Waiting for Joe

by Sandra Birdsell

  When Joe comes down the steps of the Meridian the next morning on his way to Canadian Tire, the traffic on Albert Street is already heavy, a steady one-way flow toward the city centre. Although the sky is overcast, he squints against the brightness of daylight, shivers as he tugs the cords on his hoodie to draw it snug against his neck. He goes round the front of the Meridian, its broad windshield running with moisture, and then down along its side, startling several gulls into flight. He inspects the motorhome for deflated tires, scratches, the chalky spatter of bird feces. Should there be any damage he has no recourse, and so he practises vigilance, hoping it is enough to ward off an attack.

  He looks up to see if the pot of greenery has appeared on the third-floor balcony of an apartment building across Gibson Road. Last night when he went to pick up the pizza, the plant was gone. Whoever puts it out in the morning gets up early. A woman, he thinks. Hell of a struggle, given that it’s the size of a small tree. Maybe she came out onto the balcony in a terry robe. He thinks of Laurie sprawled across the bed, her breasts a surprise of white in contrast to the deep tan of her body; the welcome in Maryanne Lewis’s voice.

  Here and there cars are parked on the lot, belonging to employees, he guesses, and beyond Walmart at the entrance of Sunrise Mall, he sees the blocky figure—mall security—standing just inside the doors waiting to check the employees through as they arrive. The windows of Walmart and the shopping mall are like mirrors and conceal what he imagines goes on before opening, the quiet scurry of employees rearranging the merchandise to create the impression that every day is the first day of business, as others keep their eyes fixed on computer screens placing orders and checking inventory.

  He runs his hand along the side of the Meridian as though it’s a horse, thinking that he’d like to be able to say he left it in the same condition as when he stole it. Except, of course, for the mileage. He squats and peers into the wheel well, reassures himself that he has some time before the receiver takes an inventory of his defunct business and discovers that the Meridian is gone. When he hears Laurie moving about in the motorhome he rises from his squat.

  He crosses the short distance between the parking lot and the sidewalk beyond it, and then Gibson Road, empty of traffic at this time of day. The lights flash amber in all directions, as they will until the shopping mall opens in an hour, and again in the evening after it closes.

  Several blocks beyond the traffic lights, Gibson Road comes to an end in country where the Trans-Canada Highway curves west past the airport and rises through a gentle ridge of smoke-blue hills. After they fled Winnipeg, Joe at first stayed clear of the highway. He took a longer route through a winding valley, under a sky that looked heavy and threatened rain. But when the fuel gauge hit the halfway mark and began sinking rapidly, he joined up with the Trans-Canada, where he was more likely to find diesel.

  He reaches the parking lot at Boston Pizza, thinking that the air smells like high altitude, like the mountains, clean and thin. Are you heading this way? If he left now he could be in the Rockies within a day and a half.

  “Joe,” Laurie calls, and he turns to see her, her robe a flash of purple satin as she tiptoes alongside the motorhome and over to the sidewalk where she stops, crimps the robe closed at her neck and holds out a paper bag. His lunch, the sandwiches she made last night. One loaf of bread: $2.35, Ham: $3.49, she entered in the notebook she had bought at Walmart the day they arrived. Walnut Crest, $11.95, Laurie jotted in the notebook, giving herself a pat on the back for not having bought a more expensive Australian shiraz.

  As he retraces his steps he sees that her lips are stained with the wine she drank while watching 24 last night, the kachunk kachunk soundtrack accentuating the quickness of their pulses. Joe sat at the dinette, the remains of the pizza and bottle of wine on the table before him. Laurie curled up on the lounger, rising now and again to top up her glass, the scent of Wish, her perfume, lingering. She came across it years ago in a duty-free. She likes the bottle, a heavy piece of glass shaped like a diamond. Wish, a state of desire. A wish for something more, for a happy ending.

  He takes the bag from Laurie without speaking or meeting her eyes, but he notices that she’s come after him without stopping to put on shoes and that her toes are scrunched up against the cold.

  “You’re going to freeze, you’d better get inside,” he says, without the usual undertow of anger.

  “Should I come down and meet you later?” Her green eyes roam across Joe’s face in a fruitless search for warmth.

  “Do whatever you want,” he says.

  He sees her lips come together and stretch across her face in a prelude to crying. He suddenly wants her heat. His need to move beyond the ache in his body causes him to reach out and haul her in against himself, wrapping his arms around her.

  “Joe,” she says, caught by surprise, then she slumps into him, her knees giving way in relief.

  He scoops her up into his arms and as he carries her to the door of the Meridian, sunlight breaks through the wind-driven stratus clouds. The wet parking lot shines, gulls call out as they wheel across the clearing sky. The apartment blocks along Gibson Road look as though they’ve just been freshly coloured in with white chalk.

  Laurie sees a woman standing at a balcony railing, her long beige tunic and dark head covering blowing sideways in a brief tide of wind. Joe sets her down at the foot of the steps and moves his hands to her buttocks, urges her to hurry up and get inside.

  They fall together on the bed. The long spell of silence between them has made them hungry for each other. Just so much has happened to them, and in such a short time. It’s as though a pyramid has come crumbling down around them and they’re buried, hardly breathing, and unable to think how they might begin to dig themselves out. Joe on top of Laurie, as he wriggles free of his jeans, and then Laurie on top of Joe, struggling to undo the buttons on his shirt, feeling the thickness of his penis against her stomach. Again they roll, Laurie beneath him now. She takes his face between her hands and says, “Hello.”

  Hello, hello, Laurie thinks, as Joe moves inside her, her nose turning red, as it always does when she cries.

  Moments later they lie side by side, their bodies slick with perspiration. Laurie begins to feel the chill, like a hand sweeping across her. She turns to Joe and rests her head on his shoulder, listens to the large thump of his heart. Yes. Thick dark curls hug the nape of his tanned neck, intermingled with a mat of white wiry frizz that creeps up the back and sides of it. Sometimes when he was between haircuts she had shaved the frizz off with his razor and scattered it across the yard, thinking the birds would gather it for their nests.

  She thinks to tell him that in the mall Winners has a sign advertising for help and that she wants to apply, although she knows that he’ll object, that they aren’t going to be in Regina longer than several more days. And what does she know about retail sales? Nothing. But she believes that a life spent being a consumer is qualification enough. There are also signs posted for waiters and kitchen help at Kelsey’s and Montana’s, and for part-time ticket sellers at the Galaxy Theatre.

  She needs to find ways to spend the day, other than going from store to store in the mall, passing time in the food court nibbling on biscotti and sipping burnt coffee, imagining the lives of the people congregating at the tables as though they’re one large gregarious family. She watches the security men, most of them oversized and red-faced, their bodies thick as greasy sausages stuffed into their navy polyester uniforms. They lounge about the security office door, or stroll through the food court ogling the half-dressed schoolgirls shoplifting at the Dollardrama. She silently vows not to spend a nickel more than what’s necessary.

  Joe sighs so deeply Laurie feels the shudder in the mattress. When she went to meet him last night at Canadian Tire, she didn’t recognize him for a moment. He was still the same, tall, yes, lean and well-muscled, but his arms hung at his sides while he listened to the man talk. Pete, a Métis, Joe had said, who never shu
t up. What made Joe stand out among others were his eyes, as brilliant a blue as she’d ever seen. With the light in his eyes gone, he looked ordinary.

  Joe lies on his back, head propped in his arms. He’ll need to call Steve soon. Let him know that they are headed his way, and why. Men older than Joe have been hired on in the tar sands. He’s heard the stories, seen the news, the Newfies, fishermen, packing up and driving thousands of miles, six beefy guys crammed into a Honda Civic, their gear strapped on top. Kids and wife bawling on the doorstep. We’re just going to have to learn to do without him. He’ll come back with enough money to see us through for years. A young single man vowed not to return until he chalked up a million. Six guys living in a one-bedroom apartment in Fort McMurray, taking turns cooking and sleeping in the bed. He bets those fishermen don’t have any more qualifications than he does. He has some welding. He and several of his buddies once restored an old Chevy from the frame up and he took a welding course at Red River College to do it. It might be enough to get him hired. What he’ll make at Canadian Tire added to the credit remaining on their one card will pay for the fuel, with enough left over to see them through to a first paycheque. All he wants from Steve are his contacts, nothing more.

  A vehicle drives past the motorhome and stops nearby. Its doors open, and then slam shut. The murmur of voices seems dreamlike and far away. What I would like to do, a woman says, but the remainder of her words are lost. A man laughs in response, which brings Laurie to the surface. She recognizes the high-pitched cackle of the white-haired greeter at Walmart, a man who looks to be in his late sixties.

  “Welcome to Walmart,” she says. “I think that’s the man who greets people at the door. He looks like he’s past retirement age.” Though he’s elastic in the way he can dip sideways, bend backwards to try and peer into her tote bag.

  “He likely is. They’ll hire anyone,” Joe says.

  She wants to tell him that she was awakened by the cellphone this morning. Maryanne Lewis, her voice as sugary and bright as a jar of jelly beans. How was Laurie doing? Fine. How’s Joe this morning? When he called us last night he sounded pretty down. Ken and I just know that something good is going to happen for Joe. Will you tell him to get in touch? I’ll tell him, Laurie promised, but when she saw Joe had left the sandwiches on the dinette she went tearing after him and forgot to relay the message. Something good is going to happen for Joe. Which means either he’ll find a million dollars lying in the gutter, or he’ll find twenty-five cents. Or he will find nothing. That too could mean something good has happened.

  Joe becomes aware of the heavy scent of Laurie’s hair. When she met him at work last night, she looked different, her usual strawberry blonde hair was the colour of a new penny. Her hand lies across his chest and the sight of the moisturized sheen of her tanned skin, the perfect white crescents of her French polish are an irritation itching at the base of his skull. Throughout the past winter, these early months of spring, while he’s been locked in his racing thoughts, she’s been able to think of things other than the end of life as they’ve known it. He pushes away from her, up and off the bed, and goes into the bathroom.

  Laurie hears water running, Joe scooping it up from the sink and splashing it into his face, his underarms, his scrotum. They are not to use any more water than necessary, no showers. As if she wants to, given there’s no hot water. She had to use the microwave to heat water to rinse away the hair colour, the shampoo.

  Don’t think, she tells herself.

  Don’t think about Joe setting the big screen television down against the garage wall and ramming into it with the Explorer. Smashing with the sledgehammer the things that failed to sell on eBay, or in the Bargain Hunter. He would rather smash them than let her put them in the garage sale where they’d sell for such a small fraction of what he’d paid for them. There’s my profit, Joe said, only a small fraction of what he was thinking, she knows. What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? She’d seen that line of scripture highlighted in his Holy Horoscope, her name for the book of daily meditations he used to keep on the bedside table, its pages loose and its cover gone soft like a chamois.

  He gestured to the appliances on the parking pad, the Cuisinart Power Prep and her Chi Vitalizer machine, the Bose sound system she’d just bought for the kitchen, the espresso maker and crushed ice drink maker she’d hunted down and found on sale at Home Outfitters, the small appliances lined up there on the parking pad, shining and wet from a light rain, looking as though they’d just been taken from their boxes.

  She’d gone into the basement and covered her ears to shut out the noise as Joe smashed the appliances to smithereens. She sat on the floor, back against the stone wall, consumed by guilt and not knowing why. Joe could have waited until night, but the smashing would have brought lights on in the neighbourhood, the houses on either side of them being so close that sometimes they’d hear quarrels, music played too loudly, a hoarse cry in the night. In those final weeks she’d hardly seen anyone though. It was like they knew the Happy Traveler was no longer in business and were avoiding them, fearing that what they were going through might be contagious. But of course, the neighbourhood came out in droves to their garage sale, cockroaches swarming over the leftovers of a feast. We’re moving to the new Waverly subdivision to be closer to the business, Laurie had thought to say should anyone ask, but no one did.

  Joe enters the bedroom, his nakedness shielded by the wastebasket. “I sure as hell hope this isn’t what it looks like,” he says, the words compacted between his teeth.

  She realizes her mistake. The price tags and sales slips should have been tucked down into the garbage out of sight. Through the years she’d learned to bury them beneath vegetable peelings in the can under the kitchen sink. When rushed she’d sometimes stuck them into potted plants, or under the mattress in a hotel room.

  He upends the wastebasket and a shower of garbage drops onto the bed, the tags, the tiny plastic envelopes containing spare buttons and loops of thread, the flattened packaging from the skin care products and cosmetics, the crumple of tissue that had been wrapped around the purple robe. The gloves she wore while colouring her hair are stuck together, the latex mass smeared with what looks like dried blood. They give off an acrid odour that quickly permeates the air between them. She winces as he flings the wastebasket aside and plucks up several of the tags.

  “Did you record these in the notebook too?”

  His voice is unbearably caustic. Only moments earlier she’d embraced the full weight of him, borne his collapse. She still holds his semen. She wants to point out that she coloured her hair herself instead of going to a salon, but remains silent. “I’ll need to look half decent when I start job hunting,” she finally says.

  “Job hunting in that.” He indicates the purple robe lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “I’ve had that for years,” she lies.

  Laurie had also bought a black linen sundress printed with large green ferns. When she tried it on she imagined wearing it on a summer night. The three of them, Steve, Joe and herself, seated on a café patio overlooking a busy downtown street. Buying the dress was insurance that there would be better times ahead for her and Joe. And when she saw herself in it, she remembered, too, the way Steve used to look at her.

  “Dammit, Laurie. Where’s your head? We’ve got to get to McMurray first.” He gathers his clothing from the floor, dresses quickly, snatches up the cellphone from the dinette table and is gone.

  Two

  “HEY, DAD. IT’S ME,” Joe says. Alfred, gripped by coughing, puts the receiver down. A moment later a young woman speaks into the phone.

  “Mr. Beaudry? Your father will be just a minute.”

  I’ll call back, Joe intends to say, but she’s already gone. He walks along the lane beside Boston Pizza, waiting for his father to come back on the line, skirting crumbling potholes iridescent with oily water. From a nearby tree a bird calls its name, chick
-a-dee-dee-dee buzzing through the rumble of traffic on Albert Street. Joe spots the bird, wondering why something that small needs such a large voice. At the side door of Boston Pizza, two men and a woman in white caps and aprons huddle under a canopy having a smoke.

  He takes in the greasy-looking ponytail of one of the men, his arms covered in tattoos; the startled slack-jawed look of the other, a kid really, his thin face riddled with acne; the woman, overweight and half asleep. He wouldn’t have hired them, not even to sweep snow from the roofs of vehicles, hose away the grit in summer that could corrode paint, and sometimes split open the skin on his hands.

  He senses their growing and calculating interest in him and stifles a sudden paranoia. Likely they saw him leave the Meridian and are noting his leather bomber jacket, looking for the bulge of his wallet in his hip pocket.

  In his ear he hears the young woman gently scolding Alfred, and his anxiety shifts to his father’s cough, which sounds rough, and then he worries that the time on the cell will expire before they’ll be able to talk.

  The lane grows wider as he walks, becomes more of a service road that provides access to the parking lots of the businesses along Albert Street. On one side there are the backs of commercial enterprises, identical square buildings painted stark white, and on the other, brown brick apartments, their wide predictable balconies looking like yawns. The clearing sky is criss-crossed with a grid of wires, the lane opening up in the distance to a street, and a fringe of trees beyond it in a residential neighbourhood. The Lakeside District, Pete, the Métis he works with, had said. But what’s called Wascana Lake is only a man-made pond, and is nowhere near enough for the inhabitants of the Lakeside District to see. Or to smell either, a good thing, Pete said. Algae, goose poop, sometimes so thick you can walk across it. His grin revealed the gaping space in the front of his top teeth.