Poplar Lake

by Ron Thompson

  I heard a train whistle in the distance, a plane passing above, swallows twittering.

  I aimed. I focused my mind. I saw, I heard the can. The round made a satisfying thwak when it struck. The can jumped and tumbled to the ground.

  Dad gave out a “Hah!” from behind. He knelt next to me and continued softly. “That’s what it takes, Jake. Preparation. Focus. This is no different than anything else you’ll ever do.”

  Some days we would go through a box of shells, me doing all the shooting, Dad talking about focus.

  This day we set up our tins against the cliff and walked back to the firing line. “Been wondering,” he said on the way. “Didyou quit your job back there in London? Or did you take some kind of leave?”

  “I quit.”

  He didn’t say anything. We got to the line and turned.

  “Genny was going to Africa. She has to go.”

  “Ah.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I should too but . . .”

  I trailed off and we stood for a moment. He glanced up at the sky. It was clear. No wind. A perfect day. He looked me in the eye. “You know what you need to do.” He handed me the rifle.

  I faced the line of targets and chambered a round. They were mostly small cans, but there was one big one, a forty-eight ouncer. Easy pickings. I wondered if I should leave it for him. He wasn’t getting any younger, his eyes weren’t what they were, his hands not as steady; yet I was tempted to take it. It was fun to see the big ones tumble. I hesitated. He must have sensed my indecision.

  “You’ve got to choose what you want, Jake. Then you go for it. And when you do, be sure you go all in.”

  I still hesitated but didn’t look back. Fire discipline was too deeply ingrained.

  “Just decide what you want and do it. Focus on the target, the one you choose. You decide, then you focus. Focus on it.”

  “I might take the wrong one.”

  “Decide, Jake. It’s your decision. Pick what you really want and make it yours.”

  I decided to leave the big one for him. I took my stance and aimed, breathed, looked to see, listened to hear, focused . . . lightly pressed the trigger . . . partly exhaled . . . squeezed— The can twirled in the air and fell to the ground.

  “That’s how you take a target! Pick the one you want and chase it to the ground.” He looked at me as if he expected a response. “Any target. Remember that, Jake. Just do it justice. You have one shot so make it count. You got that? I think you do. Jeepers, boy, that was a darn heck of a shot!”

  It was a direct hit, no question, but he was going on about it longer than it warranted. Sometimes I wondered about Dad.

  * * *

  In the middle of the afternoon Simon shooed us all from the kitchen and closed the pocket doors separating it from the dining room. Genny stood behind him and waved to me like the queen in her car. As soon as the doors slid shut the sounds of fun began behind them.

  In the living room, Dad and I quaffed rye and coke and watched Newsworld. There were brief reports on the intifada and the breakup of the Soviet Union, the tensions in Yugoslavia, the situation in Kuwait, another necklacing in South Africa. Then there was a lengthy panel discussion on the latest constitutional squabble in Canada.

  My mother pretended to watch but fidgeted miserably, oneear cocked to the kitchen, where hellions were smashing her life’s accumulation of Corning Ware. She flinched at every clang andclash, recognizing the resonant note of every casserole dish struck by a spoon, every mixing bowl carelessly placed in the sink. Occasionally Simon appeared in the doorway to ask a question.

  “Mom, do you have a spakelwidgel?” She jumped up and moved towards the gap. “Yes, dear, let me—”

  “No, no, just tell me where it is.” He blocked her way and told her to just sit back and relax; but even I could see that sitting back did not relax her in the least.

  When the phone rang, she was quick, but I beat her to it. It was Victor, who was supposed to come for supper but wasn’t going to make it; he was working on a deal and had to stay late.

  “What are you guys doing later?” A movie, I told him, and gave him the details.

  “I’ll meet you there if I finish up here in time. And tomorrow night, you and me’ll do the bar. We’re going to tie one on before you leave. Speaking of which, what time’s the dweeb leaving in the morning? Let me talk to him.”

  Simon was driving back to Calgary the next day; he had to get back to his job. He filled Victor in on the details and wentback to Genny in the kitchen. Mom sulked in the living room, dying to see what was going on behind those doors. Apparently plenty, because promptly at six our hosts called us to the table and served us pan-seared tuna with mango salsa, baby greens with pine nuts, and rice and beans with plenty of cilantro.

  “Real good,” Dad said. This was his highest culinary com pliment.

  “Now Stan, ease up there,” Mom said. “You know what you’re like with beans. Remember Mexico.”

  “This is great,” I said.

  Mom allowed that it was all very tasty, although the sauce on the fish was a bit spicy. She kept glancing towards the kitchen, anticipating Rome sacked by the Goths.

  For dessert, there was a home-made saskatoon-peach flanwith frozen yogurt.

  “Was Safeways out of ice cream?” Mom asked.

  “This is real good!” Dad said. The superlatives were flying tonight.

  “Mmm,” I agreed.

  “Where’d you get the saskatoons?” Mom asked.

  “Sources,” Simon said, and winked at Genny. “We have sources. Genny made the pastry. It’s shortcrust.”

  “Mmm,” Mom went. It might have been a moan.

  “Well, that was a dandy meal, all right!” Dad pronounced at the end. When we carried our dishes into the kitchen, the sink was empty and the counters were clear, save for a tidy stack of plates from the main course. Simon and Genny had done the cleanup as they cooked. Mom stopped short in the doorway for the briefest of moments then moved purposefully towards the sink before Simon cut her off.

  “We’ll do the dishes, Mom.”

  “I’ll wash,” Genny said.

  Washing dishes was a ritual in the house of Edie and Stan, a place where a dishwasher had never been a serious option. “That’s me!” Mom might have said in happier times. But now she faked a smile of Oh, you young people! “Really, I can—”

  “No, Mom. Let us do it.”

  “Edie,” Dad said. “Just sit down. Things look like they’re under control here.”

  She gave him a purse-lipped smile.

  As Genny washed and the menfolk dried, Mom refused to sit, but hovered, watching, obviously concerned that Mongol hordes with dung on their boots were loose in her kitchen. “Careful with that, dear, that was a wedding present . . . Where did you put my grater? I hope I can find everything when you all leave.”

  The empress of the kitchen had been deposed, even I could see that. But by the time we went out she was back to her regular self. “Drive carefully, now . . . and don’t stay out too late,” she told us as we went out the door. “Do you want to take something to eat?”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was only at the drive-in gate that Genny realized we were in for a double bill. The first movie was the final Back to the Future, the second was the third Indiana Jones. Even from the back of Simon’s car I heard her sigh.

  What had she expected? A Kurosawa retrospective was never going to happen in Poplar Lake. Yet earlier that day, when Simon suggested the drive-in, she had gone all devil-may-care and said, “Why not? I’ve never been to a drive-in before!”

  I had wondered then why she was cutting him slack. If I had suggested a random movie, she would have given me the third degree. Was it at Cannes? Venice? Who’s the director? Her tastes were definitely art house: film, not movie.

  “No subtitles for
you tonight,” I said now to rib her.

  “Plenty of credits for you, though.” Simon craned around. “You still read all the credits?” “Well—”

  “Until the lights come on and no one’s left,” Genny snorted.

  They both laughed, which smarted. When the credits rolled she always wanted to talk about the movie. It was distracting.

  “You’ve really never been to a drive-in?” I asked her spitefully.

  Simon manoeuvred close to a speaker pole and parked. We looked up through the windshield at the screen. A slide show was running local ads. “Coming Soon!” proclaimed one. “Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2.”

  “Why is it,” Genny asked, “that the best minds in Hollywood can only come up with a sequel?”

  I leaned into the gap between the seats. “What’s wrong with a sequel?”

  “Well it’s not new. The original concept might have had artistic merit, broadly speaking, but a sequel is just . . . derivative.”

  “Money money money,” Simon said.

  “But what’s wrong with that?” I asked Genny. “What’s wrong with being derivative?”

  “It’s a sell out. The studios are milking someone’s initial creativity for commercial gain. Of all the stories that could be told, they’ve gone with a safe formula that has nothing new, just to make money. They take no risks at all. But the people who make it . . . the writers and directors, the artists—is a sequel really the best they can do?”

  “Star Wars had sequels. You liked Star Wars.”

  “Yes. I was a child.”

  “Maybe the writer or director isn’t finished with the characters. Maybe the characters have more to say, something fundamental, you know, something truthful about the human condition.”

  I thought that was pretty good, but Genny shot me a pitying look. “Oh come on, baby. Darth Vader? Marty McFly? Bah!”

  “Bah humbug!” Simon said, which made her laugh. Yes, she was definitely cutting him slack. He got out to hook the speakeronto his window then rummaged in the trunk. I heard cardboard ripping, the clink of glass. He opened the back door and slipped some bottles under his seat. “Does anyone want popcorn?”

  “After that feast you just served up? Maybe at intermission. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

  Simon grinned. “Live and grow or wither and die. It’s a simple choice. Let’s stretch our legs.”

  The three of us walked to the concession stand at the back of the lot, behind which were the foul-smelling washrooms. Genny went into the Ladies’ while Simon and I went in the bushes out behind.

  She came out grimacing. “Did you go inside the Men’s?” she asked.

  “No. We just hung out here. Waiting for you.”

  “That’s nice.” She took my arm.

  The trailers were on the screen when we got back to the car. Simon slipped into his seat and looked back at me. “Do the honours, will you, Rufus?”

  I grabbed a bottle from under his seat. “What is this stuff?” “It’s a new brand. Started up last year. Carling was closing its brewery in Saskatoon, and the employees got together and bought it to save their jobs. It tastes just like the old brew, but people figure it’s us now, not some eastern bastard. No offense, missy,” he told Genny in a cowboy twang. “That’s how we talk out here.”

  I popped the cap off and handed him the bottle.

  “It’s like a co-op?” Genny asked, leaning into the middle, suddenly interested. For a moment she was profiled against thescreen, blocking the promo for The Naked Gun. I craned to see it. Word was they were making a sequel.

  “Kind of,” Simon replied.

  “Can I try one?”

  “Rufus, the lady would like a barley sandwich.” I handed her a bottle and she tilted it up and took a tentative sip. Now that’s a shocker, I thought. In three years, I had never seen her sniff a beer except in distaste. Now she was drinking one, from the bottle, in a car, at a drive-in. “Truly a night of firsts,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” She looked around, knowing exactly what I was talking about. “You think I’m a goody twoshoes?”

  We all laughed, me because she was a goody two-shoes, a serious woman of principle who could not understand the common frivolities in which others revelled.

  The first movie began. It was a nice night, the company was good, and the plot for Back to the Future III was impossible to follow. We had all seen the original movie, but none of us had seen the follow-on. We scoffed and wisecracked and Simon and I finished a couple of beers while Genny sipped from her first. Two hours later, as the credits rolled, I belched into my fist louder than I’d intended.

  Genny glanced over her shoulder.

  “Pardon,” I said.

  “Rufus! Shame on you. Were you dragged up?” Simon looked at me reproachfully then belched louder than I had. “Whoa. I guess we both were.”

  Genny never thought it funny when I did that, but tonight she found Simon hilarious.

  “Go ahead, Genny,” Simon said. “Your turn.”

  “No! I can’t do that.”

  “Simon says.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You had a beer.”

  “Yes, but I can’t. I mean, I can’t burp. I don’t know how. Really.”

  I’d never thought about it before, but she never burped. She had a brother, Garnet, who could have taught her. At least she said she had a brother—in fact we’d had a visitor in England who’d purported to be him. And yet she didn’t burp! It wasn’t natural.

  The credits ended and we got out to stretch our legs. At the concession stand Genny joined the lineup for the Ladies’ while Simon and I walked towards the Men’s then dodged out back again. “I’ll get some popcorn,” Simon said to me when Genny came out. “Can you stow our empties and restock under the seat?”

  Genny and I walked back to the car. “Does beer make you feel bloated?” she asked, tapping her chest. “I feel full, right up to here.”

  “You need to clear that. Your belch reflex is underdeveloped.”

  “Ah, you’re a doctor of belchology now. I should have known. You’re something of a specialist.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not it. I just have a normal belch reflex.”

  A loud gurgle escaped her esophagus. She glanced around and covered her mouth with her fingers.

  When we reached the car she got in while I gathered our empties and put them in the trunk. I was leaning in, working carefully so as not to clink, when I was grabbed roughly from behind and shoved forward. I landed bent over the trunk’s brim, my chest pressed into its floor. A hand grappled at the back of my jeans,found the waistband of my underwear, and tugged. I gasp-grunted “OOOMPH” into the carpet of the trunk. Then whoever it was let me go, and I twisted around, ready to launch a kick.

  “Hey, Buttster!”

  “Victor . . . you asshole.”

  “Hey! You remember Tammy?”

  Standing a few steps behind him was Tammy Sheptytski, the girl I had adored at school.

  It is difficult to meet the former love of your life at the best of times; but after receiving a third degree wedgie, I was at a loss for words.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling shyly, as she had years before in dance class.

  “Hello.” My voice was hoarse.

  The silence which followed was broken by a window-rattling burp from inside the car. At last, Genny had discovered her belch reflex. Tammy looked uncertainly over my shoulder in the direction of the noise. “That’s Genny,” I said, indicating with my thumb. Then, feeling I had to explain, I added, “She’s from Nova Scotia.”

  Tammy’s eyes came back to me. “It’s good to see you.” “It’s good to see you too.”

  Victor slipped an arm around her waist. “Sorry we got here late. What’d we miss?”

  “I didn’t know you were in
town,” I said.

  “I’m working at a law firm here for the summer.” She drew away from Victor to shake my hand. “I’m staying out at the farm.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “Not yet. I’m going into my last year at UBC.” After high school she had attended university in Edmonton. She had told me then she needed to get far away from Poplar Lake.

  Another belch sounded from the inside of the car. “Whoa!” Victor stabbed his thumb in that direction. “What’s with little Miss Krakatoa?”

  “Excuse me,” Genny’s muffled voice said politely to nobody. The door swung open and she got out and burped into the night. Then she saw that I was not alone. “Oh!” Her fingertips went to her mouth, although the moment for that was clearly past. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Genny, this is Tammy. We went to school together.”

  “Buster, I didn’t even know you knew Tammy till she mentioned it tonight.”

  “Very nice to meet you,” Genny said, shaking Tammy’s hand.

  “I hear you’re from the Nova Scotia.” Genny looked surprised. “Yes. Why?” “You know,” Victor said, “this is kind of crazy. I never realized this before . . .” “What?” I asked.

  “Genny and Tammy kind of look alike.” Dark hair, dark complexion, perfect skin, high cheeks bordering on Asiatic, intense blue eyes; they had similar builds, and they were about the same height.

  “Don’t you see it?”

  Genny and Tammy were looking uncertainly at each other. “Naw. I don’t think so,” I said, breezy as I could. “Say, where’s Simon, anyway?”

  At the sound of my voice, they both looked at me. “Oh here he comes. Simon! Simon, over here! We’re over here!” I waved, but he was already coming towards us.

  Victor introduced Tammy to Simon then told him, “You should have seen the look on Buster’s face! I got him with a gotch pull and a half!”

  I was about to say something when the lights on the power poles dimmed and the screen lit up. “Why don’t you get in with us?” Simon suggested, and everyone piled into the car while I finished what I had started in the trunk, adjusting my underwear (at last!) in the process. I slid into the back seat next to Tammy, who had taken the middle.