right now at Canadian Tire. For a few days, anyway. Until me and another guy finish putting together the garden centre. I shouldhave enough cash by then to get to Fort McMurray. You remember Steve? He’s living there now. I’m hoping he’ll have some leads on work.”
“Steve Greyeyes,” Maryanne says. “Of course we remember him.”
“I need to find a job, and fast,” Joe says, thinking of the promise he made to his father—the move to Deere Lodge is only temporary. This is the lie he also tells himself—that no matter where he is he’ll return to Winnipeg and set the record straight. When he has the means he’ll make whatever arrangements are necessary to move Alfred in with them, wherever that may be.
“Is that what you want to do, Joe? Go to Fort McMurray?” Pastor Ken asks.
“It’ll do for now,” Joe says and gives a ragged laugh.
“Remember, Joe, you’re God’s kid. He wants only the best for you,” Maryanne says, echoed by Pastor Ken’s “Amen to that.”
“Can we pray for you, Joe? Ken and I have been thinking about you so often lately. Now we know why.”
“I haven’t got much time left on this phone,” Joe says quickly, thinking they mean to begin praying now.
Maryanne laughs. “It’s okay, Joe. You don’t need to be in on this. God is, and that’s what counts.”
“Promise you’ll keep in touch,” Pastor Ken adds. “And if there’s anything we can do, all you have to do is ask, little buddy. Anything at all.”
“Thanks,” Joe says. Although he wants to hold onto their voices for a while longer, he needs the time he’s got left on the cell to stay connected to Alfred. He hangs up without saying goodbye.
He turns toward the motorhome and sees his own footprints in the sheen of frost. He can smell it, like wet sawdust and must. Like the odour of the tin-sided garage whose earth floor hadn’t been exposed to sunlight for years. The scent sometimes clung to his mother’s sweater when she’d been out there cleaning storm windows, or refinishing a piece of furniture. It is a time he can scarcely recall, although he’d lived all his life in his parents’ house on Arlington Street.
Once inside, he undresses quickly, knowing from Laurie’s stillness that she’s asleep. He climbs into bed, careful not to wake her. There’s a sudden sharp snapping, the skin of the Meridian contracting in the dropping temperature. He closes his eyes, remembering how the walls in the empty showroom would snap during winter, startling him so that he would sometimes go and see if someone had come in without him knowing. He recalls then, how in late afternoon the sunlight retreated from the land out back, the wind-sculpted snowdrifts looking like waves on a sea. That’s when the doe and her yearling would emerge from the scrub bush, like faint beige brush strokes as they minced along the deep ruts worn through heavy snow and down into the ditch beside the road where they would be sheltered from the wind. Minus thirty without the wind chill, while inside the Happy Traveler the heaters hummed and surged.
When Joe comes down the steps of the Meridian the next morning on his way to Canadian Tire, the traffic on Albert Street is already heavy, a steady one-way flow toward the city centre. Although the sky is overcast, he squints against the brightness of daylight, shivers as he tugs the cords onhis hoodie to draw it snug against his neck. He goes round the front of the Meridian, its broad windshield running with moisture, and then down along its side, startling several gulls into flight. He inspects the motorhome for deflated tires, scratches, the chalky spatter of bird feces. Should there be any damage he has no recourse, and so he practises vigilance, hoping it is enough to ward off an attack.
He looks up to see if the pot of greenery has appeared on the third-floor balcony of an apartment building across Gibson Road. Last night when he went to pick up the pizza, the plant was gone. Whoever
“Steve Greyeyes,” Maryanne says. “Of course we remember him.”
“I need to find a job, and fast,” Joe says, thinking of the promise he made to his father—the move to Deere Lodge is only temporary. This is the lie he also tells himself—that no matter where he is he’ll return to Winnipeg and set the record straight. When he has the means he’ll make whatever arrangements are necessary to move Alfred in with them, wherever that may be.
“Is that what you want to do, Joe? Go to Fort McMurray?” Pastor Ken asks.
“It’ll do for now,” Joe says and gives a ragged laugh.
“Remember, Joe, you’re God’s kid. He wants only the best for you,” Maryanne says, echoed by Pastor Ken’s “Amen to that.”
“Can we pray for you, Joe? Ken and I have been thinking about you so often lately. Now we know why.”
“I haven’t got much time left on this phone,” Joe says quickly, thinking they mean to begin praying now.
Maryanne laughs. “It’s okay, Joe. You don’t need to be in on this. God is, and that’s what counts.”
“Promise you’ll keep in touch,” Pastor Ken adds. “And if there’s anything we can do, all you have to do is ask, little buddy. Anything at all.”
“Thanks,” Joe says. Although he wants to hold onto their voices for a while longer, he needs the time he’s got left on the cell to stay connected to Alfred. He hangs up without saying goodbye.
He turns toward the motorhome and sees his own footprints in the sheen of frost. He can smell it, like wet sawdust and must. Like the odour of the tin-sided garage whose earth floor hadn’t been exposed to sunlight for years. The scent sometimes clung to his mother’s sweater when she’d been out there cleaning storm windows, or refinishing a piece of furniture. It is a time he can scarcely recall, although he’d lived all his life in his parents’ house on Arlington Street.
Once inside, he undresses quickly, knowing from Laurie’s stillness that she’s asleep. He climbs into bed, careful not to wake her. There’s a sudden sharp snapping, the skin of the Meridian contracting in the dropping temperature. He closes his eyes, remembering how the walls in the empty showroom would snap during winter, startling him so that he would sometimes go and see if someone had come in without him knowing. He recalls then, how in late afternoon the sunlight retreated from the land out back, the wind-sculpted snowdrifts looking like waves on a sea. That’s when the doe and her yearling would emerge from the scrub bush, like faint beige brush strokes as they minced along the deep ruts worn through heavy snow and down into the ditch beside the road where they would be sheltered from the wind. Minus thirty without the wind chill, while inside the Happy Traveler the heaters hummed and surged.
When Joe comes down the steps of the Meridian the next morning on his way to Canadian Tire, the traffic on Albert Street is already heavy, a steady one-way flow toward the city centre. Although the sky is overcast, he squints against the brightness of daylight, shivers as he tugs the cords onhis hoodie to draw it snug against his neck. He goes round the front of the Meridian, its broad windshield running with moisture, and then down along its side, startling several gulls into flight. He inspects the motorhome for deflated tires, scratches, the chalky spatter of bird feces. Should there be any damage he has no recourse, and so he practises vigilance, hoping it is enough to ward off an attack.
He looks up to see if the pot of greenery has appeared on the third-floor balcony of an apartment building across Gibson Road. Last night when he went to pick up the pizza, the plant was gone. Whoever
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