No Signature by William Bell

the hatchet stuck in a log.
    The weak yellow light-beam bounced ahead of me as I made my way through the tossing evergreens down to the water. Whipped by the rainy wind, I played the light back and forth along the shore until the faint yellow circle found him. He was lying half under the boughs of an evergreen on the edge of the bush, legs drawn up to his chest, arms crossed, one hand clutchingthe almost empty bottle. Tears of rain coursed in tiny rivulets across his face. I pulled the bottle out of his grip and tossed it aside.
    “Hey, wake up.”
    He groaned as I dragged him to a sitting position. Great, I thought. I managed to haul him to his feet and picked him up in a fireman’s carry and slowly worked my way back along the path to the van. He wasn’t very heavy.
    Inside, I lowered the old man to the floor. I set up his bed, then lifted him under the arms and turned him so he could sit on the edge. He fell backwards, sprawled on the bed. I hauled him upright again. His eyes opened as I tried to pull his sopping bush shirt off.
    “Whozat?” he mumbled.
    “It’s me. Hold still.” I got the bush shirt and T-shirt off and started working on his boots.
    “She stole him off me,” he mumbled.
    When I had done with his boots and socks I stood up. He was crying.
    “She took my little boy. My little Stevie. I hadda leave or she’d tell everybody.”
    I lowered him to his back. His bare wet chest heaved as I pulled off his soaking wet jeans and underwear. With a dish towel I dried him as well as I could, then pulled his sleeping bag onto him like a giant sock.
    I stripped off my own clothes, letting them fall to the floor and leaving them as I wiped myself off with the towel. I snapped off the light above the sink and climbed up into my bed.
    What had he meant when he said she’d tell everybody? The “she” was probably my mother. Had shekicked him out because he was a drinker? Had my father done something that made her force him to leave? Why would she do that to me?
    I heard him whimpering in his sleep while deep in the cellar of my memory the laser jumped frantically from postcard to postcard, sending powerful messages surging along the cable and flashing like lighting into my mind.
    I lay awake for hours, the old man moaning in his sleep beneath me while the wind cried around us.

SEVENTEEN
    T HE NEXT MORNING , as the grey light of dawn leaked into the wet world outside the van, I put the coffee on and dressed in dry clothes. I was tired and raw and depressed—and it was only Wednesday. I’d been with the old man since Sunday, but it seemed more like three weeks than three days.
    I stepped outside and headed to the washroom down the road. The wind had lessened but it was still there, pushing grey clouds across a sullen sky. The bush was water-logged and quiet and the mosquitoes were out in force. I got back into the van and turned off the stove, then woke the old man up. When he looked like he could sit up without help I poured out a coffee and handed it to him.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, his sleeping bag gathered around his lower body, noisily sipping, saying nothing. He looked pale, his eyes bloodshot, his hair spiky, his stubble dark against his skin.
    “Think you could drive this thing?” he said finally. His hand shook as he raised the cup of steaming coffee to his mouth.
    “I’ve never driven a standard, but I could try, I guess.”
    “Try,” he urged. “I’m in no shape to drive. When you get out to the highway, that’s Highway 17, turn right. You’ll get to the outskirts of the Soo in a couple of hours. Wake me up then and I’ll drive us into town to Sharon’s.”
    I didn’t ask who Sharon was. He put the empty cup down, slumped back on the bed and curled up, gathering the bag around him. He was asleep in an instant.
    I put the wet lawn chairs in the back, gathered up the hatchet and the supper dishes, and pulled down the pop top, clicking the latches into place. The key was in the