His former principal said he seemed wise beyond his years, so why was he continuing with this farce? He merely replied he seemed to be presuming something, and they continued an argument that intermittently grew more heated until just as unpredictably it quieted down.
On Sunday evening, Ollie forced his former principal out of the house for a drive in his luxury sedan. They drove through Forest Hills and Rosedale neighbourhood and around what Vermilion referred to as his estate. Past mansions and through narrow winding streets, shaded by majestic elms and maples, immaculately maintained grass and gardens, with pristine ponds and walkways. They rode the sleek car past black wrought iron gates surrounding estates with landscaped gardens and lawn sculptures made from bronze, marble, and ornate water fountains, past private colleges and prep schools with magnificent and immaculate green grounds, homes of the privileged, rich, and famous. The cruise in the comfortable car with muted classical music playing on the high-fidelity car stereo gave him some unexpected pleasure, so he could not help nodding behind the tinted windshields. He relaxed in the comfort of the automobile, enjoying the opulence of the scenery. They continued to cruise through the surrounding neighbourhoods, and Ollie initially felt lulled into a certain sense of complacence. While continuing to drive the Jaguar, Vermilion noticed a police cruiser trailing behind them. His driving became slightly erratic, he gently swung the vehicle back and forth into the opposing lane, weaving the sleek car back and forth across the traffic median. Noticing the odd driving pattern, Ollie peered into the rear-view mirror, but could not see anything from his perspective, so he turned around and glanced at the rear windshield.
A Toronto police officer, wearing sunglasses at the wheel of a brand new cruiser, polished, buffed, and waxed for a car show, virtually hugged the bumper of the luxury vehicle. If the police officer gazed closely enough, Ollie supposed he might surmise the pair were a couple. Ollie slid down in his seat, close to the driver and put his arm around Vermilion’s shoulder. Then he placed his foot alongside Vermilion’s on the accelerator pedal, only then noticing the artisanship and fine materials used in the manufacture of his shoes.
If he wanted to act up, this would be the last ride for both of them, Ollie warned as he rested the sole of his steel shank leather boots against Vermilion’s fine leather shoe.
“If you’re going to try to speed this car into anything, I should tell you there is an emergency brake.” Vermilion stared straight ahead, boldly disregarding his abductor. “Yes, and I could just strangle you on the spot,” he warned. He pressed the sharp edge of the bayonet blade against his side, poking the tip through the fabric of his sweater and undershirt, indenting but not penetrating his flesh. The bayonet was a gift from his father, he explained.
Vermilion cringed at the thought of the boy’s aboriginal father, who had taken him fishing and moose hunting. He thought he understood the boy’s mother—his Portuguese side much better. Ambrose Vermilion remembered pulling him out of class and summoning him to his office to inform him his father who had once guided him on a fishing expedition up the large reservoir of Lac Seul, had passed away, a victim of an apparent suicide. Ollie had disputed and disbelieved originally. The thought of his father’s demise and the potential such violence might lurk within his former pupil caused Ambrose Vermilion to shudder and pause. In fact, Vermilion resumed driving normally.
Ollie ordered him to head home and the rest of the drive passed in silence. After they arrived back at his home, he decided he needed the consolation and distraction he usually found in books, and he turned to Vermilion’s bookshelves. He started to make himself comfortable in Vermilion’s study again with a fine, portable hardcover leather-bound edition of Homer’s Iliad, neat because it was no larger than a compact paperback book.
Having spent time in an institution that enforced isolation, he thought he could now easily tolerate a lonely existence and monkish lifestyle. Oftentimes he preferred such solitude, but when he thought of the loneliness stretched over a lifetime, it invoked fear.On the other hand, Vermilion found himself filled with a resentment of Ollie’s presence. For the past few years, he had zealously protected his privacy, building an impenetrable wall of secrecy around himself. He even went as far as laying off the hired help, cancelling regular visits by the cleaner, groundskeeper, and maintenance worker. Now this mischievous figure from his past intruded ihis life, trying to destroy his peaceful, sheltered existence. Growing heated at the thought, he decided he could tolerate Ollie’s presence and antics no longer, and exploded with anger. “Leave! Leave now!” He flailed his arms in the general direction of the front doors. “You! You!” He pointed his fingers accusatively, a gesture he resorted to frequently as school principal. “You know what you are? A victim. That’s what you are—a professional victim.”
“What?”
“You asked for it.”
Ollie couldn’t believe what he heard—Vermilion assigning blame, virtually accusing him. Glowering ominously, Ollie strode towards him with his rifle, which he hoped to use to frighten him. He carried the rifle, pressing the stock against his thigh, the muzzle pointed towards the floor. He had almost used it as a walking stick. The presence of it had started to anger and annoy him. He resented Vermilion’s introduction of the weapon into the situation. He actually feared he might need to resort to use of the firearm. Ambrose Vermilion feared for his life; he had never seen such a look of anger on the face of a pupil before, a depth of rage and passion, he presumed, originated in the darkness of his soul. “What did you say just now?”
“No, no, no,” Vermilion sobbed.
“What did you say?”
“No, no, no, I’m sorry, I misspoke. I am truly and genuinely sorry. You’re perfectly right: It was my fault. I just inadvertently released an outburst.”
“What did you say before? I think whatever you’re saying now is an act of self-preservation. You’re cowardly.”
“Oh, what does it matter anymore? I said it’s your fault. You asked for whatever you got. At least you never protested.”
Ollie became agitated, heated, and enraged he could barely make his speech understood. “How was I to know? I was young. I didn’t know better.” Ollie insisted it was an abuse of authority, but Vermilion insisted he did everything with his knowledge and consent. Ollie started swinging the rifle.
Vermilion screamed hysterically that, yes of course, he had been too young to know, as he backed away and raised his hands for protection. “You—you’ve r-r-ruin—ruined m-my l-life,” Ollie protested. “R-r-ruined it.
Hovering above him, he held the rifle by the barrel above his head, swung the stock down, and slammed the grip against Vermilion’s legs. He could hear his bones break in his upper legs as he slammed the wooden gunstock down again. By the time he finished, Vermilion was groaning, gasping, and stifling animal sound in tremendous pain. Unable to move, he looked down at himself, his legs limp.
“Are you satisfied? Have you had enough?”
Ollie wanted to touch his legs, straighten them, and make certain they were all right, but he realized that gesture would only cause him great pain. He remembered the excruciating pain he felt when his own legs were broken, and he felt pity for him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”
Silenced, Ollie grimaced and felt he was no longer in a position to argue, or reject his pleas or queries; his mood had turned to fear. Finally, he watched the old man painfully drag himself over to the stereo, using the armrests of chairs and sofas as supports. It was incredulous Vermilion could still walk, he advised him to stay off his feet and rest. Vermilion somehow managed to put on a compact disk from a London musical and limped back to his chair.
He covered his legs with a quilt from the sofa and grabbed a bottle of Scotch. He reached over to the table and grabbed a mug, dumping the flat leftover ginger ale onto the carpet. His hands trembling, he poured Scotch into a coffee mug and sipped the drink. The climbing voice of the singer flooded the house and caused his heart to swell, his chest to ache, and his eyes to fill with tears.
The soprano’s voice soared, filling the upper reaches of the lofty spacious room with her song of love and mourning. His hands trembled, spilling drink on his lap. He cursed and muttered, breaking into tears. “Just can’t seem to do anything right. Damn it all.” He splashed more Scotch into the coffee mug. “Bloody well damn everything.” He gulped the drink and poured yet more into the coffee mug, before he finished it, muttering, “Damn everything.” Tears trickled down his dimpled, withered, wrinkled cheeks. The singer’s voice climbed, raising him upwards, upwards, soaring above the melee, setting him adrift a sea of pained bliss.
Frantic to leave, desperate to flee his former principal’s house on the verge of panic and breaking down himself, Ollie checked to see if he could leave Vermilion alone, unassisted. Vermilion insisted he go so he decided to leave the house immediately, even though Ollie still had too many uncertainties in his mind about the man’s condition. The sight of the man in such incredible pain filled him with fear and remorse. He suddenly became aware of the consequences of his actions, of how wrong and misguided he had been.
He felt mystified at how he arrived at the point where he could commit such violence. As he jogged out of the neighbourhood with fine houses and majestic trees, he feared he might attract the attention of the police or private security patrols. His attitude changed drastically from the mindset he possessed when he originally went to confront Ambrose Vermilion. Depressed and remorseful, he realized the drastic action he took could not be reversed easily. Eventually, Ollie rode the southbound subway to Union subway station.
Afterwards, he made a collect call from a pay phone on the lower floor of Union Station to his cousin. Knowing Ollie was recently released from the juvenile detention facility, Gary said he would send him a train ticket on the passenger service from Toronto to Vancouver. Gary said that, once Ollie learned the coffee shop business inside out, he wanted to put him in charge of a third Mocha Van coffee shop in the Upper East Side, near shelters where he felt confident the homeless, addicts, drug dealers, sex trade workers, and shelter workers would appreciate the caffeine fix.
“You want to set up a coffee truck near a homeless shelter?”
“It’s not a coffee truck; it’s a full-fledged coffee shop. It’ll be my third cafe, if you help me.”
“Why do you want to set up a coffee shop near a homeless shelter?”
“Because I have a social conscience, and I like to make money at the same time.” Then Gary laughed his manic giggle, creepy, frightening, particularly if you knew he suffered bipolar disorder. Indeed, just as Gary promised, by the time Ollie ascended the ramp in the vast cavernous train station to the ticket counter, the agent handed him a train ticket, reservations, and luggage tags for the following morning.
Ollie decided to wait overnight at the station, since the train to Vancouver was scheduled to leave in several hours in the early morning. Meanwhile, Ollie looked about vigilantly, fearfully anticipating the arrival of the police. Finally, he managed to nap in the waiting lounge, tranquilized by the sole other train passenger in the train station, playing a saxophone. By the time the train prepared for boarding at eight a.m, Ollie was at the head of the line a few hundred passengers long and, aside from train officials, there was no authorities. Ollie boarded the train and settled in his seat for a weeklong journey across Canada. As the passenger train passed beneath the CN Tower and the office towers of the financial district of Toronto, he peered up through the window and thought there was a glimmer of hope.
