Jack Kinkaid and his son Robertson walked noiselessly on cold floors from the basement to the living room grate where the son dressed over the heating vent and felt the first warmth coming up from the newly lighted furnace fire. The heating system was prepared and the ashes were emptied; Robertson had stocked enough wood and coal to last his mother, sister and little brother for the weekend. If they had not, and had left it to the mother, the furnace would have remained unlit with mother and children looking for a switch or lever to pull to start everything, for it was the age of new appliances and the mother was bewildered by such primitive equipment. It was a time when marital responsibilities were delegated for life and there was no changing them. The furnace was a man’s domain. Robertson was proud of himself for knowing enough about the system to be able to look after his family in this way. It was 4:00 am Saturday; the last weekend of the month and that meant collection day: an exceptional and memorable weekend for a 9 year old and one for which his playmates envied him. Travelling with his father was a grown up activity and held great esteem for the maturing youngster.
Both father and son each had his responsibilities and personal itinerary that had been ritualized over the past year. Jack Kinkaid made sure he had his necessary change of clothes in styles ranging from fishing to formal; his Fedora and Deerskin gloves; his telegraph paper; his contracts, cash and a case of 12 bottles of Canadian Club whiskey; the favoured drink of most of his clients. He was making two stops. Jack Kinkaid was a handsome man with a quick and misleading smile. He owned a little finance company and loaned money, almost exclusively to logging camps whose operations were referred to as ‘Gypos’; a name synonymous with higher risk. So what the banks wouldn’t handle, Jack Kincaid was willing and able to set the rates, acceptable to both parties. When you run in a pack like this, the roughness and iniquitous behaviour is bound to rub off: more a loan shark than banker just stopping short of usurious rates. He preferred to work late into the night, convinced that the most money was made in the dark. Jack Kinkaid, could get things done it was said; the implication being that the legal aspects of any transaction was never a deal breaker, just a greater risk. His civic and family responsibilities were exemplary when seen from a neighbour’s view. He was sought after for advice on everything from stocks and fishing gear to used cars and his choices seemed infallible. Jack Kinkaid was the man to see. He was asked to run for mayor once but declined for reasons others could not have had the experience to fully comprehend. Jack had always said that he was flattered by the offer but much too busy making money and with that, a slap on the back seemed to finalize and punctuate his precise meaning. He was better served while serving behind the scenes, where he could follow the money trails. He was active in civic affairs and kept on his best public behaviour for the sake of his reputation and family.
Robertson had to pack his clothes and little black notebooks which he kept for his father and in which he wrote on the events that transpired during their stealthy expeditions. Each occurrence and strange turn in the road was recorded as Robertson seemed to prematurely take on the experience and knowledge of his dad. He was the envy of the other boys who hardly ever saw their fathers and certainly never received the special care and consideration that he did. On this trip he also brought along the five dollars that his uncle Charlie had given him as a reward for his school marks. They were headed south down highway 97 to cowboy country and Robertson had his mind set on buying a lasso rope he had seen in “Feed and Seed” store during their last time out. He had dreamt of that rope for a month and the astonishing stunts that he would learn.
“I’m getting a real cowboy rope this time.” He bragged to his chums. His father would not have approved of his bragging but understood the demands of boyhood rituals.
“What’s the brand?” they would ask and Robertson would make up different, rough, romantic sounding cowboy names on the spur of the moment. Really the brand didn’t matter; it was the rope itself that was the object of envy. With a rope there were untold tricks and stunts and other reasons for glee that you could pull. You could lasso your friend’s dog for example, or some unfortunate newcomer who was the weekly target for bullying. Perhaps a new Hungarian refugee, whose marbles you might trade for protecting him. The possibilities were many. Nevertheless, his school chums would be dazzled and impressed; but mainly they would be jealous which was the whole point of getting the rope.
The headlights on, both father and son, (for his father loved to collect money) were effervescent with expectation, and they drove into the sun until they hit the main highway, turned south and started to make good time on the dirt road heading to Quesnel. Robertson asked his Dad again to make sure of his entries: there was Mr. Ray Trick who owed $12, 650.00 and Mr. Jim Cassidy who was in arrears and had to pay 28,356.00. Robertson placed a big red star beside the name and added three exclamation points, a punctuation mark that they had just recently learned in class and which he thought was appropriate to use in this case.
Now, it doesn’t matter that you may be unfamiliar with the towns of this narrative, if you know the interior towns and villages of North America you will have sufficient knowledge of the little villages to which we refer. They have populations ranging from a humiliation of 1,000 to a boastful number of 25,000 or more. And the citizens of these little hamlets are microcosmic representations of society itself: long on memories and short on change; illustrious or notorious leaders who have either shamed or honoured their town; strange and exemplary citizens; a census of eccentric, moderate and eminent citizens.
Our story takes place in Prince George along the latitudes of the summit of the Canadian north, where the rivers and lakes in this area divert north rather than south, it was spring break-up and minds and attitudes were in disorder. Spring break up and winter freeze up are two additional seasons that these small logging towns share, apart from the usual four seasons that the rest of the world employs. Spring break-up, is characterized by the condition of the off roads. The logging camps are shut down for maintenance; the logging roads are wet with thawing ice and mud and are rarely used in efforts to mitigate the expense of repairs; the loggers are in town drinking beer and the owners are at their desks drinking whiskey. They too know it is collection day. There is no use in hiding; they would have to face Jack Kinkaid at some point.
If you have ever been afflicted with a serious chest cold that left you incapable of breathing normally, then you may have some idea of the conditions of highway 97 during this phase of the British Columbia highways system. The snow had gone from the main roads and dehydrated course gravel was left. They were dry, dirty and dusty, with circumstances favouring dangerous driving. For if you did not speed yourself, another motorist would overtake you and leave you in the limestone dust for the next 50 miles. So when you saw the sight of another driver creeping up on you in your rear view mirror, it was time to hit the gas and the middle of the road.
Their first stop was Ray Trick of Fraser Mills just outside of the town of Quesnel. The road leading to it was rutted and muddied and required that you never stop moving until you reached the mill where you idled, waiting for security forces to let you pass. Those men still in the camps were often new immigrants who were saving their money or didn’t have any use for drink. They were East Indian or Chinese and to young Robertson, they were characters in a medieval legend that started in terror and ended in horror. They wore strange headgear and marks and scars that were wondrous to explain. Jack Kincaid took his brief case of contracts, his cigarettes and a bottle of Canadian Club and left the boy waiting in the car by the gate where the grisly looking transients, passed and looked at him sideways measuring his values, strengths and weaknesses. Robertson clandestinely reached around to lock all the doors and crack the back windows for a little ventilation. He sat behind the wheel with his hands and arms making imaginary driving motions. He struck an important pose.
The epic narrative in Robertson’s mind continued in strangely imaginative episodes of mystery and intrigue. The men were bearded and dishevelled, wearing clothes that smelled of spruce sawdust and sweat. Some had lost an eye but most displayed a loss of a finger or two and walked by neither proud of the loss nor trying to disguise the fact. After awhile, he felt confident enough to get out of the car to wander about near the dormitories which he concluded later must have been segregated. He could tell the difference by the odour of each building. The East Indian dormitories had an intense odour of curry. The men must have been able to cook on their own. The back of the bunks were black with wear. Robertson imagined that that is where their head and hair lay when they took off their Turbans. In another dorm, the tenants were clearly Chinese. He recalled the lanterns and pictures on the wall which he had studied in school. They too must have cooked for there was an overwhelming odour of garlic and fish. And finally he visited the Caucasian dorm when he recognized the smell of tobacco, sawdust, sweat and spilled beer. When he noticed several men advancing in his direction, and although he knew there was no real danger, he sauntered back with false bravery towards the security of the open door of the car.
After more than two hours Robertson began to worry. Where was his father? Had there been a fight? Had he succumbed to some East Asian skulduggery or to a mystifying brew? It seemed that he had waited the entire morning and he was getting hungry. He started to try to get his father’s attention by honking the horn intermittently. He repeated this for 15 minutes until a huge man of undetermined race slowly and methodically approached the car. He did not look at all friendly and Robertson had retreated to the safely of the interior of the car. He waited with just a crack in the window open so that he could hear.
“Your Daddy will be back in few minutes. “ The man said with a faultless British accent. “He has been detained with Mr. Trick the owner but should be just a few more minutes. Thank you for your patience.”
Surprised, relieved but perplexed, Robertson noted that the huge man smelled of curry, and a sweetness of the outdoors. His left hand was missing two fingers and his face seemed like a book of adventure that Robertson could neither understand nor reconcile but yearned to read.
In the distance he could see his father approaching, but he could not yet make out the expression on his face. They would often play a game where Jack Kinkaid would sometimes feign a disappointed expression so as to fool Robertson into thinking that he had not been able to collect. But usually, Robertson could read the slightest signs of success and he usually won the game. Closer and closer he came and then Jack Kinkaid noticeably changed his expression to try to fool Robertson, but the boy was very aware and noted the trick. He marked the successful collection down in his book.
“The full amount?” Robertson asked.
“The full amount.” his father answered. And Robertson carefully made the note.
“”It’s lunchtime Dad. Let’s get something to eat. They turned the car around and headed back down the dirty, slick road, following the ruts they came in.
The town of Quesnel was only 15 minutes drive and they headed directly to the Golden Pheasant Chinese restaurant. Both father and son were looking forward to the meal which was a habit for them. Jack had a problem with only one thing: they always forgot to warm his plate for him before serving the food. To the Chinese waiter, the request was unfathomably absurd and although puzzled and much discussed in the kitchen, he would bring the plate back warmed after receiving a look from Jack Kinkaid that suggested the weight of his request.
The next morning after bacon, eggs and pancakes, they went straight to the “Feed and Seed” store to look for the lasso. After Jack Kinkaid talked to the owner for awhile they decided that one particular brand was the best for Robertson. Robertson found the five dollars that he had squirreled away in the corner of his wallet to prevent theft, unfolded it and gave it to the man. Jack and the owner shared a quick smile of common experience.
Jack Kinkaid told Robertson that on the way home to Prince George they would untie it from its formal loops and drag it behind the car to straighten out the kinks and entanglements that all new ropes had. By the time they got home, the rope would be perfect for use as if it had been used for months and in Robertson’s mind, suitable for all his world famous tricks. He felt vastly satisfied with life and readily agreed to go with his father this time when they visited the next logging camp. His dad didn’t want him wandering about the camp alone with so many darkly mysterious characters around.
It was Sunday but these loggers worked 7 days a week, even in break up and freeze up. Of course most of it was spent drinking and recovering, swearing off whiskey and starting again at the slightest excuse. They would welcome a friendly face to pass the time. Mr. Jim Cassidy was in fact expecting Jack Kinkaid. He knew it was collection day and he was already in arrears with Jack. He would have to face him sometime. The road conditions at the West Lake Timber Mills were as poor as could be expected. Ruts, left from the last vehicle, were ploughed up like farm furrows and wound from side to side of the whole road. It was best to follow them and not make any new inroads that would get you stuck and far from help. So they proceeded cautiously, understanding the risk but accepting it of necessity, as all who passed by, must.
As they approached the guard gate they could see that there was a commotion of cars and other vehicles. As they got closer, some of the cars could be made out to be the local RCMP, police. There were many men all taking at once. Jack sensed the worst intuitively as a man who understood other men through experience and knowledge. Jack introduced himself to one of the police officers and explained that he had an appointment with Mr. Cassidy. The police said that for now he couldn’t be found. His men called them out since they hadn’t seen him in two days. Having all arrived almost at the same time, a woods foreman of prodigious height, two police officers, Jack Kinkaid and Robertson, all advanced single file towards the offices. Their city shoes were soon covered in the thick mud that formed the landscape of the area. Each tried to step in a footprint made by another before him to mitigate the mess on their own footwear. The police didn’t seem to care and willingly soiled their brightly polished knee-high boots: standard issue as a sign of passage.
There was coldness to the air which was more than what was warranted by the true ambient temperature. Inquiry and anticipation was on everyone’s face. Robertson was the only innocent participant having no expectations. The woods foreman climbed the stairs first, unlocked the door and went in, shortly followed by the police and then Jack and his son. The woods foreman found him. The police excitedly grabbed their notebooks and began to scratch out conditions and times. Jack and Robertson looked with wonder and bewilderment at the unexpected scene. Jack turned his son’s head and marched him back to the door telling him to wait outside.
Jim Cassidy was hanging from a rafter. His foreman ran to cut him down but the police stopped him and cautioned about an ‘ongoing investigation’. There was a note left on his desk that the police read aloud within the hearing of Robertson.
“We walk both by night and day”, it stated quite directly.
They drove in silence until just out of Prince George. Just the drone of the motor and the slap of the following rope were evident. The rope had lost its entire kink and was dragging behind like a tired muskrat tail.
“Dad?” Robertson finally broke the silence.
Anticipating his son’s concern he said, “I’m sorry you had to see that, Robertson. It’s a terrible thing to witness at any age.”
“No, that’s all right Dad, it didn’t scare me…I’ve seen lots of animals die when we are out hunting right?”
‘Yes, but it’s a little different don’t you think.”
And Robertson answered reflecting and slightly ashamed, “Yes it is different.” But Dad, I was wondering what the note meant. What do you think Mr. Cassidy wanted to say?”
“I’ve been thinking about that note too. And I guess it’s kind of hard to say what a man is thinking in that condition, but I think it was a kind of confession. I think he meant to say that human beings can carry on two lives at the same time. Perhaps are two different people at different times.”
Robertson thought about the note until they got home and then seemed to end the topic with an explanation of his own.
“I don’t think that Mr. Cassidy had the money to pay you Dad and was ashamed to face you. I heard his foreman say that he hadn’t been paid their wages for months. That’s what I think the note means. What should I put down in the notebook Dad?”
“Just put down,
‘collection delayed’, we’ll talk to the insurance company in the morning.
Better not tell your mother, OK?”
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