When Hell Freezes Over

by Rick Blechta

  I sat up a bit straighter. “It’s just that you haven’t yet accepted what you’ve found out about him.”

  She nodded her head, her big eyes staring at me. “That’s exactly what it is. You see everything so clearly, Michael.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “It is! You’ve known exactly what needed to be done right from the beginning. You’ve let me talk when I needed to talk and were quiet when I needed peace to think. And you brought me here. I don’t know how I would have been able to bear being all alone tonight. I’m so frightened!”

  I nodded. “I wouldn’t want to be in your position. Finding out that your father’s, um...”

  “He’s a criminal, Michael. You can say that. I’ve had the past week to think of nothing else. My father has almost certainly killed people.I’m the daughter of someone in the mob.”

  “I’m so sorry for you,” I said lamely.

  “I knew you’d say something like that.” Regina stopped and sighed heavily. “I feel as if I’ve been forced to grow up because of all this. Oh sure, I was out of school. I had a good job in an exciting city, but it’s as if I’ve never been out from behind my father’s shadow. He’s always had someone watching over my shoulder, protecting me, shielding me from life. I’m wondering now what would have happened if I’d tried to do something he wouldn’t have approved of.”

  “Like what?”

  Regina looked straight at me. “Like taking a man into my bed.”

  I was astounded. “But you told me you’d had boyfriends. Didn’t you ever...I mean...”

  She laughed ruefully. “I felt that was something I couldn’t do until I was married. Papa had forced that into my head from an early age. ‘Men are not to be trusted, little Gina. They only want one thing from pretty girls like you!’ A few times over the years, someone has come on to me, but I always put them off. I don’t think I want that any more.”

  Regina stood up and undid the two buttons at the top of her nightgown. Being made for someone larger, it slipped easily over her shoulders and dropped to the floor.

  She stood there for a long moment, lit only by the meagre light of a forty-watt bedside lamp. I was once again strongly reminded of an old painting, this one by someone with a more lusty view of his subject matter. Regina’s body was quite beautiful.

  What she was offering stunned me into speechlessness. She saw my confusion and padded over to the bed. “Slide over,” she said matter-offactly. “It’s colder out here than I thought it would be.” She felt deliciously cool and soft as I meekly let her join me.

  I finally found my tongue. “Regina, this is crazy! Have you really thought about what you’re doing? I mean—”

  She put her hand over my mouth. “Hush! Yes, I have thought about it, about doing something crazy and out-of-control. I want to be my own person, dammit! Not some china doll that’s locked in a glass case for people to stare at. I want to live! I want to know what it feels like to be with a man.” She giggled, instantly sounding much younger. “You just happened to come along first.” She opened her hand. “See? I even have condoms.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, I mean, well, I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “Then you should know how to do this properly! The only way you’re going to get me out of this bed is to throw me out.” She quickly flipped herself on top of me, and looking down, asked, “Do you think you can do it?”

  “What if I don’t want to do this?”

  Regina giggled again. “It certainly feels as if you do!”

  “You’re not fighting fair,” I groaned.

  “Angus told me that you’re forty-nine, Michael. Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t figured out yet that this sort of thing is never fair?” She leaned down and kissed me, wiggling around deliciously and making it even harder to think clearly. “At least I already know how to kiss.”

  “Yes, you do,” I answered. “Regina...”

  “No, Michael. No more talking. My mind is made up!”

  I must have done a good job because, lying back a half-hour later, she was sweaty, flushed and slightly out of breath when she laughed delightedly, “Good God, Michael! Is it always like that?”

  I was definitely out of breath. “Not always—in my experience.”

  “No wonder Papa never wanted me to know about it! I could easily become addicted.”

  “I’m glad you liked it. You were quite wonderful.” I reached out and stroked her cheek. “Now, it’s time we got some sleep.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow and used a finger to play with my chest hair. “No! I want to do it again.”

  “Have a heart! Neither of us got any sleep last night.”

  Her expression turned delightfully petulant. “No. Now!”

  After the second time, I was ready to pass out from exhaustion and was asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow.

  Four

  The change in the weather as we landed in Toronto came as quite a shock. While Scotland had been snowy, damp and miserable, the temperature hadn’t come close to the effect of the glacial air mass that held southern Ontario in its grip. To top it off, when I’d left town, the weather had been more like March than January.

  I left the plane, feeling gritty and hung over, the result of almost no sleep over the past two days. The cold bit right to the bone, going some way towards jolting me out of my stupor.

  Boarding a plane in Glasgow twelve hours earlier, I’d asked for an extra pillow and given the flight attendant strict instructions not to wake me for any reason, then spent the trip in that peculiar twilight world where you’re not sure whether you’re awake or asleep. I’d done the same thing on the connecting flight from Heathrow. Consequently, when I eventually opened my eyes, it felt as if I hadn’t really slept at all.

  I should have stayed another day at Angus’s, gotten the sleep I needed and taken the flight back to Toronto on which I had actually booked a seat, but...I couldn’t.

  Face facts, Quinn, I said to myself, Angus was right. You turned tail and ran.

  While it had still been pitch black out, I’d carefully pulled away from Regina’s warm body, and making certain I didn’t wake her, I’d grabbed my clothes and suitcase and beat it.

  As expected, I’d found Angus already up and sitting in the dull glow of a floor lamp in the middle of his sitting room, attempting to wrestle his tax receipt avalanche into submission. “Good God, Michael, it’s only half five! I thought you’d be asleep for hours yet.”

  “I have to get back to Toronto. Will you drive me to the airport?”

  “But your bloody plane isn’t until tomorrow! You’re going to pay through the nose to change your ticket if you leave now. Why the haste?”

  “Something’s come up.”

  “And what about the lassie?”

  I tried to keep my face suitably blank. “I assume she’s still asleep.”

  Angus fixed me with a curious expression. “I noticed on my way downstairs that she didn’t sleep in her own bed last night.”

  “I am aware of that,” I answered phlegmatically. “Are you going to take me to the airport?”

  “Does she know you’re leaving?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I think it might make a lot of difference to her,” my friend answered as he got to his feet.

  “Look, you’re not my bloody nanny. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you? You weren’t always like this.”

  “And you know why I am like this now,” I said, taking my overcoat from the peg by the door.

  Angus put his beefy hand on my shoulder, turning me to face him. “Michael, that was long ago. I’m not saying that what we did was right or wrong, but we did it, and it’s over. Time to put the past to rest.”

  “Who’s to say I haven’t?” I shook off his hand and picked up my suitcase. “Maybe I just don’t want the bother of having someone mixed up in my life right now.”

  “You did
last night.”

  “Yes, and I’m regretting it already.”

  “What about all the other things? You know this exile you’ve put yourself in? This life you’re living isn’t the one you were destined to follow. Why deny it?”

  “Look Angus, old friend, we’ve been down this road before, dozens of times. Nothing has changed. I’m through making music. It doesn’t interest me any more.”

  “Bollocks! Then why the hell are you still hanging around on the fringes of the music business? You do want in again, and you’re too stubborn or too stupid to see it!”

  “Take me to the airport, or don’t, but I’m leaving,” I replied tensely.

  “All right, all right, but I’ll take you only as far as Dunoon. After that, you’re on your own. I am not crossing the Clyde,” he answered, as he grabbed his coat.

  The roads were in better shape, but the ride was hardly less hair-raising, since daylight was still a few hours away. At least Angus knew the road well, and the Rover had better traction. As we descended from the hills to sea level, I came to a decision.

  “We weren’t strictly on the level with you last night about the Jaguar.”

  My friend continued staring straight ahead. “I’m aware of that.”

  I was startled. “How?”

  “Because whoever smashed my automobile had to have been very angry. You’re not the type to cause people to behave that way, and from what I’ve seen, neither is your lassie.”

  “She’s not my lassie!”

  Angus shrugged. “So what did happen?”

  I gave him a more accurate version, still leaving out the part about Regina’s father. It was up to her to tell him about that.

  “So six great lumping bastards were chasing one wee lassie? There’s more to this story than you’re telling me.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m telling you this so you’ll know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Look, they might show up at your door. These are people you don’t want to mess with.”

  “You did.”

  “Only because I didn’t have a choice. Just take this as a warning. If I were you I’d go on holiday to the south of France or head to the Caribbean.”

  “No one chases me from my place!”

  I slumped in my seat, having known before the conversation had started that it would end like this. Well, at least I’d tried to warn him. I just hoped he didn’t get punched in the nose or knocked around if they showed up. Angus always was as stubborn as a mule.

  He put his hand on my arm as we pulled up at the ferry dock. “What am I supposed to tell The Princess when she wakes up?”

  “Here, I’ll write a note,” I said, taking a scrap of paper and a pen from my coat pocket. I scribbled a few lines and handed the result to Angus.

  “I’ve had to go back home suddenly. Glad to have been able to help you—and get to know you. Best of luck in the future. You’re a really great person.” Angus shook his head. “That’s cold, Michael, very cold. And what am I supposed to do with her after she’s read this? After all, you brought her here.”

  I opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. “She’s a big girl. Let her decide.”

  ***

  While waiting for my bag to come down the chute in the baggage claim area, I got on the phone to my business, knowing full well that I should have called them the day before.

  A crisp voice answered, “Quinn Musical Equipment, Canada’s backline specialists. How may I direct your call?”

  “Let’s see, Kevin, how about connecting me with the Department of Phone Answering Bullshit?”

  “Oh, it’s you boss! Where you calling from?”

  “The airport. I came back early. Anything up that I should know about?”

  “That huge order for the DataSwitch tour went out right on time, no hitches. We got a call about quoting for the Downtown Jazz Festival, and a little walk-in business. Not much else since the last time we talked.”

  “You did get a certified cheque and have DataSwitch’s road manager sign the damage waiver, didn’t you? Remember what happened the last time those idiots used our equipment.”

  Kevin didn’t try hiding his bored tone. “Yes, I remember: most of it had to be thrown on the scrap heap, because they’d decided to pull a Who the last night of their tour and trashed everything. You remind us about that at least once a week.”

  Even though it mightn’t sound like it, I had a good crew, and I cut them a lot of slack in how they spoke to me. But when it mattered, they knew who the boss was, even though I seldom had to exercise that particular power.

  “Well, if there’s nothing requiring my urgent attention, I’m off home, and I will see you first thing in the morning. I’m knackered.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot one thing,” Kevin said. “Betty the Customs Bitch just called to say they had a large flight case that came in. They’ll have it cleared by morning. She wants to know if we’ll pick it up, or should they deliver it. Is it what I think it is?”

  Kevin had called Betty the “Customs Bitch” ever since he’d put the make on her and she’d laughed him off, but she was good at her job and gave me great service.

  “Must be,” I answered. “We weren’t expecting anything else. That was bloody fast! I only bought the mellotron three days ago!” The lads at Rugely Electronics had the reputation of always being prompt with everything. “I’ll phone Betty and take care of it.”

  I made that call, saying we’d pick up the mellotron the next morning, grabbed my bag, retrieved my car from the long-term car park and headed downtown.

  During the forty-minute drive, Angus lectured me about my disappointing life. He didn’t have to be in the car to do that, because I could hear his voice perfectly well in my head.“You can’t keep running away from life, Michael, because when you finally decide you want to take part in it again, you may find it’s too late.”

  ***

  Much as I generally prefer being alone, I could never feel comfortable in a place as remote as the one Angus had chosen. It was rather odd that gregarious Angus lived in the middle of nowhere, while withdrawn Michael always went to ground in the middle of a city.

  My present digs suited me quite well: a loft renovation just west of Toronto’s downtown core. I’d bought the place when it wasn’t yet trendy to live in a renovated factory. Now they’re all turning into yuppie enclaves, and the prices have gone right out of sight. Since I didn’t want people (primarily the lead singer from my former band) to know where I live, I’d taken great pains to preserve my anonymity. The phone number was unpublished, the ownership of the loft was through a numbered company, and even my staff only knew how to reach me via cell phone.

  Angus had commented on all that, too, the first time he’d visited. Regardless of whether his observations about me bore any credence, from an early age I’d always preferred my own company much of the time and didn’t find it strange nor wearing.

  My place was in a four-storey, rather imposing brick structure almost a century old. They’d made typewriters and other office machines there, before the firm finally went belly up in the sixties. I’d paid a very good price for my loft because the developer had run short of cash before completing the renovation of the building. I’d got wind of that and offered to pay for mine up front at a reduced price.

  I occupied the southeast corner of the top floor, the best spot because of the fantastic view of the Toronto Islands and the downtown core. The floors were the original wood, sanded and polished. It had twelve-foot ceilings, and not a lot of furniture: comfortable stuff, mostly old pieces I’d picked up at yard sales, and a few upmarket pieces that had caught my eye. The walls, painted in cream and brown, also had some art of the abstract kind. Early on, I’d succumbed to buying a big stereo but generally listened to recordings through headphones. My two extravagances were books I’d bought over the years which took up eighteen feet of wall, and a nine-foot Blüthner grand piano which sat in the outside corner of the sitting room
, where I could look out the window as I played. Since my downstairs neighbour was seldom in the country, I could generally bang away whenever it suited me.

  Putting my suitcase down in the entryway, I went over to the thermostat and cranked up the heat several notches. Outside, the wind was raging to the howling point, and I could tell from the way it drove tendrils of cold in around the windows that the night would see the temperature plummeting to the bottom reaches of the thermometer. After closing the curtains in order to keep as much of the frigid air at bay as possible, I headed down the hall to the kitchen with the idea of brewing a pot of tea.

  Even though they’d been there so long I hardly noticed them any more, something caused me to stop and examine the gold and platinum recording awards that hung the length of the hall.

  Several were for Don’t Push Me, Neurotica’s debut album, named after the song Regina, twenty-four years my junior, could sing. It had been a hit before she was born, for Christ’s sake! I didn’t know which made me more depressed: the fact that I’d slept with someone so young or the fact that her knowing my tune drove home so solidly that the best point in my life had taken place over a generation earlier.

  I hadn’t aged badly, the reward for a careful life, I guess. The passing years had done good things for my face, seemingly bringingout the strong points and hiding the weak. I’d kept most of my hair, and there was little sign of grey among the brown. Years of slugging equipment in and out of trucks had kept me trim, that and the fact that I skipped meals too often. Turning away from the present, I looked into the past, a promo photo taken in my twenty-second year at the end of the hall, showing a six-foot lad with long brown hair and a rather ascetic, sharp-featured face. What I couldn’t deny, though, was the untroubled expression of a person who had the world by the tail and his whole life ahead of him. That certainly was no longer in my eyes, but life has a way of obliterating those sorts of things.