girl”) or scold (“Hurry up dog! I don’t have all day!”) their pets. (For the record, I am more of a cat person.) Regardless of their gender or age however, all the people without exception, were white. Just like when I was growing up, I thought sadly. After the dogs were safely back inside there was a lull in activity while breakfast was being served. Then the final stage of this tiny neighbourhood’s morning ritual took place: the mass exodus of residents from their comfy cosy homes in order to attend school or to go to work.
When this occurred I began to pay particularly close attention to the homes in the immediate vicinity of #15. With each car that was backed out onto Duke Drive, I noted the vehicle’s make, its licence plate, the number of occupants - and if possible - their ages.
I was disheartened to learn that the residents (and presumably homeowners) of #13 and #17 were young couples, both in their early 20’s. Due to their age, it was highly unlikely either twosome had been residing in the area in March 1990. I made a mental note to find out just who had been Barry Jones’ neighbours seven years earlier and where they were now.
I was encouraged though, to see the three houses across the street from the Jones’ residence (#12, #14, and #16) were occupied by couples in their late 40’s and 50’s. All potential eyewitnesses to Mr. J’s final known actions.
By 8:45 all activity ceased.
Incredibly, the only car left parked in the street’s many driveways was the white Monte Carlo. In fact, it was one of only a handful of houses which no one had exited to greet the new - yet still wet - morning. Didn’t Mrs. Jones have to go to work? Didn’t her two teenaged sons have classes to attend? It just didn’t feel right. That all three occupants were sick and housebound on the very morning I’d decided to start my investigation seemed too coincidental. I recalled a highly successful homicide detective repeatedly telling me to never believe in such a concept.
“Everything in this world happens for a reason,” he’d said sternly. “Everything. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
Had Wayne tipped the Jones off after milking the cows? Before milking the cows? During milking the cows? I felt it wasn’t in Wayne’s nature to do such a thing. (I was also pretty sure the cows had nothing to do with it either.)
Then in a moment of clarity unmatched in quite some time, my mind concocted the following equation: Wayne + Cow = Trudy.
“That bitch!” I yelled, not caring if anyone outside the van heard. She never could keep her trap shut! For several minutes, I continued to curse the former Miss Babich, calling her every derogatory name I could think of, as well as making up a few new ones.
Then something through the rain drenched front window caught my eye: movement at #15 Duke Drive.
They were moving fast. With the aid of my binoculars though, I was able to take a mental snapshot of all three of them as they ran to the Monte Carlo.
Cathy Jones pretty much fit Wayne’s description. She was about 5’1”, sported a very heavy build, and possessed a face that would scare rabid animals. Her eyes were severe looking - beady even. Her mouth was frozen in a permanent scowl and her unintentional waddle reminded me of a sumo wrestler. Then to add insult to injury, her eye shadow and heavy cheek blush appeared to have been applied to her large round face by a drunken clown.
Suddenly the thought of Wayne and Trudy Babich having sex wasn’t so bad. Compared to Cathy Jones, Trudy was centerfold material.
I forced my eyes off the human genetic accident that was Barry Jones’ wife and focused on the two boys.
Both were tall, slim and good looking young men. The blond haired one I assumed was 17 year old Matt, while the brown haired boy was his 15 year old brother Randy. From their profiles it was apparent they’d (thankfully) obtained Barry’s genes - an incalculable rich blessing if there ever was one.
In quick order they were all in the car, which Cathy then drove frantically out of view.
Although curious where they’d gone, I quietly remained in the back of the van and started writing out my notes. An hour later, I gently slid into the driver’s seat and casually drove out of the subdivision, hoping no one had noticed my unannounced visit.
At the first stop sign I hung a left and continued to drive out of town. For the next thirty minutes I followed the same route Barry Jones supposedly took everyday - except one - to get to his job in the City of Kelsey Lake. There he worked straight days as an office manager for the Master Paint Company, a mid-sized operation which manufactured paint for the local truck plant.
For me the trip was uneventful - as it had always been. I’d travelled this stretch of highway hundreds of times, either as a passenger in my parents’ many cars or as the operator of my first “previously enjoyed” vehicle when I was 17.
Not truly populous enough to be termed The Big City, to many residents of Delta and the surrounding villages, hamlets, and crossroads, Kelsey Lake was just that. A clean, wholesome family- friendly metropolis boasting 30,000 residents, it consisted of a dozen name brand fast-food franchises, a championship junior league hockey team, a six screen cineplex, and a shopping mall housing 75 stores. All the amenities of a sprawling city, without the crime. And all possible due to the Chevy plant on the outskirts of town.
When I’d left the area to pursue my misguided fantasies, Kelsey Lake was a vibrant place to visit. Driving through the downtown core today however, was like making the rounds of a ghost town. There were twice as many storefronts boarded up than open for business. The sidewalks which once were the pathways leading to your next shopping destination, now only lead to failed dreams and broken display windows.
I found myself driving in a daze. Barry Jones and the Master Paint Company were abruptly forgotten.
As I continued to aimlessly witness how the recession had decimated this community, I remembered my father often saying how time waits for no one.
It wasn’t that I’d never seen the devastating results the economic downturn had had on hard working families and on their communities. I had. The difference now was that I felt I knew the people of Kelsey Lake and was a honourary member due to my frequent visits.
A feeling of loneliness began to gnaw at me. At the sight of stores I used to haunt as a teenager looking as though they might now actually be haunted, came the realization that the romantic memories of my youth were truly that. Memories I could not possibly relive or revive.
When I’d taken this assignment, I had only thought about how my life had changed during the previous thirteen years. The lean times. The good times. The bad times. The odd jobs. The troubled career. The girlfriends. The wife. The divorce. The one night stands. The rags. The riches. The drinking. The drugs. The horror. The humiliation.
And finally, the reawakening.
What I hadn’t considered was that while I’d aged (and supposedly matured), so had everyone else in the world.
Time waits for no one.
As the city landscape grew smaller in my rear view mirror, I had an urgent desire to see Maria. To talk to her. To tell her how sorry I was. To see her smile.
And to find out if she’d missed me as much as I’d missed her.
I parked in the visitor’s lot and entered the
