“I tell her,” Bob said, “there’s no time for hanky-panky. Just rolling along. Sleep when you have to. Eat when you have to. Making a dime is hard.”
Bob had a potbelly from sitting in a truck for too long, eating truck-stop food. His kidneys were probably not good. Driving alone on contract, he’d have a case of Red Bull behind the seat.
Tom had seen truckers in the roadside cafés, the truck stops, had helped pull their bodies out of their cabs after they’d fallen asleep at the wheel, pushed too hard in bad weather, put off maintenance because they weren’t making enough and the brakes failed. In the last economic downturn, one of the younger truckers he’d got to know a bit had committed suicide because he was going to lose everything he’d worked for.
“A lonely life,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” Bob agreed. “You’ve got to like your own company.”
The three sisters had been listening, their bodies leaning toward the conversation. They were like glittering birds of prey, their eyes first looking at others, then shifting back to look at each other. When they locked eyes, they half grinned and ducked their heads.
He thought they might be mute, but then one of the sisters, not looking directly at him but at the table and half smiling, said, “Your name... Is it that you had an ancestor who was a parson?”
“Yes,” he said. He’d wondered that himself and had been curious enough to look back four generations. “In England. There were a number of divines in the family.” Two of his father’s uncles had been ministers with country parishes.
“English,” one of the twins said slowly, as if she had heard something distasteful, and she tipped her head back in a way that indicated her superiority and his inferiority.
This was, he decided, Skuld. The twins were hard to separate, but the elder sister—though she looked like them because of the makeup—was bonier, her body more drawn in, her back slightly stooped. He’d seen dead people who were more animated. For a second, he wondered if perhaps she was dead and had been freeze dried. Perhaps when the meal was over, they would pick her up and carry her away. Only her eyes glittered. She had no food in front of her.
“England,” he repeated, confirming Skuld’s suspicions.
“When people come to Valhalla, it is usually because they have Icelandic blood. Do you, by any chance, have any Icelandic blood?” It was said in a superior way that indicated she believed it was impossible. She tipped her head up as she said it and looked down her nose.
“Yes,” he said, so irritated by the prissy sneer and implied mockery that he admitted a fact he had not acknowledged since his mother had left and not returned. He’d put anything Icelandic that she’d given him or that he’d purchased in the garbage. “My mother's people were from Snæfellsness. When the war started, they moved into Reykjavik.”
He thought he saw the elder sister flinch. Slowly, her head revolved toward him.
Skuld leaned farther over the table and said in little more than a whisper, “An Icelandic mother? How can that be?” She studied his dark hair and dark eyes and, from her look, found him wanting. His mother had told him that where she came from the people were dark, the black Icelanders, probably from Irish ancestors but possibly Portuguese or Spanish. Foreign fishing boats frequently sank in storms or ran onto the rocks. One or two of the fishermen might survive. Leaving was so difficult that they stayed.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Sarah said, sounding put out at not having been party to his secret.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Icelandic with a slight English accent. Great camouflage. The undercover Icelander.”
They finished what was on their plates and the women from the kitchen brought plates of desserts and filled their coffee cups. There were, he noticed, Icelandic sweets, the kind his mother had made after her sister’s letter. He realized that the three sisters were looking at him with disbelief, as if he’d lied, as if he was a commoner making a claim to royal blood.
“Vinarterta,” he said to Sarah, who was filling her plate. “I remember the name for that. But what about these?” He picked up what looked like a donut with two pointy ends.
“Kleinur,” she replied.
“My mother sometimes made these for Sunday breakfast if my father was away,” he said as he picked up two pönnukökur, rolled pancakes, and put them on his plate. “Except my mother usually folded them with whipped cream and strawberry jam.”
“Here we roll them with brown sugar.”
Urdh and Skuld were carefully picking out two pieces of dessert each. They might have been choosing precious jewels from a queen’s treasure chest. Their scrawny hands floated over the plates, hesitated, moved on, finally dipped down and plucked a pönnukaka and a piece of vinarterta with its seven biscuit layers and six layers of prune filling. It had white icing.
“You’re icers here,” he said, remembering his mother telling him that there was an unending dispute between those who iced their vinarterta and those who didn’t.
“Hmm,” Sarah replied. “Icers and non-icers, you know about that. Maybe you’ve a few Icelandic genes, after all.”
“The truck stops any better than they used to be?” he asked Bob, moving the topic away from his Icelandic background.
Bob nodded, rubbed his bald head. “There are showers most places now, better meals. Still not enough places to park overnight.”
“Long runs?”
“A month,” Linda interjected with an edge to her voice. “A month at a time. Trucker’s widow, that’s me. Every time I hear about a truck accident, I check his route. Home for a few days, then he’s gone again. I tell him, sell the truck. Drive for a company. Then you can take time off because the bank isn’t waiting for your cheque.”
Bob rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. It was obviously an old argument.
“The company pays all the expenses,” Linda continued, “pays by the mile. But he doesn’t want to have a boss. I say the bank is his boss.”
Stepped on a land mine, Tom thought, and got up to get another cup of coffee.
When he got back, Verthandi was sitting motionless, staring at her plate. He wondered if she suffered from lockjaw or if her mouth was wired shut. If maybe she was suffering from rigor mortis.
Vidar was concentrating on his food. Whole slices of vinarterta disappeared into his mouth. He’d chew a couple of times, swallow, wash everything down with coffee, then pop another dessert into his mouth. He brushed the crumbs out of his moustache.
“If you want to fish, you have to buy a licence off someone who’s got one,” he said. “The government isn’t selling any new ones.”
“My father was a bookkeeper. My mother was a housewife. No fishermen in my family.”
Vidar’s wife, Arlene, sighed, shook her head slightly. “We can use a man around here who can fix things. Lots of things are broken, and they stay broken because no one knows how to fix them. Or they’re too lazy. Like that light in the back bedroom. It hasn’t worked for over a year.”
There were, Tom realized, land mines everywhere.
Vidar stood up. “I need to talk to Pastor Jon,” he said.
“His truck has been running roughly,” Arlene said in explanation. “He needs a prayer from Pastor Jon.”
Prayer, Tom thought, to fix a truck, but then Bob added for Tom’s benefit, “Pastor Jon’s the only mechanic for a hundred miles. He can’t fix new stuff like your truck. You’ve got to have computers for that.”
“Farm equipment, too,” Arlene said. She sounded annoyed. “There’s no point in trying to have a wedding during harvest time. A tractor breaks down or a threshing machine and he’ll leave the bride standing at the altar.”
Throughout the meal, Ben’s daughter and grandson remained in their seats beside him. If they wanted anything, one of the women who were serving brought it for them. Derk’s grief hadn’t lessened his app
etite. He’d had his dessert plate filled three times. He kept his elbows on the table on either side of his plate as if protecting it from being snatched away. He ate aggressively, defiantly, looking up from time to time and glaring at people in front of him. He didn’t quite sneer, but there were no smiles of recognition either from him or to him.
Wanda looked worn. She slumped in her chair. She stared at the table. There was food on her plate, but it was untouched. She had a drinker’s face, the kind of face you saw standing outside the liquor commission, waiting for the doors to open in the morning. The kind of face he’d often seen in the back of his patrol car or in the cells. She’d been pretty once, maybe beautiful, but her face was deeply lined, puffy, the skin slightly yellow. Her hands moved nervously on the table, picking up the utensils, putting them down, then disappearing under the table only to reappear. She needed a drink; she probably needed six drinks, vodka straight up. One of the women, seeing her need, brought a cup of coffee, leaned over to whisper. For the first time, Wanda’s face looked animated. She grabbed the cup with both hands and drained it. Liquid courage. Liquid mercy. Her daughter’s death wasn’t going to change her. Give her what she needed to get by. Now, she needed more help than usual.
Chapter 15
Long-Haul Living
When the funeral reception was over, Tom went back to his place but was too restless to settle to anything.
He couldn’t shake the image of Ben standing at the family table, trying to speak and not being able to. His daughter managed to get through the reception with three cups of false courage and his grandson managed it with sneering anger.
Because of the spruce trees, there were ragged patches of grass in the front and side yard. The needles were too acidic to let anything but the hardiest weeds grow. The spruce had shallow roots that ran over the surface of the ground, knobby, twisted roots that crossed and re-crossed, spread out like a large irregular puzzle. The trees, when they were this tall, stopped being attractive—instead, they were stately, living monuments rising over everything else. But they were dangerous, because in a high wind the shallow roots would often not hold and the trees would topple. There was one tree in the corner of the yard that had blown over, and with the tree lying on its side, the roots were higher than Tom. He’d take an axe to the branches, but he’d need to buy or borrow a chainsaw to turn the trunk into firewood. The tangled root ball, unearthed, would take a long time for him to gradually cut into useful pieces.
The mat of decaying needles covered the graves. If it weren’t for the remains of the small wooden crosses, there’d have been nothing to show that something had been buried on the edge of the yard. The crosses had rotted at the bottom, turned black, and when he’d picked up one of them, the outer shell of paint disintegrated. There were no names on any of the crosses. The uprights and the arms had been notched, fitted together, then screwed in place.
He peeled back the mat of debris and it came up like a carpet. There was nothing to indicate where a grave might have begun or ended. He threw the remnants of the crosses into the growing pile of spruce needles and twigs. He cleared away more of the reddish-brown mat from a concrete pad set with coloured pebbles. Cut into the concrete were the words Baby Oli. He cleared the ground around it, but there was nothing more to see. The pad was about three feet by two feet.
He’d seen graves like this before, usually in the yards of isolated farmhouses. No graveyard nearby at the time. Or terrible weather. Perhaps a death during a time when no one could leave off the harvest. Often those graves were right beside the house, and on the Prairies they often had lilacs planted beside them.
He pulled the debris well away from the grave, went for a pail of water and a stiff brush. He poured the water onto the concrete and brushed it clean. There was so little that could be done, nothing but a momentary token of respect possible, even though the grave held so much grief and pain.
After supper, he walked over to see Bob’s semi-trailer. Bob was washing the cab. Even though he knew Tom was there, he didn’t stop washing the cab and didn’t say hello.
“Hard job,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” Bob agreed. He just turned his head slightly to acknowledge Tom.
“Hard on the wife and kids. I used to deal with a lot of truckers on the highway. Too little sleep, crazy people in cars passing, then pulling in too soon, brakes go, tires blow up.”
“You said it. I’m away a month at a time. I just happen to be here for three days before I head out again.”
“Good money?”
“Good enough.” He stopped hosing down the truck’s grill. “Not big time. Not if you want to live in a smart neighbourhood in the city, but here, it’s lots. Food on the table, clothes, a car, even a trip every couple of years.”
“Ben a friend of yours?”
“You might say that. You might not. I’m not here for the kind of things that make friends. I think he’s okay. He thinks I’m okay. I donated to help pay for the funeral.”
“You knew Angel?”
“Not much. Cute kid. Always playing a tune. A comb with a piece of wax paper. Beer bottles with water in them. Beating on the bottom of a washtub. Used to sleep over at our place once in a while. Ben’s not much company for her, I guess. They’d play cribbage for pennies. He always let her win. He did what he knew. Checkers. She needed a mom and dad.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Of Ben? Sure, I approve. She was lucky she had him. Her mother’s a drunk. She wasn’t lucky to have her for a mother. Every time she ties one on, she ends up with a new boyfriend.”
“Her brother?”
“For a retired cop, you’re acting a lot like you’re still working.”
“Old habits. You don’t want to know what happened to Angel?”
Bob stopped polishing a headlight and stood up. “There are times it’s better to leave things be. No good hurting more people.” He started polishing the chrome around the light. “You going to perform a miracle? Bring her back? You going to get her mother to sober up? You going to get her brother to quit dealing and become a preacher?”
“If it was one of your kids?”
“Look,” Bob said, annoyed. He ran his left hand over his bald head. “I don’t live here much. I just visit now and again. You got questions, ask my wife. I’m leaving tonight at midnight. I got a long haul ahead of me. Just don’t ask her until after I’m gone. If she gets upset, she’s not so affectionate, you know what I mean?”
Bob ended the conversation by going to the other side of the truck.
Tom turned around and went to the store. He was out of bread. Once he was more settled, he’d ask Sarah to show him how to make his own. The stuff that Karla carried was crap. Crush it in your hand and it became the size of a golf ball. She’d order in better bread if you paid in advance. Frenchie would pick up special-order groceries. He had a cooler and a freezer in the truck. Locals didn’t use the service much. It was the sailboat and yacht crowd who put in orders for grade AAA steak, lobster, deli products, New York bagels. When the order arrived, Karla checked off everything, put it into cardboard boxes and sent two of the girls to deliver the orders. Local people didn’t tip, but the boaters and cottagers were used to giving tips and always added a few dollars when they got a delivery.
Tom felt the first real rise of resentment. It was like a dark fern unfurling inside him. He had a vehicle, he had disability, he was tight for money, but he could afford gas, and when the house was finished, he’d be able to take on more paid work, but, already, the way that Karla and Horst seemed to have their hands in everything, getting a piece of everyone’s action, annoyed him. The locals, he thought, had had years to nurture their resentment.
There were a couple of locals waiting at the counter when he came in. There was a ritual about being served, a prescribed order. Karla always smiled harder for the visitors, her eyes never left them, she always rem
embered their names and preferred to use their titles—Mr., Mrs., Dr., Professor, Your Honour—as if using their title and their last name added dignity to them, recognized their importance, and their importance reflected on her. She was still the star in her own show, and they were the audience sitting in the expensive seats.
Karla was busy taking care of three cottagers. The locals wouldn’t get served until the cottagers had everything they wanted. He didn’t feel like standing in line waiting for the elite to be waited on. He knew Karla saw him leave, and he knew, as well, that she didn’t care. Whatever it was that he came for, he had to get from her. Otherwise, he had to drive ninety miles to the first town with a decent store. When he went to town, he would, he promised himself, load up on anything that could be stored. Maybe even see what others needed and take a shopping list.
Chapter 16
The Spinners
That evening there was no breeze and the air felt heavy. For once, he wished he had a window air conditioner. Beads of sweat formed on his arms. Even though the sun had descended below the spruce trees to the east, the heat was smothering. He saw through the trees that the boaters at the dock had put foamies onto the decks of their boats. One of them had set up a portable hammock and hung a mosquito net over it. He must have been a boy scout, Tom thought, with chagrin. Always prepared.
He put on his swim trunks and waded into the lake. The water was like a warm bath. When he got deep enough, he lay back and floated, kicking just enough to push himself farther out from shore. Once in the deeper water, he dove, trying to reach cooler water, but the heat had penetrated to the bottom. There would be no fish caught off the reef, he thought, the water was too warm, too deprived of oxygen. The fish would have moved toward deeper water. To get those, he needed a boat.
In Valhalla's Shadows Page 19