might lie awake for hours wondering who it was. Part of him liked to think Bill would call to say he wanted to come over, screw the late hour. Even with Ked at home, Dan would’ve agreed. But that never happened. Bill didn’t sleep at other peoples’ houses.
He tried to drop back to sleep, but with no luck. Sometimes he dreamed of Bill and woke up arguing aloud. They were usually on a train in a foreign city — London, New York, once Miami — headed somewhere that mattered to Dan, but never to Bill. Dan would try to impress on Bill the importance of the trip, but without success. The dreams always ended in confusion, with missed connections, lost tickets, and dashed hopes for arriving wherever they were heading.
Dan’s therapist encouraged him to explore how he felt. It didn’t take a shrink to tell him all the signs of a heavily flawed relationship were apparent in waking life, never mind in la-la-land when he was asleep. Even intelligent people let themselves be deluded by their emotions.
Bill seemed incapable of affection, elusive and ambivalent about his feelings. Commitment-phobe didn’t cover it. He’d make dates and cancel at the last
