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so violently that he felt—he would have told Dr. Albert Knight except for reasons obvious and otherwise—he was going to collapse on his knees. That would have gone down in West Gull history: Adam Goldsmith, sixty-three-year-old accountant and possibly the most colourless man ever to live in West Gull, falling to his knees on the sidewalk in front of the car lot. “Did he start talking funny?” is what everyone would have asked. He could almost hear the contempt in their voices.
    By the time he had consciously recognized Carl, Adam was already walking towards him. The last time Adam had seen Carl was three years ago in Kingston in a judge’s chambers. Carl was sleekly obedient in the dark suit he’d bought for his mother’s funeral, then worn to his wedding. His face was tense and pale, though not so pale as the white strip of skin at the bottom of his neck where his hair had been cut away injail. Each time the judge or the prosecutor or his own lawyer spoke, Carl pursed his lips and leaned his head forward, as though to emphasize with what care and repentance he was listening. But Adam could see Carl’s deference was not working in his favour. When Adam’s turn came, he detailed how Richardson’s New & Used would offer Carl a job and even put up a bond to guarantee his good behaviour. The judge looked unimpressed. Then the lawyer whispered to Carl and Carl offered to give up his half of Lizzie’s custody and move away for what would have been the time of his probation.
    You wouldn’t believe this was the same boy who couldn’t stay out of fights at hockey games or dances. Or the boy who had gone back to the house where he’d once lived with his lawfully wedded wife, invited her new-old boyfriend out on the lawn and tried to beat him to death with his fists. Or so Chrissy and Fred Verghoers had sworn in court. But Carl and Fred side by side made Adam think of David and Goliath, Carl being the former. Though it wasn’t the first time they’d gone at it. That had been the night of the Richardsons’ last New Year’s party, a night that had begun full of promise, been punctuated by the fight and ended in a disaster Adam Goldsmith still shrank from thinking about.
    Standing beside his truck, Carl resembled neither the biblical David nor the scared boy in the judge’s office. He was too controlled, too worried, too
cured
of whatever had driven him. His moustache rode on his upper lip like something he’d bought in a store. Twenty-eight years old he would be. Trust an accountant to know the numbers. His eyes still had the same flicker as his mother’s. And his cheeks had developed faint vertical seams, threatening to deepen into lines that jumpfrom scowl to smile, also like his mother’s. Or maybe they signified whatever Carl must have armed himself with in order to return.
    “Good to see you.”
    “Well, I’m back.”
    Up close Carl’s face took on shadows of uncertainty. “Good to see you,” Adam said again. “How’s your father?”
    “Haven’t made that visit yet. What do I owe you for hauling the car out of the lake?”
    Carl’s mouth twitched with a forbidden smile. Adam was tempted to tell him how Luke had screamed when he’d found out what had happened. How he’d threatened to call the police until reminded how funny the whole story would look on the television news: would-be reeve Luke Richardson is prosecuting a man for joy-riding a car into Dead Swede Lake on the very farm the would-be reeve had bought from under him. “That would be Dead Reeve Lake for you,” Adam had summarized but Luke was a man who preferred his own jokes.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Adam now said to Carl and, unable to resist, “we have Dead Reeve Lake insurance.”
    Carl looked startled. “Thanks, Adam.”
    “Luke’s idea. He’s glad you’re back.”
    Carl just stood there soaking up the sun. Adam didn’t mind that. Most people in West Gull were full of fake friendliness towards him because he was Luke