Talking at the Woodpile by David Thompson Page A

burned butt is up to it, you can go spend thirty days on the RCMP woodpile cutting cordwood.”
    Neil shook his head in disagreement. He hated the woodpile. Everyone in town could see you working on it, and that was embarrassing. He turned and whined to Faith, “I’ve been punished enough. This isn’t fair.”
    Faith ignored him, but she couldn’t conceal her look of disgust.
    â€œAs for you, Mr. Victor Caldararu, you are to spend thirty days in the RCMP jail for common assault.”
    Everyone in the courtroom sat in silence, holding their breath, waiting for the gavel to come crashing down and the word “suspended” to roar out for all to hear. But it never came. Magistrate Goodman stood, turned and walked through the door at the back, with the court clerk following quickly behind him. The room sat in stunned silence. The drama had not played out as they had expected.
    â€œThose gypsies, always causing trouble,” the clerk said as he helped Arthur off with his robe.
    â€œGypsy or anyone else has nothing to do with it,” Arthur said. “I’m tired of people taking the law into their own hands. Let this be a lesson to all of them.”
    Victor was handcuffed by the officer and led away to jail. Faith stopped him in the hall and said, “Don’t worry, I will take care of your place.”
    Later that day Wilfred and William made sure Victor’s house was closed up. They met Neil coming down the boardwalk and warned him, “If we see you even come near Victor’s house, you will get a beating so you can’t walk. We mean it.”
    Neil looked away and didn’t say anything.
    That night Faith could be heard giving Neil the dressing-down of his life. In the morning he was still asleep on the old couch on the front porch. People laughed out loud as they wished him good morning on their way to work. Neil pretended not to hear them, and as soon as Faith unlocked the door, he picked up his blanket and ran inside to the warmth of the kitchen.
    Faith baked and cooked for Victor every day he was in jail. She also made enough food for the young RCMP officers tending the cells, who couldn’t hide their pleasure at getting decent cooking. They were not allowed to marry until they completed five years of service, and were on their own as far as housekeeping went.
    â€œIf I have to eat one more of Sergeant Selnes’s moose pot pies, I think I will desert,” Constable Smithers told Faith as he took a second helping. Dipping slices of thick rye bread into a plate of steaming pork and beans, he dryly added, “I will be sorry when Victor’s time is up.” He asked Victor, “Could you do something else, like throw a rock through a store window or something?”
    â€œNo, no,” Victor said, waving his index finger in the air. “Once I go, I’m gone and never come back.” He seemed to lose his appetite and put down his plate. Quietly he trudged back to his cell, pulled the door closed behind him, lay down on the bunk and drew the blanket over his head.
    â€œYou hardly ate anything again,” Faith shouted so Victor could hear, but he didn’t respond. She gathered up the dishes and left.
    After thirty days the lights came back on in Victor’s place, and the neighbours dropped by to see if he needed anything. Faith called on Wilfred, and together they went over to see how Victor was.
    â€œI think he might need some cheering up,” she said.
    There was no response to the knock on the door, so they let themselves in. Victor stood by the kitchen table, where a Bible lay open. A grey blanket was draped over his shoulders, and he held a small, worn book in one hand. The other clutched the folds of the blanket to his chest.
    He put up his hand to silence them. “Listen to this. Tell me if Shakespeare is true,” he said. In his strong accent he read slowly, “Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs,