Knife Fight and Other Struggles (11 page)

Lisa let me go. The women were staring past me, and down, and up . . . and I put my hands out, palms up. It seemed as though it were snowing.

But it wasn’t snow. Plaster and paint were falling from the high ceiling above us. I half-turned and saw on the floor behind me: Viktor. The hair on his skull was matted with blood and torn scalp. His neck was bent at a deadly angle. His right hand, turned in, gripped in a tight fist. His back was covered in white plaster dust—the same that was falling now, from the long cracks in the high ceiling, where a man might have impacted.

He was not moving. If the first fall had not done the job, then the second had surely finished him.

Lisa knelt down and lifted his hand, unbent his fingers. She drew the box cutter Viktor had brought, and lifted it high, turned to the stairway.

“Ruman,” I gasped, unable to take my eyes off the creature that stood on the curving steps, “look at you.”

He did not speak. He raised his blackened arms, and lifted off his mask, and began his howling.

Lisa turned to me, but this time I looked away. And alone, I fled the house, and back to the bosom of the early-morning darkness.

I went to work the next evening. The supervisors were uneasy; they could smell the changes, the thickening dark, the same as everyone. Where was Viktor? they asked. He didn’t call. Was he sick? Did you drive him home? Drunk perhaps?

I didn’t answer their questions, the same way I didn’t contact the police. What would I say? What good would it do?

The night after that, Ruman took Viktor’s place on the night shift. He found me at the meal break, and grinned as he pulled the chair out, fell into it in a happy exhaustion.

“She’s pretty, yes?” he said. “Little girls get big fast.”

I didn’t look at him. There were so many things I might have said. “You have a wife,” was all I finally could muster.

“Several, in fact,” he said, and laughed. “Praise Be He.”

The next night, and every night thereafter, I stayed home.

As the weeks drew on, the darkness grew over the city. Snow, real snow, swirled in corners, and gathered, covering the smooth pavement and neatly laid brickwork, thickening that darkness.

But sometimes, for hours at a time, the darkness broke, and daylight intervened.

It was at one of these times, three weeks before the solstice, that I ventured out of my apartment, and took my car to the Good News Happening Congregation.

The cross still climbed high over the motorway, but someone had rolled the sign away. This time, I was able to find a space in the parking lot. Indeed, there were barely a dozen other vehicles there, stopped at the end of wide curves of tire tracks in the snow. All the doors in the wide glass bank of them on the building were locked but one. I slipped inside.

The last time I had been in the Good News Happening Congregation, the hall’s wide floor was covered in rows of folding chairs, and those chairs were filled with happy, fervent worshippers.

The Congregation was long gone. As I crossed the vast, dark floor, empty but for scuffed pamphlets and, here and there, shallow puddles, I wondered at where those people had found themselves. Did they gather their money together, flee to somewhere brighter, one or two of them at first, then, once established, slowly draw their kin in tow?

Or were they nearer? Huddled in their homes, blinds drawn, waiting for the shadow to draw over the land, to make it safe to worship?

I stopped at the foot of the pulpit, and looked up at the crucifix, climbing two full storeys high, the cool winter daylight striking the crown of thorns, setting it alight.

But the sun was an interloper here, and soon it too fled. In the ancient Radejastian gloom, the only soul in sight, I danced.

Sharon’s hand came away from the tree branch covered in them, but she didn’t so much as flinch. She brought the hand to her face, studying them minutely as they crawled between her fingers, inched across her palms. Her brow knitted a little, her mouth opened a crack, and the tip of her tongue curled over the edge of her teeth, straying only an instant. Sharon watched the caterpillars on her hand; Robert watched Sharon watching the caterpillars.

“They don’t seem to bother you,” Robert said.

“Should they?” Sharon held her hand forward, and as the caterpillars came to him, he did flinch. She withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry, Bob. I’ll try and cultivate a phobia too.”

She shook her hand, as though she were trying to throw soap suds off after washing the supper dishes, and the worms dropped to the forest floor.

Individually, the tent caterpillars were scarcely more than an inch long, and thin as spaghetti. But in numbers, they seemed huge. Several trunks were entirely covered in them, their tiny mottled bodies making a new layer of bark. Silk hung from the dark branches like torn shrouds.

Robert smiled. “No phobia. But no love for them either.” He motioned around them. “By night, the worms will have stripped these trees bare. Turns the bush into a wasteland. Every year they’re bad.”

“It seems to bounce back,” she said mildly. “From where I’m standing, it looks like there’s plenty of bush to go around.”

He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him. Sharon’s eyes had a natural glitter to them, like they were always laughing, at everything they saw.

“The worms don’t help it,” he maintained, a little too steadfastly.

“Neither does the pesticide,” she answered, locking her glittering eyes with Robert’s. “Which won’t stop you from spraying, will it?”

Robert didn’t even answer that. She was laughing—her eyes betrayed her.

She must have seen something in his eyes, though, because as quickly as it came, the mockery passed, her eyes flicking away from his.

“They’re caterpillars, not worms, you know.” She bent for a moment to study a nest, a tapered lozenge of silk filled with a hard black core. “There’s a difference. They’re butterflies.” She smiled a little, and said in an almost affectionate tone: “Baby butterflies.”

“Well these butterflies can make a difference between a good season and a bad one.”

She looked away then, and nodded, the way she did whenever Robert offered up a fact or observation about his land or the business. It was as though she were filing it away, familiarizing herself as intimately as she could with the life Robert had built here at his campground.

He hoped that was an indication of something. . . . On more than one night back at the cabin, cleaning up after supper or watching her work on her computer or in the afterglow of their nights together, Robert had found himself hoping: This one should stay.

She was younger than most of the women Robert had taken up with over his life. She hadn’t said her age exactly, and Robert considered himself too much of a gentleman to ask, but she couldn’t have been older than thirty.

Robert had met her in Gravenhurst just over a month ago, at the first of the Sheas’ summer barbecues. “She’s just separated,” Pat Shea had told him as she handed him a dripping can of Ex from the cooler. “Allan—her husband, you remember him?” Robert opened his beer and nodded, although as he thought about it, he could not remember Allan Tefield with any clarity at all. “Allan went back to Toronto last week.”

Sharon was perched on the edge of the picnic table under the Sheas’ ancient maple tree. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail to reveal a sculpted jawline and what seemed like an impossibly long throat. Robert had been fascinated—everything about Sharon Tefield was elongated, a not-unkind caricature of cover-girl good looks. Although he couldn’t recall Allan Tefield’s face, Robert was certain he would have remembered if he’d seen Sharon Tefield before, even once.

“Come on, Bob,” Pat had said, noticing him noticing. She took him by the arm and directed him to the picnic table. “We’ll do introductions.”

A month later, Robert and Sharon stood on the southern ridge of the valley that made up the largest part of the Twin Oaks campground. Peering between the trees, the view was pure Muskoka. A dynasty of beavers had dammed up the stream decades ago and made the bowl of the valley into a small lake that reflected the cloud-filtered sunlight in sharp silver flashes.

In better seasons, the lake would be rimmed with fishermen, and this ridge well-travelled by hikers. But the tent caterpillars had started their crawl in June, and by mid-July the campers were staying at home.

“I have to go back to the cottage,” said Sharon. “Just for a day or two.”

“Trouble with Allan?”

Sharon shook her head, her lips set into a line. “Allan’s finished. He’s no trouble at all.” She turned to Robert then, and the line of her mouth broke into a reassuring grin. “There are just a couple of things I want to pick up. Clean out.”

Robert nodded, taking care to keep the flutter tight inside. Words like those often signalled an end—
I just have to go back to the city for a week, a few things to take care of . . . a couple of things I want to pick up
. But until the other shoe fell, there would be nothing to say.

Sharon’s arm encircled Robert’s waist. “I’m glad,” she whispered.

“Glad about what?” he asked. But she didn’t answer. They stood still on the ridge-path, while around them the summer worms munched away on leaves and sap and bark, preparing for their long, transforming sleep.

Sharon said she would be back not this night but the following, and Robert answered that was fine with him. He would spend the evening reading, he said, then out to work early in the morning. He had some canisters of insecticide in the shed, and while he was loathe to use too much of it, he thought he might spray some of the trees up on the south ridge.

“It’s a losing battle,” said Sharon. They were standing in front of his cabin, beside her old blue Volvo. She had left her tote bag in the bedroom, and carried her laptop computer under her arm.

“Got to at least put on a brave show for the campers,” he replied. There were only three families staying at Twin Oaks that week, but Sharon was kind enough not to point that out.

“I love you,” she said instead. “But I don’t want to come back to you stinking of bug spray.”

“I’ll shower,” said Robert.

“Promise?”

Robert just laughed.

So they kissed goodbye and Robert watched the car turn around and start down the long driveway to the highway. He waved as it disappeared in the trees, and turned away. The sky that peeked through the maple branches over his cabin was the dull purple of late-August overcast—any sunset tonight would be lost behind the thickness of the clouds.

Just as well, he thought as he climbed the steps to his cabin. He stopped on the porch, nodded greetings at one of the Torsdale kids who was out playing by the barbecue pit—unlit, he noted sourly: who wants to barbecue this summer?—then let himself in.

Robert had built the cabin in 1970. It was cedar log, a bargain-basement kit house that was more suited to his needs back then than these days: three rooms, all of them miniscule, with heat coming from an old wood stove in the living room. At the time, he’d been inclined to forgo major appliances and a septic system as well, but fortunately had allowed himself to be talked out of it. The flush toilet and electric stove were luxuries that he had since come to appreciate, and as he sank down into the old vinyl recliner, it occurred to him that he—and Sharon, the two of them—could well appreciate a few more.

Over the years since he had come to this country, there had been three other women Robert had invited into his home. None had stayed long: the winters were too cold, the rooms too small. . . . It was a man’s house, Lynn MacRae had told him as she packed for Toronto in January of 1983. A bachelor’s house.

Lynn had been on the run from a bad marriage, too. She had been a teacher before she married, and within five months of leaving her husband and taking up with Robert, she determined it was time to go back to work.
Thank you, Robert.
She held both his hands and looked him levelly in the eye as she spoke, in that grave, affectionate tone that always marked the end.
I’ve learned so much from you.

Robert unscrewed the cap off the bottle of Smirnoff’s he kept underneath the end table and poured a finger of vodka into a tumbler. He didn’t want to be a lesson for Sharon, any more than he had for Lynn . . . and Mary, and Laura. . . .

The vodka burned down his throat in a single gulp, and he resisted the urge to pour himself a second. He had been going to spend the evening reading, he remembered.

Robert got up, switched the radio on to CBC, and pulled down the Frederick Forsyth novel he’d been picking at through the summer. He settled down again and, after a moment’s consideration, poured himself another splash of vodka. The CBC was playing big band music, just getting into a long set of Woody Herman. Robert heaved back and his chair obligingly reclined.

It’s Sharon’s life
, he reminded himself
. Not Lynn’s, or Mary’s, or anyone else’s. She’ll decide
.

It was dark; Robert heard the wind rustling in the maple trees over the house and the jazz show was almost over when the phone rang.

“Hello, Bob.” Pat Shea’s voice had an uneasy singsong quality to it at the other end of the line. “How’s it going with you two?”

Robert smiled: since Sharon had started talking about moving in, it was clear that Pat was more than a little uncomfortable in her role as matchmaker. It would have been easier on her if they’d just gone out on a few dates, maybe kept up an affectionate correspondence between here and Toronto until the divorce was final; then a proper wedding at the nice old Anglican church the Sheas favoured in Gravenhurst. From Pat’s point of view, she had created an extra-marital monster by introducing Robert Thacker to Sharon Tefield.

“It’s going great,” said Robert, then added, to help Pat relax as much as anything, “Sharon’s back at the cottage tonight.”

“Is she?” There was a measure of change in Pat’s voice that Robert couldn’t quite place. “That might be just as well. I was actually calling to let you know. Allan phoned here this evening.”

Ah, hell. “What did he have to say?” he asked.

“A lot of ugly things. He sounded as though he’d been drinking.” Pat paused for a moment—he heard her breaths against the mouthpiece as she decided what to say next. “But he told me he knew about you and Sharon. He asked me if she’d moved in with you yet. I’m afraid. . . .”

She’d told him. She was sorry, she didn’t know how it slipped out, but there it was. Allan knew that his ex-wife was shacking up with the guy who owned Twin Oaks Campground.

“I’m sorry, Robert.”

“It’s all right. He was going to find out anyway.” In truth, Robert was surprised Sharon hadn’t told Allan already.

“We’re just worried about you. The two of you. Allan might be calling there later on tonight. That’s why I called.”

Robert smiled. “To warn me?”

Pat gave a small laugh. “I know you can take care of yourself, Bob. But you might want to screen your calls for the next few days.”

“Well I may just do that.” Robert didn’t remind Pat that his bachelor’s cabin didn’t have an answering machine or any other means to screen his calls, as she put it. “Thanks for the advance notice.”

But Pat went on. “You really don’t want to be talking to Allan right now, and when Sharon gets back, she won’t either. He sounded so . . . .”

Robert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder and uncapped the vodka while Pat searched for the word.

“It was like he was dried out. Like he’d been drinking whisky, straight up, every night. And the things he said . . . about Sharon, you . . . mostly Sharon. Honestly, Bob. . . .”

He set the vodka down, uncapped, on the end table. “I wish he’d called here in the first place,” he said. “This shouldn’t be your problem.”

“Do you want us to go out there? To her cottage?” Pat didn’t sound as though she wanted him to take her up on the offer, so he didn’t.

“No no no. Don’t worry; I’ll give her a call.”

“I just thought I should warn you.”

“And you did. Thank you, Pat.”

So they said their goodbyes and Robert returned the phone to its cradle. He swore softly. If Allan was in as bad a state as Pat seemed to think he was, Robert was more worried about him calling Sharon at the cottage—or driving there, for that matter—than he was about him calling here. After a moment’s thought, he picked up the phone again and dialled the number of Sharon’s cottage. It rang five times before she answered—she had been sleeping, he could tell.

He would be brief, he said, and told her about the conversation with Pat. “So you might want to, ah, screen your calls,” he said.

“Okay,” she mumbled through her sleep-haze. “Go to bed, honey.”

“Do you want me to come out there?” he asked.

“No.”

“If he shows up and you’re alone—”

Sharon made a stretching sound. “He won’t come,” she said.