The Redeemed ....by D. Grant DeMan
The letter arrived last week. I recognized the fullness of script, a free-flowing blue ink across heavy vellum envelope, though thirty years had passed since I saw its like. Somehow I sensed its contents; somehow I felt another life chapter about to close, though of course the memory remains a stain. Stain upon stain until the whole fabric is soiled with the sweat of years lived. Joy over joy; tear on tear like the impasto masterwork of an oil painting. Scar upon scar, I thought, rubbing a little dimple in the fleshy part of my forearm. This tiny letter fulfilled the works of its being.
The time: the late fifties, I was Constable On Patrol in London Township. Perhaps it was a Friday or Saturday night, for such things take place more often on weekends. The air buzzed with insects and automobiles in the clear starry dark, and their lights flew up and down the highways and roads amid squeals of swishing delight. Vehicles chock full of youngsters roaring to lakefronts, and into the woods to park and make love on cool summer grass under oaks and sycamores, or over to the drive-in movie where midnight beer and love merged with a rock'n'roll musical score, to dance, to swing in huge hanger-ballrooms of Port Elgin and Stanley. Some, no doubt headed for the roadhouses and clubs like the Brass Rail, would later be found parked out in the gravel concession road cornfields making love on beach blankets. It was that kind of evening, a sweaty play-guitar-drink-beer-and-make-love kind of night.
"Twenty-four, your ten-twenty?" My radio squawked. It was Mould on dispatch. He was off-duty but frequently hung around the station. The sergeant was probably off on one of his pseudo investigations, sneaking home or abroad for a quickie. Taylor was cruising around somewhere, the most undependable cop on the force. When Taylor came to assist, you trembled with the idea that half the time he took the side of the perpetrator and you wound up facing two opponents instead of one. Most often we sent him elsewhere out in the West End, but somehow he nosed into everyone's case assignments nonetheless.
"Oxford and Highbury."
"...Boullie Street, lady in trouble. You're ten-six there now." The last was a signal that it was a pronto call. I was not to take the time to call in "busy" - ten-six or seven - just get in there.
As I walked into the little cabin I heard the sobbing of a slim red haired woman of about thirty who immediately seized my hand, "He's going to kill me I think," She whimpered. Her adversary stood across the room well muscled swarthy, and smiling. He was cloaked in a silk robe; a scar across the left side of his face and a well-groomed mustache accentuated a mild malevolency, though he swayed slightly. A baby was crying in the adjacent room.
"What happened here, ma'am?" I kept my eyes on the man.
"He smashed a bottle of beer on the stove and held it to my cheek, screaming: 'I'm going to make your face as red as your hair!' And be careful; he has a black belt in judo."
"Ma'am, you fetch the baby and go to the police car; get in the back and lock the doors." I stood face to face with the fellow; eyes fixed on his, while she performed this task.
He calmly reached into his robe pocket, drew out a Barretta pistol, and, holding it down by his side whispered, "I was a cop and I know what you're thinking. You wonder if you can somehow distract me and draw your weapon before I shoot. You are now becoming aware of the drawbacks of that situation, namely that you are handicapped with a revolver snapped into a suicide-purse holster, and beginning to realize there isn't a chance of that happening. It's called an evolvement of extreme mental processes - the movement of the mind from what is at once possible to what is unlikely, to what is downright deadly. You know I have the drop on you, and you won’t draw to the drop, though you keep your left hand near the snap on the holster. Right?"
Needless to say I was not expecting stream-of-consciousness thinking from a man who had just assaulted his woman on a Boullie Street weekend. "Give me the gun, please." I held out my hand.
"One moment. I want to tell my side of the story while I have your full attention. You see, up until last year I was police chief in a small company town north of here. We were happy. To everyone it was always 'Monica and Pierre. What a fine couple they make. So nice they're going to have a baby.' I had taken all the police courses and law - even FBI and RCMP - and ranked first in all my classes, and eventually aimed to land a chief's job in a larger city.
"Monica had taken to selling Avon products door-to-door just to pass the time and meet our neighbors on a chatty basis. That was the beginning of the trouble, you see? Soon she was crew boss, then manager of a division, and when they offered her the job as head of Western Ontario office here in London, we debated the move, but her salary being so huge compared to mine, I was forced to submit and quit. I thought I could always get another cop's job around this area. But it wasn't to be..."
Tears began to flow, and once more he gestured with the Barretta: "Stay there. I'm not finished!"
"I may have been too arrogant, too old or whatever; nobody wanted me. Naturally, I began to drink more than was good for me. Finally, Monica got me a fifty-dollar a week job at her office, filing papers and sweeping up. Me, a police chief, sweeping the floor. Imagine how I felt. And to top it off she was going out all the time with those executives and dressing in uptown clothes, while her husband became a bum. Tonight I waited and waited; had tenderloin and wine and flowers for our anniversary dinner. What do I get? She shows up half drunk with a new hairdo. Red! She dyed her hair red and went out on the town with some Vice President named Ronnie. Damn!"
The Barretta barked then and I could feel the wind of the bullet fly by my right arm. Over the years I had rehearsed this moment, practicing the duck, draw and shoot response. But on this occasion I saw his trembling gun-hand, and in a split moment I reached out and grabbed the pistol. "Give me that damn thing before you hurt somebody." I exclaimed placing it in my pocket. I was cuffing him just as Corporal Taylor arrived.
"What's that I smell? Gas? This man tried to kill himself. I smell gas from that stove, and shaving lotion on his breath. Tried to poison yourself after killing the lady? Right, fella?" Taylor buzzed around the house like an old wren checking her nest.
The idea of course was preposterous, as I was forced to testify later. The pilot flame on the range had merely blown out, and Pierre had taken a swig of shaving lotion in desperation when the liquor was gone. But nevertheless Taylor stayed behind searching for clues when I brought in the pair.
After Mould phoned the social services to attend Monica and the baby, Pierre, eyeing the floor-to-ceiling steel pipe that formed a post in the ante room, chuckled: "We had one of these here too. We'd smear it with blood and then handcuff the crook to it. Had rubber hoses on the desk so they made note of all that and readily confessed. No threats. The illusion of what is possible; the fear of what may be possible turns the trick. We are all the same. Cops. Brothers."
I was leaning over Johnny Mould then. "This guy took a shot at me, but I think it was an accident. See the little hole in my sleeve here?"
"He got more than your sleeve. Look at that!" Blood was running down my right wrist and between the fingers. Johnny phoned for an ambulance and helped me remove my shirt. But when we got the blood mopped up we laughed to find the bullet hole had diminished to a small nick, which we easily repaired with a bandage. We laughed as he cancelled the ambulance.
"Keep this under your hat, John." I said as I put the shirt back on. Pierre was fast asleep on the bench; Monica and the baby had gone to rest downstairs on a cot. Like folks who fall headlong down a well, they'll expect hard times clawing back up - from pain through grinding dispair; though some never again reach the top.
Then Taylor arrived full of: "What we're going to do with you, mister...going in for a long, long spell and these counts...the judge..." Oh my gawd! Save us all from the Taylor's of the world! I thought.
There was indeed a speedy trial. The judge found little evidence of attempted suicide, though Levesque found himself placed on probation for two years. The Barretta and the ensuing explosion became a secret shared by Johnny Mould, myself, and of course, Pierre Levesque.
A few months later I saw him exiting the county courthouse, dressed like a Bay Street financier. "Hey Pierre, what's going on? You become a lawyer or something?" I asked, eyeing his Bond Street crocodile briefcase.
"No. But now you mention it, that wouldn't be a bad idea. These are props. I just came from my weekly meeting with the court officer. Monica and I reconciled and I've given up John Barleycorn. Got a night watchman job at GM. Not the best in the world, but we're surviving. A man has to swallow his pride. When you eat humble pie it is good for the soul. By the way, I sorry for what happened."
"It's forgotten. Glad things are turning out for you. Running a little smoother. Right?" We shook hands for the last time there on that granite stair, but I followed his career through Christmas cards from Monica. Pierre got his law degree from Western.
I opened the letter and read the words, simply: "Eternally grateful. Monica."
Enclosed was a tear-stained clipping: "Pierre Le Moyne Levesque, Judge of the Supreme Court of Ontario, .... peacefully in his Toronto home, December 12th. Judge Levesque was noted for his decision on...the Levesque Foundation...shall be missed by....Medal of Honour...."
As I placed the papers in the desk drawer I once more touched my right arm, thought about that time, and I felt my soul melt within.
One time I had a heart. Once long ago I chose a higher path - made a life-altering decision.
And Pierre Levesque lived it well.