Caboose. Clearly distressed, he held a slip of paper before him like a shield to guard against contagious diseases. âPardonnez moi,â he said, âmais je chercheââ
âWe speak English here,â Bunk said.
âIâm looking for Mr. Strawberry Watson, the house painter. I was told he lived up on the hill, just past Maltbyâs Pond, but the only house I could see there is obviously abandoned. Itâs unpainted, the grass hasnât been cut, and the yard is full of rusting automobile parts.â
âYou found it, mister.â
T HE DAY MOSES DROVE IN from the clinic in New Hampshire, Gord, who owned The Caboose, was tending bar. He wore a black T-shirt embossed with a multi-coloured dawn. A slogan was stencilled over it:
IâM FEELING SO HORNY
Even The Crack of Dawn Looks Good To Me.
After a hard Saturday night Gordâs first wife, Madge, had died in a head-on collision on the 105, totalling their brand new Dodge pickup in the bargain, and ever since Gord wouldnât hear of buying another new truck. âI mean, shit, you drive it out of the dealerâs lot and five minutes later itâs already second-hand, ainât it? Like my new wife.â
His new wife was the widow Hawkins. The courtship had been brief. One afternoon, only a couple of months after he had buried Madge, Gord got into a bad fight in The Thirsty Boot with Sneaker over his wife, Suzy. Actually Sneaker wasnât living with his wife at the time, but was shacked up with a hooker from the Venus di Milo in a trailer tucked into the woods off the 112 Still, he resented anybody else cutting his grass. Gord made the mistake of saying, âI donât know why you ever left her. As far as Iâm concerned, sheâs still awful good fucking, eh?â
Gord, nursing a sore jaw and a couple of loose teeth, carried on to The Snakepit, Crystal Lake Inn, Chez Bobby, and the Brome Lake Hotel, stopping somewhere along the line to buy supplies at a dépanneur . Tins of baked beans and soups, a bag of frozen fries, some TV dinners, and a big bag of Fritos. He also bought a chicken and made straight for the widow Hawkinsâs cabin in South Bolton, kicking in the door at two A.M. âIâm tired of eatinâ shit. So this here is a chicken,â he said. âGot it at a dépanneur . You cook it good for my dinner tomorrow night and Iâll fucken marry you. But if itâs tough, forget it, eh?â
Gord liked to post items clipped from the Gazette on his notice board. Once it was the news that troopers in Vermont had arrested a man wanted for the serial murders of thirty-two women within the past five years.
âHe sure as hell shouldnâta done that,â Strawberry said. âThere ainât enough of them to go around as it is.â
One of the men who frequented The Caboose ran a gravel pit, another owned a dairy farm, others picked up carpentry jobs here and there, and still more worked as caretakers or handymen for the rich cottagers on the lake. For most of them it was a matter of stitching twenty weeks of summer work together in order to qualify for unemployment insurance in the winter. Failing that they went on welfare, bolstering their take on the barter system. If Sneaker painted Gordâs barn he came away with a side of beef. If Legion Hall retiled Mikeâs roof he could have the hay from the field across the road and sell it in Vermont for $2.50 a bundle. The men owned their own cottages, cut their own winter wood, and counted on shooting a deerin November. Some of the wives worked on the assembly line in the Clairol factory in Knowlton and others served as cleaning ladies for the cottagers on the lake. The wives, who usually gathered at their own tables in The Caboose, ran to fat, bulging out of tank tops and stretchy pink polyester slacks.
Moses usually avoided The Caboose on Friday night, Band Night, which brought out the noisy younger crowd, who were
âWe speak English here,â Bunk said.
âIâm looking for Mr. Strawberry Watson, the house painter. I was told he lived up on the hill, just past Maltbyâs Pond, but the only house I could see there is obviously abandoned. Itâs unpainted, the grass hasnât been cut, and the yard is full of rusting automobile parts.â
âYou found it, mister.â
T HE DAY MOSES DROVE IN from the clinic in New Hampshire, Gord, who owned The Caboose, was tending bar. He wore a black T-shirt embossed with a multi-coloured dawn. A slogan was stencilled over it:
IâM FEELING SO HORNY
Even The Crack of Dawn Looks Good To Me.
After a hard Saturday night Gordâs first wife, Madge, had died in a head-on collision on the 105, totalling their brand new Dodge pickup in the bargain, and ever since Gord wouldnât hear of buying another new truck. âI mean, shit, you drive it out of the dealerâs lot and five minutes later itâs already second-hand, ainât it? Like my new wife.â
His new wife was the widow Hawkins. The courtship had been brief. One afternoon, only a couple of months after he had buried Madge, Gord got into a bad fight in The Thirsty Boot with Sneaker over his wife, Suzy. Actually Sneaker wasnât living with his wife at the time, but was shacked up with a hooker from the Venus di Milo in a trailer tucked into the woods off the 112 Still, he resented anybody else cutting his grass. Gord made the mistake of saying, âI donât know why you ever left her. As far as Iâm concerned, sheâs still awful good fucking, eh?â
Gord, nursing a sore jaw and a couple of loose teeth, carried on to The Snakepit, Crystal Lake Inn, Chez Bobby, and the Brome Lake Hotel, stopping somewhere along the line to buy supplies at a dépanneur . Tins of baked beans and soups, a bag of frozen fries, some TV dinners, and a big bag of Fritos. He also bought a chicken and made straight for the widow Hawkinsâs cabin in South Bolton, kicking in the door at two A.M. âIâm tired of eatinâ shit. So this here is a chicken,â he said. âGot it at a dépanneur . You cook it good for my dinner tomorrow night and Iâll fucken marry you. But if itâs tough, forget it, eh?â
Gord liked to post items clipped from the Gazette on his notice board. Once it was the news that troopers in Vermont had arrested a man wanted for the serial murders of thirty-two women within the past five years.
âHe sure as hell shouldnâta done that,â Strawberry said. âThere ainât enough of them to go around as it is.â
One of the men who frequented The Caboose ran a gravel pit, another owned a dairy farm, others picked up carpentry jobs here and there, and still more worked as caretakers or handymen for the rich cottagers on the lake. For most of them it was a matter of stitching twenty weeks of summer work together in order to qualify for unemployment insurance in the winter. Failing that they went on welfare, bolstering their take on the barter system. If Sneaker painted Gordâs barn he came away with a side of beef. If Legion Hall retiled Mikeâs roof he could have the hay from the field across the road and sell it in Vermont for $2.50 a bundle. The men owned their own cottages, cut their own winter wood, and counted on shooting a deerin November. Some of the wives worked on the assembly line in the Clairol factory in Knowlton and others served as cleaning ladies for the cottagers on the lake. The wives, who usually gathered at their own tables in The Caboose, ran to fat, bulging out of tank tops and stretchy pink polyester slacks.
Moses usually avoided The Caboose on Friday night, Band Night, which brought out the noisy younger crowd, who were
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