Harmless Read Free Page B

grey-brown line of trees as it stretched west out of view and northeast along the narrow highway, the forest forming a natural boundary for the farmland, imposing itself on the ordered fields and pastures like the wall of an ancient fortress—if such places had ever existed.
    “It’s all Crown land now,” Alex said, studying his face. “Tens of thousands of acres, then it becomes a national park.”
    How much land did that add up to? It must be the size of a city. He imagined ancient groves and green hilltops and lush meadows, creeks and swamps and lakes, the idea of sleeping so close to the wilderness casting a pleasant, archetypal shadow over the weekend. He wished Franny were around. The images of ancient forts and groves were right out of the adventure novels she used to read, tales of brave Byzantine slave girls, Celtic women warriors, Maori princesses.
    “Do people ever get lost in there?” he asked.
    “Sure. Some never find their way out.”
    Another line of oily sweat coiled down Joseph’s back.
    “Can’t you tell what direction you’re going by checking the tree moss? It only grows on the north side of the tree.”
    “That’s a myth,” Alex said. “Moss grows on every side.”
    Of course it did, and of course Alex knew that.
    “People wander in circles for days, passing the same trees, driven half-crazy by the bugs. If you know how to walk north, south, or east, you’ll eventually come to a road.”
    Joseph looked west toward the rolling pastures behind the farm. “What if you walk west?”
    “You’ll find out who your real friends are.”
    Once again Joseph waited for a punchline that didn’t come.

    S o this was the heart of Alex’s domain: a farmer’s shed about twenty feet long and ten wide, an old wood stove in one corner, a work table stacked with crates of his old film equipment, and shelves lined with tools, wood solvents, DVDS , and the overflow from the family book collection, which Jane had refused to pare down before the move. Joseph recognized a few of her history textbooks stacked on top of a row of kids’ books. She used to fantasize about owning a house with a library, about indulging in a rare burst of geekiness by arranging her book collection by subject on the future floor-to-ceiling shelves. He saw a crate on the table marked
Film Projects
and wondered if his script for Alex’s planned documentary on homelessness was in there, the script he’d abandoned without warning when things fell apart with Martha. There was a smaller tabletop covered in old farming implements and rocks, but he saw no evidence of the “new political project” Liz had alluded to with such scorn in the car.
    Joseph and Alex and Mike had entered the shed to grab an axe but were interrupted by the opening synth chords of“The Final Countdown,” Mike’s favourite good–bad rock anthem, signalling a call on his iPhone. As they waited for Mike to finish, Joseph scanned the book spines on a handmade bookcase big enough to entomb a family of four while Alex scowled at Mike’s persistent use of the word
dude
. He was too progressive to use the word, but when it came down to it, Alex thought Mike was a
pussy
, a man-boy forsaking proper adulthood for sleeve tattoos and Converse sneakers, a buddy to his kids instead of a father. Jane and Liz were no doubt playing caretakers to their husbands’ anger in the kitchen, their decades-old friendship the neutral site for negotiations. It was a nice enough set-up for the men, but their wives wouldn’t be happy travelling back in time to claim the fixed gender roles waiting there. Joseph could picture the women slicing carrots or some other hard root vegetable at the counter, but for all that he knew about them, all the times he’d seen them bingeing or drying out, infatuated or depressed, he had no idea how they spoke as one wife to another.
    “How’s the store working out?” Joseph asked Alex, fighting off the shed’s closed-in atmosphere.
    “Not bad.