The Long Drive Home

THE LONG

DRIVE HOME

Other books by Stan Rogal short stories collections Restless What Passes For Lave poetry Penumbras The Imaginary Museum Sweet Betsy from Pike Personations

THE LONG

DRIVE HOME AMOVE!BY STAN ROGAL

INSOMNIAC PRESS

Copyright © 1999 by Stan Rogal All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge St., Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5. Edited by Mike O'Connor Copy Edited by Lloyd Davis & Liz Thorpe Designed by Schrodinger's Cat Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Rogal, Stan, 1950The Long Drive Home ISBN 1-895837-56-1 I. Title PS8585.O391I.461999 PR9199.3.R63L46 1999

C813'.54

C99-930470-4

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council. Printed and bound in Canada Insomniac Press 393 Shaw Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M6J 2X4 n>ww. insomniacpress. com

This book is for my best pal through thick and thin over the years, Rick (the snake) Russell — a celebration of our own road trips, together and apart.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks to: Mike O'Connor for considering my work worthy; Jacquie Jacobs for making me aware of the Glock and Mac McArthur for searching out details over the Net; Anja Robb, Diana Tabak, Nancy McNaughton and the Standardized Patient program for moral and financial support during a difficult time; Colin Mackintosh for allowing me to bash around the facts of his detective experiences; Edita Petrauskaite and Peter McPhee for the down-&-dirty computer lessons; Sid Tabak for the terrific photos; The Ontario Arts Council's Writers' Reserve Program, The Canada Council, The Toronto Arts Council, the Public Lending Rights and CanCopy.

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The aesthetic of omission, of implying what is not explicitly stated, is an essential feature of Hawks's narrative mastery. Beneath the generic surfaces of his narratives lie complex tensions between the characters' verbal facades and their unverbalized feelings. In both the comedies and the adventure films, Hawks's characters tend not to talk about their feelings overtly - first, because words can be easily and hollowly manipulated; second, because Hawks's characters attempt to protect themselves, either with silence or with torrents of chatter, not wanting to make the costly emotional mistake of investing their trust in someone unworthy of it.

He (Antonioni) rejects words for two reasons. First, words are not a very effective tool for communicating states of feeling. Vague, imprecise feelings of loneliness, uneasiness, and angst do not lend themselves to the terse summary required of movie dialogue. The more lucidly and lengthily a person talks about his or her own feelings (either in life or in art), the more we distrust the sincerity of the feelings and the depth of the self-awareness. Second, Antonioni does not trust words as a genuine means of human communication. "Our drama," he once said, "is noncommunication." — The Movies: a short history by Gerald Mast and Bruce F. Kawin

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, HIGHWAY 2, MAINE There are never any true beginnings in circumstances such as this, simply strings of middles that brush or bunch or intertwine for a relatively short period of time and which may or may not lead anywhere in particular. Or, at best, that somehow — as if by accident — tangle toward some odd, unresolvable ending. It's a clear fall morning along a stretch of tree-lined highway somewhere between Farmington and Rumford, Maine. There is little traffic. The leaves have not yet begun to change colour. There is a tranquillity that lulls one into believing that absolutely nothing can go wrong, that one requires nothing more than to travel this highway forever, trusting that along the way one will meet with everyone and everything necessary to fill a life. At any rate, these are the sorts of thoughts that run through James Coleman's mind as he drums the steering wheel in time to the Eagles' tune, "Hotel California", surging from the tape deck. Leaning comfortably into a curve, James spots a car pulled off at the roadside ahead. The trunk of the car is raised and a woman stands staring at a rear flat, one hand settled on her hip, the other

12 — Stan Ro^J

supporting her chin. A spare tire lies uselessly at her feet, alongside a jack and tire iron. It is as if she is stuck in that middle state of realization where, while she understands the problem and is aware that she has the necessary materials, she is unsure as how, exactly, to proceed, or even whether she should proceed at all. Implicit with this train of thought, the pros and cons of chance encounters with strangers. Whether white knight in shining armour or serial killer or... Always the extremes first; the gut reactions, then the logic — half-remembered lists of facts and figures; statistics, as: what is the likelihood; what is the national average? These and other notions shuffling randomly through her head. Though, perhaps not. Perhaps she is beyond thinking about it and is at the point where she is only able to stare. James parks his car behind the woman's. The woman turns her head in his direction. Her body remains planted; her face serious. James is not a threatening presence. He is aware of this and the fact pleases him. He knows that as he steps out of the car the woman will relax. She will understand that he is here to help. At five feet, eight inches tall in his stocking feet, balding monk-like with signs of grey around the temples, round-faced, wearing wire glasses with removable flip-up shades and sporting a bit of a paunch, he is not what one would call 'a threatening presence'. His 180 pounds are distributed more or less evenly across his medium build, making him not fat, but portly. Add to this his middle age, his bearing — the manner in which he moves, casual and without haste — tags him more Samaritan than monster. He has what is commonly known as a winning smile and he flashes it at the woman, fully expecting her to smile back. She doesn't. Still, she doesn't appear to be afraid and holds her ground as he approaches. James is relieved when, though a bit too coolly for his liking, they fall into the type of banter that goes along with such awkward meetings. James says good morning and the woman replies in kind. James says that it seems that the woman is in some difficulty and the woman points to the flat. She says that it wasn't a blowout, thank God, but a slow leak. She could feel the car favouring one side and was hoping she'd make it to the next town or at least, the next garage. She mentions her husband a number of times, immediately.

The Long Drive Home — 13

Her husband this, her husband that. She motions with her hand, keeping her ring finger in plain view. On it, a simple gold band with a single small diamond in the middle. A second ring on the same finger shows a similar gold band with a red stone gripped by a claw. James notes the woman's physical appearance. Not tall, five feet and three or four inches. Probably in her late thirties. Reddish-brown hair cut medium length and styled. Henna treatment, most likely, every few weeks or so. Little make-up. Mascara and liner to accent the brown eyes, a slash of red across her full lips. Pierced earrings with a little silver chair hanging from one and some kind of lizard from the other. This strikes James as mildly odd. 'Why not a matched set?' he wonders. Small, square hands. Dressed smartly in a jacket, blouse, knee-length skirt, legs sheathed in nylon and wearing shoes with a slight heel. An array of oranges and browns. Splashes of red and yellow. Earth tones. Not unattractive. The possibility of largish breasts concealed beneath the swell of the buttoned jacket. Basic underwear, probably. Black or white bra and panties. Wire support. Translucent at best. 'Nothing sheer,' judges James. 'It's obvious.' A body out of Picasso. Practical, solid, with the likelihood of gaining weight easily. A woman who must be careful what she eats. She drives a late-model BMW convertible. White. While the weather is mild, it is not warm enough to drive with the top down. There is something about her that suggests money — not the rings, which are rather plain and relatively inexpensive — and not old money. Something about her unease, which may explain the mismatched earrings. As if she is constantly apologizing: the fashionable outfit, the regular henna treatment, the BMW... As if she guesses that people can see right through her attempts to fit into a more affluent life style. James imagines the obvious scenario. The woman has been married for several years. At the time of their marriage, she and her husband are struggling to make ends meet. They buy their wedding rings with cash, so as not to begin their life together in debt. Later, as a gift, the woman receives the second ring. A show of love. Or, the woman treats herself after an unexpected inheritance, or a job promotion, or a commission. In any case, whether by hard work or fate or a combination, their financial situation improves. They move

14 — Stan Rogal

to a bigger house in the suburbs. They get a dog and a cat. They purchase suitable vehicles for the new neighbourhood, a minivan to haul tools, garden supplies, sports equipment and whatever else, and a BMW convertible for the sheer pleasure. And children? Undoubtedly. The old story. James nods agreement and understanding as the woman continues to speak. He gains a great deal of personal satisfaction feeling that he is able to peg people quickly and accurately. He believes that, in his line of work, this ability is an asset. He comments on the woman's rings—their shape, the cut of the gems. This is a ruby, yes? Yes. A July baby? A Cancer, I'll bet. How did you know? Are you one of those astrologists? No, nothing like that. But you do know something about jewellery. So so. I have a fondness. And the birthstone? Oh, you can read that sort of thing on the backs of several cheap magazines. Cancer was a guess then? There were only two choices: Cancer or Leo. And I came across more Earth-mother than lion? Nothing like that, really. I don't know. A guess, as I said. My husband is a Leo. Ah, your husband. And on this note, the discussion moves to the problem at hand. She had thought about changing the tire herself, but then, she didn't know... Does the man have a cell phone? Perhaps he can call the auto club? She's a member and she has the number. No, no. He wouldn't think of leaving her stranded like this. Those people can take forever, especially on a small highway, in the middle of nowhere. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes. She even has a real spare tire rather than one of those small temporary things that he could never understand. Yes, and mentioning her husband again, which is only natural, he thinks, given the situation: her stuck out here on her own, a flat tire, a stranger and so on. And yet, the emphasis. 'Why can't she relax?' wonders James. 'What does she suspect, that I plan to rob her? Rape her? Murder her? No. The idea is too fantastic. The person in high school voted least likely...' He laughs at his own joke. "This is very good of you," she volunteers. "Are you sure it's no bother?" "No bother at all. We'll have you back on the road and on your way in no time." James wears a pair of khaki Dockers, brown loafers and a dark

The Long Drive Home — 15

blue windbreaker unzipped to about his navel. He smacks his hands together, smiles and opens the jacket altogether. He folds his glasses into a liner pocket and applies himself to the task of replacing the tire. For a man who has the appearance of maybe being soft, weak, perhaps, even, some might venture, effeminate (his round shape, his knowledge of jewellery, the gentle tone and light expression of his voice, the fastidious way in which he pocketed the glasses), James works quickly and efficiently, using his entire body to crank the lug nuts and jack the car. You've done this before, says the woman. Oh, a time or two in my life, for sure. Of course, it helps when you have the right tools. This jack didn't come with the car, either. Back to the husband and a first-aid kit and blankets and flares and a heavy rope for towing and a shovel in case of snow... She probably could have changed it herself. Or perhaps it only looked easy because of the man. Her husband had told her. Yes, but he happened along. The right person at the right time and why should she get herself messed up and a comment on her outfit. Nothing too overt, too provocative, too threatening. Not just what he says but how he says it: honest, friendly, direct. Non-threatening. Definitely non-threatening. The ability to get away with phrases that would be impossible for others: You might have dirtied jour lovely skirt, or a turn to that effect, the words issuing automatically, casually, quickly. This is not something artificial or something that he has developed as a particular strategy—it is an innate talent. He believes this. Like changing a tire and looking no worse for wear. Even the act of wiping his hands with a handkerchief is strictly out of habit since they are virtually spotless. People had always commented. Ever since he was a young boy. How does he do it? "You have a method," she says. "It's obvious." "I'm sure you could have changed it yourself." "I've never had a flat before." "There it is then, simply a matter of experience." "Or inexperience." "Exactly. Anyway, you might have ruined your clothes, accidentally." "I would have called the auto club, but the cord on the car phone is broken." "Broken? Or unplugged?"

Iff — StanRogal

"No. It seems to be pulled out at the bottom; where it connects. I don't know. My husband had my car the day before I left. His truck was in the shop." 'Truck,' thinks James, disappointed, as the image of a bright red minivan fades from his mind, replaced by a battered blue pick-up truck that threatens to explode his previous assumptions about the woman's past and present living conditions. "It might have happened then. If my husband did something. Or it was like that before and I hadn't noticed. I don't know. My husband never mentioned it." Three times in one breath—the word 'husband'—like the ring waving. James rubs his thumb along his own ring finger. It's bare. He walks to the front of the car, talking so as not to give the impression that he is in any way violating her space. "That's strange," he says. "You'd have to pull pretty hard to rip out one of those cords." He lifts the handle, swings open the door and ducks inside. He's startled to see a young girl strapped into the passenger seat. Has she been there all along? She hasn't suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Why is she so quiet? How can she j-ust sit for so long, calmly waiting, the car being jacked, he and the woman talking, the weather being so clear and mild that it almost invites a child to come out and play? The threat of an adult: sit still and don't let me hear a peep out of you. James entertains the notion that he has a natural affinity with children. It has been his experience that they take to him almost instantly. It's his easy manner, his winning smile. Through his parted lips, his white teeth sparkle. "Hello there," he says. The girl squeezes her body further into the corner and fiddles with the seat belt. "Don't be afraid," he says. "I'm just checking the phone. I'll only be a second." An explanation and a time frame, two pieces of information necessary to the well-being of a child; to set a child's mind at ease. On the floor, beside the spiralling cord, rests a yellow-flowered cotton bag. The bag flops open as he brushes it with his wrist. 'Hello—what's this?' A small revolver nestles near the bottom of the bag. James traces the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The woman is the last person he would expect to be packing a gun; per-

The Long Drive Homse •—- 17

haps the last person that should be packing a gun, given her nervous character. He picks up the receiver and hauls on the cord. The end hangs free, with the bare wires showing, as if having been ripped from the console. He drops the receiver onto the cradle and backs out of the car. "You haven't any idea?" "I told you, I just noticed." "'Cause you've pretty much got to grab it from the bottom to rip it out like that.'" "Maybe my husband did something. He was making a delivery. Maybe something got caught. He forgot to mention it to me. Or maybe he didn't realize himself." The two stare at each other. James expects her to introduce him to the girl. This is my daughter, my niece,, or some such. "Thank you," she says, finally. "For your help." She climbs into the front seat and fires up the engine. The Tragically Hip kick out of the speakers with "New Orleans Is Sinking". Music for her or for the girl, James wonders. "Can I pay you something for your time and trouble?" She reaches for her bag. "No." James wonders if he says the word with slightly more emphasis than he had intended and attempts to soften it with a smile. "Thank you. That's fine. I was only too happy to help. Maybe you should consider investing in a cell phone. Especially if you're on the road a lot." He hopes that his concern hasn't been taken wrongly. The woman looks at him. She hesitates a second, then bites her lower lip. "I'm not on the road a lot." She turns away and adds, "Besides, I've read too many stories about cell phones." "Stories?" "Yes. They can cause brain cancer." She manages a weak smile. "Apparently." There is a note of embarrassment in her voice and James nods his head. He recalls seeing articles as well, about cellular telephones affecting users, though mainly with their short-term ability to perform simple mental tasks. A study by Dera, a research agency of the British defence ministry, claimed to show that the emissions alter nerve cells in rat brains.

18 — Stan Rogal

Radiation heats brain tissue in the same way that microwave ovens cook food. Other 'non-thermal' effects were said to show changes in the permeability of brain cell membranes to potassium ions during exposure to cell phone radiation. The movement of the ions into and out of cells is a vital part of brain function and the experiment was seen as powerful evidence of how cell telephones might temporarily scramble the thoughts of their users. Still, there was nothing final in the reports. 'Besides,'James muses, 'those studies were done with rat brains and how did they make a cell phone small enough for a rat in the first place, haha?' He considers it best not to pursue the subject, given the circumstances: the woman's astrological sign, her nervousness, the gun, et cetera. The whole thing tending too much toward an episode from a bad TV series or made-for-TV movie, where the innocent bystander ends bound and gagged in the trunk of a car, or worse, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood along some lonely stretch of back road in the middle of nowhere. "Ah, yes," he says, and heads toward his car. "Take care." He waves and hops in. He watches the woman roll her window up and put on her seat belt. She leans toward the girl and says something. A camera rests on the seat beside him. He picks it up and aims it at the BMW. Through the lens, he has a clear view of the car braced by a backdrop of trees. He zooms onto the licence plate: Ontario — Yours To Discover. He pulls back enough to get a clear shot of the licence and the car. "Hm," he whispers. "I wonder." The shutter clicks. The woman inches the vehicle forward, out of the gravel and onto the highway. It strikes James that she is being overly careful and that it may have something to do with him being there. He watches the car disappear around a curve. He returns the camera to the seat, puts on his glasses, flips the shades up and down and turns the ignition key. He shifts the Camry into drive, eases back into the seat and hits the gas. The wheels spin, spraying sand and gravel in its wake. The car fishtails off the shoulder and onto the pavement. James sings: You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave...

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, MAGOG, QUEBEC Arriving at exactly the same time, from opposite directions, two vehicles pull into the driveway of the Three Willows Motel in Magog, Quebec. They park side by side in front of the office door. A man steps out of a 1994 forest green Jeep Grand Cherokee. A second man steps out of a 1994 candy-apple red Plymouth Voyager minivan. The men are similar in appearance, both about six feet tall, both dressed in jeans and sneakers. The man from the Jeep has a jean shirt and jacket and is the heavier of the two. The man from the minivan wears a baggy, faded blue sweatshirt and a baseball cap. The man from the Jeep takes slow, padded steps while the man from the minivan has more of a stride. They approach each other. If the scene was put into slow motion, the two might resemble a couple of modern-day gunslmgers preparing for a showdown. You wait for them to draw guns and aim at each other's heads: You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me? "What time you got?" The man from the minivan is the first to speak. The second man flips his wrist and glances at his watch. "Six o'clock. What time you got?"

2O — Stan Rogal

The first man takes a look. "Six o'clock." They laugh. "Son of a bitch. Right fucking dead-on. Same as the old days. Go figure!" The talk goes on like this. Seemingly going nowhere, yet serving to fill some kind of gap. What might be termed empty chatter from the outside, but inside, somehow necessary. A flow of words punctuated with odd stops, unfinished thoughts, incomplete phrastngs; perhaps, even, hidden messages, or, at the least, reliance on shared past experience to maintain a common ground, as: How the hell are ya? Good, good. You? Great. Good to see ya. You too. Whaddya know, whaddya know. Yeah, whaddya know. Huh. Six o'clock on the nose. Fucking unbelievable. Six o'clock. Like the old days. Yeah, like the old days. On the fucking nose. There are slaps on the shoulders; jabs to the arms, while all the time, filling the air with banter. Gettin' any of the strange stuff? Any parle^-vous fran$ais? Huh? Are you kiddin' me? What with the wife and the kids and the pets and the bills... What about you? Same thing pal. C'mon, you always had something going on the side. No more. Those days are long past. Salad days, my friend. Memories. How long's it been? How long? Too fucking long. Three years. Just about. Three fucking years. Close enough. And another kid? Yeah. What, eighteen, nineteen months? Almost two years. Man oh man, the time, right? Yeah. Where does it go? I don't know. But otherwise? Otherwise? Otherwise good; great. It's OK? It's OK. Six o'clock on the fucking nose. Right on the fucking button. How does it happen, huh? How does it happen? The connection. The connection, right. You laugh. I don't laugh. You laugh, but I'm telling you. Throw away the watches. We don't need watches. Yeah. Yeah? What have I always said? What have I always told you? The connection. Fucking right. Something beyond us. Something we've got no control over. Yeah. Believe it. OK. Psychic — I'm telling you. Yeah. You laugh. Believe it. I do. Don't laugh. I'm not. You believe it then, what I'm saying. I believe it, I believe it. Son of a bitch. The old Skip-a-roo. The Skipper. It's good to see you. Good to see you. They pause for an instant, shaking their heads and eyeing each other up and down, like they don't quite know what else to do. The one called Skip breaks the silence. "So, Tom, is that what you're driving now?" He motions toward the minivan with his chin.

TLe Long Drive Home —— 21

"It's Patty's. Traded in the old station wagon when she got her promotion." "She still working for that law firm?" "Yeah. Personal secretary to one of the partners now. Very swish." "Good for her." Skip always thought that it was a rather ticklish situation, Patty and Tom together, her being a legal secretary for about fifteen years and him in his line of work. Made for some pretty volatile discussions in the past. For him too, at times, he recalls. His involvement. Well, love and all that — what you're able to accept and forgive to make things work; to get along. He guesses that's over now though, what with Tom promising and all. Blood under the bridge. On the other hand, there's what's going down now and, who knows? "I like to use it when I cross the border on a job." They walk over to the minivan and Skip peeks through the windows. "You show up in something like this, baby seat in the back, fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, a plastic Virgin Mary stuck to the dash, a set of golf clubs with crocheted booties strapped in a corner and they don't say boo. Name, rank, serial number and you're on your way — goodbye, gone, sayonara. I could be Mr. Big carrying a shit-load of angel dust in my golf bag and no one would take a sniff." He raises his eyebrows. "As it is, I've got a bottle of jack under the front seat. No point paying Canadian when you can get it American, right, partner?" "Right." "Goddamn right it's right. Hey, it's good to see you. I mean it. It's been too long." "We've both been busy." "Sure. There's that. But you moved, you bastard. You're the one. You shipped out, bag and baggage." "You still on that?" "Bet your sweet ass." "Jenny wasn't happy living in Boston. You know that. Or in the States for that matter. She wanted a safer place to raise the kids." "Yeah? What about you? You're telling me you like living in smalltown Quebec? Away from your friends?" "Sherbrooke's not so small." "It's small, pal."

22 — Stan Rogal

"It's OK. We like it." "It's OK." He waits for a reaction, but Skip just gives the hood a gentle smack. "OK. It's OK — great! But listen, were you shitting me about buying a doughnut franchise?" "Tim Horton's." Skip grins at the sound of the words and kicks at the ground. "No shit. That explains why you're packing on the extra pounds." He fakes a punch at Skip's stomach and Skip guards with his hands. "Yeah, I guess. At least I've still got my hair." Skip grabs the cap from Tom's head. "Grass doesn't grow on a busy street." He takes the cap and smooths it back on. "You still trying those treatments?" "Fuck treatments. And fuck this. Let's forget all this bullshit about weight and hair and fucking minivans and doughnut shops and whatever else middle-aged fucking angst and just have some fun. We're working together again, right? That's what counts. Let's check in, have a couple of snorts then go out and fucking shake the sugar tree, huh? Have some fun. Whatever the hell kind of fun you can have in a shit hole like this. I haven't been up here in a dog's age and then I just drove right through, but, what the hey? We're here and I'm in the mood to find a place that serves big, juicy steaks with all the trimmings. Whaddya say?" "OK by me." The two men hesitate, then wrap arms around each other. "Good to see you partner," says Tom. "Six o'clock on the fucking button. Fucking unbelievable." They march like this into the office, separating when the manager looks up from her radio. In the office there is a metal rack containing tourist information, an arborite counter with wood base, a wall behind the counter with a door leading to a second, larger room where the stretched-out legs of a man can be seen pointing in the direction of a TV set. Over the door is nailed a crucifix. A half-full ashtray sits beside the radio. "I don't get it. Some days it comes in clear as a bell; other days, nothing. Or static, like this. And it's local, too. They can put a man on the moon, right? Makes you wonder." She continues to fiddle with the dial as she talks to the men. "One room or two?" "One," says Tom. "Two beds."

The Long Drive Home — 23

The woman glances from the corner of an eye. "Uh-huh." She gives the men a quick once over, then goes back to fiddling with the dial. She twists the antenna ever so slightly. "How many nights?" "One for sure. Maybe two." "OK. I'll put you down for two. When you decide, let me know. Check out's at eleven." She taps the side of the radio with her hand. "Son of a gun," she mutters. "If this don't beat all." She sighs and gives up. "I'll need a credit card and for each of you to fill in the registration." She pushes the form toward the men, draws a cigarette from a fresh pack and lights up. "Do you mind?" asks Skip, pointing to the pack. "Help yerself." The words are polite enough, though containing a hint of caution. Skip removes the tinfoil from the pack and twists it around the top of the antenna. Immediately, the static disappears and the clear, vibrant sound of church music fills the office. The woman moves to turn down the volume. "Well, I'll be..." She stares at the tinfoil. Tom chucks Skip on the chin. "Son of a..." He grins. The woman bobs her head and waves her cigarette to the music. The man from the other room now stands leaning one arm against the door frame. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, purses his lips, releases the smoke slowly through his nose. The smoke billows below his chin then winds its way skyward, toward the crucifix. Tom rocks with his shoulders and raps the counter top with the tips of his fingers. Skip signs the register. The choir sings something about God, something about Jesus, something about love.

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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, TORONTO, ONTARIO It's raining. One of those pounding, vertical rains that blows through town for about fifteen or twenty minutes, then disappears as quickly as it came. Liz Tanner is unprepared for the downpour. She had the mistaken impression that she could make it from her office on Queen Street to the jewellery store on Church Street, right around the corner more or less (though, in fact, further than she had supposed) between cloudbursts. Because of the mild weather, she had left wearing only a light sweater which she now stretches above her head and which has proven ineffectual in keeping the driving water from soaking her. "Fucking rain," she complains as she rushes into the store. "Fucking goddamn weather," she continues, stamping her feet. She twists the sweater at both ends, squeezing the water onto the wood floor. Realizing the futility of her efforts, she gives up and tosses the garment beside a container meant to hold umbrellas. "Fucking goddamn shit-for-brains weatherman." She says clearly and with emphasis, as if she is the only person in the room.

26 — Stan Rogal

Meanwhile, the four other shoppers, as well as the shop owner, politely pretend to ignore her. As if such a thing could ever be possible — to ignore Liz Tanner. Not that she appears physically threatening, Liz is a lanky, straighthaired brunette with auburn highlights; five feet, ten inches tall in her bare feet, with skinny bowlegs and small breasts. She wears a light, tight-fitting shift that clings with the dampness, accentuating her bony hips and ribs. Her face is not particularly attractive and she attempts to remedy this through an overabundant use of loud, trashy make-up. Remarkably, she somehow manages to come across as aristocratic or regal. She has a way of turning characteristics that might normally be seen as shortcomings into advantages. Her long pale face, sunken cheeks and thin, wide lips actually thrive on thick colouring that would turn most other women into clowns. At least, in the eyes of men, considering the number of marriage proposals that used to come her way from perfect strangers. And still do, to a certain degree, despite the large diamond decorating her wedding finger. It's not that Liz is built in any way that's menacing, only that she presents herself in a manner that warns total disregard for anyone or anything other than herself. Due to the onslaught of rain, her entire visage is one of utter calamity. She retrieves a handkerchief and compact from her purse and attempts to repair the damage as best she can. Seeing the futility of her actions she dumps the compact back into her purse, heaves the discoloured, sodden hankie alongside the sweater and charges to the counter. The owner is showing engagement rings to a young couple. In the background, classical music plays. Liz sighs and massages her brow between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. She hates classical music. She claims that it's pretentious. "Janice!" She raps once on the glass counter with the pearl from an earring. Janice and the young couple stop their conversation in mid-sentence. "Excuse me. I only dropped in for a minute. I have to get back to the office. I'm sure these nice people won't mind..." She curls the corners of her faded thin lips and tugs on an ear lobe. "Do you mind? She's a regular." Janice asks the young couple. "Take a close look. Try them on. I'll be right back." She joins Liz further down the counter.

The Long Drive Home — 27

"Yes?" Janice did not care much for Liz Tanner. There was no real reason for this dislike. Something about the woman's attitude, the way she dresses, the way she carries herself. Nothing in particular. A feeling. Because of this, she remained cold around her, but civil. All Janice really knew about her was that she had inherited a blind and drapery business from her father, along with the family fortune. Janice imagined that Liz had never seen a drape except when it was hung in a window and that Liz most likely presided over a group of people who basically ran the company in the same way as they had always done. In fact, Liz had been raised in the business, beginning by working summers in the warehouse in her teens, then moving into the office as secretary and finally up to management, taking business courses along the way and providing much needed new direction and ideas for the company. For Janice's own personal peace of mind and perverse satisfaction, she preferred to relegate Liz to the position of rich bitch . "I've lost the matching pearl to this earring set. See? It's missing. The metal thingy must have snapped or something." Janice studies the broken earring, comparing it to the other. "Hm. Did anything happen? I mean, the metal is quite strong. It couldn't have simply broken on its own." "I don't know what happened. I went to put them on and I saw that one of the pearls was missing. That's all." "Did you buy them here?" "Don't worry. I'm not here to demand my money back. The earrings were a gift. I don't know where they were bought. All I want is for you to find another pearl and replace it. It's not the money, you see. The earrings have sentimental value." Janice smiles at this. The last thing she expected from Liz was talk of sentiment. She had only ever conversed in terms of money. "I see. The thing is, these are, or, at least, they were, matching pearls. I doubt if I can find a perfect mate." "Then find one that's close enough. There are enough oysters out there, for Chrissakes." "Yes, but finding a match..." "I don't care how you do it. If you can't find a match then replace them both."

28 — Stan Rognl

"That would be a bit expensive." "I told you, these have sentimental value. They were given to me by a very close friend. So, I don't care what you do, but I need them by Tuesday at the latest. All right?" Janice hardly believes her ears — "sentimental value" and Liz not caring about the cost. It must be a full moon, she thinks. "Of course. I'll have them for you by Tuesday." "Good." Liz grabs her purse and goes to the door. The rain has stopped and the sun shines through the glass. From the opera The Bartered Bride by Smetana, "The Dance of the Comedians" plays. Janice looks at the broken earring, still wondering how much force it took to break it and how Liz could be unaware of how it happened. It also strikes her that she remembers these earrings. At least, she seems to recall seeing her husband polishing a similar pair for a customer some months ago. A customer, she gathers, who was not Liz's husband. A friend. And Janice wonders how the woman does it, and how anyone can find her attractive — are men really so taken in by such empty displays of trashy sexuality? Even thinking back to her own husband, a time or two, glimpsing the woman's bra through a transparent blouse, or the neck being exposed, and commenting on her taste in undergarments. But then, he has a way about him, a way of saying such things without sounding dirty. Liz drags a damp strand of hair in front of her eyes, makes a face and groans. "Fuck," she says, and leaves the store. The customers chuckle quietly to themselves. Janice takes one more look at the earrings and thinks, Oh well, if it's sentiment she wants, it's sentiment she'll get — she can obviously afford it. She holds the broken earring up to the light.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, BETHEL, MAIME Ann finishes her coffee, humming along to a Simon and Garfunkel tune that drifts through the restaurant, then stacks the empty mug on top of the other soiled plates. She reaches over the table and squeezes the girl's resting elbows. "Did you have enough?" The girl's plate is empty except for a swirled puddle of ketchup and a leaf of discoloured lettuce, while Ann's plate still contains half a clubhouse sandwich and coleslaw. "Do you need to use the bathroom again?" The girl shakes her head. "OK. You finish your Coke while I go pay. All right?" The girl has a glass cupped in her hands, the rim pressed to her lips. She nods. Ann nods along with her, clutches her bag and goes to the cashier's counter, rifling the bag's contents as she walks, the lunch bill held between her teeth. She drops the bag on the counter, pulls at the opening and peers inside. As she searches, she reconstructs the series of events between driving into the parking lot and entering the restaurant. She remembers picking the bag up off the floor, remembers the bag or the strap being caught somehow; remembers the bag spilling most of its contents onto the blacktop;

3O — Stan Rognl

remembers bending down to retrieve them; remembers haphazardly stuffing them back into the bag. Had her wallet been one of the items that fell out? Had she somehow missed seeing it in her rush to cover her clumsiness? She removes the bill from her mouth. "Excuse me," she says to the cashier. Ann returns to her table and begins checking out the seat and the floor. She rummages through her bag again. Her thoughts fly as erratically as her hands. She can't believe it. How could this have happened? Could she have actually missed seeing it on the ground? Unlikely, but not impossible, she thinks. Is it still in the car, and, if so, how did it get out of her bag? Did she even have it with her earlier? Did she leave it somewhere in Bangor? The waitress arrives. "Is there a problem?" "No. I mean, yes. I seem to have misplaced my wallet." "Misplaced?" "Misplaced. Lost. I don't know. I can't find my wallet. All my money's in it, my charge cards, my identification... everything." "What does it look like?" "Black. With my initials, A.M., in gold. I can't believe this. Oh my God, oh my God. What am I going to do?" A further realization hits her. "My driver's licence!" Ann drops to her knees and searches frantically. "Oh, my God. What will my husband say? I've got to find it. It has to be here. Somewhere." She flashes a look at the girl. "Did you see my purse, honey? Hm?" Her efforts return to the floor. "Oh my God..." "Now, don't you worry ma'am. It has to be around. We'll find it, don't worry." The waitress is motioned to by the cashier who holds a black, monogrammed purse in her upraised hand. "Ma'am? Ma'am? Is that it? Is that yours?" She points toward the counter. A man stands beside the till, the same man who stopped to fix Ann's flat tire earlier in the day. "Yes. I think so." She snatches the girl's hand and they race across the room. "Your name is...?" The cashier has opened the purse and reads a card inside. "Ann Michener." "Here you are." She passes the purse across the counter. "This gentleman brought it in."

The Long Drive Home — 31

"It was lying on the ground in the parking lot. Next to your car. I thought I recognized it — the car — even with the new tire." He grins, as if to indicate he's made a joke. The woman doesn't respond. "Thank you." She makes the comment to the cashier, then repeats it to the man. "Thank you. Well, this is the second time today that you've shown up in the nick of time. I don't know what to say." She hands the cashier a credit card. "It was strictly by accident, I can tell you. The wallet was on the ground, I saw it, I picked it up and I brought it in." James bends down to the girl. "And how are you? Did you have a good lunch? I've eaten here before. The food is quite good." The girl drops her head and stares at the black and white tiles. "She's a bit shy." "Ah." Ann notices the leather camera case hanging from the man's shoulder. Rather than continue to discuss the girl's behaviour, she asks, "Are you a photographer?" "Oh no. Strictly amateur. It's a hobby. Landscapes, mostly. As a matter of fact, I made a few stops along the way here. Beautiful country. A beautiful day." He gives the case a pat. "I don't like leaving it in the car. Not even in the trunk. Too many thieves these days. You know how it is. Best to carry it with you. And, you never know when a picture is going to present itself." He smiles. Ann flashes a quizzical look at the man. Why did he tell me that? she wonders. Almost as if in explanation of something. Suddenly, another thought strikes her: the fact that this same man had entered her car earlier, had crawled in to check the telephone, had been near her bag. If her wallet had actually fallen out of the bag in the parking lot and landed on the ground, why hadn't she seen it? "So, not an astrologer and not a photographer," she offers. "A mystery man who arrives in the nick of time to help ladies in distress." "Hardly a mystery man. To be honest, my occupation is quite boring. I'm only too pleased that I could be of some assistance, uh, Ms. Michener, is that right?" Ann blanks for an instant. She doesn't like it when people use her name without having been properly introduced.

32 — Stan Rogal

"Yes." She signs the receipt, tears off her copy and destroys the carbon. She presses the girl close to her. "Come on, honey." Then to the man. "Thank you again. I hope I won't put you to any more trouble." "Oh, no trouble. I told you. Only too happy to help." The pair leave. James rubs the back of his neck with his fingers and makes a sucking sound with his tongue. He remains like that, frozen, as though searching for an answer without having first formulated the question. Around him, the soft strains of John Denver singing "Rocky Mountain High".

MOHDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, MAGOG, QUEBEC The men transfer their gear from the vehicles to the room, shooting the breeze as they walk, catching up on family and events, as: How's Patty? Good. Still painting? Naw, she gave that up. Took a course in decorating. Sponged, ragged and marbled every room in the house the first week. You know what she's like. Yeah, well, good for her. Sure, except she got tired of it so everything's back to square one, only lighter. Lighter? Something about bright colours, I don't know, they affect her. Yeah? The yoga classes, I think. Yoga? Meditation. She can't stand colours that are too loud. Throws her off. No kidding? Yoga. Yeah, we'll see how long it lasts. Remember when she was into photography? Paid a shit-load for classes and equipment. Turned the garage into a darkroom, didn't she? You couldn't move without banging into pictures. Before that it was Chinese cooking. At least you could eat it. Not every night for a month. She wants to improve herself. Yeah, now it's vegetarian. Also, she's found God. No kidding? Yeah. Any God in particular or just sort of general? A combination, I guess you'd say. She signed up with some group. They're learning to read minds and see auras and

34 — Stan Rogal

shit. I don't know. Probably another phase. I hope so. What about Jenny? Great. She's minding the store. A Tim Horton's? I don't believe it. I thought you wanted to open a sporting goods place or something. Bait and tackle. Get in some hunting and fishing. Yeah, well, Jenny's on a save-the-animals kick. You know, she never did approve of guns. Uh-huh. Funny, when you think of it. Besides, we did a lot of research and the franchise seemed to be the way to go. Kids OK? Great. Dale junior turned eighteen a month ago — can you believe it? I know, Maggie's going to be eighteen in December. Drove me crazy with the boyfriends and everything, at first. Finally, you just cross your fingers and hope for the best. Same with Tara. What is she — fifteen now? Yeah. And now you got a baby; what's that all about? Mistake, but it's OK, she's a doll. How's Lucy? Are you kidding? Fourteen and already a knockout. Kids develop so quick these days. I'm telling you, she's got tits like a twenty-year-old. You can't keep the boys away from the house. It's like they can smell her. Crazy. Yeah, Tara's been going through that. She's confused. She asks me, what do they want? Do you tell her? Sure. Some of it, anyway. You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Hell, if I don't, she'll find out on her own anyway, we can't protect them forever. As much as we'd like to. Yeah. They enter the room. Tom breaks the seal on the bottle and pours two healthy shots. "Real glass glasses," he says. "More and more places are going plastic." He offers one of the drinks to Skip. "I can't stand drinking out of plastic — coffee or anything. I try to carry my own coffee cup. If I stop at a place that doesn't have real mugs and I don't have my own, I leave. Fuck 'em!" He grins. "Chin-chin." The men clink glasses. Skip swirls the bourbon and gives it a sniff. "What's the matter? You haven't quit drinking, have you?" "Not entirely, no. I've got a ... condition, though." "Yeah? Like what?" "Prostate. It's enlarged. Makes things a bit uncomfortable." "Nothing serious, is it? I mean, there's lots of guys lately dropping dead with prostate cancer. It's in the paper; on the news. Frank Zappa, Timothy Leary..." "No. Apparently it's normal for 'men our age'," he makes quote

The Lossg Drive Home — 35

signs in the air with his fingers, "to have enlarged prostates. Only it affects some men more than others. I'm in that category." "Can't they do anything?" "Not really. My particular problem falls through the cracks. There's no infection, so antibiotics are useless, and it's not serious enough to operate on. The doctor put me on saw palmetto. It's a herbal remedy. Supposed to bring down the inflammation. I don't know. Otherwise, I get checked up every six months or so." "The old latex finger up the butt, huh? Nice." "Yeah. Another school of thought says it might have to do with stress." "Yeah, well, everyone's got stress. No way around it." "That's what I figure." "Maybe you need to meditate, like Patty." "Who's got time? It's like a circle — you don't have time to relax so you're stressed, and you're stressed 'cause you don't have time to relax." "Catch-22. Anything else?" "Give up caffeine, chocolate, sugar, spicy food and alcohol." "You might as well put a bullet through your head right now and get it over with," Tom laughs. "I guess. 'Course, the doc says that regular sex helps." "So the news isn't all bad." Tom gives a big laugh. Skip joins in, though not as emphatically. "Yeah. Anyway, to hell with it. I may suffer later, but tonight wre party." "That's the spirit! No pain, no gain." Skip lifts his glass. "To health!" The room is not remarkable in any way: two double beds with identical floral spreads and white linen, a dresser, a closet, identical bedside tables supporting identical lamps, reproductions of landscapes screwed into the walls. The drapes are heavy and sort of orangeybrown. With the setting sun hitting the window, the room fills with a sepia-coloured light, giving it the appearance of a fifties photograph printed in a copy of LIFE magazine. Skip tosses his sports bag onto the floor, falls against the pillows and turns on the lamp. "Why the hell did you drag the golf clubs in?" The bourbon was having a nice effect, relaxing the men, warming them, making them more playful. "Are you kidding me? This is a valuable set of clubs. I don't want

36 — Stan Rogal

them taking a walk when I'm not around to watch them." "I didn't even know you golfed. When did you take up golfing? Who has time to fucking golf?" He smiles, taking in the glow of the room and the bourbon. Tom unzips the large pouch at the side of the bag and sticks both hands in. "Sometimes, Skip old pal, a golf bag is not just a golf bag." He lifts two pistols from the belly. "Huh?" He lobs one to Skip. "A Mitchell? When did you start packing a Mitchell?" "It's new. That's a .44 magnum, pal. Check the weight." "Heavy." "Forty-six ounces, empty." He lobs the other pistol and Skip catches it in his free hand. "Now you're balanced." "A guy could get sore arms packing these." "Want something lighter?" Tom ducks back into the pouch. "Try this!" Skip lays down the Mitchells as a third pistol comes his way. "Colt. Government model Mk IV Series 80 semi-automatic. That's a .38 Super. Fires nine rounds and weighs in at thirty-nine ounces." "Hm. Nice." Skip hefts it hand to hand. "Still too heavy? How 'bout a little old Beretta?" He throws the pistol from behind his back, drains his glass and pours more bourbon. "You plan on needing all these?" "You know I like a choice." He carries the bottle to Skip. "Just a splash." "My ass." He pours three fingers. "I've got something else you're gonna love." He opens the smaller pouch, dives in, stands facing Skip, his hands at his sides, his palms turned away. "Pick a hand." Skip points to the right. "Next time." Tom extends his left arm and rolls his wrist. "A derringer?" "Not just any derringer — the American Derringer; the smallest, most powerful pocket pistol ever made. Fires a .44 magnum cartridge. Nice, huh? But, here's my favourite." He reveals a second derringer. "Isn't that a thing of beauty? Looks like a cigarette lighter, right? It's called the Guardian Angel. .22 magnum. You know how it's shipped? In a velvet jewellery box. Comes complete with a Guardian Angel keychain charm." Tom grabs his keys and shows Skip the charm.

The Long Drive Home — 37

"You should be in sales." "You're right. I'd be a cinch. What do you think?" "Cute. You always did like to experiment. Me, I'm a creature of habit." Skip rolls onto his side, rustles the bottom of his sports bag and drags out a revolver and holster. "I've still got my same old Browning." "Nothing wrong with the Browning — lightweight and dependable. That's a new holster though, am I right? The Shooting Systems back holster." "I'm impressed. You really should think about going into sales. You've been studying up." "A good workman knows his tools." Tom drinks. "So, you pick that up just for this?" "Yep. My old one was almost worn through. I figured... what the hell!" Skip rubs the leather holster with his thumb. "So... what? Is that it? Or are you gonna pull a fucking cannon out of the bag?" "Oh, you know, I got a couple of Phoenix compacts, but they're kind of boring. I did bring something along though, that I figured would be fun. Add a little excitement." Tom returns to the small pouch. "Quarton Beamshots! These are top-of-the-line laser sights. There's a pressure switch that activates them and the fuckers have a range of about 500 yards. Not that we'll need that much." "You think we need them at all?" "Question not the need, old buddy. Where's your sense of the theatrical? It's gonna be dark, right? You come in with the lasers and you scare the shit out of some poor bastard. I'm telling you, it's a riot." "Yeah?" Skip smiles tentatively. "Yeah. Relax. This is supposed to be fun, right? You and me working together again on a job. We're supposed to enjoy ourselves. That's part of it. Maybe the best part. Like the old days — when you weren't running a fucking doughnut shop and I wasn't chasing down some poor sucker having a fling, or tracking down a lost kid who just wants to get away from his asshole parents." Skip looks only partly convinced as Tom continues. "Listen, when I'm at home by myself, in the basement, with the lights off, I switch on the laser, and my cat — you remember my cat?" "Yeah — Moxie." "That's right. Old Moxie goes crazy chasing after the little red dot. I'm telling you, it'll be a kick."

38 — Stan Rogal

"You're nuts, you know that?" "Sure I know that. So what? The world is nuts." The two men laugh and smack each other on the arms; on the head. "Including you, you bastard. You, too. You know it. Wife and kids and pets and bills and whatever — forget about 'em! For the next couple of days it's just you and me and the job. OK? OK?" "OK." "Let's have another splash. I'm gonna take a shower, clean up, then we'll go out and find a decent restaurant. What do you say?" "Sounds good." "Damn rights. You're in the grave a long time, right? While we're here, let's take advantage." Tom removes his sweatshirt and kicks his sneakers into a corner. "Live a little." He walks to the bathroom and turns on the shower. He drops his pants and shorts, yanks them off with his socks and steps under the spray. He tears the soap wrapper off, crumples it and lofts it over the shower rod onto the floor. He lathers his chest and sings a Garth Brooks hit: Oh, I've got friends in low places, where the whiskey's fine and the music chases my blues away, and it's OK... Skip, by this time, has removed his clothes as well. He climbs into the shower behind Tom. He places a hand on Tom's shoulder and strokes it gently. He reaches down to his waist and slides his fingers around to the front, along the top of Tom's hip and down his belly. He grips Tom's penis. Tom stops lathering. He turns. The two men stare at each other. They embrace. They kiss.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, HIGHWAY 2, NEW HAMPSHIRE Alanis Morissette wails from the tape deck: isn't it ironic... Ann lowers the volume slightly. She glances at the girl, who sits with the travel guide in her lap. "I can never understand why they put a main road like this in the middle of nowhere," says Ann. "It doesn't give a proper impression of the state. Or any impression. Just trees and smalltowns that aren't even worth a stop and look-see." The girl doesn't respond. "What do you think? Or are you so engrossed in that guide book that you haven't even noticed?" Again, the girl fails to respond. "Andrea? Honey? You haven't said a word or lifted your head out of that book for an hour." The girl closes the book. "Why don't you tell mommy about New Hampshire. How about that?" Nothing. Andrea wrinkles her nose, and reaches for the volume control. "What do you want to know?" "Oh good — there is someone sitting here beside me. I was afraid maybe you'd disappeared and left me with nothing but a pile of empty clothes." "No, you didn't."

4O — Stan Rogal

"OK, I didn't." Ann pulls a face. "I was trying to be funny. Don't you know a joke when you hear one?" The girl fiddles with the pages. Ann sighs. In fact, she is painfully aware that the girl doesn't know what a joke is, but now that she has her attention, she doesn't want to lose her. "That's OK. It wasn't that funny anyway. I know, why don't you tell me what the capital of New Hampshire is?" "That's easy. You know that." "Well, we'll start with the easy ones and work our way to the harder ones." "The capital of New Hampshire is Concord." "And the state flower?" "Purple lilac." "Motto?" "'Live free or die.'" "Great." "It's known as the Granite State and has an area of 9,024 square miles, ranking as the forty-fourth largest." "Why the Granite State?" The question confuses the girl. "Well, I guess because..." She searches for an answer, but quickly gives up and begins again from memory. "For the most part, the granite of the White Mountains... The granite of the White Mountains..." She takes a deep breath and screws up her face, clenching her eyes and rolling her tongue in and out of her mouth. "That's OK, honey. Don't worry. That's good. You were getting there. There's granite in the White Mountains. You had it. Now, what do the people do for a living?" The girl relaxes. "New Hampshire's chief manufacturers are electrical and electronic products, machinery, plastics, fabricated metal products, footwear and other leather goods. Berlin is a prominent pulp and paper centre." "What else about it?" The information itself has no real significance for Ann. She wants to engage the girl, even if only at a superficial level. The girl recites: "In 1623, after two decades of exploring the coast, the English established a permanent settlement on Odiorne Point in Rye. Dover, Exeter, Hampton and Portsmouth — then called Strawberry Banke — followed. For many years these were the only

The Long Drive Home •— 41

towns in the region." She looks out the window as she talks, which also pleases Ann. "The land itself had been parcelled out in several conflicting grants; this, along with the different religious make-up of each settlement, set the stage for a century of bitter border disputes. John Mason, a former governor of Newfoundland to whom the land between the Merrimack and Piscataqua rivers was granted in 1629, gave this territory the name New Hampshire." "See that? On the branch? A hawk." Ann points. The girl scratches the window where the hawk appears and continues. "Discord among the Anglicans, Anti... Anti... Antino..." She draws the word out awkwardly. "Anti-no-mi-ans... What's an Antino-mians?" "You don't have any idea?" "Uh uh." "You see — that's why you have to go to school. It's one thing to be good at memorizing and reciting but a very different thing when it comes to understanding what you're saying or figuring out how language works. Isn't that right?" The girl pouts her lips. Ann can see that the word is affecting her. "Hm? Andrea? Baby?" "I guess." "OK. So why don't we try to figure it out together? What's the whole passage?" "Discord among the Anglicans, Antinomians and Puritans alerted Puritan Massachusetts. A restudy of the larger state's charter and new exploration of the region in question conveniently found New Hampshire to be within the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. Leaders in Massachusetts were determined to encompass the area and oust the 'heretics'." "So, you know that Anglicans and Puritans are religious groups, right?" The girl nods. "And you know what 'anti' means? If someone is 'anti' something? Like if I said that you were 'anti' school?" "I don't like it?" "That's right. Or you're against it or opposed to it. So Antinomian means opposed to... 'nomian'. That's more difficult." The girl agrees. "OK. Now, if we had a dictionary we could open it up and we'd find out that 'nomism' means strict adherence to religious or moral

42 — Stan Rogal

law and that the word comes from nomos, which is Greek for law. Put it all together and probably the Antinomians were against the laws of the Church at that time. What do you think?" The girl ponders this for a second, pressing her head back against the seat. "OK," she says and grins. Fantastic, thinks Ann, somewhat amazed at herself. Where had she dragged that from? A few Greek lessons in high school and a college course in comparative religions. Alanis fills the background. The girl laughs a funny laugh, as if mimicking the music: "Ha, ha, ha, haha, ha, haha..." Then she speaks: "Roughly resembling a right triangle, New Hampshire measures its greatest length, 190 miles, from north to south. The Connecticut, Merrimack and Piscataqua rivers... Pisca-taqua... PISCA-taqua... PISCA-TAQUA..." She giggles, playing with the sound. "That's a funny word — Piscataqua. It's fun to say. Piscataqua." Ann shakes her head. "Yes," she says. "It's a very funny word." "You say it." "Oh, I don't know..." "Say it! Go on! It's fun. Piscataqua. It rumbles in your throat. Try it." "OK. Piscataqua." The girl squeals with laughter. "See? I told you." The two repeat the word to each other, back and forth, grinning and laughing down the road. "Piscataqua. Piscataqua..."

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, BETHLEHEM, NEW HAMPSHIRE It's a regular smalltown bar, decorated with pine panelling and hung with the skins and heads of slaughtered animals. Scattered here and there throughout the room, and with what appears to be no definite rhyme or reason, the odd dust-covered plastic plant merely serves to add to the deathly ambience. A sad excuse for a ceiling fan, long since turned yellow and crusted with the carcasses of flying insects, circulates the same smoky air that's been trapped in the room for decades. In the centre of the floor sits a pool table with worn felt and bent cues, while off to one side a pinball machine flashes. Sharing the space, a scrap of dance floor stretches out for the jukebox crowd. Two men relax at a table drinking draft out of small glasses and playing crib. A man and a woman exchange words at a corner table. You don't love me, he says, leaning toward her and holding her hand in his. Of course I do, she says, stroking his thumb with her own. Not like I love you, he says, butting his cigarette in the ashtray. You're wrong, she says, blowing smoke rings and checking out the room. You don't. If you loved me you wouldn't treat me like this, he

44 — Stan Rogal

says, dragging on his cigarette. How do I treat you, she asks? Like a child, he says. You are a child, she says. Like some kind of idiot, he says. You are some kind of idiot, she says. It goes on like this. The kind of place that only conies across as romantic in the movies. The washroom has a sign that reads: "In the state of New Hampshire, staff are required by law to wash their hands after using the washroom." There are cartoon depictions of bacteria lounging about or frolicking on toilets, sinks and hands. Some of the bacteria are in patio chairs and wear sunglasses. They look very content, even happy. Beside the bacteria is a list of the various types of diseases that can be caused and what effects may be experienced. As if this might make a difference: not washing; the sign. Tom is at the bar. He finishes a ham and cheese sandwich that's dressed with mayonnaise and mustard squeezed from individual plastic portion packs. The meal is complemented by the remains of a dill pickle and ketchup potato chips. A tight ball of cellophane that previously wrapped the sandwich slowly uncurls in the ashtray in front of him. He shoves his plate to the side. Another man sits two stools away. He is early to mid fifties, wearing a smart suit and tie, five feet eight or nine inches tall, heavy set, pudgy fingers, gold ring with a large diamond on his wedding finger. He holds a handkerchief in his hand. A natural born sweat factory, Tom thinks. A businessman of some kind. Or sales. Real estate. Yeah. The smell of Old Spice, Brut, Polo... Gifts from secretaries or associates who don't know what else to get. Thank you, yes, my favourite, the last bottle just finished, et cetera... "Buy you a beer?" Tom drains his glass. The man raises his head as if with difficulty, like it was in another place — like he was thinking of something. "Hm? Are you talking to me?" He says the words like so much not out of the movies. "Yeah." "Why would you want to buy me a beer?" "Why not? You've been sitting in front of an empty glass ever since I walked in. I figure maybe you don't like to drink alone. Maybe you like to talk."

The Long Drive Home — 4t5

"How do you know I'm alone?" says the man. "How do you know I'm not waiting for someone?" "Are you?" Tom calls for two beers. "You're from out of town, right?" The man doesn't answer, as if it's obvious. "Me too." The conversation begins slowly, but the tongues loosen thanks to more beer and a couple of bourbons. Tom drops a few quarters into the jukebox. Dwight Yoakam. Reba Mclntyre. Lorrie Morgan. Alabama. Where you from? Toronto, you? Boston, now. What brings you here? Business in the area. Lawyer. No kidding. What kind? Real estate, that sort of thing. Checking property for a client. You? Bingo, thinks Tom. Passing through. Got a job to do up north. Canada? Yeah. Stopped for a bite, a brew, a whiz. What sort of job? Deliver something. Papers. Papers? I'm a detective. Private. Really? Is that dangerous? Not like the TV shows. You carry a gun? You gotta carry a gun. A man's crazy not to carry a gun these days. Yeah? Yeah. And some discussion about protection on the road or business dealings going wrong or perhaps a wife that's having an affair and a fellow needing to maybe go out and shoot the guy who's screwing her, or shoot the wife, or himself, haha. The man tries to say it like a joke, but Tom senses an edge behind the laugh. "No one should be walkin' around today without protection. It's a man's God-given right to carry arms. It's guaranteed in the constitution." "Not in Canada," says the man. "It's almost impossible to buy a handgun. I checked into it." "Yeah?" "Yeah." "Any particular reason?" "Like you said. A man's got to be crazy not to these days." "Maybe I can help. If you're serious." "You think so?" "Sure. The Glockmeister. You heard of it?" The man shakes his head no. "Let me tell you, mano-a-mano, this is a state-ofthe-art pistol at a reasonable price. It's like the everyman gun. Designed by Gaston Glock and a group of experts in Austria around 1982. It's one of the few guns in the world that incorporates plastic

40 — Stan Rogal

into its frame, making it lightweight and highly functional. A lot of handguns don't work properly straight out of the box, this one not only works straight out of the box, it works even after being run over by a three-ton truck. Never cleaned a gun before in your life? Don't worry, the Clock only needs cleaning every 10,000 rounds. Which means, in your case, probably never." "So, it's a popular model." "Popular? My friend, by the year 2000, there will be more Glocks in homes than Holy Bibles. What do you say?" "How do I get it over the border?" "The best way? Stick it in your coat pocket and drive on through. You're an honest man, aren't you? Good job, nice suit, here on business. They'll wave you through, no questions asked." "Bullets?" "I'll throw in two clips." The man hesitates and Tom isn't sure if he's thinking about the gun or the money. "Two hundred bucks," says Tom, trying to ease the situation. "I've got about a hundred and fifty." The man reaches for his wallet and Tom stops him. "Not here," he lowers his voice. "I'll go to the car — red minivan in the lot — you go into the bathroom, take out the money, meet me outside in five minutes. We shake hands, you pass me the money. I offer you a candy out of a bag. You take the bag and look inside. If you like what you see, we shake hands again and wish each other a safe trip. If you don't like what you see, you hand the bag back and I return your money. Fair?" "Fair." Tom places a bill on the counter, slaps the man's shoulder and strides out the door. The man gets up and goes to the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. You're an honest man, aren't you^ He wipes the sweat from his face and neck. In the bar, the man and woman are still going at it: 'You don't love me. If you loved me you wouldn't treat me this way.' 'You don't love me. If you did, you'd believe me.' 'How can I believe you when you treat me this way?' 'How can I believe you when you don't believe me?' 'I want to believe you but how can I believe you when you don't give me no reason?' 'I give you reason. The reason is I love you.' 'That's no reason.' 'That is a reason.' 'That's no reason 'cause you don't love me.'

The Long Drive Home — 47

Meanwhile, the sips of beer, the ordering of further rounds, the sounds of cigarettes being lit, the smoke twisting in and out of the conversation, the jukebox playing, the fan blades revolving, Reba Mclntyre singing "Fancy" on the jukebox: I may be just plain white trash but Fancy is my name... and so on and so forth...

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, HIGHWAY 2,VERMONT With the sun now bearing down through the windshield, Ann lowers her window to feel a breeze. "Let me know if it gets too cold for you," she tells the girl. The cold was rarely a problem for Ann. She had a body that radiated heat. She said it was because she packed an extra layer of insulation, giving her body a density — which is the way she would always refer to herself, not overweight so much as dense. I have a dense body, she'd say. In earlier times, her husband affectionately called her his "little furnace", not simply due to her natural body heat but also as a euphemism for her sexual energy. Over the years, though, especially recently, he's taken to keeping his distance in bed, complaining that he has difficulty sleeping with her too close — the heat, he says, and the reason for buying a king size bed when they moved to the larger house, though she was wishing that the bed would work the opposite way — providing incentive to rekindle some of the old romantic feelings they once had. Instead, they might as well be in separate beds, in separate rooms, on separate planets.

SO — Stan Rogal

She began to think that, perhaps, this is the natural course of marriage and there's no escaping it. What can one expect after being with the same person for fifteen years? Things change. Life creates new responsibilities and moves from the fantastic to the practical. It's the way things are and it isn't horrible. Overall, things are good. They're comfortable. There's respect and kindness and a certain amount of caring and even tenderness. It's just that... the spark is missing. Not that things should rage as in the beginning, only that — occasionally, occasionally... Then again, she hasn't made things easy either, what with she's been going through — her condition — as she and her husband refer to it. And, of course, there's Andrea... "There goes New Hampshire," calls Ann. "Say: good-bye Nen> Hampshire, hello Vermont."

"Good-bye New Hampshire!" The girl waves. "Hello Vermont!" "You know, when I was younger, about your age, I thought that the world was divided by all of these red lines, just like on the maps. I was so disappointed when I found out there weren't any." She glances outside and catches glimpses of the water rushing between the gaps in the bridge railing. "Just rivers and lakes and mountains that all look the same no matter where you are. Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont — they all look like Ontario. It's as if you never have to leave the place where you were born." Ann catches herself wandering and gives her head a shake. She laughs. "Sorry about that, honey." She hates when she loses herself like this — either wallowing in cheap sentiment or self-pity, or getting caught up in things that she has little or no control over, or despairing about her situation. Especially in front of Andrea, who has her own problems. 'It takes little enough to set her off as it is and she doesn't need the silly ravings of her mother piled on top as well,' Ann admits to herself. "Did you ever think that way? That the world was nicely divided by thick red lines?" The girl has her fingers in her mouth. She scrunches her eyes and wrinkles her nose as if concentrating on something. "Do you think it's funny that, whenever we cross a border, nothing changes? Hm?" The girl takes her hands from her mouth and grips the guide in her lap. Oh God, please, worries Ann. Don't let it happen. I'm sorry. Why did I allow myself to wander off that way?

The Long Drive Home — 51

"Andrea?" She asks. "What are you thinking, honey?" Ann searches for some way in. "Why don't you tell mommy about Vermont, OK?" The girl takes a large breath and holds it. "Vermont," she releases the air in her lungs. "Named for its evergreen-covered mountains, Vermont measures about 150 miles from north to south and tapers in width from 90 miles at the Canadian border to 41 miles at the Massachusetts line." Good, thinks Ann, and relaxes. Good. "The Connecticut River defines the eastern border; the Poultney River and Lake Champlain define the western border." "So what's the name of this river?" "I don't know." "Well, which way are we driving now?" "Urn, west?" "Right. So if we're going west, what border is this — west or east?" "East." "Good. And what river did you say was on the east border?" The girl backtracks in her head. "The Connecticut River defines the eastern border." "So what's the name of this river?" The girl hesitates. "Don't be afraid. You know the answer." "The... Connecticut?" "Good girl! That's right. You see — it's not so difficult. You know how to do it." The girl doesn't respond. Ann thinks that it's strange that, while her daughter seems to get so much pleasure out of being able to recite facts and figures, she never gets too excited about discovering answers for herself or using her own powers of deduction to arrive at conclusions. Even coming up with the simplest things — the name of a river flowing right underneath her — more often turns into a painful lesson rather than a joyous experience. "Mom?" "Yes, honey?" "We drive through St. Johnsbury and then we go north, right?" "Uh-huh. We're on Highway 2 now, then we switch onto Highway 91. Do you see that on the map?" "Yeah. But before St. Johnsbury is the Maple Grove Maple Museum. They have exhibits and a film showing the sugaring process and the Old Sugar House demonstrates the process of boiling down the maple sap."

52 — Stan Ro$al

"Uh-huh. And you want to stop and get some candy, right?" The girl shrugs. "How long does it say the whole thing takes?" "30 minutes, minimum." "And what does it cost?" "It's cheap. It says it's only fifty cents. I get in free 'cause I'm under twelve." "OK. Sounds good. We've got lots of time. We'll take a break. Have a stretch and go to the bathroom. I could use a cup of coffee." Another crisis averted, but, will it always be like this — being on guard, being careful of everything she says and does? Does it have to be this way? Will it ever change? "St. Johnsbury," says the girl, drawing her finger across the window. "Population 7,600. Altitude 556 feet. Much of St. Johnsbury's history and growth centred on the invention of the platform scale in 1830 by Thaddeus Fairbanks and the idea of flavouring plug tobacco with maple sugar by George Gary." She stops and giggles. Ann wonders if the girl actually hears what she's saying and is laughing at the fact that someone came up with the idea of putting maple sugar into plug tobacco or if something else has coincidentally crossed her mind at the same moment. "The town prospered with the success of the Fairbanks Scale and maple sugar industries, which continue to play a major role in its economy. It is now the industrial, retail and cultural centre of the area of Vermont known as the Northeast Kingdom." Ann pops a Sheryl Crow tape into the deck. By the way she reaches into the tape box, feeling without seeing, one can tell that the action is automatic. It is much like driving the car. It's a fact, if a person was to suddenly stop and think about driving, or how they are driving, it is likely that that person would end by going off the road and crashing into a tree. It is similar with the music at this point. Ann changes the tape because it is something she does and there is no thought given as to how or why, she simply proceeds. It is unclear whether she is even conscious of what artist she is putting on or whether she is even listening to either the music or the words or whether the sound is merely providing a further blanket of protective white noise, like the hum of the engine, the sound of the tires along the highway, the breeze coming through the window, the exchange of conversation that is used merely to

The JLotig Drive Home — 53

establish the presence of another human being, either in the car or in a room. Or perhaps like a clock ticking softly in a nursery that one is able to ignore after a time, yet which continues to make its effect felt unconsciously, both in the mind and in the body. Or, perhaps there is nothing beyond these automatic actions after all. One drives. One changes the tape. One carries on. Good to be alive, sings Sheryl, these are the choices we made to survive...

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MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, MAGUS, QUEBEC Tom chews vigorously on a mouthful of food as Skip sticks his fork into a piece of reddish beef, piles on mushrooms, onions, swipes it through the juice and slips it into his mouth. "What do you think? Feeling guilty yet?" Tom raises his eyebrows and licks his lips. "Hm?" "The steak." "Are you kidding? It's fantastic. I haven't had a meal like this in ages." He pours red wine for the two of them. "Me neither. Not at home, anyway. You gotta wonder when you have to sneak around the corner or get outta town just to have a taste of beef. It's like it's become a criminal act or something." Tom grabs his wine. "Cheers! It's good to see you, Skipper. Really." They tilt their glasses toward one another. "You too." "Three years. Three goddamn years. I can't believe it." "Yeah." There is a silence as the two men enjoy their wine. They stare across the table at each other, nodding their heads slightly,

56 — Stan Rogal

chewing their food, wiping their chins with the backs of their hands, their minds occupied with reminiscences or merely enjoying the pleasure of the moment. Tom is the first to speak. "What do you think it is?" he asks. "Our wives, I mean? Both taking up this vegetarian stuff, practically at the same time. I mean, I know that with Pat it's tied up with the whole religious thing." "Yeah, well, with Jenny it all has to do with saving the environment. You know, the whole thing about how much land for growing and the destruction of the rainforest and how many pounds of grain it takes to raise a pound of beef and the chemicals they use to fatten them up..." "And the fact of them burping and farting away the ozone layer?" Tom says ohh-%one, like some voice from a horror flick. "Exactly," Skip chuckles. "Plus we're forever sending money to save the bears, save the whales, save the dolphins..." "Save the chickens,puck,puck,puck..." The two men laugh. "Not quite, but almost. I mean, we still eat some chicken and fish." "So far." He points at Skip with his fork. "That's the way Patty started too. Next thing you know, we're living on a diet of vegetables, brown rice and beans — it was tearing out my insides. I'm not saying it's wrong to help the environment, Christ knows it could use some help, am I right? I mean, we agree on this, yes?" "Sure. I said 'Jenny', but it's really both of us. And even the kids. They're doing stuff in school: tree planting, composting, the whole ball of wax. We do our best." "We do our best. You got it. You hit the nail on the fucking head. We do our best., and I'm only sorry to say that our best counts for dick-all in the greater scheme of things. While we're running around down here recycling cans and bottles and reusing empty ice-cream containers and wiping our asses with someone else's regurgitated Christmas cards, the guys upstairs — the assholes with the money and the power — are spewing out more toxic shit than any one person can create in a thousand lifetimes. In other words, it's nice to be able to shut out the reality and give ourselves a friendly pat on the back for doing the good works, but it doesn't really change anything in the long run." "Maybe. But you've got to do something." "Sure, but, again, it's a Catch-22 situation. Now you and me, we

The Long Drive Home — 57

understand that and we adjust our lives accordingly. We do what we can, even knowing that the world is going down the toilet and there's nothing we can do to save it, we do what we can. But we can only do so much. We still have to live our lives and enjoy ourselves. Right?" Skip looks undecided and shrugs. "Our wives, on the other hand, have taken up a cause, and so it becomes an all-or-nothing crusade to save the world — and God forbid that anyone should cross them or even disagree with them. I mean, haven't you noticed that, suddenly, nothing in the way you used to live is good enough anymore? Or the way you behave or the way you think? And even the way you look is wrong. A wrinkle means not enough vitamin E. A few pounds heavy means too much fatty foods. Tired means too much yeast in the system. Some discolouration in the eyes means toxins in the water. You catch a cold and it means an imbalance in your aura. You get cancer and it means you're being taught a lesson for some previous atrocity, whether in this life or some past life. Then there's this idea that they can stay looking younger longer; that they can somehow cheat death by eating tofu and raw carrots and yogurt. Do you understand what I'm saying? I mean, what is it? Is it just some kind of female thing? Am I way off base here?" Tom is on a roll. Skip is used to it and he allows for it. In some ways, he enjoys it even more than when he contributes. "Maybe it's the fact of the kids growing up. Do you think? The women see themselves growing old as well, and they want to stop it. Or, not stop it, but somehow turn back the clock. Like they want to be twenty-one forever." Tom stops and fingers his napkin. "You don't want to be twenty-one forever?" "Not on your fucking life. I hated twenty-one. I like growing old. Staying young is too boring; it's too much work. If I want to have a steak now and then, or a drink, why shouldn't I? I like the idea of growing old and fat and ugly and kicking off early from a massive heart attack. Better fast and easy than dragging it out for years." He looks straight at Skip. "You think I'm full of shit, don't you?" "No." "Sure you do, you bastard. You're giving me that 'there-hegoes-again-he's-had-a-few-drinks-and-he-does n't-know-whathe's-talking-about' look."

58 — Stan Rogal

"What look?" "That one!" He grabs Skip's jaw and gives it a playful shake. "And you're right. I am jabbering on and I have had a few drinks and I am feeling a little drunk. But it's only 'cause I'm so happy to see you, OK?" "OK." The men go back to their wine. "Out of curiosity, how are you and Patty making out, with all the changes and everything she's going through?" Tom shrugs. "We're OK. Hell, we gotta be OK. There's the kids, right? We gotta do what's best for them. Anyway, I figure a little religion'll probably do them good. That way they can make up their own minds. I don't know. What the hell. I keep thinking, one of these days she'll snap out of it." Tom leans back in his chair and notices that the paper placemat has a map of the surrounding area, with short descriptions of many of the towns and cities. "Anyhoo — let's not talk about that tonight. You live in Sherbrooke? Lemme see." He lifts his plate aside and reads aloud: "Sherbrooke: population 74,100." He whistles. "No bigger than a fucking truck stop." The words are a friendly jab at Skip. "Once a hunting and fishing ground of the... Hunting and fishing! Y'see? You told me that's why you went there in the first place and now Jenny won't let you touch 'em. Chances are, something'll end up eating you and that'll fix her." "Something'll eat me?" "Yeah. On your way to open up shop one morning, you'll be surprised by a crazed grizzly bear." "Or an irate salmon." "Or an irate salmon, right. Tear you to pieces." Skip laughs. He knows that Tom is razzing him, but he doesn't mind. Yeah, he moved to the area for the hunting and fishing, but moreso for the family. He knew they'd never last in Boston. Not in the city and not near Tom. Jenny didn't like Tom all that much. Never had, really. She had been friends with Patty and Patty loved Tom, so she put up with him. It wasn't for anything he ever did to her, really. More for the fact that it was too easy for Skip to go out with him rather than stay at home with her and the kids. She believed he was a bad influence. She was jealous of the time the men spent together and that they got along so well; communicated so well. She was also

The liong Drive Home — 59

annoyed that Tom called him Skip or Skipper. He was the only one who ever called him that. To everyone else he was Dale. The nickname came about years ago. Tom just called him Skip one day and that was it. Simple. Made worse for Jenny, he supposed, because she felt that there was some secret that he was withholding from her having to do with the name. The only secret was that there was no secret. Jenny was born in smalltown Quebec and came to Massachusetts with her family when she was fifteen. Her father got a job with an insurance firm there. Her mom and dad moved back after Jenny and Dale got married. In this way, she could claim some kind of roots. It was tougher for Dale, though both made compromises. He quit being a private eye; quit hunting, then quit fishing. She gave up her friends and her job as a day manager and hostess for a restaurant. It was the only possible way, they figured, to survive as a family. So there they were. "Once a hunting and fishing ground of the Abenaki Indians," Tom continues, "Sherbrooke is now a centre for both transportation and industry. In 1796 Gilbert Hyatt chose this site at the confluence of the Magog and St-Francois rivers for his mill. The settlement was named after Hyatt, however in 1818 the name changed to honour Sir John Coape Sherbrooke, then governor of Canada. Adding colour to the city are more than 50,000 plants arranged in decorative mosaics at several sites downtown, including the area near the courthouse on the Grandes Fourches and along rue King ouest and rue Portland." Tom stops. "Plants arranged in decorative mosaics... Well, it all sounds very quaint." "It is." "Shopping areas. Two malls — wow! And a Tim Horton's run by the Skipper, right?" "Right." The men laugh again and Tom jokes some more about the plants and the malls. Skip pushes his plate away. "That was perfect. You want dessert?" "Yeah. How 'bout a couple of brandies?" Tom divides the last of the wine between them. "In for a penny, in for a pound." "I guess that means yes." Tom calls for two brandies. "So what's the scoop on this job we're going to do?"

6O — Stan Rogal

The brandies arrive and Tom offers his normal abbreviated version of how, when and where. A friend of a friend knows someone who knows someone who knows someone else who is owed money by some guy in Toronto. The guy is apparently unable to come up with the necessary cash. Because of this, Tom got the call to grab a friend and go pay the mark a visit. Easy. Tom didn't believe in beating around the bush or talking a job to death. Not only was it a waste of valuable time and energy, it was plain bad luck. The two were professionals, they had done this sort of job before, they each had their expertise, they each knew what to do and how to do it. No muss, no fuss. "After, we head to a bar for last call, have a few drinks, grab a bite, get a good night's sleep and head back here the next day — rock and roll!" Torn drops the napkin he's been twisting into his empty wine glass. "You get a cheque in the mail, haha!" The waitress arrives with two more brandies. "Can I ask you a favour? Is it possible to turn down the music? Or better yet," he scans the restaurant and sees only two other people eating dinner. "Turn it off?" "I'll see what I can do." "Thank you." Tom turns to Skip. "I hate these so-called easy rock stations. They're in every fucking store and restaurant and office and toilet that you walk into. It's fucking insidious. I mean it, if I have to hear Rod Stewart singing 'Maggie May' one more time I am going to have a shit hemorrhage. I mean, I love good old Rod as much as the next guy. We grew up with him, right? But there's a fucking limit to everything. Even if they'd play a different song once in a while. Which is what I was saying about Patty — we all gotta go sometime. Better after one meal like this than wasting away for years on a diet of tofu and fucking bean sprouts. Am I right here? What do you think? Or am I just talking through my hat?" "I guess some people like tofu and bean sprouts, Depends on what you're used to. And what you want." "Bullshit." Tom shakes his head and stares down again at the placemat. He reads for a second quietly to himself and laughs. The waitress drops the brandies and clears away the remaining dishes and cutlery. "Get this: Rock Island — the town at the border crossing, right?

The Long Drive H&tne —• 61 It's half in Canada and half in the U.S." He smiles and continues. "Population: 1,200. In some homes in Rock Island, meals prepared in the United States are eaten in Canada, since several buildings were constructed before the international boundary was established through the community." Tom raises his head from the sheet. "Do you believe it? Like there's this big invisible red line running through someone's house." "Maybe it's not invisible. Maybe there is a big red line running through. Make a great conversation piece." "Yeah. And they've got an Opera House where the stage is in Canada and the 200 seats are in the States. Wild. I wonder how they work the ticket prices?" The men talk and laugh about the use and feasibility of running red lines through rooms, across furniture, over dinnerware, the kids, the pets and so on. They argue over how to settle the ticket issue. More brandy arrives. Then, as if on cue, both men freeze and tilt their chins toward the ceiling. "Fuck," they say, roaring. Through the speaker, the voice of Rod Stewart, faintly growling: Wake up, Maggie, you know I got somethin' to say to you. It's late September and I really should be back at school...

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, ST. JQHNSBURY, VERMONT Andrea and her mother sit at the counter of a small diner. Andrea drinks a Coke and eats candy bought at Maple Grove while Ann wraps her hands around a coffee mug. The two talk about what they've seen: the film, the museum, the various maple syrup products. It was fun. They had a good time together. Ann thinks to herself that it's nice to be able to have a simple conversation with her daughter about a shared experience rather than what normally occurs: two people talking at each other — the girl spewing endless, memori2ed facts and figures, her having to try and turn every encounter into a lesson; having to be careful how far to push things; having to weigh every word, check every reaction. Perhaps if she had spent more time with her daughter earlier on, rather than following her career? she wonders. And yet, everyone said that it wouldn't have mattered; there was nothing she could have done to alter events. Besides, she shrugs, her job was also important to her — necessary, even. It was one thing she knew that she was good at and had some control over. Other things in her life were not so clear. And there was always the future to consider: the

#4 — Stan Rogal

comfort of a nice home with nice things and money in the bank to pay bills and provide Andrea with a decent education. That was all up in the air now, even though the so-called experts did their best to reassure her. But why shouldn't they? Andrea wasn't their daughter and this was their job, after all — to reassure. "How's the candy?" Ann asks as the topic of the tour starts to lose steam. "Mm." "Uh-huh." Ann sips her coffee. A glass of water in front of her reminds her to go into her bag. She brings out a couple of coloured bottles, takes a pill from each and swallows them with the water. A man enters the diner and sits a few stools away from the girl. He drops a camera case on the counter. Out of the corner of one eye, the man catches Andrea looking in his direction. He leans his shoulders toward her, his elbows supported on the arborite counter top. He flashes a wide, goofy smile and moves his eyebrows up and down. Obviously satisfied with this public display of attention, his interest turns to the menu. Andrea is forever bewildered by this strange and rather paradoxical behaviour — the seeming need or obligation of adults to acknowledge the presence of children, to make a sort of tenuous connection, either by a look or an action or a word, whereas they tend to go out of their way to ignore and avoid each other. She is also aware that if she (or any child, for that matter) was to continue staring at the adult, then that person soon becomes uncomfortable, as if the adult/child interchange relied on a specific time frame in order for it to be correct; a time frame that the child is not privy to and that no adult has ever thought to explain. Andrea does this now and the man shows his discomfort: doing small double takes, rolling his shoulders, tugging at his collar, clearing his throat, flipping the menu pages. "Andrea?" Ann leans close, her voice low. "What are you doing? Stop staring at that man. It's not nice." This is what she's always told, whether from her mother, her father, her teachers — anyone older: "It's not nice." No one tells her why. It is unfair, she pines. It was the man who made the initial move, after all; the man who sought some kind of brief contact. Andrea was never interested in the man in the first place, yet she's the one who is scolded.

The Long Drive Home —- 65

"He has the same camera case as the man we met today." This is what actually caught her attention in the first place. "Is that right?" Ann takes a quick glance. "I suppose they're pretty common." "Why do you think he took our picture?" Andrea calmly rattles the ice cubes in her drink with the plastic straw. "What?" The motion of Ann's coffee mug to her lips is arrested halfway. "What do you mean? Who took our picture?" Ann shoots a look in the direction of the man at the counter, then down to the girl. "The man this morning. The one who fixed the tire." Andrea shows no reaction. To her, this is merely the reporting of information; the simple telling of another meaningless adult action: taking photographs. Another thing she could never understand: why anyone would want to take pictures, never mind enjoy the procedure. Then to stick them into an album to be dragged out and looked at during some later date? What was the point when one could better describe the past place or event in one's own words? As when photographs were shown of her third birthday party and she wailed, complaining of the fact that so many things were missing from each glossy print, whereas, in her mind, the picture was so much fuller and clearer. "When did you see him taking our picture?" Ann tries to replay the earlier scene in her mind. She can't recall seeing a camera and she can't fix a time when the man had the opportunity to use one. Ann feels her heart begin to race. She squeezes her throat gently with one hand. Oh my God, she thinks. Don't let this happen. Not now. Stay calm. "When we drove away. I saw him in the mirror." "You saw him in the mirror? With a camera?" The girl nods. "He was in his car." As odd as it seems that a stranger would want to photograph them, and as odd as Andrea's behaviour sometimes is, she knows that the girl doesn't make things up; that she's incapable of making things up. Her chief talent is reporting what she has observed as accurately and completely as her knowledge allows. "Why didn't you tell me?" There is a slight strain in her voice. The girl shrugs and plays with her candy, stretching the sticky

66 — Stan Rogal

stuff out of her mouth and pushing it back in with two fingers. "Did you notice anything else about the man?" Ann tries to keep her voice and manner under control, but the girl can tell that things are not right and she doesn't respond. "Andrea? Honey? Listen to me, don't worry, you haven't done anything wrong. I'm not angry at you. I'm trying to find out what happened, that's all, and I need you to help me. OK? OK?" Ann puts her hand on the girl's cheek and runs her fingers through her hair. "Now, did you notice anything else about the man?" "Well," the girl dips her candy into the Coke. "Well, he had a gun under his coat." She doesn't look at her mother. "A gun?" Ann's eyes widen and she feels her throat and chest tighten. "Are you sure? How did you... I mean..." "I saw it when he bent over to look at the phone. It had a shiny white handle, like on the inside of a shell." "OK. That's good." Ann breathes slowly and deeply. She takes a drink of water. "That's good." She takes a bill from her wallet and hands it to the girl. Stay calm, she thinks. Stay calm and don't alarm the child. Ann points to the jukebox machine on the counter in front of them and flips the index cards. "You get change and play a few songs. Mommy has to use the phone." Ann looks at the man again. He sits quietly drinking coffee and eating a sandwich. She checks out the diner. She doesn't see a pay phone, so she asks the waitress. The closest phone is in the store across the street. She steps out the door, glances up and down the street, looks back at the girl, then jogs to the store. Inside, she uses her phone card and dials a number. A secretary lets her know that the person she's calling isn't in. She dials a second number and a man answers. The conversation begins casually. Hi, it's me. Yeah, hi. What's up? Everything OK? Yes. She had called the office first and he wasn't there. Yeah, he's giving someone an estimate on building an extension to the house and putting in a suite for the nanny. Oh, so you're busy. I'm busy, but not that busy. I can talk for a minute. How are you? OK. How did it go in Bangor? Fine. The sister and her family are well; she and Andrea had an enjoyable visit. And the business? Looks positive. She toured the store, saw the present computer system. She has to write up a proposal, that sort of thing. Check out

The Long Drive Home — 67

costs. Canadian to U.S. and whatever. How's Andrea? She's fine. She seemed to enjoy being with her sister's kids, even though she didn't play much. She asked the kids what blocks were for. What blocks were for? Uh-huh. She didn't understand the fun in them. Yeah, well. How are things at home? Fine; busy. As he said, he's with a client. Yes, she's sorry, but... what about the trial? What's happening? Fine. No problem. He talked with the police again. The trial date is set for two weeks. Everything is worked out. Is he sure? What does she mean? She means, is there more going on than he's telling? Could someone want to do something so that he doesn't testify? What is she talking about? He said that this would be over months ago, but it seems to be taking forever — is there something he's not telling her? Is there any danger? Danger, he asks? Like what? She doesn't know. Like Mafia. What's this all about? Has something happened? She tells him about the two incidents with the stranger. She tells him that the man took their picture and that he has a gun. Would anyone come after her and Andrea in order to keep him from testifying? Don't be silly, he says. You're overreacting. It's probably just coincidence. She's seen too many TV shows. What he's involved with is strictly small potatoes. Is he sure? Of course he's sure. The telephone in the car is broken; the cord has been ripped out. Does he know anything about that? The telephone? He borrowed the car the day before she left on the trip, yes? Oh, yeah. Maybe. He had some stuff in the front seat. He remembers the cord catching on a box. That may have done it. At any rate, he didn't notice. He never checked. Oh. There is a pause at both ends of the line. What are you listening to? What? The music. Sounds like Michael Bolton. He doesn't know. He wasn't listening. It's the client's house. Have you been taking your medication? Yes, yes. And she hasn't been... No. OK — any further sign of the man? No. If the phone isn't working, where is she calling from? A pay phone. Where's Andrea? They stopped for a Coke. She's in the diner. She's OK. Good. Why doesn't she get back. There's nothing to worry about. Call him when they get to Magog if she wants. He has a meeting in the evening but he'll have his cell phone with him. OK. Give Andrea his love. They hang up. Ann can see the diner through the store window. The girl is drinking her Coke and flipping the index cards. Ann rubs her chest; her heart has stopped racing and her throat has relaxed,

68 — Stan Ro§al

but she's thirsty. She walks down the aisle and picks up a container of orange juice. At the alcohol display, she hesitates, then grabs a forty-ounce bottle of vodka. She pays the man at the counter and slips the things into her bag. In the diner, the girl drops a coin into the machine. She hits a button. There is a silence as the record is selected and placed on the turntable. Ann sits beside the girl. "What did you play?" she asks. "I don't know," says the girl. "I closed my eyes." Ann rubs the girl's arm and smiles. They look at each other. The music plays.

MOMDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, MAGOG, QUEBEC Tom and Skip are the last two customers in the restaurant. They sit at the table smoking long, thin cigars. They are in no rush to leave. The lights are low and a candle burns. They tip their heads back, blow the blue smoke up toward the ceiling and watch it gather against the wood beams. The waitress walks over with two more brandies. "You boys must have something special to celebrate." The two men don't move, but each makes a sound that, without being understandable as a word or a phrase, indicates agreement with her statement. Skip twirls the end of his cigar against the rim of the ashtray while Tom drums the underside of the table with his fingers. They are pleased with the woman's observation and attention as well as with the way she says, You boys. It's nice. They like the sound of it. All this talk about families and responsibilities and getting old and here she is calling them You boys. The waitress stands at the table, looking first at one man, then the other. "You win a lottery or something?" She grins a big grin. The woman is not particularly attractive: buck-toothed with bad skin and oily

7O — Stan Rogal

hair; mid to late twenties at a guess, five feet six inches tall. Friendly though, with a good body, even covered with the uniform, it was easy to tell: large breasts, firm butt and a waist like a wasp. Tom notices that she isn't wearing a wedding ring, but thinks, that doesn't mean anything these days. "No," says Tom. "We just haven't seen each other in a dog's age." "Oh. That's nice. A reunion." "Exactly." "Well, if you need anything else, I'm here until we close." "And what time is that? "One a.m." "Well, thank you. I'm sure we'll be here for a while longer yet. Right, partner?" Skip nods. "If you don't see me, I'll be in the back helping with the cleanup. Just shout." She walks away. Tom stretches across the table. "Skip, old buddy, I do believe that that little girl wants to get picked up." "Mm." "Not to my taste, exactly. Sweet body though." "Yeah. Sweet." And Tom says something like, Hey, remember the time we met that broad in... And they're off again, reminiscing about the old days. Remember this, remember that, remember the time here or the time there. Yeah, yeah. And stories about high school and stories about cars and stories about road trips and stories about bars and drinking and picking up and getting picked up and scoring and the first blowjob and part time jobs and shit jobs and the first big job and the almost busted and the almost broke and the guy that this, that, and the other thing... Unfolding like a stack of used newspapers and old photographs, except the stories didn't always match up and Skip would jump in and say: that's not the way it happened, and Tom saying it sure as hell was or the other way around and one calling the other a dirty bastard for that trick or a dumb fuck for something else and both laughing and drinking and knowing that it doesn't really matter one way or the other what really happened or who is right or who is wrong because the only real thing is being together and the telling, right here, right now, and also knowing that one day this occasion will be a story as well,

The Long Drive ttome — 71

to be told and discussed and fought over and disagreed with, and the number of drinks consumed will be exaggerated and the waitress will transform into some nineteen year old former Miss whatever-Sunny-Maid-Orange-Juice knockout with an Australian accent who was working in town to earn some bread to pay for her trip around the world before she went back to university to finish her law degree et cetera, et cetera. The same old same old. "You're fulla shit," says Tom. "And you've got a wild imagination," says Skip. They're both laughing. "So, I embellish a little. The main points are there." "Yeah, yeah. It's just funny how you embellish more on your side than mine." "Hey, it was my story. When you tell the story, you tell it your way." "I'll tell it the way it happened." "That's up to you. But you know what happens when someone else comes in the room and we both start telling the same story — you know who they end up listening to and you know who they believe." "Yeah. I know." Skip squirms in his chair. "What's the matter? You've been squirming off and on like that all night. You OK?" "Yeah. I told you — it's this condition I have." "The prostate." "Yeah." "Is it the booze?" "That. Mainly it's the sitting. If I sit too long it bothers me." "Are you in pain?" "I told you, it's not really painful, just uncomfortable." "Can you do something?" "I told you, no. It helps to move. I'm OK. Forget about it. Let's order another drink." "You sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure. Hello!" Skip calls to the kitchen. "What's her name?" "Fucked if I know. I was looking at her tits, not her name tag." He laughs. "Try Terry." "Yeah?" Tom shrugs. "What the hell. Hello! Terry!" The waitress leans through the kitchen door. "Two more?" "Yeah." "Poor bastard."

72 — Stan Rogal

"Forget it. I told you." "Yeah. OK." Tom takes a swig of his brandy. "Hey, listen — I forgot to tell you what happened to me this afternoon." Tom hunches over the table. The waitress brings the drinks and Skip catches the name on the tag: TERRY. "Shithead," he whispers. "Yeah. What did you expect? The old Tom-a-roo doesn't miss a thing." Tom raises his glass. "Cheers." "Anyway, here I am, driving up Highway 93, I've got some time to kill, so I pull over to this bar in Bethlehem for a beer and a sandwich, take a leak or whatever. There's hardly anyone in the place, right? A couple of old jokers playing crib, a guy and a gal gabbing at each other in a corner — / love you. You don't love me. I love you. You don't love me. Like that. I can hear them. Probably going at it this way for hours. At the bar, some guy by himself. I plunk myself down. We're a stool apart. The place is, like, early tacky. Wood panelling. Goofy shit on the walls. Like the dens our fathers used to have, you know?" "My father never had a den." "Yeah, OK. Fine. I know that. You know what I mean, though. My dad: wood panel and whatnot, fucking animal skins and moose heads. Scared the shit out of us kids, right." "So, I start up a conversation with this guy at the bar. He's looking like he's lost his best friend or something. I ask him, can I buy you a beer? At first he's not sure, he doesn't know me from Adam. I just want some company; some conversation. We start talking — where you from, why are you here, what do you do and all that. I tell him I'm a private eye and he asks me if I own a gun. I look at him like, does the Pope use a condom? Hm? Turns out he's interested in getting a piece for himself." "What does he want a gun for?" "Protection, he says. He also talks about icing some guy who's screwing his wife. He says he's joking, but who knows? I mean, for all I know, he's going to go off somewhere and blow his own brains out. He has that look about him, right? When I first saw him. Sort of hangdog. "Anyway, so we talk and we talk and we talk and I tell him, I've got a little something in the car that he might like." "You sold the guy a gun? In a bar?"

The Long Drive Home — 73

"Not in the bar. We did the deal outside." "You're crazy." Skip thinks back to the motel room when Tom pulled out his arsenal. "What did you sell him?" "The Glockmeister!" "A Glock? I thought you hated those. Where did you pick up a Clock?" "Are you kidding me? You can take them off any kid on the street. They lie around like pop bottles or cigarette butts. Sometimes I think they drop from the fucking trees." "What if he does go out and kill himself? Or someone else?" "Hey, I only sold it to him. I'm not responsible for what he does with it?" Terry returns with two more brandies: on the house, she says. Plus, she's changed the radio station to something a bit livelier and turned up the volume. The men cock their ears. They hear Bruce Springsteen singing "The Promised Land": I got the radio on and I'm just killing time... "The Boss," says Terry, raising her arms above her head, pushing out her breasts, rolling her hips, dancing, "rocks."

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, TORONTO, ONTARIO Michael folds the cell phone into his jean jacket pocket while Liz continues to rub her lanky form against his back, kissing his shoulders and teasing her false nails through the scruffy hair curling at the base of his neck. Michael twists into her arms, bends his face and parts his lips. They kiss. "Everything OK?" Liz breathes, withdrawing her tongue from Michael's mouth. "Yeah. It was Ann." "I figured that. What's up? It sounded like a funny kind of conversation." "Yeah. She thinks she's part of a gangster film." "Oh? How so?" "Thinks she's being followed." He reaches for his glass and drinks. He tips the scotch toward Liz's lips. "Mm," she says. "Was she drinking?" "I don't think so." "Why would she think that someone is following her?" "She's somehow come up with the idea that this court case I'm

76 — Stan Rogal

part of involves the Mafia or something and that they might want to use her and Andrea to get to me." "Are they?" "What?" "Involved?" "Now you're sounding like Ann." "You never know these days. They're into everything." "This is strictly small time. Somebody selling lumber at a discount. I was one buyer out of dozens. All I'm telling at the inquiry is what happened." "You're innocent," Liz teases. Michael doesn't crack a smile. "I didn't question it. Companies have sales all the time, right? Companies acquire goods from other companies — bankruptcies and such." "Don't get defensive. You don't have to convince me." "I'm just saying what happened." "Sure, but you knew that the prices seemed too good to be true. Didn't you tell me..." "I suspected." "...that you had heard that the wood was being smuggled..." "I heard rumours. I didn't know." "...from some old-growth forest that had been set aside by the government?" "It was all rumours. I never knew. Not for sure. I heard..." "And you never questioned. And why should you? You're just a builder, right? You look for deals. You can't check up on everyone." "Right." "OK. I mean, do I give a shit? Ask me. No. You didn't steal the wood, you paid for it. You didn't get caught, did you? You didn't get arrested. They did." "Yeah." Michael downs his drink and rattles the ice in his glass. It's true. The police basically told him the same thing. They weren't after him, they wanted the people responsible. There was a crackdown underway. The provincial government was under a lot of pressure. Michael remembers reading articles in the newspapers: "Province turning blind eye to illegal logging". Ann had made a comment in passing, under her breath (though audible), at the breakfast table,

The Long Drive Home — 77

reading the paper over morning coffee, yl crime, she said. Michael had wagged his head in agreement. Then the page was turned and it was on to other things: bank mergers, mortgage rates, recipes, horoscopes, the funnies. The way it goes — a brief recognition of the injustice, the pain, the horror, but nothing to be done, ultimately. What can one person do? What is the expectation? The items that one reads about or hears from various so-called reliable sources and which one recognizes as real, as important, yet, somehow, remaining "out there", apart from most people's actual lives and circumstances and therefore easily set aside by a word, a motion. According to the environmentalists, major companies were involved and things trickled down from there. As for the police, no one could say, or no one would say. Better for him not to know. The less he knew, the better, he was told. Stay with the story — the truth, they stressed — and don't deviate: a reputable dealer had offered him a discount on lumber and he had accepted. He had made deals before. The only difference? On certain occasions, to secure a "real sweet deal", like this one, he was required to pay cash — to save paying taxes, the vendors winked. Of course. Michael understood this. Happened all the time, everywhere. When prices fell even further there was always an explanation: some poor bastard gone belly up, or another poor bastard caught short, or the remains of a government job that had been over-ordered and prepaid and neither the time nor the inclination to return the goods for a refund. One man's loss being another man's gain, and so on. Dog eat dog. "What was that?" "Hm?" Michael lowers his head and sees Liz crouched at his feet, his pants open and her hand fondling his cock. "I thought I heard you say 'dog eat dog'." She speaks the words in a way that suggests she finds them amusing; sexy, even. "I was thinking about something." He zips up and cinches his belt. "I've gotta get back to the office." "Spoilsport." Liz rises. She wears a long, pink terry-cloth bathrobe. Fluffy pink slippers warm her feet against the terracotta tiles. Her make-up is perfect and Michael wonders how she manages it. Or is it tattooed to her skin? She escorts him to the door. "I'll expect you around seven."

78 — Stan Ro£*l

"Mm. You're sure your husband won't decide to show up early?" "Positive. He's not back until Thursday. And more often than not these days he's a day or two later rather than earlier. Which is fine by me." She smiles, then as quickly drops it. "And I wish you wouldn't use that word." "What word?" "You know. Husband. It sounds so... so... I don't know. Middleclass." She spits the phrase from her lips. "He is your husband." "We're married, we live under the same roof, that's all. It doesn't make us husband and wife. Call him by his name, Charles or Charlie or Chuck," "Chuck? No. It sounds too personal. I don't want to talk about him in that way." "But you know him." "He's a customer. I call him Mr. Mellon." "Hm. You're funny. You know I love you." "I love you, too. That's why I want to keep my relationship with your husband at arm's length." "Then just say 'him', OK?" "OK." They kiss and Liz opens the door. From a prone position on the front porch, a dog springs to its feet and barks at Michael. "Shut up, Daisy! Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking dog!" Daisy is a small terrier with the look and colour of a torn tea bag. Liz swoops the dog into her arms and smacks her nose. The dog cringes but keeps growling and snapping. "Come on, Daisy," soothes Michael. "You must know me by now. Good dog." "She knows you, all right." Liz laughs. Charles had discovered the terrier at the side of the road, no licence, no ID, undernourished and full of worms. Much against Liz's better wishes, he brought the mongrel home and spent the money necessary to nurse her back to health. "She's Chuck's dog, that's for sure. And she knows what's what." She yaps back at the dog. "Shut up!" She slaps Daisy's nose. "For chrissakes..." "See you tonight."

The Long Drive Home — 79

"Mm." Liz is preoccupied with Daisy, clutching her with one arm and cupping the dog's jaw with her free hand. "Silly dog. You're a silly, silly dog." She tries to nuz2le her face up to Daisy's, but the dog turns away. "Fine. Be that way." Her attention returns to Michael. "Oh — what was that about the telephone?" "When?" "When you were talking with Ann. Something about the car phone." "Oh," Michael recalls. "It's not working. Seems the cord managed to get itself ripped out. She figures it must have happened when I used her car last week." He hesitates, then continues with a slight grin. "You remember that day?" The two exchange a quick, conspiratorial look. "Anyway, I don't know. Takes a lot to yank one of those free. I guess I must've done something, though. Caught it or whatever." He blows through his lips. "Bye." He bends down for a kiss, but Daisy snaps. Michael wags a finger. "You watch yourself. You're not so big." Michael leaves. Liz closes the door and tosses the dog onto the floor. Immediately, Daisy charges to the couch, leaps up and presses her nose to the window. Liz lights a cigarette, drops a couple of ice cubes into her glass and pours herself another scotch. She hits the play button on the stereo and a CD drops into place. No thought is given as to which CD, what music. She had filled the carousel earlier and the music had played to the end without her noticing. She takes a long drag on her smoke, enjoys the burn in her chest, crushes the cigarette in the ashtray. She dips a fingertip into her drink and slides it beneath her robe. Her teeth clench from the chill of the ice as she fondles her nipple and feels it grow erect. She recalls that afternoon a few days ago and what happened with the telephone. She remembers her ankle tangling in the phone cord; remembers how it feels, the cord climbing her calf as she writhes and grinds beneath Michael's weight; remembers the two of them managing, somehow, to reverse positions, her on top now, the sound of their bodies smacking together as she slides up and down his cock, the two of them watching as it moves in and out of her, her smiling inside at the thought that she had never understood the phrase getting banged before she met Michael (again, the sound, the effort, the intensity...); meanwhile her hand hefting the weight of the telephone, gripping

SO — Stan Rogal

the cord below the connecting jack and yanking it up past her knee as she nears orgasm, the cord eventually snaking her thigh, her getting off on its tight, plastic grip and a final burst of thrusting causing the cord to give way at the bottom, snap at her damp flesh, rapidly crawl up her leg, unwind, as the two slowly peel their bodies apart, her left with the telephone in her hand and the cord dangling, Michael whispering that that was different, that she hadn't ever come that way before, simply with him inside her; usually his finger, his tongue first; and her agreeing with a soft, throaty moan, as she discreetly replaces the phone in its cradle and stuffs the frayed end back into the console. "Mmm," Liz shudders and falls onto the couch. She rubs the rim of her glass with her fingers, raises the drink to her lips and takes a large swallow. She contemplates the ambiguity: the sensation of hot liquor and cold ice in her mouth. A second sensation follows abruptly, different from the first, but no less satisfying. 'I can see her,' she thinks, picturing Ann holding the dead instrument in her hand, a puzzled look on her face. 'I can just see her.' Michael jumps into the truck cab and shoves the key into the ignition. 'Crazy,' he thinks. 'Goddamn crazy.' He sees Liz straddling him in the BMW, feels his hands on her ass, her small breasts pushing her nipples into his mouth. He recalls how fantastic it was. But, he also recalls what he was thinking the entire time, even through the pleasure: that he had to be careful to eliminate any tell-tale signs. He dropped Liz off, parked on a side street and checked the white sheepskin seat covers for strands of long, brown hair, lipstick and mascara stains or anything else. At least he'd had the good sense to bring a towel to put between them and the sheepskin. He always carried one in the truck — a sex towel, he called it, used to clean up later, "after the act". Liz had been amused to learn that this procedure was popular, that a couple would have a towel in a drawer next to the bed for this specific purpose. Simply use it and toss it into the laundry. She had always kept a Kleenex box nearby to give a quick wipe and tuck inside her. When her husband asked about the change, she said that it was something she read about in a magazine. He didn't bat an eye.

The Long Drive Home — #1

After making what he considered a thorough inspection of the seats and floor, Michael rolled down the windows in order to help eliminate the odour of perfume and sex. Finally, he ran the vehicle through a car wash and had it scrubbed and polished inside and out — to have it in good shape for her trip, he had told Ann. He cranks the engine and the radio blasts out a commercial. He twists the volume dial lower and punches one button after another without escaping the steady drone of some voice wanting to sell him something. He reaches beside him for a tape and his fingers fall on a fist-sized rock. He breathes deeply and picks it up. The rock had been the earlier instrument used to break the passenger side window. He found it lying on the cab floor, surrounded by glass splinters. Nothing in the truck was missing; nothing even seemed to have been touched. He stares at it as if it contains a written message — something short, concise and to the point, like: "Shut up or else!" Michael would like to laugh; make a cool remark, like: Not very original. Someone's been watching too many old gangster films. But he doesn't; can't. He fires a tape into the player, Tom Waits growling "I'll Shoot The Moon". "Goddamn," Michael says under his breath. He smacks the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. "Goddamn it all."

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23f MAGOG, QUEBEC "What do you think, mother?" "IVe seen worse." "Yes. But still..." "IVe seen worse." "Makes you wonder." "People?" "The human condition." "Takes all kinds..." "...to make a world." "Pigs." "Mm." "Fornicators and sinners." "Takes all kinds." The husband and wife managers situate themselves in the doorway of Room 111. They stand there, smoking cigarettes and taking in the scene. Their eyes drift to the TV, which hangs from the ceiling by metal rods. The TV is tuned to a rock video station, likely left on from the night before. The couple watches for an

84 — Stan Rogal

instant. Flashes of young, nubile men and women gyrate; the band members attack their instruments; they open and close their mouths. The volume is off. The couple shows no reaction. They return their attention to the scene in front of them, stepping further into the room, the man closing the door behind them. The room is in complete disarray. There are empty beer cans, empty liquor bottles, broken glasses, crushed cigarette butts, used condoms strewn everywhere. The mattress of one bed lies on the floor. Bedspreads, blankets, sheets and towels are torn, tangled, tossed across furniture. A chair is in splinters in a corner. A smell permeates the air, a combination of stale smoke, stale booze, vomit and sex. The man squats at the side of one bed, regarding the bloodied mattress cover. "Virgin?" he jokes. "Ha!" answers his wife. "Not damned likely." "Menstrual?" "Maybe." She bends to retrieve a piece of broken glass. There's blood on it. "Maybe not." "Still think we shouldn't switch to plastic?" "You think it's the fault of the glass, someone wants to cut someone else?" "I was thinking more, an accident." "Hm. You know I don't believe in such things as accidents. The script has been written." "Amen." "Besides, I don't abide the waste. Rather a glass or two in the trash than a mound of disposable plastic. The world is cluttered enough as it is. Anyway, it gives a sense of class." The man flicks cigarette ash onto the carpet. He fingers a condom, rises and walks to the wall to get a closer look at a pair of bloody hand prints. He hovers one of his own hands above a print as his wife watches. "Female, I'd guess," she says. "Small enough," he replies. "You remember who checked in?" '"Course I do. Fellow. Mid-thirties. Smart dresser. Polite." "Credit card?" "Sure."

The lion^ Drive ffoaae — 85

"Driver's licence?" "Yeah." "Some folks just don't care. Think just because they pay for a room..." "...they can do whatever they like." "Perverts." "Pigs." "Call the police?" "What for?" "You're right. Only leads to more trouble." "Questions, questions and more questions." "Forms to fill out, court appearances, expenses... It's not worth it." "The Lord will judge and the Lord will punish." "Amen." The woman peeks into the bathroom. There's a trickle of blood on the tiles, lipstick stains on the mirror, a smear of vomit on the toilet rim. "It's not as if we've got a body to report, or anything," she says. "I've seen worse," says the man. "Amen." The man puts his nose to the wall, shuts his eyes and sniffs. "Nothing broken here. I'll give the maid a hand. Give everything a good bleaching, shampoo the carpet, scrub down the walls, flip the mattresses, replace the covers, the linen, the busted chair, spray the entire area with air freshener. In an hour or two, it'll be spicand-span and no one the wiser." The man stands alongside the bed. He drops his cigarette into a beer can, presses a hand into the mattress, then raises it to his face. The blood is still damp. He ambles toward his wife, who, satisfied with the plan she has formulated, is primping in front of a rectangular mirror that hangs on the wall above the dresser. She twists her body slightly in the direction of her husband. He steps near and touches her face with a finger, drawing a vertical line on each cheek and a cross on her forehead. He proceeds to paint the same pattern on his own face. The two gaze into the mirror. The man wraps an arm around the woman's back, sliding it beneath her shoulders and cupping one breast with his spread fingers. The woman closes her eyes, bites her lower lip and shudders.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, Roex ISLAHD, U.S./CAHADA BORDER Ann lowers the volume on the music as she eases the white BMW up to the Rock Island customs window. Though the weather is not uninviting, the officer does not leave the comfort of the booth, merely gives a cursory glance to establish how many people are in the car, then goes on to ask the expected questions: Citizenship? Where do you live? Where were you? For how long? Reason for the visit? Anything to declare? Ann wonders why these people can't be more friendly. On the other hand, how friendly can you be, sitting in a booth eight hours a day in all kinds of filthy weather, asking the same half-dozen questions over and over? The only change is when an officer actually inspects a car, a procedure Ann does not want to face, given the gun, the stashed vodka, her daughter next to her. She wonders how they decide which cars to inspect. Is there an actual system set in place or is it a strictly random method? Does it arise from a sort of sixth sense gained from years of experience— the ability to pick up on the emotional, physical or mental states emanating from the passengers? Or is it simpler than that? A quota that must be met, a percentage, or, more likely, the officer's mood;

88 — Stan Rogal

the need for a stretch of the legs; the rather perverse desire to brandish authority or throw a scare into unsuspecting victims. In any case, a well-dressed woman driving a late-model BMW convertible with a young girl sitting in the seat beside her, what could be more innocent? Ann thinks. "Nothing?" asks the officer. "No. As I said, I was only down for a few days on business and to visit family. There wasn't a lot of time left for shopping." "No alcohol or cigarettes?" "I don't smoke or drink." "Uh-huh. OK. Have a good day." The officer waves them through.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, TOROHTQ, ONTARIO Janice sits at the work table in the back room. The store is closed and she relaxes over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Playing softly over the speakers is a CD of classical hits. The overture "Orpheus in the Underworld" by Offenbach gives way to the overture "Cinderella" by Rossini. In front of her rests the earring set. She gives the one with the missing pearl a gentle poke with her fingernail. She can tell by the twist of the metal that the pearl sure as hell didn't get up and walk away by itself. And who gave Li2 the earrings in the first place? Not her husband, she said. A friend. A. friend. She mouths the words silently. A smile crosses her lips as she puts out her smoke. She remembers having a friend once. Simon. Could it be? Almost ten years ago. They had met only a few months after her third daughter had been born. Whatever possessed her? The affair (the word 'affair' rolls in her mind and she considers the various permutations: passion, lust, love, lover, joy, seemy, naughty, thrilling, romantic, dirty, bad mother, fallen woman, adulteress...) lasted almost a year. He even wanted her to leave her husband and live with him. She couldn't, of course. The entire idea was too impossible. She

9O — Stan Rog&l

loved him, but there were the girls to consider. There were just too many statistics printed in the papers each day about the poverty of single mothers and how divorce affects the children. Simon volunteered that she wouldn't be alone, that he'd be there for her and the girls. Simon worked in a bookstore, which is where they met, at a reading by a local first novelist whose book Janice admired. Simon hated the novel and told her outright. He said he thought the reviews were highly overrated, that they had more to do with the amount of money spent on publicity than the actual craft of writing. This is how the two fell in love — arguing the merits of a book over coffee. At any rate, Simon had no money, the job paid poorly and, though he had ambitions to be a novelist himself, he could never seem to get anything down on paper, which was, perhaps, another reason why she ended the relationship. Simon was full of plans but couldn't carry through with them. What Simon could give, however, and was very good at, was love, affection and sex. Janice sighs at the memory of his hands on her body. The image is fleeting, however, suffering the weight of time and distance. Her husband never discovered her affair, so far as she knew, though he must have puzzled at her frequent absences and excuses during that period. She picks up the intact earring and rolls the pearl between her fingers. She did the right thing, she reasons, for the family. She realizes, as well, that her husband is a good man, has always been a good man and a good provider. She had nothing really to complain about, either then or now. Except for the usual headlines that appear on the covers of women's magazines every month: lack of passion in the marriage, feeling less like a real woman, her body seeming less attractive to her (and by association, to others) due to age and babies, needing to be flattered, needing to be told that she's still gorgeous, exciting and loved. All those things that sound so nice in theory but are next to impossible in practice, there being neither the time nor the energy to fit everything in, what with diapers and meals and jobs and meetings and... and so, the affair... With Simon it was beautiful and loving and it was something that remained — had to remain — outside the other life that she lived. The separation of lover from wife and mother. Not that she and her husband didn't make love, they did. It was just not the same. It

The JLong f^pfve Home — 91

was the lovemaking of friends, of partners, of parents. And that's as it should be too, she decides. Or, can one have both? Did she not work hard enough? Was it her fault, ultimately? The notion saddens her. She drinks her wine. Anyway, she sighs, no one hurt and no one to blame in the end. Not really. Things happen the way they happen. People change and hearts heal. The past is past and nothing to be done but move on. She loves her kids. They're good kids. She loves her husband too. In a way. They're used to each other. They know each other. They're comfortable. With Simon it was too wild, too crazy. It would have had to burn out eventually, perhaps destroying them both in the balance. There was no other way. Still, the memory... Janice curls her hand around the pearl earring, squeezing it tightly. She glances at the broken earring. Why, she wonders, does she feel such sudden rage toward Liz Tanner? What should it matter, what she's doing or who she's doing it with? Then the word "adulteress" flashing in her mind, as if putting the two of them in the same boat, the same bed. But no, she manages. There is no comparison to be made; nothing even remotely similar. They are different cases; different people altogether. For her, no matter what the outcome, no matter what else could or might be said, it was for love. It was all for love. Whereas Liz Tanner... The music ends. Janice takes a work order file from the shelf and lights another cigarette. Nothing to be done, she determines, flipping the pages. Everything out of love. She attempts to conjure a memory, but there is nothing except bits and pieces that fail to add up to a whole. Another page turns face down on the table as she searches through the file.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, MneuG, QUEBEC Ann and her daughter check into the Three Willows Motel in Magog, taking a room on the first floor. The room is unremarkable: two double beds with identical floral spreads and white linen, a dresser, a closet, identical bedside tables supporting identical lamps, reproductions of landscapes screwed into the walls. The drapes are heavy and sort of orangey-brown. The room is clean, comfortable and safe; to be used for a short period of time then vacated, put back together in the same manner as when travellers arrived and made ready for the next occupant: clean sheets, clean towels, wrapped bars of soap, the first sheet of toilet paper folded in a triangle, the entire area sprayed with air freshener. This is the point of a motel room: not to have an identity that imposes itself on people, but to provide an innocuous haven in which people can fit without difficulty and leave feeling no different from when they arrived. Unmemorable. Andrea tosses an overnight bag on one bed while her mother wheels a larger suitcase beside the other bed. "Ask me a question about Quebec," says Andrea. "Why? I know you've got it all memorized."

94: — Stan Rogal

Andrea flops on her bed and makes a sulky face. "OK," sighs Ann, wishing at times like this that the girl liked watching television. "I'll ask. But while I'm doing that I'm going to pour myself an orange juice. Do you want one?" The girl nods and Ann removes the wrappers from the glasses and pours two drinks. "And mommy has to pee." She hands Andrea her juice, then takes her own drink and her bag into the bathroom. She dumps half the orange juice in the toilet, tops her glass up with vodka, flushes the toilet and splashes her hands under the tap. "What's the capital?" She calls from behind the door. "Mom?" the girl whines. "Easy first, then harder." "Quebec City." "Correct. The flower?" "White lily." "The motto?" Ann comes out of the bathroom. "Je me souviens." "What does that mean?"

"'I remember.'" "Good. Population?" "6,540,300." Andrea carries her juice with her to the front door. The weather continues to be mild, almost warm, and her mother has left the door open, to let in some fresh air. "Economy?" Ann removes her jacket, sits on the bed, kicks off her shoes, swings her legs onto the mattress and relaxes with her back against the wall, a pillow bunched behind her head. She sips from her glass, closes her eyes and sighs softly. She is in some way thankful that the questions come by rote at this stage. "Natural resources give rise to many industries in Quebec. The province yields granite, graphite, mica, feldspar, gold, uranium, magnetite, copper, lead, zinc, silver, sandstone, asbestos and marble. Sept-lies is a major iron ore exporter, while Saguenay Valley and Becancour manufacture aluminum. The province's most important natural resource is water power, the total output of which is more than 39 million kilowatts. The forests supply such industries as pulp and paper mills, sawmills and allied industries." 'Don't stop,' thinks Ann, enjoying her drink. 'This feels so good.' The girl gazes across the parking lot. "Mom," she says. "That man's car is here."

The Long Drive Home — 95

Ann's eyes spring open. "What? What do you mean? What man?" She hurries to her daughter's side. "The man today. Who took our picture. That's his car." She point to a silver Toyota Camry. "How can you be sure? There are lots of cars like that." Ann cannot remember the man's car. She hadn't paid attention. "I remember the licence number. The car was at the motel where we stayed last night, too." "In Bangor?" The girl nods. "Oh my God," whispers Ann. "Oh my God. You're sure?" "Uh-huh." The girl looks at her mother, whose face is pale. "Are you OK? Mom?" "Yes. I'm fine." She doesn't move, but grips the girl's arm. "I have to go to the bathroom," says Andrea. The two stand motionless. "Mom? I have to pee." Ann releases the girl and points her across the room. Andrea recites as she walks. "In 1534 Jacques Cartier sailed from France, landed on the Gaspe Peninsula and claimed the territory for France. Explorer Samuel de Champlain initiated Quebec's first settlement in 1608..." She pushes the door behind her as her mother cautiously shuts the front door. Ann pours another slug of vodka, opens a small medicine bottle, pops a pill, then goes to the telephone. She gets her husband on the line, telling him what Andrea has seen. "Calm down," Michael says. "Where is Andrea?" "In the bathroom." Ann's voice is hushed, but forced. "Good. It's not good for her to see you like this. You know what can happen." "I think I'm holding up reasonably well, considering the circumstances. I just don't know what to do." Michael maintains his calm, reassuring, rational, everything's going to be all right voice. Let me get this straight, he says, sounding more and more like a teacher, or a cop. Let's get all the facts before we jump to conclusions. Think about it. Was the car there when they arrived? If it was, the man couldn't know where they were going to stop for the night. Ann doesn't know. It could have arrived after them. She can't be sure. What does it say on the licence plate, Quebec or...?

96 — Stan Rogal

Ontario. OK, so it's someone travelling in the same direction, maybe to the same city. It could be a coincidence. But three meetings? Yes, but all legitimate reasons, you said so yourself. I mean, if he wanted to do something, he would have, right? She supposes; she doesn't know. And even if that's him... Andrea sounded positive. Yes, but we both know that Andrea has a tendency sometimes... her condition, and all. No. Not for something like this. You know her; she has an ability. OK, OK. I'm just saying //"it's him — and it may not be — Magog is a convenient stop. A lot of people get gas, grab a bite, spend the night. But the same motel? There aren't many choices in a town the size of Magog. Besides, it's a nice enough place, considering. They've stayed there several times before themselves, he assures, and it was fine, yes? Yes, yes, she realizes, but... She hasn't been drinking, has she? No. Been taking her medication? Yes. Not feeling like she's going to panic or anything? Or what? Anything. No. She took an Ativan. Good. Does it make sense for them to find a different motel? No. If someone is following — and it's likely no one is — he'll go to the next place as well. They're safe in their room. Stay inside until morning. See if he's still there when they get up. Probably he'll have checked out already. Double lock the door. Order in food. Try to get a good night's sleep. Everything will be fine. OK? OK. Does he have plans for the evening? He's out with a client. Maybe a big deal, maybe not. Call if she needs to, though he's having problems with his cell phone. Does she have...? What? What he gave her; for protection? Yes. Yes, she does. Not that she'll need it. Just in case, though. Keep it handy. Say hello to Andrea. Don't worry. "I love you," he says. "I love you, too." They hang up. Andrea hops from the bathroom holding her empty glass. "This peace was short-lived: in 1775 Quebec was again besieged, this time by American forces under generals Richard Montgomery and Benedict Arnold. Montgomery was killed and Arnold fled, abandoning hopes of conquering Quebec during the American Revolution." She stops. "I'm hungry. Are we going out to eat?" "I think we'll order in tonight. How 'bout pizza?" "Yay!" "Did you wash your hands?" Ann removes the empty glass from the girl's hand and sees that it's sticky with candy and juice. The

The L&sag Drive Home — 97

other hand is clenched. "What do you have there?" Andrea uncurls her fingers and shows her mother a pearl with a bit of metal attached to it. The metal has a broken ring, as if it had once been a part of a necklace or earring. "Where did you get this?" "In the car. I found it under the floor mat." Ann holds the pearl in front of her. "Go wash up for dinner." "Can I keep it?" "We'll see. Go wash." Andrea shuffles off. Ann pours more vodka and swallows another Ativan. She rolls the pearl between her fingers. She tries to think, but, between the events of the day, the pearl, and the pounding of her heart, she finds it impossible to focus. Andrea is singing in the bathroom. It's a song that Ann recognizes but can't place. The tune is off and the words are muffled. She stands at the bureau staring at the pearl, thinking about the man, drinking her vodka and listening to the song. None of it makes sense.

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TeiisiJiY, Sisroiiiis 23, KiiiSTOsa, ONTARIO "Toronto, capital of Ontario, has shed its Victorian primness to become a financial, industrial and cultural centre. The Toronto Stock Exchange is among the largest in North America in terms of volume. Toronto's Greenwich Village is Bloor-Yorkville, bordered by Avenue Road and Church, Scollard and St. Mary Streets. This promenade of art galleries, coffeehouses, elegant shops and upbeat lounges attracts residents and visitors alike." Skip is in the passenger seat of the van reading aloud from the travel guide. "Fuck Greenwich Village of the north. I say we go out for Chinese. What about you?" "Chinese sounds great." "You've been to Toronto?" "Yeah. Been years, though. Probably wouldn't recognize it." "Be nice to catch a Jays game. If we had the time." "The SkyDome, a sports complex containing a hotel, restaurants and entertainment centres, is North America's only domed stadium with a retractable roof."

1OO — Stan Rogal

"You gotta get back though, right?" Skip nods. "You know, the business and all. I told Jenny." "Uh-huh." Tom recognizes an air of disappointment creeping into his voice. He shakes it off with a laugh and adds, "Women, huh? Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em!" Skip doesn't look at Tom, instead, he goes back to the fact sheet in the guide. "Here's something. Approximately 200 municipal parks bear the hospitable motto: Please walk on the grass. That's nice, huh?" "Nice. Yeah." Tom reaches toward the radio and turns up the volume. It's a Dwight Yoakam song. Tom begins to rock his head and shoulders and sing along. Please, please baby come back home. It's so cold and dark here all alone. You come back, I promise I'll be good. You come home, I'll act like I should.

"This is the life, huh? I mean, what more could you ask for? Perfect weather, the two of us, in the car, out on the road, the music cranked — just driving. Doesn't matter where to or why. Not a care in the world. Nothing, no one, can touch us. Am I right? Huh? Am I right?" Skip rocks his head to the beat. He tosses the guide onto the floor. "Bet your ass I'm right." It's just after one in the afternoon. The van swings into the Wendy's parking lot and comes to a stop. "I feel like shit," says Tom. "You look like shit." The men unstrap their seat belts and laugh. In fact, they've shaken off the worst of their hangovers with an early breakfast, lots of water, a good dump and a few hours driving with the windows rolled down. The banter is automatic. "Take a close look at yourself, Bud." "You figure a dirty burger's gonna fix you up?" "Fuck that noise. I'm heading straight for the salad bar. To tell the truth, that half a cow I ate last night is still sitting like a lump in my stomach. Hooves and all. You hear what I'm saying?" "I hear you." "I'm not complaining, it was great. I just feel the need to run some green stuff through me." "Yeah, face it — we can't party like we used to. Our systems can't take the punishment. Pretty soon we'll be on a diet of soft-boiled eggs and prune juice."

The Long Drive Home — 1O1

"That's you, pal. I'm gonna rock until I drop. No pain, no gain." "Uh-huh." "How you doin', anyhow? You couldn't sit still most of the way here; always squirming around in your seat." "Yeah. Time for a stretch. Too much sitting, I told you. Starts to bother me." "And they can't do anything to fix it?" Tom opens the door a crack and Skip shakes his head. "Makes you wonder. They can put a man on the fuckin' moon, right?" Tom grabs his coffee mug and the two get out of the van. "I'll feel better after I stand a bit. It's the pressure, apparently. I'll take a walk around the building, go for a whiz and be good as new." "Sounds like a good idea. We've got lots of time." "You want it locked?" "Naw. I hate that shit they try to fill you with, y'know? That there's a fucking thief or rapist waiting to jump you every time you turn your back. I mean, if you can't trust people in a Wendy's, then where, I ask you?" Tom flashes Skip a smile. "Still..." says Skip. "Yeah, you're right. This is what the world's come to." Tom hits the lock button and slams the door. The men load up at the salad bar and find a table. "It's the garbanzo beans, I told you. They weigh a ton." "I like garbanzo beans." Skip slides into a chair. "Then don't bitch about the price." The men sit across from each other. "I just don't like paying for a salad by the 100 grams. And for garbanzo beans? You get a can with twenty-six ounces in the store for sixty-nine cents." "Yeah, but you're not in a store now, are you? You're in a restaurant." "I'm in a Wendy's. At Tim Horton's we sell you a salad, complete. None of this weighing bullshit. You see what you get and how much it's going to cost. There's no surprises when you reach the cash register." "Uh-huh. You put garbanzo beans in your salads?" "No." "OK. So here, you pay a bit more, but you get what you want. It's a saw-off."

W2 — Stan Rogal

"That's not the point." "That's not the point? Christ, you're starting to sound like a little old lady. Is that what happens when you run your own business — you worry about how many goddamn garbanzo beans you're getting for your money? Huh?" Tom pokes a fist at Skip's arm. "Look at you!" Skip sticks a fork into his food. "Yeah, I know. Everything comes down to money these days. Even if you think the problem is something else, in the end, it all comes down to money. Jenny's good at it. I more or less let her handle the financial end. Profit margins and whatever. It drives me crazy. I'd just as soon give away the fucking doughnuts or a cup of coffee now and then. She has things worked out to the penny. And good for her. Someone has to. I stick with the physical stuff." "You're bored, that's your problem. Patty wants me to quit the business, too. Says I should work for her brother selling used cars. Or, the husband of a friend of hers is looking for help moving furniture. Can you see me pushing a shit-ass '82 Hyundai on some wet-behind-the-ears high school kid, or lifting a fucking two-hundred-pound sofa bed up six flights of stairs? I mean, I could do it, don't get me wrong. Someone wants to buy a lemon from her brother, that's their problem. And hard work never bothered me, right? I'm still in good shape." Tom smacks his chest. "But, I wouldn't be happy. You know that. I told her, no way. I gave up the hired goon part. That's it. Being a detective sure ain't like in the movies, but it's what I do, I'm good at it, and I'm my own boss. That's what makes this little job we're going to do so perfect. The timing's right. It's what you need right now. It's what we both need." "Yeah. I know. I needed a change. Needed to get away." Skip hesitates and Tom waits to see if he's finished talking. He doesn't say another word, instead, forks more salad into his mouth. The two men remain like this for a brief instant, quietly chewing their food, as if each is waiting for the other to continue. It's Skip who breaks the awkward silence. "So, did you tell Patty the two of us were getting together for a job?" "Are you kidding?" Tom laughs. "I told her I was doing a divorce thing. I didn't even mention you. She'd think I was getting up to all kinds of no good. What about you? What did you tell Jenny?" "The truth, pretty much. I said I was meeting up with you in

The Long Drive Home — 1O3

Magog. Catch up on old times. Have a few laughs." Tom gives a low whistle. "I didn't have a good excuse otherwise, what with the baby and business and all. I figured it was the best thing. I told her you were going to be in the neighbourhood, on your way to Toronto, and it would be a good chance to see each other; it'd been a long time." "And she didn't get suspicious?" "I don't know. Things haven't been all that smooth between us. Maybe she was happy to get rid of me for a while." Tom considers pursuing the subject, but decides that it's up to Skip if he wants to talk more about it. He recalls Skip saying that the baby was an accident. 'I mean,' speculates Tom to himself, 'you've already got two teenage kids, things have worked out, no problem, for years in the birth control department, suddenly you pack up, leave your friends, settle down in some small backwater town in Quebec and you get pregnant? It doesn't make sense. It can happen, sure. Anything can happen, but, come on... More likely Jenny figured it was a way of keeping Skip in line. A bit on the overkill side, but not beyond the realm of possibility, knowing Jenny. Yeah, that's probably it, poor bugger.' Tom has his coffee partway to his mouth when a new thought creeps into his head. He traces the inside of his lip with his tongue and notices that he almost smiles. Maybe the kid isn't even his? He drinks his coffee. "So, whatever!" Tom attempts to lighten the mood. "We're both free for a few days. That's what matters, right? Let's enjoy it." He cocks his head. "You hear that?" Rod Stewart sings "Maggie May" over the restaurant's sound system. "It's crazy, right? We used to call this rock and roll. Now, they pick out a few quiet songs of Rod Stewart or the Stones or Bowie or whoever and package them into something called light rock' — light rock — what the hell is that? It's like light mayonnaise. Have you ever had light mayonnaise? It's tasteless. Light anything is tasteless. "Kids hear it on these programs and think that's all there was — sappy ballads. They figure us for a bunch of squares. For people our own age, most of them have locked on to it 'cause they're dead from the neck down. They don't feel anything anymore, nothing affects them; they can't stand anything loud and vibrant; life

1O4 — Sinn Rogal

frightens them. Everything is head games. For them, the music they grew up with is only good for one thing: to remind them of the good old days, which everyone knows, deep down in their hearts, were not so good in the first place. It's become nostalgia, and therefore, meaningless." "People change. They get older. Suddenly they can't take the noise; they want to relax." "Bullshit. The Stones are still out there kicking ass." "Yeah. And it's the kids who are buying the records." "But it's out there! It's always been out there. That's what I'm saying. Meanwhile, these bastards — Wall Street promoter asshole types and jerk-off ad execs — get together, pull the guts out of the music, package it for some kind of listener they've created in their heads then stick it in every elevator and office and department store and phone answering service so that you can't escape it. There's nothing you can do in the end except learn to live with it. The worst part is, at some point, you don't even notice it. Still, it's working on you anyway. You suddenly find yourself humming a tune or singing a song and you don't know why. It has nothing to do with you or how you feel or how you think. It's just there. In your body and in your mind." "So what are you saying?" "I'm saying that they've redefined a part of our history — yours and mine. They've made a mockery of our lives — made it seem simplistic and boring." "Made our lives seem simplistic and boring?" Tom nods his head. "Right on, brother." "Sounds to me like you're blaming someone else for your own dissatisfaction." "You mean I can't face the fact that my life is a fucking zero?" "I don't know. Maybe. Is there something going on that you're not telling me?" Tom thinks this is a funny question coming from Skip, who only a minute or two earlier appeared to be on the brink of spilling something, then didn't. "Naw. Maybe. I don't know." He goes back to his coffee. "Besides," says Skip. "You listen to New Country, which seems to me on a par with light rock."

The Long Drive Home -— 1OS

"Hey, the two aren't even close." "What are you talking about? The whole way down here in the van all I'm hearing is heartache and heartbreak and let's fall in love with love... Sounds pretty simplistic and boring to me." "Number one, if you were to eliminate every song having to do with the subject of love, you'd wipe out about 98 percent of everything that's ever been written, and that covers any kind of music, classical included. Number two, light rock, for the most part, is dead on principle. The stations either play artists who are actually dead, or, they play the worst music of live artists dragged out from the vaults of the sixties, seventies and eighties — some from the nineties — and most of these guys might as well be dead. OK? "The punk scene, which tips its hat to rock and roll, is too much into the business of music these days; too much into the money and too much into taking itself way too fucking seriously. It's all teenage angst and everyone hating each other, hating themselves and every low-life asshole expecting to be bowed to as a superstar. "New country, on the other hand, doesn't take itself so seriously. People are having fun. They like each other. It's as if they're still in a state of shock. Country is suddenly popular and no one knows how long it'll last or even (/it'll last. It's like the early days of rock and roll. It still has that glow of innocence about it. The songs are playful; some of them are just plain goofy. They use dumb puns and cliches and they don't apologize. They talk about day-to-day existence and what it takes to get along. There's nothing beyond this — drink a coffee, go to work, have a drink, fall in love, get laid. When Tanya Tucker sings I'm putting on my it's-all-over-coat, or Charlie Major sings 7 do it for the money, I get a kick. Shit, Bruce Springsteen is mostly country. Sting's doing country, Bryan Adams is doing country." "You like it because you think there's a fear of ending?" "Yeah. The same fear that makes them say, Tuck it! Just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.'" "Hm. It wouldn't surprise me if you were the only one in the world that thinks of New Country in precisely that way. I keep saying it — you're a crazy bastard." "Maybe." They finish their salads. "And you! I bet you're still listening to that moody jazz shit. And fucking tangos."

1O6 — Bten Rogal

"I don't get to listen to much of anything anymore, what with the baby and running a business sixteen hours a day." "Hey — do you pump music into the doughnut shop?" "Yeah." "Comes out of a can, right?" Skip squints, as if it hurts. "Like everything else." "Right. Nothing we can do. There are greater powers out there. We can't even pipe the music we want to hear into our own shops because the market dictates." Tom crumples his napkin and wipes out his coffee mug. "Can you imagine if you played the music you liked? People would be crying at the tables; they'd be pulling out guns and blowing their brains out all over your nice, shiny doughnut shop floor." "That's what Jenny said." They laugh. "The other thing is that she likes the music. This is what she listens to. It relaxes her, she says." "Yeah, Patty listens to all that New Age shit — woods and water and whales and Enya and Yanni and every other name that ends with a vowel. It's pathetic. You remember, in the old days, when the two women would drag us out to the clubs and we'd dance our asses off until the wee hours? Then what happens? Insurance policies, dental plans, retirement plans, mortgages... you name it. Each one is like another spike in the coffin." "Yeah. And you're a long time in the grave, right?" Skip repeats the words Tom had spoken earlier. Tom raises his eyebrows. He grins. "Truer words were never spoken, pal. Hey, we'll have us a time tonight. Dinner, drinks. Go to a strip joint and check out the peelers. For a few bucks they come right to your table and wave it an inch from your nose." Tom holds his hands in front of his face, palms spread outward, his nose bobbing in the space between. "You're close enough you can smell 'em." He makes a sound with his tongue. "'Only in Canada, eh?'" he says, imitating the tea commercial. "Oh yeah, baby! Whaddya say?" "Sure. Whatever." They drop off their trays and head for the van. "You know, I thought we were going to have our hands full with that Terry broad last night." Tom aims the derringer charm at Skip. "Yeah. Then her boyfriend comes to pick her up and it's, see ya!" "Uh-huh. Never like in the movies." They jump into the van. "Probably just as well, really."

The £j&si$ Drive H&me — JLO7 "Probably." Tom turns the engine. The stereo blasts. It's a cover version of "The Weight". "You hear that? This is what I'm talking about. That's the Staple Singers, a gospel/blues group teamed up with country star Marty Stuart singing the old Band song which was written by rocker Robbie Robertson. You're gonna tell me they're not having fun? Huh?" Tom shifts into reverse, backs out, puts the vehicle into drive and swings onto the street. Skip lifts one foot and rests it on the dash. He gives Tom a look. There is an expression on Skip's face, but whether caused by the bright sunlight or a smile or covering a thought is difficult to tell. "Fuck you!" says Tom, shooting a hand across to Skip and shaking him. "Fuck you and whatever you think. These guys are having a ball!" Skip doesn't answer, just tips his chin and croons in a loud, mocknasal voice: "bulled into Nazareth, was feelin' 'bout half-past dead. Just need someplace, where I can lay my head...'1'' Tom joins in, harmonizing with his own brand of very bad, bluesy country twang: "Hey mister, canyou tell me, where a man might find a bed..." Off-key and out of tune, they speed down the highway.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, MAGOG, QUEBEC James is in an upbeat mood. This is not unusual for him. For him, the glass is forever half full. "You are the master of your own destiny", he is fond of saying. He enters his room singing, "Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place, such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel California. Anytime of year, you can find it here. " He likes the Three Willows Motel and has stayed here numerous times over the years, both for business and pleasure. The owners know him and always reserve his favourite room when he calls: 111. They don't really understand why it is his favourite room, since, as they once explained, the rooms are all identical: identical landscapes screwed into identically painted walls, identical dressers, identical closets, identical heavy, orangey-brown drapes. The only difference is a choice of one queen size bed or two, which would necessitate two identical floral spreads with identical white linen, two identical night tables and two identical lamps instead of one. The owners argued their case with an air of pride and a sense of accomplishment, even correctness, in such an arrangement.

HO — Stan Rogal

"We're no Holiday Inn," they closed, "but we like to entertain the modest belief that we come a close second." The point of this final statement being, James gathered, that surprises were not high on their priority list in terms of how a motel should function. Which suited him, for the most part. Not that he was a creature of habit, but he did respect a person's need for order and ritual. As was the case for him in requesting the same room each time. On a previous occasion, when James had arrived unexpectedly and the room had been booked by another party, he had to offer a rather complicated explanation for needing 111 for the night. This, for his own personal reasons, as well as for the fact that he was aware of the owners' disposition toward anything that even smacked of the irregular or unusual. He decided to centre his explanation around the actual room number rather than anything about the room itself. He felt that it would be simpler this way. Numbers, he began, are not merely expressions of quantities, but ideaforces, each with a particular character of its own. The actual digits are, as it were, only the outer garments. All numbers are derived from the number one which is equivalent to the mystic, non-manifest point of no magnitude. The farther a number is from unity, the more deeply it is involved in matter, in the involutive process, in the "world". Plato regarded numbers as the essence of harmony, and harmony as the basis of the cosmos and of man, asserting that the movements of harmony "are of the same kind as the regular revolutions of the soul." Look at the number 111, directed James, and the couple did look, closely, though somewhat warily. The idea that one engenders two, proceeded James, and that two creates three is founded upon the premise that every entity tends to surpass its limits, or to confront itself with its opposite. Where there are two elements, the third appears as the union of the first two and then as three, in turn giving rise to the fourth number as the link between the first three, and so on. The couple knew James by name, they knew that he was from Toronto and that he frequently travelled into the States on business. They had no idea what sort of business he was involved in. They felt it was none of their concern. They had met his wife once

The Long Drive Home — 111

or twice when the two had passed through on holiday. They knew that he never caused any trouble and that he always left a tip for the maid. There were rarely any empty bottles or signs of drugs or debauchery. Talk between them had always been minimal, consisting of weather, directions, things to see, places to eat — the normal subjects. Politics and religion were topics never broached. Mainly, the couple was happy enough to exchange a few quiet words with him and leave it at that. This sudden barrage, while not exactly intimidating, was at least unexpected, especially over a simple room, and they wondered if a second shoe was about to fall. James continued almost casually, as if he were discussing items on a menu. One, he said, is symbolic of being and of the revelation to men of the spiritual essence. It is the active principle which, broken into fragments, gives rise to multiplicity and is to be equated with the mystic centre, the Irradiating Point and the Supreme Power. It also stands for spiritual unity — the common basis between all beings. One is also equated with light. You see? asked James. The couple didn't see, of course, but wondered if maybe the man had found God since his last visit; that, perhaps, this was where the whole discussion was actually leading. For his part, James felt that he was on a roll. He had always considered himself an excellent listener, but he also enjoyed the opportunity to expound when the possibility presented itself. He accounted himself quite honestly as a man who contained a wealth of information, for anyone interested in tapping in. While having never attended a college or university, he had always been an avid reader and, in his words, was "blessed" with an almost photographic memory. At parties he could not only recite the names of the guests at the end of the evening and what they were drinking, but the names of their children and pets as well. Not that he read everything. So-called great literature bored him, as did popular fiction. He couldn't get through a novel if you paid him. He could never see the point. Whereas he would sit at the breakfast table, engrossed in the back of a cereal box, fascinated by the ingredients and nutritional information, saddened by the statistics of yet another missing child. "She was only six years old," he'd twist his mouth, "and barely four feet tall."

112 — Stan Rogal

His interest was in facts, figures and details. He wanted to read books that would teach him something about the world and its operation. Not that he didn't care about more abstract thought, just that he wanted it laid out in some sort of order, together with corroborative data. He didn't want the words to simply appear out of a character's mouth in a novel though he could appreciate a decent biography, if the writer didn't take too many liberties; as he put it. Otherwise, his reading covered a vast range, including such subjects as art, architecture, geography, history, gemology, biology, anthropology, psychology, astrology, astronomy, numerology, mythology, and so on, plus how-to books on activities like photography, car maintenance, plumbing, woodworking, cooking, the proper care and handling of firearms... Currently, he was plowing through a book on chaos theory. One and one is two. Two stands for echo, reflection, conflict and counterpoise or contraposition. Or the momentary stillness of forces in equilibrium. It also corresponds to the passage of time — the line which goes from behind forward. It is symbolic of the first nucleus of matter, of nature as opposed to creator or of moon as opposed to sun. In all esoteric thought, two is regarded as ominous: it connotes shadow and the bisexuality of things... At this, the older couple glanced at each other. James pushed forward— or dualism (represented by the basic myth of the Gemini)... Again, the couple wondering, if not religion, then possibly the astrology bug or the New Age bug had bitten James, because he was in danger of stretching their accustomed relationship beyond the polite limit. ...in the sense of the connecting-link between the immortal and the mortal, or of the unvarying and the varying. Within the mystic symbolism of landscape in megalithic culture, two is associated with the mandorla-shaped mountain, the focal point of symbolic Inversion, forming the crucible of life and comprising the two opposite poles of good and evil, life and death. Two, then, is the number associated with the Magna Mater. Barely pausing to take a breath and not allowing a word in edgewise from the dumbstruck couple, James completed his dissertation: One and one and one is three. Three symbolizes spiritual synthesis and is the formula for the creation of each of the worlds. It represents the solution of the conflict posed by dualism. It forms a half-circle

The Long Drive Home — 113

comprising birth, zenith and descent. Geometrically it is expressed by three points and by the triangle. It is the harmonic product of the action of unity upon duality. It is the number concerned with basic principles and expresses sufficiency, or the growth of unity within itself. Finally, it is associated with the concepts of heaven and the Trinity. He went on to say that this particular room provided him with a feeling of wholeness and a sense of total balance after hours of highway driving. The owners stood behind the desk, silent — whether in admiration and awe at the sheer length of the exposition or left utterly terror-struck and confused, it was difficult to know. After a call or two, the couple managed to make the necessary changes and James was given the key to Room 111. That night, he wondered if the other party had decided on another room or cancelled altogether; wondered if they weren't, in fact, checked in across the parking lot, their faces pressed against the glass, attempting to catch a glimpse of the infiltrator through a crack in the drapes. As much as James was given to the possibility of lucky numbers or numbers affecting human lives, and as much as he enjoyed tinkering with numerical figures there was a further, more complicated side to his requesting this room. He had a more-or-less friendly, somewhat professional association with them and he wanted to keep it that way. The numbers, while sounding a bit strange, at least smacked of superstition, a concept most people were able to recognize and cope with in their own way. Other occurrences were not so clear and certainly not so forgiving. At least, this is what he imagined. He sets his suitcase on the bed furthest from the window, snaps it open, withdraws a flat, square box and places it on the bedspread. From his jacket pocket he produces a folded cloth and drops it on top of the box. He removes his jacket, unstraps the holster and tosses it across the bed. He sits on the other bed and picks up the phone. A slight chuckle escapes from his throat as a thought flashes through his head: one bed for fucking and one bed for sleeping. He pictures/his wife, still naked from sex, arranging the covers in such a way as/to make it look as if the bed had only been mussed in the natural course of things: to arrange the suitcases, to more comfortably watch the TV.

1/4 — Stan Rogal

"Two beds is best," she'd say. "This way, no one has to sleep on the wet spot." He had to agree. "Those were the days." The words come out in a sigh, James recognizing that, with the arrival of the girls, holidays became fewer and changed to more family affairs. Now, with the girls getting older and business being good, he rents a room with two beds for the luxury of the extra space it provides. He dials and gets his wife on the other end. Thek conversation is casual, friendly. It's long distance and he doesn't want to talk long. He thought he'd call to let her know that he's on his' way home, that everything is fine, that he'll be in tomorrow, probably early evening. The business end of things went well. He got the goods, then? Yes. And? They're beautiful. A great deal. No problems crossing the border? No, he snorts. Same old thing — he declared a bottle of booze for him and cigarettes for her. Makes them happy so long as you declare something. Puts you above suspicion. It's true. They always insist on inspecting the car if you come back with nothing. Meanwhile, more booze and cigarettes under the seat. Beside the crack cocaine, she jokes. And the nuclear war heads, he adds. They both laugh. And the goods? Carried in his coat pocket. Easy. Marlboros, she asks? Yeah. He's sweet, she says. Bought her something too, while he was at it. A gift. A gift? Yeah. If it's anything like the last gift..., she threatens. She's too old for that sort of thing. No. Nothing like that. He removes a small revolver from a pocket in the lid of the suitcase. He points the barrel past his nose and pulls the trigger — a flame shoots out. 'Cause if it is, he knows what he can do with it. What? Wear it himself. They laugh again. But really, he says, you're as attractive as ever. You have a lovely body. Thank you, but that sort of thing is just too uncomfortable and too cold. Hm, he shrugs. Anyway, that's not it. The lighter is a replica of an old Hartford Scroll-engraved Colt .45. He blows out the flame. How was the trip, otherwise? Is he enjoying himself? Yes. He took some photographs. Stopped in Jefferson for the frontier show at Six Gun City. Again? She pokes fun at him. Won't he ever grow up? Does she want him to? No, not really. Oh, he says, another thing. And he tells her about the encounters with the woman and the girl. How old is she? The girl? He would guess a bit younger than their youngest daughter. Eight or nine. The girl doesn't say a word, almost as though she's afraid to. That's unusual, she offers, he's normally so good with kids.

The liom£ Drive Home —- 115

He agrees. Perhaps she's being kidnapped. She doesn't know if he's kidding or not. Don't be silly. Probably all a coincidence. Should be in school though, right? Maybe she's sick. Or they had to visit a sick relative. Or a funeral. A million reasons. Yeah, he says. Maybe. He took their picture. Secretly. Why, she asks? Not sure. No reason. Doesn't know. Just in case. Just in case? You never know. Uh-huh. Is he going out to eat? No, he picked up chicken from the Colonel and he has a bottle of rye. Just him, the Colonel and a shot of red-eye for the evening. He says this like dialogue out of a bad western. By the way, something funny happened here a couple of days ago — Mrs. Horse-face came in with a problem. Does she mean Liz Tanner? Who else? They snicker. She wanted the pearl from a broken earring replaced. Any problem? No, she managed to find a match. She's pretty sure the earrings were bought from the store, but not by Liz Tanner, as there would have been a production made. What did they look like? She tells him and he says, yeah, they were bought by a man — not her husband — and he paid cash. Hm, she says. She guesses that Horse-face has landed another man with more money than brains. Or taste. How did the earring break? Who knows? Looks as if the loop was ground through. Maybe the man chewed it off? And swallowed the pearl! They roar at their own cleverness. OK, take care. See you soon. Love you. Love you, too. Say hi to the girls. James walks to the dresser and tears the bag holding the box of chicken. He opens the box and eats a french fry. He cracks the bottle of rye, pours a good-size shot then fills the rest with water from the bathroom sink. He clears everything from the dresser, moving it to the end table by the bed. He puts his shoulder into the dresser and shoves it a few feet to the window side of the room. There is a large rectangular mirror hung on the wall. He overturns the metal garbage pail and sets it up beneath the right corner of the mirror. He lifts the mirror from its hook, turns it on end and eases it onto the pail bottom. He stands back. In the mirror, he sees himself displayed full length, holding a drink, cocking his head to one side. The mirror is centred directly between the two beds. He sits on one bed and studies himself in profile. He grabs a chicken leg and eats. His head rocks up and down and he smiles. He turns straightaway. Welcome to the Hotel California, he sings as he chews. Such a lovely place; such a lovely face. His lips purse and he blows what appears to be the smallest kiss.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, TORONTO, ONTARIO The house is set for a romantic evening. The lights are low, there are candles burning on the coffee-table, a bottle of red wine breathes beside two crystal glasses, a variety of food is laid out on platters — meat slices, pates, shrimp, caviar, cheeses, pickles, olives, erudite, crackers, bread, dips, two dozen raw oysters on the half shell nestled on a bed of cracked ice and garnished with lemon slices. In the background, softly, can be heard a Barbra Streisand tune. Liz lounges on the couch, smoking a Du Maurier light and nursing a highball. She wears a blue terry-cloth robe, blue slippers and a pair of pearl earrings. She reacts to a light knock at the door, crushes her cigarette, rises and crosses the room. She pulls the handle with a flourish. Michael steps inside and the door swings shut. He always feels slightly awkward when he visits Liz at the house, especially at night — the neighbours, and all. "Hi. Sorry I'm a bit late. A few last-minute things to do at work." Though he speaks just above a whisper, at the sound of his voice Dai<;v s t a f f s fn hsi-V anrl MirHsipl frpp7p<; p-?rnprtina tr» he set n n n n

118 — Stan Rogal

"Don't worry," Liz teases. "She's locked in the kitchen. Now that you're here, I'll open the pooch door so she can go outside. But first..." She wraps her arms around Michael's waist, draws him near and kisses him. "Mm," she purrs, in her best Mae West voice. "Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" She spreads open his jacket. "Oh my God — it is a pistol!" "Uh, yeah. I was at the firing range earlier. I forgot I was wearing it." Michael didn't want to get into the real explanation, the incident of the rock through the window, made more sinister when combined with Ann's Mafia fears and encounters with the stranger, so he lied. "I didn't know that you owned a gun." "I bought it when we moved into the new neighbourhood." He stares down at the holster, as though seeing it for the first time, as though requiring an explanation. "It's funny. When business was struggling and we lived downtown in a rented three-bedroom semi, we felt safe. As soon as business boomed and we moved to a big house in the 'burbs, it was suddenly like we needed extra locks on the doors and windows plus fancy alarm systems and emergency phone numbers within easy reach... All you heard about — in the papers, on the radio, from the neighbours — were break-ins, vandalism and kids being snatched from their own front yards. I bought it for protection. I even bought one for Ann, a small .38 special with an ivory handle. She didn't really want it, but I told her to carry it, just in case. You never know. Even if she only used it to scare someone, it was worth it." It's obvious that the explanation is meant to convince himself more than Liz, but there's an emptiness to his words. "I guess most women are afraid of guns," he finishes. "I don't know, I find them rather fascinating." The two share a quick look as Daisy keeps barking. "I'll be right back." She brushes the back of her hand against the leather holster. "Make yourself comfortable." Her voice lowers as she marches to the kitchen. "Fucking dog," she whispers. Michael drops his jacket and holster on the ottoman. He checks out the spread of food, reads the label on the bottle, gives the wine a sniff and fills the two glasses. He pops an olive into his mouth and tastes the wine. From the kitchen, he can hear Liz shooshing Daisy outside.

The Long Drive Home — 119

"Did you put all this together yourself?" he calls. Liz appears from the shadows, wiping her hands together. "Are you kidding? I had it catered. You like?" "Mm. Is this a special occasion? "It's our sixth anniversary." "Sixth?" "Six months since we fitst fucked." Liz said the word as if she was eating some kind of ripe fruit. She enjoyed the sound of it; enjoyed the way it felt in her mouth when she said it. She used it in all its connotations. No other word, she was fond of mentioning, covered so much territory, so quickly, and was so easily understood by anyone. Whether as a noun, a verb, an adjective, an adverb — it fit. She loved how it sprang unexpectedly from conversations between Italians, Portuguese, Chinese, French... the word was universal. She loved the effect it had when spoken by a woman in a group of so-called "polite society". She loved using it during sex or to set the mood — as part of the foreplay. Others were not so convinced, especially her husband, who found it "unladylike". Michael, on the other hand, found it refreshingly honest and exciting. He thought it went along with Liz's general approach to life, that being: basic, fun and slightly vulgar; especially when it came to sex. "So I thought, what perfect timing, what with both our other halves out of town. Special dinner, special wine, champagne chilling upstairs by the bed — I'm wearing the lovely earrings you gave me and..." She hesitates. "I'm wearing your favourite lingerie." She releases the sash and spreads her robe. Underneath, she is naked. "Hm. Very nice," says Michael. This was something else he found refreshing in Liz. While her body was by no means beautiful in the present-day standard sense (her legs were long, but thin and bowed, and her breasts, she herself described as two raisins on a breadboard). She was comfortable with it and used it to maximum advantage. Ann, on the other hand, was constantly hiding her body and apologizing for being too fat or oddly proportioned or no longer firm due to age and having had a child — qualms which Michael constantly attempted to soothe, telling her that she was being silly; that physical changes were a natural, inescapable occurrence and it didn't matter to him, that he was still attracted to her and still loved her. Inside, though,

ISO — Stan Rogal

he knew that there were difficulties, not because of her body, but due to other circumstances that manifested themselves through her relation to her body — her mood swings, her bouts with alcohol and the like. "More later." Liz licks her lower lip and folds herself back into the robe. "Now, let's satisfy a different appetite and dig in." She picks up a shell and tips an oyster into Michael's mouth. "We'll save a few," she says. "I've always wanted someone to eat oysters from between my breasts." With that, she drives her tongue into Michael's mouth, chasing the oyster down his throat. The two of them sit up naked in bed, backs against the pillows, drinking champagne from fluted glasses. The room is lit by a single candle that burns next to Liz. Her hair and make-up are TV-perfect. Michael regards her from the corner of his eye. 'How does she do it?' he puzzles. 'Has she really been here all along or did she run off to the bathroom at some point and I missed it? Or, did she somehow manage to run a brush through her hair, a lipstick across her mouth while I had my back turned? It's eerie.' "Mm," she smiles. "It's so nice to be with a man. A raz/man." "Why did you marry him?" Michael holds his glass in his left hand and has his right hand on her thigh. "If he wasn't a real man." "Charles?" Her husband is Charles Mellon. He's an inch or two shorter than Liz, chubby, balding and, at fifty-two, eighteen years her senior. "Oh, I don't know. I guess we were both on the rebound from first marriages — which was the obvious big mistake. He was a lawyer, which appealed to me. 'Course, I had this romantic idea that lawyers were all like Perry Mason, or something. Instead, he was into deeds and real estate and I don't know what else... other boring paperwork-type stuff. "He treated me well, in the beginning — bought me things, took me on holiday junkets, wined and dined me. I thought he was rich. He was sweet and he made me laugh. But that was then. Now all he does is complain about my spending and his bad investments and how broke he is and how people are threatening him." "Threatening him? How?" She shrugs. "That's just it. He never says. I think he does it to get attention. He's looking for sympathy." She pops her lips dismissively.

The Long thrive Home — 121

Her hand drifts between Michael's legs and she quips. "He's always been someone who likes to exaggerate." "Hm." Michael is only slightly amused. He places his fingers between hers and squeezes, feeling the coolness of her wedding ring. "You don't help him out?" "Financially?" Michael nods. "Are you kidding? Why should I?" "Well, you've got plenty of money yourself. And the two of you are married." "Hey, he got himself into this mess, he can get himself out." She removes her hand from his and drinks her champagne. "You're not afraid of his creditors coming after you?" "They can't touch me or my money. We signed a pre-nuptial contract." "Oh, like, what's yours is yours and what's his is yours?" Michael tries to provide the words with levity, but there is no disguising a certain amount of harshness. "Something like that, yeah." Liz says this without a trace of guilt, embarrassment or malice. "Hm. You're one tough lady." "That's right. And that's why you're so crazy about me." Michael rolls his jaw and leans his head back into the bed frame. He admits to himself that, yes, there is a lot of truth in what she says. It's nice being with someone who is strong and independent. And even if she also comes across as somewhat mean and heartless, she's not that way with him. Maybe Charles deserves what he gets. Maybe everyone deserves what they get, Michael thinks. "He still owes you money, right? For the addition to the house? You should go after him; sue his ass. Don't be soft because of what's going on between you and me. Business is business and pleasure is pleasure." "I guess," says Michael. "Chuck the Lemon, I call him. 'Cause that's what he is. He wasn't honest with me from the start. That was where he went wrong. If he had been honest with me, then, maybe..." "So, why not divorce him?" "I don't know. Habit, maybe. They say if you get past two years of marriage, you'll make it to five. If you make it to five, you'll likely make it to twenty. I'm not sure if that's good or bad at the moment

122 — Stan Rogal

Chuck and I have been married three and a half years. That gives us just over a year and a half to see what's what." She refills the glasses. "What about you? What's keeping you and Ann together? I mean, all those pills she takes and the depression and those — what do you call 'em? Panic attacks? Very weird." "Yeah. I don't know. Maybe habit, as well. Then there's Andrea." "Yeah. Autistic, right? That's gotta be tough." "More for Ann. She tried to balance her career with being a mother. And in those days, we needed two pay cheques." "So, you blame yourself." "In a way. Maybe if I was earning enough, she could have stayed home more, spent more time with Andrea when she was small... I don't know." "Hm. I never blame myself for anything. Doesn't help. Everyone makes choices. She wanted a career, right? You've told me so yourself." "Yeah." "And she wanted a kid, right?" Michael stares straight ahead. "I'm not sure." He downs his champagne. "She said she did, but I'm not sure." "Oh, poor baby! Now you're going to get me depressed. Let's move away from the subject of people we're married to and get on to something more fun." "Fine. Like what?" "Why don't you show me your gun?" "What?" "I mean it. Go get it and show it to me. Tell me about it. Tell me how you bought it. 'Cause I know you didn't just walk into Canadian Tire. They're illegal as hell, I know that much. I'm interested. Really." Liz has that sound in her voice that Michael has become familiar with — a sort of innocence tinged with a desire to share a new sexual experience, whether making it for the first time in a bathtub, standing against a wall or spread across the front seat of a pick-up truck in broad daylight in a public park, she was ready and willing for just about anything. Her first husband had adored her, she said, overly — to the point where he came to consider physical love an act of violation, so he stopped. When she walked into the room, he'd fall to his knees and kiss her feet. It was sort of endearing, in a way, at first, she said, but

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it soon became too much. Plus he was insanely jealous. If another man so much as looked at her, et cetera. Michael once suggested that, perhaps, the man felt inadequate, given Liz's strong, independent nature and sexual energy and because of this, he couldn't get it up. Liz agreed that that might, in fact, have been the case. On the other hand, there were other things that led her to believe that he was just insane; things that she didn't want to get into, saying that it wouldn't be fair to him. Did she know what he was up to now, asked Michael? Gone away, she heard. Hooked up with some sort of spiritual leader or something. She wasn't sure. India, maybe. Or Indonesia. Good riddance, she said. Prior to her marriage, and as Liz concentrated on learning the family business, she admitted that her few relationships with men involved using her sexuality strictly as a means of control or else geared toward experiment, carefully doling it out in small packages so as not to get caught up. Love, she said, was for losers. Lose your heart and you're sure to suffer — you relinquish your power and your individuality. It wasn't love with Charles. They got along, they had fun, they were comfortable and that was good enough for Liz, at least in terms of marriage. Sadly, when it came to sex, Charles' preference was for the missionary position and, whether for lack of knowledge or lack of imagination, he saw no reason to go beyond that. Having established herself both in business and marriage as the dominant figure, she was surprised to discover that she felt a certain dissatisfaction in her life. Absolute power, rather than providing her with peace and calmness, was driving her crazy. There was no kick. Things had become sterile and boring. She decided that she needed some kind of relationship outside of work and marriage that allowed her to lose control. She wanted to know the experience of — in her words — being taken by a man. In fact, there was much about the relationship between her and Michael that fit in with the trashy novels and magazines she read — her being the educated, wealthy, frail lady of the mansion on the hill who is outwardly cold while inwardly seething with repressed desires, him being the dull, lowly, well-built workman whose rough hands have the power to satisfy her. The actual circumstances weren't quite the same, obviously, but to her mind they were close enough. After years of being content to let men come to her, for the first time in her life she

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made up her mind to approach a man. It was thrilling. And easy. She had invited Michael into the kitchen to discuss final touches to the addition — paint, floor coverings, wallpaper et cetera. She had taken his hand matter-of-factly and said she noticed the way he had been looking at her and that she was flattered. This was true, of course. Michael had been looking at her; had been finding excuses to talk with her alone. She had been wearing a short, black, tight-fitting tube dress that day. She pressed her thumbnail into his palm, creating indentationss that flared and disappeared. She pressed his fingers to her mouth and bit them gently. Michael never said a word. He didn't know what to say. Liz told him that she wasn't wearing any underwear and that she was soaking wet from thinking about him. She guided his hand beneath the hem, between her legs. Michael felt around and slipped a finger inside her. Liz moaned, pulled his hand to her face and wrapped her mouth around his fingertips, licking them with her tongue. Michael hiked up her dress, lifted her up off her feet and laid her across the kitchen table. There was no waiting. To his way of thinking, anything could happen: someone could walk in, the phone could ring, she could change her mind (though this seemed unlikely). He unzipped and they proceeded to screw. He only asked later about birth control and learned that Liz had had problems when she was younger, and some sort of operation had put an end to that possibility. Meanwhile, Daisy lay crouched in the corner, witnessing the entire act, whining sadly to herself. That was six months ago. Michael had brought the holster and jacket to the bedroom with him, 'In case I have to jump out the window in a hurry,' he had said to her, half seriously. He draws the revolver from its leather pocket and carries it to the bed. He tells Liz that it was, as he said, he felt that he needed it for protection. He had overheard a few of the men talking in the yard about an incident on the street. One of the men had been approached by a stranger and was told to hand over his wallet. The stranger stood holding a knife. When the man reached to his back pocket, instead of a wallet, he produced a gun. He told the stranger to beat it or he'd "Blow his fucking head off". Michael joined in on the conversation as more stories were ex-

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changed about the dangers that presented themselves these days and how a person is crazy not to be armed. One of the men offered to sell him a gun for himself and one for Ann. The man, who was a drywaller for Michael, called himself a survivalist and ran a sort of bootleg gun club with a shooting range in his basement. He knew all about guns and shooting and even made his own bullets. Michael chose a Smith & Wesson double-action automatic. Michael tells Liz that he likes the sound of the name; likes saying it: Smith & Wesson. Liz likes the sound of it as well, Smith & Wesson, and says the name reminds her of the cough drop. They both laugh. "Is it loaded?" Liz asks. "It is," says Michael, "but the safety is on, so don't worry." "Are you sure?" she asks? "Yes. I'm sure." She nuzzles the steel against her chest and neck. "It's cold," she says. "Here, you hold it." He takes it in his hand. She rubs her cheek against the barrel; sticks out her tongue and licks it. Michael gently places the tip inside her mouth. She wraps her lips around it and sucks. She raises her head to take it deeper. She moans and puts her hand on his cock; feels it rising. He removes the barrel from her mouth and kisses her. He slides the cool metal across her breasts, toys with her nipples, drags it around her belly, between her legs, along her thighs. She flips over. He eases the tip of the barrel into the crack of her ass, then runs it softly up her spine, rolling over each vertebra, touching her shoulder blades, caressing her neck. Liz thinks back to the afternoon in the BMW, her removing the pearl earrings and dropping them onto the floor, her leg getting caught up in the phone cord, the cord wrapping itself around her leg, climbing her calf, her thigh, squeezing her tightly as Michael positions the tip of his cock and enters her. She feels her shoes pressing into the rubber floor mat as he moves inside her. What she cannot see is one pearl earring having lodged itself beneath a heel and being ground into the mat, the silver hook eventually snapping, the pearl falling under a corner of the mat, the top half of the earring showing, so that, grabbing quickly and shoving the pair into her purse, she doesn't notice that the pearl remains hidden there. Just as now, with Michael mounting her from behind and dropping

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the gun in order to better grab her hair and hip, neither notices the weapon being caught up in a kick of sheets and blankets and being pushed, in a pile, toward the bottom of the bed.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, MAGCS, QUEBEC James supports his elbows on the sink, leaning head and shoulders into the bathroom mirror. Fresh from the shower, his hair is damp and he is wrapped comfortably in a white terry-cloth bathrobe. He works on another rye and water as he puts the finishing touches to his face: balancing the mascara, heightening the blush, drawing a thin, black line around his ruby lips. He has an obvious deft hand. Satisfied, he licks his lips, puckers and blows himself a kiss. Walking from the bathroom, he sheds the bathrobe, folding it neatly twice and setting it on the bed. He is naked underneath and his flesh appears to be as soft and white as the discarded robe. For a man who has developed a paunch, his legs are actually quite slim — attractive even, considering his age. They would likely still draw compliments, should the situation arise. His stomach growls and he rubs it with his free hand, thinking how he'd rushed through dinner, how he'd eaten it mostly on his feet; thinking how he must alter his eating habits, especially while on the road, especially at this point in time — all the talk about high cholesterol and clogged arteries and premature heart attacks; wondering if he was the type who'd go

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quickly or end up a cripple or a vegetable, being a burden on his family for years and years (which reminds him of a commercial on TV about funeral preparations and not wanting to be a burden and yet, not wanting to entertain that particular subject at the moment, and so, circles within circles: the reality of sickness and death, the surrounding guilt in terms of familial obligation, opposed to the fantasy of being ten feet tall and bulletproof). "I'll have to read up," he thinks. "Diet, heart disease, funerals..." He sips his rye, pokes the lid off the thin rectangular box and pushes away the crepe paper. With his little finger, he hooks the strap of a frilly red bra and drags it into full view. He places his drink on the end table, dons the bra, repeats the action with a similar-looking pair of panties. The set is a snug fit, though not impossible, allowing just enough room to move and breathe. Next, he unrolls the piece of cloth lying next to the box, uncovering a diamond earring and necklace set. He clasps the necklace around his throat and clips the earrings to his lobes. He straps the gun and holster across his chest and spins to view himself in the mirror that he previously propped against the wall. He is obviously pleased with what he sees. He puckers his lips, grins on one side of his face and softly sings: There's-gonna be a heartache tonight, a heartache tonight, I know... As usual, James laughs at how the mirror came to be in the room in the first place. He had stumbled upon it by accident taking a stroll through town. It was leaning upright in a furniture store window. There was nothing special about it: a rectangular mirror in a simple, brown plastic frame. Tawdry, cheap, yet, as he caught himself staring at it, an idea grew inside his head. He thought, maybe it would be fun for a night. He bought it and set it up in the room exactly as he had tonight. The following morning he had to figure out what to do with it. He couldn't bring it home, his wife wouldn't want anything so hideous in the house, and why did he waste his money in the first place, even if it was only a few bucks? It seemed a shame to throw it away, or leave it for the owners to throw away, or have them calling about it and getting his wife on the phone, saying, "We have the mirror that your husband forgot." Instead, he bought a picture hook and hung it on the wall, over the dresser, wondering if anyone would notice.

The JLonQ Drive Home ~— 129 James shakes his head at the thought of all the people who have stood before this mirror, primping, straightening their ties or rnaybe even doing somewhat like him: taking it down, setting it up for their own purposes — watching themselves perform sex, or masturbating, or wearing frilly underwear. The possibilities were endless. James slides the handgun from its holster. It's a scroll-engraved Sheriff model, 1851 Colt-type with polyivory grip, embossed Mexican eagle head with a 7.5-inch barrel. He raises the barrel to his neck and rubs the tip along the semi-circle of diamonds. The images of all those other people, all those other activities, frozen within this cold glass mirror. He drags the revolver down his chest and circles his nipples with the barrel. His hand descends further, the cold steel grazing the hairs on his belly and slipping toward his genitalia; a slight erection nudges the panties. His breathing slows, deepens; his eyelids sag. "My God," he mutters, with a hint of self-satisfaction, "what stories it could tell." He raises the Colt and aims at the image facing him. Plenty of room at the Hotel California, he whispers, then opens his mouth and rolls his tongue. "Oh yeah, baby..." He stares into the mirror. He can't tear himself away.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, TORONTO, ONTARIO Through the glare of coloured flashing lights and thickening grey smoke, a scantily dressed woman on a bare stage gyrates to the beat of "Stray Cat Strut". Other similarly attired women perform their own, more private interpretations of the music at separate tables around the room. The men, for the most part, sit silently staring, nursing drinks, smoking, joking to each other or simply attempting to make themselves heard above the din of the sound system. Before they react to the woman's onstage performance, they need to be spurred on by the deejay. "C'mon fellas, how 'bout giving little ole Cindy Lee a bit of encouragement up there! You wanna see more, put your hands together and make some noise!" The men offer a round of applause and the woman answers by unsnapping her bra and flinging it into the wings. There is more applause as the men check out her breasts. One or two whistles accompany comments, some shouted, most muttered behind hands, and the nodding of heads indicates approval or disapproval. Following this short burst of energy, the men go back to their drinks, their conversations, awaiting their next cue.

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"I never could understand most of the guys that come into places like this." Tom checks out the clientele. "It's like they're bored. I mean, they might as well be having a cup of coffee in a laundromat, watching their clothes spin in the dryer, y'know?" He pokes at the label on his bottle of beer. "Even with the girls practically sitting in their laps, they don't crack a smile. It's like a test of wills, or endurance or something. I doubt if there's an erection in the whole place." "Do you have an erection?" asks Skip. "How do you expect me to have an erection when I'm surrounded by the living dead? Even the girls are bored. Look at them! They just go through the motions. It's a job. Everything is a job. That's it." The stripper crouches, grips the waistband at the sides and tears the velcro. She whips off the panties, crushes them in her hand, sniffs them. The crowd pays some attention. The woman is not particularly attractive: early to mid-twenties, Slavic-looking, brownish hair, plain face beneath the bright make-up, skinny frame, large breasts that are likely not entirely hers. To her credit, she puts everything into her act, bumping and grinding her flat belly, thin hips and jiggly ass, flaunting her disproportionate breasts, strutting her stuff like some strange animal just released from its cage, and through it all — the smoke, the noise, the acrid mix of sweat, deodorant and booze wafting from the floor, the men's neglect — flashing a bright smile that shows off her bad teeth and not seeming to care. But then they're paid to smile, regardless. She tosses the panties with the rest of her outfit. As she spreads her legs and rolls her hips, a low tinkling sound can be heard alongside the music. "For chrissakes," says Tom, leaning in for a better view, "get a load of that." He claps and whistles. The woman looks up and trains her smile directly at him. "Y'see? She's got one of those silver Christmas bells hanging from her snatch." He laughs. "Now that's more like it." Other men in the room respond similarly: laughing, pointing, clapping. The song ends and the woman gathers her clothes and leaves the stage. "That's what you need — some way to make contact; get people to sit up and take notice. A personal touch." "Attaching a bell to your snatch for an audience of drunken, ogling men is a personal touch?"

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"She's an entertainer. She's paid to entertain. It's entertainment." "A minute ago you said it was just a job to them." "What I meant was, in general', for the most part. This one has some personality. She has a sense of humour." Tom drinks. "You take things way too fucking serious, you know that?" "I'm just asking." "Remember when we used to hit the strip joints in the old days, when you could sit around and talk to the girls — not like now, where they're punching a time clock like everyone else — and you, you jerk, you'd always find the one from the abusive home and the string of loser boyfriends and the broken marriages and the kids who are so sweet if it weren't for the fact that they're fucked up emotionally and doing crack and the son is up for armed robbery and the daughter took a shiv to her first-grade teacher, but otherwise..." Skip crosses his arms and shifts in his chair, knowing that, while Tom is exaggerating, what he is saying has a large element of truth to it, and it amuses them both. "I'd be trying to have a good time and, meanwhile, the two of you would be sitting there, all buddy-buddy, practically crying in your beer. Or worse, crying in my beer." "When I talk to someone I like to know more about them then just their names, measurements and phone numbers." "Hey, since when did I care about their names? I called 'em all 'honey', right? It was safer that way." Tom slaps Skip on the shoulder. "You're not the big, bad dude that you'd like people to think you are. Or that you 'd like to think you are, for that matter." They look at each other. "Maybe." Tom tips the neck of his beer to his lips. A new girl enters the stage. "OK! Put your hands together for Tanya, a former Miss Arkansas and two-time Miss Rocky Mountain High. Make her feel welcome..." The deejay rambles on from his booth. Tom claps and gives a holler. "So, tell me something," Skip interrupts. "Are you still working on that 'novel slash screenplay' that's gonna make you rich?" "Ah, you know, on and off. Mostly off. I mean, I'm not so much working on it as writing down incidents; stories, right?" "Uh-huh. You still think that anybody'd be interested in the real

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life story of a detective, what with Mike Hammer and Colombo and whatever..." "You're showing your age, my son. You gotta watch more TV. Get with it. Now it's Cops and Top Cops and Dial 911." "But they're still solving murders and breaking up drug rings and generally catching the bad guys, right?" "Yeah. Except now it's more real bullets and real blood. There's no subtlety anymore; no story, just the shakedown." Tom pulls at his jaw, like he's thinking; like maybe he's going to say something else. Skip folds his arms and cocks his head, waiting. "I took a few writing courses, right?" "Yeah?" "Yeah." Tom makes a face. "Same old bullshit. Guys up in front of you who never published a book in their lives or maybe co-wrote some movie of the week, y'know? The whole thing, not about how to tell a story, but how to make a buck. Everyone in the classroom just there 'cause they've heard how you can become a millionaire overnight writing one novel or one screenplay and them looking for 'the secret', 'the way'." "You don't want to become a millionaire overnight?" Skip jokes. "C'mon — don't give me that, OK? Sure, yeah, the money, but..." There is a sudden edge to Tom's words. He takes a swig of beer and shakes it off with a laugh. "Anyway, what they teach you over the whole course is 'the magic W. You know what that is?" Skip shrugs. "It's like this." Tom wets a finger and draws a 'W on the table. "The action starts up here, see, then things drop off as narration and such occur until you figure that the audience is getting bored so you stir up the action again toward another peak — like foreplay, right? — then down again, then back up to the thrilling ending— the climax, the orgasm, and you've filled your two hours or your three hundred pages." "And the cheque's in the mail." "And the cheque's in the mail, exactly. And your car will be ready by five and I won't come in your mouth. The same." The men laugh and Tom erases the W with his fist. "So, what were you hoping to get out of these courses?" "I don't know. I guess I was hoping I'd learn how to get my words

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on paper; how to tell my story, but without the hype, without the formula, without all the crap." Tom takes a breath. "You know what I enjoy reading? Seriously? The little things; the simple things. I get a kick when a character eats 'a wet sandwich'. You know what that is? Just a sandwich with lots of stuff in it: meat, tomatoes, Spanish onions, pickles — a Dagwood, right? — with plenty of mayo and mustard so that it drips and you have to keep licking your hands and fingers to keep up with the mess. I read that and I ate wet sandwiches every day for a week. Not because of what was in it, but for the name: wet sandwich. I'm not kidding, it affects me. I like passages where some writer says, 'They sat down to a dinner of fried sausages, sauerkraut and potato salad.' Potato salad! Just the words make my mouth water. Or, 'He forked a cube of beef, piled it with mushrooms and peppers and swiped it through the gravy...' You think I'm crazy." "No. I'm just thinking, maybe you only read when you're hungry." "Fuck you. I told you, it's not the food, it's the words." "So, you know the words, write them yourself." "That's the thing though. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It's not just the words, it's the way they're written." "Like?" Skip fishes. "Like... I don't know. Like, there's an honesty. Like, I don't feel honest enough to write stuff that simple. It's as if these guys have earned the right." "Why?" "Because." Tom softens. "Because they're writers." "And you're not?" "No." "OK. Now, you're being crazy. I mean, talk about your Catch-22, you've put yourself there, in that situation. You've done it to yourself." "Yeah. I guess. Anyhow... it doesn't really matter one way or the other whose fault it is. Meaning that the answer to your question is no, I'm not writing, and even if I did, no one would be interested." Tom catches the stripper out of the corner of his eye. She's better-looking than the previous woman, but without the energy, without the smile. He pushes his tongue against his teeth and makes a sucking sound. "So?"

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"So? So, that's it. I'm a scribbler. I scribble. I know there's no point and it's never going to go anywhere, but, what the hell, I figure it's something to do." Tom shuts down, as if the topic has become too touchy. Skip doesn't push it. They drink in silence for a minute. Suddenly, Tom grins and shakes his head. "What?" asks Skip. "I was just thinking about something. A case I had a while back. Nothing big. Another divorce thing. Woman wanted me to tail her husband and find out if he was seeing anyone. She tells me that he's been having so-called business meetings on Wednesday nights. So OK, I follow him after work. The guy goes to a bar. He orders a drink and I order a drink. The wife has money and I'm getting my fee plus expenses — you know, the usual, and I figure — why not enjoy myself?" Tom taps his bottle with his fingers. "The guy has two drinks and then heads off to another bar where he has a couple more drinks. Naturally, I also have a couple more drinks. I figure at some point he's either going to grab a bite somewhere or else meet up with his friend — if he had one. One thing was sure, he wasn't in a business meeting. The guy just keeps moving from place to place and drinking. He hits a couple more bars, a club, a strip joint. I can't believe how much this guy can drink. Of course, I'm drinking the whole time too, on this woman's account." "You couldn't grab a quick bite anywhere?" "The guy wouldn't stay still. I think I ate some peanuts they served at one of the bars. The long and short of it is this: I was getting fucking tanked following this guy around. Worse, he's taking a cab everywhere and I'm having to follow him in the car. By this time, I'm starting to see double, but I stay on him." Tom stops to check out the stripper as she doffs her top. "Mm," he says. "Nice." Skip calls for two more beers. "Finally, the guy goes to an apartment building. He's got a key, and as I'm watching him, I'm trying to figure out in my head: how the hell am I going to get inside and how am I going to know what room he's in? I know I'm too drunk to pick the lock. So, I move in closer, thinking I can maybe grab the door before it closes. And what do I do? I trip on a fucking step and fall flat on my face at the guy's feet. He looks at me like, what's going on, right? Then he fucking lifts me up, he opens the door

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and helps me inside. He dusts me off and asks how I'm doing and says maybe I had one too many. I say yeah, maybe two too many and we laugh and I realize that he's not in much better shape than I am, but enough to get us into the elevator. He presses the third floor and asks me what floor I want and I say the second. I figure I can race up one flight and hopefully see what room he goes into. But, like I say, I'm a fucking mess and I'm trying to get up the stairs and I'm staggering and bouncing off the walls and shit." Skip is laughing. "I wish I was there to see that." "I bet." Tom points his bottle at Skip. "Bastard." "Did you catch up with him?" "Barely. I opened the door and he was just being greeted by some broad in a pink bathrobe. You know, complete with the fuzzy slippers. I don't know if she's a professional or what. Probably not — the fuzzy slippers and all. So I wait for them to go in and I stick a piece of tape between the door and the frame and I go back downstairs to check the name on the register. I get it, I go outside. I'm still hungry as hell and I figure I'll be able to jimmy the lock once I've got some food in me. "Anyway, I go grab a quick sandwich and a coffee and I come back. I figure, in a bit, I'll be able to get myself in, get upstairs and check the tape on the door to make sure he's still there. Perfect. Then I notice this big motherfucking tree growing across the street. I'm pretty sure that it looks right into this broad's window. Well, as sure as I could be, all things considered. So I grab my camera out of the car..." "You're not going to tell me that you climbed the tree." Tom raises his eyebrows and nods. "I grab my camera out of the car, I sling it over my shoulder. I've got the bag with the sandwich and the' coffee and I'm holding it between my teeth and I climb the fucking tree — don't ask me how." Skip rocks in his chair, he's laughing so hard. "Wait," says Tom. "There's more." "More?" "I'm, what, now — thirty or forty feet up this tree? I take a bite of sandwich and drink some coffee to steady me, right? I see that I've got a clear view of the window and the curtains are wide open, like they don't care or they don't think anyone's crazy enough to climb this tree and peek in. A piece of luck, huh? I raise the camera and start fiddling with the zoom. I'm concentrating on not falling out of the tree and at the

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same time I'm crossing my fingers, hoping that they're in the room and that they're doing something worth photographing. OK? "Next thing you know, I got some cop standing down below and he's shouting, like, what am I doing and whatever, and he's waving his nightstick for me to join him. I'm thinking, shit, that's all I need, and I start making the descent. Except going down ain't as easy as going up, I'm finding, and I'm still holding onto the camera and I've got the paper bag in my mouth again and he's asking me questions and I, of course, can't answer because of the bag... "Anyway, I'm most of the way down and, like that," Tom kicks out a leg, "I slip out of the tree and come crashing to the ground and land flat on my ass. I drop right at the cop's feet. Again, he asks what am I doing, who am I, et cetera. The bag is in my lap and the coffee is leaking through onto my pants and I push it aside. I reach into my pocket — slowly, mind you — I pull out my detective ID and I tell him that I'm on a case. He studies the card with his flashlight, shrugs his shoulders and drops the card on the grass. He looks at me like I'm a piece of last night's garbage and walks away. I decide, fuck it. I'll go back upstairs, make sure the tape is still there and wait in the car. "Bottom line is, he spent a few hours with the woman. Enough to matter. I followed him a couple more times after that — sober — and let the wife know what was going on." "Crazy." "Mm, yeah. But that's not the craziest part. The craziest part is that I had to testify in court, for the divorce. I don't know why, but I was hoping he wouldn't recognize me from that first night. Maybe because he was being so nice to me. I don't know. Anyway, why should he? We were both drunk, right? But the sonofabitch did. I could see it on his face; I could see him flashing back to helping me and everything. I felt like shit, I mean it. I couldn't look at him." "Y'see? I told you that you weren't as bad as you liked to make out." "Yeah, maybe. But then you know what he does, after it's all over? He comes over to me, big smile on his face, and he says, 'Hey! Why didn't you tell me what you were doing? I would've invited you into the room. My wife's a bitch. If I had known she wanted a divorce, I would've just given her one.' Then he slaps me on the shoulder and tells me not to worry."

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"And was she?" "What?" "A bitch." "Totally." The two men laugh. "What the hell, huh? All the shit that goes on. How are you supposed to make any sense of it? Maybe I should take this furniture-moving job? What do you think?" Tom gives a sidelong glance at Skip. They both grin. "Naw!" they say, in unison. "That was a good story." "Sure, between two guys sitting around in a bar having a couple of drinks. But who wants to read that shit in a book, or watch it in a movie? You see what I mean?" "Yeah. Why not throw in a chase scene? And a couple of women with big tits. Works for other people." "Sure. And maybe me and the guy could aim guns at each other's heads and say, Tuck you! No, fuck you!' for two hours. That's the problem — small, personal stories about everyday life don't cut it. No one gives a shit." Skip thinks back to a small story of his own that happened years ago. He was delivering divorce papers to a woman in the suburbs. She came to the door with a baby in her arms and a second young child wrapped around one leg. The trick with papers was to hand them to the person and leave. There was to be no conversation. The person didn't even have to take them. So long as they touched them, it was enough for the law. This woman held out her hand and asked, "What are these?" Skip paused, surprised at her question and her attitude. She appeared to be totally confused. Skip found this unusual. Her and her husband must have talked. The papers were simply the next step. Skip couldn't help himself and answered. The woman broke into tears. "You didn't know," said Skip. "No," the woman replied. "No." "You haven't discussed anything?" "My husband's out of town." Skip left her like that, on the steps, crying, not knowing what to do or say. When he considers things now, he thinks that that single event, more than anything else, likely announced the beginning of the end for his career as a detective. "Hm. Well, I liked it. For what it's worth." "Thanks." Tom taps the table edge with the neck of the beer bottle. "You got the map? Drag it out and we'll see where this place is — Scarborough Bluffs."

14O — Stan Rogal

Skip pulls the map from his pocket. On stage, the stripper rubs her panties back and forth between her legs. Chris Isaak sings "Wicked Game". The deejay jumps in: "Come on, guys! What are you, dead out there? Let's make some noise! Give it up for Tanya!" The men applaud.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, MAGOG, QUEBEC It's twilight when a blue, '89 Cadillac Fleetwood swings up to the office of the Three Willows Motel. A man climbs out of the front seat and enters the office. An older woman sits behind the desk, listening to the radio. The volume is low. Behind her, through the sheers covering the door glass, can be seen the blue flicker of a TV. The woman stands to greet the man and proceeds to ask him the same questions that are always asked in this situation: How many guests? How many nights? How paying? It strikes the man how odd and ultimately meaningless the entire procedure is, like crossing the border — the same interrogation over and over again. In cold fact, no one really cares who you are or what you've been up to. It's simply a job that has to be done. He is an honest man wearing an honest suit earning an honest buck. Why shouldn't he be believed? Why shouldn't he be welcomed with open arms, given the red carpet treatment and afforded carte blanche for anything he desires? His thick fingers tremble slightly as he signs the register: Charles Mellon. Charles draws the drapes across the window and places a bucket of ice on top of the dresser. The room has two queen-size beds.

1*2 — Stan Ro&al

'Why not?' he thinks. 'Why not be comfortable, after all?' He turns on the bedside lamp, drops his suitcase onto one of the beds, opens the suitcase, withdraws a large bottle of Chivas from inside a sweater, cracks the seal and pours himself a stiff shot. Real glasses, he says to himself. Nice touch. He scoops a few ice cubes from the bucket and adds them to the scotch. A portable clock radio rests in a corner of the suitcase. Charles takes it and puts it next to the bucket. He clicks it on, extends the small antenna and tunes in to a classical music station. He moves the antenna in several directions while fiddling with the tuner. The reception remains fuzzy and no amount of adjusting seems to make much difference. Finally, he gives up. "Good enough," he says, removing his finger from the dial, "for the purpose." He tacks on the words, almost as an afterthought. He goes to take off his coat, but stops in mid-motion as he detects an awkward weight in one pocket. Reaching inside, he produces the Glock. He wraps his hand around the grip, straightens his arm and slowly revolves his body, sighting objects in the room as he does so: the night tables, the lamps, the landscapes screwed to the wall, the dresser, the ice bucket, the radio... The action appears automatic. 'Strange,' he thinks, 'how comfortable it feels. Must be from those TV cop shows. Or the news. Or is it natural; the idea that a man is somehow necessarily born to be comfortable with weapons?' He lays the gun on the mattress along with the two clips of ammunition and lowers himself on the edge of the bed. He picks up the phone, places the receiver to his ear, raises his finger to the buttons, sighs. He hangs up. He pulls the drawer handle on the night table. Inside is a Bible, a few sheets of paper, a plastic ball-point pen and a menu for a local Chinese restaurant. He fingers the Bible, flips to a page at random and reads the first passage that his eye falls upon: Now it is better that a man be judged of God than of man, for the judgments of God are always just, but the judgments of man are not always just. He closes the book and returns it to the confines of the drawer. 'Hm,' he thinks. 'Perhaps. And yet...?' Charles gathers the papers, the pen and the menu and sets them beside the telephone. He scans the menu and decides that Chinese will be fine. There is a dinner for one advertised for $10 but the

The Long Drive Home — 14t3

restaurant won't deliver an order less than $15. Does he want to go and pick it up himself? No, not really. How hungry is he? Should he order extra food that will, in all certainty, go to waste, or perhaps simply order a couple of Cokes that can be left for the maid? But then he wondered, would the maid want to drink the Cokes, given the circumstances; given the scene she will stumble upon in the morning? His stomach growls, reminding him that lunch was the olives from a half dozen martinis, consumed in an attempt to negotiate a deal that grew less and less promising as the meeting progressed and left him stuck paying the bill. But then, what did it matter at this point? What did anything matter? Go the whole hog. He calls the restaurant, orders the #1 special: egg rolls, chicken chow mein, chicken fried rice plus sweet and sour soup and lemon chicken — two common items, yet dishes he had never tried before. There is no real reason he can think of, other than force of habit and an aversion to mixing tastes: sweet with sour, fruit with meat. 'Tonight,' he decides, 'is a night for change; a night for action.' The food would arrive in forty-five to fifty minutes. Charles tops up his scotch and settles in to write on the loose paper sheets. Dear L/^;, he begins, I cannot... He stops. He presses the icy glass to his burning forehead. The words sit on the page staring back at him. He scratches them out and starts again. Dearest L/£. This is... It's no use. The words will not come. Not the right words, at any rate. If, indeed, there are any right words in a situation like this. What can he say, after all? What is there to say? That he's a failure? She knows that. That he's a coward? She knows that, too. That he loves her? What does that matter? What does she care? What has love ever changed? That he understands and forgives her? Again, why should she care? Liz has never required forgiveness of anyone. Nor has she ever felt the need, on her part, to forgive. A waste of time, she'd say. And effort. If you take responsibility for your choices and your actions, then there is nothing to forgive. If others are hurt, that's their problem. Charles, on the other hand, was forever apologizing, forever seeking forgiveness. Even now, while considering her indiscretion, he is the one who is apologetic. How could things be otherwise? It was inevitable. He had known that it was foolish of him in the first place. The age difference. The fact of her being so beautiful and him being so... not

144 — Stan JRogal

handsome, so ordinary. And how did he know what his wife was up to? No reason in particular, he just did, or assumed he did. Either way... Then there were the lies about his financial position. Well, not lies, exactly, but requiring certain pieces to come together, to fall into place; certain circumstances to materialize; certain people to... to... And it not happening. Always a pound light and a penny short. That was the story of Charles Mellon. 'If only I had remained within my field of expertise; if only I had simply stuck to my job. I'm a real estate lawyer,' he declares to himself. 'And a damn good one, too. I know that. But I had to go and try to be a big-shot investor. Hm — you'll never learn, will you? Or you will, but always the hard way. Anyway, to end soon. The whole sick, twisted narrative. Tonight. And the point of putting it on paper? Dragging out the dirty laundry and hanging it out to dry for all to see? No point. No point whatsoever.' He crumples the paper and heaves it at the wall. On a second sheet he writes, To whom it may concern,.. Again, he laughs at the ridiculousness of his words, his behaviour — him being reduced to the role of lawyer, of formal mouthpiece even at a time like this, when what is required are a few honest words from the heart, and none are forthcoming. He crushes this second sheet as well and pitches it to the floor. Better to say nothing, he decides. Better to think nothing. Better to go out alone and be forgotten. No one can touch her, this was the agreement. This was the thing put down in writing. To remain untouched, untouchable, in the event of... What a thought! Had she suspected? Had she known all along, predicted the outcome in advance? Was he the only one he had deceived? He strips to his underwear and puts on a grey sweatshirt and shorts. He slaps a clip into the Clock, raises his arm and aims at the empty portion of the wall, just above the dresser. The tiny radio sputters a version of "The Flower Duet" by Delibes that catches in Charles's ear. He instantly pictures an outhouse overlooking a lake in the country. A woman's voice can be heard, singing. She is obviously supposed to be pictured inside the outhouse. It's a TV commercial for something. He can't remember the product. He imagines the woman, though, sitting there on the toilet seat, relieving herself, singing. This image melds with that of an old movie he recalls from years ago, Freebie and the Bean, with James Caan and Alan Arkin. The

The Long Drive Home — 14S

two men are cops. They stand outside the crapper door of a bowling alley bathroom with guns drawn, firing repeatedly through it. Inside the toilet, a man slumps to the floor, dead and bloodied. 'Caught with his pants down,' thinks Charles, without cracking a smile. 'Why is it some things stick with us, in our minds, and other things we forget? The most ludicrous things? While other things that we should consider important, or necessary...' He stares intently at the wall, as if into a mirror, searching for something — a figure, a face, a tune. He grips the Glock with both hands, just like in the movies, and squints along the sight. "Bang," says Charles, without emotion. "Bang, bang, bang..."

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, NIA6QG, QUEBEC Andrea lounges on the floor eating a pizza slice. Ann watches from the bed, not really watching, but caught up in her own thoughts, while at the same time fascinated by the girl's fastidious manners, at her routine. This is something that never ceases to amaze Ann, or Michael, for that matter: the way in which Andrea turns eating into a ritual. In the case of the pizza slice, she first bites the triangular tip, then dabs her mouth with a napkin. Next she bites the left side, then the right side and dabs. Then she bites left, right, centre and dabs. Lastly, she bites left, right, left, right and dabs. She consumes the slice in the same way that one would remove a set of tenpins — one at a time. She refuses to eat the crusts, but piles them one atop the other on the cardboard cover. "Aren't you hungry?" Andrea asks her mother, whose first slice remains untouched on a napkin beside her. The question catches Ann off guard and she takes a moment to answer. Food didn't appeal to her much anymore. Part of this had to do with her state of mind, her condition. As well, the medications she had been on gave everything a metallic taste that she found unpleasant. She ate enough to live, but the pleasure of eating was diminished.

14S — Stan Rogal

"No. I guess I'm still full from lunch." Ann regards the girl. She notices the three crusts stacked in the box. This is how long it's been since any words have been exchanged. Not unusual, since it is Andrea's habit to eat in silence. With her careful smoothing of the napkin, then folding it in half and laying it over the crusts, the stack also signals the end of this silence. She is done eating, which means that she'll be looking to be entertained or kept otherwise active, something that Ann is neither prepared nor in the mood for. Her mind is still juggling the events of the day, trying to make some sense. Unfortunately, the pieces that she has to work with don't want to fit any sort of total picture. She sips her drink and rolls the pearl between her fingers. She runs through the facts and possibilities. Michael is involved in some court case that she knows very little about, except that he says it's no big deal. The paths of her and a stranger have crossed several times and he now has a room in the same motel. Coincidence? How could this earring have gotten into her car? A client? Unlikely. Is Michael seeing someone? Had he been with another woman the day he borrowed her car? Had they made love in the front seat? Did the pearl belong to the woman? Michael had the car cleaned at a car wash, "for her trip," he said. Could the pearl have been missed by the attendants? She pictures the milky orb being hastily knocked by the plastic vacuum nozzle back and forth across the white carpet, then covered, finally, by the damp, black floor mat. Ann has had her suspicions for years, though there has never been any proof, just a feeling. These go back at least to the time of Andrea's birth. In some ways, she could hardly have blamed him, back then. It had to do with getting pregnant. Although she had felt that she wanted a baby, the reality was so different from what she had imagined. She was sick all the time, she grew fat, her skin broke out, she was constantly tired and miserable. There were times when she actually wished that the child would abort. She had to refrain from alcohol and coffee and this only served to make her feel worse. Meanwhile, she attempted to keep her business going, which allowed for little time, energy or even interest in maintaining a close relationship with Michael. On the other hand, she was jealous of any female within range of him. He was a goodlooking man with an easy manner. He had certain needs that Ann

The Long Drive Home — 149

was unable or unwilling to satisfy. This was not something he said, but she knew. In fact, he was very supportive, saying that everything would work out in the end. It was simply a matter of time. He helped with the housework, helped with the baby. It's just that there was nothing he could do, really, to ease the situation. Ann had it in her mind that she had to do everything, be everything: wife, mother, career woman. Something had to get short shrift and it was the lover part. It came to the point where she didn't even have the interest anymore. It was around this time that Ann began cutting herself. The birth was another thing. She realized that there would be pain, but she was unprepared for how much or how long. She couldn't relax and she didn't have the strength to continue. In the end, the child was removed by Caesarean. She thought that the worst of it must be over, but taking care of her daughter was almost as daunting as carrying her for nine months. Ann had always considered herself a social drinker, but after spending her pregnancy completely 'on the wagon', she started to drink heavily. The cutting continued and she was having panic attacks, besides. She didn't know why she had to cut herself, only that there was a reason, somewhere, whether as punishment for being a bad mother or as guilt for wishing her daughter dead or simply as proof of her own existence. When Michael realized that the cuttings were not accidental he sent her to a doctor. After that it was a steady stream of doctors, psychiatrists and other specialists, offering a variety of pills and putting her in touch with support groups. After a few years, the cutting stopped, the panic attacks became less frequent and her drinking was reduced to what was deemed an 'acceptable' level. She wasn't cured, but at least she could function. Treatment continued and now consisted of medications, regular visits to her doctor and psychiatrist and making use of support groups when necessary. If Michael had had an affair during those years, she thought it would have been understandable. She doesn't know if she would have been able to cope, but at least she would have understood the reasons. She also knows she would have blamed herself. It was only natural. Things went smoothly for awhile, then Andrea began behaving strangely. She'd throw a fit for no apparent reason. She would remain silent among strangers and even relatives. She wouldn't get along well with the other kids. She relied on patterns, and when these

ISO — Stun Rogal

patterns were upset, no matter how trivial — the order of opening one cupboard door before another — she'd behave as if the world was coming to an end, screaming, crying, throwing herself on the floor until the pattern had been re-established. The girl was diagnosed as being autistic. Again, Ann took the blame and lapsed into her old ways. But she's worked hard to overcome her problems and she feels that she's managed as well as anyone could reasonably expect, in terms of her daughter, her business and her marriage. Suddenly, all of this is threatened. What has Michael been keeping from her? For how long? Why? Why now? She knocks back her drink and goes to the bathroom for a refill. Andrea gathers her mother's pizza slice, tosses it into the box and folds down the lid. "Magog," she says, mostly to herself. "Population 13,600. Magog was founded in 1799 by British Loyalists who left America after the Revolutionary War. It is named for nearby lac..." Andrea struggles with the word. "...lac... Mem...phre...magog, which is the Abenaki Indian word for "vast expanse of water." The lake, as well as the area's rivers, streams and mountains, has made Magog a popular vacation resort, offering fishing, hiking, and water and winter sports." Ann can hear the girl through the door. The words flow past her, serving only to rouse further loose memories. "Gog and Magog," she whispers, feeling the effects of the pills and the vodka. "In Biblical prophecy, the nations, led by Satan, which will war against the kingdom of God." "Ile-du-Marais Nature Trail," continues Andrea, "reached by a causeway into Lake Magog, offers a self-guided hike around the island April through October. More than 185 species of birds use the island as a nesting ground. Call for schedule of guided-tours; phone (819) 842-4460." "Gomorrah," says Ann, fondling the pearl. "A city on the shore of the Dead Sea, destroyed with Sodom because of the wickedness of its people." Ann returns to the living room. "Mount Orford Park (Pare du Mont Orford), in the Eastern Townships, is north on Highway 10. Mont Orford, 852 metres (2,795 feet) high, has several ski slopes. The park offers a lodge, a 1,676-metrelong (5,499-foot) double chairlift and several nature trails."

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Ann pushes the drape open a crack. She sees the room dimly lit across the parking lot. "The park's Centre d'Arts Orford offers summer music courses, plays, films and art exhibits with performances by well-known artists. For information about schedules and fees phone (819) 843-3981 or 843-6233." Ann places her drink and the pearl on the window ledge. "Mommy's going to go to the office for a minute. You stay here and get washed up and ready for bed. OK?" Andrea nods. "OK." Ann doesn't go directly to the room, but takes a parabolic route, swinging wide then remaining pressed to the wall. She checks around her for any staring eyes, then crouches, hunkers to the centre of the window, raises her head and sets her eye in the slit between the curtains. A tiny sound issues from Ann's mouth, which she quickly muffles with a hand. She sees the man's backside spilling out of the tight, red panties; sees the man's reflection in the mirror, drawing the gun and aiming it. She reels backward, scrambles to her feet and rushes across the parking lot to her room. "Oh my God," she says. "Oh my God, oh my God." She shuts the door and slides the bolt. She looks for Andrea and hears water running in the bathroom. 'Calm down,' she thinks. Tor God's sake, calm down.' She snatches her drink, goes to her purse, fumbles for a few pills and washes them down with half the screwdriver. She reaches for the .38, clutches it to her chest, glances in the direction of the bathroom, shoves the revolver beneath her pillow. Andrea steps out in her underwear and Ann pulls the girl's pyjamas from a separate bag. "Here, honey. You put on your jammies and read for awhile. Mommy's going to have a nice, hot shower." As an afterthought she says, "Don't let anyone in." Ann closes the door behind her. She turns on the shower and faces the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed. She adds more vodka to her glass and drinks. She notices that her hands are shaking and that tears are forming in her eyes. She chews on her lip as the steam from the shower fogs the mirror. Ann dumps her bag and retrieves a small pair of scissors. With one hand, she grips the scissors like a knife, holding the point against her other wrist. She presses the point

152 — Stan Rognl

into her wrist and drags it across the flesh. The cut is not deep. At first, there is simply a white line, then the line speckles with blood. Ann traces a second line, and a third. "Mm," she moans, not so much in pleasure as in release. Her breath slows; her face and body soften. In the next room, Andrea can be heard singing to herself. It is the same tune that Ann couldn't figure out earlier. 'What is it,' she wonders, clenching the scissors; feeling the cuts. 'It sounds so familiar.'

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, TORONTO, ONTARIO Midnight. The moon is more than three-quarters full, the sky is clear and the temperature is mild. The men drift past the Mellon residence. The house is a large stone and wood structure at the end of a cul-de-sac, set deep in a surround of trees and hanging to the edge of the Bluffs. The lot itself is massive and sweeping with landscaped flower beds, rockeries and even a pond. "Likely stocked with goldfish," Tom cracks. A fence of shrubbery faces the street and there is no gate to the driveway entrance. The nearest houses are a good block away, also set among a thicket of tall trees and dense foliage. The setting is perfect. The two cruise off, park the van on a similarly deserted stretch of road some distance away and stroll through the neighbourhood, commenting as they go, wondering at the cost of each house, who lives there, what sorts of jobs can people have to afford places like this. They couldn't know that the only reason Charles was able to keep the house is that when the bottom fell out of the real estate market, the mortgage on the house became higher than what the house was worth so the first Mrs. Mellon said, It's yours — enjoy!

154 — Stan Rogal

"They put their pants on one leg at a time just like everybody else," states Skip. "I'm not so sure," Tom replies, almost seriously. "Yeah? I bet you'd like to believe they piss champagne and shit roses too, huh?" "You mean they don't?" The men laugh. Stopping at the driveway, the two scan the surrounding area. "What time you got, partner?" asks Tom. "Twelve-ten." "Right on. OK. Let's make this fast. We get in, we do the job, we get out — bim, bam, boom. No muss, no fuss. Yeah?" "Yeah." There is no more to say. They know to check for alarms, to approach the house from an angle using the shadows as cover, to locate the quickest and easiest point of entry into the house. If there's an open window, great, if not, it's Skip's job to pry one open or jimmy a lock. "I can't believe this," smiles Tom. "A place like this and no security system. It's like a gift. Not that it would have mattered with you around, huh?" He slaps Skip's shoulder, by way of a compliment. "Uh-huh." The lights are out on the main floor and the men decide to go around to the back door, half expecting it to be sitting wide open for them. As they clear the corner they come face to face with Daisy guarding the porch. Tom draws a gun and Daisy bares her teeth with a low growl. "What are you gonna do, kill it?" asks Skip. "What do you want me to do?" "You can't shoot it, you'll wake them inside." "I'm not going to shoot it, am I? Maybe you can use your natural animal charm to distract it so's I can conk it on the head." "Put the gun down." Skip crouches. "Put it down. I mean, it's not exactly a Doberman going for your nuts, is it?" Tom lowers his gun and Skip extends his hand. "C'mon. C'mon. Good dog. Good dog." Daisy calms somewhat and sniffs at Skip's fingers. "She's gonna smell the Chinese we ate earlier." "Shut up," Skip whispers. "We're just here to pay a little visit to your master." At the word "master" the dog wags her tail, pops her tongue out, gives Skip a lick, then spins and jumps up against the door.

The Lang Drive Home — 155

Skip pulls out a keychain of tools and picks the lock. The men enter the kitchen with Daisy leading the way. She scratches at the door dividing the kitchen from the living room. Skip grips the handle and gives it a twist. "Now, don't you get too far ahead of us here." He cracks the door. Tom draws a second gun, flips on the laser and Skip follows suit. Daisy scoots through the opening, scampers across the floor and parks herself at the foot of the stairs. The two men grin at each other. "This is too fucking weird," whispers Tom. "You got that right, but what the hell..." Skip tiptoes toward the dog with Tom in tow. "Hey," says Tom. "What?" Skip freezes. "Do you hear that?" The men cock their ears. Skip has been out of the business for over three years and the last thing he needs now is to be surprised by some guy in pyjamas, wielding a baseball bat. Or worse, packing a shotgun. "What?" Skip can't hear anything out of the ordinary, least of all padded footsteps. "On the stereo. It's fucking Michael Bolton. How can anyone enjoy listening to fucking Michael Bolton? What do women see in the guy? I mean, is it just me or what? Am I just not sensitive enough? Or am I, in fact, too sensitive, so that I realize just how full of shit this guy is? I mean, the guy is fucking boring, y'know? I ask you, what could be more boring than a failed rock star turned crooner? It was bad enough when Kenny Rogers made the switch, but..." Skip stares at Tom, not quite knowing what else to do. "Tom? Can this wait? Can we just do this and get the hell out?" Skip nods at Tom. "I know, I know," says Tom, through his teeth. "It's just..." "Forget it." Skip tugs Tom by the sleeve and guides him to the stairwell. "Fuck," says Tom, pointing his laser at the stereo. "Fuck you." "Tom?" "All I want to say is, anyone who listens to that shit deserves what they get." "Fine. Let's go." The men crouch and keep their bodies close to the wall. At the top of the stairs, Daisy wags her tail, waiting, urging them on. "Michael fucking Bolton," Tom whispers.

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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, MAGOG, QUEBEC Charles is settled cross-legged in the middle of the bed, resembling a Buddha in gray sweats. He holds his empty glass in one hand and the remains of a forty-ounce bottle of scotch in the other. He's reasonably sauced and regards the bottle with an inordinate amount of attention. 'Is the bottle half full or half empty?' he ponders. 'Half full or half empty?' "This is the story of my life. Either half full or half empty; neither half full nor half empty. Either. Neither. My life. No life. There's no life like it. Ohhh..." he moans. Around him are the scattered reminders of dinner: the leftover food packed carefully back into the bag, the bag folded at the top and stashed in the corner by the wastebasket; a pair of chopsticks fallen onto the floor, missed in the cleanup; the cardboard lids from the food containers used as notepaper and scattered onto the opposite bed, a felt-tip pen lying in the midst. The words on the lids are no more revealing than Charles' first attempts with the paper sheets. Most of it is crossed out or written

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over, much more is merely a scrawl affected by the scotch. The same words or phrases are repeated: sorry, love, can't, money, forgive, failure, best, don't worry, don't bother, don't tell... "Half full? Half empty?" Charles shrugs, pours himself another large shot and squints again at the bottle. "Half empty!" he cries. "Good. Now, I feel better." He puts the bottle on the side table and picks up the Clock. "Excellent. You see that?" He speaks to the gun. "We're the same, you and me. We're both loaded." He laughs at his own joke. "The only difference... The only difference is..." But the thought escapes him. He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders and sighs deeply. "Doesn't matter," he slurs. "Doesn't matter." He gives the gun a strange look, as if having seen it for the first time; as if recognizing something ludicrous about it or about the situation. 'It's like a kid's toy,' he thinks. 'Like one of those water pistols I used to own when I was a kid. Look at it — all square and plastic. Ugly, really. It should be coloured red or blue or yellow. What can you hurt with something so ugly?' Charles raises the gun and places the barrel against his temple. He is aware that, at that angle, the cold, hard metal makes a small indentation in his flesh, like a half moon. He swallows. He removes the barrel from his head, stretches out on the mattress, leans against the pillows and backboard and takes a drink. He places a white towel between his knees. Music plays from the radio. He doesn't recognize the tune or the composer. Russian, maybe. Or German. A sad tune, in any case, he thinks. He sips his scotch. He'll wait. He decides to finish his drink and wait for something a bit more upbeat; a bit more lively. Half full or half empty. He points the gun to his head. It only makes sense.

WEDMESDAYp SEPTEMBER 24, MAGOG, QUEBEC It's just past midnight. Andrea can't sleep. She tries to wake her mother, but Ann is out cold. Andrea goes to the window and looks outside. The moon is almost full. She sees the pearl on the window ledge, picks it up and holds it to the moon to see it glow. She sidles to the door, releases the locks and swings it open. She gives her mother a parting glance, then steps into the parking lot, leaving the door slightly ajar. Holding the pearl in front of her and placing it high between her eye and the moon, she wanders in small, irregular circles toward the middle of the lot. The girl is barefoot and wearing a pair of pale yellow pyjamas which, in the glow of moonlight, makes her appear almost ghostlike. James has been dozing in front of the TV. For whatever reason, he jumps awake, rubs his eyes, stands, and takes a peek out the window. He sees the girl, caught like some dainty fairy between the bluish lights of the parking lot and the creamy sheen of the moon. She appears to be holding something between the tips of her fingers. Too groggy to realize that he's still dressed in the silky lingerie, he grabs his housecoat, slips his bare feet into a pair of brown leather shoes and marches out the door.

ISO — Stan Rogul

"Hello!" he calls, recogizing her as the same girl he'd met earlier in the day. "Are you OK?" The girl stops in mid-turn, drops her arms and hangs her head. She doesn't reply. "What are you doing out here alone, hm?" James' voice is relaxed and calm. He doesn't want to upset the girl. He merely wants to help her; wants to find out what is going on; possibly find out who the woman is and whether or not she is harming the child. He knows that he is good in these situations. He takes a particular pride in being able to maintain his composure in otherwise severe situations. While James is hard-pressed to recall any such times at the moment, he is content in the belief that there have been several occasions, occasions in which he handled himself in an exemplary manner under the worst conditions, occasions which were recognized and commented on by others. As he approaches the girl, the words of a favourite Rudyard Kipling poem run through his head: If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you; if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too; if you can wait and not be tired of waiting. Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, or being hated, don't give way to hating, and yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise... "What do you have there, hm? In your hand?" James takes the girl's wrist and gently strokes her fingers. "Open your hand now, honey. I'm not going to hurt you." Andrea slowly uncurls her fingers. "That's a girl." James stares at the pearl. "What the...?" Ann rolls over and half-opens her eyes. She smacks her lips, tasting the stale orange juice and vodka in her dry mouth. She pushes her hair back with both hands and notices the gauze bandages used to wrap her wrists have come undone. They hang in front of her face, damp with blood. She tugs on the gauze strips, then tucks her wrists beneath her arms, as if ashamed. Shaking her head, she looks across at the other bed and bolts up on both elbows. "Andrea?" she chokes. "Andrea?" She sees the open door. Automatically, her hand dives under the pillow, fumbling for the gun. Finding it, Ann jumps out of the bed and staggers across the floor. She rubs her eyes and peers out to the lot. It

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shimmers with a weird luminescence, partly due to the effects of the moonlight and street lamps, partly due to Ann's present state. From where she stands, leaning in the door frame, she sees the rouged and lipsticked stranger holding Andrea's hand. Ann stumbles out the door holding the gun in front of her, with both hands raised, like she's seen in the movies. "Don't touch her!" she slurs. James is bent on one knee beside the girl. He puts his hand beneath his housecoat and draws the Colt from its holster. "I swear, I'll shoot. Let her go! Let go of my daughter!" Her daughter? James glances at the girl, then at the pearl he now holds in his hand. He attempts to tie together what he can recall of the events of the day, including what his wife had told him earlier over the phone, about Liz Tanner and the earrings. "What in hell...?" he fumbles. Nothing makes sense. If the girl is her daughter, why has the woman allowed her to come outside at this time of night? Why does the girl appear so frightened all the time? Why does the mother appear so tense? What is she doing with a gun? What are those rags hanging from her wrists? Where does the pearl come into play? James aims back at the woman. "Put down your gun. I'm trying to help the girl." Ann is too far gone to even understand what James is saying, and, because of the booze, the pills, the panic of the situation, her own words are strained and garbled. She spits them out. "Let her go! Let her go! Please!" The gun sways as she calls; the gauze bandages dripping red from her wrists. Meanwhile, in another first-floor room, Charles Mellon places the gun to one side of his head and a towel to the other. He plans to make as little mess as possible. His glass is empty and he hums along to the radio. The music is from Prokofiev's, Romeo and Juliet: "Dance of the Knights". "Goodbye Liz," whispers Charles. "I'm... I..." The words still refuse to come. His finger squeezes around the trigger.

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WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMRER 24, TORONTO, ONTARIO The two men take a step into the room, training their lasers on the naked bodies of Liz and Michael. The only other light is the flicker of one dying candle. Liz scrambles for the covers at the sound of Daisy's barking. "What?" The shape of two figures can just be recognized standing in the doorway. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" The figures dance the lasers up and down the bed. Michael rolls over and squints his eyes. Daisy continues barking. "We're just here to settle a little score. I'm sure we don't have to mention any names." Tom was always the mouthpiece. He was good at it: short, sweet and to the point. The laser beams come to rest on the foreheads of Liz and Michael. "Please," chokes Liz. "Take what you want. Take what you want and leave." Tom and Skip readjust their sights, taking aim at the furnishings. Lamps, champagne flutes and candle holders shatter; pictures jump from the walls, furniture splinters, bullet holes form in the bed's backboard and the plaster walls. Liz and Michael scream, Daisy

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jumps up onto the bed, snarling and barking at the naked pair. The men stop firing, spin on their heels and jog downstairs. They hustle out the door, across the lawn and up the street, disappearing into the night.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMIEB 24, Nlneee, QOEIEO Charles pulls the trigger of the Clock and the blast shakes the walls. In the parking lot, Ann screams at the sound and fires her .38 in the general direction of James. James startles and aims at the tongue of fire exiting Ann's gun. As he squeezes, Andrea knocks his arm and the Colt blasts into the air. The old woman from the office rushes into the fray packing a shotgun. She sees the woman collapsed on the ground beside a car, her body heaving in a sputtering pool of tears, spit and blood. She sees the man, his face tarted up, his robe blown open, wearing the red ladies' lingerie, the brown shoes and holster. She sees Charles stumble from his room in his gray sweats, holding a white towel in one hand, a gun dangling from his other and a thin streak of blood issuing from his forehead. She sees the little girl thrashing on the ground and screaming. "What the hell is going on?" she shouts. "Put down your weapons before I start filling people with buckshot!" No one moves. No one knows what to do. The guns have turned suddenly useless in the hands of their owners. The woman's husband

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joins her in the lot. He sports an old German Luger pistol. The two have cigarettes stuck between their lips. From the open office door drifts the faint sound of a choir. The words of the hymn are unclear. Something about God. Something about Jesus. Something about love.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, TORONTO, ONTARIO Liz throws the covers to the floor with Daisy in them and scrabbles in the dark, apparently searching for something. "Shut up!" she screams. "Shut the fuck up, you stupid dog!" "What are you doing? What are you looking for?" Michael gets up and fumbles for the light switch. "I'm looking for your gun, goddamn it." "My gun? Why?" He flicks the switch, catching Liz on all fours on the floor. "So you can go after them." She turns her attention once more to the dog. "Shut the fuck up!" Daisy untangles herself, stops barking and steals out the door, the gun gripped in her teeth. "Are you crazy? Those guys are professionals." "You're not going after them?" "No, I'm not going after them. What for? They didn't take anything. This was a warning." "A warning?" "Yeah." Michael grabs his clothes and slips into them. "A warning? A warning for what?"

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"What do you think?" He puts on his jacket. "I gotta go." "You're just going to leave me here?" "They're gone, OK? They've done their job and now they're gone. I gotta phone Ann." He hurries out. Liz remains on the floor, her head swimming with questions. "A warning?" she says, and her face twists. "Charlie?" She crawls to the telephone and dials a number.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, TORONTO, ONTARIO Tom and Skip proceed briskly along the sidewalk, not fast enough to draw undue attention from any late-awake neighbour, but enough to get them out of view of the Mellon residence, like two men enjoying an evening stroll or returning home after a visit, keeping warm by their very movements — talking, laughing, sparring with each other as they walk, resembling two teenage boys in their actions more than two middle-aged men. "What did I tell you?" says Tom. "Piece of cake." "Yeah," Skip answers. "What time you got?" This is a game that Tom never tires of, perhaps because the result is always so predictable. "Twelve-twenty." "Twelve-twenty. The old team. The old timing. Like I said: bim, bam, boom. No muss, no fuss." Tom double jabs at the air in front of Skip. "This is why they hire us for this kind of job. No one panics, no one gets hurt. How many times we done this and no problems?" "Yeah. I don't know." Skip tries to answer both questions, even though it's not required. He recalls the fifteen or twenty years that

/ 7O — Stan Rogal

he and Tom have been together, as friends and as. partners, and the similar type jobs they have done. Tom was right — every time without a hitch. At least, without a major hitch. There was always the odd, minor difficulty: a window that wouldn't open, a lock that wouldn't spring, an innocent bystander that had to be redirected or, like tonight, a dog. Minor. Nothing that couldn't be solved and still in good time, Tom forever checking his watch, as if involved in some contest. Had it actually been skill and efficiency that allowed them to pull the thing off everytime, or was it bullshit luck? Or was their combination of little planning and much bravado really better than the complicated, well-made plans you read about in novels or see in movies? Skip shakes his head, figuring it was one thing when they were young and full of themselves, quite another by the time they had packed in the business with the rackets and the loansharks a number of years back, the time that he had begun to feel what he called "the twinges". Whether simply age or family obligations or the mere realization that he was not invulnerable — he couldn't fight off the empty feeling in his gut, the slight tremor in his hands, the sweat growing on his upper lip, the idiotic fear, or worse, the guilt he began to experience roughing up or scaring some poor guy who had been too desperate or too stupid to stay out of the clutches of these... what? monsters, he wants to say. The difference was, in the beginning he could separate other lives from his own in the name of a job, later on, the two merged and he saw himself being used because of money. In the beginning he was able to view his clients as merely blank faces who provided him with a fat pay cheque, later he could only see them as monsters — monsters who don't simply wait for their victims to drop in, but virtually seek them out and set them up for the kill. Not really the "kill" — instead, bleeding them slowly over weeks, months, years. He tried to explain this to Tom when he told him that he was going to quit, but all he could manage to say was that he'd begun to get "the twinges". Tom had laughed, told him to forget it, that it would pass, but Skip knew that Tom was feeling the same things, or similar things, though he wouldn't admit it. As tonight, when Tom came face to face with that mangy little dog — Skip could sense the fear, the panic in Tom's voice, just as he himself was panicked when Tom was going on about the stereo. Then, to barge into the couple's

The Long Drive Home —- 171

bedroom like that — the two had been making love, that was obvious. They were the happy and peaceful couple. He and Tom had no right to be there; no right to interfere with their lives. Skip was aware of this from the outset, yet he agreed to go along with Tom's arrangement, as he always went along. Skip climbs into the van and puts on his seat belt. Tom jumps in the other side and slides the key into the ignition. He hesitates before turning the engine, then quickly draws his derringer and sticks the muzzle into Skip's temple. Skip slowly cranks his head, the touch of cold steel never leaving his skin. "You've never killed anyone in your life," says Skip. "Are you going to start with me?" "You know why I'm doing this?" "Patty called me." "She called you? When?" "A few days ago. When she found out you were going out of town." "Why?" "As a warning, I guess. She wasn't sure. She had a feeling." "Uh-huh. So you know what I'm on about." "Yeah. Patty told you about us. About what happened." Tom nods. "She told me. She told me in the spring." "You set this whole thing up?" Tom doesn't respond to the question. "You think I'm going to ask you why?" He purses his lips and squints his eyes. "No, I'm not. I know why. You were in love with Patty from the start. I knew that. Thing is, she loved me. It works like that sometimes. Maybe more often than not. It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, don't get the wrong idea, I loved her, too. It wasn't like I didn't love her, it's just that maybe you loved her more. Probably you did. It was like, you loved Jenny the way that I loved Patty -— enough, but not enough, whereas Jenny was crazy about you. So, we all got married and we got along and we had fun and we made babies and things looked pretty good from the outside. But inside, inside, you still wanted Patty, even if, maybe, you didn't know why. And, let's face it, you probably should have married her, even though, she'd've been thinking about me, I suppose, and wanting me, so, who knows? Still, the two of you had more in common. Which is another thing you find out later, naturally — sad jazz and tangos. 'Course, now

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she's into the New Age shit and wherever that came from and, again, who knows? Maybe it's 'cause of what happened. All of it. Am I making any sense at all?" The two have had a fair amount to drink since they met in Magog and Skip thinks it's possible that the booze is actually catching up to Tom and having some effect. On the other hand, perhaps he's simply full of ideas and needs the barrage of words to hang onto. "It was years ago. You were out of town, Jenny was working a lot of overtime, the kids were..." Skip shrugs, realizing that Tom is not interested in an explanation. "Things just happened and there's no getting around it or going back and undoing it." "She said she told me because it was like a brand on her brain. Those were her words. 'A brand on her brain'. She needed to unburden herself in order to heal. She said that she wasn't sorry, she couldn't be sorry, but she felt that by telling me it would help to close the gap that existed between us." "Maybe she's right. Or maybe she believes it'll help. Sounds like she wants to work things out between the two of you; make your lives better." "It's too late. You must know that. The problems are never the ones we think they are. You put your finger in a hole to plug it and you don't realize there's another one behind you, bigger and more menacing than the first. You concentrate on the first hole 'cause it's easier. You figure you've got it beat. Meanwhile, the water fills up around you and you drown. No, there've just been too many changes. Both of us, Patty and I, we're headed in two different directions. The only things we have in common are the past, the debts and the kids. And even the kids think I'm a loser. They used to be interested in what I did. They used to laugh at the stories I'd tell of following people along the street or staking out a trailer until four in the morning for signs of hanky-panky. Now, they call me "Peeping Tom". Even they'd rather I got a job moving fucking furniture." "Are you going to put that gun down, or what?" "What I want to know is — why didn't you tell me? I mean, after everything..." "Patty told you, and you're ready to kill me." "Fuck Patty! Why didn't you tell me? I'd have understood. Don't you know that? I mean, Patty and I haven't had a decent conversation in years, not really, but, you and me... we talk."

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Skip swallows, takes a breath and looks Tom square in the eyes. 'We don't talk, Tom. We've never talked. For the most part, you talk and I listen. And even then, it's not talk. We shoot the breeze, we bullshit, but we don't talk." "Whose fault is that? Is that my fault?" Skip lets out a small laugh. "It's no one's fault. It's never anyone's fault. It's just the way things are." He grabs Tom's hand and gently pushes the gun away. "And things happen and things get done and life goes on. And, if we're lucky, no one gets hurt. At least, not too badly. Simple." Tom twists his head and stares out the windshield. Not at anything in particular — just out into the night, toward the stars. "I guess I knew that." "And I don't love Patty. Maybe in the beginning, when we were young, but not after..." "I know that too." "Then, I suppose you know why it happened, too?" "Yeah, I guess." "Mm." "You left me. You fucking abandoned me. We were a team." "It's something I had to do." "For the family?" "For me. For us. For everybody. You know. It could never work, otherwise. I couldn't go on the same way." "No?" "Someone had to make a decision." "Mm," Tom sighs and rolls his head. "Practically a full moon tonight. I guess all the crazies are out." "I guess." Tom smiles and makes a face. He raps the steering wheel, puts away the derringer and cranks the engine. "Aw, fuck..." he says, slapping Skip on the knee. The radio kicks in and Dwight Yoakam sings "Little Things". You 've got jour little ways to hurt me...

Both men stare at the radio and smile. "Shit," says Tom. "Sometimes life is just too fucking weird to be real. Whaddya think? I've forced you to listen to country all the way to Toronto. You want me to find some jazz?" He wraps his fingers around the dial.

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"Forget it," says Skip. "Let it play." "You're sure?" "Sure I'm sure. Let's go get a bite someplace. And a drink. We'll catch last call." "OK." Tom shifts the van into gear. "So, you knew what was going on and you showed up anyway. How come?" "I wanted to see you." "Yeah?" "Yeah." "That's nice. I like that. You have to be home today, or can you stay another night?" "I can stay. I just have to phone home and let Jenny know." "OK. Listen — does Jenny know about... anything?" "No. I don't think so. I don't know." "Uh-huh." Tom picks up speed as he hits the main road. "So, are we talking now?" Skip taps his fingers to the music and grins. "Almost." "Almost? Almost? Fuck you, you bastard." Skip flops his head into the rest. He raises a hand, makes a gun with his fingers, aims at the moon and fires. "Pow!" he says. The two remain that way, staring straight ahead, silent and grinning as they drive back into the city.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, TORONTO, ONTARIO Janice can't sleep. She lies in bed smoking and drinking the last glass of a bottle of wine. Her thoughts are scattered. She looks at the bedside clock: 12:05. She thinks about Li2 Tanner wanting the earrings for last night. Why? A special evening? What was she doing now, Janice wonders. Is she with her special friend? Are they in bed? Are they fucking? She uses the word as an attack. With her and Simon it was love — they had sex, they made love, they were intimate. The relationship was kind and soft. All she could picture between Liz and a man was the two of them rutting like a couple of cats in heat. Not even passionate — base and dirty. Doing it. But was the problem really Liz? Or was it more that she herself was not strong enough to continue with an affair; not strong enough to break away from a marriage that had gone stale? Or had the marriage even gone stale? Was it that the affair was initially exciting and that the memory had served to colour her further relations with James? She had no way of knowing. She remembers James attempting to add some spark to their sex lives: dinners, flowers, then gifts of flimsy lingerie. The problem was, she seemed to have separated the

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roles of lover and husband and she could in no way reconcile the two in the form of James. Even the word, 'husband' (or 'wife' for that matter), seemed to negate anything to do with passion. Add to that 'father' and 'mother' and what was left over in terms of being lovers? And yet, she loves James, even as she pines over Simon. And these feelings about Liz? Is it merely jealousy? Janice sips her wine and looks at the clock again. She thinks that James is probably in bed by now. She crawls out of the sheets and carries her wine to the mirror. She slips out of her nightie and stares at herself. Not unattractive, she thinks. Heavier than she was seven years ago, though not by much. Not fat —fleshy. Her husband's word, said in a nice way — a sexy way. Her breasts not so full nor so round and her skin not so smooth, but what can one expect? And her bottom? Bigger, yes, yet James is always so complimentary. Why doesn't she believe him? she thinks. She answers her own question: because words are easy to say. She had sworn to James "to love no other", then she went with Simon. She had said "I love you" to Simon. "I want you, I need you, I want to stay with you; be with you." Then, she broke off with him. For the children. What a liar she was. The truth was she was scared. And now, with James, is it really her love for Simon that causes her to keep her distance, or guilt for having betrayed his trust? "He really is such a sweetie," she says, studying her bottom and smiling; remembering her husband's hand tracing her cheek beneath the panty line. She slides the closet door and takes out a hanger stacked with a half-dozen sets of frilly, coloured underwear. She hooks a finger into one set and drops the rest onto the floor. She slips into the panties, the bra and fastens the clip. She looks herself over and smiles. "Not bad," she says. "I've still got the legs." Janice goes to the bed, sets her wine on the table, pulls the covers away and slides in. She poses in various glamour positions, rearranging her arms and legs to cover or reveal her breasts and crotch. She pulls magazine faces, parting her lips and licking her teeth. She flashes one breast and tongues her nipple. With her other hand, she reaches beneath her panties and fingers her clitoris. She feels the dampness and moans. A few tears squeeze from her eyes. "He's such a sweetie," she chokes. "Such a sweetie." She turns to the phone, reaches for the receiver and dials a number written on the scratch pad.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMDER 24, MAGoe, QDEDEG At the Three Willows Motel in Magog, Quebec, a cell phone rings. At the same time, in two other rooms at the same motel, telephones ring on top of bedside tables. The occupants are not in their rooms. They're standing out in the middle of a parking lot, beneath the interrogating blue light of street lamps and an almost-full moon, facing an elderly woman with a shotgun and an elderly man with a German Luger who threaten to ventilate them unless they get some answers, pronto. The guests from other rooms are outside as well, situating themselves around the periphery, talking, smoking, either leaning against walls or slouched against railings. From the open doors, TVs blare, telephones ring, dogs bark, the odd child cries and a mix of low playing music drifts through the scene: Prokofiev, the Eagles, Rod Stewart, Michael Bolton, a church choir, Dwight Yoakam... In the distance, the sound of sirens wail their approach.