by Ron Thompson
“You look familiar. You got a brother?” I laughed. “I have too many brothers.” “Guy named Victor?”
“Yeah!” I introduced myself, and we shook hands.
“I’m Willie. Willie Parnell. Victor’s done some work for us.” He took his glasses off again to wipe his streaming eye.
“Nice to meet you, Willie.” We sat for a moment in contemplative silence. “Say . . . this is a long shot, but would you be any relation to Charlie Parnell? Chief Little Trickster?”
“What makes you say that?” When he laughed, his wandering eye seemed to do a neat figure eight.
I asked him how things were out on the reserve. These days, he said, everything was about economic development. They had big plans, and he told me about them. “So things are coming along, eh? Slow but sure.” He caught me looking at his hands and held them up for me to see. On each of his knuckles, there was a crude tattoo. When he made a fist, the fingers of one hand read LOVE, those of the other HATE.
“You know where you get souvenirs like these?” I knew where you got them. You got them in prison. “I was a pretty wild kid, back in the day. I wanted to get away from the reserve real bad. When I finally did, I was gone along time. The city wasn’t good for me, eh? I got into a lot of trouble. But things turned around when I came back here.” His one steady eye appraised me for a moment then he glanced in the direction Genny had gone. “You want to know what it was that turned it around?” He rubbed a fist in his palm like you would polish an apple then held it up for me to read. “Corny, eh? But it’s the truth.”
He looked down the mall again and I followed his gaze. A copper-haired woman was coming our way with her arms full of shopping bags. “Speak of the devil, eh? Nice talking with you.” He got to his feet.
“Nice to meet you, Willie.” We shook hands again. “Good luck with those plans of yours.”
“Luck,” he said, “has nothing to do with it.” He went to take the bags from his wife.
* * *
Victor called late that afternoon. “Tell Mom I won’t make it for supper. I’m trying to close a deal tonight. It’s gonna be an allnighter.” He sounded cheerful at the prospect. “Hey, we’ll do the bar tomorrow. For sure. That’s your last night, right?”
It was. Our stay in Poplar Lake was coming to a close. Africa beckoned.
When I got off the phone I shuddered at the thought that the deal he wanted to close might be with Tammy Sheptytski. Then I felt ashamed. If Victor was closing with Tammy it was no business of mine.
* * *
That night I walked in on Genny standing in front of the mirror in our room. She had my old bath robe on and cinched it tightly when she saw me. She grabbed her hairbrush and began raking it through her hair.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked
“Brushing my hair, silly.”
“Before that.”
“Oh. I was just trying on some of the clothes I bought.”
“What did you get?”
“Some blouses and skirts. And some underwear.”
“Ooo, some noice knickers, innit?” I said in my play-Cockney voice. “Give us a peek, luv.” I reached for the housecoat but she pulled away.
“I’m not sure now that I’m going to keep them.”
“Saucy ones, then! Oi? Oi?”
She folded her arms across her chest as if she were cold and looked at me uncertainly. I thought she was blushing. Then her eyes narrowed, and a sly smile spread across her face. She held my eye and undid the belt of the robe and let it slip open. My pulse quickened as she rolled one shoulder, shrugged it free, and let the robe drop to the floor, revealing—
Old lady underwear.
The music in my head, something by Marvin Gaye, screeched to a stop. I let out a gasp.
She was enveloped from crotch to belly, indeed well past her navel, in a swath of flesh-coloured cloth. It ended not with an elastic waistband—for her waist was far to the south. No, this monstrous garment, call it “panties” if you must, ended just short of her rib cage. And if these were, truly, panties, they were nothing like her usual low-rise hip-huggers. If they aspired to hug anything it was her armpits. These passion killers, these saggy monstrosities, were something worn by nuns and invented by Jesuits to encourage celibacy.
If you have seen your beloved bedecked in outsized bloomers, perhaps you have seen everything and it is time to die. But there was more, up in the northern mid-latitudes: something like two spinnakers sewn together, a wretched harness that could only be described as utilitarian. Designed for a woman, in theory—if sumo wrestling had a women’s division. Her bosom was in there somewhere, but there was no evidence of it, certainly no hint of cleavage, for its two sturdy cups (they looked to be spot-welded to industrial-strength straps) ended just shy of her clavicle. Perhaps this thing was Red Army surplus, made for lady paratroopers, an emergency double chute that could be deployed with some mid-air manoeuvring. The French could make undies for a whole platoon of their lady paratroopers from the cloth of one such garment.
Genny turned slowly, swaying, one knee bent like a Vegas showgirl. The room was oppressively quiet. She watched my face and began to snicker. Then she bent double and finally collapsed onto the bed, giggling and holding her sides.
“You should see the look on your face!” she gurgled.
* * *
“I might have gone a bit overboard,” she admitted. “Your mom was very helpful. We were hitting it off so well . . .”
We were talking, Genny said, and we even had a few laughs. I told her how women get hassled in Africa. She asked about the climate and found some loose cotton blouses that she said would be perfect. I tried them on. They’re not really my style, I said. Honey, she said, you’ll have to change your style a bit, you’re going to Africa. Well, she was right. We moved on to skirts and dresses. They were all cotton, and looser than what I normally wear. At least these will be cool, I said, and they definitely won’t draw the same attention. No, Edie said after a moment, you don’t want that. We went to work and found a couple of dresses and a skirt. Then she turns to me, all sunshine and light, and says, you’ll need some comfortable underclothes too, dear, won’t you? Something sensible?
You told me Edie could sell, Genny said. And did she ever. She turned it on like a tap. Oh, that Edie, she’s special. What a talent she has. Just when I thought I was making progress, she goes and does another number on me—and I didn’t even see it coming.
CHAPTER 18
Iawoke in the night to the sound of a distant train, its horn blaring relentlessly as it neared the town. Locally, there had been noise complaints for years, but there had also been many incidents—near misses, tragic collisions—and so the railway never diverged from its operating protocol. Its engineers announced themselves vigorously as they approached and passed through town. Some had honed it to a musical performance, expertly feathering their horns to modulate tone and volume and play a little tune.
Trains rolled through Poplar Lake at all hours, endless chains of boxcars linked to chemical tankers, to hoppers of grain and potash on their way to the world, to flatcars stacked with cars andtrucks, tractors and combines, and pipe for the oilfields. Day and night they rumbled through, but those that moved at night delivered no exuberant blasts or playful tunes. At night, the red-eyed fiends in their churning locomotives announced their approach with a straight-up, droning blare, a piercing howl to wake the dead and damned and mortals in their beds. Danger, the clarion called, unceasing, like an infant’s wail. Then without warning the demon would relent, and the din would fade into the night; seconds would pass as he teased with blessed silence . . . then pressed the horn again.
This train’s locomotive entered town, still blaring, the train rumbling unstoppably behind. Two minutes, three, and the big diesel was through town and coursing through the inky blackness of the countryside, its horn sounding infrequent
ly now and fading in the distance. Yet its entourage still flowed through Poplar Lake. Now there was just the oddly peaceful rumble of the cars, the repetitive kerclank-kerclank-kerclank of wheel on rail. Somewhere in the downtown core a bell clanged at a controlled crossing. Then it fell silent, the clank and rumble faded to a steady hum that blended with that of the now-distant locomotive. The hum faded, faded, was gone.
A breeze rustled leaves outside my window. The house was quiet, and I lay awake, my mind churning over events of the past, grappling with my doubts and guilt. I sat up and looked around the room. Genny slept naked beside me. Our visit was drawing to a close. We would leave Poplar Lake in another day. But would I ever leave my ghosts behind? Was it the past that tormented me, or was it something about me, about my demonstrable failure as a human being?
My thoughts returned to Clinton Sturgis.
* * *
In the summer after Grade Ten, Clinton and I both had jobs, he at Mr Hardcastle’s office, me at Allan Kindersley’s fishing supply shop next to Frocks ’n Frills. My mother had heard he was looking for help, and her recommendation was gold with the Kindersleys.
I received deliveries, stocked shelves, did inventory. Mr Kindersley taught me about lures, and one morning when it was slow he took me out behind the store and showed me how to cast. He rigged a rod with a lead weight and no hook and demonstrated a few times, then let me try. On my first cast I put a star-shaped chip in his windshield, which he was kind about. “Don’t mention it to Rose or your mother,” he whispered and suggested I practice in the park till I had it down.
There was rhythm to it that was soothing—the opening of the bail, the little backward snap of the rod and the cast, the simultaneous release of line, the long arc of flight, the impact, andthe reeling in, the mechanical efficiency of the spool. There was purity in a clean lob, and satisfaction in the reeling in to do it all again. It didn’t matter about the fish. It didn’t require being on alake or river. I was drawn to the activity like a trout to a fly.
Most days at noon, Clinton and I met for lunch. We would go to the park and throw a football or lay on the grass in the shade. Sometimes two of the Ice Dogs who worked with him at Mr Hardcastle’s ate with us. They weren’t bad guys. We would play two-on-two Aerial, or I would cast while they caught for Clinton. He worked more hours than me, and once in a while he hung out with the Dogs after work, but most of the time the two of us ended up at his place, and when his mother was away we mixed ourselves screwdrivers and lounged on the living room floor and listened to music. We argued over different bands, whether they were selling out or had already. We read Dear Penthouse letters out loud and argued whether they were real or made up by staffers. At first, when we tippled, we topped his mother’s bottles up with water; later Victor agreed to pull us our own booze from the liquor store, for a commission that kept him in smokes.
After a couple of screwdrivers we might pay handball, or bitch slap best-of-seven. Sometimes we had three or four screwdrivers and sprawled on the carpet, staring at the ceiling and talking about whatever came into our heads. Once in a while the Dogs from work came over, and Clinton was different then, part of a group of which I was not a member; although perhaps that was me, not him, because Clinton was Clinton—he never turned me away, nor turned away himself. Sometimes the Dogs brought dope, and we would go to the park or the school grounds to smoke it. It gave me an eerie, disconnected feeling, and I had enough of that in my life already, so eventually I declined my toke or just went home. “It’s off-season, man,” one of the Dogs said, misunderstanding my reticence.
When Mrs Sturgis was home the Dogs never visited, and Clinton and I would go to his room or the basement, or out in the yard or the street or to my house. Or we would drive around town. We both had our licences by then, and we cruised aimlessly from one end of Main to the other, up First, down Second, onto Third, then back along Temperance to the tracks. I drove one of our cars, or Clinton drove his mother’s when she was home. Sometimes we both drove and dragged each other. We had rules: an empty highway, nobody around. We aborted if anyone muddled into our path, and we never dragged in town—Poplar Lake was full of Magoos. Behind the wheel, Clinton had a sense of mischief not normally obvious in him. He would burn donuts around the town’s cenotaph, or drive the length of a street in reverse. He would stop dead centre on the tracks and watch the lights of a train approach until I got nervous—sometimes he would turn off the engine to goad me even more. “That would make a mess, you think?” he’d grin. He would study the train thoughtfully, as if gauging a pass defense or the path of a blitzing linebacker, but he always moved off in plenty of time. Other times, just for the fun of it, he would tail a random car around town.
That summer we had his mother’s car a lot, because she was home more; and she was seeing someone, a salesman who had recently transferred into town from out of province. Walt was his name. She would go out with him in the evening, or for dinner. He stayed over a few times, Clinton told me in a neutral voice. It had been awkward.
* * *
More than anything, Claire Sturgis liked to spend time with her son, yet she wasn’t the smothering, over-possessive type of mom. She was pleased when he went out, and she seemed fond of me. Whenever I came over, she was content to read, watch TV, or do some knitting. Sometimes she would do the paperwork she had no time to do on the road.
One night after supper I walked into their backyard to findher sitting on the porch stairs, leaning into a pocket book. She had been away all week and must have just returned that afternoon. She looked, as always, like a magazine model: hair styled, made-up, dressed smartly in chino capris and a v-neck blouse, a pendant on a thin gold chain around her neck. She glanced up and smiled when she heard me at the gate. “Hi, sweetie. How’ve you been?”
“Good. How have you been?”
She laughed. “I’m just fine. Clinton’s not home yet. He’s still at Mr Hardcastle’s. Walt’s going to pick him up and drive him home.”
“Okay. I’ll see him later.”
“Just a minute. I’ve got something that belongs to you.” As she leaned to get something from a lower step I watched her pendant dangle and was suddenly gazing down her blouse at her breasts where they nestled in a cream lace bra. I froze in admiration, unable to look away, and she fumbled what she was reaching for and reached lower, giving me an even better view. Then she had it, looked up, and caught me looking. She straightened quickly, and a flush came to her cheeks. Her eyes fell frommy face, my own fell to the ground, where I noticed that the nails of her bare toes were painted red. An awkward moment passed then she was on her feet, all business. “This is yours, I think. Clinton had it out to give back. I was reading it before you showed up. I never read the book.”
It was A Tale of Two Cities, the Classics Illustrated edition, which Clinton had borrowed to read again.
“Thanks.”
“It’s a good story.”
“Yes.” I turned to go, my face burning. “I’m . . .”
“It’s all right, honey,” she said, her voice a soothing murmur. “I’ll tell Clinton you were here.”
* * *
“I hate that fucking train,” Clinton said. “Why do they have to do that when they come through town?”
The blare of the horn had interrupted his thinking. He and I were sprawled on the living room carpet, philosophizing. “If you could kill Hitler,” he continued, “before he started the war and killed millions, would you do it?”
“Of course.”
“You’d be a murderer.”
“You’d kill a murderer to save his victims.”
“And they’d kill you for killing someone. How would they know he was a crackpot before he proved it?”
“You’d have to sacrifice yourself,” I said. “Like Sydney Cartonin A Tale of Two Cities. ‘A far, far better thing,’ and all that.”
“But Sydney Carton did it for
a girl. And he didn’t kill anyone but himself. He sacrificed himself to save someone.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Same with killing Hitler.”
“I dunno. It’s not the same, is it? Saving versus preventing. If you could kill a monster . . . If you could undo all the evil in the world, you’re preventing harm. Would you do it?”
“For a girl?”
“Just in general.”
“And you die?”
“Yeah, you die. But you take all the evil in the world with you.”
“Well, yeah. Of course.”
“Yeah, I’d do it too. But then we’d be dead.”
“Then pour me another. It can’t hurt if we’re dead.” Clinton roused himself to sit up and grab the bottle. He reached over to where I lay with my arm extended and carefully poured into my glass then saw to his own.
“But no one did it,” he said, lying back down. We were out of orange juice.
I sat up to drink. “Did what?”
“Killed Hitler.”
“He shot himself.”
“So he got away with it.”
The room was spinning but I saw a flaw in his argument.“Hardly. He was dead.”
“So were a gazillion Jews. By then it was too late for them. All you’ve got then is vengeance.” “No, you can have justice.”
“Justice is vengeance.”
“It’s not. Justice isn’t personal. Vengeance is. Like The Count of Monte Cristo . . .”
“Well, vengeance would feel better.” I belched. “Now I feel better.” “Pig.”
“Pig talking.”
“But what if you were Hitler? Or knew you could become Hitler?”
“Well, you’d make sure you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Become Hitler. Like, you’d leave Poland alone, to start with.”
“What if you couldn’t?”
“Then you’d off yourself. It’s the honourable thing to do.”
“But you’re Hitler.”
