Read Online I Was There the Night He Died by Ray Robertson - Free Book Online

plucking out a fresh can of Cott Cola, not wanting to risk getting caught mid-destination without a fistful of his favourite beverage. I know the routine and do my passenger-side part: pop open the glove compartment and hand him the can opener; wait for him to make an equal-sized, triangle-shaped hole at each end; carefully re-wrap the dish towel around the opener before putting it back inside so it doesn’t rattle around. Do they even still make Cott Cola? They definitely don’t manufacture cans without push-tabs anymore. I don’t ask Uncle Donny where he gets his contraband cola supply for fear he might actually tell me.
    He swallows what’s left in the old can before dropping it to the floor in the back, grabs the cold reinforcement from between his legs. “You given any thought as to how you’re going to get everything you’re keeping back to Toronto?”
    â€œIt’s not going to be much.”
    â€œWell, they’re not going to let you take it all on the train, I know that.”
    He doesn’t know any such thing—Uncle Donny has never been anywhere further away than London General Hospital (for a skin cancer scare in the 1980s) and he certainly didn’t take the train (riding the train when you can drive akin to an able-bodied man choosing to sit down to pee)—but I let it slide, concentrate instead on an obviously drunk man in an overcoat and fedora swaying on the girl from the park’s front step, unsuccessfully fitting the key in his hand into the keyhole in the door. I hope it’s not some stranger, I hope it’s someone she knows. The key falls from the man’s hand and he slowly descends to his knees like a very devoted something or other; jabs his hand in and out of the bush as if every time he pulls it back empty, he can’t quite believe it. I hope it’s not someone she knows, I hope it’s some stranger.
    â€œAnd isn’t it about time you got hold of a real estate agent? The economy down here isn’t the best these days, so you want to get on that.”
    It’s not just that what he says makes no economic sense—nobody’s working, so nobody’s buying, so there’s really no hurry—I also don’t like being told what to do with my dying father’s house, particularly because he’s just that: dying, not dead. I know he’s never going to get better—never going to be even him again—but planting a For Sale sign in the middle of the front yard of his home is a white flag I’m not comfortable flying quite yet. Besides, there have to be more things I want to hold on to that I need to pack up. At least more than half a box’s worth.
    â€œIt’ll happen—sooner or later,” I say, pleased to take the patronizing adult role for a change.
    â€œWell, it should be sooner than later.”
    â€œIt’ll happen when it happens. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.”
    And that, apparently, is that—until Uncle Donny rests his can in the beverage holder and pulls an envelope out of his coat pocket and hands it to me.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    Pause. “We might have a situation on our hands.”
    â€œWhat kind of situation?”
    Pause. “You better read it.”
    Uncle Donny drives, I read. It’s a good thing for him he’s driving: if I was to kill him, it might mean I’d die as well in the resultant crash. Which, at the moment, does have its appeal.
    â€œHow could you let this happen?” I say.
    â€œIt’s some kind of mistake.”
    â€œIt had better be some kind of mistake. But how could you let it get to this? It says here you’ve known about it for months now.”
    Uncle Donny’s got his can of Cott Cola back; takes a drink, then another, like if he just keeps drinking, he’ll never have to answer me. “I thought it was under control.”
    â€œIt says we owe Thames View over fifteen