at his computer for some time without registering a thing. Just before six, he closed his laptop and left the office.
His counselling was an hour off. It seemed to be a day for wasting time. On a lark, he left his car in the underground garage and walked west on Wellesley Street through the downtown core. He ducked into a video arcade burgeoning with teens and pre-teens — kids who liked to hang out on the strip. He watched them in the half-light, silhouetted like an army of overactive gnomes labouring underground. A crazy quilt of sound came at him, the jabbering voices of boys and machines. The variety of games boggled his mind, newer versions at the front, older ones farther along the warren of blinking lights. Shooting games, driving games, even a fast-paced step-dancing game. Movie themes dominated: Lord of the Rings followed by Star Wars and The Matrix. Near the far end stood Roger Moore, as dashing as ever — James Bond is immortal, after all. Closer up, a perennial favourite: a Playboy Bunny with a waggling set of ears. Elsewhere, Nancy Reagan’s much-quoted plea hung over a flaming bridge: Just say no to drugs. But what if they said yes to you?
Dan kept his eyes peeled for Richard Philips. He’d seen a million boys like the ones here today, all variations on a theme. He was the kid next door with the Popsicle smile or the ten-cent grin, a skateboard beneath his feet, a baseball cap on a crow’s nest of hair, and a comic book tucked beneath his arm. You know him. He’s the boy who got all As, or sometimes Bs or even Fs. The future baccalaureate or the wearer of the dunce’s crown, the one who stupefied his teachers or failed miserably at his studies. He’s the boy who cheered others on in their endeavours and threw matches at cats. Who won or lost at aggies, who skipped classes and lobbed crusts at other boys in the lunchroom. You know every variation of him. And every now and again one little thing went wrong, one screw fell out of place, and he was no longer that charming boy you thought you knew but a conniving criminal, a survival-minded sharp waiting on the other side of the lamppost, on the far side of midnight, leaning against the doorframe and taking your measure. But you know him. Because somewhere deep down inside, he is you or your son or your brother or maybe even your future father. You know him.
Dan watched the kids jockeying for place, aiming guns in the air, at the screens, at each other. Blam! He listened to the sharp yells as the boys won or lost, then started new games that took them to the far reaches of space, the depths of the ocean, or the deepest jungles. Losing themselves as successfully as they could.
Apart from Dan and the arcade manager, there was only one other adult in the room. At first Dan didn’t recognize him. He was a bag of bones, an old haunt Dan hadn’t seen in years. At forty he’d been a chronic predator; at sixty he was a fright. Dan watched him move among the boys like an aged shopper browsing the aisle of some fancy specialty shop, hands trembling with hunger. The boys all seemed to know him too — Wicked Uncle Ernie with his bag of magic tricks, all for kicks. Come home with me, kiddies. We’ll watch some television, snort a little blow. Smoke some crack. Aren’t I a charm? We’ll have fun. Whatever turns up. And P.S. Don’t tell Mom. The voice paced, the tone measured: here was sincerity, surprise, and now and then a little calculated enthusiasm. Great shot, Tim! What a score. Keep it up, Bennie! Whatever was required came tripping off his tongue in calculated increments, plotted to the needs of the moment. Now smile for the camera because: these premises are monitored 24-hours. Let the means determine the ends. Each according to his need. And now and then a gentle laugh, nicely modulated. Every syllable a sure step, one foot placed squarely in front of the other.
Dan caught the predator’s eyes, tossed him a knowing nod to unsettle his dreams, and let him know he’d been noticed — who knows, maybe the former hustler had gone undercover after all these years — then left, heading for his counselling session.
Dan’s work offered the weekly sessions to help employees deal with the supposed stress of their jobs. His employer was considered progressive. Words like “wellness” and “holistic” were floated freely around the office. Currently, however, Dan’s counselling had also become “compulsory” after he dented a filing cabinet with his fist.
Two days before that incident, he’d successfully tracked down the spouse of a client who warned him that her husband, a manic-depressive, had left home without his meds. Twelve hours after being freed from a rehab centre, the man turned up a suicide in a west end back alley. It came as a complete shock to himself and everyone else when Dan spun around and slugged the cabinet.
A superior with fifties hair, a Father-Knows-Best attitude, and a pro-counselling bias decided to make Dan an example. “You’re letting this get to you,” he said from the far side of the room where Dan stood nursing his knuckles.
Dan was livid. “You’re goddamn right I’m letting it get to me! This should never have happened. Who ordered this man released?”
“Calm down, Daniel.”
“Fucking hell I’ll calm down!” This time he kicked the cabinet, caving in one of the lower drawer fronts as though it had been to blame.
The others moved away, leaving him alone to carve out his self-destruction.
“It’s unfortunate, I agree. But these things happen.” The supervisor moved in on Dan as though he were a dangerous psychopath he intended to disarm.
“That’s bullshit! Anyone with a history of mental illness is a critical case. This is a fucking tragedy. He should never have been let go without someone telling me or his wife!”
All his years of service would not buy his way out. The die had been cast, the hammer set to fall with a resounding crash. The incident got him six months’ mandatory counselling and replacement costs for the cabinet. He’d resisted the counselling but, faced with the alternative of suspension, he relented. At least they were paying for the sessions. Reluctantly, he attended the weekly meetings, though it was seldom his work Dan wanted to talk about.
He approached Queen’s Park, a miniature forest in the city’s heart. A mounted statue of Edward VII towered over crisscrossing paths, transported from Delhi when India left the Commonwealth, like the prize in a prolonged custody dispute from a messy divorce settlement.
It was here that Dan had slept on the hard benches his first night in the city, while crepuscular figures flitted like moths in the dark. It wasn’t till later he’d learned the intent of the men prowling the darkened pathways like vampires, but in search of a different kind of life-giving fluid.
Through the trees the sky was a honed blue, a nice ending to the day if you had nothing troubling you, but Dan knew by the time he finished his counselling session it would be dark, in keeping with his mood. After his hour with Martin, he’d walk back across Wellesley to the bars on Church Street and show them the picture of the young runaway. After an hour with Martin, he’d need to spend time in a bar.
He passed the brown brick residence at Whitney Hall where he’d met Arman and Kendra. After all this time the apple tree outside the porter’s office still flourished in the back courtyard. A few crabbed globes clung to its scaly branches. It felt strange to look up at the corner window and know his son had been conceived there out of his own macho drunkenness.
Arman was currently in Dubai. A brilliant IT worker, he was shipped from port to port at great expense. He’d slipped out of Dan’s world completely and married a woman chosen by his family, though by all accounts they were happy. Unlike his renegade sister, Arman had no compunction about doing what tradition expected of him. If things had been different in a very different world, Dan wondered, would Arman have been just as happy in an arranged marriage with a man if tradition ordained it?
Kendra lived a few blocks north on a tree-lined street in a hundred-year-old stone house. She’d become a success too, living life on her own terms and alone, as Dan knew she would. They may have been alike in looks and upbringing, but Kendra was a very different creature from her tradition-upholding brother.
He crossed through the heart of the university, past St. George and Spadina with their popular student pizzerias, to the euphemistically named Harbord Centre for Well Being, which was actually located on Brunswick Avenue. Like Edward VII, it too had been displaced, but kept its name after being transplanted to this little backwater street, like a deposed royal living out its life