Frank was searched and placed in a holding cell while his paperwork was completed, then he and another prisoner were transferred to the Regional Detention Centre. The fifteen minute trip in a police squad car was made entirely in silence. The officers escorted them through a double set of barred gates, one closing behind them before the other was opened to permit them to enter. Frank and his companion stood quietly to one side until their documents had been signed and had changed hands. He was ordered to remove all of his clothing and wait in an open cubicle until jail clothes were issued to him. He sat stark naked in the cold booth for half an hour, his belongings piled neatly beside him on the bench. Finally a guard came and took them, and gave him a suit of blue denim to wear. He signed a manifest for the articles that had been taken from him, and he was ready to join the inmate population. He was marched through long corridors, waiting time and again for the ubiquitous rolling doors operated by unseen hands to allow their passage, until Frank found himself in a broad circular hallway which surrounded a glassed-in command module. From here the push of a button could control hallways and exits to exercise yards and a guard could see into the cell-block corridors that radiated outward like the spokes of a wheel. These were all identical; maximum in security, but were known individually as either maximum or medium security wings of the institution. All sorts of men were locked up here, from the most dangerous offenders awaiting trial and then transfer to the penitentiary, to those whose involvement in crime was slight and whose knowledge of prison life was scant. Therefore prisoners were classified and segregated into separate wings.

Frank was put into medium security, assigned a cell and left to make his acquaintance with the other men sitting around a table at the end of the corridor. They were for the most part Lebanese immigrants awaiting deportation hearings. There were two other Canadians besides Frank, both were quiet and diffident toward him. He later learned that one was a convicted child molester, doing short time, who was being kept out of the minimum security dorm for his own protection. The other was an embezzler, an educated man who found his present situation intolerable and stared at the walls or the television sixteen hours a day. He sometimes requested permission to use his cell during the daytime, and lay on his cot for hours on end, contemplating the ceiling. The guards kept a close eye on him lest he try to do himself harm.

The Lebanese were amicable enough, though several spoke no English, and all offered at one time or another to share tobacco with him until he could arrange to receive the weekly ration. Frank had never smoked, but he began now, at first fabricating the hand-rolled cigarettes clumsily, but with practice he became adept at forming the perfect cylinders that many of the inmates carefully constructed.

On Wednesday morning, after the breakfast dishes had been picked up, a guard summoned Frank and he was taken to a room that doubled as a theatre and crafts room, a place for A.A. meetings and so on. Because the superintendent's office was in an outer, unsecured section of the jail, he held warden's court here once each week. There were a number of inmates lounging in the corridor under the supervision of a guard, and Frank was ordered to join them. Presently his turn came to enter; within he found three men seated along one side of a table. Two were dressed in civilian clothes, in coloured shirts, and neckties; the other wore a guard's uniform, except his shirt was white rather than the usual pale green, and he wore gold insignia on his epaulets and on the brim of the military cap which lay on the table beside him.

The man in the center, Frank assumed, was the superintendent. He was slight of stature, with a small head. His nose was large for his face and misshapen, and he wore thick glasses. A cigarette burned untouched in the ashtray and his fingers were stained orange from nicotine in stark contrast to the papers he clutched before him. His grey hair was similarly discoloured where he combed it up in front, as though he had the habit of holding an idling cigarette between his lips. When he spoke Frank could see his teeth were cracked, and stained as well. He addressed Frank in a curt though not unfriendly manner, and he didn't introduce his colleagues.

"Well, Wilson, how are you making out down in C corridor?"

"Pretty well sir, I've no complaints."

The lieutenant looked at him sharply. "I would hope not," he interjected in a growl barely audible.

"I don't know that you're aware, but because you've been sentenced we can put you into a dorm now, and I see no need to keep you in a cell. Unfortunately, the dorms tend to be full in the wintertime, as is the case at the moment, so we have to leave you where you are until you're transferred." He turned to the lieutenant. "When is the chain due Harry?"

"It went yesterday."

"Okay Wilson, you'll be with us another two weeks. During that time we'll figure out where you'll serve your sentence. Someone from the classification office will interview you sometime this week. It may be a criminology student. While you are here you'll observe all the rules and practices of this institution. You are entitled to one hour in the exercise yard each day, you may have two visits per week, and you may receive two letters. You can write one letter per day, and you can take two books each week from the library. If you don't see anything on the cart you want they'll try to get something more suitable if you request it. You'll be issued two packages of tobacco per week; when it's gone you'll have to rely on some of the other men in your wing. Any other rules you need clarified just ask one of the correctional officers. Some of the regulations will change when you get to the reformatory; they differ somewhat from place to place. Any questions?"

"No sir."

"Don't you want to know your release date?"

"Oh, yes sir. I didn't know you could tell me that."

"Didn't any of the other inmates tell you? Everybody wants to know how long he'll be here."

"Most of them don't speak English sir, and besides they're just waiting for trial, I think."

"I see. Well you're entitled to a one-quarter reduction as statutory remission. If you keep your nose clean and don't give us any problems you'll also get earned remission. Together these amount to a third of your time. He consulted a large calendar on which the days of the year were numbered. Frank noticed the date, April 2, was numbered ninety-three.

"You will be due for release on August 6 of next year," he continued to operate a pocket calculator, "and you can apply for early release under supervision on December 1 of this year. Whether your application will be seriously considered at that juncture will depend largely on how you conduct yourself in the meantime. Understand?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Now, I'm going to give you some advice, not just as the superintendent of this jail but as a man who has been a member of the prison population for almost thirty years. You might say I'm a lifer," he suggested sardonically. His tone became less formal, "Take advantage of the programs offered to you. A little extra knowledge is always a good thing to acquire, and many of the skills taught in the reformatory are handy for anyone to have. Years ago, when I worked as a correctional officer at the reformatory, I used to bring things from home to be repaired in the shop, because I had neither the skills nor the tools to fix them myself. Such pursuits will help to pass the time."

He paused a moment to light a new cigarette from the butt in the ashtray. "Another thing. Keep your own counsel. One of the worst things about your confinement will be some of the crowd you'll be forced to associate with. They're not people you would seek out on the street and there will be no advantage to knowing them well inside. Just do your own time, and they'll probably respect that. If you can remain in contact with friends and family, whoever you're close to on the outside, that will help too … any questions? If not you can go."

Frank left the room and stood in the hallway until he could be escorted back to his cell. On his return the others crowded around him, curious about the reason for the meeting and what he had been told. Frank recounted the entire episode, remarking how hungry these men were for information, however meagre, about what went on around them.

The next day, in mid-afternoon, Frank was taken to an interview room where he met a young lady not any older than Rodger, whose job was to gather information about him so he could be classified. Because she asked for facts surrounding his crime and conviction Frank assumed her information was scanty, so he told her the same tale he had fed to Bannerman. That was a mistake. She became quite excited and clearly believed his sentence to be excessive under the circumstances. He became worried that she might make something of a crusade of it and in the end he explained to her that the judge had no choice but to make an example of him, and that he should have known better than to become involved with known criminals. Then he told her his relations with his wife and son were on the mend and that he had always been close to his parents, who were old and infirm.

She concluded the interview after telling Frank that, while her appraisal was not final, but subject to approval from Toronto, in her view he should be transferred to the nearby prison farm, a minimum security institution, a short forty-minute drive from the city. She said Frank would be an excellent candidate for early release, shook his hand, and wished him luck.

He remained in C corridor all of that week and all of the next, awaiting transfer to the prison farm. The novels dispensed from the library cart were for the most part detective stories, spy novels and westerns, which he read very quickly. Other men who didn't read English augmented his supply. Most of the time he spent watching television and playing "nines", a card game much like bridge. The Lebanese could enjoy this game without benefit of English and they gambled for hand-rolled cigarettes. Frank would roll up a handful each afternoon before they began, and most days he had won or lost perhaps a half-dozen by suppertime.

Tuesday morning arrived, he said goodbye to the others and was accompanied to the reception area to prepare for transportation. He and two young men barely out of their teens were put in irons and ordered into a delivery van. A heavy chain ran around the walls of the vehicle and they were secured to it. A barrier of heavy wire mesh separated them from the guards up front. Two more prisoners were already shackled inside, and they began at once to speak to Frank's companions in French. They all looked alike, with long hair and dark eyes, and youthful unshaven faces.

"You speak French, you?" one of them directed at Frank.

"No, I don't."

"This van goes around to all the little jails in the area, picking up prisoners. These guys are from L'Orignal, and this guy knows my cousin. Are you going to the farm too?"

"Yes."

"Then we all are. We'll all be doing time together, eh?" He smiled confidently at each of them in turn.

They travelled over familiar roadways for less than an hour and then felt the van slow down to enter the prison drive. From what he could see as they were removed from the van and hustled inside, Frank had the impression of gates, and high fences topped with barbed wire. This, he learned later, was not really the case. Although the prisoner reception area was very secure, the farm was for the most part open, unfenced and designed for prisoners who weren't likely to wander off. The institution was divided into two sections, one with a medium degree of security, and the work farm made up the rest. The prisoners wore either grey or blue according to their designated status.

The first night Frank spent in a cell much like the one at the detention centre, but the next day he was moved to a dorm. The young men he had arrived with were already there, and that afternoon he was approached by two others who brought greetings from Bobby. These six, the first acquaintanceships he formed in jail, were those that continued to be the closest he made during his time there. Though they had few common interests, and little to discuss, they gravitated towards one another whenever two or more found themselves in an area together.

Because Frank was older, and because he was quiet and reliable, he wasn't watched very closely. He soon had the run of the place and had only to ask to have some reasonable privilege granted. He was granted access to any stables, shops or classrooms he wished to visit. The institution had a very progressive administration during his stay, mostly due to the influence of the superintendent, who was respected by staff and inmates alike. A wide variety of programs were offered there; sporting events and hobby classes, trades training and work release, classroom instruction, a guitar workshop. The Alcoholics Anonymous was active, as was an inmate's Christian Association. The variety of interests and tolerance shown one another surprised Frank. Even the guards were viewed with an equanimity that belied all he had heard about "screws" before coming into first-hand contact with them. Most of them simply followed the standing orders as did the inmate population, and showed no animosity toward those in their charge. Others made no effort to disguise their contempt for the prisoners and resented any softening of discipline. Given a decision regarding a privilege they would always say no, sometimes with a lame excuse, but usually with a terse and peremptory dismissal, a reminder of their discretionary power. They emphasised security at all times, and with good reason, since the men were only too happy to assist them to screw up. They would turn a blind eye or feign stupidity at any oversight, omission or mistake these officers might make, their attitude toward passive sabotage worthy of any captive population.

For the most part however, the correctional officers and inmates got on well enough together. Most guards took no pleasure in ordering people about and treated everyone with an even handed fairness that satisfied all but the most intransigent troublemakers. Because the job they did was so like the position Frank had held, he felt some affinity to them. There was one old guy who worked the four-to-twelve shift a lot. He hand-rolled his cigarettes just as the inmates did, because he found he gave away too many filter-tips if he brought them to work. Seated at the desk just outside the dormitory he and Frank would sometimes talk until his shift ended, when he would lock the door just prior to being relieved of duty.

Most of the older prisoners were passive and untroublesome, their problems stemmed mainly from alcohol abuse and they presented no problems to either staff or their fellow inmates. Others, usually younger, looked for trouble constantly, jeopardizing privileges and harassing and bullying others. They would label some (usually weaker) inmate as a "rat" or a "goof" and after soliciting support from likeminded convicts, would terrorize him with threats of a beating or homosexual rape. They held others up to interminable ridicule, pushing them down in sports or in the exercise yard and playing cruel tricks on them. On the whole Frank concluded that jail was pretty much like the school-yard he had known as a child.

As Bobby had predicted, he was left pretty much alone. He never fully disclosed the circumstances of his crime and was never closely questioned about it. He conferred quietly with those of his acquaintance and kept to himself. He studied welding, read books in the evenings when there wasn't a movie or other activity that interested him, and often visited the workshop where civilian personnel and inmates repaired farm machinery and custom-fabricated items for use throughout the reformatory system. He would assist in this work and found the time passed quickly and pleasantly there. There was never enough work to keep everyone busy, but where possible each man was assigned some duties, however light.

Frank was sent to the greenhouse for two hours each day to water seedlings; vegetables and annual flowers that were being prepared for transplant into the truck gardens and the elaborate flower beds that ornamented the front gates and highway frontage of the institution. When the twenty-fourth of May arrived, and all danger of ground frost was past, these were removed and planted, and Frank found himself without a job. He missed the quiet solitude he had come to enjoy, caring for the seedlings, and he obtained permission to use some of the now vacant greenhouse to start an experimental garden. Though it was already late in the year the building would extend the growing season almost until the snow flew, and he selected plants that would continue to flourish when the autumn days had grown short. Inmates assigned to operate tractors scraped topsoil from the fields and brought manure by the bucket-load, mixed it well, and formed it for Frank into a raised bed in the empty greenhouse. They waited with interest for Frank's exotic vegetables to develop. He planted red brussel sprouts and red broccoli, golden beets and chinese michili, blue popping corn and kohl rabi, and a strange assortment of melons which spread from their points of origin to cover distant parts of the building. He cultivated tomatoes of strange shapes and colours, tiny red onions, giant elephant garlic, and an array of fancy peppers and spices. He planted peanuts.

As the garden grew, those who had been involved at the time of its inception dropped by regularly to check its progress, and began to show it to visitors and friends. Because the inception had been a collective project it attracted the attention of many who showed no interest in other farm operations, and they would loiter about while Frank tended it, offering assistance and asking the names and purposes of the unusual produce.

The inmates ate together in a cafeteria, and a corner was cordoned off for the staff, who ate with them. As each tiny crop matured Frank harvested it and brought it to the kitchen door, and it was prepared for a meal the following day. On the last day of October Frank entered the greenhouse to find it had been cold enough overnight to freeze all of the melon plants. He harvested what remained and had the soil removed and stockpiled for the following year. When everything was returned to the condition in which he had found it he looked up the gardener and returned his seed catalogue. He was lounging with several other workers in one of the machinery sheds, smoking cigarettes.

"Thanks Frank," he said when he received the dog-eared book. "You could have kept it, they send me a new one every winter."

"Yeah, I know, but I thought somebody else might use it. I've had a couple of guys ask already if they can do it next year if I'm not here … which I don't plan to be."

"I've had people nosing around too. In fact I said I'd talk to the superintendent about a garden plot program for next year. There has been some interest shown. So you think you'll be out of here before spring Frank?"

"I hope so, I come up for parole hearing in December. Even if I don't make it on the first try, I ought to be out of here by May, don't you think?"

"I don't know, I'm mot on the parole board, but I don't know if they should let you back out on the street or not Frank." They all laughed at that.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frank was out of jail before spring, due to an unexpected turn of events. Tom and Leila made certain, during all of his incarceration, that he had a visit from one or both of them every week. In December Leila showed up one evening with a copy of the Canadian Greenhouse Grower's Guide, a trade magazine published quarterly for the advertisement of greenhouse and market garden supplies. She turned it into the office, where it was given a cursory inspection and passed along to Frank. He read it through, found a couple of small articles of interest and then perused the classified section. It was there that he found the following obscure ad, in the Wanted column.

Required: Agricultural worker

Assistant for Greenhouse operation

required immediately. Room, board

and a small wage offered. It was followed by a box number in rural British Columbia. It sent Frank into a reverie that recurred several times over the next few days, wondering what the position might be like, and then he quite quickly forgot all about it. In January he went before the parole board, and was told that if he tried again next time, he would stand a better chance. He had been prepared to be turned down on the first application and so he returned, undiscouraged, to his routine.

In February Tom showed up with another copy of the Growers Guide and Frank was astonished to find the position still vacant after three months. He replied at once.

Dear Sir,

I read with interest your requirement for a greenhouse assistant as advertised in September's Canadian Greenhouse Grower's Guide. When the ad reappeared this month I felt compelled to write. Could you please furnish me with more details? My present position would require some time to get out of but I have wanted to relocate to the west coast for several years. I have experience in a greenhouse setting. You may contact me c/o Mr. Tom McDermott, of the above address.

Yours truly,

E. Frank Wilson

For two weeks no reply arrived, then on Tuesday evening Frank was told he had a visitor. He expected no-one, and was surprised to find Leila waiting for him. She had received the letter that morning and had brought it to him without delay. He read it aloud to her.

"Dear Mr. Wilson," the letter began in a round childish hand. "Yes, I am still looking for help in my greenhouses. My wife and I have worked together for many years but now she is not so able to help me anymore. Because our farm is quite isolated we have always had trouble getting help and we have decided that it would be easiest to hire someone to live in. We have a spare room fixed up nice and I can promise you will always get good meals. The salary is $250 per month.

I would really prefer to meet you before I decide on whether you can have the job, but maybe you could telephone me instead. I would, of course, want references. Yours truly, Joseph Van der Horne." A telephone number followed.

Leila was skeptical. "Do you really want this job Frank? What if you get out there and you don't like it?"

"Well, I'll already be there, won't I? I can always find another job, and if I have a job and a place to stay I'll get parole for sure next time. The only problem will be transferring from one province to another, but it can be done, I already checked that out. There's some kind of an agreement in place." His eyes shone with excitement as he spoke.

"Now Frank, don't get your hopes up prematurely. This man wants references, and you're going to have to tell him you're in jail. I don't want to discourage you but this really looks like a long shot."

"I know … I know it is, but it just feels right, somehow."

That evening he began to compose a long letter outlining his personal data and work experience, explaining tactfully his present circumstances. The next day he arranged to see the John Howard Society counsellor and was promised a letter of recommendation based on his record at the prison farm and the impression he had made on the corrections workers there. On Saturday he learned that Leila had telephoned Mr. Van der Horn on her own initiative and pleaded on Frank's behalf, and a week later he received a second letter from him, this time addressed to the reformatory.

Dear Mr. Wilson,

I must admit that when I first received your letter and learned that you were in jail I decided I couldn't hire you. You seem to have impressed the people there that you are a steady fellow but Mrs. Van der Horn said she wouldn't sleep with a convict in the house. However, I received a call this evening from Mrs. McDermott and she has convinced us to give you your chance. There hasn't been much interest in the job in any case.

Since my wife can continue to help me until you arrive I am writing to say that you may start whenever you are able to come. If you need something more than this for your parole hearing please let me know.

Yours truly,

Joseph Van der Horne

Frank went before the parole board for the second time in early March, and they agreed conditionally to grant his release. They would contact the British Columbia parole service to have them check his story, and if they agreed to supervise him he could serve the remainder of his sentence as he had proposed. He was released one year almost exactly from the day when he began his sentence.

Tom met him at the front gate on Monday morning. The day was warm, one of the first real days of spring, and sheets of water glistened among brown fields of stubble and mud. In the maple bush scraps of snow lay hidden here and there, protected from the brilliant sunshine, while along the ditchline from time to time Frank saw the crystaline remnants of winter drifts, almost invisible under a blanket of accumulated grime from thousands of speeding automobiles. In farm yards, cattle released from winter quarters stood indolently soaking up sunshine, their sides and hindquarters crusted over with dung, tails stiff and heavy hanging like bats along their backsides.

The two friends kept very much to themselves during the trip to the city; Tom not wanting to talk about jail, Frank feeling not the exuberance at his release that he had anticipated, but something of a sense of loss. He was happy to be out, but had grown to like the unhurried and non-productive atmosphere of the place, and the comfort of familiarity was in some ways enticing. It was now disrupted, and he was striking out for unknown parts, to a new and unfamiliar lifestyle. It was queer; this ambivalence toward prison life, but he had to admit it just the same.

Tom spoke finally. "If the weather holds, the fields won't be long drying up. I bet a lot of these puddles will go today."

"Maybe, it's supposed to be sunny right through until the weekend."

"Really? And you know, the breeze probably does as much to dry things up as the sun does."

There followed another lengthy silence before Tom began once more. "How long do you figure on staying with us Frank?"

"I was just thinking about that. I have to see the parole officer sometime before next Thursday. I don't know, I'm going to play it by ear … maybe go out a little early, get settled in." After a pause he continued, "I'm kind of anxious to see this place, whatever it is … besides, the guy has been holding my job open for me, I guess it would be only fair to get a move on."

When Leila asked the same question later, she saw at once through his placid non-committal reply. She sensed the discomfort he tried to conceal and the uncertainty about the leap he was about to make. She could only guess at the fantasies he had constructed. In his mind he was already familiar with everything about his new environment; he knew the route he would follow during the bus trip northward from Vancouver so well now, that he could recite the names of towns and lakes he would pass and could tell from the way the road curved up and curled back on the map where they would climb or skirt natural obstacles. He saw the lay-out of the Van der Horn place clearly in his mind.

She laughed at his pretence. "You really want to get going, don't you Frank?"

"Well yes," he admitted defensively. "I feel like I've been spinning my wheels for the past year and a half. I'm anxious to go on, get started again, and this job sounds like exactly what I need right now. It's sort of a continuation of the laid-back way of life I learned inside. You know, I don't walk like I used to; that need I had to wear myself out? It's gone. Somehow I lost it, maybe it was getting rid of Diane did it, or leaving the job, but it's gone. Now I want to go on, establish a new routine, set attainable goals and see myself progressing toward them. Such a life doesn't hold many surprises, but there's a kind of comfort and security in that. Do you know what I mean?"

"Okay Frank. We're not going to chain you to the radiator or anything. Stay as long as you want, and when you're ready to get going, we'll lend you the money for the plane fare."

"I think I'll have some money. I'm going to take back my contributions out of the company pension plan. I got a statement while I was away, and I have over seven thousand dollars coming to me. I'll settle up with you about the lawyer's fees too, by the way."

"Frank! I don't want that money, and please do not ever bring the subject up again. I was very happy to do it at the time; it has given us little enough satisfaction when you consider the price that you have paid."

"Just a minute you two. You've got the wrong impression entirely. I didn't martyr myself, going to prison to protect my friends; if I had been stupid enough to confess to the robbery and turn you in, every one of us would have done five to seven years! Besides, it was me that fucked up and lost all the money."

"All right Frank, I'll concede that", Tom arbitrated, "but while you have been 'spinning your wheels' for eighteen months, Leila and I have progressed. I have all but completed my degree, and I've been offered a management training position with one of the biggest insurance firms in the country. Leila has had two raises and a promotion. We've put down roots, invested, and seen returns for our work. You are beginning over with nothing but those two boxes in the shed, and if you'll excuse my saying so, a job as a live-in agricultural worker may appeal to you at the moment, but it isn't exactly what one could call upward mobility. Now, we were all in it together, equal partners, but you have paid a heavy price for our foolishness, and Leila and I have not."

"That's true, Frank, and as far as the money goes, you shouldn't feel badly about losing it. I think it just wasn't meant to be", Leila said in her lovely characteristic valley manner. "We weren't meant to build our lives on stolen money."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

On Thursday morning of that week the three partners rose at five-thirty. Frank planned to fly to Vancouver that morning. After a stop in Calgary the plane would arrive after lunch. He would stay overnight and try to see his parole officer first thing Friday morning when he might be in his office. Then he would be free. He would take the bus north into the mountains and from where it would drop him off on the highway he could walk or hitchhike the remaining eight miles to the Van der Horne farm. He packed his belongings in an army kit bag he had purchased at the war surplus store. In his pocket he had his plane ticket, his release money, and another hundred dollars that Leila had insisted he borrow for emergencies.

At the airport they parted company. No-one spoke much, quiet embraces and good-byes were exchanged, Frank stoic in appearance, but quaking inside over the prospect of his first plane ride. Even Leila was unusually dry-eyed. "Good-bye Frank … good luck … we love you."

He grinned self-consciously. "I know. Goodbye. I'll be back you know. I'll come home on vacation real soon."

But he never did.