The Boy Page 12

  Jake rubs his face with both hands. “He wants me to take him out driving this afternoon. He figures he should get his license now that he’s sixteen.”

  “What? Now? While he’s home? He’s only going to be here for three days. And doesn’t he need permission for that from…” Yes, who exactly is in charge of granting permission for Daniel’s activities these days?

  “What harm could it do? Who’s going to know that he has his license?”

  Oh, Jake. This is no time for pride, for taking charge of your son’s destiny. “And besides,” he says, “if he’s going to get in trouble with cars, better he does it with a license and some driving skills than without. Of course he’s not getting his license in two days, but maybe after he’s been home a few more times. Hell, maybe it’s time he came back for good. The kid deserves a chance, doesn’t he?”

  She is spared the need to reply. Lauren wakes from her nap then, squawking in the bedroom, and Louise jumps up to get her. This one will not remember Danny. By the time they are back to the kitchen, Jon and Danny have been batting balloons around the room, all but three popped and shriveled on the floor. Lauren takes one look at the mess of the decorations she so happily helped assemble before her nap and bursts into tears. That, it turns out, will be Lauren’s response to Daniel for many years to come.

  Jake has taken time off work to be at home while Dan is with them. He is going to make sure the kid stays out of trouble this time, he says, even if it means sitting beside him during all his waking hours. He takes Danny out for a driving lesson two days in a row, then lets him drive back to Edmonton to catch the bus on the day of his departure.

  Lauren is napping, Jon playing happily in his room. “Mommy’s going to have a bath,” she tells him. “Call me if you hear Sister, okay? I’m leaving the door open.” With Danny gone these past months, Louise has become relaxed about doors and windows, but all weekend she locked the bathroom door behind her, and was fully dressed before she came out of the bedroom in the morning, even though she would normally enjoy her first cup of coffee in her bathrobe. All weekend too, she’s been aware of the too-tight clothes she has stubbornly refused to replace because she knows that will give her permission to have moved up two sizes from her pre-pregnant days. The first day, she overheard Danny ask Jake if she was pregnant again.

  She strips off her jeans and sweater and avoids the full length mirror. Pregnancy, long days at home with two small children and a full cookie jar, Jake’s cooking, all those meat and potato meals; the discipline of her old life has given way to lassitude. She is still in the tub, hair drifting around her, when there is the slam of the front door.

  She can hear Jake calling her, then Jon’s small voice. She wraps her hair in a towel, pulls on the jeans and sweater she meant to discard after she’d padded down the hall in her bathrobe.

  Danny is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, the remote control from the television in his hand. “What happened? Where’s your dad.” He points toward the kitchen.

  Jake is at the kitchen sink, a glass of water in hand. He is so white around the lips Louise pulls him to a chair. “What happened?” She sits down next to him.

  “We had the radio on in the car. Some kid in Calgary was killed at the train station the other night. I heard about it yesterday but didn’t pay any attention. Today they gave the name. Turns out it’s one of the kids from Dan’s…school.” Jake’s lip curls. “They’ve got two kids in custody, juveniles, and Danny says he’s sure they’re from the place too. Somebody had it in for that poor kid. I’m not taking Dan back there, Louise. Not a chance.”

  She leans back in her chair and looks at him for a long minute or two. “All right then,” she says, “but you be the one to make the phone call. I don’t have any authority over Daniel.” Neither does she have a clue what will happen if they simply refuse to return the boy.

  Daniel stays. Jake says it took no convincing at all to get agreement from the social worker. Louise wonders if, in fact, this is what everyone has been waiting for. She tries to talk with Danny about the murdered classmate, but he just shrugs, says he’s over it. Too bad, nice guy, and he hopes the creeps who beat him to death get locked up forever.

  Sunday afternoon, and Louise is reading in the living room, but can’t help keeping one eye on the window to the verandah, where Danny and Jon are building a fort out of cushions and cardboard boxes.

  “We have to hide from the bad guys,” Jon tells her solemnly when he comes to gather more pillows from the living room sofa.

  Jake is mowing the lawn. A job he shouldn’t have to do with a sixteen-year-old in the house, Louise reminds him, but he points to his two sons. Way more important for Dan to spend time with the little one, he says. By the time he comes inside, the back of his shirt is sweat-streaked and he’s trying to hide his laboured breathing. He sinks into the sofa.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “I’m fine! And yes, I have an appointment for a check-up next month.” He glances at the window. “Hey, I have a great idea. About time we had a date, isn’t it? Let’s walk down to the coffee shop for pie.”

  “All of us?”

  She knows the answer. For the past two days Jake’s been telling her how it handy it will be to have Danny at home for the occasional bit of babysitting. Look how good he is with the kids. Scoring points, Louise thinks. Same reason he’s making his bed, offering to help with dishes, brought them tea last night while they were watching the news.

  “No, let them play,” Jake says. “I already told Dan I’ll pay him for a couple of hours of babysitting, I don’t expect him to be slave labour here.”

  No! Louise wants to scream. He cannot do these things without asking her first. The question is whether Louise trusts Daniel enough to walk out of her house and leave him in charge of her babies. The answer is easy. But Jake isn’t asking.

  “Aw come on,” Jake says later in the bedroom, when he comes to see what’s taking her so long. “Just half an hour? What can go wrong? He’s not going to hurt the children, Louise. You know that as well as I do.”

  Does she? Two years ago she would have nodded, but what do they know about this boy after the company he’s been in? What do they know about what adolescence has wrought? Louise feels Daniel’s eyes on her whenever he’s in the same room.

  “The biggest worry I have is that he’s going to run away again,” Jake says. “But he’s not going to do that while he’s responsible for the kids. Danny would not leave them alone. I know this. We’ll be two blocks away, for God’s sake. Give him a break.”

  So she agrees to go, but she won’t leave until Lauren wakes from her nap and is happily occupied in the playpen.

  “You should get rid of this thing,” Daniel says. Louise has noticed that even in the week he’s been home, his voice seems to have deepened. He kicks at the edge of the mesh pen she’s just filled with Lauren’s favourite toys. “It’s like a cage.”

  “We don’t use it very often.” Louise bristles at her need to defend herself to this croaky-voiced critic. “She’s happy if she has toys and her snacks.” She points to the plastic cup of cheese cubes and apple. “If she starts getting cranky before we’re back, give her the food.”

  “Come on, come on.” Jake pulls at her sleeve. “We’ll be back before Lauren even notices you’re gone.”

  And Lauren is happily engaged when they leave, playing peek-a-boo with Danny who’s lying on the floor in front of the playpen, Jonathan on his back, shouting, “Go horsey, go!” Jake looks about as happy as a man could be.

  He puts his arm around Louise’s shoulders and pulls her close while they stroll down the dusty sidewalk.

  Sunday afternoon is always busy in the pokey coffee shop. Even though she’s tried each of the three other times Jake has dragged her down here to be sociable, Louise knows that people are probably more comfortable visiting with
him when he comes alone. They slide into a booth, and for a few minutes the babble in the room subsides. A couple of Jake’s old friends rise from their places at the counter and wander over to shake hands. How are they are all doing, is the question, and underneath it the acknowledgement that everyone knows Danny is back. They’re eating cloyingly sweet flapper pie when the men in the booth behind them begin talking about the murdered boy in Calgary.

  “Here we go again,” one of the men says. “A couple of young thugs kill that poor bugger and all they’ll get is a rap on the knuckles because they’re not eighteen yet. About time we realize that if they’re old enough to commit that kind of crime, they’re old enough to face the consequences.”

  “Aw hell,” another voice chimes in. “Doesn’t matter if they do bump ‘em up to adult court. All they get there is a few years inside and they’re out on the streets again, too.” On and on about the soft laws, and how “therapy” has taken the place of honest-to-God punishment. Louise notices a couple of women in the booth on the other side of them, glancing uncomfortably at the back of Jake’s head. Mention juvenile delinquent and Danny Peters comes to mind? Jake’s face is impassive. He stirs his coffee, cuts another mouthful of pie with the edge of his fork and stares out the window.

  Louise is looking out as well, when a familiar beige car appears at the intersection, then turns left and proceeds down Main Street in the opposite direction from the coffee shop. She sits up straight in the booth, straining toward the window.

  “Jake, that was my car!” He looks toward her, startled. “My car just turned the corner down there.” She tries to keep her voice down. So far everyone is tending to their coffee and pie. “We have to go.” She stands, brushes past the other booths and is out the door and running toward home, at the corner before Jake catches up with her. He grabs her arm.

  “Slow down! Look!” He points in the direction of their house, down to the end of the street where her car sits sedately in the driveway. Still, Louise keeps on running. Inside, all three kids are lined up on the sofa in front of the television. Jake closes the door behind them, waves his hands at the scene in the living room, and shakes his head. “You see.”

  “Danny!” Louise can’t keep the shrillness from her voice. “Did you just drive my car around the block?” Those darting green eyes fasten on hers, and a smirk of a smile skims across his face.

  “Nope.”

  “For God’s sake, Louise,” Jake speaks under his breath, “I told you he wouldn’t leave them alone.”

  Jonathan’s eyes are huge. She crosses the room and kneels in front of him. “Jonny? Were you in the car just now?”

  Her small son swallows, stares at her, and in a voice so tiny she can barely hear him, whispers, “Nope.” And then he bursts into tears.

  After Danny storms off to his room, still insisting he’s done nothing wrong, after Jake goes out to lay his hand on the hood of the car, feel the heat of the motor and come back white-faced, after Louise comforts her small son and talks about truth and why it is never okay to lie, the house settles into a crackling silence.

  Jake calls Danny three hours later, after he’s clanged around the kitchen making his usual meat and potatoes Sunday meal. No answer to his rap on the door, and when he opens it, the fluttering curtains and empty room tell the tale.

  He insists they sit down to their overcooked pork roast and mashed potatoes and gravy. When Jon pipes up wanting to know why Danny isn’t eating, Jake opens his mouth, but then closes it quickly and shakes his head. He was, Louise is sure, about to make an excuse, but even that small lie would be too much for his son’s ears.

  “You’re going to look for him, right?” Louise is amazed that Jake didn’t storm out of the house as soon as he realized Danny was gone. Dumbfounded now, when he shakes his head.

  “No,” he says. “If he wanted to be found, he would have made sure I saw him leave.”

  He doesn’t tell Louise until later, when Jon is out of hearing, that his wallet is gone as well. Swiped from the top of his dresser while he was in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner for his family. “But that,” he says, “will make it easier for the police to find him. He’s bound to try and use the I.D.”

  Now you’re galloping right along. It’s getting a little predictable, isn’t it? Foster home, reformatory, big time jail?

  No, it can’t be the same. That would mean that nothing has changed since the 50s. If this were 1953, Danny would already have graduated.

  For the small stuff he’s pulled off? Not likely.

  He would have been thrown in with the two-bit thieves and scoundrels by the time he was sixteen, and would have learned some fancier tricks.

  You’re not going to try and prove that Robert Raymond Cook was the victim, are you? Bleeding heart kind of story?

  No, I’m not going to try and prove anything. Half a dozen lawyers, two trial judges and two juries did their job. The Supreme Court of Canada upheld the decision. Why would I set out to prove them wrong? Robert Raymond Cook is dead. We’ll never know what happened that night.

  But we know they were afraid. At least Daisy was afraid.

  We don’t know that. All we know for sure about Robert Raymond Cook is that he was a liar. His lawyer told me so.

  Roads Back

  Forty-six years of law. I looked up The Honourable Judge D.P. MacNaughton on the Alberta Law Society roster before I sent a letter asking if he’d be willing to give me an hour of his time. He was admitted to the bar in June, 1958, and retired as a supernumerary judge in June, 2004

  Initially, I had no interest in talking with lawyers and policemen. There was plenty of information about the evidence and the trials in the written material. Cook was dead. Whether he was guilty or not, whether he deserved to hang or should have been back in the news like Steven Truscott, finally free but still trying to clear his name, wasn’t the question I was chasing. I insisted to myself that I didn’t feel any kind of attachment or obligation to the face staring out from the cover of The Work of Justice. I wanted to know Daisy Cook. I wanted to know if, when she’d married Ray Cook, Daisy had imagined herself able to love his son. If she was ever able to even like him. I wanted to know if Daisy was afraid of Bobby.

  Ask me! I’ll tell you she was terrified.

  Ah, but so many people said he wasn’t to be feared. There were no signs of violence in the boy at all, in spite of his dedication to a life of crime.

  Well isn’t that scary? Even scarier than if there’d been some signs? You want to find those clues, don’t you? You want to prove that the writing was on the wall, but no one read it.

  I wanted to find one more person who’d known Bobby Cook. I tried tracking Lila Larson, the foster sister who’d gathered signatures for a petition to have Robert Cook’s sentence commuted and had stood by him through the final days of his life. I checked directories for British Columbia (the family had moved there, leaving their foster son behind), Alberta (Pecover’s book said that Lila had moved back to Alberta prior to Cook’s first trial), I searched across-Canada directories for her married name, “Howse,” but came up blank. Who else to tell me about this young man who went to his death adamant about his

  innocence? How many other men on death row, I wondered, went to their execution adamant about their innocence? Was it common? Did it mean anything?

  Clark Hoskins had told me, after his vehement insistence that Cook was guilty, that if I wanted another opinion I should talk with Dave MacNaughton, because through the years MacNaughton maintained that justice had failed his client. I wrote to MacNaughton.

  Five days later, he called. He had an energetic voice, no hint of the old age or failing memory I had begun to expect from all of the leads I followed, and he said he’d be happy to talk with me. Timing was a bit tricky, though. He and his wife were off to Montreal for the Liberal leadership convention.

  Li
berals are rare birds in rural central Alberta. In the last federal election the Conservative incumbent in that Crowfoot riding where Stettler sits had won with a landslide that verged on a joke. In almost all the interviews I’d done so far, even in the casual conversations I’d had with people in that area, the talk turned inevitably to law and order, and occasionally to restoring capital punishment. The Honourable Judge D.P. MacNaughton suddenly had the appeal of an exotic bird. We made an appointment for after the convention, the fifth of December.

  In the ten days before my appointment with MacNaughton, the weather shifted from unseasonably balmy, to treacherously wet. Days of freezing drizzle, then a sudden dip to minus twenty Celsius, heavy snowfall. Finally a Chinook wind blew in, melted the roads to slush and turned them to wicked black ice by night. I wasn’t meant to make that trip to Stettler, I decided. The morning I was poised to phone and cancel, Dave MacNaughton called to confirm the appointment. The roads had been a bit of a problem, he said, but he’d driven to Red Deer the day before and he was sure I wouldn’t have any trouble. The man was a judge. I couldn’t argue with him.

  I went back to my books to re-check MacNaughton’s involvement. He was a young, small-town lawyer when he took on the Cook case. According to the Anderson book, The Robert Cook Murder Case, MacNaughton was joined at the preliminary hearing by “the famed criminal lawyer from Edmonton, Giffard Main. It was no secret that his services were being offered free of charge and that his main interest in the case was its challenge and complexity. He loved to defend the underdog.” The jury didn’t share Main’s empathy for the underdog. On December 10, 1959, they took an hour and a half to find Robert Raymond Cook guilty.