boyâs wife between them and everybodyâs knees brushing everybodyâs knees. Biff grinned like a stupid man and he could tell the boy was doing his damnedest not to.
âYouâre an irresponsible bastard, the boyâs wife said as they drove to shore.
âThatâs a good distance from the truth, Biff said, and the boy, naked below the waist but otherwise dressed like a logger, snorted at the window.
The boyâs wife was a Calgary cowgirl he met during his first year of electrical school, with dishwater-blond hair and a black cowboy hat sheâd only wear when driving her car. She had soft cheekbones and a boyish jawline and a chickenpox scar under her nose. She wore skirts too short to make Biff comfortable. She had a math degree, of all things, and about nobody Biff ever met was as smart as her, and she made a point of it. They were a good match, her and the boy, Biff used to think â even if she voted for the Liberals.
âHe couldâve died, the boyâs wife said.
âWell, princess, Biff told her, âyou coulda pulled him out yourself.
Biff figured the boy wouldâve snorted again, but his wife jabbed him with her elbow. She wasnât a bad woman, but she could drive Biff into a frenzy with all her left-wing opinions. He held his tongue for the boyâs sake: you didnât need to be very smart to call a spayed horse spayed.
That incident wouldâve been a decade ago, and here he was still thinking of it. Mostly, he feared heâd done something wrong, that he shouldâve given the boy some kind of father-son talk. Biff knew about all kinds of fighting, ask anyone, but when it came to matters between a guy and his wife, well, he had only a slate of losses to show. If he could do it again heâd probably do things different, try a bit harder not to get divorced. He never expected heâd die old and lonely. But he bet nobody ever expected that.
The sky was turning turquoise. Biff thought he could see tail lights, but it could have been a reflection, or nothing. He cracked his window a finger to let the morning air enter the cab. He liked the smell of the bleeding hours, the frost or dew and, at home, the scent of a cold house and the cheap, cheap, stovetop coffee heâd strain into a cheap steel thermos and drink in the shower, and while pissing, and while shuffling outside in his Carhartts and steeltoes to let the Rangerâs engine wind up in the dry B.C. cold. He didnât envy those poor bastards on the Prairies, like his old man and his two brothers and the stew of fuckers from his exâs side. Romanians â and hillbilly, even by his standards.
Not that he held anything against the ex, really. They got on well enough. She invited him over for holidaydinners, and if he saw her at the bar heâd buy her a drink. One time he helped her chop a cord of firewood and haul it to her backyard in wheelbarrows. He got a peck on the cheek for that, an affectionate rub on the chest. Theyâd met on the Prairies, went to the same highschool even if they lived in different villages, but thatâs how it went with all those ghost towns around Regina: get to highschool, partner up, and bunker down. Biff and the ex, at least, made it to B.C. because the province needed electricians, and Biff was, if nothing else, a good electrician.
As he sped along the ice, the edges of his highbeams caught a fishing hut â squat and made of grey lumber, so weatherbeaten it was almost cured â and he almost tapped the brakes, as if thatâd do any good. Every year, at least one of those things got taken out by an idiot in a truck, but nobodyâd ever been killed, far as Biff knew. His ex used to like fishing in those huts, and he tagged along even though he never saw the charm. You gotta do things like that, Biff figured. You just gotta.
A tough woman, his ex â a denim wearer, coat and all, and the kind of girl who looked good in a
âYouâre an irresponsible bastard, the boyâs wife said as they drove to shore.
âThatâs a good distance from the truth, Biff said, and the boy, naked below the waist but otherwise dressed like a logger, snorted at the window.
The boyâs wife was a Calgary cowgirl he met during his first year of electrical school, with dishwater-blond hair and a black cowboy hat sheâd only wear when driving her car. She had soft cheekbones and a boyish jawline and a chickenpox scar under her nose. She wore skirts too short to make Biff comfortable. She had a math degree, of all things, and about nobody Biff ever met was as smart as her, and she made a point of it. They were a good match, her and the boy, Biff used to think â even if she voted for the Liberals.
âHe couldâve died, the boyâs wife said.
âWell, princess, Biff told her, âyou coulda pulled him out yourself.
Biff figured the boy wouldâve snorted again, but his wife jabbed him with her elbow. She wasnât a bad woman, but she could drive Biff into a frenzy with all her left-wing opinions. He held his tongue for the boyâs sake: you didnât need to be very smart to call a spayed horse spayed.
That incident wouldâve been a decade ago, and here he was still thinking of it. Mostly, he feared heâd done something wrong, that he shouldâve given the boy some kind of father-son talk. Biff knew about all kinds of fighting, ask anyone, but when it came to matters between a guy and his wife, well, he had only a slate of losses to show. If he could do it again heâd probably do things different, try a bit harder not to get divorced. He never expected heâd die old and lonely. But he bet nobody ever expected that.
The sky was turning turquoise. Biff thought he could see tail lights, but it could have been a reflection, or nothing. He cracked his window a finger to let the morning air enter the cab. He liked the smell of the bleeding hours, the frost or dew and, at home, the scent of a cold house and the cheap, cheap, stovetop coffee heâd strain into a cheap steel thermos and drink in the shower, and while pissing, and while shuffling outside in his Carhartts and steeltoes to let the Rangerâs engine wind up in the dry B.C. cold. He didnât envy those poor bastards on the Prairies, like his old man and his two brothers and the stew of fuckers from his exâs side. Romanians â and hillbilly, even by his standards.
Not that he held anything against the ex, really. They got on well enough. She invited him over for holidaydinners, and if he saw her at the bar heâd buy her a drink. One time he helped her chop a cord of firewood and haul it to her backyard in wheelbarrows. He got a peck on the cheek for that, an affectionate rub on the chest. Theyâd met on the Prairies, went to the same highschool even if they lived in different villages, but thatâs how it went with all those ghost towns around Regina: get to highschool, partner up, and bunker down. Biff and the ex, at least, made it to B.C. because the province needed electricians, and Biff was, if nothing else, a good electrician.
As he sped along the ice, the edges of his highbeams caught a fishing hut â squat and made of grey lumber, so weatherbeaten it was almost cured â and he almost tapped the brakes, as if thatâd do any good. Every year, at least one of those things got taken out by an idiot in a truck, but nobodyâd ever been killed, far as Biff knew. His ex used to like fishing in those huts, and he tagged along even though he never saw the charm. You gotta do things like that, Biff figured. You just gotta.
A tough woman, his ex â a denim wearer, coat and all, and the kind of girl who looked good in a
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