video on the television — it must have been the millionth time — and suddenly I got this odd feeling inside. I mean, at first all I could see was that it was
him
and he was okay. He wasn’t beat up . . . well, anyway.” She pauses, and you imagine her shaking a bad image out of her head. “So, my eyes sort of wandered — took in the wall behind him.”
“Chipboard.”
“Whatever. Yes. Chipboard. And somehow I felt I knew that wall.”
She sniffs. You wait patiently, but a voice inside you is saying,
This is the big news? She recognized chipboard?
She should come look at your mother’s kitchen if she wants chipboard. Or your squat; every window is boarded with the stuff.
“It’s pretty common,” she says, as if she’s reading your mind. “I know that. It’s just that it got me thinking, and I looked closer. I actually stopped the recording and zoomed in.”
“And?”
“And I thought I could see this stain. The outline of a stain.”
Okay, you think, she’s nuts. Crazier than you. The stress has got to her.
“I’m probably imagining it,” she says. “That’s what you’re thinking, right? I know. But listen, okay?”
“I’m here,” you say.
“You’re the only person I can tell this to, Blink. As weird as that sounds, it is the absolute truth.”
The absolute truth: something beyond just plain, everyday truth. “I’m listening,” you say, real nice, because she said such magic words to you:
You’re the only person
. . . So who cares if she’s rowing with only one oar in the water?
“My dad goes to this hunting lodge up north. It’s owned by QVD — that’s the company —”
“I know. Queon.”
“Right. So, anyone in the company can use this lodge. They have their own private lake — the whole thing. Dad goes up there to fish and hunt, when he can. He goes up with buddies or businesspeople or alone sometimes.”
“And that’s where he is? At a hunting lodge?”
“Just let me say this?” she says, like it’s a question but snappish, too. Then, “Sorry,” like she needs
you
to hear her out. You hope the story isn’t more than twenty dollars’ long.
“When I was a kid, I wanted so much to go up there. Some of the guys in the company would take their sons up there, and I couldn’t understand why Dad never took me. So then he gave in, this one time. I was ten or eleven, I guess. It was going to be just the two of us, a little weekend fishing trip.
“We get there, and it’s not very, you know, glamorous. I’m not sure what I was expecting. The lodge looks kind of grand from the outside, but it’s pretty run-down. It’s, like, cavernous, with log beams and rafters and all, but it’s really, really basic, with no plumbing or anything. An outhouse. I mean, really basic.”
You listen, enthralled, not so much by the content of what she’s saying but because it feels so much like a conversation. Like you might be sitting down at Balzac’s with a coffee, chatting to this beautiful girl. This was what you bought into, isn’t it, Blink? All that money, sure, but the chance of something more.
“Right off I start bitching,” she says. “And at first Dad just laughs because he had told me exactly what it was like and I was the one who wanted to come and . . . well, you know. So, anyway, there we are.”
“And it’s really bad?”
“The weather is not great, either. It’s cold and rainy. Suddenly this totally big-deal weekend with my dad is beginning to look like a bust. So I turn into this A1 brat. Pretty well right from the start. Dad plays it cool, trying to make it fun, but I’m just so ‘Let’s go home, I hate this,’ until he finally gets mad. He’s a sweetheart most of the time. I mean, he is so tolerant and fair and all that, but he loses it. It’s not even noon on Saturday, and he just snaps — tells me to pack up.”
She laughs but not much. “We had some lunch before we headed off. Lipton’s chicken noodle soup. I remember
that
really
him
and he was okay. He wasn’t beat up . . . well, anyway.” She pauses, and you imagine her shaking a bad image out of her head. “So, my eyes sort of wandered — took in the wall behind him.”
“Chipboard.”
“Whatever. Yes. Chipboard. And somehow I felt I knew that wall.”
She sniffs. You wait patiently, but a voice inside you is saying,
This is the big news? She recognized chipboard?
She should come look at your mother’s kitchen if she wants chipboard. Or your squat; every window is boarded with the stuff.
“It’s pretty common,” she says, as if she’s reading your mind. “I know that. It’s just that it got me thinking, and I looked closer. I actually stopped the recording and zoomed in.”
“And?”
“And I thought I could see this stain. The outline of a stain.”
Okay, you think, she’s nuts. Crazier than you. The stress has got to her.
“I’m probably imagining it,” she says. “That’s what you’re thinking, right? I know. But listen, okay?”
“I’m here,” you say.
“You’re the only person I can tell this to, Blink. As weird as that sounds, it is the absolute truth.”
The absolute truth: something beyond just plain, everyday truth. “I’m listening,” you say, real nice, because she said such magic words to you:
You’re the only person
. . . So who cares if she’s rowing with only one oar in the water?
“My dad goes to this hunting lodge up north. It’s owned by QVD — that’s the company —”
“I know. Queon.”
“Right. So, anyone in the company can use this lodge. They have their own private lake — the whole thing. Dad goes up there to fish and hunt, when he can. He goes up with buddies or businesspeople or alone sometimes.”
“And that’s where he is? At a hunting lodge?”
“Just let me say this?” she says, like it’s a question but snappish, too. Then, “Sorry,” like she needs
you
to hear her out. You hope the story isn’t more than twenty dollars’ long.
“When I was a kid, I wanted so much to go up there. Some of the guys in the company would take their sons up there, and I couldn’t understand why Dad never took me. So then he gave in, this one time. I was ten or eleven, I guess. It was going to be just the two of us, a little weekend fishing trip.
“We get there, and it’s not very, you know, glamorous. I’m not sure what I was expecting. The lodge looks kind of grand from the outside, but it’s pretty run-down. It’s, like, cavernous, with log beams and rafters and all, but it’s really, really basic, with no plumbing or anything. An outhouse. I mean, really basic.”
You listen, enthralled, not so much by the content of what she’s saying but because it feels so much like a conversation. Like you might be sitting down at Balzac’s with a coffee, chatting to this beautiful girl. This was what you bought into, isn’t it, Blink? All that money, sure, but the chance of something more.
“Right off I start bitching,” she says. “And at first Dad just laughs because he had told me exactly what it was like and I was the one who wanted to come and . . . well, you know. So, anyway, there we are.”
“And it’s really bad?”
“The weather is not great, either. It’s cold and rainy. Suddenly this totally big-deal weekend with my dad is beginning to look like a bust. So I turn into this A1 brat. Pretty well right from the start. Dad plays it cool, trying to make it fun, but I’m just so ‘Let’s go home, I hate this,’ until he finally gets mad. He’s a sweetheart most of the time. I mean, he is so tolerant and fair and all that, but he loses it. It’s not even noon on Saturday, and he just snaps — tells me to pack up.”
She laughs but not much. “We had some lunch before we headed off. Lipton’s chicken noodle soup. I remember
that
really
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