Clothes for Wolves

Thomas Michael Patterson

In the summer of 2013, Thomas Michael Patterson travelled east for five thousand kilometres to spend the next twelve months with his maternal grandmother in the Acadian village of Gracieville. The coastal community was so far away from everything he knew that he might as well have been dropped off in the middle of the ocean and not immediately next to it. Thomas could have chosen to accompany his parents on a twelve-month tour of the globe, but he graciously declined the invitation knowing how much fun it wouldn't be. Rose and James Patterson were wonderful people for their age, but Thomas wasn't up for his father's idea of family time.
Thomas's older brother, Dexter, invited Thomas to spend the year in Vancouver, but Thomas knew he only asked so he could look good to their parents. He knew that even if he had said yes, Dex would have come up with an obviously well thought out excuse for his inability to follow through—that was Dex. It didn't matter what was true as long as it looked good. Not that Dex was all bad, it just took Thomas a little more than others to see the good. Dexter had moved to Hollywood North where he was having moderate success as an actor. In the last two years, he had appeared in several Canadian productions and was famous to a very small community, which included himself. Dex wasn't a very good actor, but he could certainly play a part. There were no other relatives west of the Canso Causeway, so Thomas reluctantly accepted what he felt to be the lesser of two evils and went to live in Cape Breton.
Thomas's grandmother on his mother's side was Mary Sullivan. At age 66, she still bore the appearance that in her youth had caused many arguments between jealous wives and obvious husbands; few lines crossed her face, even though she had suffered more than her share of woe. Her husband Edward had died at 45, and Mary was left to carry on with her daughter Rose and son Christopher. The odd golden hair fought through the tangle of grey as if remembering other days, and her deep blue eyes mirrored the sea that made up her backyard. She was tall compared to most women, which was another intimidating factor to the self-conscious, but she could never have been said to have looked down on anyone. Quite the contrary; even if they hated her beauty, every woman could agree that her visage was exactly befitting her character. Mary Sullivan was a beautiful person—both inside and out.
Mary and Thomas had to stop in Portage for a few groceries on the way to Gracieville because other than two small family owned convenience stores that only shelved the basic necessities, there was nowhere within twenty minutes of Mary's to purchase amenities. The town of Portage had grown since its conception, but the layout had remained much the same for the last one hundred fifty years. The main thoroughfare followed the exact same path, with the only changes being to its facade and the growing number of roads branching off it. The MacIsaacs still owned Portage, and the offspring of the five brothers still maintained a smug superiority over the populace. It made many of its citizens resentful, but those same citizens still spent money at all the MacIsaac businesses. You could travel a half hour to buy goods cheaper, but the complacency of most meant their resentfulness amounted to no more than idle threats. It was easier to bitch and complain than drive to Shipton.
With Thomas's plane landing at ten to eight, he and Mary were passing through Portage at midday. At the top of the small incline, which passed the Protestant church to the left, Main Street came into view. MacIsaac's Ultramar stood on the same spot as the old farriers, as was only logical. Rodney MacIsaac was a crooked mechanic who often overcharged, but he had a monopoly. The only other service stations to set up shop had folded under pressure, and no one had dared challenge the prick for the last ten years. Rodney offered terrible service at outrageous prices. His motto was, "Where else ya gonna go?"
The Aberdeen still stood and was still the place to go when there was something to do. It was also the only place in town that had slot machines, so as far as addictions went the market had been cornered by Ross Junior and his son Caleb, the descendants of Old Angus the Arsehole. The only other eating establishments to survive in the town were The Corner and B&B's take out, and their success was largely due to the hatred of the MacIsaac clan. The food was usually greasy, but those who didn't want to give a MacIsaac business could still eat and complain somewhere else.
If you wanted to buy groceries or fill a prescription in Portage, you dealt with John MacIsaac. Old John had loved his name so much that he passed it on for five generations. He also passed along something that most of the MacIsaacs lacked: compassion. The people of Portage pitied this line of MacIsaacs and assumed the qualities most becoming a John MacIsaac must have come from some long ago extra marital affair. It could not be proven, but as with everything else in Portage the truth seldom mattered.
Mary looked at Thomas in the rear-view mirror and felt sorry for him. He had chosen the backseat at the airport, and she knew that for now some distance would be best to let him acclimatize. She didn't really know kids these days, but she still understood it couldn't be easy. It's never easy figuring yourself out. She had made several attempts to engage him in conversation since picking him up at the airport, but all she received were polite one-word answers. "How was your flight?"
"Good."
"Do you want to stop for something to eat?"
"No."
As she pulled in to MacIsaac's Grocery, she glanced over her right shoulder, trying once again to engage her reluctant passenger. "Do you want to come in?" she asked. "I need to get Popsicles for Christopher. If I don't show up with them he'll never go to sleep." She chuckled, hoping the light conversation would bridge the void.
"No thank you," he replied politely. "I'm fine in the car."
She turned off the ignition and grabbed her purse from the passenger's seat. As she opened the door halfway, she turned back to Thomas again. "Would you like anything?" she asked.
"No thank you," he returned without meeting her gaze.
"I'll only be a minute," she affirmed as she closed the door leaving him alone in the car.
She walked towards the entrance, and he followed her with his eyes. He felt bad about being pissed off, but right now he was feeling too sorry for himself to have much compassion. He looked around and wondered how do people live around here? All he had seen was sixty seconds of basic necessities: a bank, a gas station, two restaurants, and maybe a dozen people. To his left a large brick building stood out on the landscape a couple of hundred metres up a side road. He assumed it must be a school. It had that educational penitentiary look.
He turned his gaze back up the sidewalk upon an individual who was meandering comically towards him, and he immediately began laughing at the approaching spectacle. The man was dressed entirely in lime green with the exception of his knee-high black rubber boots. A wild shock of unkempt locks met a Lincoln style beard. A caveman with clothes Thomas thought, continuing his laughter. He appeared to be having a heated conversation with no one, and as far as Thomas could tell there was no definitive winner. He'd stare at the sky and wave his hands as if swatting imaginary flies, then turn his head sharply in either direction as if he suspected he was being followed. He wasn't being followed—in fact those whom he did meet crossed to the other side of the street. Thomas hoped he was an oddity and not the norm around here.
As the stranger got closer to the car, Thomas felt a sensation he couldn't explain. When he tried to recall it later, he felt it was a mixture of curiosity and fear. As the caveman approached, he wanted to ensure all the doors were locked, but he didn't want to reach over the seat and make it obvious. He looked away, not wanting to make eye contact, and pretended to be talking on his cell phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the man ramble into the parking lot and toward the store's entrance. He would pass within fifteen feet of the car on his current path and this was much too close for Thomas—even if he was locked in a car. The conversation the individual was having with himself came to an amicable conclusion and so did the sounds of the caveman's footfall.
Thomas felt the stranger's gaze and somehow it was impossible for him to keep from turning towards the window. Their eyes met, and Thomas cringed uncomfortably. The face that met him looked questioningly deep into his eyes and made Thomas feel horribly exposed. Any misconceptions that had led him to laugh earlier were now replaced with anxiety and he could feel his heart racing and pounding against his shirt. The caveman craned his neck forward and lowered his bushy eyebrows as if squinting at Thomas. They looked at each other only briefly, but that was long enough. In his head, Thomas began pleading with God for the return of his grandmother. He had spoken to God rarely and mostly in dire need—like most people he just asked for things. Apparently this time, God was listening. Mary appeared through the doors and started walking towards the car, and Thomas breathed deeply as the caveman looked away. He could see his grandmother mouth a greeting to the man who turned and walked towards her.
There was a brief conversation between Mary and the caveman, and Thomas watched curiously as his grandmother touched the man's shirtsleeve. Having ended their conversation quickly, Mary made her way towards the car and slipped inside.
She looked back at Thomas and asked, "You still doing okay?"
"I'm fine," he answered, and he really was. Something in the last few moments had changed for him. All he could think about was the eyes that had stared at him only moments ago, and for the first time since his Calgary departure he wasn't thinking about how pissed off he was. He had been terrified at first, but he had a curious nature and wanted to know more about the man dressed in lime green.  Maybe Mary had answers; he'd ask her later.
Mary and Thomas pulled out of the parking lot, onto the narrow two-lane road, and made their way east towards the turn off to Gracieville. Moments later Thomas saw something he hadn't expected: a street light. There was a line of cars ten or so deep and traffic had come to a halt. From where he was Thomas couldn't see past the first couple of cars; and feeling safer with his grandmother now, he initiated conversation.
"What's going on?" he asked, peering around the passenger side headrest.
"Why don't you come sit up here so you can see?" she answered, patting the passenger's seat.
He unbuckled his seat belt without hesitation and exited the car. He stood looking past the small amount of traffic towards the traffic light, They were stopped at a bridge that was slowly opening. It wasn't like any bridge he had seen before. On TV they all opened the same way: the middle would break apart and both sections would rise. This wasn't the case with this bridge though; the entire span, which was probably just under one hundred feet, was swinging to one side. Mary turned off the car, got out, and walked around the front to stand beside her grandson.
"We're at the canal," Mary said, answering his unasked question. "This is the only link to this end of the lake from the ocean. The tourist sailing season has just started, and in the middle of the summer you can be stuck here for up to half an hour, depending on how many boats want to get in or out of the lake." She added, pointing to her left.
They walked towards the bridge together, and Thomas could see the top of a long mast. "That's Wallace MacAskill's boat, the Highlander," she continued. "He's usually the first one on the lake, well, after the lobster boats. He spends all summer on that thing."
A proud man sat in the stern and waved to the onlookers as he slowly slipped through the only passage to the southern part of the Bras d'Or. As the Highlander crept towards the open waters, the swing bridge slowly creaked its way back into position while Mary and Thomas turned and walked back to the car.
As they crossed the bridge, Thomas looked down the blue line of the canal. He could see about five hundred feet to the south, and he marvelled at the workmanship that must have gone into such an endeavour. A little over another kilometre brought them to the road to Gracieville, and with a right turn they embarked on the last fifteen minutes of their drive home. Mary felt she and Thomas had turned a corner too. She had spent a lot of time in the last few weeks contemplating the next year and though she was usually an optimist, she was also a realist. It all depended on his reaction, she knew that. It had very little to do with her.
They headed south for a short time before turning southeast to follow the shoreline for twenty kilometres to Gracieville and Thomas's new home. It was a sparsely populated stretch of road with clusters of houses popping up here and there in pocket communities, which made up the greater Portage area. After passing through Bayview, Rockdale and Chapel Cove, they headed into the Acadian section of Portsmouth County.
The day had been sunny; but as they turned the corner at Bucky LeRue's, a brown blanket of fog could be seen hanging over the surrounding hillside and within minutes it blocked out the sun. By this time of day it had normally burned off, but today it lingered and hung low over the land, turning a beautiful warm day into a damp and dreary afternoon. The outside temperature dropped by several degrees, and Mary hastily rolled up her window. 
"It's always like this here. Bucky says he makes the fog for the rest of the world in his shed," she said, pointing to a small white house down a long crooked driveway. As Mary and Thomas continued down the road, the potholes grew steadily worse. Patches of broken pavement became more commonplace; and as they neared the turn off to Thomas's new home, any attempt at aesthetics was lost.
It was just after one o'clock, which meant that Christopher should be making his way towards the mail. Christopher was different, at least that's what most people said. His place on the autism spectrum was undetermined, and to most he was just someone who deserved pity. He did the same thing every day, at the exact same time, and performed every task with surgical precision. Each morning he awoke at eight thirty, ate homemade bread and drank a litre of chocolate milk, after which he would watch three hours of cartoons. For lunch he ate either a grilled cheese sandwich, no crust, with a bowl of tomato soup, or four hotdogs. Then he went for his walk.
Christopher's daily walk took him on a circuitous route: west then north along the Shore Road for half an hour to the mailbox, with a brief halt to see the rabbits at the Bishops' house—1040 steps. He would then turn east and travel uphill along the two laned, broken paved highway until he reached Michaud's road—1002 steps. Christopher then followed the road that led to the community pasture gate. It began behind Royal Perkins and ended at the water's edge, marking the beginning of Edward and Mary's land—1150 steps. For the last leg of his trip home he took 1042 steps along the shoreline until turning right at the wharf.
Upon arriving home, he would nap until four and then draw until supper time. His artwork was incredibly vivid and detailed; and if he had wanted, much of it could have hung in galleries. Some days he would spend hours on a landscape, real or imagined, tearing it into thousands of pieces if one pencil stroke went awry. His small room was lined with portraits of faces never seen and landscapes never visited. He had a particular fondness for painting a faceless stranger amid his landscapes. Mary asked who it was, and he always replied, "He's the guy that knows." She couldn't get anything else out of him and so referred to this character as Mr. Fuckface, whenever she focused long enough for him to enter her thoughts. Mr. Fuckface was plastered in many scenes. He was a fisherman out alone hauling nets, he was a shepherd in the pasture, but mostly he just lurked.
At five thirty Christopher ate a respectable supper. It was mostly common fare, usually meat and potatoes, but he also loved Italian food and lasagna was his favourite. After supper he ate a large bowl of ice cream and watched the game show network for an hour. Then he and Mary would play crib—best two out of three. They were pretty even according to Christopher's stats, which had them at 2307 wins for Christopher and 2255 for Mary over the last five years.
Before bed he had a Popsicle while Mary read him a story; and he would usually fall asleep, or pretend to, in the first twenty minutes. For the most part he was easy to take care of, and his schedule was good for Mary too. Edward's sister, Violet, was always there when Mary needed to be away. Christopher liked Violet a lot: they played crib together and she was easy to beat. She could cook; and when she read him stories, her character portrayals were far better than Mary's. Mary was still able to accomplish little things she needed to do even when Violet wasn't there and was confident that Chris could be left alone for short periods of time. Only once had he made her doubt it, but then again, she may have given him too much credit.
As sure as rain, they met him in his usual one fifteen spot: in front of Barbara and Clarence Bishops' house. The Bishops were one of the only families on the Shore Road not to rely on the water for their livelihood. One of their boys had escaped the mundane after high school and worked his way up through the ranks of the oil industry to become a leading chemical engineer. The Bishops were the only permanent residents of Gracieville who could say they had been to the Middle East. This in itself was enough for some to consider them an outside threat to national security.
The Bishops kept rabbits in a chicken wire cage, not far from the edge of the road, and Christopher ritualisticly brought them treats. He was passing a small piece of carrot through the cage when he heard the sound of Mary's car, looked up, and waved emphatically with both hands over his head. He then continued feeding treats to Hash Brown and Lobster, names he had chosen himself. Mary slowed the car to a halt and rolled down the window as they approached.
"Were you good for Auntie Violet?" she asked in a soft tone. Without turning around, he snorted and waved her question off as if it was ridiculous. "Come say hello to your nephew," she added.
Christopher reluctantly turned his attention away from the rabbits and walked to the passenger side door. He wasn't a large man by any means, but he was said to be as strong as a bull. Once, when he was angry at one of his drawings, he had ripped his bedroom door clean off its hinges. He was as surprised as Mary by the result and cried himself to sleep that night. He apologized profusely for many days to follow. 
He had short hair, greying at the temples, and the beginnings of stubble starting to appear around his mouth. Like his father, he was unable to grow a full beard. He shaved every Friday night; and when he was done, he would rub his clean face against Mary's as she called him her handsome boy. He loved that. He was dressed today from head to toe in bright yellow—his favourite color.
"You look like a big banana," Mary said teasingly.
He ignored her and beckoned for Thomas to roll down the window. "Hello," he said when Thomas complied. "My name is Christopher. What's your name?" Before Thomas could answer, he began again. "Thomas Michael Patterson, seventeen years old. Born on September sixth, nineteen ninety-six."
"That's right," said Thomas, as Christopher turned away from him and looked back towards the rabbits.
"It's okay Chris, you can keep moving. We'll have lots of time to spend with Thomas later," said Mary. "See you in a little bit."
"One hour and twenty-seven minutes," shouted Christopher.
Mary pulled away slowly, and Thomas took in his surroundings. "What's that smell?" he asked, quickly rolling up his window.
Mary laughed and said, "That's a combination of smells. The really disgusting rotten egg smell is from the pond—there's a clam bed right over there," she pointed. "The other disgusting smell is from the lobster plant. Don't worry it's not there all the time. It is low tide right now, and we're in the middle of lobster season, so you're getting the worst of it."
Thomas followed her finger to the large metal building on the other side of the pond. He could see many seagulls circling and jockeying for position as they squawked derision at their neighbours who sat on its roof. To the left of the stink stood a solitary house, which was to be Thomas's home for the upcoming year. Thirty years ago, a barn had stood drunkenly a couple of hundred feet behind the home; but years of neglect and the northeast winds, which came with the fall hurricane season, had left only the foundation. It was now lost in the knee-high weeds that flourished in the area. All that remained, and would only be noticed by those who bothered to look, were a few scattered blocks of masonry outlining its original position. A smaller shed, which was gutted shortly after Edward's death, had been hauled down to the shore at Mary's request.
Edward had lived as most did in those parts. Living near the water meant you fished. There was little to no money in it, but you ate all year long. Mary loved Edward with all her heart and was destroyed when he didn't return home with the tide. He was one of the many fisherman who left the wharf each morning unable to swim. He could tread water and panic his was back to a boat if it were very close, but a single minute in open water meant death by drowning. Once every year or so at least one wouldn't come back. In the summer of '85 there were three, and Edward was the last. Mary had implored the stubborn bastard to wear a life jacket; but as with the rest of the dead, it sat in the boat tucked under the seat—useless.
As they pulled into the driveway, Violet's face was framed in the small window above the sink just as Mary knew it would be. The locals referred to her as the flower pot: always in the same place, staring out the window. Violet moved to the right and made her way towards the entrance. She held the screen door open for them as they shuffled past her to set Thomas's bags down just inside the kitchen.
"How was he?" Mary asked Violet, as she glanced over her shoulder on the way to the bathroom.
"Good," replied Violet. "Except he was really mad at me for skunking him in crib two straight." Mary laughed through the door. "He gave me sixteen twice in my crib and the second time I thought he was gonna lose it. He kept yelling 'Two percent chance! Two percent chance!' He paced the room for a good minute, and I wasn't sure what he was going to do. You know how mad he can get—he got that Sullivan temper. Then it was like a switch went off in his head, he sat down and said to himself two percent is still a possibility, and everything was good again."
"Other than that, the routine was pretty strict. Oh yeah," she added, remembering and smiling. "Who in the hell is Mr. Fuckface? Pardon my language," she said, turning to Thomas.
"Oh my God, you're so big! Come here. Let me look at you. You have your mother's mouth. How old are you now? Let me see. Rose is forty-five, she had you when she was twenty-eight. Oh, seventeen. Do you have your licence? How do you like it here so far?" She could have gone on.
Mary emerged from the bathroom and saved Thomas once again. He relaxed his shoulders and slumped into a chair; Violet was too much energy for him right now. "Mr. Fuckface is that weird guy in all Chris's drawings. Why?" Mary asked.
"He said 'Goodnight Mr. Fuckface' at least a hundred times last night after I read him a story. I was out here in the kitchen laughing like a fool." Violet said as she chuckled again picturing the event.
"He must have heard me call him that, but I don't remember ever saying it out loud. He's a funny one. That's funny. He doesn't do that when I'm here," Mary said with slight exasperation. They both laughed a little more until Violet once again returned her attention to Thomas.
"So, where are your parents now? Greece?" She asked. She had a habit of answering her own questions, something she undoubtedly acquired from living alone. "How's your brother, the actor? We watched him on TV. He was really good," she added. She was always adding.
"Good," Thomas returned. He hated when people did that: always turning the conversation to Dex. Thomas was thinking about the big event that was his brother's television debut. He thought to himself, and not for the first time, no, he wasn't that good, he was actually pretty bad. "He's still living in Vancouver," he replied. He had learned to accept that most people wanted to hear about his older brother, but it didn't make him enjoy it. "He's thinking about moving to Los Angeles, but..." He never finished the sentence; he just raised his eyebrows and turned away.
"Ireland, not Greece," Mary quickly added, changing the subject. She had heard the hostility in Thomas's voice even if Violet couldn't pick up on it. "Actually Ireland, then Scotland, then England, then Australia, and then New Zealand for six months. They'll be gone for most of the year, so Thomas has quite a stay with us." She smiled at Thomas, and he returned the sentiment—at least he could say it was interesting.
Christopher came home exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes after they had left him by the rabbits and went for his nap. Thomas napped for a couple of hours as well. He had been awake for almost nineteen hours, and his body and mind were exhausted. Although he had taken many flights in his life, he was one of the unfortunate who couldn't sleep on an airplane. He had a window seat, which he preferred, from Calgary to Halifax; and he had spent much of the time staring out the window cursing his parents and watching as clusters of city lights passed beneath him. When the sun finally made its way into the sky, they were beginning their descent into Halifax; and Thomas got his first glimpse of the Maritimes. What a fucking pile of trees, he thought.
At five thirty, they ate lasagna and then watched gameshows. Thomas sat in wonder as Christopher shouted numbers at the TV, disagreed if they were wrong, and sang along with every commercial changing the tone of his voice to match. After TV, Christopher and Mary played cribbage while Thomas watched in confusion as they took turns laying cards down, counting to thirty-one, and moving plastic pegs around a track dotted with little holes. Mary promised to teach him later. She teasingly asked Christopher if he won against Violet; but he didn't answer, which always meant no. However, in this contest, Christopher won a very close game three, in which Mary was stuck one hole short.
"Shithole, shithole," he chanted joyously as he capered around the kitchen.
"That's what you call it when your opponent is stuck in the last hole." Mary said, answering Thomas's look.
"That's enough Chris. Let it go," said Mary. He laughed and said it once more under his breath. He couldn't let it go.
Christopher was asleep by eight thirty, so Thomas and Mary were left alone in the kitchen. "It's quiet here. If you give it a chance I think you'll like it. Sometimes change can be good." Mary reached over and touched his arm. Thomas felt bad for her concern. He didn't want to be pouty as it was getting better, but he was still pissed at his parents.
"I know," he said shyly before changing the subject.
"Grandma, who was that guy you were talking to outside of the store today?" Mary straightened quickly as her body responded to the question. She brought her hand to her mouth and gazed down and to the right.
"Who?" she managed, hoping to buy herself a little time. It wasn't her secret and from the beginning, when this trip was first proposed, she was against keeping anything from Thomas.
"That crazy guy who was outside the grocery store. He looked like a freak." Thomas explained.
Mary changed her disposition at the words and thought to herself: you little prick, just like your father. "You know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. You know nothing about him," Mary said sharply. She heard her tone and quickly softened her voice. "It's a mistake to make judgements like that, is all I'm trying to say."
She and Rose agreed that she would only tell Thomas if it was absolutely necessary. Mary had little belief that she could shield Thomas from it and had hoped that it would come out much later into his trip, but Jeep had seen him and immediately knew who he was. His father didn't know and his mother must have forgotten what it was like to live in a small place. Rose was only 17 in 1985 when her father died, and it changed her plan to head off to college that September to become a teacher. She instead chose to stay home and become the man of the house. When Rose finally left Gracieville, after the constant pleading of her mother, she swore she'd return; but that didn't happen again until her wedding and then only twice more in the last twenty years.
"That man," Mary started, paused to breathe deeply, but then quickly changed her mind before exhaling. Now wasn't the right time, maybe tomorrow after a good night's rest. "That's a bigger conversation than I'm ready for right now. Let's just relax tonight, and we'll go for a walk around the point tomorrow. I'll tell you then if you still want to know."
Thomas was okay with that. He obviously didn't place as much importance on the subject as his grandmother—maybe she was embarrassed. Whatever, he just hoped that the rest of the people around here would be normal. Mary asked him if there was anything he wanted to do over the next few days and offered several suggestions: including going around the Cabot Trail if he was up for it. Thomas hadn't spent any time thinking about it; he hadn't really thought about what he was going to do once he got here at all. Mary looked at him as he flipped through old photo albums she had brought out. He was different—she could tell. He'd come around sooner or later.
Thomas went to bed just before eleven o'clock, but he lay awake for well over an hour. He was very introspective and spent his first night in his new home reflecting on the last twenty-four hours. Everything his eyes had seen had been brand new from the moment he began his descent through the clouds into Halifax. Something about his situation suddenly appealed to him. He hadn't liked his life in Dex's shadow; this might be exactly what he needed. He closed his eyes feeling a little more optimistic than he had all day. Maybe this was a good thing. He remembered very little after that. He thought he heard a cow, but he couldn't be certain.