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Sometime over the past five years, Ray had become an exemplary case note-taker. He gave each note the care of a novelist, and stayed long after the night-shift guys settled in every night, dotting every I, crossing every T. When he got home, he nuked a TV dinner, sank into the couch, and flipped through the channels until he fell asleep. He liked to keep busy.
Today’s victory felt like a failure anyway. Domestic violence, a vic booked alongside her abuser because she fired a gun to scare him, and had no license for that gun. Beaten to absolute shit, ribs broken, face rearranged, and Ray’s partner, Li Tsang, had to arrest her. Neither of them could look her in the eye. The ADA told them the charges were likely to be dropped, but it still made Ray feel filthy and low, like nothing he’d ever done was right, like he’d never helped anyone and never would. Twenty-three years on the force and Ray still didn’t know if he was cut out for the job. Tsang was just a kid, and Ray didn’t know yet if he knew that wins and losses could be the same damn thing here. He didn’t let himself wonder what the kid was doing tonight to put away the horror of it.
He printed out the case notes and signed his name on the bottom. S. Raymond Kowalski. An S, an R and a K, and a bunch of loops. Even that seemed weird and otherworldly. Sometimes the nose on his face didn’t seem real. What was new? He’d go home. He’d turn on the TV. When he woke, it would be static. He sat there unmoving, pen inert in his hand.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up to find Lieutenant Welsh peering down at him.
“When’s the last time you took a vacation, Kowalski?”
“I could ask the same of you, sir,” Ray said.
One side of Welsh’s mouth tipped up in a rueful smile, and he squeezed Ray’s shoulder before he dropped his hand.
“Wanna know a secret?” he said, pulling up a chair.
Ray put the pen down and swiveled in his chair to face him.
“What’s up, Lieu?”
Welch leaned in and pitched his voice low.
“I’m taking retirement. Huey’s passed the lieutenant’s exam and I’m gonna hand the two-seven over.”
Ray smiled even though he felt like crying. He didn’t know why he felt like crying, but half the time he didn’t need a reason these days. He blinked and swallowed and forced the threatening tears down. He slapped Welsh on the shoulder.
“I’m happy for you, man,” he said, and he was, he was just a nutcase, too. “What are you gonna do with your time when you’re not herding cats over here?”
“I’m probably too old, but I think I’ll travel,” Welsh said. “I never got to, you know? The job, and all.”
“You deserve it,” Ray said. “Have a margarita on the beach for me.”
“Listen.” Welsh scooted even closer and reached a hand out to grasp Ray’s elbow. “You ever thought about it?”
“What, having a margarita on the beach?”
Welsh dipped his head and shrugged at the same time.
“Retirement,” he said. “You got twenty-three years, and extra for all the undercover. Your pension’s sittin’ pretty.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself,” Welsh said. “I know it’s been—hard. You got a lot of vacation days. Why don’t you take a few days off, think about it.”
Ray slid his chair away and looked down at all his careful note-taking. Welsh stood up and patted him once more on the shoulder.
“Maybe check the news when you get home, all right?” he said.
“What’s on the news?” Ray said, not looking up. “War and bombs and shit going wrong.”
“Good things, sometimes,” Welsh said. “Go home, Detective.”
Ray stared at his signature until his eyes blurred.
There was nothing good on the news. A cop turned murderer over drugs. A bomb scare in New York. The heat in Phoenix killed almost twenty people. Ray couldn’t figure out what Welsh was talking about. The world was full of shit and they were, themselves, just a couple of old turds. Maybe Welsh still had a bit of shine on him. He could find some nice place to visit, treat him right. Ray drifted off to sleep wondering where he would travel first. Canada, maybe. Get out of this godawful heat. Sticky and airless and suffocating. No wonder people were dying.
No one was dying of heat in Canada, Ray was sure. When he closed his eyes, he saw snow.
The news was still on when he woke up. The anchor lady was saying something about Canada and Ray perked up, swiping the sleep from his eyes. He fumbled for the remote and turned the volume up.
“As of yesterday, Canada has become the fourth country to legalize same-sex marriage after the Netherlands, Belgium, and Spain. Supreme Court Justice Beverley McLachlin signed the legislation into law amid outcry from conservatives and religious leaders—”
Ray’s attention cut out after that. He ran around the apartment stuffing clean laundry into a duffle bag. Five t-shirts, five button downs, three pairs of pants, as many clean socks and underwear as he could find, his cell phone and its charger, his wallet, a pair of deeply buried hiking shoes and snow boots, gloves, hat, scarf, big winter coat, regular coat, leather coat, three sweaters, a book, his toothbrush and a tiny toothpaste and some deodorant and maybe some hair gel if he could find a small enough container. They wouldn’t let him take his multitool so he ditched it. He cleaned the dishes and took out the garbage and turned the TV off before taking Blinky’s tank and food and hauling it off to the kid down the hall and paying him $100 to take care of him. He landed on the steps of the Canadian consulate, more than five years after the last time, he took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
“Detective Vecchio!” Turnbull exclaimed, and Ray’s jaw dropped to see the guy still here after all this time. “Welcome back to Canada!”
“It’s Kowalski, actually,” Ray said. He grabbed Turnbull’s hand and put his keys in it. “Can you take care of my car for me until my dad comes to pick it up, Turnbull?”
“Oh my, what an honor,” Turnbull said, “but I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Consider it a favor for Constable Fraser.”
“Is Constable Fraser here? Oh, happy day!”
“No, Turnbull, but he and I both need your help.”
“Come in, come in, Detective Kowalczyk.”
“It’s Kowalski.”
“Of course.”
Once inside, Ray dropped his duffle in the entryway.
“Are you going on holiday, Detective?”
Ray gripped Turnbull by the elbows and met his eyes. He had that same goofy, vacant look on his face, and Ray took a deep breath. “Turnbull, listen to me.”
“I’m listening quite intently, Detective.”
“Of course you are,” Ray said. “Listen. Can you find me Constable Fraser’s latest posting, and his address?”
“Yes!”
Ray’s heart leapt, but Turnbull was just grinning vacantly at him. Ray forced through an even, measured breath.
“Can you do that for me right now, Turnbull?”
“Oh!” Turnbull tapped the side of his nose and tried to wink at him, but it ended up a sort of painful, double-eyed half blink. “On the double, Detective.”
Turnbull flicked up the back up his tunic with more flair than seemed directly necessary and sat before his computer. The keys of the GTO landed next to his mouse pad. He poked furiously at the keyboard and Ray tried not to let his mind wander, but it was either that or watch Turnbull attempt computer literacy for God only knew how long.
It was so easy to fall out of touch. Ray had done it with practically everyone, his whole life. He hadn’t thought of school friends in twenty, twenty-five years. Stella was long gone, raising late-life babies with Vecchio, somewhere between here and Orlando. Even his parents he only saw once every year or two at this point. He wasn’t sure he had a friend in the world.
Five years ago, he would have told you he and Fraser were best buddies for life, that they’d always have each other’s backs, that they knew each other inside out and backwards and nothing could change that. But it wasn’t exactly easy to arrange visits between the Northwest Territories and Chicago, or call someone when their only available phone was at work, or email someone who never checked his email. The last letter Ray had sent to some outpost in northern Alberta came back to him with a big, red “return to sender” stamp on it. How long could he keep humiliating himself for someone who couldn’t bother telling him when he’d moved?
Forever, apparently. Some five years after he’d last seen him, three years after he’d sworn “no more,” here he was, in the Canadian consulate, throwing one last hail Mary. What did he have to lose, after all?
“Got it!” Turnbull threw his hands up and clapped them together under his chin. “He’s one of five Mounties posted to Ravenswick in Newfoundland and Labrador. Labrador, specifically. And he’s a sergeant now!”
“Okay, wow, thanks Turnbull, you’re a lifesaver. Any idea how to get there, like right now?”
Turnbull cocked his head, face splitting into a huge grin. “You are going on holiday! Oh, it’s a great time of year for it, Detective. Be sure to pack sunscreen! The Canadian sun is a cruel mistress, and visitors never see it coming.”
“Turnbull.” Ray forced himself still, and enunciated very carefully. “How—do—I—get—there?”
“Oh, you’ll have to fly into Goose Bay or St. John’s, Detective. Stop in Toronto first, and then sometimes Halifax or even Montreal, and then another flight, and maybe a ferry, Detective. There are all sorts of ways.”
“Okay, okay, okay, so can I give you my credit card and you book one of these flights for me? The soonest, shortest one?”
“Oh I’m not done yet, Detective,” Turnbull said. “Once you’re properly in Labrador you’ll have to rent a vehicle, preferably four-wheel drive, and then it’ll be six or eight hours driving into Ravenswick, and if you were to ask for my recommendation, I’d say get a good night’s sleep before such a drive, Detective. Sleep-deprived driving is as bad as drunk driving.”
Ray’s knuckles were about to blast through his skin. He filled up his lungs as much as they would go and let the air out as slow as he could.
“I just want to leave today, Turnbull,” he said. “Can you help me? Can you help me leave as soon as possible so I can experience the glories of Canada again as soon as I can?”
“Oh, yes, Detective! You’re in for a treat!”
At the end of it all, Ray had a ticket to St. John’s. It would take him two flights, a ferry ride, and a long drive, but he was leaving at 4:45.
Ray had never been anywhere outside the US other than the Northwest Territories. He half-expected all of Canada to be like that—nothing but snow and wide open sky, even in the summer. He had prepared for it, dreamed of it—he could live like that, he thought. For Fraser, he could live however he had to.
But Newfoundland and Labrador were not like the Northwest Territories. There was grass, for one thing, and flowers sprouting up everywhere. Houses in primary colors crowded the coasts. People bustled around, and boats peppered the horizon. There were mountains, and lakes and rivers and the ocean glittered blue as Fraser’s eyes. The only snow anywhere topped the peaks of the mountains. It looked like an oil painting, like Ray could just reach out and touch some art in a museum. He kept blinking and blinking.
Once he was off the ferry and in the SUV, it took him seven and a half hours to get to Ravenswick. The people and houses had disappeared, and he was left to navigate through nothing but the winding green between mountains and rivers. Every so often, he passed a little town. Population 256, it would say, or something like that. No one else was on the road. He had to keep an eye on his speed or he’d blast through the whole province at 160km, or whatever.
He was buzzing with nerves as he pulled up to a lone cottage surrounded by what appeared to be wildflowers, but whose overgrowth looked carefully cultivated. It was warm and cozy and beautiful. Ray rechecked the address Turnbull had written down. This is where Fraser lived. For the first time, Ray felt the stirring of trepidation. What if Fraser wasn’t alone? What if there was some woman here, someone making this house a home for Fraser, a man who couldn’t be bothered to sleep on anything better than a cot with a lantern next to it when left to his own devices? She would be beautiful, Ray thought, dark haired and smart and able to keep up with Fraser like no one else could. Another Mountie, surely. Maybe Fraser was happy here with her, and he never thought of Ray at all. God, what if they had kids?
Ray got out of the SUV and did a circuit around it. He hopped up and down and did a jumping jack or three to get the willies out. He wished he hadn’t quit smoking twenty years ago, when Stella was still pretending she’d have his kids and used the smokes as a bargaining chip. He walked up to the front garden and walked back to the SUV. He checked its tires and opened the trunk, looked at his duffle sitting in there all stuffed and ready, and then closed it again.
He made his way around to the back of the cottage, where there was more garden. Great big spills of pink and purple and white and yellow and even tiny little blue things. He bet Fraser knew all the names of all the flowers and plants and even the weeds. He probably felt like the weeds had a right to be there too. Unless the whole garden was up to the mysterious woman who also theoretically, potentially, hypologically lived here. Nah, even then, Fraser would know about every plant. He walked around to the back, where carefully placed cobblestones wound a path from the back door to a little patio complete with patio furniture. There was even a shed and a pond and a raised vegetable bed for growing tomatoes and stuff, and beyond it all was a light wooded area.
Ray stopped by the edge of the pond and peered in. There were some fish, and maybe frogs. Green floaty plants were in there too, and Ray wondered if Mrs. Fraser cultivated that too. She had a real green thumb, Ray decided. Maybe he should leave. Stupid damn idea anyway. Who did he think he was? He’d had his chance and he’d been too chicken shit, and now, what? He expected Fraser to be waiting for him, twiddling his goddamn thumbs? The man didn’t even live in a frozen tundra anymore. What could possibly have brought him in from the cold but the promise of love, of a future. If it were Ray, and he’d fallen in love, he would go anywhere. Do anything. Was Fraser so different?
Of course he was. Ray knew that. Stupid to think otherwise. Stupid to apply his own feelings and inclinations to someone else, especially someone as different from him as Fraser was. Fraser wasn’t someone who needed other people. Other people—they were like extraneous things to be polite at in between saving them or apprehending them. Fraser didn’t do what Ray did—grab on with both hands and refuse to let go even if his skin were burning off.
Ray went back to the SUV and sat in the drivers seat. He turned it on. He revved the engine.
God, he’d come so far. 1500 miles and more than twenty-four nonstop travel hours. Shouldn’t he just see him? Shouldn’t he just say, “Hey Fraser, I missed you?” Even if there was nothing more for him here than a bear hug and a couch to sleep on. Even if Fraser introduced him to his beautiful wife, his cherubic toddler. Even if it would make Ray happier and sadder at the same time.
He could always drown in the pond and instigate some totally above-board buddy breathing.
He turned the SUV off and got out. He kicked the tires, went back around to the trunk, and took out his duffle bag. When he checked the cottage door, it was open. He went inside and found it just as lovely as the outside: all wood and stone, lined with built-in bookshelves complete with what looked like a full library. A wood-burning stove stood unused in the corner, and a furry animal skin lay on the floor. Probably caribou, maybe shot and skinned by Fraser himself. No kid stuff strewn on the floor. No perfume in the air; not even the lingering scent of a fruity shampoo. Still. Ray didn’t want to get his hopes up. Lady Mounties probably showered with the same stuff as man Mounties.
The library was less orderly than he would have thought for Fraser, but maybe it was just an order he didn’t understand. Huey, Louis, and Dewey decimal, or whatever. All different kinds of stuff—a book on knitting, poetry by people with foreign names, far eastern philosophy. Even a comic book here or there.
He didn’t dare venture into the bedroom, for fear of what womanly things he might find there. He did look in the fridge, and he did help himself to some stew and coffee, and he did take a shower because he was grimy and rank. He picked a book of fiction off the shelf—No Great Mischief, by Alistair MacLeod—and curled up on the couch.
He woke to the turning of the doorknob, and then Fraser was there, beautiful and impossible in the brown uniform, like something conjured from a dream. Ray sat up as if he’d been electrocuted, and Fraser stilled, eyes wide, lips parted. Ray scrubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.
“Hi,” he said.
“Ray,” Fraser said, voice like gravel. He was frozen, a caribou in headlights.
“Surprise?”
“What are you—How did you—I—”
Ray staggered to his feet and took the three short strides over to him. He took the Stetson from his hands.
“Long layover in Toronto,” he said, “and then the ferry from St. John’s, and then a long drive. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, Ray.”
“You heard the news lately?”
Fraser’s expression finally cracked. He smiled even as his brows drew down, as if the smile hurt him.
“Of course, Ray.”
“You don’t got a woman in here or nothing?”
“No, Ray.”
Ray closed his eyes and breathed out. He nodded. When he looked up, Fraser’s eyes were wide and full of hope.
“So,” he said. “You wanna get hitched?”
“Yes, Ray.”
Ray’s breath left him in a single, shuddering deflation. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
Fraser’s arms locked around him and Fraser buried his face in Ray’s neck. Ray sagged into the contact and squeezed back as tight as he could, breathing Fraser in. They stood like that for a long time, still until their heartbeats forced them to sway like flowers in a breeze, and then Fraser stumbled, and Ray held him up.
“Whoa there,” he said, and eased Fraser into a chair. Fraser’s eyes shone as he looked up at him.
“I was injured a few years ago,” he said. “My leg hasn’t been the same since.”
“What happened?” Ray barely bit back the accompanying, and why didn’t you tell me. By the way he dropped his eyes, Fraser caught it anyway.
“I was pursuing an arms dealer when a moose came between us.”
Ray had seen a moose once. Three times the size of a Clydesdale and no fear. If Fraser was kicked or trampled, he was lucky to be alive.
“Jesus. You were in the hospital?”
“I was airlifted to Edmonton, yes,” Fraser said. “They gave me another promotion and a desk job, and well.” He gestured to his cottage. “The elements aren’t as harsh here. My leg doesn’t hurt as much without the extreme cold. Life isn’t as—punishing.”
“You miss it, though.”
Fraser’s mouth flattened.
“I would be unable to withstand the rigors of life in the far north these days.”
“So it’s mute is what you’re saying.”
“Mute, Ray?”
“You know, when there’s no point anymore, mute.”
“I see.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I wrote you.”
“I never got a letter!”
“Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me, Fraser.”
“You didn’t call either.”
“My last letters were returned to sender,” Ray said. “I had to stop wasting postage on a guy who couldn’t pick up a phone to tell me where he was.”
Fraser only shook his head. He rose back up to his feet, unsteady, and didn’t that just break Ray’s heart into a million pieces. He pulled Ray back to the couch, where he sat them both down side by side.
“Our correspondence had been waning for some time,” Fraser said. “When you failed to respond to the news of my injury and new posting, I thought only that we had reached the end of it.”
“Jesus, Fraser,” Ray said. “You got a high opinion of me, I guess.”
“It’s not—” Fraser cut himself off and huffed, dragging his hand through his hair. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “You must understand, Ray. No one has ever—stayed.”
And there it was, right down to it: Fraser’s dad, the man, the myth, the legend. The failure. The disappointment. He’d always been there, between Fraser and the world. Maybe he always would be.
“So you never expected me to be any better.”
Fraser closed his hand over Ray’s, and when Ray met his eyes, they were big and pleading.
“It’s my problem, Ray. I’m sorry I let it spoil things.”
“You and me, we could keep a shrink in business for years.”
“No shrinks up here, I’m afraid.”
“Course not,” Ray said.
Fraser leaned toward him, a question in his eyes. Ray met him halfway and their lips touched. Fraser took a sharp breath and opened his mouth to deepen the contact. The tip of his tongue touched the tip of Ray’s and sent electricity firing down his spine. Fraser swept his tongue inside and moaned into the contact, pressing closer. His lips were soft and his mouth was big and so was his tongue and Ray thought he might be getting drunk off it all. Ray cupped Fraser’s face in both hands and drew his thumbs over the cheekbones as he pulled away.
“Okay, wow,” Ray said, heart like a rabbit. Fraser’s arms tightened around him. “Jeez, I wish we’d done that like ten years ago.”
“Did you really ask me to marry you, Ray?” Fraser said.
“Did you really say yes?”
“Yes, Ray.”
“Then yeah, I did. When do you wanna make it official?”
“Ravenswick has a town hall. We can get the license first thing Monday.”
“How long’s the wait after?”
“Four days, but I’m certain I’ll be able to call upon a friend or two to shorten the wait.”
“So what date do you want me to circle on the calendar?”
“The 26th,” Fraser said. “I’ve always liked an even number.”
“Even number for a coupla odd ducks?”
“Just so,” Fraser said, and kissed him again, and again, and again.
Summer did see the sun set in Labrador. They weren’t in the arctic circle, but they would still see the Northern Lights in the wintertime. Fraser took Ray out back as the moon rose and the stars shone bright like pinpricks in a sky vast as God. They lay out on blankets and pillows, hands and legs tangled. Ray felt actual hunger for Fraser’s skin, as if his appetite were unquenchable now that it had been whetted. He kept Fraser’s hand pressed against his heart. Ray watched his profile, watched the stars glittering their reflections in Fraser’s eyes. Fraser wore a contented little smile.
“I know you got some Inuit story you’re dying to tell,” Ray said.
“Inuit?” Fraser said. “Not right now, no.”
“What story are you gonna tell me, then?”
“Just one about a fish out of water,” Fraser said. “And his dog.”
“I know this one,” Ray said.
“Do you know how it ends?”
“With a wedding,” Ray said. “Just like Shakespeare.”
“No, Ray,” Fraser said. “I expect that’s just the beginning.”
“Just tell me this: when do the Arctic Cod and the Midwestern Salmon get a new puppy?”
Fraser laughed, and it echoed through the garden and through the valley and through Ray’s heart, and Ray was finally home.
End