staying at the Woodland – this dive hotel further along Hastings – but instead of heading in that direction he walked with me towards the waterfront. Off to our right was the DP World shipping terminal, where industrial cranes loomed up like monstrous mechanical insects, soulless and indifferent. At Main Street we crossed over the railway tracks and circled back to the Westco plant parking lot. I could see the Western Lady in her berth, the windows dark.
Jake held out his left hand and I took it, and we shook formally, like strangers.
‘I’ll be seeing you, Poncho.’
‘Just tell me what you’re up to.’
‘I’m up to no good – what else?’
‘Seriously.’
He considered it, and said, ‘It’s better I don’t tell you if you’re not going to help.’
‘Do you need my help?’
He put his hands in his coat pockets and kicked the ground. He looked at the water, and at the sky, and then he looked back at me. His features were softened by shadow and in that one moment it was as if he’d aged backwards, losing some of the edge and hardness that prison had given him. Back before Sandy’s death, and all that came after. Back before what Jake had done and what he had become. And when he spoke, it was in the voice of that boy.
‘You’re my brother,’ he said. ‘I’ve always needed your help.’
He turned and walked away from me and then – maybe realizing that was a bit much, a bit too over the top – he flipped me the finger and called back: ‘Stay gold, Poncho.’
‘Nothing gold can stay.’
I watched until he merged with the darkness and faded out of sight.
One of the last jobs we did each year was to offload the supplies that Albert and Evelyn had brought from their house and didn’t leave on the boat during the off-season. It included a mix of cutlery and crockery, pots and pans, sheets and bedding, dry goods and perishables, and also Albert’s power tools, which were top-of-the-line and worth a pretty penny, as he liked to say. Security at the boatyard wasn’t great and there had been a couple of break-ins over the years.
Thursday Tracy came to help with the unloading. She drove Albert’s truck down to the plant: a big Ford Ranger with a tonneau cover. With Albert and Evelyn, she and I began loading all the supplies into a wheeled skip alongside the Western Lady. Evelyn and Albert carried the boxes onto the deck and I lowered them over the gunnel to Tracy, who arranged them in the skip. She did this in a practised and specific way, so that all the different items fitted together, snug and intricate as a jigsaw.
‘You haven’t forgotten,’ I said.
‘Heck,’ she said, dropping a box of frozen fish into place, ‘it ain’t been that long.’
‘You miss it?’
‘I’ll be back, once I’m qualified.’
Evelyn, who was coming on deck with a sack of flour, overheard and said, ‘She’ll be skipper some day, if I can ever convince that man of mine to retire.’
‘Hope there’ll still be room for me,’ I said, and took the flour from her.
‘There’ll always be a place here for you, Timothy.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without your cooking.’
‘Lose some pounds, I reckon,’ Tracy said.
I patted my belly, which was getting substantial. ‘It’s all muscle.’
Albert emerged from the galley, his boots clomping loud on the deck, a box of pots and pans in his arms. He must have overheard us, because he added, ‘Boy’s still a rake, compared to me.’
We laughed at that, politely, and continued handing boxes and bags to one another, like a game of pass-the-parcel. There was a familiar rhythm to it all, and to the dialogue, too.
The morning air carried a frosty, refreshing sting, and behind the clouds the sun glowed like an opal, and everything felt just fine while the four of us worked together. But eventually Evelyn stepped out of the galley and made a criss-cross motion with her hands: no more.
Tracy said, ‘I’ll wheel the skip up to the truck.’
‘Leave that to me and the greenhorn, princess,’ Albert said.
‘I been with you for years,’ I said, ‘and I’m still a greenhorn.’
‘You’ll always be a greenhorn,’ he said. ‘Leastways till you grow up.’
He stepped down from the boat, moving heavy, and we both leaned into the skip, pushing it on rusty wheels down the dock, up the gangplank, and then along the wharf.
‘You thought any about coming up to the cabin?’
‘I thought plenty about it. It sounds real nice.’
In two days they would be locking up the boat and heading out to Squamish. I still hadn’t given any clear indication one way or the other whether I’d be going with them.
‘I could use some help up there. Got a copse of spruce to cut down.’
‘It’s just my mother is the only thing.’
‘Your mother or your brother?’
I didn’t answer immediately, and I guess that was answer enough.
‘You two had a good time the other night, I gather.’
We’d reached the parking lot, and turned the skip towards his Ranger. We positioned the skip at the back, and then Albert locked its wheel brakes and dropped the truck’s tailgate.
I said, ‘He’s a hard fellow to say no to.’
‘His type often are.’
‘He ain’t a type.’
‘I know that.’
Albert shielded his eyes, gazing back down at the boat. Tracy was on the aft deck, waving to get his attention. She held an imaginary phone to her ear, and motioned for him.
‘I’ll send Tracy up,’ he said, ‘to help you load.’
He headed back. He moved slowly – Albert never rushed – but each stride was solid, deliberate, purposeful. As I waited I massaged the fingers of my bad hand, feeling the little nubs that had healed over. A few minutes later Tracy came down the wharf. She clambered into the back of the truck, hunching beneath the tonneau, and I lifted boxes up to her, one by one. As we worked we chatted about her night job, and the training she was doing.
‘It’s just a piece of paper. I
