their own. âThanks, Dad, the boy said, and Biff dragged a flannel sleeve over his gums and reached across to pat his son on the knee.
Now, twenty-five years later, that pat was as close to a plan as Biff had, as he drove over the frozen lake in thethunder-cracking hours of the morning. Far off on the horizon the rising sun made the Rocky Mountains glow red and orange like a kerosene lamp. His granddaughter had explained the situation over the phone: the boy discovered a truth about his wife Biff had suspected for years, and then heâd gone hauling-ass to his truck, and then tear-assing down the driveway and around the bend and to the lake. Forty-four years old, the boy, but age doesnât guard against everything â that one Biff knew by heart.
Biffâs plan: track the boy across the frozen lake, across all B.C., across the whole of the Great White North if thatâs what it took, and pat him on the knee. He owed the boy that much and a lot more; nobody else had ever stepped up to save Biffâs life. That was on a Prairie farm, the boy no more than thirteen. Not that Biff hadnât almost been killed other than that once â nearly drowned in the Kicking Horse, got real bad pneumonia when he was eleven â but nobody but the boy had ever gone and thrown themselves in front of the raging bull, or however the saying went.
Biff checked the speedometer: one-thirty-eight, on sheer ice. At that speed heâd blast through anything â bullet-through-concrete theory, the boy called it. In the past, heâd mowed down his share of deer and elk and, once, a moose calf at Sicamous near the pulp mill that stunk up the world like propane. He always stopped to double-check heâd killed the animal â didnât like to see things in pain, even bugs â and kept a 30-30 locked in the toolbox behind the cab, in case he hadnât. The only time he didnât slow waswhen he clipped a black bear, since it was a goddamned bear â a beast designed to crush menâs skulls.
As a teenager, the boy, too, had wrecked a few trucks, though not once by hitting an animal. When the boy trashed something it was the good old-fashioned nose-to-ditch style, or passenger-door-to-tree style, or track-jump-followed-by-fishtail-into-city-bench style. Biff had about zero tolerance for idiot driving if it resulted in steeper auto insurance, but the boy got better. He went on to win a couple drag races at the gravel pits, to blitz from the cops one night after a licence suspension, and now, now, how-many-years-later, to cowboy onto the frozen lake and leave Biff chasing tail lights. The boy had a head start and if he reached the far side before Biff caught up then he could disappear into the wilds for good. That scared Biff more than physical violence. That scared Biff more than lizards, and not much did. Without the boy Biff would be one more ass-hapless guy bleating around construction zones â no money, no family, nowhere to go except the cold sucking earth. Biff Crane: a man with nothing to lose. Biff Crane: a man with something to get back, maybe.
Driving on the lake, in the dark, was like driving underwater. He had a globe of light from his highbeams and he could only track his motion by the ice grain slithering beneath his wheels. It felt like floating. It felt like not moving at all. The last time heâd driven on the lake had been with the boy and the boyâs wife, them two riding a pair of GTs hitched to his trailer tow. The game: go like amaniac and bank a sharp turn, skid into yaw and slingshot the lovey-dovey brats in an arc. That marked the first time Biff ever locked antlers with the boyâs wife, since the boy skidded too near a warm spot and sunk waist-deep in the water. Biff hauled him out â the GT was lost â and packed him into the truck. The boy peeled off his snowpants and sweatpants and, yes, his underpants, and they sat in the Ranger, heat blazing, with the
Now, twenty-five years later, that pat was as close to a plan as Biff had, as he drove over the frozen lake in thethunder-cracking hours of the morning. Far off on the horizon the rising sun made the Rocky Mountains glow red and orange like a kerosene lamp. His granddaughter had explained the situation over the phone: the boy discovered a truth about his wife Biff had suspected for years, and then heâd gone hauling-ass to his truck, and then tear-assing down the driveway and around the bend and to the lake. Forty-four years old, the boy, but age doesnât guard against everything â that one Biff knew by heart.
Biffâs plan: track the boy across the frozen lake, across all B.C., across the whole of the Great White North if thatâs what it took, and pat him on the knee. He owed the boy that much and a lot more; nobody else had ever stepped up to save Biffâs life. That was on a Prairie farm, the boy no more than thirteen. Not that Biff hadnât almost been killed other than that once â nearly drowned in the Kicking Horse, got real bad pneumonia when he was eleven â but nobody but the boy had ever gone and thrown themselves in front of the raging bull, or however the saying went.
Biff checked the speedometer: one-thirty-eight, on sheer ice. At that speed heâd blast through anything â bullet-through-concrete theory, the boy called it. In the past, heâd mowed down his share of deer and elk and, once, a moose calf at Sicamous near the pulp mill that stunk up the world like propane. He always stopped to double-check heâd killed the animal â didnât like to see things in pain, even bugs â and kept a 30-30 locked in the toolbox behind the cab, in case he hadnât. The only time he didnât slow waswhen he clipped a black bear, since it was a goddamned bear â a beast designed to crush menâs skulls.
As a teenager, the boy, too, had wrecked a few trucks, though not once by hitting an animal. When the boy trashed something it was the good old-fashioned nose-to-ditch style, or passenger-door-to-tree style, or track-jump-followed-by-fishtail-into-city-bench style. Biff had about zero tolerance for idiot driving if it resulted in steeper auto insurance, but the boy got better. He went on to win a couple drag races at the gravel pits, to blitz from the cops one night after a licence suspension, and now, now, how-many-years-later, to cowboy onto the frozen lake and leave Biff chasing tail lights. The boy had a head start and if he reached the far side before Biff caught up then he could disappear into the wilds for good. That scared Biff more than physical violence. That scared Biff more than lizards, and not much did. Without the boy Biff would be one more ass-hapless guy bleating around construction zones â no money, no family, nowhere to go except the cold sucking earth. Biff Crane: a man with nothing to lose. Biff Crane: a man with something to get back, maybe.
Driving on the lake, in the dark, was like driving underwater. He had a globe of light from his highbeams and he could only track his motion by the ice grain slithering beneath his wheels. It felt like floating. It felt like not moving at all. The last time heâd driven on the lake had been with the boy and the boyâs wife, them two riding a pair of GTs hitched to his trailer tow. The game: go like amaniac and bank a sharp turn, skid into yaw and slingshot the lovey-dovey brats in an arc. That marked the first time Biff ever locked antlers with the boyâs wife, since the boy skidded too near a warm spot and sunk waist-deep in the water. Biff hauled him out â the GT was lost â and packed him into the truck. The boy peeled off his snowpants and sweatpants and, yes, his underpants, and they sat in the Ranger, heat blazing, with the
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