Glory

by Gillian Wigmore

  “Henry. Yeah, I heard that, too, the big log place on the lake. But why are you thinking about Bud? You don’t wanna drag all that stuff out again, do you?”

  I kept my back to her.

  “Well, whatever. You do what you want. I’ll be out here if you need me.”

  She’d been out here all winter, but I didn’t mention it. She had no phone and I had no idea when I was welcome. Some partnership. We’d hardly written at all since the fall. I didn’t say that, though. I sniffed.

  Glory leaned over and rewound the tape in the four track. “Listen to this,” she said, and pressed Play.

  I expected familiar first chords but they weren’t. These notes were new—slow and sure where Glory usually strummed loose and rough. Two run-throughs of a sad-sounding opening four bars and then her voice. I liked it. The toast popped up, and I started to butter it while I listened. The words were harsh but clear and her voice played no tricks. I listened for the space behind and above them where my voice would go, and for the hollow between her notes where the banjo would fit, but instead I heard the second track she’d laid down on the first—her own guitar in counterpoint, and then her voice harmonizing with her melody.

  I looked at her but she was watching the wind bend the willows out the plastic windows. The song lurched up higher and higher, the chorus bitching and begging at the same time, home, and drown and run, the lyrics crying. I smelled the beans burning. I stirred them and heard the end of the first song of Glory’s she’d written with no part in it for me.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  I said nothing.

  When we were girls there was no place I imagined going that didn’t include her, especially in music. I hitched my banjo to her guitar and sang under and around her like scaffolding, and here she was writing songs without me in them. What could I say? I turned off the heat under the eggs.

  “Get a plate,” I said. “It’s ready.” I poured two half glasses of vodka and cracked the seal on a bottle of orange juice. “Don’t you have any fucking ice?”

  CHORUS

  Tim Johnny, list written on foolscap tucked

  in the back of his high-school yearbook

  Times I fell for Glory Stuart:

  Grade 2 when she wore a pink shirt, pink skirt, pink socks, pink barrettes, pink leg warmers, pink panties, and she charged twenty-five cents for us to see them.

  The time she kissed me on a dare in Grade 10 science when Mr. Holmes was out of the room. She kissed Ross Winston, too, but she kissed me longer.

  At Lou-Ellen Parker’s wedding, when she was drunk and spent an hour holding my hand and saying how much she loved her cousin Crystal.

  When she sang “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” at Pat’s funeral.

  When she sang that Pixies song at Dean’s funeral.

  When she stayed hugging Dean’s bawling wife for so long after everyone else left because they didn’t know what to do.

  The time she sang that song about coming up Highway 27 home right after I come back from the oil patch. And every other time she sang it.

  Whenever she brought me a can of Pacific Pilsner without me asking for it when she was serving at the pub.

  The time I drove her home and she puked on the wheel of my truck and she told me I was her hero because I didn’t deck her for it.

  The time she sang Pink Floyd at the end of the midsummer festival before they lit the bandstand on fire. How she kept singing it all night. How happy she was to see the sunrise later, and how we were still hanging out. How all that night she made me hide her from Hardy because he saw her kiss that asshole Brent Redder when she finished her set, then he beat the shit outta Brent and the ambulance came. When I hid her in my tent and she told me about her brothers and the crazy shit they did when they were all kids.

  When she thanked me by giving me a hand job.

  When next time I saw her sing at the pub, she winked at me like, Oh yeah, I know you.

  When she sang her song about growing up on the river, about being a little girl in the tall grass.

  When she’d put her hand on my shoulder when I left her big tips at the pub when she was pregnant.

  When her face got all cute and chubby when she was pregnant.

  When she got crazy after the baby came and everybody hated her and she shot a hole in the school with her brother’s gun and she told me I was the only one who came to see her in the drunk tank.

  When she sang “Last Night in Middle River” not even strumming her guitar, the time Crystal was in the hospital with mono. That was the year the old folks’ home burned down. Maybe it was the fundraiser for that she was singing at. Man, that song.

  Yesterday, when I seen her at the liquor store in that short skirt and bra.

  CRYSTAL

  I hitchhiked into town. Caught a ride with my former high-school principal, which wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it got me to the reserve. I’d walk to town from there. I answered all his questions about my life with shrugs and maybes and steered him onto the topic of Glory—everyone would rather talk about her, anyway. It got me off the hook. My mind was on her, anyway, the fight that busted out over our beans on toast, the curses I’d chucked at her. I had her stupid new song stuck in my head.

  We’d been into our second drink, the second time around the argument tree, her calling me names, me going silent, freezing her out, when someone knocked at the door. She jumped up and opened it and it was the woman from the parking lot. The pretty one with the short hair and the baby. This time, she had no baby. Only a story about being kicked out, about Glory inviting her to run away, and then Glory did invite her. She invited her to stay in the little hut on the bay that she’d said was so sacred. I really gave it to Glory then. I screamed myself hoarse. I threw the four track. I made the woman cower in a corner while Glory laughed. I hit her in the mouth for that and then left. Glory got in a couple of good shots, too, but I could still feel her mouth on my knuckle, the way her lip gave and shifted over her teeth.

  She’d been determined to leave before, but she said she actually had something lined up in Vancouver this time. She spat that at my back as I was leaving, said she’d do better without me. I tried to shuck it off as I walked. I needed a way out of my head, or some way to get her out of my head.

  This kid walking through the crossroads at Four Corners was just the distraction I was looking for. New boots, new backpack, new jacket. Fuck it, I thought.

  “Hey,” I shouted. “Are you a tree planter?”

  He stopped in the median, his boots on top of flowers I’d seen a road crew putting in the ground yesterday. “What?!” he shouted back, looking around to see if I meant him. He pulled his earbuds out, hung them around his neck, and started across the road. He slowed before he reached me, so I put myself to work, stretching around to reach Glory’s smokes, which I’d stuck in my purse before I left, just to piss her off, so my shirt would ride up and show off my back.

  “Hey,” he said, pretty quiet-like.

  “Hey,” I said, playing it cool. “Wanna smoke?”

  “I don’t smoke,” he said, shaking his head and looking away.

  “So, are you tree planting? You with Zodiac’s crew?”

  “No.” He looked a little impatient. “I’m just looking for work. I heard you can get on at the mill pretty easy. They pay good.”

  I looked at him and measured that. “Nah. They’re not hiring. Rumours of a shutdown.” I watched his face fall. Then I took pity on him. “There’re other things to do here.” I fumbled the cigarette and dropped it on the ground like a dork and had to pretend I didn’t care. “There’s always someone going into the bush or out of the bush. They’re surveying out at the Nation River, even. They might be looking for someone.” I didn’t know what I was talking about. Glory told me she served supper to some surveyors last week at the pub and they’d said they were out at the Nation. I moved in to nudge his arm. “Don’t worry about it. Stick with me and we’ll find you something.”
/>   He looked doubtful, but walked with me. “So, what do you do here for fun?”

  “Oh, we have fun.” I smiled a little wickedly. “We have lots of fun, sometimes. You been down to the lake yet?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “It’s big. Way bigger than I thought it’d be.”

  I watched him as we walked. I liked his tidy hair and sloppy jeans.

  “I mean, I looked at a map, but I didn’t think it would take up so much of the landscape.”

  “It’s big alright. Big and cold. It’s not much use for swimming.” He was actually listening, so I tried to make it better. “But the fishing’s good. They say.”

  “You don’t fish?”

  “Nah. My cousins do, but I do other things.” He looked at me like he expected me to elaborate. “So, what’s your name?” I asked, thinking now’s about the time to change the subject.

  “Boyd. You?”

  “Crystal.” We walked down Main to where it started to curve. I needed to make this guy see something good about me. He was pretty indifferent, but I’d get him. “You wanna see what we do for fun around here? Follow me.”

  Eleven o’clock on a spring morning’s not the best time to be looking for fun in Fort St. James, but I knew the day shift at the Cabaret, and though they wouldn’t open until noon, I figured Polly would let me in early. I banged on the loading door.

  “Polly!” I yelled, and grinned at Boyd. He was looking doubtfully around at the empties and the wrinkled old condoms spread like dead worms on the asphalt. Behind the Cab, there’s sometimes a party after hours, but it usually dies down when someone falls off the drop, where the pavement breaks off into what would be a jetty if it were over water, but since it’s over a cliff that ends in broken bottles and lakeshore, it’s just a party hazard. Boyd walked over and looked off the edge. Polly opened the door.

  “What do you want, Crystal?” She looked like she’d been dragged behind a cart; her hair was stringy and sticking out all over and her eyes were deeply bagged, last night’s makeup still on her lids.

  “Jesus, Polly, you alright?”

  “Yeah, just too early to start work. I think I’m still drunk.” We both laughed. “Who’s yer friend?” She jerked her head at Boyd. “He’s pretty cute.”

  “This is Boyd. Thought I’d bring him by to see if we could get coffee. What do you say?”

  Polly looked behind her into the gloom of the entry dock toward the kitchen. “I guess it’s alright. It’s just me here and Roy, and Roy’s sleeping in the storeroom. Just keep it quiet, okay?”

  “Sure, sweetie, no problem.” I smiled at Boyd and squeezed in the door. Polly left little room, so Boyd had to squeeze past her, too.

  “You travelling, little man?” she asked, leaning in close.

  “He’s deciding,” I told her, and boldly took his hand. He was so surprised, he let me.

  Inside the Cabaret, the smell of beer was dampened by the breeze off the lake. Polly had all the windows open on the lake side of the building, and where the sun made it through the fuggy glass, dust motes scrambled up and down the shafts of sunlight. Boyd and I sat at a table near a window. He looked around with high eyebrows. He whistled.

  “Man, I’ve been in some dives, but this…”

  “What’s wrong with this?” I stood to get us coffee from the pot brewing behind the bar.

  “This is probably the worst-looking bar I’ve ever seen.”

  “Not a bar. A cabaret.” I poured an ample shot of Bailey’s in the bottom of the mugs.

  “Seriously, this is a weird place.” He squinted at the vinyl booths and the worn, diamond-patterned carpeting.

  “That’s just because you can see it. At night when you’re at a bar, the lights are off and there are too many people to get a good look at a place.” He shook his head in disbelief. I was surprised by how defensive I felt. “I bet the bars in the city aren’t so fancy. Drink your coffee.”

  I set the mugs on the table and sat down in a sunbeam. The vinyl was hot under my thighs. I could feel the heat seeping into my jeans. Boyd drank a mouthful and his eyebrows shot up again. I laughed.

  “I spiked it. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He relaxed then, and leaned back in the booth. That’s good, I thought. The more relaxed, the better. If he was relaxed, then I could relax. It wasn’t usually me who got the boys; I’m too awkward and cautious. Boys were Glory’s specialty. She just had to smile a certain way and she could have any man from here to Tache. I’m the quiet one. I let her lead and that usually got me what I wanted, but if she was leaving I was going to have to learn to take care of myself. What would it be like if she actually left? Didn’t bear thinking about. I focused on Boyd. “Funny name, Boyd.”

  “Not really. It’s my mother’s grandfather’s last name. Irish, I think. Or English.”

  I grinned. “Do people call you ‘Boy’?”

  “No. Generally, they call me Boyd. But sometimes they call me ‘Sir’.”

  I laughed because he wanted me to.

  “They call me Sweetcheeks McGee. Cheers.”

  We clinked glasses. He told me about his new boots. I told him about the bar. He told me about the bus ride here, and I listened closely because someday I might make that same trip to find Glory, if she managed to leave.

  I brought a bottle of rum over to the table. I snuck it a bit, inside my jacket, so Polly wouldn’t see, but she was clanking around in the washrooms. She’d be opening up soon, and I figured we’d blend right in, then, with the other afternoon drinkers. I poured a liberal measure into our mugs once the coffee was gone, and we clinked glasses again.

  “Boyd, I gotta tell you, this is not my usual thing.” He looked at me, confused. “It is a weird and serious event for me to get drunk with a stranger in the middle of the day and we are well into it, but I want you to know, we’ll go there together, okay?”

  Still confused but entertained, he nodded. “Sure, Sweetcheeks, you got it. I thought you did this every day. You’re not telling me you’re a lightweight, are you?”

  I blushed.

  Polly brought some fries over once they opened the grill. “You guys,” she said, and shook her head. We were glassy-eyed and open-mouthed, laughing at ourselves. “You be careful!” We ate the fries and ordered more.

  I saw Anton and Tiny come in off the street a while later. I stood and waved at them. “Boyd, this is Tiny. Don’t listen to him, ’cause he’s got bad ideas. And this is Anton. Don’t piss him off. Seriously. The last guy pissed him off was buried last weekend.” Anton grinned. Boyd held out his hand.

  “What’re you and Glory doin’ later, Crystal?” Tiny pulled up a chair and dug his fingers into the fries. “You goin’ to the party?”

  Anton held up two fingers for Polly. They had full glasses with them already. He grabbed a chair and sat at the end of our booth.

  “I dunno.” I raised my eyebrows at Boyd. It was a question. I felt close to him; we had the tie that holds strangers together when they’ve been drinking from the same bottle. I felt warm all over. If I were Glory I’d make my move now—scoot out from my side of the booth and over into his. “You feel like going to a party?”

  “What kind of party?”

  She would move his red coat out of her way and slide closer. He’d go for it, too—put his arm around her, pull her close. But I wasn’t Glory. I sipped my drink.

  “Bush party,” Anton said. “We’re not going. We’re going fishing.” He glared at Tiny, making some kind of point.

  “Lake’s too rough for fishing,” Tiny said. “Let’s just go to the party.”

  “It’s gonna rain. I’d rather fish than get rained on at some pit party in the bush.”

  “It’ll rain on the lake, too.” Tiny rolled his eyes at his brother, making me laugh.

  Around us, things were picking up momentum: the Tragically Hip jammed out of the jukebox, and every seat at the bar was taken by men in jeans and workboots. Polly swatted a customer with a bar rag. He leaned back, mock
-affronted, and roars of laughter poured out from all the mouths down the bar. The sunlight had changed in our time indoors—a low afternoon glare shone up, highlighting the bags under Boyd’s eyes as he tried to find a wireless signal on his phone. He’d never find one. The heat in the bar made me sleepy. I let my eyes slide around at the mid-afternoon clientele. I loved the jerks, mostly, and I loved hating the ones I didn’t love. Sue-Ann from the Shell station was there with her man, a big guy who worked for the town road crew. I could see Anton eyeing him up. Lola and Shayanne were doing pull-tabs, a big pile of not-a-winners growing between their glasses. Some bush crew was in and the old guys sat in a bunch at the back. No one sat near the dance floor yet, but that would start up soon enough. It was Saturday, after all.

  Everything else would start up, too—the spats from the gossip going around the bar, the snubs and the fights. Old, invisible hurts and hardships would seep out like water on ice. Sly glances would turn into glares. Someone would make a pass at someone else’s wife, and insults, then fists, would fly. Suddenly, I felt too hot, pissed off about this place and these people. Boyd looked stupid in his stiff new clothes and boots. Anton and Tiny were morons, just like the rest of them. I looked around and all I could see were missing teeth and mean, squinty eyes. I was sorry I’d brought Boyd here. I wished instead we’d kept walking out toward the point, through downtown, and out the other side, so he’d see some good. Some other thing than this beer-soaked mess. Glory would leave me here to shrivel and die with these losers. I caught Boyd staring at my tits. I realized I deserved it. I’d led him on like Glory would’ve. I’d been Glorying it up all day. Since when did I pick up strangers in the road and get them drunk? I stood up.

  “Going to the bathroom.” I lurched away.

  Once I’d pissed, avoiding my eyes in the bathroom mirror, I kept going out the front door and back onto the street. It was later than I’d thought, coming on evening, and the wind was up. The cool air soothed my hot cheeks. I walked down the hill into town. The stores were closing, the ones that weren’t boarded up, and the trucks running outside the Overwaitea left plumes of exhaust in the air. I followed the road toward the lake. Boyd could find himself a new guide. I’d lost my hard-on. I wanted only wind.