Waiting for Joe Read Free Page A

puts it out in the morning gets up early. A woman, he thinks. Hell of a struggle, given that it’s the size of a small tree. Maybe she came out onto the balcony in a terry robe. He thinks of Laurie sprawled across the bed, her breasts a surprise of white in contrast to the deep tan of her body; the welcome in Maryanne Lewis’s voice.
    Here and there cars are parked on the lot, belonging to employees, he guesses, and beyond Walmart at the entrance of Sunrise Mall, he sees the blocky figure—mall security—standing just inside the doors waiting to check the employees through as they arrive. The windows of Walmart and the shopping mall are like mirrors and conceal what he imagines goes on before opening, the quiet scurry of employees rearranging the merchandise to create the impression that every day is the first day of business, as others keep their eyes fixed on computer screens placing orders and checking inventory.
    He runs his hand along the side of the Meridian as though it’s a horse, thinking that he’d like to be able to say he left it in the same condition as when he stole it. Except,of course, for the mileage. He squats and peers into the wheel well, reassures himself that he has some time before the receiver takes an inventory of his defunct business and discovers that the Meridian is gone. When he hears Laurie moving about in the motorhome he rises from his squat.
    He crosses the short distance between the parking lot and the sidewalk beyond it, and then Gibson Road, empty of traffic at this time of day. The lights flash amber in all directions, as they will until the shopping mall opens in an hour, and again in the evening after it closes.
    Several blocks beyond the traffic lights, Gibson Road comes to an end in country where the Trans-Canada Highway curves west past the airport and rises through a gentle ridge of smoke-blue hills. After they fled Winnipeg, Joe at first stayed clear of the highway. He took a longer route through a winding valley, under a sky that looked heavy and threatened rain. But when the fuel gauge hit the halfway mark and began sinking rapidly, he joined up with the Trans-Canada, where he was more likely to find diesel.
    He reaches the parking lot at Boston Pizza, thinking that the air smells like high altitude, like the mountains, clean and thin.
Are you heading this way?
If he left now he could be in the Rockies within a day and a half.
    “Joe,” Laurie calls, and he turns to see her, her robe a flash of purple satin as she tiptoes alongside the motorhome and over to the sidewalk where she stops, crimps the robe closed at her neck and holds out a paper bag. His lunch, the sandwiches she made last night.
One loaf of bread: $2.35, Ham: $3.49
, she entered in the notebook she had bought at Walmart the day they arrived.
Walnut Crest, $11.95
, Laurie jotted in the notebook, giving herself a paton the back for not having bought a more expensive Australian shiraz.
    As he retraces his steps he sees that her lips are stained with the wine she drank while watching
24
last night, the
kachunk kachunk
soundtrack accentuating the quickness of their pulses. Joe sat at the dinette, the remains of the pizza and bottle of wine on the table before him. Laurie curled up on the lounger, rising now and again to top up her glass, the scent of Wish, her perfume, lingering. She came across it years ago in a duty-free. She likes the bottle, a heavy piece of glass shaped like a diamond. Wish, a state of desire. A wish for something more, for a happy ending.
    He takes the bag from Laurie without speaking or meeting her eyes, but he notices that she’s come after him without stopping to put on shoes and that her toes are scrunched up against the cold.
    “You’re going to freeze, you’d better get inside,” he says, without the usual undertow of anger.
    “Should I come down and meet you later?” Her green eyes roam across Joe’s face in a fruitless search for warmth.
    “Do whatever you want,” he