Clothes for Wolves

Winifred Addison Peters

Chapter 3 - Winifred Addison Peters

After his talk with Mary, Thomas sat outside contemplating what he had just heard for a long time. It was a lot of information to absorb. On the one hand, it made sense to him—he finally felt like he knew himself. He always thought of himself as an outsider, both in his family and in the rest of life, but on the other hand, he didn't want to be as far out as his newly discovered ancestry would make him. He was surprised on the drive to Gracieville when every driver in the oncoming cars would wave to his grandmother. It wasn't normal where he came from. It seemed comfortably familiar, yet at the same time intrusive. He didn't want everyone knowing his business, and he didn't want to be the butt of jokes. He had just resigned himself to the fact that for the next twelve months, like it or not, he was stuck here; and now there was a whole new dimension to contend with.
He had thought of a few questions for Mary, so he went back inside and joined her in the kitchen. "Do you drink tea?" she asked, as she reached for a cup that lay drying by the sink. He politely declined. "Your grandfather wants to meet you," she said shyly. "He called while you were outside. I told him that it wasn't up to me and that it was your decision. I fully understand if you don't want to, and so does he."
Thomas said nothing for a few moments. Then, choosing his words carefully he replied, "Not yet." He had lived his whole life in the shadow of his brother, and he finally felt like he had a chance to have his own identity. The last thing he wanted was another label. "Does everyone call him Crazy Jeep, and does everyone around here believe he's really crazy?" he asked after some thought.
"Well, let's just say there's not many who don't," she replied. "You see, he loves it. He truly loves it. Also, this has been going on for a very long time. He's not the first Crazy Peters— you need to remember that. Crazy Tom, Crazy Manny, and now Crazy Jeep. Stories that last that long tend to hold more weight. Besides, it makes for interesting conversation, and that's all that really matters around here."
"Do you think he's crazy? I mean do you think there's something mentally wrong with him?" Thomas asked.
"Mentally wrong with him? Absolutely not. In fact he's probably the smartest person I know. In saying that, I also hafta say he is a bit off. I mean why would anyone choose to act the way he does and alienate everyone if there wasn't 'something' wrong? He's different, and all the Peters men have been. They don't start out that way, but that's the way they turn. They've been freaking people out for four generations, and your grandfather seems to be the worst of the lot—the Craziest Peters. I don't know. He's not crazy with me, and there are a couple of others he gets along with, but people attribute a level of craziness to any who tolerate him, so most don't." Mary shrugged before continuing.
"You also need to understand that this is a much smaller place than what you're used to, and with that comes a level of understanding between most people. Everybody wants the same thing, so nothing will change. All they want are the roads to be fixed." She stood up and looked out the window over the kitchen sink before continuing. "It's such a beautiful place, I mean unbelievably beautiful, and if you asked anybody here what they would want to do to improve it, they couldn't tell you. Complacency and consistency." She stopped for a minute to pour the boiling water over her Red Rose and continued as she dipped the tea bag in and out. "But there's just no future here now for the kids. They're the ones who could make it change, but they all leave. When we were growing up nobody left. Everybody stayed because there was no reason to go. There were lots of jobs if you wanted to work. A few left for Halifax, but nobody went much further. Most people worked at the mill or the heavy water plant, and when all of that went to hell, that's when people first started leaving. Now everybody leaves and goes out West. All the young people anyway. It's a big retirement village here. Most of the families that were here when I was a kid are still around, but now, well, all their kids are away. Just like your mom."
Thomas tried to stay focused on what Mary was saying, but his thoughts always returned to Jeep. The question of the treasure was foremost in his mind, and more than anything he wanted more information on that particular subject. After a few quiet moments he asked, "Grandma, you said something about gold, is that real gold, or 'legend' gold?"
"That's a question you should ask your grandfather," replied Mary, and his inquiry remained unanswered.
For the rest of the summer, Thomas kept a pretty low profile. He spent some of his daily routine walking around the point to the second set of slate and implemented just as much of a routine as his uncle. He finally understood what enjoyment could be found in a simple walk, and he would often time his journey as to meet Chris on the beach so they walk the last leg home together. Chris was genuinely the most "real" person Thomas had ever known. There was no pretense or assumptions with Chris and Thomas truly had never felt as comfortable around anybody as he did his uncle. Chris was by no means a conversationalist but that didn't bother Thomas. He was happy to spend time in his uncles presence and enjoy quiet thoughts.
Thomas was a thinker, always was, and the more he thought about Jeep, the more he wanted to meet him. He wasn't exactly sure how to explain it. Maybe it was his subconscious, maybe he truly just wanted to piss his father off, or maybe it was the Peters' blood. He was intrigued by Jeep and he had a lot of questions. Whenever he asked Mary for information, she simply replied that she didn't know and that those questions were better suited for someone else. Thomas wondered why Mary didn't share the same opinion of Jeep as the rest of Portage, but he never asked. She was an intelligent woman and other than the connection of bloodlines he couldn't figure out why she'd affiliate herself with someone like Jeep. He wanted desperately to meet him, but all he could remember of him was the face that looked through the car window and terrified him on his first day in Portage.
After very few weeks Thomas adapted to the slowness of Cape Breton and began to settle into the routine that comes with feeling comfortable. He woke at the same time as Christopher, and he adopted his uncle's breakfast routine and appetite for homemade bread. Mary had a reputation for her bread, and she had to make a double batch now to keep up with the two men in her house. After breakfast, he usually watched cartoons with Christopher or, when he got bored of CBC morning, he'd surf for a little while. He'd skype with his parents once a week and get updates on their wonderful trip. They seemed to be pleased that he was getting along okay, but they always had somewhere to go and conversations were short. After lunch, when Thomas would go for a walk around the point and sit on the beach waiting for Chris, he would look for cool rocks hoping to find something unusual. Ever since he was young, he had dreamed about searching for lost treasure and was addicted to pirate movies. He'd seen Goonies at least one hundred times.
The days got progressively shorter; and one evening toward the end of August, while he and Christopher were playing crib, the phone rang and Mary had a hushed conversation in the other room. After losing two straight games to his uncle, Thomas decided to play solitaire while Christopher ate his Popsicle and disappeared into his bedroom with Mary for a quick story. When Mary re-entered the kitchen, she picked up the cards and began to shuffle quickly and efficiently before putting them down for Thomas to cut.
"I need to ask you something," she said. "That was your grandfather on the phone. He needs me to take him to Sydney on Friday, and someone has to stay with Winnie." She waited for his response and dealt the cards. He picked up his hand and threw two into the kitty before looking up.
Thomas knew less about Winnie than he did about Jeep. All he knew about her was that she was Jeep's wife and that Mary referred to her as a different kettle of fish. "Why does she need someone to stay with her?" he asked. It was a better response than she had expected.
"Well, she needs someone to do stuff for her. She needs a cane to walk, and she's full of arthritis, so she needs someone to do little chores. You won't hafta do much, just get her lunch and whatever little things she needs done. She's a different bird that one, but I guess you can make your own mind up about her if you decide to do it. We won't be gone all day, but you'd still have to be there 'til about four or so."
"Sure," he returned. "I haven't strayed very far away from here in the past three months, and I think I'm due for a little adventure. Complacency and consistency right? I'm too young for that." He had been looking for an opportunity to meet Jeep, but he hadn't wanted to initiate it. He knew it was cannon fodder for the populace, but like his grandfather and unlike his father, he cared little about what people thought of him. Mary looked at him and smiled. He was an old soul, and she never felt as if she was speaking to a kid when they talked. She was glad he said yes.
That Friday morning, Violet arrived just after seven; and following a hurried breakfast, Mary and Thomas left for Portage. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" Mary asked as they got into the car.
"Oh yeah, I don't mind," he answered. He really didn't—in fact he was a little excited.
It was a beautiful day and already it promised to be hot. Mary had told him there were a couple of old kayaks at Jeep's; and since it didn't look like the wind was going to amount to too much, he would probably be able to get out on the lake when Winnie took her nap. He didn't think he would. He had never spent much time on the water and preferred his experiences to be in a boat firm footed. He was also just fine sitting on the shore and thinking. Dexter of course was an excellent swimmer.
Thomas had been in Cape Breton for almost twelve weeks and though he had taken several drives sight seeing with his grandmother they had never driven the road that would take them to Jeep's. His heart skipped a beat as Mary made a right turn at The Corner, and the last part of the journey to the Peter's residence in Lakeside. They passed by the high school that sat down a side road to Thomas's right, and Thomas thought to himself: only two more weeks. He was apprehensive to say the least, but it was only for a year. He didn't care about making friends as long as he didn't make enemies. He had never had a lot of friends because Dex received so much attention that it made it difficult for Thomas to know if people wanted to be friends with him or friends with Dexter Patterson's brother. Ever since he could remember, he had been identified as Dex's little brother: "Little" Tommy. He was happy to have shed that moniker for now but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to trade it in for "Crazy" Tommy.
He knew he'd have to deal with some bullshit, but that was to be expected, or so he was told. From the time he realized he was coming to Cape Breton he had toyed with the idea of finishing his final year by correspondence, and would have preferred it, but his mother felt he should attend regular classes and try to make the most of it. She told him it was a new start and that she knew he could manage it easily. She also knew that he hated being in Dex's shadow and hoped this was an opportunity for him to learn something about himself that he liked.
As they drove towards Jeep's the lake came into view. Thomas looked across the water and smiled. It was dead calm, and the reflections of the boats at the Portage Marina were mirrored in the glassy water. It was in such contrast to what he had become accustomed to on the beach by Mary's. There the water made constant noise as little rocks tumbled over each other on their daily journey up and down the shoreline, and the water would hiss as it retreated or smash loudly on the beach at his feet. It was always moving. Looking out over the lake from this vantage point, the water was flat and surrounded by land overgrown with Christmas trees. He had never seen a lake up close before and thought now that he liked it better than the ocean. What an incredible place, he thought to himself as they snaked their way down the road to Lakeside.
In very little time, they were turning right down a short dirt road to a 6 foot high stone wall, crowned with a layer of cement embedded with shards of glass. A gate in the northwest corner was the only access by land. Mary stopped short of the gate and parked in a small turning area worn with little traffic. She hadn't told him about the wall, so she could witness his reaction. She turned and watched as he mouthed the words, "What the fuck?"
He turned towards her at the sound of her stifled laugh, and she smiled at him. "They're different," she said. "This isn't his creation though. This little oddity is his father's work. They have their ways and appreciate their privacy."
"Don't worry," she added as they stepped out of the car and walked towards the gate. "They're not really crazy. They're just, well, they're just different."
They stopped at the barrier and Thomas looked through the iron gate into the Peters' compound. The yard was pretty much as he had expected. A narrow path carved its way through the knee-high weeds and wound its way haplessly towards the small house before disappearing in the shadows of a lonely maple. There was a small patch of manicured lawn, no more than eight hundred square feet in area, which hugged the shore and was home to the two kayaks Mary had spoken of. A rickety wharf jutted precariously into the water, with an eighteen-foot aluminum Lund sitting low in the hushed water next to it. Two islands, one much smaller than the other, sat across the lake with their western points still in shadow. At the end of the path his eyes were following, a dilapidated structure settled sarcastically in the un-groomed fodder; and smoke rose from a humble chimney. The roof sagged in places and looked like a fairy tale witch's house. Thomas smiled and thought to himself that the treasure hunting business could not be a profitable one.
A buzzer sounded, and Mary slowly pushed the creaking gate aside—holding it open for Thomas before passing through and letting the barrier shut behind her. Thomas waited for Mary to lead, then anxiously followed close behind her lest he be eaten by some wild animal lurking in the surrounding jungle. As he looked down the path they were following, he could see Jeep rounding the corner of the house. His only memory of Jeep was their brief encounter on his first day in Cape Breton. He was somewhat disappointed by the man who met them now. Jeep had obviously made an attempt to improve his outward appearance as his hair was slicked back and his beard looked to have been recently trimmed. He was wearing a well-worn grey suit and carrying a battered briefcase in his right hand, which he switched to his left as he approached. He extended his free hand to Thomas who reluctantly accepted.
"What's your name boy?" he asked gruffly, as he shook Thomas's hand with a strength Thomas would not have given him credit for.
"Thomas sir, Thomas Patterson," he replied.
"Patterson. That's fucking rich," returned Jeep, looking through his disheveled eyebrows. "Don't you know who you are boy?"
"Leave him alone James," Mary said, raising her voice to a level previously unheard of by Thomas. "If I thought you'd start that fucking shit, I never would have brought him here."
"My sincerest apologies Thomas Patterson. I should not have spoken thusly. Please forgive my rudeness at this, our first meeting. My name, my dear boy, is James Peters. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Better?" he asked as he bowed towards Mary.
"Yes," said Mary. "Now get in the fucking car." She walked to Thomas and embraced him. "He can be an ass, but he is a good man," she whispered in his ear. Then letting him go, she continued in a normal voice. "You have fun today. Go for a kayak. Don't just sit in the house. Winnie's probably got it boiling in there."
"Okay, I will," said Thomas. He watched her turn and walk up the path towards his grandfather. She was elegant, he thought, even when she cursed.
"Hey, Mr. Patterson," Jeep yelled from the gate. "Do you know how to roll?"
"Roll what?" Thomas asked.
"Joints," he replied matter-of-factly. "Anyway, you're gonna learn today. Have a good day with my girl, but don't believe a fucking word she says. She likes to live in an imaginary world some of the time." He disappeared through the gate, and Thomas heard it close ominously behind him.
He stood outside in a daze, absorbing the last couple of minutes and wondered what else he was in for. As well as keeping the wall a secret, Mary hadn't really explained too much about Winnie. She had said she was somewhat of a hypochondriac and took a lot of medication, but she failed to extrapolate. She had also told him Winnie liked to tell stories, but he didn't know what that meant either. He rubbed his chin, as he was accustomed to do when nervous, and looked out on the lake and across to the islands. It was perfectly still—maybe he would go for a little tour on the lake later. It was a beautiful day, and he felt like doing something different. He very rarely ventured outside of his comfort zone, but something had sparked inside of him over the last few weeks and he was feeling good about himself. He turned towards the front of the house and followed the course that would lead him to the front door. He stood outside for another moment before knocking.
"Don't just stand there handsome, open the door and let me get a look at ya," said a raspy voice from within.
Thomas laughed a little and pushed the door open. The heat hit him in the face as soon as he entered and pushed him back a step. He felt it pouring out and engulfing him, and it took a few seconds to acclimatize. When he realized how it looked, he made a second attempt at entering the oven. He couldn't believe that anyone could possibly be comfortable in this state, especially considering that it was already twenty-six degrees outside at eight o'clock in the morning.
Winnie Peters sat in a wooden chair by the kitchen table, and her long fingers gripped the handle of an oversized coffee cup—again with the heat. "Hot in here, isn't it?" she said. "I hate the cold. Me and Jeep leave in the fall every year and travel the world chasing the sun. We've been everywhere. It's nice here though. I like it. It's peaceful. Out of all the places we've been, this is the most beautiful. I love the lake. Do you know how to roll? I can't, due to the arthritis." She held up her hands as if to confirm her affliction.
"No ma'am, I don't," he said politely.
"Let me look at your fingers," she demanded. Thomas removed his shoes and walked across the kitchen floor with his arms extended, proffering the requested digits. "Oh yeah, you got excellent fingers for rolling. Jeep usually rolls for me, but he was too busy trying to make himself look less crazy this morning. Anyway, I need a joint. You'll hafta make one with the machine until you learn how to roll. I like a cannon in the morning," she said, as she pushed a plastic contraption towards the other side of the small wooden table and pointed for Thomas to sit down. He sat down and she threw a bag of medicine towards him.
"Grab one of the bigger buds," she directed Thomas with deliberateness. "There's scissors in that little box in front of you."
Thomas sat a little dumbfounded. He had no idea how to roll. Regardless, he opened the bag, reached in, and removed a thumb sized bud while Winnie nodded. "Just chop that up nice and fine and put it inside that little machine." Thomas began his first little chore of the day, and Winnie began her second barrage.
"So Thomas, does it piss you off when people ask about your brother as a conversation opener? I had a sister who went to the Olympics, and I had to live in her shadow 'cuz I wasn't good at anything other than bowling," she said and waited for his response.
"A little bit," he replied.
"What sport did your sister do?" he added with a wry smile.
"You're funny. I like you. Now finish that spliff, I'm jonesing," she continued. Thomas finished chopping, opened the roller, and placed the medicine inside. "You gotta close that top thing and smack it to get the loose stuff out," instructed Winnie as she looked on with expectation.
"There. Perfect. Now take this and put it around that plastic tube thing at the end." She handed him a cylindrical piece of thin rolling paper and watched as he performed the task with perfection. "See you're a natural. Now take the top half of the roller and slide it back slowly. Yeah, just like that," she said. "Now push it forward and, yeah perfect. Here, let me look at it." She took it, squeezed it, and then passed it back to him. "Good job for your first time. I think we're gonna get along just fine. Now take a little bit out of one end and put it back in the bag." He did. "Now take one of those little cardboard strips and roll it between your fingers and make a little spirally thing."
He reached in, removed a strip, and pinched one end before rolling it with efficiency and dexterity into a tiny spiral. "Like this?" he asked, holding it between his forefinger and thumb.
"Yeah, perfect. Now put that in the open end and pass that bad boy to me," said Winnie expectantly. She brought the flame to the end, lit it, and puffed long and hard before exhaling a thick cloud into the tiny room. She sighed with satisfaction and passed it towards Thomas. He politely declined with a wave of his hand. Winnie shrugged indifferently before turning her attention back to the medication. The room was quickly filled with pungent smoke, and Thomas's head began to swim with both the heat and atmosphere. 
"You can go outside if you want and wait until I'm done," said Winnie. He sat deliberating for a minute in silence before making his way through the heavy haze. He stumbled back into the clean air and looked out on the lake again and across at the two islands. The Devil's Rowboat Mary had called them.
Mary said that the islands were where the Peters believed Pedro buried his gold—and subsequently where they chose to dig. She also said that the islands had been called the Devil's Rowboat forever and that for even longer people had believed they were home to evil spirits. She told him that for a long-time people wouldn't even sail the waters around them. He stood looking out over the water for some time and thought to himself that they didn't look like anything the devil would float in. "I'm done," Winnie hollered through the closed door.
Thomas opened the door, forgetting about the oven inside, and the heat pushed him back once again. He waved his way back to the chair, sat down, and looked around the kitchen. There was nothing in the way of appliances that could be any younger than his parents, and the windows and doors were equally as old. It looked as if there hadn't been many changes to the interior for over sixty years. Complacency and consistency, he thought. Mary had told him they were poor and that's why they didn't have a car, but he hadn't expected this.
"You should go exploring the lake today," said Winnie as she picked up a newspaper and reached for a pencil. "It doesn't often stay this flat. There's not a breath of wind today. I might just let the fire go out. It's supposed to go up to twenty-nine degrees. That's a good temperature. I don't like it boiling fucking hot, but I like it nice and toasty. Take one of the kayaks and paddle around the island or head towards Portage. I got my crossword puzzle, and I can keep myself entertained. Jeep is always on the island at this time of day anyway. I got my routine and I'm happy with it. I won't eat 'til noon, so all you gotta do is roll me a couple more spliffs, make me a cup of tea, and then I'll be more than fine."
"Yeah, I might," he said. "It's a beautiful day." He hadn't planned on it, but he couldn't imagine sitting in the heat of that small room all day.
Winnie told him where to find a life jacket and made him take two bottles of water from the fridge. She also gave him a few pointers about getting in and out of the kayak before reassuring him it was safe and sending him on his way. She was lighting another dosage, and Thomas suddenly felt it was time to go. She offered it to him again, and again he politely refused. "Suit yourself," she said squeakily as she inhaled. She held the smoke in for several seconds. "It's up to you. I ain't no pusher. Bring back the key."
Thomas chuckled as he followed her directions to a small shed by the eastern section of the wall and had to traverse another jungle path to reach the weather-beaten building. It too had seen better days. It had one window in the front, next to the door, and for the moment a black curtain had been closed tightly to prevent any daylight from entering. A thick lock was fastened to the door, and Thomas laughed at the extreme measures. He removed the lock, pulled back the hasp, and pushed open the door. The sunlight illuminated a small portion of the south facing wall, and old outboard motors and jerry cans stained with dirt and dust made up much of the interior decor. He pulled on a string that dangled in front of him and the rest of the room came into view—it was much the same. Old engine parts sat on a makeshift workbench, and paddles and old pieces of strapping were strung in the rafters.
The life jackets were hanging awkwardly in the back corner. Thomas reached up to unhook the strap of one dangling from a rusty nail, but it was stuck. He pulled harder and when it finally broke free from its captor, he accidentally jarred loose a silver box that was tucked precariously above his head in the rafters. He picked it up with the intent of returning it to its place of origin, before curiosity got the best of him.  He slowly opened it and looked inside. It was just an old piece of folded cloth. Probably nothing he thought; but as he moved to return the contents to the box, he noticed markings. He carefully unfolded the cloth to examine it more closely. They were much faded now, but when held to the light, which streamed in through the door, you could still see the faint outlines of two shapes: one small circle and a long oval. Again he told himself that it wasn't important and returned the box to its rightful place. He then grabbed the life jacket, which he had placed on the oil stained workbench, tugged on the string to turn off the light, and closed the door quietly behind him. After returning the key and fighting his way through Winnie's second dose, he made his way to the shore.

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