she drives down Main Street and looks for Johnny’s car. It’s notat the centre, nor at Chuck’s. OK Feeds is closed, but Johnny could be out on a trip. It seems she’s always looking out for Johnny. Even when they’re in the house together she listens for him, every little creak tells her what he’s doing. His toothbrush tapping the sink, or him banging through his sock drawer. She misses him, wonders if his ears ever listen for her, if his eyes roam and flit, checking for little signs of her presence. She knows the answer.
She heads up the 312 towards her turn-off but when she arrives she doesn’t slow down, she just keeps driving to the 59, and left up to Lagimodiere and then east, stopping at Deacon’s for gas. On the road again, driving into the falling darkness, she picks up speed. The half-ton has a shimmy, the windshield moulding rattles in the wind. Charlene holds tightly to the wheel, her knuckles yellow in the dim light of the cab. Trucks float by across the divide, their overhead lights signalling safety. Beyond Richer, into the trees of the Canadian Shield, she passes a moose by the side of the road who looks like he’s mounted, he’s so frozen by the light. A bit further on she has to pee and pulls to the side of the road. Flipping through the glove compartment, looking for toilet paper, she finds only a small plastic bag of grass and papers. “Johnny, you little sinner,” she says. She steps outside and pees in the ditch. She pulls up her jeans and drips into her panties. Back in the truck she rubs her hands together over the heater. It’s a cold night, no snow yet, and this makes it even worse. She leans back against the passenger door and rolls a joint. Her foot taps the steering wheel as she smokes and stares out into the night. There is something wrong here, she thinks. She’s running, in a way, but nobody knows that she’s gone. The girls at the book club will wonder, but they won’t fret or worry. Johnny’s not even home so he won’t notice. Life will go on.
Charlene’s finding it hard to breathe. Perhaps it’s the grass, too strong for her. It’s like someone has a towel over her face and is just barely letting her come up for air. She pulls at her jaw, opens the window, rasps out into the frosty night. Then she drives, too fast, and her lungs find new air, but still there is a lump inside her that reminds her of somethingswallowed too quickly, like a large cube of ice aching in her gullet. She sings a tune for comfort and the pain subsides.
The moon comes out and for a while she does what Johnny likes to do with a full moon: drive without the lights. On divided highway it’s safe, everything’s just shadows, and there is a sense of gliding through space in a tree-walled tunnel; the only thing that really tells Charlene where she is is the shudder of the road in her hands and the engine vibrating her feet. But, eventually, the lights come back on. The dark scares her, and cops.
For Charlene, the best thing about a hotel room is the sameness, the knowledge that she could be anywhere in the world: Sri Lanka, Chicago, Vancouver. But not in Lesser. Lesser has no hotels, certainly not an inn like this one in Kenora, which stands at the edge of the Lake of the Woods. Charlene lies in bed in her panties and bra. The TV is on. She stands and rummages through the mini-bar, pulls out a little bottle of whisky, cracks the cap, takes a shot, and breathes out through her nostrils. That night she works at the stash of petite and expensive bottles layered in the mini-bar. In between there somewhere, her head swimming, her voice descending, warped and hard from the ceiling, she orders room service: sweet-and-sour chicken, rice, fried mushrooms, and a salad. She drinks ice water and coffee, then finishes the alcohol. She sleeps, dreaming of swollen stomachs, deformed babies, and fathers with big heads. She wakes at noon and phones for a late check-out, her need to languish, to lie back and
She heads up the 312 towards her turn-off but when she arrives she doesn’t slow down, she just keeps driving to the 59, and left up to Lagimodiere and then east, stopping at Deacon’s for gas. On the road again, driving into the falling darkness, she picks up speed. The half-ton has a shimmy, the windshield moulding rattles in the wind. Charlene holds tightly to the wheel, her knuckles yellow in the dim light of the cab. Trucks float by across the divide, their overhead lights signalling safety. Beyond Richer, into the trees of the Canadian Shield, she passes a moose by the side of the road who looks like he’s mounted, he’s so frozen by the light. A bit further on she has to pee and pulls to the side of the road. Flipping through the glove compartment, looking for toilet paper, she finds only a small plastic bag of grass and papers. “Johnny, you little sinner,” she says. She steps outside and pees in the ditch. She pulls up her jeans and drips into her panties. Back in the truck she rubs her hands together over the heater. It’s a cold night, no snow yet, and this makes it even worse. She leans back against the passenger door and rolls a joint. Her foot taps the steering wheel as she smokes and stares out into the night. There is something wrong here, she thinks. She’s running, in a way, but nobody knows that she’s gone. The girls at the book club will wonder, but they won’t fret or worry. Johnny’s not even home so he won’t notice. Life will go on.
Charlene’s finding it hard to breathe. Perhaps it’s the grass, too strong for her. It’s like someone has a towel over her face and is just barely letting her come up for air. She pulls at her jaw, opens the window, rasps out into the frosty night. Then she drives, too fast, and her lungs find new air, but still there is a lump inside her that reminds her of somethingswallowed too quickly, like a large cube of ice aching in her gullet. She sings a tune for comfort and the pain subsides.
The moon comes out and for a while she does what Johnny likes to do with a full moon: drive without the lights. On divided highway it’s safe, everything’s just shadows, and there is a sense of gliding through space in a tree-walled tunnel; the only thing that really tells Charlene where she is is the shudder of the road in her hands and the engine vibrating her feet. But, eventually, the lights come back on. The dark scares her, and cops.
For Charlene, the best thing about a hotel room is the sameness, the knowledge that she could be anywhere in the world: Sri Lanka, Chicago, Vancouver. But not in Lesser. Lesser has no hotels, certainly not an inn like this one in Kenora, which stands at the edge of the Lake of the Woods. Charlene lies in bed in her panties and bra. The TV is on. She stands and rummages through the mini-bar, pulls out a little bottle of whisky, cracks the cap, takes a shot, and breathes out through her nostrils. That night she works at the stash of petite and expensive bottles layered in the mini-bar. In between there somewhere, her head swimming, her voice descending, warped and hard from the ceiling, she orders room service: sweet-and-sour chicken, rice, fried mushrooms, and a salad. She drinks ice water and coffee, then finishes the alcohol. She sleeps, dreaming of swollen stomachs, deformed babies, and fathers with big heads. She wakes at noon and phones for a late check-out, her need to languish, to lie back and
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