CHAPTER FOURTEEN
July 1ST, Canada Day
SIMON AND MARCUS inspected the fireworks they installed earlier in the day. With only a whisper of daylight remaining, Jennifer had chosen the perfect seat from which to observe the display. With Uncle Lionel at her side, they had been joined by Mrs. Shields, Simon’s groundskeeper, and her husband, Christopher. Excited banter was supplemented by intermittent laughter as several of the moments leading up to the show were expensed to Simon and Marcus. From the deck, the onlookers observed the frivolity of flashlights darting here and there. Their distant beams of light seemed a humorous, amateurish prelude of things to come.
“We’re almost ready,” Simon called out from the distance. The pyrotechnics would originate near the shoreline and hopefully follow a trajectory carefully considered to descend upon the river.
“They’re like a couple of kids out there,” Jennifer mused. Realizing the spectacle would soon begin, she got up to pour herself another glass of wine. “Can I get you anything, Lionel?”
“I’m fine, Jen, but thanks anyway.”
“Are you sure, ‘cause you look a little stressed.”
Lionel took a deep breath. “Love the lights … hate the loud noises.”
“Ok. Mr. or Mrs. Shields, how ’bout you, are you alright?”
“Oh, don’t bother with us, my dear. Come and sit down,” Mrs. Shields suggested.
Jennifer finished pouring herself a glass of wine. She was still wearing her swimsuit, but its nationalistic enthusiasm was now concealed by a plush red housecoat. Lionel sipped on his water bottle and then dried his lips with the same hand. His beard was short; its usual three-day growth, while jeans and a t-shirt lent themselves well to the evening’s casual trend. Mr. and Mrs. Shields, on the other hand, were smartly dressed. Their comportment, it seemed, suited their proper English style and could easily be considered fitting to any social setting.
When the flashlights went out, the group’s attention was diverted to Simon. He was jogging toward the audience he was about to join. “Marcus has agreed to set them off,” he said, coming to a standstill in front of them. Simon clasped his hands together. “Is everyone ready?”
“Let the show begin,” Mr. Shields concurred.
Jennifer suddenly had a bout of skepticism. “Has he ever done this sort of thing before?”
“Judging by his accent …” Lionel mused.
The stereotypical presumption that Marcus was familiar with gun-powdered projectiles fell short with Jennifer. “What d’ya mean?” she asked, still standing.
Lionel looked up at his brother. “Didn’t you say he grew up in the Bronx?” he joked.
After her uncle’s inference became clear, Jennifer threw a contemptuous smirk in his direction. She then looked toward Marcus. “Can he hear us from here?”
“I insisted he wear eye and ear protectors,” Simon stated, still facing the single line of occupied chairs.
“He can’t hear a thing,” Lionel announced. “Yo, Marcus,” he yelled, “You still owe me a Canadian Maple.” Lionel turned to Simon. “Ya know … next time you have a look at that man’s DNA you’d better check his cholesterol; pays to be thorough while you’re under the hood, if you know what I mean.”
“Don’t worry,” Simon stated, “there’s plenty of longevity in Marcus’s family.”
“He’s going to outlast us all, is he?” Mr. Shields inquired, his English accent infused with a jovial flutter.
“How do you know that?” Lionel inquired. “Cause I was just kidding about the DNA part.”
“Look, are we ready to get this show going?” Simon asked. He turned and held up his flashlight readying himself to give the signal to begin. But before giving the go-ahead, he glanced back in his brother’s direction. “Marcus’s grandfather passed away this past winter. He was 103.”
The fireworks lasted a full half hour in total. Marcus was a great sport about it and remained as entertaining as the colours themselves. He lit them in the order of furthest to closest, but despite his perceived familiarity with explosives, he provided his audience with the additional spectacle of running for cover every time, twice sometimes, when the intended device was unsuccessfully ignited. A robust standing ovation, punctuated by a few hoots and howls from nearby neighbours, was quickly followed by pats on the back when Marcus ascended the stairs to join his audience deck-side.
The Shields bid their goodbyes as Jennifer felt the effects of a few glasses of wine combining with a full day in the sun and water. She retired first and was followed sometime afterwards by Simon. He was eager to resume to some semblance of a routine, and an early morning jog would be the first order of business tomorrow.
Lionel and Marcus, on the other hand, decided to stay up longer. The night was calm, warm, and the pleasing riverside perspective offered a setting difficult to depart. Both still seemed undaunted by the approach of midnight.
“You don’t mind if I have another beer?” Marcus asked. He got up from his chair and opened a cooler nearby. “How you doin’? You’re still ok?”
“No, I’m fine. It fucks up my meds if I have anything to drink.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. My wife is on something new. It’s experimental.”
Marcus sat down and understood Lionel’s visual cue. He opened his beer, before explaining. “My wife, Tanya, has Multiple Sclerosis. She was diagnosed about five years after we were married.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lionel offered.
“Cheers to the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of life, eh.” Marcus took a sip of his beer and almost spit the last part out. “Did ya here that? Your brother’s got me saying the eh thing now.”
Lionel laughed along. “So, your wife, she couldn’t join us?”
“I don’t normally travel with Simon. It just worked out this weekend because Tanya is spending a couple of weeks in Florida with her mom.”
“So how do ya like Canada?”
“It’s cleaner than New York, I can tell you that.” Marcus took another extended draw of his beer. He looked at the bottle in his hand. “The beer is good … but everything up here is about the coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee. You know I think your brother is addicted to his double-double.”
Marcus paused for a moment. He looked out over the river and turned introspective. “Yeah, he’s a special man, that brother of yours. My company plan is covering all of Tanya’s meds, even the experimental ones.”
Lionel looked at his right arm and turned his palm upward as if to inspect it. “I suppose you heard he covered a few things for me as well.”
“I heard you went through a rough patch in Africa somewhere.”
“East Congo,” Lionel interjected.
“You’re Canadian Forces right?”
“JTF2.” Lionel replied. Flashbacks of a firefight with a well-financed militia reverberated through his mind like a shockwave. The actual pain of being wounded in both the arm and leg accompanied reliving the event.
Marcus leaned over. “Do you mind if I have a look at that?”
Lionel complied by offering his arm. It was state of the art Gen Tech gear from the bicep down. Its full nerve integration was designed to work flawlessly with its host’s brain impulses to move. When Marcus lightly grasped it, the seamlessly transitioned skin seemed indistinguishable from its organic companion.
“We were sent in as part of a U.N. contingent to put an end to the illegal trade in conflict minerals.”
Lionel explained to Marcus about the ores that produce tin, tantalum, tungsten, and gold. That, like conflict diamonds, armed groups often use forced labour, including children, to extract these four minerals from dangerous underground mines. Profits were funneled into their campaign of terror, which was all too often borne by the surrounding civilian population, especially women. The majority of these minerals typically ended up in the technology supply chain, becoming electronic components in devices such as cell phones, portable music players, and computers. A social conta
gion of sorts finally caused western governments to intervene.
“That’s amazing,” Marcus stated, letting go of Lionel’s arm. “And the leg too?”
Lionel gave him a strange look.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus assured him. He took another sip of his beer and then placed it on the deck beside his chair. “Simon mentioned you were held captive after being wounded.”
“It was the worst eight-and-a-half days of my life,” Lionel stated, clearing his throat. Again, a high-definition video, which highlighted the worst parts of the experience, tried to replay itself in his mind. He could still smell the squalor-like conditions in which his wounds festered unattended. Never knowing if he would live or die accompanied every indignity, including coming to terms with a preference for the torment to end.
“I don’t know whether Simon told you,” Marcus said, trying his best to move things along, “but I lost an older brother in Afghanistan. He enlisted after 9/11.”
Lionel struggled to relate to a narrative other than his own. “That must have been a tough time for you and your family.”
Marcus said nothing, only looked up at the stars. He blinked a few times, before getting his emotions under control.
“And you,” Lionel asked. “You didn’t follow in your brother’s footsteps?”
“I was a hood, Lionel. Hoods don’t do things like that. The tribe was everything in those days.”
“I take it you’re more than a driver to my brother.”
Marcus smirked. “I still know how to intimidate people.”
Lionel laughed, before Marcus continued. “You know, it’s sad to say, but despite the things your brother has done for this world, there are still people out there that would do him harm.”
The conversation between Lionel and Marcus was becoming more intermittent now, as if each were feeling the effects of the passing hours. “Did my brother tell you that he brought me home from the Congo?”
Marcus looked at Lionel and shook his head, “No,” he replied.
“I suppose he wouldn’t have mentioned that.” Lionel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He chartered a jet and waited in Kinshasa until my release was negotiated. He kept a medical team on standby for a week. Can you believe that?” The better parts of Lionel’s memory began to emerge, to conclude the drama still unfolding in his head. “I was transported to Germany where I was stabilized. Sometime later, Simon introduced me to his friend, Christian Saunders, at Gen Tech.”
“That’s where you got your prostheses?”
Lionel smiled and sat back in his chair. “At least that part of me got fixed.”
“The important thing is Simon got his brother back,” Marcus added.
Again, a pause was indulged. It allowed the emotion of the conversation to dissipate. During the ensuing stillness, Lionel wondered what it would be like if his and Simon’s roles were reversed. He used the thought of losing his only brother to displace any previous, lingering images. In his mind he fast-forwarded to a funeral that would undoubtedly be attended by hundreds, if not thousands. Dignitaries would fill the front rows of the church. The remaining pews would be crammed and supplemented by standing room only.
A poignant, heart-wrenching service would be punctuated by many speeches, the most important being the one he would have to deliver himself. Lionel hoped he would be able to rise to the occasion. Setting his self-doubt aside, he couldn’t help reflecting on the glaring differences between his brother’s life celebration and the one that would accompany his own. He hoped his brother would be happy to preside over a small but respectful military service. The thought of leaving this earth behind seemed almost calming.
He imagined, for a moment, his own modest casket. He would feel pleased, truly honoured by the Canadian flag being draped over it. The image reminded him of a scene with which he was all too familiar.
Lionel cleared his throat and resumed the conversation. “I lost a buddy recently,” he said.
“It’s tough, isn’t it?” Marcus stated. “I knew a couple of guys who rotated home safely only to take their own lives. Nobody knew it, but these guys were suffering for years.”
Marcus was only somewhat aware of how keenly Lionel could relate. “I suppose the warrior type tends to keep it all inside.”
“You’re not thinking along those lines, are you bro?” Marcus asked. He turned and looked directly at Lionel.
Lionel seemed startled by the question. The Canadian veteran wasn’t used to Marcus’s direct American candor. It was as if he were being forced to confront a simmering fear, the degree to which his demons could rise up and take control of him. He thought about it for a moment and then discovered something he never realized.
Admitting how vulnerable he could be was undoubtedly the first step. This was his chance to raise his hand, to admit that the memories of his terrible experience sometimes got the better of him. It was during those times, the dark times, when he needed to be able to focus on something better, new neural pathways, perhaps, those that would be established and then strengthened by conversations such as these.
Lionel felt very uncomfortable, as if he were witnessing his own soul being unearthed. His eyes shifted side to side, searching for cover. Then he felt something truly unique. A calming sensation came over him. An outcome always seemed inevitable, but it suddenly appeared different from the one he expected.
From a safer perspective, he could see his own hand brushing the dirt, moreover, his fears aside. He had indeed uncovered a marker, but not of things preordained. A glimmer of hope began to penetrate his withering soul.
Marcus grasped for understanding, not fully appreciating their conversation for what is was. He didn’t realize the degree to which, in this very moment, he had become the fulcrum from which another life would turn. The profound effect one person can have on another was left for Lionel to value. “Yeah,” he began, slowly, his voice cracking. “I guess I have.” He used his left hand to cover his mouth.
Marcus could sense the emotions swirling within his new friend. “Ya know, I think the courage needed on the battlefield pales in comparison to what you guys go through when you come home. Any time you wanna talk about it … you know, how it makes you feel, just let me know.”
Lionel was moved by Marcus’s compassion. The struggling veteran could only manage a nod.