“Uh, well. I thought we could just talk about it a bit.” He really hasn’t thought this through. He should have thought it through.
“If this is you asking me to marry you, this is the worst proposal ever. What are you doing? Why are you talking about this now?”
“I was just thinking about it.”
“So how would it work, Jules? Do we get married before you kill yourself trying to jump over the river? It’d be a short marriage.”
“Trudy.”
“Or do we just pretend we’ll get married after? Good trick. Thanks, Jules. Thanks a lot.” He knows that his gestures are falling short. That the only credible way to show her that he loves her would be to shut the whole thing down. Stop plotting and scheming. Admit defeat. But it’s too late. Jules hadn’t planned for this. He never expected to have something to live for.
Trudy looks out the window as the black trees go by in the black night, lined up along the side of the road. “I can’t even talk about this. I hate talking about this.”
“Here.” Keeping his eyes on the road, Jules pushes the silver bell across the seat, nudges her thigh with it. “Take this. Let’s just see what happens. You never know.”
Trudy opens the box and looks at the ring. She tries it on a few fingers before slipping it on the middle finger of her left hand. A perfect fit. She looks out the window and flips him the bird with her bejewelled digit. “It’s bad luck, you know.”
“What is?”
“An opal. Opals are bad luck. Everyone knows that.”
“Perfect,” he says and smiles out at the night. He looks over at her and, begrudgingly, she is smiling, too. He pushes down hard on the gas, and they fly through the dark toward the lights of the factory.
Because some things just don’t feel natural
There is almost always someone sleeping in this house now. Mercy feels like she and Speckles have to be quiet all the time. There is nowhere to go to play. Except outside.
Grandma Claire and Grandpa Dee sleep in the living room. Grandma gets up early like Mercy and Speckles, but Dee sleeps longer, snoring away on the hide-a-bed, hugging the blankets. But not as long as Tammy and Fenton! They stay up late and sleep late. At night, they sit in the kitchen, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. In the morning, Mercy has to tiptoe out of the bedroom so she doesn’t wake them. Fenton sleeps right on the floor beside Tammy’s single bed. Like a dog! He doesn’t even have a pillow. He just rolls up his jean jacket and puts it under his head.
And Trudy sleeps all afternoon in Mercy’s bed. Unless she is with Jules.
It has been a whole week, and Mercy still hasn’t touched her mother. And Tammy hasn’t touched her. Not like Grandpa Dee. The very first day he was here, he swept Mercy right off her feet and put her on his shoulders. Easy as that. Every time he walks by, he pats her on the head or gives her shoulder a squeeze. Like he loves her just because she is a kid or just because Grandma Claire loves her. Simple.
But Mercy is scared of her mother, and she is not sure why. She has never seen her get angry, but she is afraid of her getting angry. She doesn’t act like other adults that Mercy knows. Instead of talking to you, she just gives you warnings. Half the time she doesn’t say anything at all, and the other half she just tells you what not to do. Don’t ever do this. Don’t ever do that. Things you would never think of doing anyway. Mercy thinks that Tammy gives off something electrical, like a spark or a shock that keeps you away. It gives Mercy bad dreams. She keeps dreaming about walking into the living room and seeing a stranger in a chair in the corner. A man with yellow lenses in his glasses and messy hair. Just sitting very still, like a statue or a mannequin. Then Trudy comes in and says, “Mercy, it’s your mom!”
She says it so loud it wakes Mercy up every time.
And sometimes she dreams that they are gone. That she wakes up one morning and Tammy and Fenton are gone. She looks out the window at the driveway and the turquoise truck is gone.
Like thieves in the night is what Grandma Claire would say.
Quiet as thieves in the night.
Because some people never learn
Five adults, one child, and one dog in that tiny house. Four of them sharing a bedroom. Surprisingly, Trudy thinks, it has gone pretty well. For the first few weeks, anyway. Darren, clearly, is going nowhere. He has already started doing odd jobs around town, employing Fenton when he can. Claire is in top dizzy form, fussing, cleaning, cooking, kissing, and cuddling every person that gets within range. Singing mushy songs all the while.
Speckles likes everybody. Except possibly Trudy. But the feeling is mutual.
Trudy is enjoying the freedom of having more pairs of hands, more volunteers for the school run. And more opportunities to slip out and visit Jules. Because, let’s face it, she is in love.
For Mercy, though, things have been mixed. She loves having people around and is especially fond of Darren and Fenton, but at night she has been having bad dreams.
And there is Tammy. There is always Tammy, thinks Trudy. No surprises there. Several times, she has seen Mercy come running down the stairs or down the hall, catch sight of Tammy, and stealthily retreat. Similarly, Tammy seems to leave every room Darren enters.
Less subtle is the Tammy and Fenton dynamic. Tammy is routinely cruel to Fenton, calling him names and mocking him, but last week Trudy saw a few things that she really wishes she hadn’t seen.
It was a sunny day, and Trudy was sitting on a lawn chair in the yard, watching Fenton play Frisbee with Mercy. Speckles was tracking the orange disc as it sailed through the air, shuffling halfheartedly after it, one way and then the other. Mercy’s throws were mostly wild and off-course, and Fenton gamely retrieved and returned each one.
“FENTON!” Tammy was suddenly on the front step, eyes shooting daggers at the happy scene before her. “Let’s go!”
Fenton, to Trudy’s astonishment, ignored Tammy and went jogging off to retrieve the Frisbee from the driveway. He sent it back toward Mercy, smiling at her. “We’re just going to finish our game, right Mercy?”
“Right,” said Mercy and sent another one sailing high over Fenton’s head. Fenton jogged away again and bent to pick up the Frisbee, but as he turned to throw it back, he was confronted with a furious Tammy standing right before him. She had actually jumped off the step and raced across the yard. She grabbed the Frisbee and threw it on the ground.
“STOP!” cried Mercy, as her mother shoved Fenton with both hands flat against his chest. He stumbled back a few steps. Tammy picked up the Frisbee and started hitting him over the head with it. Fenton raised his arms, crossing his wrists in front of his face in surrender. Trudy was out of her chair and heading across the yard.
“Are you somebody’s daddy now, Fenton? Is that what you think you are?” Tammy threw the Frisbee on the ground in disgust and stormed back to the house, almost knocking Trudy over as she passed. “And fuck you, too, Trudy.”
Fenton smiled weakly, patting the weeping Mercy on the head, and followed Tammy into the house to make amends.
And then, a couple days later, Trudy had witnessed something else.
She had been driving home from the grocery store when she had seen them. There, standing outside the pool hall was her sister, tits almost spilling out of her too-tight top, head thrown back in laughter, her lipsticked mouth open wide. And beside her, head down, sly smirk on his face, was that weasel, Sammy Harrison. As Trudy drove by, Sammy reached out and pulled Tammy close, cupping her ass in both hands.
That’s more like it, thought Trudy. They deserve each other, those two.
And, finally, a couple days after that, Trudy saw Fenton and Tammy sitting in the truck in the driveway, fighting, crying, and then falling into each other’s arms.
Dear God in heaven. It was sad but true: some people never, ever learn.
Because it has always been serious
“So t
his Jules guy.”
“Yeah?” It is late morning and Tammy and Trudy are drinking coffee in a booth at the Jubilee. Fenton has been sent on an errand of some kind.
“Your boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is he French or something?”
“Yes, Tammy. He’s French.”
“Thought so. He looks like fucking Blacque Jacques Shellacque or something.” Tammy laughs at her own joke, puts another cream in her coffee. “Honestly.”
“Hilarious.”
“Don’t get touchy. I was just asking. He’s just got that lumberjack look, you know? All eyebrows and curly hair.” She looks at Trudy dead-on, now. Trying to read her. “You think he’ll really make that jump?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?” Trudy would rather not go down this road with her sister this morning. She wishes they had something to talk about that didn’t matter. But it has never been that way between them. It has always been serious. Hard going. Love and hate, sound and fury.
Tammy takes a drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke up over Trudy’s head. She sounds bored. “It’s pretty far. And that ramp doesn’t look right. Fenton and I drove out there yesterday, and it looks like it’s about to fall over.” There is something weird about Tammy now, thinks Trudy. Something new and hard. Robotic. It’s like she doesn’t know she is talking to a human being about another human being. A person she loves. Who might die.
“Can we change the subject? Why don’t we talk about your daughter, for example?”
“Right.” Tammy drums the tabletop with her thumbs. “Seems more like your daughter, if you ask me.”
The hair on the back of Trudy’s neck stands up, and her scalp tingles. She is not sure she can have this conversation, either. Not in any civilized way. “What’s going on, Tammy? Are you mad at me for taking care of your daughter for you all this time? If so,” she makes a sweeping gesture with her arm like she is taking a bow, “then fuck you.”
“Yeah, fuck me. I’m terrible and you’re great.” Tammy fakes a smile with her teeth.
But her eyes are dead.
The Stunt
Because maybe they really are trying to kill you
Jules puts the phone down. Defeated again. Guy is out. No deal. The bottom, the barrel, scraped clean. He had been kidding himself, as usual.
It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic. His cherished rocket-car replica, his star prop for all these years, now mutilated by the angry townsfolk and abandoned in the waving tall grass of the backyard. Orange, yellow, red leaves scattered across the dented hood, fluttering down from above. The JULES TREMBLAY HEADQUARTERS sign bashed in and hanging from one corner on the post by the road. The giant leaning ramp and the ever-diminishing hope of an investor. The rain, rain, rain, endless rain.
The stuntman with the limp and his fading yellow shiner.
But wait! There’s more!
How about the cowboy who landed on his head? Hilarious!
James and Mark have been and gone weeks earlier, the room cleared out. Boots and all. They moved back to Montreal — recovering from their so-called careers in rodeo. James is looking for a job while caring for Mark, who wears a halo of steel around his head and a cast covering his whole torso. Like some kid’s bad space-robot Halloween costume.
They are officially done with The Stupid Life. Jules can well understand it.
It has been raining again for the last month, and Jules wears his winter coat inside the big, empty, rambling house. He will not turn on the heat. There isn’t enough money for that. If he is still here — in this town, in this physical mortal realm — when the snow falls, he will see about turning on the heat then. For now, he walks around wrapped in a rainbow-coloured granny-square afghan that Claire crocheted for him. He wears it over his coat to keep out the damp cool air. Occasionally, he even wears a toque. This is the state he is in when Sammy knocks on the door: cold and alone. Despairing of his future, hiding from the world.
The Mad Canadian, indeed.
He flinches when he hears the knock at the door. He considers not answering, just laying low until his visitor gives up.
The knocking comes again in shave-and-a-haircut style. Thump-thumpity-thump-thump. Thump, thump. Two bits. So corny. So showbiz. It can only be Sammy. Why now? Where has he been all this time while everything was going to hell? Not taking Jules’s calls, that’s for sure.
Jules shuffles toward the door, not even bothering to take off the afghan. He can’t bear the cold. Fuck Sammy if he doesn’t like it.
“Hey, Jules. Nice getup.” Sammy walks past him and sits at the kitchen table. His jeans are so tight, he doesn’t actually bend at the hips. He just catches the edge of the chair with the slight curve of his ass and leans against it like a plank. Cowboy boots straight out in front, crossed at the ankles.
“Got a beer or something?”
“No,” Jules lies. “What’s up, Sammy?”
“We’re gonna do it, Jules. We’re gonna do the jump.”
“What are you talking about?” What do you mean we, he thinks.
“The network called me. They’re back in. We’re gonna do it two weeks from Tuesday.”
Jules can’t make sense of this. “Sammy, the ramp is fucked. The car isn’t ready. How can we even sell tickets by then?”
“Not selling tickets.”
“What do you mean we’re not selling tickets?”
“The network doesn’t want to sell tickets. Liability or something. They just want to shoot it and get it done.”
They’re trying to kill me, thinks Jules. “Are they trying to kill me?”
“Relax,” says Sammy. “Everything will be fine. Your dream is finally coming true, man! Cheer up!” Sammy gets up from the table and runs a hand through his feathery hair. “Gotta go. Listen: they want to see you in Ottawa on Monday. I’ll let you know when I know more. Hang in there, buddy.”
He thumps Jules on the back and walks out the door.
Jules is still staring after him when a spider with a body the size and colour of a malt ball drops from the ceiling and dangles in front of his face. He actually squeals and jumps back, pulling his blanket around his shoulders.
Because you don’t have to see people go to know they are gone
Trudy can’t believe he is going away again. It seems like everybody in the whole world can just come and go as they please, and she has to stay in Preston Mills and sew pillowcases. What is she doing wrong?
“I don’t know why they want to see me, Trudy. Sammy says the network wants to renegotiate. Maybe set a new date for the jump.” He is not going to tell her what date they have in mind. Not until he knows for sure.
“Stupid jump.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” They are sitting in his car in her driveway. His gym bag is packed and sitting on the back seat. She doesn’t want to get out and watch him drive away. She doesn’t want to hear any more about the jump. It’ll never happen anyway, she is sure of it. Nobody could possibly believe that car could fly. And the ramp is ridiculous. It all seems like a morbid joke now. “Don’t go. Let’s just go somewhere else. Let’s just go get Mercy from school and run away.”
He smiles over at her. She is stalling and he knows it. “Yeah? Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“And how would we live? Do they have factories and rocket cars there?”
“They have those everywhere.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. They have rocket cars everywhere. Factories are harder to come by. We could try something new. Circus? Freak show? Mercy’s small and you’re crazy. That must be worth something.”
“Get out of my car, lady.”
Trudy leans over and gives him a deafening smack of a kiss on his right ear. “If you’re not back on Wednesday, I will
never forgive you. Don’t put me through that again.”
“I won’t.”
She gets out of the car, heads for the house, goes inside.
She doesn’t need to see him go to know he is gone.
Because sometimes you can smell a rat
Another day, another dollar, thinks Darren as he cleans his brush in the laundry sink. He has repainted the entire ground floor of this big house by the river in less than a week, and he feels good. Fenton couldn’t make it again today but that was OK — Darren managed to finish the job by himself. He is whistling to himself, getting ready to leave, when Joe Davis knocks on the door. He says he is selling tickets for the rocket car jump across the river. He lives just across the road from the ramp. (Darren knows this — Davis lives in a trailer so crooked and parked so close to the bank of the river it looks like it might topple in.) He says people are buying tickets to sit in his yard and watch the jump tomorrow.
“Twenty-five bucks each.” Davis holds a limp fan of handwritten tickets in his filthy hand. They say: Rocket Car — Admit One — $25. He smells like urine and sweat. Darren looks from the stubbled face down to Joe’s mud-covered rubber boots and thanks God he didn’t invite him in.
“What are you talking about? Who says the jump is tomorrow?”
“They brought the car up from the States last week. I seen it. They’re keeping it at Danny Franklin’s garage in Chesterville.”
“Listen, I know the guy. He isn’t even in town right now. They haven’t even finished fixing the ramp.”
“Guess he’s comin’ back then, and I guess it’ll have to be done. One o’clock tomorrow is what Danny says. You want some tickets or what? I only got ten left.” Darren finds this hard to believe. He finds all of it hard to believe.
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