by H. B. Hogan
“Isn’t he going to eat with us?”
“Who, Martin?” Judy laughed and made a face. “No, honey, Martin eats his dinner in front of the TV. I’ll fix him a plate when we’re done.” Judy reached for the salad. “These greens are those organic greens that you buy in the big plastic containers? You know the ones?”
“You let him eat in front of the TV?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Evelyn, honestly!”
Evelyn took a deep, uneven inhale and sighed.
Judy placed her fork on her plate and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Evelyn, honey.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Martin is a wonderful man.”
The silence between them seemed to draw the roar of the television down the hall and into the kitchen. Evelyn stared at her plate.
“These greens really are lovely,” Judy said, her voice back to its brusque, clipped tone. “Have you tried these before? I forget the brand name, but I’m sure you could find something similar in the city…”
More coughing from the den. Evelyn reached for the wine.
They left for the casino the next morning, right after breakfast. Judy drove because Martin was on migraine medication that prevented him from driving, although Evelyn noted that he was apparently still free to smoke cigarettes and suck back coffee from a Thermos. Evelyn sulked in the back seat.
After ten minutes on the highway, Martin fell asleep with his head pressed against the door, and his whistling and popping became groaning and choking.
“How does a man who drinks that much coffee fall asleep at ten a.m.?” she whispered at Judy.
Judy clamped her lips into a tight line and gave Evelyn a stern look in the rear view mirror. “I hope people are more understanding with you when you’re a senior citizen.”
“It’s a valid question, Mom. He’s had about three pots of coffee.”
“Evelyn, please!” Judy hissed. “Keep your voice down!”
Evelyn flung herself back in her seat and glared out the window.
“I think maybe someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Judy whispered. “That’s what I think.”
“I think that’s some crazy migraine medication, that’s what I think.”
“Young lady!”
Evelyn crossed her arms and slouched.
Judy read out loud the signs they passed. “Speed kills.” She laughed. “Well, you’ve got that right!” She smiled and winked at Evelyn in the rear view mirror. Evelyn rolled her eyes.
Evelyn had only one memory of her father. Or rather, she suspected it was a memory of her father, but the circumstances that unearthed the memory were such that Evelyn knew better than to ask Judy if she was right.
The memory came to her one February morning when she was on her way to work. It was early enough that it was still dark outside. She stopped to use a bank machine and saw a homeless man asleep on the floor inside the vestibule. A grimy baseball cap lay upside-down on the floor beside him. Someone had tossed in a crumpled five-dollar bill. Evelyn hesitated with her hand on the door, but when she stuck her bank card in the slot and the door buzzed, the man didn’t stir. Evelyn figured he was unconscious and wouldn’t be any trouble, so she pulled open the door and walked into a solid wall of stench. It was a mixture of urine, body odour, and the sharp musk of booze leeching through sweaty, unwashed skin. It stopped Evelyn in her tracks, door in hand, and made her throat close.
As she stood there trying to force air back into her lungs, Evelyn very clearly recalled being rocked to sleep in the arms of a man who was humming a lullaby with his lips pressed against her hair. She could feel the warmth of his breath on the top of her head, and the hair on his forearms against her cheek. She felt her body relax, and a wave of blissful sleepy-headedness washed over her so that she had to grip the door frame of the vestibule. A gust of frigid air blasted in through the open door and the homeless man’s five-dollar bill scuttled across the tile floor. He raised his swollen, dirty face and let loose a stream of obscenities that snapped Evelyn out of her reverie. She gasped and stepped backwards out of the vestibule, letting the door close, her mittened hands clamped over her mouth.
Evelyn was revisiting this memory in the back seat of Judy’s car when Martin snorted awake from his nap.
“I need the bathroom,” he said.
Judy glanced over at him. “You’re awake!”
Martin said, “I need to go.”
“In a minute, dear, there’s a truck stop with a doughnut shop just a couple of miles ahead.”
“Now!”
“I said in a minute, dear.”
Evelyn saw him dig his nails into window ledge of the car door. “Mom, maybe you should speed up.”
“I’m already doing two kilometres over the speed limit, Evelyn.”
“I think he really needs to go.”
“I’m quite aware of the situation, thank you very much.”
“Well then, why don’t you—”
“Evelyn!”
“Whoopsie-daisy,” Martin said.
Evelyn and Judy were silent.
“Whoopsie-daisy,” Martin said again, louder this time.
“Oh my god,” Evelyn said.
“Martin,” Judy said. “Have you had an accident?”
“I told you,” he said.
“Oh my god.” Evelyn held one hand over her nose and mouth and lowered her window with the other.
Judy tightened her grip on the steering wheel. When she’d sped up by another five kilometres, she snapped off the radio so she could concentrate. They drove on in silence, wind thundering through the open windows, hair whipping their cheeks. Martin held his ball cap on his head with one hand and clutched the car door with the other.
When they pulled into the crowded truck stop, Judy slowed down in the row immediately in front of the doughnut shop, looking for a spot.
“What are you doing?” Evelyn yelled. “You don’t have time to look for a spot—just park!”
“Well, I don’t want to walk in this heat.”
“Jesus, Mom, just park the car, will you?”
“Just park,” said Martin.
Judy let out a tight sigh and drove straight to the back row, where there were plenty of spots. Judy pulled into one, and Evelyn flung her door open before Judy had shut off the engine.
“Evelyn,” Judy yelled. “You can wait until the car has stopped!”
“I’m out of here.”
“You can wait for us!”
“For what?”
“Just wait!”
Martin was fumbling with the car door and trying to pull himself out. Judy hurried around to the passenger side to help him. Evelyn stood behind the car, facing the doughnut shop with her arms crossed. She wanted to disappear.
“Oh, dear,” Judy said. “Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry.”
Evelyn shook her head so that her hair hung down on either side of her face.
“Here,” Judy said to Martin. “Let’s see if we can get you cleaned up first.” Judy held open the back door and helped ease Martin into the seat. “Just lie down, sweetheart.”
“God, Mom, can’t you just take him to the bathroom!”
“Evelyn, he can’t do this alone, and I can’t go in there with him. Can you stop being so self-centred for once in your life and just help us!”
“He’s your boyfriend—you help him. I’m going for a walk.” Evelyn started to walk away.
“Evelyn!” Judy yelled so loud that there was an echo off the concrete, and some of the people milling around the front of the shop looked in their direction. Evelyn froze.
Judy stood up, planted her hands on her hips, and glared over the roof of the car at Evelyn. “I cannot believe how childish you’re being. You are a grown woman, Evelyn!”
Evelyn looked down at the pavement.
“There’s a towel in the trunk. Bring it over here and hold it up around me. I want to clean Martin up so he can at least walk inside with some dignity.” Judy bent back down and Evelyn h
eard Martin’s belt buckle jingle. She wanted to run, but instead she sighed and popped open the trunk.
When Judy had done what she could with the road map, she walked over to the doughnut shop to steal a roll of toilet paper from the restroom. That left Evelyn alone with Martin, who was in an excessively awkward position. Evelyn held the beach towel aloft and stared at the cars out on the highway.
“Let me up,” Martin demanded in a wobbly voice.
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Where’s Judy?”
“She’s in the bathroom.”
Martin considered this. Then he said, “I didn’t mean to end up like…for it to happen like this.”
“What do you mean?” Evelyn felt nervous. She didn’t like how Martin was suddenly earnest and communicative. “You mean how you made a mess?”
“Yeah.”
She wanted him to stop talking.
Martin kept at it. “I didn’t mean for any of this to—”
Evelyn cut him off. “Never mind!”
“I tried to do the right thing, but I just—”
“Try harder next time, will you?” Evelyn said.
“I did try.”
“Well, try harder.”
Evelyn was relieved to spot Judy picking her way around the cars. Evelyn watched her and thought about how Judy so rarely lost her temper or faltered in her cheery act. After all the years and all the loneliness she must have felt, she was still always plucky and determined. Evelyn thought it a shame that Judy had made all that effort to remain upbeat in order to end up here, like this, with Martin. She wished she could be proud of her mother, but instead, watching her stride purposefully towards the car with a roll of toilet paper tucked under her arm, Evelyn felt only disappointment and pity.
“Everything okay here?” Judy asked.
Evelyn dropped the beach towel. “You tell me,” she said. “Does it look okay to you?”
Judy pursed her lips and stepped past Evelyn. Evelyn raised the beach towel up again and went back to watching the cars on the highway.
“Here, sweetheart,” Judy murmured. “We’re almost done.”
“Judy?” Martin warbled. “Judy, I can’t.”
“Sh-sh-sh,” Judy whispered. “You’re going to be fine, Martin.”
“I don’t…I can’t do this!”
“Just don’t think about it, darlin’. Right now, we’ve just got one thing to deal with, and that’s this, and I’m helping you. One thing at a time. Okay? We’re almost done.”
Evelyn had heard that very same speech from Judy innumerable times growing up. All the nights Judy sat up with Evelyn at the kitchen table until way past bedtime so that Evelyn could practice her multiplication tables. It made Evelyn sick to hear Judy use those words—Evelyn’s words—on that horrid mess of a man.
“I tried to tell her, Jude,” Martin was crying.
“Oh, Martin, not now…”
“I tried to tell her—”
“Martin, stop it!” Judy snapped. Her hands were shaking as she pulled Martin’s pants from the car door and fed his limp, bare feet through the leg holes. His socks were in a ball beneath the car with his underwear. “Now roll over and pull up your pants.”
Martin heaved and grunted. The car shook. Judy straightened up and turned to Evelyn. Evelyn looked down and busied herself with folding the beach towel. “Let’s go if we’re going,” she said. She walked around to the open trunk and tossed in the towel.
“I need my coffee,” Martin said.
“All right, Martin. Enough,” said Judy.
Evelyn recognized the opportunity to escape. “Fine,” she said, walking towards the driver’s-side door so she could reach his Thermos. “How does he take it?”
She stood up and turned the Thermos over in her hand. Some of the letters had worn off.
Dale M. Pr t ectrical—We ight up y r life
“Tell them to fill it up only halfway,” Judy was saying. “He takes it black.”
There was a ringing in Evelyn’s ears that made everything sound far away. Her scalp felt tingly. She walked away without a word, gripping the Thermos so tightly that the skin on the back of her hand felt like it would split. She didn’t ask if Judy wanted anything, and she didn’t care. Evelyn knew Judy would say, “No, thank you,” even though she really wanted a cruller. Evelyn knew that the Thermos would stink of booze even though Judy would insist that it didn’t. Evelyn knew everything, and she thought it ironic that this should feel as though she was losing her mind.
The kid behind the counter jerked his head back and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the Thermos. He eyed Evelyn over his shoulder as he poured the coffee.
“Is that everything?” he asked warily as he handed her the half-full Thermos.
“Sure as hell better be,” said Evelyn. She tossed the money on the counter, slapped the lid on the Thermos, and walked out of the doughnut shop towards her family.
A FARE FOR FRANCIS
The sliding glass doors of the arrivals terminal whirred open and a young woman tottered out on impossibly high heels. Francis watched her through the freshly washed windshield of his cab. She paused for a moment and fiddled with her BlackBerry, and then smiled as she turned towards the taxi stand. Francis glanced at his rear view mirror. He groaned when he saw there were no other cabs behind him.
“For crying out loud,” he muttered as he shoved his half-eaten lunch back into the lunchbox on the passenger seat and sucked the potato chip salt off the yellowed ends of his moustache. He could see that he’d been driving his cab longer than his prospective passenger had been living. Her bright white suit and oversized sunglasses were irritating. Nobody dressed like that in Thunder Bay.
The woman bent over and placed her hand on the open passenger window.
“Hi, there,” she said, smiling.
Francis eyed the finger prints she was leaving on the car door and stabbed at his Slurpee with his straw.
She said, “Can you take me downtown?”
“S’pose so,” Francis said.
She opened the back door and tossed in her huge purse and flopped down beside it. Francis cringed as she slammed the door shut. Then she just sat there, smiling expectantly at him.
“So?” Francis said.
The woman ran her fingers through her blonde hair. She said, “So!”
Francis said, “So are you gonna tell me where we’re goin’?”
“Oh, right,” she laughed, and shook her head. “It’s downtown, but, um…” She extracted her BlackBerry from her pocket and poked at it with her thumb.
Francis sighed.
“Right,” she said. “Here we go. Eighty-six Cumberland Street South.” She looked up at him and furrowed her brow. “Do you know where that is?”
Francis rolled his eyes. “Yah, I know where it is.” He watched her face in his mirror and said, “Port Arthur.”
“N-no,” she said, checking her BlackBerry. “It’s in Thunder Bay.”
“You’re going to Nishnawbe-Aski Legal Services.”
“Yes, that’s right!” she exclaimed, amazed.
“I got this, ma’am,” said Francis. “Just relax.”
“Fantastic.” She sat back in her seat and grinned out her window at the trees.
“That’s quite the paint job you’ve got,” she said.
Francis didn’t feel like talking to her about it, so he pulled the cab away from the curb in silence. He’d bought his used ’94 Caprice 9C1 a few years back from a guy who refurbished them for the police. The body was white, but the hood, doors, and trunk had to be repainted. He’d done them in Neptune Green. Same colour as his old man’s prized possession, a ’55 Chevy Bel Air that was still in mint condition in Francis’s garage. The family heirloom. Had his dad lived to see it, he would have gotten a real kick out the Caprice’s paint job. This woman wouldn’t know the first thing about any of that.
“I can’t believe how clean the air smells here,” she said, indifferent to Francis’ silence.
<
br /> Francis rolled his eyes.
“I mean really,” she said. “In Toronto, if you can breathe there at all, you regret it immediately.”
Francis turned onto the highway. “Yeah, well, welcome to Thunder Bay.” He was being sarcastic, but she seemed touched by the sentiment.
“Thanks!” she said.
They drove in silence for a little while. The woman looked every which way, as if there was something to see besides grass and trees.
She said, “So, have you lived here long?”
“Yup. And my parents before me, and my grandparents before them.”
“Huh,” she said, nodding. “I take it you like it here, then.”
“I guess so.”
She said, “Well, it sure smells good.”
“Mm-hm,” Francis said, he watched her face in his rear view mirror. “Used to be a beautiful place till the Indians took over.”
The woman’s smile stiffened. Francis smirked and sipped his Slurpee. He had her pegged.
“That’s right,” said Francis. He turned down the talk radio so he didn’t have to shout over it. “I got nothing against Indigenous, or First Nations, or whatever they want to be called these days,” he said.
“You could just ask which band they’re—”
“Well, maybe they should make up their minds,” he snapped. “Don’t get me wrong,” Francis continued. “There’s some that’s good people. Like ones who got pride in their culture, and their homes and whatnot. But all’s the drunk ones do is wreck the scenery.”
Francis paused, but the woman said nothing.
They were driving down a rural highway that passed momentarily through an old subdivision. Francis glanced in his rear view mirror and saw that the woman was chewing her bottom lip and frowning out the window.
“You’ll see. They’re all over the place downtown.”
The woman’s lips worked to shape the words that failed her. Francis craned his neck to see what she was looking at.
He saw old Bobby Hamilton at the top of the steep incline that was his front lawn. Sweat and grass darkened the front of his CNR baseball cap. He wore a white undershirt that strained to contain his belly, and balanced on the top of his belly, wedged between his breasts, though it wasn’t yet noon, he cradled a Labatt 50 protected by a Styrofoam cozy. His pale, spindly legs protruded from his walking shorts and terminated in black dress socks and orthopedic shoes. Bobby had decided years ago that his heart couldn’t take the walk up and down that steep front yard of his with the weight of his lawn mower, so he’d tied a length of bright yellow rope to the mower’s handle and now stood stationary at the top of his hill, easing the mower down by slowly letting out the coils of rope that lay at his feet. His shoulders and chest were bright pink with sunburn. Bobby spotted Francis’s cab and raised his beer cozy in a wobbly salute.
