Frank remained at Tom's house for a week, sleeping on the sofa and taking his meals with them. During the hours while they were away he read books and walked. He experienced the freedom of a man whose destiny has been taken entirely out of his own hands, all responsibility and care removed from his shoulders, thus he waited for the wheels of justice to grind slowly down upon him. Diane phoned, but Frank refused to speak to her, and she informed him, through Leila, that he was to make no attempt to see her or to come near the house. On Saturday Rodger would be at home and she would be away in order that he might pick up his belongings.

On Friday he went to the Unemployment Insurance Commission and completed the claim forms so that he might begin collecting benefits. The woman who reviewed the form seemed suspicious, and questioned him closely. Frank told her he had been fired for sleeping on the job, and that he was seeking other types of work. He had no intention of accepting any job of course, but he would deal with any problems as they might arise. The important thing was to get some money soon. Wednesday was payday and he had only one day's pay owing to him.

Early on Saturday morning he borrowed Tom's pickup and drove home. Snow still lay in the driveway from the Wednesday night storm, with several car-tracks ploughed through the drifts and a footpath worn to the kitchen door. His car was absent so he parked in the laneway and entered the house. Rodger met him in the living room.

"Hi Rodge, how are things in T.O.?" Frank grinned at him.

"Nice going Dad."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing you know, when your father goes to prison for armed robbery."

"Oh, I don't know, I would have thought for a boy your age there might be a certain popular notoriety in it," Frank chided. "It's not funny Dad," the boy blurted, his eyes watery.

Frank felt sorry now, and tried to lay his hand on Rodger's shoulder. "Come on, nobody in Toronto knows about this."

"Don't!" He twisted away from him crossly and led the way to Frank's bedroom. "Just get your stuff, will you."

"Why doesn't your mother want to see me?"

"I guess she's afraid of reprisals, you know, for turning you in."

"She needn't worry. She's been this stupid before and I never did anything to her. So tell her not to worry. In fact I have no intention of seeing her, ever again."

"I'll tell her. What is she supposed to do for money?"

"Tell her to go to welfare. You can tell her also that I think it looks really good on her."

The boy turned on his heel and left Frank to clear out his belongings. They didn't amount to much. He packed underwear and socks, and a couple of tee-shirts into a cardboard box he had brought along for the purpose. He left behind all remnants and reminders of his uniform, and laid shirts and trousers, jeans and sweaters on the bed, still on their wire hangers. He stowed spare shoes and boots into another carton and finished the pile with a hardwood box that had stood on his dresser since he was a boy. Into this he placed shaving gear and what small items he had accumulated in thirty-seven years; a pocket-knife, a stainless steel pen and pencil set, spare shoelaces, birth certificate and other personal papers, several sets of cuff-links and an old wrist-watch. "Not much," he considered wryly. He carried the little pile to the truck and returned for the hangers. Rodger followed him to the door this time. Frank shouldered the load and extended a handshake to his son. The boy refused to accept it.

"All right, if that's how it's to be," muttered Frank as he heard the door latch behind him. "He'll soon get over this", he thought as he backed the truck out of the lane. "Besides, he might just as well get on with his life in Toronto and not get into visiting his old man in prison."

He remembered his own father admonishing him as a boy when he had been disappointed in some mistake or oversight the older man had made, "When you're older you'll understand things differently." And it had been so, during each major period of his life he could look back on things and see his perspective had changed. As time went on he became more prepared to understand, more tolerant and less judgemental; as he had his own foibles and excesses to measure others against. And so also it would be with Rodger, he concluded with satisfaction, but he wished he had thought to pass those few words of wisdom on to his own son.

. . . . . . . . . .

On Wednesday morning Frank left the house at nine-fifteen exactly, calculating a forty-five minute walk to the depot to collect his pay. The cheques would be available at ten o'clock, he didn't want to arrive early and have to wait around for it. He wanted to be in the building while most of the employees would be on the road. The guard on security was an old man who knew Frank well. He hesitated a moment before opening the door, unsure whether he might be a security risk, then in the absence of orders made his own appraisal and Frank heard the familiar click of the electric lock admitting him to the building. He avoided the loading and dispatch areas and went directly to the clerical offices. No-one rose from their desk to find his cheque, which Frank knew was in a drawer below the front counter. One of the secretaries broke the uneasy silence and asked him if there was anything she could do for him.

"I want to get my pay for the day I worked last week," he tried to sound non-chalant. The young lady approached the counter.

"It's all ready Frank. We made up your severance pay too, and you had a week's vacation pay coming. But Mr. Wells has it. He came in and got it a few minutes ago. Gee Frank," she added softly, "I wish you weren't in so much trouble."

"Thanks Marie. Well, I guess I'll have to go see old Fatso." He winked at her and she gave him a brave smile in return.

George Wells was writing something at his desk when Frank opened the door without knocking and closed it behind him. "What's this I hear, you've got my paycheque?" he demanded.

"That's right. Your wife called and asked me to hold it for her, and that's what I'm doing."

"Yeah? Unless you have a legal paper to withhold my pay- cheque you'd better hand it over." Wells picked up the telephone but Frank reached over the desk and depressed the disconnect button. "I might remind you also," he snarled through clenched teeth, "that you are now dealing with a man who has nothing to lose. Get it?"

"Here, take it and get out," he fumbled clumsily in the top drawer and threw a sealed envelope on the desk. "This company is well rid of you, and so is Diane."

"I couldn't agree more," Frank retorted as the heavy door glided silently into place behind him.

Claude was waiting for him in the doorway of the dispatcher's office as he approached. "Come in a minute Frank, and close the door." Frank obeyed quickly, knowing it was unwise for Claude to be entertaining him in his office under the circumstances. Claude outstretched his hand and grinned. "Boy, Frank, when they told me you robbed that truck I had to laugh. You, who probably never stole a thing in your life." His face sobered. "I guess you're in a lot of trouble." He still held Frank's hand in a firm grip.

"It's not as though I didn't go looking for it Claude."

"No, but still, it was pretty rotten, how you got caught. Everybody seems to agree about that."

"You know what Tom said? 'If you pick up a stray dog, and take him home and feed him, that dog won't bite you, and that is the principal difference between a dog and a man," he chuckled. "Yeah, he's a pretty funny guy, that Tom."

"Well, I think he borrowed it from Mark Twain or someone, but it's appropriate anyway."

"She was after you for a long time, eh?"

Frank, who had been sliding comfortably into Claude's swivel chair, now jolted upright. "What do you mean?" he demanded sharply.

"One day, way back in the summer it was, she phoned here, the switchboard put the call through to me, and a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Wilson wanted to know if you were at work that day. I remember it was a Saturday morning and you guys had a special."

"I remember."

"I told her we couldn't give out that information, and she hung up. Wells was sitting right where you are now, and he asked me who it was. I'm sorry now I never warned you about it, but you know how it is, it's embarrassing to tell a guy something like that."

"Aw, that's okay Claude." Frank got up. "I guess I'll see you at the stag in January? I can't say I'm in much of a party mood though."

"Oh, no. It's off; cancelled. Gaby said she wasn't having a party while you were going to jail. There are some pretty long faces over at their house Frank."

"Yeah? I never thought about that. I'll drop over and see them. Thanks Claude."

"That's okay, my friend. Now you take care of yourself." Frank was almost out of the building when Wells spotted him and began shouting at him down the length of the hallway, "Wilson, what the hell are you doing in this building? You are to leave now, and I'm going to instruct security not to admit you again. Is that clear?"

"Go and fuck yourself," Frank shouted back, as he pushed the heavy door and escaped into the bright cold sunshine. Given time he would have fired a much better parting shot, in fact he had spent most of the walk over rehearsing what he wanted to say to Wells, but when given the opportunity he hadn't had the composure to recite any of it. Still, it had felt good, and now he had seen the last of George Wells, and he would never spend another day confined inside a rolling lock-up. In some ways things were actually looking up.

He took his pay-cheque to the local bank branch where the company employees were known, and pocketed his pay. He went to a nearby coffee shop, occupied a booth and spread out a newspaper on the table. He began to circle ads for rooms to let, looking for one with cooking privileges, and cheap. He discovered that some were available by the week, though more expensive, and he circled these as well. He didn't know how long he would need it, no more than a few weeks no doubt, perhaps even days. He discovered that most of the accommodation was in the downtown core area, where once-opulent family homes had deteriorated into multiple dwellings and rooming-houses. He used the pay phone by the washroom door, got the addresses on several possibilities and started out on foot.

Several days of sunshine had cleared the sandy plowed sidewalks until they were bare and dry so that Frank had no need of winter boots and he briskly walked the length of each block, leaping over the ribbon of salt slush that bordered the curb at each intersection. The first place he inspected was the cheapest, but was, even in his present straightened circumstances, quite unacceptable. His heart sank as he approached a dilapidated brick double, the right-hand side of which was the address he had been given on the phone. The porch was divided in the centre by a sagging partition and the floor drooped toward the street. Three old bicycles littered the stoop, and one of these had fallen in front of the door. It was necessary for him to pick it up to open a screen door that would no longer repel bugs; the screen had been pushed out so that it hung crazily from the top and one side. The heavy hardwood door inside was incompletely closed. It had probably once held bevelled plate in the upper section, but this had been replaced with common window glass. It swung open readily enough but wouldn't shut properly.

Frank paused a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he thought he detected a slight odour of ammonia. Gradually he began to discern his surroundings in the dark hallway. The lino floor was completely worn through where it met the threshold, and bore the white gritty stains of dried salt mixed with sand. The mixture crackled underfoot, and was evident up the centre of the stairs, which ran from Frank's left to the upper levels. There were three doors on the first level, the first two had been formed by filling in larger archways and then installing a door in one side of the covered opening. Frank rapped quietly on the first of these as he had been instructed. As there was no movement from within, he knocked more loudly the second time.

"Who's there?" a voice called out from the second level. Frank looked over the handrail and up the stairs where a young man appeared. His hair was very long, beyond shoulder-length and stringy. He couldn't have been older than Rodger, Frank determined, but where his boy was stocky and robust-looking, this fellow was stick-thin, and appeared to be suffering from influenza. He snuffled loudly, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"I'm looking for the super, she's expecting me," he called up the stair.

"She's gone to the beer store. Probably she'll be back in a few minutes." He came slowly down the stairs until he could look Frank over. "Looking for a room are you?"

"Yeah, but maybe I'll come back later."

"I can show it to you. It's on the second floor here, right next to mine. Come on up."

Frank climbed the ancient staircase, on the second floor he discovered the source of the disagreeable odour. The bathroom was located at the end of the hall, the rotting floor was soaked with urine around the toilet. The kitchen was at the other end of the hallway and was unbelievably filthy. Frank flipped an old-fashioned toggle-type light switch, and the wall behind the sink became instantly alive with swiftly fleeing insects. They disappeared quickly into cracks behind the sink, counter-top and cupboards.

"I think I've seen enough," he stated flatly.

"Don't you want to see the room? It's right here."

Frank heard a male voice call out from the third floor, which he saw was accessed by a smaller, more narrow staircase. "Brian, Brian! Who's there?"

"Nobody. Go back to bed." The young man grinned sheepishly at Frank, displaying a row of front teeth in an advanced state of decay.

"Will you tell the super I was here, and that I wasn't interested?"

"She ain't the super. She just lives here, same as the rest of us, but the phone's in her room. So you don't want it, eh? I don't blame you man, this is a dump. Welfare's got me on a waiting list, and as soon as my name comes up, I'm out of here myself."

Frank fled down the stairs and out once more into the fresh air. The dazzling sunlight reflected off the snow hurt his eyes at first so that he squeezed them shut for a moment to react more slowly to the glare. He drew deep draughts of the crisp clean air. He had never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but while he had been surrounded by the evil smell and dirt he had felt the walls closing in on him. Could this be the sort of accommodation he must accept while he waited for his day in court? Surely, not even jail would be so filthy and so demoralizing; he had simply got off to bad start.

The second place he investigated was almost as bad, also in a sad state of repair, and the hall floors were more gritty than the last. The facilities were cleaner, but were shared by many more rooms, and when Frank saw it, most of the doors were open and the residents were travelling and visiting from one room to the other. Several radios and televisions playing on different channels produced a cacophony that enhanced the unreality of his surroundings. It was better, but Frank knew he would never live there. The social life of people who had nothing but time held no strong appeal for him; he would arrive at that point soon enough.

Frank sought out another coffee-shop now and turned once more to the classified section. This time he selected the most expensive room he could find and telephoned for more information. The phone rang six or seven times. He was replacing the receiver on the hook when he heard it crackle, "hello."

A woman with a heavy German accent gave him the address and described the place as a "goot hows." She said, "I have a lot of work to do. You come now," and Frank felt compelled to obey.

The house was situated in the avenues that ran away from the canal, in an area inhabited largely by young couples renting apartments and by university students. It was a large three storey brick with matching bow windows on the first two levels. The paint was fresh and the front porch floor was swept clean. There was a small foyer in which were several pairs of boots, neatly ranged along one wall. A stout woman in a kerchief and housedress openly evaluated him as she paused from picking up sand with a broom and dust pan. She considered him for a moment. "Unemployed?" she demanded.

"Yes."

"How long?" even more imperiously.

"Since this morning. I'm waiting for a call to go up north to work. Might be a while though."

"I don't like that. For myself I prefer students. Sure, they're usually very dirty! But they do what I say, or out they go. Come."

Frank followed her through one of two partition doors that opened out off the foyer, it led to the stairway and the upper floors. All was clean and fresh paint and the kitchen was bright and tidy. The bathroom was on the next floor, but he didn't bother to inspect it.

"This is how the kitchen is kept," she said pointedly, "the fridge is defrosted every Wednesday, so if you shop you should do so on Wednesday, or else something might spoil, you see?"

Frank saw.

She opened one of several wood-stained panelled doors. The room was large, with an old wooden double bed and matching dresser. It also contained a small writing table and chair. She indicated the large closet, so that Frank might approve. "This is a beautiful room," he volunteered. "Nine foot ceilings." He was rewarded by a broad grin, the nose crinkled up to reveal a row of even broad teeth.

"Ach, I could show you rooms," she responded. "The big one at the end. It was a parlor you know. Beautiful mouldings, ceiling lamp, and stained glass; beautiful." She wheeled upon him now. "You have a t.v.?"

"No."

"That's okay, because if you have a t.v. you have to play it softly. Others may be sleeping, and the students have their studies."

"You sound as though I've already rented the room." Frank grinned.

"What, you don't want it?" she exclaimed loudly.

"Oh sure, I want it, but I don't have enough money to pay the first and last month in advance. I'll tell you what though. Today is the tenth, the month is nearly half over. I'll take it now and pay for the whole month, and on the first I'll pay again. Whenever I get my call to go up north you'll have the balance of that month to re-let it. That way you will gain back a month you had thought you lost."

Again Frank was rewarded by the broad-toothed smile. "Okay," she agreed without hesitation. "I'll get you a receipt." "No receipt. I don't need it," Frank said as he began to count the money into her open palm. The grin broadened. She tucked the money into the pocket of her apron and extended her hand.

"I am Hilda Grabe, and you are?"

"Frank Wilson."

She touched his arm companionably. "You know, I can always pick an honest face! And now, I must get back to work."

Frank entered his room and closed the door. He stood a moment, as though disoriented, taking in his new surroundings. The blind responded readily when he tugged on it and rolled upward to reveal a wide window from which he could see into the backyard next door. The sun had passed over the house now, but wasn't yet low enough for the light to enter the room directly. He inspected the closet and pulled open the drawers of the bureau. Then he tried the bed, and with fingers laced behind his head he contemplated his situation.

Never before had he occupied a room to himself. This would be his very own space, unshared and independent of anyone. These clean, spartan, spacious surroundings lifted him and he saw the bright side of his immediate future. For the time being he had no schedule, no responsibilities, no job, no dependents. From now until his court date he had every day to do just as he pleased. The idea of so much liberty buoyed his spirits, so that he thought not of the impending prison term but rather of how far he had progressed from the stale unpromising existence that had held him always. He had never in his memory known a day that hadn't revolved around work and responsibility, indeed, he had revered these things and now he felt not a sense of loss but rather, a feeling of accomplishment; he had contrived to escape those elements that had held sway over his life and had succeeded! He could look forward now to a future that would revolve about his own selfish interests, and when this period of his life would end, the criminal justice system would take over responsibility for him, then he would continue to read and exercise just as he planned to do now, while he repaid his so-called debt to society.

At supper that evening he told Tom and Leila what he had done and arranged to move his belongings before bedtime. To his scant possessions Leila added some towels and bed linen as a loan for as long as he would need them. And so he spent the first night in his new home.