.”
Zach let a single laugh ride the silence. Goof . Not the A-word, not the B-word, not the C-word. Gavin had never done time like others in his family—he’d run a series of video and corner stores, trying and failing to franchise them—but a few of his boyhood friends had done time, and so he, of course, had considered himself an expert on Inside. And goof, he’d told her, was the worst thing you could call another inmate. Fucker, loser, asshole, shithead—that whole repertoire could get you into big trouble, no question, but goof was the worst. Maybe because it felt so silly. So dismissive . A fucker, after all, might fuck you, or fuck you up, or fuck you over. A goof was just pathetic. Maybe handsome here had done time. Certainly he’d done time. He knew how to use the word. But the use of the word bothered, enraged her, for another reason altogether and now she jerked the control ring fully open and turned the hose on him, narrowing the mouth with her gloved thumb so it sprayed even harder. Bitch she would have preferred. A bitch at least was female. Fat bitch, even. Bull dyke. Anything in that line. This was worse than being invisible, worse than being looked through or past, which happened all the time, and so be it, she could take it, a small daily heartbreak—things could be far worse. She doused him from the knees up, briefly but thoroughly, finishing at the face—how she resented that sculpted, cocky face!—then aimed the hose overat the tall one, but he and Zach were quickly shuffling backward off the ice.
The leader was rigid with the soaking—face twisted, shoulders hunched up, arms dangling. For a few moments his body stayed like that while his face slowly relaxed, refocused. He unzipped his jacket, reached in, pulled out a pair of red-handled ice picks, the sort snowmobilers use to pull themselves clear if they fall through the ice. One in each bare hand he came at her, his trainers stuttering over the wet ice. She turned the hose on him again. He kept coming, head lowered, squinting hard. The other two converged on her from either side with the same clumsy shuffle. She took her thumb off the outlet. The leader’s face was shiny, sopping, his narrowed eyes fixed not on her eyes but lower—maybe her mouth or throat. His eyes had glazed over, unreachable. He was quivering. There was no use trying to talk. She was backing into the darker area between the lamppost and the warming hut, her heart punching at her ribs. She gripped the spouting hose head like a club. He lunged, swiping the picks in front of her face, then slipped forward, off balance. She didn’t know whether to club or stab at him with the hose head but her body decided, thrusting at his face as it came up—the eyes wide—her full weight and strength behind it. Gavin’s advice again. Never be tentative with a first blow. Though it hadn’t helped Gavin in the end. He’d died three years back—four years after leaving her—in a confrontation on John Street, screaming in throughthe window of somebody’s cube van until he dropped, his heart finally imploding with the decades of rage. He’d needed her after all, she realized. He relied on her outlook. To Ellen, anger was a rare detour, not a lifetime of highways.
She connected, but it was an odd feeling, blunted. Her attacker’s face jerked down. The hose seemed stuck. In a panic she yanked back and he was sagging to his knees, dropping the ice picks, reaching for his face. The other two men stopped and froze.
“Shane?” the tall one said, voice shrivelling. “What’d she do to you, man?”
He was making coarse, braying sounds. She crouched down, holding the once-more streaming hose, grabbed the ice picks, put them in her outside pocket, stood up.
“Shane?” said Zach.
“My eye,” he said. The words were muffled. He lowered his hands and turned his face up toward hers, his friends still behind him. She flinched and gasped—a ladylike sound—a lady in a film, about
Zach let a single laugh ride the silence. Goof . Not the A-word, not the B-word, not the C-word. Gavin had never done time like others in his family—he’d run a series of video and corner stores, trying and failing to franchise them—but a few of his boyhood friends had done time, and so he, of course, had considered himself an expert on Inside. And goof, he’d told her, was the worst thing you could call another inmate. Fucker, loser, asshole, shithead—that whole repertoire could get you into big trouble, no question, but goof was the worst. Maybe because it felt so silly. So dismissive . A fucker, after all, might fuck you, or fuck you up, or fuck you over. A goof was just pathetic. Maybe handsome here had done time. Certainly he’d done time. He knew how to use the word. But the use of the word bothered, enraged her, for another reason altogether and now she jerked the control ring fully open and turned the hose on him, narrowing the mouth with her gloved thumb so it sprayed even harder. Bitch she would have preferred. A bitch at least was female. Fat bitch, even. Bull dyke. Anything in that line. This was worse than being invisible, worse than being looked through or past, which happened all the time, and so be it, she could take it, a small daily heartbreak—things could be far worse. She doused him from the knees up, briefly but thoroughly, finishing at the face—how she resented that sculpted, cocky face!—then aimed the hose overat the tall one, but he and Zach were quickly shuffling backward off the ice.
The leader was rigid with the soaking—face twisted, shoulders hunched up, arms dangling. For a few moments his body stayed like that while his face slowly relaxed, refocused. He unzipped his jacket, reached in, pulled out a pair of red-handled ice picks, the sort snowmobilers use to pull themselves clear if they fall through the ice. One in each bare hand he came at her, his trainers stuttering over the wet ice. She turned the hose on him again. He kept coming, head lowered, squinting hard. The other two converged on her from either side with the same clumsy shuffle. She took her thumb off the outlet. The leader’s face was shiny, sopping, his narrowed eyes fixed not on her eyes but lower—maybe her mouth or throat. His eyes had glazed over, unreachable. He was quivering. There was no use trying to talk. She was backing into the darker area between the lamppost and the warming hut, her heart punching at her ribs. She gripped the spouting hose head like a club. He lunged, swiping the picks in front of her face, then slipped forward, off balance. She didn’t know whether to club or stab at him with the hose head but her body decided, thrusting at his face as it came up—the eyes wide—her full weight and strength behind it. Gavin’s advice again. Never be tentative with a first blow. Though it hadn’t helped Gavin in the end. He’d died three years back—four years after leaving her—in a confrontation on John Street, screaming in throughthe window of somebody’s cube van until he dropped, his heart finally imploding with the decades of rage. He’d needed her after all, she realized. He relied on her outlook. To Ellen, anger was a rare detour, not a lifetime of highways.
She connected, but it was an odd feeling, blunted. Her attacker’s face jerked down. The hose seemed stuck. In a panic she yanked back and he was sagging to his knees, dropping the ice picks, reaching for his face. The other two men stopped and froze.
“Shane?” the tall one said, voice shrivelling. “What’d she do to you, man?”
He was making coarse, braying sounds. She crouched down, holding the once-more streaming hose, grabbed the ice picks, put them in her outside pocket, stood up.
“Shane?” said Zach.
“My eye,” he said. The words were muffled. He lowered his hands and turned his face up toward hers, his friends still behind him. She flinched and gasped—a ladylike sound—a lady in a film, about
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