She hauls up her coat and skirts with one hand. With the other she reaches for Uncle Leftie’s hand and tries to get him to … what the hell is she doing now? Skipping? Olive is actually trying to get Leftie McKinnon to skip down the lane with her.
“Come on, Leftie! Doesn’t this spring air make you want to sing and skip? Skip, skip, skip to my Lou. Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.”
I can’t believe what I’m seeing with my own two eyes. My Uncle Leftie tries a skip or two before holding up his hands in surrender. The next time I write to my cousin Nancy, I’ll be sure to tell her about her father skipping. She won’t believe it either.
Giving up on Leftie, Olive grabs Rena’s hand and pulls her along. We watch them skip down the lane, Rena keeping up the best she can. Before she left the house she’d stuck her feet into Arthur’s rubber boots and now she’s galumphing down the road. In the light of the moon, Olive’s tall figure twists and bends while her free arm waves at the air. Meanwhile, it looks as if Rena has traded in skipping for a hopping run.
“Would you look at that!” Uncle Leftie says, shaking his head. “That Olive sure does get things riled up, doesn’t she?”
Uncle Leftie has a fascinated look on his face that I’ve seen on other faces. What is it about Olive that causes such amazement, when she bugs me so much?
Pulling his keys from his pocket, Leftie heads to the police truck. He turns to me and says, “You coming to town with me then, kid?”
I look at Bear, who is scraping the bottom of his boot against the clothesline pole. He keeps bending over to examine his boot and doesn’t even look up as I debate Leftie’s question.
A part of me is thinking, get into that car with your uncle, you fool! It is far too dangerous to be standing next to Bear James. What if what happened the other night happens again, or maybe even worse, what if what didn’t happen, happens again? And judging by how much you’re sweating by just standing next to him, the faster you get out of range, the better.
Think practical, Trish. With or without Bear, there’s TV bingo to think of. And your mother’s house has a nice hot shower and television and a warm bed and most likely some leftover pizza in the fridge. Tomorrow you could even go down to Canadian Tire to pick up that piece of pipe for the stove and get it fixed before Ray comes home. Because, Trish, the question before you goes like this: Do you keep trying to save your marriage, or are you ready to lose your family again?
Try picturing the first scenario. When the power returns you go back home and to work at Foghorn Pewter. You can even rekindle that little fantasy thing you’ve got going with Kelly, your boss, because, bottom line? That little thing for your boss is safe because it’ll never go further than your mind. When Ray comes home you’ll talk as though you believe your marriage is worthy and strong. And if the talking doesn’t work, you’ll get him to bed and do your convincing there.
And what if you let it all slip away? That would be like stepping off a cliff into the fog, now wouldn’t it, with no idea how far you’d fall before hitting bottom. Falling would be the easy part compared to what it would take to crawl back up to that edge. Unless … unless you somehow learned how to fly on your own.
All this thinking is going on while I wave goodbye to Uncle Leftie. Bear and I are standing here watching the truck bounce down the lane until the brake lights flash when Leftie reaches Olive and Rena.
“You suppose Olive might yank him out of the car and make him skip some more?” Bear says.
Sure enough, Olive’s voice carries all the way up the lane. “Shame on you, Leftie! No sneaking away allowed.”
But Uncle Leftie would never take the chance of having to listen to Aunt Sybil give him shit for the next six months if he ever tried to pull off the old “the roads were bad so I decided to stay over” routine. My Aunt Sybil keeps Leftie on a short leash, and while he’d never admit it, everyone knows he needs the security of Sybil. I wonder if most men are like that. Mine acts like he is the exception.
So there goes Leftie, out of danger. I can hear his tires crunch on the gravel just before he turns onto the road to town. That moon is so bright I’m able to make out the figures of Olive and Rena down at the end of the lane. The wind has dropped so I can hear their voices floating up the lane as well. The storm has finally moved out. Spring has returned, and I’m feeling a weird sort of calm about what might happen next.
I sneak a peak at Bear’s profile. I’ve never really looked at him in this way. Like a lover, that is. I can’t help wondering, or maybe hoping, that what I feel towards Bear means it’s time to accept that Trish and Ray are finished and it’s time to reshuffle the deck.
Hmmm, living with Bear on top of Thunder Hill with his wonderful summer bathtub. On the negative side, there’s that two-seater outhouse to consider, and in winter a chemical toilet behind a curtain. But, hey, if he gives you the right kind of love you could live with that and more. You and Bear would keep throwing those great big “end of summer” parties and who knows, maybe Ray would show up from time to time, with his hot one. She’s probably not much older than Gayl, someone who looks up to Ray as being so smart, so sweet, and so … so … devoted. Probably like I used to.
Stop it right there, Trish. Stick to your own fantasy, not Ray’s. Because you would be with Bear, right Trish? Maybe this nightmare of a journey you’ve been on these past three days has led to this very moment here in Kyle Lane.
If this is the moment, then you should probably act on it now. Say something like, “What do you suppose that was all about the other night?” or, “That was an interesting time there on the pool table, don’t you agree?” At least then it will be out and he’ll be forced to respond to a mature and direct question.
I start by asking, “Was that dog shit I saw you scraping off your boot back there?”
“Sure was,” Bear says. “I guess I should have gotten you to clean it up.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because it was Suzie’s shit.”
“Come on. It could have belonged to one of the other dogs.”
“No, it was Suzie’s.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Hey, you don’t live your life in the woods and learn nothing about shit.”
“You’re the one who’s full of shit, Bear James. Are you sure it wasn’t your own?”
Bear laughs and reaches into the inside of his jacket for a joint while I fumble in my pockets for a wooden match. He leans towards me with the joint between his lips and murmurs, “You know, your Uncle Leftie’s an okay guy and everything, but I thought he’d never leave.”
Hmm. I run my thumbnail over the match head a few times until it lights.
Bear whistles in appreciation. “Very impressive. You must have gone to match lighting school. I suppose you can hold a cigarette butt between your teeth and flip it into your mouth too.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I can.”
“You are one talented human being, now aren’t you?”
We smoke the joint and watch as the world around us slides into an altered space. The tops of the spruce tree hedge my father planted so long ago stand crisp against the night sky. Far down the lane we can make out Olive and Rena’s figures moving closer to us in the moonlight.
The night is so quiet now that Bear and I are standing here in the driveway listening to the drip of melted snow and ice running off the eavestrough. The surf sounds far away, like low thunder. It’s time to take a deep breath and face the truth.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“How are you feeling?”
“You mean do I feel sick or something?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but you know the other night? At Hog Holler?”
“Yeah? What about it?” He taps the end of the joint and tucks it into his pocket before turning
to face me.
“I was just wondering,” I say, feeling my mouth go suddenly dry. “Did Clayton ever wake up? At Hog Holler? In the morning, I mean? After I left?”
“Were you still there when he fell off the couch?”
“No.”
“You should have heard the sound his head made when it hit the cement floor.” Bear raises his voice like he’s telling the story to several people. “I looked over there expecting to see his head look like a smashed pumpkin.”
I give a little laugh and clear my throat. “I’m not sure I remember much of that night.” Then I act as if maybe the moon has distracted me and that’s why I’m staring straight up at the sky. “Do you remember much?”
“Nope. Not much. Do you think we missed anything?”
I look at him and he looks at me, his eyes steady and calm.
That look, more than his words, make me feel like earth’s gravity is pulling even harder against any influence a big bright moon may have had seconds ago. When my teeth get to chattering, and Bear turns to me, it’s sad to think he won’t be wrapping his arms around me like the friend he used to be. So when he too, starts staring up at the moon, it feels like an invisible stop sign has just sprung up between us.
Right then, a set of headlights suddenly sweeps around the curve on Thunder Hill Road and heads up the lane to where we stand.
26. Blue Grass Badly Played
I WAKE UP TO what sounds like a bluegrass band playing badly. My eyes pop open to darkness broken only by a tiny flicker of light coming from somewhere. Never mind where am I? Who the hell am I? A pair of hands slap down on either side of this body and this head turns and these eyes watch that faint flicker of light coming from a spot on the floor. A faint smell of dried flowers, mostly roses, and the music suddenly stops. Voices, male and female. Then just as clear as a bright winter’s day, the sound of Alana’s voice. Yes, it’s Alana, who after many drinks sounds as familiar to me as my own mother.
“You think someone should check on old Trish?” she is asking.
Thank you, Alana. You know those fast motion films of a tide rising and falling in the space of a minute? That’s how it feels to catch up with myself. For a moment I savour the relief until I start to piece it all together. Like how I came to be lying up here in the room of my childhood. I can hear Suzie licking herself under the bed. It’s late evening and I’m waking up from sleeping off Bear’s frigging wheelchair dope on top of a stomach full of Olive’s wine.
I can’t say I was all that excited to see that the visitors behind the headlights last night in the yard were Alana and Danny. Danny must have gained Alana’s forgiveness by getting her liquored up and was she ever. Over the years, Alana has picked up this sloppiness in her face when she drinks. Her skin seems slacker than usual and her eyes get all puffy and red. Olive hustled them into the warmth of her kitchen while I was wondering when this party would ever end.
“Of course you’re staying. You should have come over here days ago,” Olive said, taking their coats and handing them to me. By the time I hung them on the hooks behind the door and turned around, Danny and Alana were settled at the table. The fish and vegetables were popped back into the oven to warm up and a bottle of wine was uncorked. Thank God I hadn’t gotten around to washing up all the serving bowls because Olive simply filled them up again and brought them to the table. “I wish you’d come earlier,” she said and then she turned to me. “Patricia, you were supposed to invite Danny and Alana for supper!”
“I did.”
“But you should have brought them earlier!”
“I didn’t think it was my job to physically drag them here.”
Olive placed her arm around Alana’s shoulders. “But they’re Danny and Alana. Of course it was your job to drag them over.”
Gayl and the twins suddenly burst through the back stairs door, followed by the pups. Now there were so many people and kids and dogs in the room that the windows fogged right up. The girls were jumping up and down and the dogs were barking and it was just as Olive was setting down the salmon platter with the accompanying herbed potatoes and fresh parsley garnish that I started to feel the whirlybirds.
Maybe it was the way she was fussing over Danny and Alana — fetching napkins, spooning vegetables onto their plates — like they had survived some horrible ordeal and had just been rescued, but I honestly thought she was going to spoon-feed them next.
I looked at Alana to see if she was wise to this, but she seemed just as happy as Danny to be fawned upon. What is wrong with these people? Why can’t they see through Olive?
“Now where’s my official wine tester? Patricia?”
“No more wine,” I said, placing my hand over my glass.
Danny held out his glass and shouted, “Since the official wine tester has done far too much testing for tonight, I don’t mind substituting.”
“It’s a lovely Merlot, don’t you think?” Olive smiled. “Not too dry. How would you describe it, Danny?”
Danny put on the air of a snooty wine taster. He swished it around his mouth, pretending that it was filling up his mouth to the point where his cheeks bulged and his eyes looked ready to pop out. Olive found this hilarious.
Alana didn’t. She elbowed Danny in the ribs. “Swallow it for Christ’s sake!”
Danny swallowed. “Ahhh.”
“What do you think?” said Olive, so excited she held her fists up against her chest.
“There is only one word to appropriately describe the boo-kay of this boo-tay,” Danny said, loudly smacking his lips and pausing for the longest moment. “Moist!”
Olive clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”
“Brilliant!” said Alana, banging her glass onto the table as she often does at this point in her drinking. Olive has obviously noted this about Alana in the past because tonight she has served her wine in a sturdy Irving station mug.
“This,” Olive said suddenly, smacking both hands down on the table, “is exactly what I love!”
We all looked at her. What? What did she love? The wine? Danny’s jokes? The weather? Everybody’s faces seemed to shine with expectation.
She drew in her breath. We probably did too.
“This! Friends and family gathered around the table, drinking wine and eating good food, as people have done since the beginning of time.” She raised her glass. “To power failures and candlelight. And … and … our collective consciousness!”
Everybody just sort of smiled as if wondering what the hell she was talking about. Collective consciousness? Olive is so full of herself I wanted to shout.
“I want to make a toast,” Kyla pouted.
“Go ahead, lovey,” Olive said.
Kyla raised her glass that Olive had filled with cranberry juice and a touch of wine. “Here’s to no school!”
“Here! Here!” said Bear.
“This is fun,” Olive said. “Danny? What’s your toast?”
“That’s easy.” Danny slapped his hand on the bottom of the empty bottle as he held it over his glass. “Here’s to more wine tasting!”
“I’ll drink to that,” Olive said, reaching to her sideboard for yet another bottle. “Bear? Do you have anything you’d care to toast?”
“He’s already toasted,” Danny said.
“I thought he might have something to say about pool tables,” Olive said, winking at him and smiling pointedly at me. When does she ever stop? I looked at Bear.
“Sure. Why not? To pool tables!” Bear thrust his glass out like he’d been planning all along to make this toast. “Where you meet the nicest people on a Saturday night! Right, Trish?”
“Ha Ha!” all those collective faces laughed.
Could this night get any worse?
“Why are you turning so red, Trish?” Danny teased.
That did it. I grinned so hard my cheeks ached, while I raised my glass high in the air. “And here’s to Bear for rescuing me. Cause there’s nothing warmer than a nice big bear rug on a cold, stormy night!”
“Here, here!” Bear said, clinking my glass with his own and giving me this big exaggerated grin. And just like that, our night on the pool table had officially become a harmless event, now plopped into the collective joke pool.
And that’s when the room began to seriously rotate. I said something about them having to find someone else to do up all the dishes because I had to go upstairs to lie down.
I had Alana’s attention now and I felt like she was zeroing into my brain. “You okay, Trish?”
“Yeah, sure, why?”
“You look scared or something,” said Alana
“You do look a little strange,” Danny said. “I mean, stranger than usual.” Their laughter followed me all the way up the back stairs. “If I look scared, it’s because I am scared,” I shot back, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.
My feet felt heavy, and that’s the last thing I remember before falling face first onto the bed.
Now that I know where and who I am, I slip out of bed and crawl across to the floor register. I slide the grate open and peek down just as the “band” starts up again. Olive is squeaking away at what might be “Rocky Mountain Breakdown.” I see she has forced everybody else to take up instruments too because Bear and Alana are pretending they know how to play the spoons and Danny is drumming away on a tiny set of bongo drums. And what’s that other sound? A kazoo? I crane my neck so I can see the kitchen couch. Rena’s there, blowing into a comb. She has tucked a napkin behind it, and judging by the way her cheeks bulge out, she must think she’s playing a tuba. And there’s Gayl looking happy to be squeezed between Bear and Alana on the couch. In fact, everybody looks plain cheerful. Just look at Bear, reaching out to squeeze Olive’s elbow when she screeches out the last note of the song and everybody’s whistling and clapping for Olive, who’s acting like she’s some sort of rock star the way she laughs and tosses her hair when she bows. The only one missing from the happy scene is Biz, who maybe like me, is turned off by this Olive love-in and is likely in his room staring at his ceiling and wishing he was somewhere else.
Road to Thunder Hill Page 22
