Slow Recoil Read Free Page A

had swallowed them by the dozen while riding his bike, choking on them, digging them from his ears and the corners of his eyes.
    The sidewalk in front of his condo apartment off Front Street East was undulating with human traffic now, couples and groups of young people on their way to eat wings and sushi, or simply to sit and look good on the patio bars. All of these young people, McKelvey thought, with their bodies at the apex of health and strength, carefree as though life would always be just like this, filled with free time and spending money. He figured there was no sense in telling them the truth about what lay ahead. They would find out, just as he had, by navigating through one shitstorm at a time. Every year that he lived, he grew fonder of his late father and the example the man had tried to impart. That is to say, he let the man off the hook for all the things he had or hadn’t done as a father. The way things had worked out between McKelvey and his own son, well, it put a man’s view of himself in a clearer context. There was no end to the second-guessing, playing with the pain and regret like a tongue poking a canker.
    The sidewalk gave off a warmth still, as though it were the collective embers of all those golden days of July and August, when the tourists shuffled along on their way to a Blue Jays game or to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame. McKelvey lit a cigarette and enjoyed the rush of dope to his head, the effect of which always seemed compounded after a couple of pints of beer, as though the cigarettes knew his defenses were already weakened, so they took the opportunity to carry him across the threshold. He coughed a little and cleared his throat. It was the third and final allotted ration in what was his latest scheme to maneuver within this habit, for breaking it all together seemed utterly futile. Old dogs and all of that business. He had become, in his advanced years, a proponent of compromise.
    He walked the three or four paces to the door of his condo building. An attractive woman in her early forties walked by in a group of mixed company, and she caught McKelvey’s eye. A nice red dress that fit her well, fit her very well, a white sweater tied across her shoulders to guard against the evening chill. They gave each other this shy little smile, kids flirting in a schoolyard, and McKelvey shrugged as she walked on past, shifting her eyes to the sidewalk when she could no longer hold his gaze. He pinched the glow from the half-finished cigarette, dropping the ash to the sidewalk, twisted the end and put the remainder of the smoke in his shirt pocket. There was a measure of consolation in knowing he would start the next day up half a cigarette in the debit column. It was all just games that grownups played, this mental masturbation. One had to be grateful for the small mercies won or awarded in a day.
    McKelvey climbed the stairs. Each unit had its own landing and a small velvet-topped bench against the wall in case someone was waiting for you and for some strange reason you didn’t want them in your house. It was a new building and they were collectively the first tenants. There was the old Italian, Giuseppe, on the main floor, a former member of the resistance in Italy during the Second World War, the Resiztenza . McKelvey had tried to tell the old man to stop using a stone to prop open the inner door of the building, saying it defeated the purpose of a so-called secure entrance. The old man shrugged and said he could never remember to bring his keys with him when he limped up to the St. Lawrence Market to buy his coils of sausage. On the second floor was a young gay couple, Chad and Russell, both of whom appeared to be lawyers or perhaps financial traders, always dressed in these expensive suits and ties. On the third floor, just below McKelvey, there was a divorced woman in her late thirties or early forties who made Hattie a little jealous because she was cute with her short hair, and