by Ted Staunton
“She’s not here, but Jaden says it’s perfect.”
Jaden must be a character in the video game. “Well, Deb’ll probably be home soon. I’m glad Jaden likes it. But how come a fifteen, Bun?”
“That’s what the guy said I needed to be part of the posse.”
“What posse?”
“Fifteenth Street Posse. I’m in.”
Right. Of course. So Bunny has either gotten a tattoo to go with a video game or he’s joined a street gang. I wonder which would bug Deb more. Not that it’s my problem; anyway, Bun is better at handling things than most people think. He’s probably doing better than me right now. As if he knows what I’m thinking, he says, “Did you kiss your old lady yet?”
“Not yet. Things are a little strange here, Bun. We’re up in a place called Torrance.”
“Torrance? Where’s Torrance? Is that Buffalo?”
“No, Torrance, Ontario.”
“Torrance, Ontario?”
“Yeah, it’s up near the cottage somewhere.”
“Near the cottage? Did Dad let you drive?”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“Neither is Mom.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, I’m with the old lady and her granddaughter and this guy named Al Capoli, and I’m driving his white Cadillac convertible.”
I wait while Bun repeats all that. It’s a habit he has. Then I say, “Okay. Glad everything’s cool.”
“Oh yeahhh. I’m really pumped.”
“Excellent. Gotta run, Bun.”
“Aren’t you driving?”
“Yeah, I am, I forgot. Later.”
I couldn’t tell him it might all be a fake. At least he got a for-real tattoo he liked. Unless it’s henna. Would Bunny know the difference? Hey, is it a virtual Fifteenth Street Posse or a real street gang? Drop it, I think. Just go with it.
Before I put the phone away, I peek at how many texts there are from Jer and Deb. Answer: a lot; most from Deb. I think about just deleting them, but then I pick one at random, to see how much they’re freaking out.
I check one of Deb’s: if u have time or need in NYC call Sylvia at CCNY. u remember her happy to help. Can give you number xoM
What? I scroll to the one before: NYC wow great! glad GL is nice be sure offer to pay expenses with grandpa’s money xoM. The one after is Sylvia’s phone number and a hotel suggestion.
What has Jer been telling her? I check his latest text. All it says is, If that’s all you have to say, I will. Huh? I don’t know what that means. What was the last thing I said to him? Right now, I can’t remember. I send him a text: all good going north done Monday.
I pocket my phone. That’s all I can process for now.
I pick up the camera bag. I figure I can get a good shot of the cottage from here, with the light behind me. When I open the bag, the first thing I see is Grandpa’s other envelope. What the heck, I figure, it doesn’t matter now. I open it.
Spence,
If Gloria Lorraine is out of the picture, here’s your alternate target. Back in the ’30s I swung a pick on a road crew, helping build the North Shore highway. Now it’s Highway 17, part of the Trans-Canada. I was just a kid, my first time away from home and my first real job. Worst job I ever had too, but in those Depression days I was damn lucky to have it. Lord, the blackflies and deerflies and mosquitoes! Then one day something else buzzed us: a bush pilot in a Fox Moth. Then and there I decided I had to fly. I know you’ve heard all this before, a million times, usually as water rolled down the cottage tablecloth. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that; maybe I should have just told you the story. Water under the bridge. This is my dishtowel to mop it up with.
Anyway, since Gloria Lorraine and I will both be ghosts—if anything—go to a place I hear is now a ghost town just off that highway and film it for me. The place is called Jackfish. It’s not on maps anymore, but you’ll find it. Just west of there, the road goes over a rise and around a bend. You’ll know it. I was just below that rise when that plane came roaring over it and changed my life. Film it for me as the sun rises behind you. Then film whatever is left of the town, before it’s gone too, especially the railroad station and the Superior Hotel. Those places meant a lot to me. What happened there isn’t as important as the story you’ll make up about it.
Love,
Grandpa
I put the letter in my pocket; then I film. I go up to the cottage. Al passes me in his swimsuit. “One last dip. Comin’?”
I shake my head. Inside, you can hear Gloria Lorraine snoring. In the living room, AmberLea is sitting watching the silent TV. I sit beside her, but not too close. Onscreen, a young Gloria Lorraine holds a cigarette the same way the old one does. She has that knowing look from her head shot. Then it melts to fear. “No,” you can see her saying, “No.” Then it’s Fred MacMurdo looking tough, and he’s holding the gun this time. AmberLea, on the other hand, is holding her grandmother’s purse. The purse is open in her lap and so is the locket. I lean closer. Inside the locket is an old yellow-brown photo of a kid—no, a baby.
AmberLea looks at me. “What is going on?”
I wish I knew.
REEL THREE
EXT.—NORTHERN ONTARIO ROAD—MEDIUM SHOT,
FROM ROADSIDE—DAY
A white Cadillac, top down, zooms through the frame, left to right, against a background of Northern Ontario rock face. GL’s scarf flutters in the breeze.
TRAVELING SHOT, FROM ABOVE—FRONT OF CADILLAC AND ROAD BEHIND
SPENCER driving, shades on, GL holding hat on head, in back AL (James? you know, from Sopranos) smoking cigar, and AMBERLEA. Between them, a food cooler.
LOW RUMBLING NOISE
Camera holds steady as three motorcycles appear around a bend in the road behind them. SPENCER tilts head to check his mirror.
A HIGHER HUMMING NOISE (AS SPENCER TILTS HIS HEAD)
A helicopter closes in above the bikes.
SPENCER
(hitting the gas)
Trouble.
GL
(taking .357 Magnum from glove
compartment as car accelerates)
Finally. I was getting bored.
Behind, the helicopter rises.
AERIAL SHOT, FROM BESIDE HELICOPTER AS IT TRACKS THE CADILLAC BELOW
Machine-gun fire shoots from the helicopter. Bullets strike the road beside and in front as the Cadillac swerves from lane to lane.
TRACKING SHOT, FROM ABOVE—FRONT OF CADILLAC AND ROAD BEHIND (AS ABOVE)
Helicopter is flying low behind car. SPENCER pulls Glock pistol from underneath his jacket and passes it back to AMBERLEA.
SPENCER
Not yet. Shorten the range—and hold on.
SPENCER yanks on steering wheel.
TRACKING SHOT, FROM BEHIND HARLEYS—HARLEYS, CADILLAC, HELICOPTER
Three Harleys, one with a sidecar, are following the Cadillac. Helicopter just visible ahead and above as it peels away. The bikes are catching up to the Cadillac fast. The road winds, with lots of dips and curves.
MEDIUM WIDE SHOT FROM SIDE OF ROAD—HARLEYS DRIVING BY
The three Harleys drive by. MAN IN SIDECAR readies a rocket launcher. DRIVER OF LEAD BIKE has machine gun mounted between handlebars.
GRENADE BIKER has grenades on a strap across his chest. DRIVER OF LEAD BIKE fires off a burst as Cadillac swerves.
TRACKING SHOT, FROM ABOVE—FRONT OF CADILLAC AND ROAD BEHIND (AS BEFORE)
AMBERLEA is in firing position over back of car, trying to steady her arm on seat back, trunk.
AMBERLEA
Don’t swerve so much. I can’t line up a shot!
BURST OF MACHINE-GUN FIRE
Bullets hit rock face just above car. Dust flies.
WHINE OF RICOCHETS
AMBERLEA
Swerve! Swerve!
MEDIUM WIDE SHOT, LOOKING FORWARD THROUGH WINDSHIELD OF CADILLAC
Cadillac is driving down the road. Suddenly the helicopter swoops in from in front of Cadillac. Bullets dot mi
ddle of the highway. Cadillac swerves. Bullet knocks driver’s side mirror off and then helicopter is past.
SHOT FROM BEHIND HARLEYS (AS BEFORE)
ROCKET LAUNCHER fires. Trees by roadside fireball as Cadillac whips around a bend. GRENADE BIKER zooms ahead.
MEDIUM WIDE SHOT, LOOKING OUT THROUGH DRIVER’S SIDE WINDOW
SPENCER is still driving car. GRENADE BIKER pulls up beside Cadillac, grins evilly as he one-hands a grenade and pulls pin with teeth.
AMBERLEA and GL blast him at the same instant.
PAN TO:
MEDIUM WIDE SHOT, LOOKING OVER CADILLAC’S BACK
GREDNADE BIKER’s Harley wipes out, grenade clatters to highway and explodes, taking out MACHINE-GUN BIKER coming up behind. MAN WITH ROCKET LAUNCHER keeps coming.
SHOT FROM BEHIND HARLEYS (AS BEFORE)
Rocket launcher fires again, just misses Cadillac.
TRACKING SHOT, FROM ABOVE—FRONT OF CAR AND ROAD BEHIND (AS BEFORE)
AL
I got this.
AL takes big bottle of olive oil from food cooler.
AL (CONT’D)
No salad tonight though.
AL pours oil out side of car, all over the road, then tosses his cigar after it. Behind, a sheet of flame ignites as sidecar bike hits the oil and goes into a skid.
Cadillac goes around a curve.
HORN BLARES
SPENCER swerves, and a huge logging truck barrels around the bend, going the other way.
SOUND OF HUGE CRASH AS TRUCK HITS THE WIPED-OUT BIKE.
SLOW MOTION:
Through the air, the rocket launcher comes spinning end over end, over the rocks and lands in the Cadillac, between AMBERLEA and AL. AMBERLEA grabs it and aims up and back as the helicopter swoops in on another run.
AMBERLEA
(aiming up with rocket launcher)
Steady…
SHOT FROM BEHIND CADILLAC (AS BEFORE)
Track of machine-gun fire pocks the road, getting closer and closer to the back of the car as AMBERLEA aims.
AMBERLEA (CONT’D)
Now.
AMBERLEA fires.
AMBERLEA’S POINT OF VIEW FROM CAR
Direct hit on helicopter. It fireballs and disintegrates in midair.
TRACKING SHOT, FROM ABOVE—FRONT OF CAR AND ROAD BEHIND (AS BEFORE)
AL
Time for lunch.
GL
Time for a Dependable.
MEDIUM WIDE SHOT FROM SIDE OF ROAD
Wreckage of last bike is crushed beneath wheels of logging truck. Trailer has tipped, spilling logs across the road. Little puddles of burning oil flicker. A black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows slowly rolls up to the wreckage and stops where the road is blocked.
TWENTY
I know. You don’t have to say it. But it would be cool, huh?
What really happens is, Al blows up the outhouse. In the morning, just before we go, there’s a lineup for the bathroom, so Al fires up a cigar and heads for the outdoor biffy. He steps in, puffing hard.
“Those things stink.” AmberLea wrinkles her nose at the cigar as she watches from the kitchen window. She is not a happy camper this morning. Then again, neither am I. It’s ridiculously early and, except for school days, getting up before noon is against my religion.
“He said it smells a lot sweeter than what’s in there,” I tell her.
“I don’t want to find out,” she says. Then she calls out, “Hurry up, Gramma! Are you almost done?”
Maybe ten minutes later we’ve locked the cottage and we’re all rolling up the lane in the Cadillac when behind us comes this muffled boom, and a whoosh that sets the leaves on the trees flapping. I actually feel a blast of air hit the back of my head, and then clunk! We all flinch as this chunk of green painted wood with a door hinge on it bounces off the hood of the car. Then more wood and shingles and stuff come crashing down around us. We all shout and swear (well, it’s mostly GL) like we’re in an R-rated movie, and I almost drive us into the bush. I hit the brakes and we all look back. The roof and door have blown off the outhouse and what’s left is on fire. A plume of smoke is already floating above the trees.
“Damn,” says GL. “That’ll come out of the selling price. Oh well, it’s a knockdown anyway.”
Al says, “What the—?” Then he looks at his hand and back and his eyes get big. “Did I—? I think I left my cigar in there.”
GL shakes her head. “That’ll do it. Methane gas. You’re lucky you didn’t go up too.” She settles back in her seat and waves a hand. “Come on, Scooter; nothing we can do now. Let’s hit it.”
Somewhere a siren is wailing as I ease out onto the road. I guess we’re all a little shaken up, because none of us notices I’ve turned the wrong way until a little way along, when a pickup truck whips past us, going the other way, green lights flashing from its dashboard. I know from going to Grandpa’s cottage that green lights mean the driver is a volunteer firefighter. I can guess where he’s headed.
“Shouldn’t we be over the railroad tracks by now?” AmberLea asks.
She’s right. I pull over and do my second three-point turn in the Caddy just before a car zooms past with more green lights flashing. I pull over to let another one go by before we get past the cottage again. By now there’s a lot of smoke above the trees. I can feel us all trying not to look at it.
Then we’re bumping back across the railroad tracks. The siren gets louder. We pass the church, and now I can tell the sound comes from a tower behind the community center. A whole whack of cars and trucks with flashing green lights are back there too, parked every which way. Men are pulling on firefighter suits as a red pumper truck backs out of a garage.
“There you go,” says GL. “They’d have hosed you down in no time, Al.”
I hear a weak laugh from the backseat as we roll on. Maybe now isn’t the time to mention something else I see as we pass: behind the community center, trapped in the middle of all the cars and trucks with the flashing green lights, is a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows.
TWENTY-ONE
By now I’m Mr. Confusion. I’m still going with it, but both Grandpa and GL sending me—or us—to Jackfish is too much of a coincidence. And how did the SUV already get here if we shook them yesterday? It’s got to be a script. If it is, it’s awfully complicated though. Who worked it all out? Was the outhouse rigged to blow up? What about the fancy gunshot that put the hole in the windshield? And why would Grandpa want me to go to Jackfish anyway, even without Gloria Lorraine? Was something else planned for up there? Maybe not, if the deal was to film a road and a deserted town and make up my own story. On the other hand, all I was supposed to do was get a kiss on the cheek from an old lady. All this other stuff is way too complicated. But if it’s all for real, it’s too…well, it’s too much like a movie.
We stop for a break in Pointe au Baril Station. I’m still thinking it over as I check for texts, standing in front of Al while he gets us clean shirts again, which is trickier in a small place. The signal isn’t very strong and I keep moving around, which bugs Al, of course. Finally I see there’s one from Deb, one from Jer, and one from Bun. Deb’s gives me the name of a book about film noir that will help with my questions. Sylvia will get me a copy. Jer’s says ok. Bun’s says his tattoo hurts and he’s still hanging with Jaden and the posse and something about guns. Sounds as if he’s making progress with his video game, maybe pulled an all-nighter. I text him back: outhouse exploded tell u later. That will give Bun something to think about when he isn’t blasting aliens or leading a gang war in Parkdale or whatever he’s doing. Suddenly I really wish I’d gotten the outhouse explosion on camera. Damn.
Then we’re driving again and I’m wondering about my own game and how real it is. How can I find out? I turn it over in my mind as we head up Highway 69 to where it meets 17 just south of Sudbury, and then we go west on 17 through Blind River, Thessalon and a bunch of other places, all the way to Sault Sainte Marie, where GL says we
’ll stop for the night. If this is all fake, GL is in on it and Al has to be an actor, so they won’t tell me anything. That leaves AmberLea. It’s worth a try; she was more talkative last night at the cottage—at least until I bombed out by asking about her house arrest. After we get checked into a Comfort Inn, GL mixes martinis for herself and Al, and they start talking about Vegas. I say to AmberLea, “We should take Mister Bones for a walk.”
AmberLea doesn’t look any happier than she did this morning, but this might be my only chance. She clips the lead onto Mister Bones’s collar and we start down the street. It feels good to stretch my legs. Mister Bones likes it too, hitting two telephone poles and sniffing up a storm. I make a lame joke about phone poles being safer than outhouses. She laughs, and I wish I looked as if I needed a shave. Girls like scruffy guys. I’ve decided she really is better-looking than I thought at first. I go for it while she’s still in a good mood. “You know last night, when you said, ‘What’s going on?’” Right away she frowns. I keep on anyway. “Well, what is going on? Is this for real, do you think? Like Al being a gangster and bad guys chasing us with GPS and stuff?”
AmberLea pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head and looks at me, hard. I notice she has green eyes before I look away. “You’re asking me?” she says. “Look, Spinner—”
“Spencer.”
“Sorry. Spencer. Whoever. Sorry, all the names she uses get me confused. You’re asking the wrong person. I mean, I don’t even know who you are. I don’t know where we are. All I know is, you show up yesterday and my gramma drags me off to ‘change my life,’ and I’m gonna be in it so deep when I get back that I’ll need a ladder to get back up to the bottom.” She swears and tugs Mister Bones away from a Big Mac wrapper.
Oh, boy. I tell her about Grandpa’s will and having to get the kiss and going to Erie Estates and what happened before we picked her up. As I do, her eyes go from blank and angry to confused and angry. “That’s weird,” she says. “Gramma called the day before yesterday, said she’d be coming over to our house Friday morning and would Mom be around. I said no, because Mom always golfs on Fridays, and she laughed her cackly little laugh and said, ‘Perfect, see you then,’ and I forgot about it until you all showed up in the Cadillac.”
