Caught

by Lisa Moore

  Jesus things, the man said. They belonged to my mother.

  There was a spill of 8-tracks at Slaney’s feet and the man waved at them.

  Slaney picked up one and it turned out to be Johnny Cash. The machine pulled the tape slowly inside itself and the metal flap flopped down and it pushed the tape halfway out and then drew it back in. There was a dragging whir and hiss and then Johnny Cash sang about a burning ring of fire.

  For a time the trucker sang along with the tape. He sang about flames as though he had come through them and he had an authority when it came to the subject.

  You got some set of pipes, Slaney said.

  You like that? the man asked, grinding down the gears.

  They drove for an hour and all at once the sky got dark and the trucker cleared his throat. He said: I believe we’re in for some weather.

  The darkness seemed to charge across the prairie toward them, deepening as it came.

  The yellow of the canola drained away. The bottoms of clouds were charcoal and smoke gold and the rain lashed the grass.

  Slaney was hungry and it was close in the cab with the pine-tree air freshener and this driver had on a cologne and Slaney wanted to crack the window.

  There were, at first, only two splats, the size of quarters, on the giant windshield and they trembled like things with a consciousness, things trying to hold together against a terrible force of entropy, and then they ran sideways and a drumming began on the roof and the world.

  The trucker said there was a bunk if Slaney wanted to sleep.

  Why don’t you crawl in back there, the trucker said. Get yourself some shut-eye.

  You don’t need the company? Slaney asked. To keep you awake?

  I’m good until breakfast, the man said.

  Slaney woke when the truck pulled into the parking lot of a diner.

  The driver told him they were in Alberta. The sun was a red ball hovering over the lettering on the window that said BLACKFOOT CAFÉ.

  They walked across the steaming lot and as they got closer Slaney could see the white blouse of the waitress passing through the reflection of the sun and the place was packed and noisy and warm when they got inside, smelling of bacon and burnt coffee.

  The trucker found them a table and the waitress came over and asked what they wanted.

  Bacon and eggs, the trucker said.

  Will you have toast? she asked.

  I want a stack yay-high, he said.

  Coffee?

  That coffee fresh? the trucker asked.

  Fresh since yesterday, she said.

  I’ll have some of that, he said. The waitress turned over the driver’s cup and it chinked against the saucer and she poured. She wore sneakers with white tennis socks, a cotton bobble on each heel, and her hair was grey and mashed down in a fine net.

  The driver rubbed his hands together, picked up his butter knife, and for a brief second drew his top lip back from his gums, checking his teeth in the reflection of the blade.

  The teeth dropped, all of a piece, and slid wetly away from his lips, hanging, detached and gleaming, out of his mouth. The driver, absent and alert, watched the collapse of his face in the knife blade, and there was a hiss of saliva and the bridge popped back as if nothing had happened. The waitress, digging her pad out of her apron pocket, had missed the trucker’s false teeth.

  She turned over Slaney’s cup and asked him what he wanted to eat.

  I’m not hungry, thank you, ma’am, Slaney said.

  A growing boy, she said.

  Just the coffee, thank you, Slaney said.

  Call me Lorraine, the waitress said.

  Bring him same as me, Lorraine, the trucker said.

  Just coffee, Slaney said.

  Same as me, Lorraine, the trucker said.

  Over easy?

  I sure hope something is easy around here, the trucker said. He was seized with a quaking spasm. One of his fists raised and jiggling near his chest, the other hand slapping the table three times.

  Aren’t you the saucy one, she said.

  Don’t be shy with the bacon, Lorraine.

  A police car pulled up into the parking lot and the cop just sat inside it. Slaney looked for the back exits. There was a hallway with a sign over it that said NO ADMITTANCE. He wondered if there’d be a window or door back there.

  After about five minutes another cop car pulled up alongside the first. Slaney watched as the cops got out of their cars, one of them leaning on his door. They both looked at the window of the diner and they spoke to each other at length.

  When the cops came into the café the bell tinkled and the screen door hitched against the frame and jostled and then it clapped shut. They looked around the diner and then sat at the counter on the swivel stools and the waitress poured them each a coffee.

  It’s getting hot out there already, the cop said.

  We’re having a stretch of it, Lorraine said. She brought Slaney and the trucker fried eggs and bacon on thick white plates. Slaney cut the egg in half and folded it over and jabbed the fork into it. Then he took a triangle of toast and wiped it over the spilled yolk and folded that and ate it too.

  The waitress came back with more coffee and the trucker told her about a hydraulic lift he had installed in front of his house going up the five steps to the porch.

  Slaney kept his eye on the cops. He watched them and strained to hear what they were saying. They had walkie-­talkies on their belts that hissed white noise. But they hardly spoke to each other. They were intent on the meals they’d ordered. Slaney could understand the first cop, but why had the second one shown up?

  He looked out the window. There was a thin bank of trees, mostly skinny birch, the white trunks like bones, and the leaves so green they seemed lit up and the branches were trembling hard with the breeze. Beyond, fields in every direction. He realized he had slept most of the drive and had no idea where he was, except that he was somewhere in Alberta, which seemed as vast and flat as the rest of the prairie, without so much as a shadow to hide under.

  This was for Mother’s wheelchair, installed to the tune of several hundred dollars, the trucker was saying. It was installed only a couple of weeks and she had to be moved to an old age home. I couldn’t take care of her no more.

  I’ve heard of them lifts, the waitress said.

  Both the cops had swivelled around and they were surveying the dining room and they swivelled back and continued with their food.

  We never used it no more than a few occasions.

  I’d say she enjoyed the ride, Lorraine answered.

  Happy as a clam, he said.

  You can tell what a man is made of by the way he treats his mother.

  She’s no more than a feather now, he said. Wheelchair and all. I could lift her up with one hand if she required it.

  Gone away to nothing, Lorraine asked.

  She’s not all there, either, the trucker said.

  I’ve got one like that at the house, the waitress said.

  When Slaney was done he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and scrunched it in his fist and dropped it onto the table and balanced on the two back legs of his chair, his hands linked behind his head. He nearly tipped over so he dropped back down.

  Thank you, sir, he said.

  You’re welcome, son, the man said. The trucker worked his fork and knife under his second egg and in a delicate manoeuvre he transferred the jiggling mass so that it hovered over Slaney’s empty plate and then slithered off and landed with a plop. He put the two pieces of toast he could not finish on Slaney’s plate and an extra piece of bacon.

  You don’t need to do that, sir, Slaney said.

  All I got to show for a lifetime of hard work is that truck out there, the man said.

  It’s quite a rig, Slaney said.

  I’ve got
complaints, the man said. Heavy lifting. A man gets a certain age. No pension, no nothing. Eat your egg.

  Thank you, sir.

  I can’t eat it. I got half a stomach gone to cancer.

  I’m sorry to hear that.

  Just eat.

  Thank you.

  Eat the egg, son.

  Sir, do you think the chickens will survive the heat? Slaney asked.

  Those chickens are frozen solid, the trucker said. My rig is a refrigerator freezer.

  I thought you had a cargo of live chickens back there, Slaney said.

  Those are chicken legs. I don’t know where the rest of them is, the breasts and what-have-you. On somebody else’s truck.

  I thought they were alive out there.

  Dead as doornails, far as I know. Slaney and the trucker looked out at the lot together and they both lifted their coffee cups at the same time and sipped and put them back down.

  I’m going to freshen up, Slaney said.

  Powder your nose, the trucker said. Go ahead.

  Slaney headed to the bathroom where he washed in the sink and crossed the parking lot and climbed up into the truck and shut the door as quietly as he could and he hunched low. After a moment or two the driver sauntered across the parking lot and climbed up into the cab and slammed the door. Slaney saw the driver had a toothpick. It wagged up and then down.

  Then Slaney jerked with fright: a fist rapping the glass.

  Son, those police officers have some questions, the driver said. Slaney rolled down the window.

  Good morning, the officer said. Where you from, son?

  Down east, Slaney said. The cop looked down the highway toward the east. He hooked his fingers into his belt loops and stood there for a long moment. He watched the horizon as though Slaney had yet to show up, as if he were still down east, living his life, breaking the law, getting caught, busting out of jail, and he might appear any minute on the horizon, heading west, heading toward this very truck stop.

  Slaney glanced around for the other officer. He was leaning on the open door of the patrol car, still talking on the hand radio.

  Mind if I ask you what you do for a living, son?

  I’m a university student, Slaney said.

  What’s your line of study?

  I am hoping to become a dental hygienist.

  Looking in people’s mouths, the cop said. He took out a notebook and pen and flipped to an empty page. He clicked the pen with his thumb and held it over the page and there was a pause.

  It was a pen from Florida and the top half was clear glass filled with water and a dolphin swam up and down the pen against a background of a beach and blue sky. The cop moved his lips. His lips formed a word or two, but nothing came out. He gave up. Clicked the pen again.

  I got a bad tooth myself, the cop said. I believe it’s rotting right out of my head. Sometimes I’d like to take a gun and shoot myself in the mouth. Just blow the damn thing right out of my face.

  The cop moved his lower jaw from side to side and touched his fingers to it.

  I’m not qualified yet, said Slaney. It was as though the cop had been rebuked. He seemed instantly angry.

  I don’t see how someone could find fulfillment looking in people’s mouths. Turn your stomach. You’d want to be pretty hard up.

  People are starting to take better care of their teeth, Slaney said. He wanted to move his hands up and down his thighs but he didn’t do it. He let his hands rest lightly on his knees. He kept them still.

  There’s flossing daily, he said. Fluoride. Sometimes just removing the tooth.

  Just yank it out, you’re saying, the cop asked.

  Get a professional, Slaney said.

  And you’re studying it?

  I’ve done history courses so far, Slaney said. First you have to do general things. Before you can get into the school of dentistry.

  Which you are going to do, the cop said.

  Which I hope they’ll accept me, Slaney said. The cop winced as though he were uneasy with what he had to say next.

  What’s your name, son? the cop asked.

  Douglas Knight, Slaney said.

  Do you have any identification on you, Doug, I could take a look-see?

  Slaney took out the new passport and the cop turned the pages and he glanced at the picture and up at Slaney. Then he lifted his sunglasses and let them rest on his forehead. He brought the passport over to the other cop, who leafed through and then got in the car and spoke at length on the radio.

  Slaney and the trucker waited in silence, looking forward. The trucker rolled down his window and tossed the toothpick. He put his hand on the gearshift and gave it a vicious shake as if he wanted to make sure they could move if they had to. The cop came back to Slaney’s side and handed up the passport.

  Doug, I have to be honest, the cop said. I don’t like your personality. I don’t believe you are a dental hygienist or that you will ever become one. I don’t think you have it in you. It’s a distasteful job. But it requires discipline. You look like the kind of guy doesn’t get up in the morning. I don’t think you’re college material.

  Slaney lifted his hip and fit the passport into his back pocket.

  I don’t like the look of you, the cop said. Slaney looked straight ahead.

  Get a haircut, Doug, the cop said. And he strolled away.

  Something funny happened there, son, the trucker said.

  I know, Slaney said.

  Why didn’t they take you in? They made a phone call and they decided to let you go.

  Moved by a whim, Slaney said. I don’t know.

  It wasn’t a whim, the trucker said.

  You had my back.

  Something funny, the trucker said. I don’t know what the hell you done, but they sure as hell wanted you for something and then they let you go.

  The trucker was watching in his side mirror as the cops pulled away from the parking lot. He started up the truck and let it idle.

  I don’t have your back, the trucker said. Nobody has your back.

  Party

  Slaney could hear the party before he saw the house. He walked up a grassy lane and could feel the music thumping through the soles of his sneakers. He saw yellow ribbons of lit window through the black tree trunks and at the end of the path the stretching rectangles of light cast across the lawn.

  The party had spilled into the garden and he could smell a barbecue and there were children running around playing spotlight, patio lanterns strung from the low branches and along the veranda railing. A Hula Hoop wheeled past him and hit a stone and fell into the tall grass at the end of the lawn. He wandered into the house and found Hearn in the kitchen.

  Hearn opened his arms and Slaney walked into them. They stood there hugging without speaking a word. Music throbbed in the walls and there was the racket of conversation. The crowd so thick bodies stood close and people had to work a shoulder or elbow through to pass.

  They just held each other. They stood locked in each other’s grip. They were hanging on tight. Slaney could feel Hearn’s heart. They stood like that for a long time and Slaney let the beat of Hearn’s heart enter him. Then they stepped apart and tried to take each other in.

  Hearn’s freckles and a red bandana he had knotted around his throat. He was skinnier and more muscled and he’d let his fiery hair spring out in an afro. He looked high and a little haunted.

  I’m sorry about your father, Slaney said. He had wanted to say that in person. Hearn put his hand to his forehead as if taking his own temperature.

  I’m sorry you went to prison, Hearn said. He said it in a flat voice and his eyes gleamed with tears and everything that had gone on between them since they were kids seemed to be present in the room.

  Hearn threw back his head and howled. An animal noise that came from somewhere deep. H
e stamped his foot three times to urge the whole weltering cry out of himself.

  We’re going to show them, he said. We’re going to show those bastards.

  Is there anything to eat here? Slaney asked.

  Gutfounded, I suppose, Hearn said.

  Eat the leg off the lamb of God, Slaney said.

  Get this guy a plate of food, Hearn shouted.

  Are you crying? Slaney asked. They had to raise their voices to be heard.

  Yes, I’m crying, Hearn shouted. He grabbed Slaney in a headlock and dug his knuckles into his scalp.

  Of course I’m crying, he growled.

  Let go, Slaney said. He jabbed his elbow into Hearn’s ribs and broke free of the grip.

  It is so good to see you, Hearn said. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he got Slaney a beer out of the old claw-foot bathtub full of ice someone had dragged into the kitchen. He knocked the cap off with a puck and smoky frost curled up. Slaney put the beer on his head and a few people hooted. He drank most of it in one long swig. Slaney found he was crying too.

  A girl handed him a paper plate with a leg of barbecued chicken and potato salad and a salad of tinned pineapple and creamed corn. She dug around in the drawer for cutlery but she could only come up with a miniature spoon, an enamel oval in the handle with a portrait of the Queen.

  Come meet some of the boys, Hearn said. Slaney put down the paper plate and followed him to the basement. The party pounded through the ceiling. There were five men sitting around a table in the corner playing cards. The room smelled yeasty, full of mould and concrete. A washer and dryer were going in the corner. There was a padded leather wet-bar and a lava lamp at least five feet high and shaped like a missile. They had a bottle of scotch on the table and poker chips. A collage of centrefolds covered an entire wall. Each man stood as he was introduced and sat back down.

  Everybody, this is Doug Knight, Hearn said. He’s heading out of here tomorrow for sunny Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Doug, this is Roy Brophy. Roy came in at the last minute with some serious financial support.

  Patterson stood and shook Slaney’s hand.