you need?’
The DVDs were kids’ cartoons, their covers yellow, orange and purple. The wind howled. Evelyn stood in front of the whisky bottle and looked at it. From the mantelpiece she took Daniel’s soft blue bag of tobacco, the slice of apple in the bottom tinged orangey brown, and rolled an amateur cigarette.
Overnight, the storm calmed. Morning came with the sound of graders, a pale blue sky over the curving dunes of snow. Cloud wisps hung below the peaks across the valley, as though the mountains were steaming. The patrol leader stood by his snowmobile and shouted up that they’d found no sign of anyone, not in the back country, not on the black runs or in the valleys.
‘A chopper’s been out since light. Nothing. But Liam at the school reckons he was headed down the mountain, into town.’
‘Yeah. Thanks … Daniel left his phone here, so.’
‘Maybe he was hitting the casinos, didn’t want you checking up on him.’
‘No doubt. Thanks, Bernie.’
‘We’ll send him home soon as anyone lays eyes on him. Might have been an all-nighter.’
‘Ha ha.’
There was a clunk and grind and the patroller turned to watch the chairlift swing into action. Red- and yellow-coloured figures, riding on the air, skis pointing upwards. ‘Incoming,’ he said.
Evelyn left a note for the family with heating instructions and a promise to be back after lunch. She placed it under the whisky bottle, which she turned on an angle as though that might make a difference to how much was left. In the bathroom she took a couple of painkillers, the tablets’ smooth coating momentarily sweet, and washed her face with warm water. She checked Daniel’s phone again but there was nothing new and she tossed it back on the pillowy white duvet. Evelyn went downstairs to put her overalls and parka and hat and ski boots on and finally the gloves. About two inches of new snow was piled outside the front door. She lifted her feet in a small march through the powder to the rack, and her skis. A thick length of melting snow slid through the slats in the deck.
6. MOJO
WHAT SHE THOUGHT of as her
situation
, a sleeping bag on her boss’s couch, no utility bills in her name, still living out of the knapsack that had accompanied her travels, Evelyn felt most keenly when visiting Dot. It was all very well being penniless and heartbroken and back in her job at the florist’s as though the past months had never happened, but the romance faded at her sister’s rented house miles from anywhere, ages on the bus to a neighbourhood of charity shops and the TAB, here in the constant turn of the washing-machine drum, the bottles forever sterilising on the stovetop. In this family home she was an alien, the night’s adventures clinging like foreign gas. Dorothy welcomed her, happy to have adult company that came without judgement, but Evelyn wished she would for once finish a sentence. Half the times Dot went to Grace there wasn’t anything the matter, and if she was being fed, or changed, or entertained, the conversation inevitably dwindled, funnelled into the baby’s endless need. It was a surprise of the mildly unpleasantkind, how time-consuming this small creature was, and Evelyn couldn’t help but suspect, punnishly, that Dottie milked it, let every spill and leakage require maximum clean-up, burped the baby at length, hand-scrubbed a square of muslin and pegged it out after a single use, because it was a way of occupying time. What else was she going to do, home all day long in the new-mum smock costume she had taken to wearing?
Andrew would come back from work each night and kiss his wife and cuddle the baby then disappear into the garage where his painting was set up.
‘Is it me?’ Eve wondered, and Dottie said, ‘No, it’s not you. He needs to do some painting every day. It keeps his head together.’
‘Like the karate.’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Yes.’
Sometimes they met in a café and just as Dorothy’s pot
The DVDs were kids’ cartoons, their covers yellow, orange and purple. The wind howled. Evelyn stood in front of the whisky bottle and looked at it. From the mantelpiece she took Daniel’s soft blue bag of tobacco, the slice of apple in the bottom tinged orangey brown, and rolled an amateur cigarette.
Overnight, the storm calmed. Morning came with the sound of graders, a pale blue sky over the curving dunes of snow. Cloud wisps hung below the peaks across the valley, as though the mountains were steaming. The patrol leader stood by his snowmobile and shouted up that they’d found no sign of anyone, not in the back country, not on the black runs or in the valleys.
‘A chopper’s been out since light. Nothing. But Liam at the school reckons he was headed down the mountain, into town.’
‘Yeah. Thanks … Daniel left his phone here, so.’
‘Maybe he was hitting the casinos, didn’t want you checking up on him.’
‘No doubt. Thanks, Bernie.’
‘We’ll send him home soon as anyone lays eyes on him. Might have been an all-nighter.’
‘Ha ha.’
There was a clunk and grind and the patroller turned to watch the chairlift swing into action. Red- and yellow-coloured figures, riding on the air, skis pointing upwards. ‘Incoming,’ he said.
Evelyn left a note for the family with heating instructions and a promise to be back after lunch. She placed it under the whisky bottle, which she turned on an angle as though that might make a difference to how much was left. In the bathroom she took a couple of painkillers, the tablets’ smooth coating momentarily sweet, and washed her face with warm water. She checked Daniel’s phone again but there was nothing new and she tossed it back on the pillowy white duvet. Evelyn went downstairs to put her overalls and parka and hat and ski boots on and finally the gloves. About two inches of new snow was piled outside the front door. She lifted her feet in a small march through the powder to the rack, and her skis. A thick length of melting snow slid through the slats in the deck.
6. MOJO
WHAT SHE THOUGHT of as her
situation
, a sleeping bag on her boss’s couch, no utility bills in her name, still living out of the knapsack that had accompanied her travels, Evelyn felt most keenly when visiting Dot. It was all very well being penniless and heartbroken and back in her job at the florist’s as though the past months had never happened, but the romance faded at her sister’s rented house miles from anywhere, ages on the bus to a neighbourhood of charity shops and the TAB, here in the constant turn of the washing-machine drum, the bottles forever sterilising on the stovetop. In this family home she was an alien, the night’s adventures clinging like foreign gas. Dorothy welcomed her, happy to have adult company that came without judgement, but Evelyn wished she would for once finish a sentence. Half the times Dot went to Grace there wasn’t anything the matter, and if she was being fed, or changed, or entertained, the conversation inevitably dwindled, funnelled into the baby’s endless need. It was a surprise of the mildly unpleasantkind, how time-consuming this small creature was, and Evelyn couldn’t help but suspect, punnishly, that Dottie milked it, let every spill and leakage require maximum clean-up, burped the baby at length, hand-scrubbed a square of muslin and pegged it out after a single use, because it was a way of occupying time. What else was she going to do, home all day long in the new-mum smock costume she had taken to wearing?
Andrew would come back from work each night and kiss his wife and cuddle the baby then disappear into the garage where his painting was set up.
‘Is it me?’ Eve wondered, and Dottie said, ‘No, it’s not you. He needs to do some painting every day. It keeps his head together.’
‘Like the karate.’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Yes.’
Sometimes they met in a café and just as Dorothy’s pot
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