Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

The only thing missing was motive. The three nutcases with guns were screwed-up geeks lost in a stew
of paranoia, role-playing games, military dreams and sexual rejection. They were a slam-dunk. With me,
the case seemed to revolve around my relationship with Cheryl, about the fight we had that morning and
reasons why I might want her dead. The best police minds couldn't engineer a reason no matter how
soap-operatic their thinking.
On my side, I refused to make my life with Cheryl anybody's business but my own. I didn't mention our
marriage because it was sacred; I wasn't going to let the massacre make it profane. I refused to let it be
used as some kind of plot twist in the final five minutes of an episode of Perry Mason. So I said nothing,
only that Cheryl wanted to talk about feelings, and I didn't. As simple as that. Which is basically what it
was.
* * *
Okay, I'm not lying here, but I'm not disclosing everything. Truth is, Cheryl had just found out she was
pregnant. That was what we'd been discussing at her locker. I was so taken aback by the news that I
said something stupid, I forget what, and then I told her I had to prepare equipment for a Junior A team.
Me - a father - and all I can say is "I have to get stuff ready for the Junior A team."
Even the idea of the baby got lost in the ordeal of the first two weeks. It wasn't until a month later, while
I was waiting for a bus in New Brunswick, the temperature well below zero, that the baby caught up to
me. I had to go behind a cedar hedge to cry. My nose began to bleed from the dry air, and the blood
brought even more . . . Well, you get the picture.
As a result of the baby, I began doing what I used to do, wondering which woman was going to be my
wife - except that now I looked at every child I saw and wondered if he or she was supposed to be
mine. And then for a while I couldn't be near kids at all, and I got jobs up the coast in logging camps,
construction and surveying.
And now? And now I guess I'll continue writing about the aftermath of the massacre. My many friends
from Youth Alive! set the tone, gleefully providing police with a McCarthy-era dossier on Cheryl and me
- a diary of the time we spent together after we returned from Las Vegas. The entries describe everything
but the sex: where the cars were parked; what rooms were used and which lights went on and off at what
time; the state of our clothing and hair before and after; the expressions on our faces - most often
variations on the theme of "satisfied."
News that the police had taken me away from the parking lot caused rumors to quickly spread. By
evening our house had been egged and paint-bombed. The police had cordoned it off, and advised us
that it would probably be easier and safer if I spent the night at the station and Mom found a hotel or
motel room.
Kent flew in from Edmonton. He was in his second year at the University of Alberta, working toward a
CPA degree. Having Dad in the hospital was a blessing, as I at least didn't have to worry about him
selling me further down the river. He and Mom, in their last act of married unity, synchronized their
stories about the fractured knee, and then called it quits. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for
that little chat.
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