Talking at the Woodpile by David Thompson

biggest one, and with one swift movement, painted Neil’s backside.
    â€œNow run like hell before your ass burn off,” he said.
    Neil covered the distance to his house in record-breaking time. Victor heard him yelling for Faith and watched as the lights in the rooms came on one by one.
    The best the nurse at the hospital could do was to wash the area thoroughly with warm soapy water; it did help to ease the sting. Faith then applied liberal layers of white ointment.
    â€œIt’s costing us one tube of ointment every time we cover your skinny behind,” she said, lathering it on.
    Neil hung his head. Even in pain, there was no peace for him from this woman.
    The next day the town was abuzz with the news that Neil had met Yukon justice once again. A parade of well-wishers turned up at Victor’s house, and when he went uptown, everyone wanted to shake his hand—but no one offered to take him to lunch.
    Taffy was the first to congratulate him and the happiest. “What a good neighbour I have, the best there ever was.” He then invited Victor over to his house for the first time.
    Amongst the crowd of visitors was RCMP Constable Smithers, who’d been sent to arrest Victor for assault.
    â€œAssault with turps?” Wilfred scoffed, and he and Taffy tried to talk the officer out of it.
    The officer said, “Charges have been laid, so now it’s up to the magistrate to decide.”
    Faith went around the neighbourhood apologizing profusely for her husband’s thievery. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. He just won’t stop.”
    â€œDon’t you worry, dear, this has nothing to do with you,” Dot told her.
    â€œBut yes it does, Dot,” Faith said tearfully. “This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to face in my life.”
    To make amends, Faith hauled out a trunk of contraband that Neil had been storing and dumped it onto the boardwalk outside her house for all to pick through.
    â€œThere’s my damn garden shears,” Taffy said. “I wondered where the hell they’d walked off to.”
    â€œAnd look here,” said Wilfred. “If it isn’t my brace and bit.”
    The rest of the street went through the pile, and people took what was theirs. Some even took what wasn’t theirs in compensation for something they’d lost.
    When his court day arrived, Neil still couldn’t sit comfortably on his turpentine burn and squirmed in his place. Faith sat behind him wiping the tears from her eyes with a pink handkerchief. Neil turned and said, “Don’t sob so loudly.”
    â€œShut up,” Faith snapped back.
    The courtroom was packed to capacity. It was a typical day: a few assaults, one drunk and disorderly and a few break and enters.
    When it came Neil’s turn to state his case, he hummed and stuttered for so long that he was hardly understood. He had brought the pastor from his church to speak for him, but even the pastor had a difficult time finding enough positive things to say about Neil. The pastor’s unenthusiastic presentation did more harm than good. Neil was a thief through and through, and nothing was going to change that, not even religion.
    Magistrate Arthur Goodman looked exasperated. O’Neill was back in his court, accused of almost exactly the same thing as he had been after Wilfred Durant put gunpowder in his firewood.
    â€œI’m not happy with you, Mr. O’Neill, not happy at all,” Arthur said as he looked over O’Neill’s papers. “Caught stealing again, and Mr. Caldararu took matters into his own hands to punish you. I see here by the report that your buttocks are somewhat the worse for wear.”
    There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom, but after one sharp glance from Arthur, everything went silent again.
    â€œThis is becoming a habit, a bad habit. I’m fining you a hundred dollars for thievery, and when your