Elizabeth and After (25 page)

Eventually he started to see Ellie Dean again: when losing himself in Chrissy had gradually been replaced by losing himself in drink; Ellie had been through a quick marriage and divorce, and her mother’s sharp tongue had become her own, turned with a bitterness that Carl found satisfying. It was as though because just a few years ago they’d shared the innocent protective cocoon of Ellie’s sheet, they could now find comfort with each other in this new place—not a tent filled with pale golden light but a purgatory of self-hate and uncertainty where the only sure thing was that another few drinks and another few cigarettes would use up some of those empty hours after midnight. Sometimes they would go to bed together but with Ellie, by this time, Carl felt old—not just older than they’d been in high school but
old
, old like an apple with thickening skin and a rotting core, old in a way he didn’t want to feel with Ellie or even expose her to; surely she’d had enough poison from him the first time around. By the time he moved in with Ray Johnson she was just an occasional stop on a desperate night, a place he’d cruise by once in a long while and if he saw her light on he’d park the truck quietly and look through her window to make sure she was alone before knocking.

He was just picturing how he used to find Ellie those nights—lying on her back on her couch, holding a book stiff-armed above her eyes because she’d been told this position was
good for her posture and would ward off dowager’s hump—when Nancy Brookner came in. Her hair was windblown, her face puffy as though she’d been drinking.

“Isn’t that a scandal about the new dump site? You’d think the township would be smart enough not to get held up on something like that. Bob says they were looking for a place twenty years ago.”

Carl nodded.

Nancy set her return movies on the counter. Two martial-arts ball-breakers—“for the kids,” she had explained—and an old Barbara Stanwyck black-and-white for herself because Bob had spent the evening at old-timers’ hockey practice.

“How’s business?” Whenever she asked a question she raised her eyebrows. “Did it rain over by your place the other night? The way everyone’s talking drought you’d think the whole town was going to blow away like a pile of sticks.”

“You’d think,” Carl said. Though those storm clouds that never stormed had been coming and going all day and when Nancy opened the door he had smelled rain in the wind.

“What are you so happy about anyway? Out dancing last night?”

The fact that she had seen him leaving the dance with Chrissy was something Nancy referred to whenever she got the chance. “I just drove her home,” Carl had told her the first time, repeating it twice more before giving up. If Nancy Brookner wanted to think he was the town stud, why not? She rented three movies a day and lately that made up a big part of his business.

“People ever ask your advice on sexy movies?” Nancy now asked.

“Like man, give me something with some action?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Just wondering.” She was moving along the aisles. “I think it’s wrong that people take pictures of each other doing those things. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned but I like strangers better with their clothes on.”

Carl had no idea what to say. He tried, “Takes all kinds.”

“What’s that mean, takes all kinds? I wish there weren’t all kinds. I wish there were just people like … you know what I mean.”

“I guess,” Carl said.

Now Nancy had made her selection and he was writing it down in the log.

“They should get you a computer for this.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I would have thought this would be the most boring job in the world. You don’t even watch movies any more. When I first started coming in, you always had something on at least. You reading books now? Or does that newspaper last you all day?”

Carl kept writing. He didn’t know what it was about Nancy Brookner. One morning he had been sitting at the kitchen table eating his toast and doing a crossword, and it had come into his mind that he could dial Nancy’s number and she would most likely be at home eating her own breakfast, nothing better to do than wait for him to open the shop so she could come and ask questions. Or look at him and wonder whatever it was she wondered about him. He could just call her up and say he was home alone for another couple of hours. He’d even taken out the telephone book and found her number. Now she was leaning over the counter, so close to him he could see the fluorescent lights reflected in her eyes.
Grey eyes, a dark bitter grey that made him feel the way he had when he’d been leafing through the phone book.

“That’s a ‘G’ there,” she said, pointing down at his list.

“I know.”

“Sorry. I thought it looked like a ‘6’.”

“Luke hire you to check my spelling?”

She backed off, blushing so fast and deep that Carl wanted to apologize but couldn’t find the words. “Hey,” he finally said. And when she looked up, still scarlet, he winked at her the way he had seen Moira wink at his father.

When Nancy had gone he went back to the paper. He had bought it for the crossword but now he opened it to the help-wanted section. There was nothing except jobs like the one he already had and “business opportunities” for people to buy franchises. Maybe he and Lizzie should be opening some kind of Lonesome Dad Fried Chicken Palace. Lizzie would like that. She liked fried chicken, fries, anything with grease. They would have chicken-emblazoned aprons and chicken-feather hats to keep their hair out of the food. In thirty years they would be rich enough to go to Florida for a month every winter.

Arnie Kincaid came in and somehow Carl didn’t look up until Arnie was close enough to see him circling the franchise offers with a red ballpoint pen.

“Thinking of moving on?”

“Not really,” Carl said.

“Good. I like the way you keep this place.” Then Carl realized Arnie had only been talking about a change of job but that in truth he
was—
or some part of him was—getting ready to leave. It was as though whatever Ellie had dealt him had defeated his whole plan. She was right: the accident might have been bad luck but ever since he’d been compelled to try
to destroy everything around him. Sooner or later he’d be taking it out on Lizzie. The truth was, they’d be better off without him.

Kincaid moved over to the coffee machine. “Running a restaurant isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Can’t cook,” Carl said.

“Most can’t.” Then Arnie Kincaid laughed. Carl made himself smile. Every time Arnie came into the shop he made little jokes. By the time he had finished his two cups of coffee, told his funny stories and left, Carl was exhausted.

At eleven Carl emptied out the coffee maker and started sweeping the floor with the big push broom. It was amazing how many candy wrappers and cigarette butts could accumulate during one boring shift. He took the heaped-up dustpan to the bathroom and emptied it into the garbage bag. Then he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. When he came back into the store Fred Verghoers was standing at the counter, big arms folded across his chest.

Carl hesitated for a moment, looked around the store. Just the sight of Fred made him feel as though he was just stepping out of his truck, his face still damp with Chrissy’s kisses.

“I was driving by,” Fred said. “Thought I’d stop to say hello. I’m always missing you at the house.” He stuck out a big hand.

Carl moved forward slowly. Everything had gone into slow motion, the way it used to before a fight. His eyes flicked around the room. Fred’s face had thickened in the three years since he’d last seen him. In another few years, just looking at Fred was going to be enough to make a man run. Fred’s mangy blue-brown eyes were squinting into an imaginary sun. Carl felt so tight he could hardly move. Fred was a bit taller and had
about thirty pounds on him but whatever Fred did to him he could return in kind because, as he had once explained to Chrissy about his fighting, he was faster and mainly he was crazier.

“Afraid to shake?” Fred asked.

Carl took Fred’s hand. Fred squeezed hard. “Just thought I’d come and welcome you back in person,” Fred said, still squeezing. “Seems like you’ve seen just about everyone else.” Fred had his hand locked into place but there was something spongy about his palm, as though he was spending too many hours in his office. “Guess you look about the same,” Fred said. “Maybe a bit smaller.” His grip loosened and Carl could feel Fred’s body approaching the edge.

“Hear they made you manager over at the yard,” Carl said. “Congratulations.”

Fred let go of Carl’s hand and stepped back. “That’s right.”

“Hear you’re going into politics, too.”

“Trying to,” Fred said. “If your boss lets me.”

They were a couple of feet apart now, still within reach. A set of headlights swept in towards the store. A car door slammed. Arnie Kincaid came back in the door, a video cassette in his hand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I forgot to leave this.”

“We were just getting acquainted again,” Fred said. Carl wondered if he’d find the words to tell Ray just how strange a smile Fred then gave, a twisty little smile that showed bits of his teeth, like the big bad wolf’s when he was talking to Little Red Riding Hood.

Arnie put the cassette down on the counter. “See you.”

“Me too,” Fred said. “It’s getting late.” Carl waited. His chest was on fire with adrenaline, his arms half-cocked. But he wasn’t going to move unless Fred moved first. Fred’s face was
smooth, unworried. He rubbed his hands together, pushed back his big ring. Then as Arnie went out the door, Fred stepped away from Carl. “Guess I should ask you if you’re going to behave yourself,” Fred said.

“You a cop now?”

“I asked you a question,” Fred said. “What’s your answer?”

Driving east Carl had known this moment would arrive: he and Fred standing toe to toe, ready to start swinging, winner take all. What
all?
another part of him would ask. That’s ridiculous, you’re twenty-eight years old and what you want is to be a father to your daughter, not to play the teenage idiot. The idiot you were. When the time comes, just turn around and walk away.

“I don’t have any answers,” Carl said. “I just rent movies.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Fred said. He gave his twisty smile again and left the store.

Carl stood flexing his back and neck, trying to relax as he watched Fred get into his car. He made a couple of false starts backing up, trying to let Arnie go first, then drove off down the road towards town.

Carl filed away Arnie’s cassette, marked it in the register. Then he picked up the broom and continued sweeping until exactly midnight when he turned off the lights and stepped outside. The clouds had mostly cleared but even as he stood on the step a pale fork of lightning glowed briefly in the sky. His truck was at the front of the gravel parking lot, the mirrors and windshield gave off glimmers of light from the moon. As he went down the steps he noticed there was a car still parked in the shadow of the supermarket. He heard a noise behind him. Then, just as the adrenaline began to surge, his head was hammered from behind. He felt himself falling, slowly, as though the air had turned liquid and was trying to
support him, and all the while he was trying to curl up and move his arms to protect his face from the gravel. When he hit the ground a boot drove into his ribs once, twice, three times—then into his head where it had been hit. He blacked out until he heard Fred’s voice grating in his ear, “Next time it’s your nuts.” Then the sound of a car spitting gravel as it skidded out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

W
HEN
C
ARL CAME TO HE WAS LYING
face down in the gravel. His ribs were the first thing he noticed because it hurt to breathe. Then there was the back of his head which he finally gathered the courage to touch; his hand returned sticky with blood. When he tried to stand pain exploded along his side. He fell back to the ground, which sent something through his head like a crowbar clawing at his skull.

He dug his fingers into the gravel. It was clammy and it stank of oil. He dragged himself towards the steps. His idea was to get the key in the lock, pull himself across the floor and to the telephone. He lifted his face onto the wooden steps. His skull was pounding and the back of his neck was warm with blood. He imagined himself in a Movie Barn summer-heat special, prostrate in the buzzing darkness while Lizzie, watching from wherever she was, cheered him on: “Don’t die, Daddy, don’t
die.”
But he wasn’t dying, he was just emptying out. Cars flashed back and forth but none seemed to notice
him and he hadn’t the strength to shout or wave. He wondered what it would take to get himself to the door. If he could rise to his knees, he realized, he would be able to unlock the door then crawl across the floor and call Ray. But as he tried to lift himself that old movie buzzing darkness buzzed even louder and put him back to sleep.

For the first time in years, Adam’s voices had come back. When he was a child they had possessed him, taken hold of his tongue, grabbed his body from the inside, thrown him to the floor in a frenzy of jabber and drool. When his love for Elizabeth broke open they shot through the gap and joined in, frisky young animals happy to tumble with their master. Now he was too old to be taken thrashing to the floor, far past rolling about on a motel bed or bracketing his head in a loved one’s thighs. Now the numbers were running out and all that remained was the stately march to his dignified and inevitable end, a pre-purchased funeral that foresaw the mourners’ needs in everything from vegetarian spring rolls to single malt Scotch, as well as his own destination in a modestly classic maple casket that would be lowered into its preordained slot in the West Gull Cemetery. On his occasional visits to Elizabeth’s grave he had experimented standing on the ground that would one day hold him. It was beside his mother, where else, and only a stone’s throw from Elizabeth. The idea that the three of them, along with everyone else in West Gull, would be snoozing through eternity together was both a consolation and its opposite. Nonetheless he was on his way and the voices had reassembled, like wolves was how he pictured them, darting in and out of sight, constantly testing his defences. Asleep he would dream he was being attacked by them at the office. That suddenly while talking to Luke or a customer he would
be filled by a hot liquid chaos dissolving his bones and his will until he’d end up lying on his back, looking up at Luke’s grinning mug. One afternoon while visiting at the R&R, he had gone into the big hall to talk to Moira about McKelvey. She had been in the corner cleaning and as he waited at the hearth with his coffee, he had the memory of standing in that exact space at one of the New Year parties, as though his old body had invaded his present one, forcing two or maybe a dozen selves into the same electric configuration; then the wires crossed and he was leisurely chatting to Elizabeth as though they had all the time in the world. But suddenly Moira was in front of him and he didn’t know whether to apologize for talking to himself or if he was only imagining the echo of his own voice. “Daydreaming,” he’d muttered to cover all possibilities, and suddenly wondered what it would be like to tell Moira everything. There had been Elizabeth who knew her half—her more-than-half—of the story. There’d been Maureen who’d known her part but guessed more, though not about Carl who knew nothing at all. Finally there was himself and his voices, looking from the outside in like one man with one body and one life but with a whole crowd of imposters pushing and shoving and ordering each other to keep quiet.