face, though historically I’ve always been a terrible poker player. Sandi looked at me and nearly laughed. I guess I wasn’t so good at hiding my shock.
Finally, I managed what I often do when I’m faced with a socially uncomfortable situation: I made an inappropriate joke. “I was thinking you looked a little heavy.”
Sandi’s smile dropped dead away. “That was cruel even by your standards,” she informed me frostily.
“I’m sorry,” I said for the third time in as many minutes. My ex-wife always brought the apologies out in me. “Reflex reaction to shocking news, I guess. I’ve had that kind of a week.” We stood across a five foot divide and stared silently at each other a while more. We communicated about this well during our marriage too. “Why are you telling me this?” I finally asked her.
“I thought it was important that you know,” she replied, returning to her business-like disposition.
“Why? It’s not mine.”
“Winston! Why would you even say such a thing?” she demanded.
“Because it’s been nearly two years since we separated, in case you’ve forgotten.”
She smiled coyly. “But it hasn’t been two years since we’ve been together. You may never be able to resist me.”
She had me there. But I wasn’t about to allow her the upper hand in this conversation, whatever this conversation was about. “It doesn’t count when you’re drunk. Besides, it’s been long enough that medically I know my original proclamation is true.”
Sandi smiled again. She had a way of pre-emptive smiling that told me she was about to deliver an “I told you so” moment. I really didn’t need her to say it; I knew exactly what it would be. She said anyway. “See? You never should have given up law. You instinctively went into paternity suit protection mode.” Throughout most of our marriage, particularly the latter half, Sandi had generally proved herself the stronger advocate of our union. Why she hadn’t entered the practice of law herself is a puzzle. It might have been the requirement to show up at work each day which would have interfered with her spa exercise and facials.
“Is that why you’re here?” I tossed out desperately. “Are you trying to find some warped means of obtaining child support?” It did not appear there was any way I could restore my dignity in whatever this debate was about. With most people I didn’t care. I’m a gracious loser with plenty of practice. But somehow with Sandi I could never bring myself to concede.
“I thought you might want to know. That’s all.” She put on her genuine hurt look. I knew how contrived it was, but I fell for it every time.
“I’m sorry.” I restated my “talking with my ex-wife” mantra, deciding to play nice for the remainder of our chat. “That was thoughtful of you.” I paused momentarily. “Do you know who the father is?” Whoops.
She brushed past me towards the door. “That’s it. We’re done.” This was the part of the conversation I knew I didn’t have to respond to. Sandi never left the room without a parting shot. Sure enough, she got as far as having her hand on the doorknob when she turned around to face me. “You are a little, little man,” she proclaimed, staring obviously below my waist as she pronounced the second “little.” It was almost disappointing. I’d heard that one before, but it still left a new scar each time.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I threw in the last word as she headed out the door. “I’m sure you’ll let me know where you’re registered for shower gifts.” Not bad, considering how little time for prep I’d had.
“Prick,” she hissed, sticking her head back in the doorway. With that, she turned and left. Always the last insult.
With Sandi out of my life—at least for the evening—I took to the task that I spent most of my evenings on: marking and preparing for class. After last night’s failed attempt to complete my marking, I knew I had some catching up to do. If there’s one thing I had learned in my long teaching career, it was the necessity of keeping up to date with marking student work. If you turn your back on it for a moment, it multiplies and grows at an alarming rate. As a rule of thumb, I believed it was good practice not to collect any new work from students until I had returned the previous assignment. However, in my nearly three months of teaching, it was one of the first rules of thumb that had fallen by the wayside. Besides, I had other issues clouding my mind. As if Carl’s situation wasn’t enough, I could not yet quite digest the load Sandi had just dumped on me. I didn’t think I was upset per se; I had harboured no real desire for children before, during or since our marriage, but her obvious entrance to the next chapter of her life was discomfiting to say the least.
But one of the biggest obstacles to productive marking was the fact that it was November. For those who aren’t couch potatoes, November is sweeps month on American network television, which means that is when all of the best TV shows have on all of their best episodes. It really got in the way of my marking: I didn’t care how much I needed this job to pay the mortgage—and my alimony to Sandi—nothing stood in the way of watching CSI.
Around ten fifteen, I was well into a strong episode of Without a Trace, and partially into ninth grade discussions of the French Revolution’s impact on the development of democratic systems when the phone rang. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even answer the phone on a Thursday night. All of my friends know better than to interrupt the most important night of TV viewing. So far though, nothing about the week had been normal, so I felt like I’d better answer. I found Carl on the other end of the line.
“Hey,” I answered his greeting. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” he answered, “not really.” Carl sounded not only down but also afraid.
“Carl,” I implored him, “what’s wrong? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” Carl returned uncomfortably. “It’s just that . . . I didn’t know who else to call. I’m really sorry to call you so late, Win.”
“It’s okay. I’m here for you. Do you want to get together and talk? We could meet someplace.”
“Umm, no,” he countered. “I don’t think they’ll let me.”
Suddenly I realized what he was trying to tell me. “You don’t think who will let you?” I demanded sternly.
“The police,” Carl finally admitted. “They’ve picked me up.”
Ten
In recent years, the Vancouver Police Department had moved the bulk of its operations to a swanky new building just below the Cambie Street Bridge that leads into the downtown core of the city and the business sector. As the city’s population and volume of crime had grown, the police force had grown with it, making their previous digs on Main Street, at the entrance to the city’s renowned Chinatown district, too small to house the accoutrements of modern crime fighting. Parts of the police department still operated out of the old Main Street offices, which were conveniently located adjacent to one of the two downtown criminal courts.
The detective division of the VPD was in the new glass and brick building on 3rd Avenue. Even police officers had marvelled at their new headquarters when they’d first moved in. The new building had also received the requisite howls of protest from citizens and taxpayer watchdog groups,
