Thunder Bay (5 page)

E
arly the next morning I went to the hospital to see Meloux. He was still in the ICU, still looking like he had a toehold in the next world. His eyes were closed. I thought he was sleeping and I turned to go.

“You have news?”

His eyelids lifted wearily. Behind them, his almond eyes were dull.

“Maybe,” I said.

One of the monitors bleeped incessantly. A cart with a squeaky wheel warbled past his door. In another room someone moaned. This had to be hard on Henry. He was used to the song of birds in the morning all around his cabin. If he were to pass from this life, it shouldn’t have been there in that sterile place but in the woods that had been his home for God knows how long.

“Tell me,” he said.

I walked to his bedside.

“I found a woman, Henry. Maria Lima. Her father was a man named Carlos Lima.”

Meloux’s eyes were no longer dull.

“Carlos Lima,” he said. The name meant something to him, and not in a good way.

“She passed away many years ago.”

He didn’t seem surprised. A man as old as Henry probably expected everyone from his youth to be dead by now.

“She was married, Henry. To a man named Wellington.”

From the way his face went rigid, I might as well have hit him with my fist.

“Wellington,” he repeated.

“Maria Lima Wellington had a son,” I went on. “She named him Henry.”

His eyes changed again, a spark there.

“And he was born seventy-two years ago.”

“What month?”

“June.”

He seemed to do the calculation in his head and was satisfied with the result.

“Is he ... ?”

“Alive? Yeah, Henry, he is. He lives in Thunder Bay, Canada. Just across the border.”

Meloux nodded, thinking it over.

“I want to see him,” he said.

“Henry, you’re not getting out of here until you’re better.”

“Bring him to me.”

“It was a miracle just finding him. Bringing him here? I don’t know, Henry.”

“You did not believe you would find him.”

This was true, though I hadn’t said anything like that to Meloux. Somehow he’d known my thoughts. Typical of the old Mide.

“You will find a way,” he said.

“Look, I might be able to talk to him, but I can’t promise anything. Honestly, I’m not sure how I can make any of this sound believable.”

“The watch, you found it?”

“Yes.”

“Show him the watch.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Meloux seemed comforted. He smiled, satisfied.

“I will see my son,” he said. His eyes drifted closed.

I started out.

“Walleye?” the old man said.

I turned back. “We’re taking good care of him, Henry.”

He nodded and once again closed his eyes.

*   *   *

I spoke with Ernie Champoux, Meloux’s great-nephew, who was in the waiting room. He told me the doctors were puzzled by the symptoms the old man was presenting and were still running tests. Things didn’t look good, though.

I’d dressed for church, suit and tie, and when I was finished at the hospital I met Jo and the kids at St. Agnes for Mass. I didn’t pay much attention to the service. I was thinking about Thunder Bay and how to go about keeping my second promise to Meloux. I thought about some guy approaching me with the kind of story I was going to toss at Wellington. It would sound exactly like a con. On the other hand, maybe the man was already aware of some of this. Who knew? The watch might have some effect on Henry Wellington. But how to get an audience with the notorious recluse in order to show him the item?

It would have been better to know the whole story: how a Shinnob had come to father—apparently illegitimately—the man who’d headed a major Canadian corporation. That had to be some tale. If the old Mide had been stronger, I might have pressed him.

“You seemed distracted,” Jo said at home. “How did it go with Meloux?”

“The news did him good, I think. He asked me to bring his son to him.”

We were in our bedroom, changing. Jo stepped out of her slip and threw me a questioning look.

“You promised?”

I pulled off my tie. “It felt that way.”

“Good luck, cowboy. If I were Meloux’s son and you told me this story, I’d have you locked up.” She unbuttoned her cream-colored blouse and went to the closet to hang it up.

“Maybe the guy knows the story.” I took off my shirt.

“What exactly is the whole story? How did Meloux come to father a son he’s never seen?”

“He’s not saying.”

Jo stood at the closet door in her white bra and in panties that had little yellow flowers all over them. She’d been through hell in the year since the brutal events in Evanston. But the human spirit—with the help of counseling—is amazingly resilient, and looking at her as
she stood ankle deep in a puddle of sunshine, I thought she’d never been more lovely.

I dropped my shirt on the chair next to our dresser and walked to her. I put my hand gently on her cheek.

“Part of your question I can answer,” I said.

“Oh? And which part would that be?”

“How he fathered a son.”

I kissed her.

“You have to open Sam’s Place in half an hour,” she reminded me. “Old pros like us can accomplish a lot in half an hour.”

She smiled seductively, took my hand, and together we went to the bed.

D
uring the day, whenever I had a break from customers, I slipped into the back of Sam’s Place and made telephone calls. I tried the headquarters of Northern Mining and Manufacturing in Thunder Bay. Because it was Sunday, all I got was a recording, pretty much what I’d expected. I’d been unable to find a listing on the Internet for Henry Wellington and had no better luck with directory assistance. Among the information I’d gathered the night before, however, was the name of Wellington’s younger half brother, Rupert Wellington, president and CEO of NMM, and also a resident of Thunder Bay. I tried the number for Rupert I’d pulled off the Internet. The man who answered told me rather crossly that he was not
that
Rupert Wellington and he was sick and tired of getting the other guy’s calls, thank you very much.

I’d also learned that Wellington had two children, a son and a daughter. The son worked for a conservation organization in Vancouver, British Columbia. His name was Alan. The daughter, Maria, was a physician in Montreal. I didn’t have a phone number for either of them, but I did have one for the conservation organization, a group called Nature’s Child. I dialed, thinking there was no way on a Sunday. Someone answered on the fourth ring.

“Nature’s Child. This is Heidi.”

“Heidi, my name is Corcoran O’Connor. I’m trying to reach Alan Wellington.”

“He’s not here.”

“Would it be possible to reach him at home?”

“I suppose you could try.”

“I would but I don’t have his number.”

“And I can’t give it out.”

“It’s a bit of an emergency. It’s about his family.”

“His father?”

I wondered why it would occur to her automatically that it would be about Henry Wellington.

“His grandfather, actually. He’s very sick.”

“And you would be?”

“As I said, my name’s Corcoran O’Connor. I’m acting on his grandfather’s behalf.”

“An attorney?”

“A friend. Look, I hate to be pressing, but the old man is dying.” There was a brief hesitation on the other end as she considered. Then: “Just a moment.”

Within a minute, I had the number and was dialing Alan Wellington’s home phone.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

“I’d like to speak with Alan Wellington, please.”

“May I say who’s calling?”

I gave her my name.

A few seconds later, a man came on the line. Firm, deep voice, but not hard. “This is Alan.”

“Mr. Wellington, my name is Cork O’Connor. I’m calling from Minnesota. I’ve come into possession of a watch that I believe belonged to your grandmother. There’s a rather interesting story attached to it. I’d like to give the watch to your father and tell him the story, but he’s a difficult man to contact.”

“Not difficult, Mr. O’Connor. Impossible.”

“That’s why I’m contacting you. I was hoping you might help.”

“You can certainly send me the watch and the story along with it. I’ll make sure my father gets them.”

“I’d rather deliver them to him in person.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Just a telephone number?”

“Mr. O’Connor, I don’t know the truth of what you’re telling me, though it sounds a little suspect. You have no idea the number of people who’ve tried to get to my father through me. And my sister. My father wants simply to be left alone. As much as I’m able, I intend to
help him with that. If you’d like to send me the watch, I’ll see that he gets it. Otherwise, we have nothing further to discuss.”

“Time is of the essence here, Mr. Wellington. A man who wants very much to contact your father is dying.”

“A man. Not you?”

“Someone I represent.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“No.”

“And who is this man?”

I didn’t know how to explain it. I stumbled on. “He was a very good friend of your grandmother. He has important information about her that your father ought to know.”

“If you tell me, I’ll see that he gets it.”

“I can’t really do that.”

“Then, as I said before—Mr. O’Connor, was it? We have nothing further to discuss.”

The call ended on that abrupt and chilly note.

Jo stopped by in the late afternoon. She brought Stevie and Walleye and dropped them off.

“Mind if they hang out here for a while?” she asked. “I have shopping to do. The dog can’t come into the store, and Stevie won’t go anywhere without him.”

“No problem,” I said.

After she left, I watched them chase around outside. Stevie ran; Walleye bounded after him, barking joyously. It was hot and a little humid and Walleye was no spring chicken, so after a while, the dog crept into the shade under the picnic table out front and lay down, panting. Stevie crawled under and sat with him, talking to him quietly and gently stroking his fur.

I thought about my son. He had friends, kids in the neighborhood he played with, but he didn’t have a best friend. He possessed a fine imagination and often played alone, games he invented or adventures he concocted in his mind’s eye. I didn’t worry about him. He seemed pretty comfortable with who he was. I knew he was lonely sometimes.
Who wasn’t? But watching him with Meloux’s old dog, I wondered if maybe there wasn’t an essential connection missing in his life, the kind of affection offered by a best friend. Or a lovable old hound.

After a while, they came out from under the picnic table. Walleye followed Stevie to the Quonset hut. A few moments later, my son poked his head into the serving area.

“Can I go fishing?”

“Don’t think much’ll be biting in this heat, buddy, but be my guest.”

I kept fishing gear in the back room. Stevie knew where. In a bit, he walked through afternoon sunlight toward the lake with Walleye padding along patiently at his side. They sat at the end of the dock. Stevie took off his shoes, put his feet in the water, and tossed his line. Walleye lay down, his head on his paws, and they hung out together in the comfortable quiet of two good friends.

At home that night I told Jo, “I’m driving to Thunder Bay in the morning.”

She was sitting up in bed, propped against the headboard, reading a file in a manila folder, something from work, I was sure. She often read in bed at night, her glasses perched on her nose, making small noises in response to the text.

“What about Sam’s Place?” She took off her glasses and laid them at her side.

I slipped into a pair of gym shorts and a clean T-shirt, my usual sleep attire. I turned from the dresser. “Jenny and Annie can handle it. Is Jenny here?”

“She came in a while ago.”

“Did she have a good time driving the North Shore with Sean?”

“She didn’t talk much.”

I sat down on the bed. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s neither, I’d say. She’s just thinking, I imagine. Weighing everything.”

“Weighing an offer of marriage?”

“I don’t know that there’s been one.”

“If I were Sean and wanted to pop the question, I’d take her to someplace like the North Shore, sit her down with a gorgeous view of Lake Superior.”

“I suppose you would. That’s basically how you proposed to me. On Lake Michigan, a beautiful evening, a dinner cruise. That glorious question. Then you threw up.”

“I hadn’t planned on getting seasick. And you accepted anyway.”

“Jenny’s in a different place than I was, Cork. I think we should trust her.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t nudge her in the direction we’d like her to go.”

“You think she doesn’t know what we’d prefer?”

“I’d like her to think of it as what’s best rather than just what we prefer.”

“I’m sure you would. What do you hope to accomplish in Thunder Bay?”

“A face-to-face meeting with Henry Wellington.”

“And how do you intend to go about that?”

“As nearly as I can tell, his brother—half brother—Rupert runs the company now, so he’s probably accessible. I’m hoping to use him to get to Wellington.”