Thunder Bay

EIGHT

During 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.”

“And you’ll get an audience with the brother how?”

“The watch. I’m banking on it opening the door.”

“Four-hour drive up, four-hour drive back. Could be all for nothing.”

“Not for nothing. It’s for Henry. And you have a better idea?”

She put the manila folder on the nightstand, leaned over, and kissed me. “You’ll be leaving early. Get some sleep.”