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