LITMIR.BIZ

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      The issue lingered like a dark cloud, with Ked suspended from school. His friend had quickly cleared him of all suspicion regarding ownership of the iPod, but the issue of stolen property remained. Then suddenly, the day turned bright again. The school principal called to apologize to Ked and his family, dismissing the terms of suspension and asking Ked to return to school. That same day Ephraim’s mother produced a receipt from a pawnshop showing she’d bought the item legally, and all charges were dropped against the boys.

      Dan was glad to have the issue resolved, but in that time his son remained edgy with him, tense and barely communicative, as though in Ked’s mind Dan had gone beyond some sort of acceptable parent-son boundaries.

      Twenty

      Sid and Nancy

      Known locally as “the 69,” the highway to Sudbury does little to prepare you for the city itself. True, the farther north you go the more barren the terrain becomes as the Canadian Shield rises from the earth like a giantess spreading her apron to shelter a multitude of stunted children, the towns and cities marginalized and tethered on the periphery of the land. Offering boreal forests in the south and tundra to the north, the Shield is better known for its abundant mineral deposits and the mining communities that have exploited them for more than a century.

      The landscape had changed greatly since Dan’s time. Much of the change was positive in ecological terms, undoing years of bad. The International Nickel Company’s much-vaunted Superstack, a 1,247-foot, concrete chimney, had been built not long after Dan was born, as if to commemorate his arrival. The poisons and pollutants that once blanketed the town were now sent spinning into the atmosphere at an altitude high enough to cut Sudbury’s pollution by more than ninety percent. His aunt recalled days when she’d had a raw throat all summer long from the sulphur emissions, conjuring images of ash films that blackened the snow outside her basement apartment in winter.

      For miles around, forests had strangled on the noxious by-products of mining, the conifers turning rust-red as their needles dropped and the plants slowly died. The region’s pink-grey granite turned black with soot and the vegetation crawled farther and farther into the bush while lakes filled with acid and the fish population shrank and died. With the coming of the Superstack that suddenly stopped, as urban centres to the south began to report mysterious lines of yellow haze scrawling across the sky. Even Inco’s reinvented Tower of Babel couldn’t whitewash the filthy scud away forever. It had to come down somewhere.

      To a child, Sudbury had seemed an intricate playground of things gone wonderfully awry: houses jutting from mountainsides, car-sized boulders in basements with washing machines and furnaces tucked around these incongruences. Buildings pitched and tilted to the sway of winding streets, as though the Crooked Man who’d built a Crooked House had returned with a vengeance to construct an entire derelict, lopsided town crowned by the searing gold spill of slag dumps, a magisterial ring of fire poured down nightly on the Earth.

      Local legend saw the town nested in the crater of an extinct volcano, just waiting for the return of the fiery forces to extinguish it again. Geologists speculated it was the site of a giant meteor crash that gave the area its vast iron and nickel ore deposits. Years of annual spring floods led some to conjecture that the downtown was in actuality a giant swamp, as water rose over the streets with their smattering of English and French names that mingled New and Old World history: LaSalle, Elgin, Wellington, and the generic but obligatory catch-alls of King and Queen. Who the hell Frood was, no one seemed to know or care. At times the floods were so severe they seemed to be mocking the city planners until they put their heads together in the mid-sixties and devised a drainage system that dealt with the problem once and for all.

      Despite its problems, Sudbury affected a sense of homegrown achievement. Schoolchildren recited proudly how prior to the first Apollo moon launch the flight crew trained in the terrain around the city because it resembled the lunar landscape closely enough to launch an astronaut’s career in earnest.

      But if Sudbury was the moon by proxy, then the Flourmill District was the dark side of that moon, an industrial, monochromatic soot-on-soot neighbourhood of the type that sprawled throughout England in Victorian times, finally slouching across the ocean to end up reborn as a living museum exiled in northern Ontario ever after. It made the gritty black-and-white misery of other industrial centres seem like a dove’s cry.

      Dan pictured the cold-water flat without a bathtub where for years he’d washed in a sink with a tap that never entirely turned off, and whose drips left a turquoise stain on the ceramic basin, just a few streets over from the colossal concrete towers that sat like a giant six-pack of dynamite behind his home. The nearest of the six bore an irregular hole the size of a small child just a few feet above the ground. Lore had it the flourmill had once been set for destruction. The hole, it was said, offered testimony to the fact that even explosives had failed to topple it. Children’s fancy, of course. More likely the dimple had been caused by an errant bulldozer that limped off afterwards with a damaged shovel, having learned to pick on something closer to its own size. As a child, you never admitted you came from the Flourmill District. Not only was it the wrong side of the tracks, it had seemed the worst place to come from in the entire country.

      Dan passed a tavern he hadn’t thought of in years, a shallow trough where he’d been sent more than once in search of his father. “Get your father home for supper,” his Aunt Marge instructed in her chirpy voice, though Dan knew supper would be long put away by the time he returned, with or without his father. Dan never had a problem getting into Sudbury’s bars. The bartenders, if they guessed his age, simply turned a blind eye. Or perhaps they knew him for Stuart Sharp’s son. More than one son or daughter had shown up to fetch their parents over the years. Many returned for a longer stay once they came of age. More likely, they assumed Dan was as old as his dark looks proclaimed, which was significantly older than his actual years.

      Inside, he knew, was the latest generation of miners, the hard-working men who earned their living pulling precious metal out of the bowels of the Earth, a whole under-class who spent their hours toiling in darkness, not seeing the sun for weeks at a time, who woke one day wondering where their lives had gone and how they’d managed to miss out on them. Meanwhile, their children had grown up without them, their wives had become bored and discontented, and no one could tell them what it had all been for. Until his death, Dan’s father had been one of these men, his personality stuck on edgy, his face so expressionless it had probably not exercised its muscles in years. Permanent immobility was written all over it.

      He found the house on the hill at the top of Bloor Street, the same flowered curtains in the windows as when he was a child. Probably they weren’t the same, but no doubt his aunt had replaced the originals with curtains of the same style and colour. He sometimes wondered if growing up surrounded by rock had convinced her that all things were more or less permanent, and that efforts should be taken to preserve them just as they were.

      He stepped down the crumbling concrete steps and stopped for a moment where his four-year-old self had heard one of the neighbours say, “She’s gone, poor thing.” The woman had looked at him with such a pitiful gaze that it etched itself onto his heart forever. His mom was gone again, that much he understood. Where she’d gone or when she’d return, no one could say. Except that time she hadn’t come back.

      Leyla was waiting at the door with open arms and a ready smile. He wanted to say something like, “You haven’t changed a bit,” but it was such an obvious lie it would only have caused embarrassment. Pretty as a teenager, her looks had been fleeting, like her youth. Her skin sagged, her pallor the colour of oatmeal. She hadn’t gotten stout, but her once impressive breasts were, he gathered, more of a hindrance now than an enticement. She seemed to have wrapped them in an old sweater to keep them from getting in the way. The one thing that hadn’t changed was the glint of joy in her eyes. Dan gave her a peck on the cheek and squeezed her in his arms. She felt tiny.

      “Mom’s been so excited knowing you were coming,” she said, in a way that told him his absence the past few years had been more marked than he cared to believe. “How’s Ked?” she asked.

      “He’s good. He’s really tall now. Almost as tall as

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