He cleared his throat and said: Could any of you give me a lift into town?
—Could always hitchhike, said the French guy.
—I suppose you don’t have a vehicle, said Clifton.
Clifton scratched his neck. The two men who looked alike were over by their truck. The French guy was annotating his day’s hours in a pocket notebook. All at once Lee felt helpless. Clifton squinted at him and looked like he was about to say something, but then Bud appeared, zipping up his fly.
He said: I’m goin’ to town. You want a lift?
That evening, Lee was very sore. He’d stopped at the variety store downstairs to buy himself some provisions, and when he came upstairs, he packed himself a lunch in the lunch pail.
He could not remember when he’d last packed a lunch. For a time he’d lived in a halfway house in the city, working in a furniture shop, and he’d eaten every day from a truck that came around and sold submarine sandwiches. But this wasn’t bad, packing a lunch. This was good. This seemed like the kind of thing you did when you had only yourself to look after and answer to.
Around eight o’clock there was a knock at his door. Mr. Yoon was in the hallway.
—How are you, said the landlord, flatly.
—I’m good, said Lee. Tired out. You know.
—You weren’t here today.
—I was working. First day.
Mr. Yoon nodded and said: Is everything working here?
—Everything’s working good.
—Okay.
After a moment Mr. Yoon nodded and left. Lee closed the door.
He got his tool belt and went back to the window, rubbing his sore shoulder. He sat there, watching the street. Indian summer evening—folks coming and going at the A&P across the way, a couple of high school kids acting like hoods on the street corner, boats out on the lake. While Lee watched, he cleaned the dirt from the tool-belt pouches and the hammer.
Bud had said he could drive him the next day as well, would pick him up in the morning. There was that. And it was good to be sore from a day of work, even if he couldn’t see the progress at Clifton’s job site the way he could see how a desk went together. It was good to not have much to think about at all.
B
usiness was slow on Friday evening at the Texaco service station where Pete worked. The Texaco was on the highway bypass northeast of town. The sky above was turning dark and the night was going to be cool. Pete was sitting in a lawn chair, leaning back against the wall of the booth between the pumps, with a Louis L’Amour paperback—one of his Luke Short stories—open on his lap. A Ford Fairlane pulled in and drove over the bell-line and stopped at the pumps. Pete’s co-worker Duane was at the edge of the parking lot, engrossed in conversation with a shift worker from the chemical factory, so Pete put his book down and got up from the chair.
He went over to the Ford. A thin old man, bald-headed, got out of the car and stretched and regarded Pete wearily.
—What’ll it be, mister? said Pete.
—The unleaded, please. You folks have a washroom?
—Yes. Just go in the store and ask Caroline—she’s at the cash-out—for the key.
The old man went into the store. Pete lifted the nozzle off the pump and pushed it into the Ford’s gas tank. The smell of gasoline rose on the air.
—Working hard?
Pete was startled. He turned and saw a man of about forty who’d evidently been in the Ford’s passenger seat. The man standing there did not appear to be all put-together. He had a wide grin and vacant eyes and sweatpants drawn high over his waist. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it didn’t fully hide the
edges of a scar near the top of his forehead. He was nodding his head in perpetual agreement.
—What can I say, said Pete. I’m keeping busy.
The man’s head bobbed up and down. He laughed.
—And you? said Pete. Plans for the weekend?
—Oh, not me! I take it easy.
The old man reappeared from the washroom.
—For godsake, Simon. Get in the car.
Simon shuffled back to the passenger seat. Over his shoulder he told Pete not to work too hard.
—I’m sorry, said the old man. Sometimes he wanders away. It’s frustrating.
—It’s no trouble.
The old man didn’t say anything. By way of something to break the quiet, Pete asked him if his car was the ‘79 Fairlane.
The old man blinked. He smiled, said: Yes, this is the ‘79. I was always a Ford man. I used to run a dealership. Do you have a car?
—I have a ‘73 Honda coupe I bought from my stepdad’s friend. It gets me around. But I always wanted a Mustang.
The tank finished filling. Pete hung the nozzle on the pump.
—It’ll be ten dollars.
The old man paid by credit card. As Pete took an imprint of the card, he caught sight of the man’s name:
Arthur Grady.
Pete brought out a receipt and Arthur Grady signed it. He didn’t leave immediately. He ran his hand along the roof of his car.
—I had a son who really loved the Thunderbird. The Bullet Bird, they called it. I bought him a 1961 brand new, the two-door with the hardtop and the 390. It was one of five I ever sold and I sold it to myself and I gave it to him when he turned eighteen. He’d made the first-round draft pick, see, and I didn’t care what that car would set me back.
—How long did he have it?
—Not six months.
—Oh …
Arthur Grady flexed his mouth. He looked at the bypass and said: My son isn’t with us any more. Anyhow, I apologize for taking up your time.
He got into the Fairlane. He pulled his door shut and started the ignition, but then he slid his window down and gestured to Pete. There was a smell of cigar smoke and leather upholstery. Simon, in the passenger seat, was fiddling with the radio. Without looking, the old man gently pushed Simon’s hand away from the buttons.
—This is for you, said the old man.
He gave Pete a one-dollar tip. Pete thanked him. Arthur Grady slid his window up and started his car and drove back onto the bypass.
One by one the lights over the pumps came on. Duane had come back and was tapping Skoal tobacco out of a tin he kept in his pocket. He plugged the tobacco under his lip. He did this expertly, one-handed.
—Pete, man, I’m proud of you. You actually worked today.
Pete brushed past Duane and went into the store. At the cash-out, Caroline was working on a crossword puzzle. She smiled when she saw him. He brought her Arthur Grady’s receipt and she put it in the ledger and then asked Pete if he wanted his paycheque. They went into the office. Caroline owned and managed the Texaco, and her office was small and neatly kept. She did not allow smoking. A geranium was potted on the windowsill. Caroline dug into the filing cabinet.
—That old man, said Pete. You know him?
—What old man?
—The bald guy that came in to get the key for the washroom.
—Him? I’ve seen him around, I think. Maybe. But I don’t know him. Why?
—Just … kind of weird. Looked at me funny. Told me about his dead son.
—You’ll hear all kinds of personal crap from people. Last week a woman in the store got real personal with me about her divorce.
All the legal details and so forth. Sometimes people just need other people to hear them. Even if it’s just a stranger. You know?
Following his shift at the Texaco, Pete changed and got into his Honda. He picked up his friend Billy at a low-rise apartment building where Billy’s older brother lived. Billy had a two-four of Labatt, which he toted around to the back of the car and put in the trunk. Then he came to the passenger side and got in.
—How’s it hanging, Pete, said Billy. What time is it?
—It’s seven, said Pete. A little after. What’s the plan?
—We’re going to church.
It must have been how Pete was looking at him. Billy grinned. He said: Music recital.
—What are you talking about?
—The girl I told you about, said Billy. Emily. She plays the piano.
Billy played piano across the dashboard.
—So we’re going to church, said Pete. Jesus. I thought after I quit all that craziness at my stepdad’s church that I wouldn’t have to go any more.
—I’m being supportive is what I’m doing. It’s what you have to do to keep the good ones.
—Okay … But if these people start talking in tongues, I’m leaving.
Pete had never been inside the United Church before. They parked across the street and they smoked a little bit of dope first. Then they went through a set of heavy oak doors and up a carpeted stairway into the church entryway. Pete was uncomfortably conscious of the hush around him. They found their way into the sanctuary and wandered between the empty pews. He did not quite know what to conclude about where he was. Galilee Pentecostal Tabernacle, where Barry preached, was an entirely modern building. The sanctuary at Galilee was almost like a concert hall or
theatre. Here, in the church, the sanctuary was dimly lit and old-fashioned. It felt rigid, somehow.
Before long, a tight-browed woman in a beige pantsuit appeared behind them, wanting to know were they looking for somebody. They told her they’d come for the music recital. Billy added that they weren’t there to steal bibles or anything. She gave them a doubtful look but she led them out of the sanctuary, past some offices, and finally to a banquet hall in the basement. There were four dozen classroom chairs arranged in the hall, facing a riser where a microphone and a piano and a music stand were arranged. Billy poked Pete in the ribs and pointed at the piano. Around them, most of the seats were already taken up. Families. Pete saw a mother holding a wad of Kleenex to her child’s nose.
He and Billy took two of the seats at the rear.
—So where is she? said Pete.
—I don’t know, she’s here somewhere. She’s small, man.
The woman in the pantsuit stepped onto the riser. She tapped the microphone and the scattered conversations around the hall went quiet. She said she was happy to welcome them to the September recital. The young musicians they were about to hear were all just really terrific. The three adjudicators were members of the regional board of the Christian Musicians Association, whose mission, for those who didn’t know, is service to the Lord through good deeds, good words and musical talent. After the introductory remarks, an elderly woman in thick orthopaedic shoes came onto the riser and sat at the piano.
—So that’s your girl, said Pete.
A man a few seats up turned around and looked at them over the top of his glasses.
The first performer was a girl of about fourteen. To the pianist’s accompaniment, she played the flute—six or seven minutes of what they had been told was a concertino. She was very good. Next up was an adolescent boy who was indelicately carrying
a violin and a bow. He was trembling and grinning frantically. The old pianist led him in with a slow piece. Pete thought he remembered it from the term of music class that he’d taken, but he couldn’t recollect the name. Something by Bach or Mozart or some other long-dead composer. The boy drew the bow across the violin strings and a dreadful squeal of sound came forth.
—Oh shit, said Billy.
The boy shook, struggling through the piece. Every note cut like glass. Heads about the room lowered and people studied the floor.
—If I had my .22 here, I’d put him out of his misery.
—Shut up, Billy.
When the boy finished, he held his violin in one hand and the bow in his other hand and bowed stiffly from the waist. People applauded politely. A fat woman in a paisley dress stood up and clapped with furious resolve and looked around grimly. The boy ran off the riser and took the seat next to her.
Billy poked Pete in the ribs. He was gesturing.
A girl was standing up from one of the seats near the front. She was small. Pete could see nothing of her face. She walked with her back straight and her dark hair in a simple cascade, catching the light, down her shoulders. She had to tap the old pianist on the shoulder. The pianist gaped at her, startled, and then exited the riser. The girl sat down on the bench.
—What do you think? said Billy.
—What do I think? I think she looks respectable.
—I know. Wait till you meet her.
The girl’s hands hovered over the keys for a moment, as if she was collecting herself, and then her hands moved down and she began to play. The tempo of the piece quickened, slackened, quickened again. She was playing from memory for there was no sheet music before her. Pete thought he could listen to the piece for a long time. Maybe it was the dope they’d smoked but maybe it was something more. He thought how not every feeling should
be explained away. And when the girl had finally finished playing, and people were clapping, he was aware that it was over.
The girl traded off with the old pianist again. Two more acts followed, forgotten as soon as they finished, and then came the intermission.
They hung around the corridor outside the banquet hall and Billy told Pete about how he’d met the girl. There were three high schools in town. There was a small Catholic French high school called Sacré Coeur. There was Northside Secondary, where Pete had gone before he’d quit, and where most of the out-of-town kids came by bus. And there was Heron Heights, in town, where Billy said Emily had just started grade twelve. Billy had been at Heron Heights with the Northside lacrosse team, playing an exhibition game, the first of the season. He said he’d noticed Emily sitting with her friends in the stands nearby. After the game, Billy had thought she’d gone, but later, when he was coming out of the change room, he saw her in the corridor. He said he’d gone up and talked to her a little bit, and since then they’d been on a couple of dates. He was agreeable with just about everybody, but he was bold as well. Pete envied much about him.
—Hey, you.
They turned and saw her coming towards them. She walked with cool poise.
—That was great, said Billy. The piano playing. I didn’t have any idea you could do that.
—Thank you. I practised that one for a long time. I didn’t think you were coming. If I’d known you were here, I might have been nervous.
She reached out and took Billy’s hand, then asked if he was going to introduce her to his friend.