sounding hollowly throughthe truck as he felt her choked-back silence and that he was abandoning her on a sinking boat. He turned off the radio and leaned over the wheel, looking skyward. “Guess we can see the weather,” he said, scrutinizing the patchworked whites and greys and scattered pieces of blue. “If you can read that. Warm enough?”
She made some agreeable sound and he looked at her and her pallid cheeks. There was a hard light in her eyes. She was wearing her summer scarf around her neck, a thin silky thing patterned with ripe red roses that he swore he could smell.
“Why aren’t you wearing a warm scarf? Thought you liked my
stylish
scarf.”
“I left it in Bonnie’s car the other day. This will do.”
“She could have brought it back, I suppose.”
“Perhaps she didn’t see it.”
“Not a hard thing to miss, a scarf sitting on the seat.”
“My, Kyle, I got more to think about than a scarf this morning.”
“I don’t like you being mixed up with her.”
“Why, what’s wrong with her? You got more to worry about than
her.
Sucking back on the bottle like your father. How would you like it if I’d done that? I could have. After Chrissy died. I wanted to.”
Jaysus.
“Don’t you be taking after him, numbing everything with drinking. I’m glad I didn’t give into it. There’s good to be found in everything, even grief. I’ve learned that.” Her voice trembled with feeling yet her words were hard, without gratitude. They echoed through the cab like a confession wrung from her heart and he felt the unworthy priest. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.
She flicked the radio back on with impatience and he hated himself. When they drove into the winter-worn town he was relieved to see her attention taken by patches of lawns starting togreen and burlapped shrubs sitting like cloaked gnomes hedging the driveways. She liked cities. The sun flickered and he was glad for the sudden shaft tunnelling through the truck and settling warm around her face. And for brightening the canopied storefronts they were now passing, the white-collared shopkeepers sweeping clots of rotted leaves from their stoops and flooding gutters.
“Father says you always wanted to live in a city.”
“That’s what your father knows, now.”
“Heard you say it myself.”
“Perhaps I would’ve liked it one time.”
“Sylvie wasn’t long taking off after she finished school. Wouldn’t know she was half raised on a fish flake.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Sylvie done what she was supposed to do—finish school and go to university. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Think I got the old man in me. Likes the woods.”
“Never hears you talking nice about your sister.”
He opened his mouth to protest but closed it. They crested a hill, below which the red-bricked hospital sprawled like a crusted sore. Grey smoke belched through smoke stacks and row upon row of frameless windows mirrored the ashen sky, black stains tearing from their corners and dribbling down the brick face. At the entrance to the parking lot he slowed to take the turn and his mother gripped his arm.
“It’s a bit early,” she said, her voice a thin whisper he didn’t know.
He shivered and lurched them onwards down the street and yielded onto a main drag that took them past Pizza Huts and takeouts and smartly dressed mannequins in shop windows. He cut through a ribbon-bannered car lot and passed a school, its yard strewn with hollering kids, and a quiet neighbourhood behind it that flowed up, up, up a steep hill. The houses thinned, the hill plateauing onto a bit of a parking lot deeply cratered from winter’sfrost. He parked near the edge of the dropoff and they looked down over the city. Sulphuric smells rose from a smoking pulp mill that headed the harbour while nice shingled homes and shops and oak trees encircled the mill’s land side as ribs might encircle the life-giving heart.
To the northeast and beneath the white
She made some agreeable sound and he looked at her and her pallid cheeks. There was a hard light in her eyes. She was wearing her summer scarf around her neck, a thin silky thing patterned with ripe red roses that he swore he could smell.
“Why aren’t you wearing a warm scarf? Thought you liked my
stylish
scarf.”
“I left it in Bonnie’s car the other day. This will do.”
“She could have brought it back, I suppose.”
“Perhaps she didn’t see it.”
“Not a hard thing to miss, a scarf sitting on the seat.”
“My, Kyle, I got more to think about than a scarf this morning.”
“I don’t like you being mixed up with her.”
“Why, what’s wrong with her? You got more to worry about than
her.
Sucking back on the bottle like your father. How would you like it if I’d done that? I could have. After Chrissy died. I wanted to.”
Jaysus.
“Don’t you be taking after him, numbing everything with drinking. I’m glad I didn’t give into it. There’s good to be found in everything, even grief. I’ve learned that.” Her voice trembled with feeling yet her words were hard, without gratitude. They echoed through the cab like a confession wrung from her heart and he felt the unworthy priest. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.
She flicked the radio back on with impatience and he hated himself. When they drove into the winter-worn town he was relieved to see her attention taken by patches of lawns starting togreen and burlapped shrubs sitting like cloaked gnomes hedging the driveways. She liked cities. The sun flickered and he was glad for the sudden shaft tunnelling through the truck and settling warm around her face. And for brightening the canopied storefronts they were now passing, the white-collared shopkeepers sweeping clots of rotted leaves from their stoops and flooding gutters.
“Father says you always wanted to live in a city.”
“That’s what your father knows, now.”
“Heard you say it myself.”
“Perhaps I would’ve liked it one time.”
“Sylvie wasn’t long taking off after she finished school. Wouldn’t know she was half raised on a fish flake.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Sylvie done what she was supposed to do—finish school and go to university. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Think I got the old man in me. Likes the woods.”
“Never hears you talking nice about your sister.”
He opened his mouth to protest but closed it. They crested a hill, below which the red-bricked hospital sprawled like a crusted sore. Grey smoke belched through smoke stacks and row upon row of frameless windows mirrored the ashen sky, black stains tearing from their corners and dribbling down the brick face. At the entrance to the parking lot he slowed to take the turn and his mother gripped his arm.
“It’s a bit early,” she said, her voice a thin whisper he didn’t know.
He shivered and lurched them onwards down the street and yielded onto a main drag that took them past Pizza Huts and takeouts and smartly dressed mannequins in shop windows. He cut through a ribbon-bannered car lot and passed a school, its yard strewn with hollering kids, and a quiet neighbourhood behind it that flowed up, up, up a steep hill. The houses thinned, the hill plateauing onto a bit of a parking lot deeply cratered from winter’sfrost. He parked near the edge of the dropoff and they looked down over the city. Sulphuric smells rose from a smoking pulp mill that headed the harbour while nice shingled homes and shops and oak trees encircled the mill’s land side as ribs might encircle the life-giving heart.
To the northeast and beneath the white
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