The Higher the Monkey Climbs

by Bruce Geddes

  “I was going to do some grocery shopping. We’re out of everything, of course.”

  “We could find a place up the peninsula.”

  “So far away?”

  “We could go closer. Prince Edward County. Or Niagara-on-the-Lake. Lydia told me about a special at the Little Inn in Bayfield.”

  “When would you want to leave?”

  “Tonight. We’ll leave at four, whenever Sagipa gets home from school.”

  “Cuxi was supposed to work with Manolo this weekend,” she said.

  I leaned back in my chair and chewed a bit of my inner lip, thinking: One battle at a time.

  “Well, that’s okay. Just the two of us can go and the kid can stay on his own. He’s old enough.”

  20

  We were out of the city before the worst of rush hour, driving in our rented silver machine past swollen rivers and barren brown ski hills, suburbs snugly protected by grey walls of soundproof concrete, a string of windowless factories, a gabled Victorian farm house converted into a charming B&B. We saw a high school football field, its bleachers dotted with loitering students, and a car dealership, flags waving over acres of Hondas offered on easy terms. There were more farms, black soil in clumped rows, crushed stalks from last year’s corn, last year’s sunflowers. And billboards, one advertising Job Opportunities in Saskatchewan, others promoting Duty Free Shopping, Amusement Parks, and Laser Eye Surgery. Although this was my third highway journey in a short time, I believed I was noticing more, rather than less. More details, things that had acquired surprising beauty from repeated viewings.

  “Look at all this space,” I said, gesturing with a sweep of my arm.

  But Inés, who had been oddly quiet for much of the trip, only nodded. I was beginning to feel a little like a chauffeur whose duties included providing entertaining chatter for the client.

  “Be nice to have so much space, wouldn’t it?” I said.

  “Can we not talk here?” Inés said. “We’re right around where all those accidents happened.”

  “This is my third time driving this way in the last few months. I haven’t had any problems.”

  But Inés was partly right. The traffic was getting heavier, a shift change at the Saab plant perhaps, or a dead deer partially blocking a lane up ahead. But who cares? I was in a nice rhythm, approaching and passing slower cars and transport trucks like a marathoner with a strong finishing kick.

  In the distance I spotted a house, three storeys tall and white with a veranda that wrapped all the way around and a wide maple tree offering protective shade. A swing hung from the porch roof and as we approached, I noticed an enormous black dog chasing a ball thrown by a boy. At this time of day, with the sun weighing heavy over the quivering horizon, the white house shone pink and orange against the black brown earth.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to live somewhere like that?” I said.

  “In the middle of nowhere?”

  “Well, maybe not this rural, but somewhere more . . . ­spacious.”

  “I’m fine in the city,” she said. “Could you please just pay attention to your driving? I knew this was a bad idea.” Inés checked the buckle on her seat belt, her left arm gripped the armrest. She placed the other hand on the dash board, seeking ­reassurance from the encased airbag.

  “I like where we are, too,” I said. “There are some things that I wish I could change but they aren’t big things. I was just thinking out loud.”

  In fact, it was the first I’d thought of it, though the truth was that there had been some accumulation of grievances against life in Toronto. Like perhaps the January morning when I had waited in a perversely cold wind for two busses to pass before I was able to squeeze into one. Or the morning I spent gathering stripped chicken bones, browning potato peels, and coffee grounds from the back porch after a raccoon had once again burgled our sealed compost bin.

  In many ways, I felt defeated by Toronto. It wasn’t New York or London or Hong Kong, but it wasn’t easy for an average talent with diminishing ambitions. I was prepared to throw in the towel and find some other ring for life’s next round. My trips to Wanstead, though disturbing in ways I hadn’t counted on, had become a source of inspiration. They had given me something rare and valuable: the illusion of being necessary to someone, even if Tony’s needs didn’t fit with my own abilities to fill them. What I was thinking now, in that rented silver Escort, was that maybe there was somewhere I could go and find that same kind of satisfaction and sustain it for a while. The sudden appearance of Compañero Manolo was another spur. Maybe his arrival was a good thing. If it weren’t for the prospects of launching a new practice, buying a spacious new house, becoming involved in the community (a pillar!) then I could certainly draw some motivation from putting some distance between Manolo and my family and settling down in more secure territory, a definite advantage, even El Che would have to agree.

  Now, speeding along the highway in the direction of Wanstead, weaving around slower cars and transport trucks, the glare of oncoming headlights intensifying in the descending dusk, I was liking the notion that a move—I avoided the word ‘escape’—was just what we needed. I peered sideways at Inés, determined to cultivate the idea with her before the end of our brief trip.

  “Did I ever tell you about the hikes we I used to take in the Sussex River Conservation Area?” I asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know,” she said, leaning forward. “I think the driver of that pickup is drunk. Slow down.”

  “The interesting thing about that conservation area is that this community group came up with the idea to convert it from the old dump. That’s why there are so many hills. They just filled in dirt over the piles of garbage and then let the grass and trees grow. We used to go there all the time. A lot of families did. In the winter, it’s a great place for tobogganing. So much space.”

  “Can’t we talk about this after we get off the highway?”

  “Point being, there are a lot of communities in this area that are great for raising kids.”

  “What are you talking about? Cuxi is thirteen.”

  “Well sure, Sagipa’s practically an adult,” I said. “But what if we had a child?”

  For a moment, Inés forgot about the drunken pickup drivers, the 10-tonne transports, the flying trees and stray deer, the near certain death that awaited us around the next bend or across the next overpass.

  She made a noise. Disbelief? Disgust? But not agreement.

  No, certainly not agreement.

  I had let the baby idea drop casually, but leaving a lot of good reasoning aside, I was attracted to the idea, the way a fifteen-year-old girl looks to pregnancy as a proxy for love she seeks. I pressed a smile across my face, hoping to make it convincing for Inés. A baby? Why not? She was still young. I was still young. Youngish, anyway. I cobbled new arguments in my head:

  —It will keep us young!

  —My mother deserves a grandchild!

  —Haven’t you always wanted to try for a girl!

  Only to have my thoughts halted by a harpish screech from Inés and the sudden, stunningly lucid realization that directly in front of us, a black Hummer was braking hard and that if something wasn’t done straight away, we would smash into the back of the truck, which, I also realized in that instant of accelerated brain function, was much heavier and more solid than our little Escort.

  My foot stomped the brake pedal. I swung my hands right and then released the brake as we zipped past the Hummer on the shoulder. I might even have seen the passenger’s face, frozen between fear of a collision and contempt for my dangerous driving. The passing of the immediate danger provided just the window panic needed to assert itself and I jammed the brake again. The wheels locked and though my hands remained welded to the wheel, I was no longer able to steer.

  As we skidded and fishtailed and drifted right, the car felt like it had been s
tripped of its weight. Inés continued to scream. I struggled against a slope leading to a ditch. On the other side, the opposite incline conveyed to a low wooden fence supported by brick posts. I fought the gravity drawing me to the passenger’s side where Inés pushed against the door, trying to stay upright. I gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead, hoping to regain control soon, before we ran into something.

  And for a moment, a thrilling moment, while my lungs looked for breath, I realized that there was part of me enjoying it.

  When we came to a stop, some two hundred metres after leaving the highway, a space traversed in mere seconds, the car remained upright, though perched ungracefully at a forty-five degree angle on the downward slope of the ditch. In the rear view mirror a long trail of rock dust and sand settled back into the ground, like a flock of swallows after a disturbance has passed. I shifted the gear into park but kept my foot fixed to the brake. I unfurled my stiffened fingers from the steering grip.

  “That. Was close,” I said, finally.

  I turned my head to Inés, looking for a response, even if it meant a long series of recriminations in two languages.

  But Inés, still pressed against the door, skin pallid, eyes closed, hands lying open, resting on her lap, supplicating, head bent unnaturally at the neck, earlobe dipping into her shoulder, was dead.

  21

  Well, no. Not dead. Fainted.

  And uninjured, too. She had not banged her head against the dash, there were no marks on her face, no blood spurting from severed vessels, no urine stains spreading across her thighs. Even before I had a chance to slap her into consciousness, she was awake, her eyes focused and steady. Her face had lost some colour but otherwise (it seemed to me) she was fine.

  But of course, she wasn’t.

  A man in green coveralls stopped his rusted pick-up behind the Escort and helped Inés from the car first, in case my body weight was all that prevented the car from tumbling over. I stepped onto the shoulder, slowly, one foot first, then the other, a fluttery feeling in the area of my large intestine. The car remained steady and I enjoyed the sense of relief.

  Inés had jumped a trickle of sewage in the ditch and now stewed on the opposite slope, next to the fence. Her arms were folded across her chest to counter the early evening chill and contain her shakes. She stared into a field and a dirt track for training horses where a single rider, whip in hand, sat spread-legged in a sulky behind a trotting brown standardbred. The man who had stopped to help was now on his knees, body stooped and examining the car’s underbelly.

  “It don’t look like the axle’s broke, but you never know,” he said. “What you’ll need is a tow anyways. I wouldn’t go trying to drive out of that ditch.”

  My eyes fixed on Inés, I felt in my pockets for my phone, found it, dropped it, picked it up, ready to dial. My thumb trembled above the numbers.

  “Who do I call?”

  “I have a number in my vehicle.”

  I passed him the phone. “Would you mind? I think I should see if my wife is okay.”

  I hopped across the ditch and walked through long grass, approaching cautiously, slowly, until I was standing beside Inés. Thinking I would comfort her, I put an arm around her shoulder. But she turned away, leaving my arm momentarily extended like a scarecrow.

  “You almost killed me,” she said.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “The guy ahead just . . .”

  “I told you to pay attention to your driving. I said it three times. I said it four times.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Instead you start talking nonsense about having a baby.”

  “We don’t need to talk about that now.”

  “We don’t need to talk about it ever. It’s not going to ­happen.”

  Across the ditch, next to the Escort, green coveralls had taken off his ball cap and was speaking into my phone, looking around for a sign, an exit number perhaps, to help direct the tow truck.

  “Inés. I know you’re upset, but maybe we could just get to the hotel in Bayfield, have a couple of drinks and calm down.”

  “You don’t think I’m going to go to Bayfield now, do you? I am never getting in the same car as you again. I’ll walk back if I have to.”

  “Inés.”

  “I’ll get a ride with the tow truck and take a bus.”

  “Inés. Please. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  I tried once again to hold her, reached tentatively with both arms. She shook free.

  “Don’t.”

  “Inés . . .”

  “I mean it.”

  Then we were silent. I measured the setting of the sun against a line of pines on the horizon. The sky blended orange and pink. I could see why people took to painting. How many colours were contained in that colour? How many subtle ­variables? And yet, how could you ever hope to get it right? It was a strange thing to be thinking about. From behind, the man hollered: “Truck says it’ll be about 15 minutes. If you folks are okay, I’ll just leave your phone in the car here.”

  I turned and waved and watched the man climb behind the wheel and accelerate, merging into traffic. “If this is about a baby, Inés, I was just throwing it out there. I haven’t even really given it that much thought.”

  “It’s not about a baby,” she said.

  Of course it wasn’t. “Good,” I said. “I’m glad.”

  I looked at my watch, wondering about the tow truck’s arrival. I hoped it would take longer, a few extra minutes to allow Inés to change her mind and continue with me for the weekend and later tonight, after wine and a nice meal, we’d be okay again. We stood together, staring at the sun, the stunning spread. “In Toronto,” I said, “you almost never see the sun setting, do you?”

  Inés turned to me, stared into my eyes, her mouth hard, readying. Then she relaxed her face and bowed her head, not yet ready to fire, tilting it to one side in the direction of the ditch. She took hold of her elbow in the cup of her hand and squeezed, as though she might be injured.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Manolo and I are getting back together,” she said.

  “Did you hurt your arm?”

  “My arm is fine.”

  “Are you sure? You’re holding it like you’re hurt.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “You’ve just been in an accident. Maybe you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “You’ve just been in an accident, too. Maybe you don’t know what you’re hearing. I’m going back with Manolo.”

  “No you’re not,” I said.

  She began to nod and did not stop. Dozens of affirming nods, her head finding rhythm as it verified. I dug my hands into my pant pockets. I squeezed the muscles of my thighs.

  “No you’re not,” I said again.

  “I should have told you, but I was waiting until Manolo gets his advance from the publisher. When that happens, Sagipa and I will move in with him.”

  “You mean Cuxinimpaba.”

  On the highway, cars slowed near our angled car, the drivers hoping to see something crumpled or bloody. The air smelled of diesel exhaust. I sat down and spat in the grass beside me, the dirty cold spreading across my backside. My heart seethed. What comes to a man’s mind at a time like that? What is the first thing he thinks of when his world, like freshly killed game, is being gutted? What else?

  “Have the two of you already?” I said.

  “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  I ripped out a clump of grass, threw it into the wind.

  “I guess you just did, didn’t you?”

  22

  Inés held to her threat and, once he had pulled the car from the ditch, the tow truck driver agreed to take her to Kitchener where she could catch the Greyhound back to Toronto that night. The driver,
a young man with pointed sideburns and a ‘Gold’s Gym’ sweatshirt, seemed perplexed by the scene, the emotional weight mismatched with the amount of damage to the car. He didn’t want to get involved but how could he refuse Inés’ demand? He gave me an apologetic look and then closed the passenger’s door as Inés strapped herself into the seat.

  There was no reason to go to Bayfield now. I called the Inn and told them we would not be arriving, forfeiting a night’s deposit. But I didn’t want to go back to Toronto either, where I would either face an empty townhouse or one filled with unbearable tension. And so, without much more thought, I headed west again to Wanstead.

  Driving into range, I tuned the radio to an early season baseball game from across the river. A news update between innings announced the closure of another auto-parts plant, 700 workers to lose their jobs immediately, others surely to follow as the impact stumbled down the economic chain, some links likely located in Wanstead. This was the luck and the misfortune of that city. By the time the game resumed, I was no longer listening, my mind back on Inés’ announcement. Initial shock bloomed into resentment. And then I made myself suffer. Fuelled by pain, my imagination flung to Inés in the Greyhound land cruiser, calling ahead to have Manolo meet her at the depot.

  —I told him, querido. Will you meet me at the bus station?

  —Pues claro, mi amor.

  —I’m looking forward to tonight.

  —Me too.

  —You know what I’d like to do?

  —Tee-hee, tee-hee. I sure do. And I’ve already drunk three bottles of apple juice.

  —You’re an angel. I’ll get the rubber sheets on the bed.

  And then, descending into greater depths, I hoped for a full bus, stiflingly hot, with only Steven Seagal movies for entertainment. I hoped her seat companion would be a chatty grandmother. Or better: a sweaty, grunting, fart-blaster with sticky, fat fingers flipping fattily through pages of second-hand pornography.

  And yet. I should be there too, I thought. I should be at the Toronto depot waiting, ready to make my claim, prepared to fight for my love. I knew this, I knew that I had surrendered too easily. But I also knew that beyond the initial injury, I was unstirred by any desire to fight.