LITMIR.BIZ

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of flippers we got her two seasons back – and brought the stew over to the table, along with homemade buns and a bowl of salad. This was all dished out, plate by plate, and the plates were handed around the table to the person on the end: Sugar, in this case. That was how we did it. Everything we did on the boat had its own ritual, and eating dinner was no different.

      As we ate we chatted about the herring season. Tracy had already heard from Evelyn that we’d made our quota, and that the rest of the company had, too. Sugar and Albert shared the licence but operated through Westco in a collective. We told her about where we’d cast our nets that year and some of the stories we’d brought back: the skiff that had run aground and the yahoos on the Western Rider who’d gotten gooned and overslept and nearly missed the fisheries window. We moaned a little about the weather and how hard Albert worked us.

      ‘Your dad sure gets his money’s worth out of his poor crew,’ Sugar said.

      ‘Don’t I know it,’ Tracy said.

      ‘These fellows,’ Albert said, shaking his head, ‘would sleep through a hurricane if I let them. They would sleep through the End of Days.’

      After the stew came the pie, and when that was done we got out the cards and played High Chicago for pennies, which was another ritual. Sugar lost quickly, and after declaring bankruptcy he palmed the table-top to push himself up. He’s six-four and two-twenty, and in the close confines of the deckhouse he moved slowly, carefully.

      ‘You coming for a walk?’ he asked his nephew.

      The way he said it wasn’t a question. Big Ben folded his hand and followed his uncle outside. We played a few more rounds and Evelyn made a pot of coffee and we got to talking about payday and the cheques we all had coming our way. Albert was going to install a new furnace in their place out in New West, and Evelyn, she was putting some of her share away for a trip to Palm Springs. But even then I had the feeling that it was all preamble. I was still waiting for whatever it was they were going to spring on me.

      ‘What about you, Tim?’ Tracy asked. ‘You got any big plans once this taskmaster sets you loose?’

      ‘Ah, you know me. I ain’t got much imagination.’

      ‘No raising Cain?’ She elbowed me. ‘No lady friend to buy pretty things for?’

      ‘Well, there is one.’ Evelyn stopped sipping her tea. They all looked at me, waiting. ‘Old woman by the name of Evelyn,’ I said. ‘Might need a new dishwasher.’

      Evelyn got up and slapped me with her flipper mitt.

      ‘No sir,’ Albert said, playing along. ‘Nobody buys my woman a dishwasher but me!’

      The joke ran its course, and as Evelyn settled back down she said, ‘Albert – why don’t you tell Tim. Tell him what we were talking about.’

      ‘Oh no,’ Tracy said.

      Albert frowned at her, and cleared his throat, and then spread out one hand to stare at the fingernails. The cuticles were rimmed with black: a lifetime’s worth of engine oil and grease. He ran his thumbnail beneath the nail on his forefinger, as if removing some. Then he said, ‘You know we normally head up to our cabin in Squamish for a week at the end of season. Well, we’ll be heading up this Saturday, after we finish, and wondered if you wanted to come.’

      ‘Wow,’ I said, which was all I could think to say. ‘That’s real kind of you.’

      ‘Our boy Rick will be there, with his kids, and Tracy.’

      Tracy was staring into her teacup, as if trying to read the leaves.

      ‘That would be really something,’ I said.

      ‘Of course,’ Albert added, ‘if you got other things going on …’

      ‘No. No I don’t got anything else. The only thing keeping me here would be my mother. If she needs me, I mean. Seeing as I’ve already been away for a while.’

      ‘Of course, Timothy,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ve got to look after your family, too.’

      ‘It would only be for a few days,’ Albert said.

      ‘That sounds real nice.’

      ‘Think about it, anyway,’ Evelyn added.

      ‘I will. I really will.’

      She stood up and began to clear the cups, even though mine was only half-finished.

      ‘Well,’ Tracy said, ‘I better get back. Shift starts in an hour.’

      She was working security at a local college, while undertaking her training.

      ‘I’ll walk you out, if you like.’

      The docks were quiet, aside from a few old-timers on one of the boats, drinking to celebrate the end of season, their voices and laughter echoing across the water. Tracy and I walked in silence until we crossed the gangway. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry about that. They like to play matchmaker.’

      ‘It’s a nice idea.’

      ‘Nice is an easy word.’

      ‘I mean it would be fun.’

      ‘Well, maybe it would be.’

      We reached her vehicle: a classic Jeep that she’d salvaged from the scrap heap, and fixed up. She’d parked in the same spot that Jake had earlier. She unlocked the driver’s door and before she got in I hugged her again. In the dark, away from the others, I could have held onto her longer, and maybe I should have. But it was funny. I still acted the same way.

      That night, it wasn’t hard to slip away. I just waited until Sugar and Big Ben were asleep (this was easy to determine because they both snore like bears) and then crept out of the cabin, eased open the galley door, and lowered myself down to the dock. Sneaking off felt shady and dishonest but those were feelings I generally associated with my brother, and any plan of his which involved me.

      The Firehall, where we were meeting, is on the corner of Gore and Cordova, just a few blocks away from the Westco plant. It isn’t a firehall any more. It’s an arts centre and performance space now – a fairly well-known one. They produce shows of their own and also put on work by touring theatre and dance companies. The outside still looks like a firehall: worn brownstone walls, glossy red doors, and those high-arched windows.

      The night I met Jake, a company called The Dance Collective was performing. The name was spelled in block capitals across the marquee, and on the A-frame board out front a series of posters listed the various dancers and their pieces. I walked cautiously up the wheelchair ramp and stood for a time outside the doors, peering in through the glass.

      The place hadn’t changed much. On the left was the box office, and on the right was the bar – a classy-looking affair, with a marble bar top, chrome beer taps, and leather stools. On some of the tables platters of appetizers and hors d’oeuvres had been laid out: smoked salmon and pastries and little vegetable rolls. In the foyer thirty or forty guests – a mix of well-dressed artists, hipsters, and bohemian types – stood chatting and milling about. All of it looked so eerily familiar I felt like a ghost, lurking in the cold and haunting my old life.

      I have to admit: I just about turned and walked away.

      But my brother was in there, waiting for me. So I went ahead, passing through the glass doors and falling backwards into memory. I knew exactly where to find Jake too: hunched at the bar, ignoring the room and world.

      I sat down next to him and he said, ‘So the old man let you loose.’

      There were three empty bottles of Molson in front of him and he was already looking a bit belligerent.

      ‘He said he wouldn’t stop me, if I snuck off.’

      ‘Better make the most of it.’ He motioned to the bartender, signalling for service. ‘Two more Molson and two shots of Wiser’s.’

      ‘Only beer,

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