by E. R. Brown
I was procrastinating, and I knew it. The truck was loaded and ready, but Rachel had started her summer job, so there was no one to drive it but me. This morning was her training shift at Five Star Video, the only place in Wallace with a summer job for a girl with spiky white hair and a scaly tattoo snaking up her neck.
I took the driver’s seat. Fortunately for me, Rachel had backed it into the garage, so I didn’t have to reverse it out.
First I checked the glove box. Whose truck was this, anyway? There was a stack of greasy papers and oil-change receipts, and a vinyl pouch with the registration and insurance, in the name of an Edmond Ngan. Good to know. My buddy Ed lent me his truck, officer, I have no idea what’s in the back.
I’d never driven the truck alone. In both of my driving lessons, Rachel had kept up a steady stream of reminders: listen to the engine, shift up now, and push in the clutch when you stop.
I swallowed and slipped the truck into gear. This is how it feels to be out of your depth. Pressure on the gas, slip out the clutch. No problem, a bit of a lurch but no squealing tires. Out of the garage and onto the paved road in a deft, smooth shift-and-turn. Not bad at all.
The next level of challenge: a hundred feet down, the dirt road was barricaded. Bump up onto the sidewalk and steer between two rough-framed buildings and behind them onto the service trail. The trail was blazed years before by the power and gas line crews. What was left was a pair of wheel ruts, overgrown with grass and blackberry brambles. Rachel had driven up it so there was no doubt that the truck would fit. I just had to follow it downhill through the woods and eventually I’d reach the highway. She assured me that it was easier than it looked: just keep your wheels in the ruts and the truck will steer itself. I took it as easily as possible, sliding in the clutch and letting the truck roll downhill so I could pay attention to keeping my tires in the track as I threaded between the trees. As the trail left the unfinished properties behind, there was a fork that I didn’t remember from the drive uphill, and I chose the trail with the larger ruts, but I hadn’t gone a hundred feet before it dead-ended at a bramble-covered stack of railway ties.
No way to turn around. I’d have to take it in reverse, uphill. No problem, just keep in the ruts. I pushed both pedals down, put the gearshift into reverse and craned my head out the window to see where the path forked. I slid the clutch out slowly, just an inch, and the engine stalled. I tried again with more gas, and the woods filled with the whine of an over-revving engine and the smell of burning clutch. I hadn’t known that smell before yesterday. The truck shuddered but remained immobile. I let out another inch of clutch and it caught, grabbing the rear wheels and skittering the tail sideways to crush a sapling and stall the engine with a choking sound. The smell of gasoline filled the air.
What now? I lay my forehead on the steering wheel and nearly wept. I wanted to walk away. But I saw myself telling Randle, or worse, Bullard, about the truck I’d left stranded in the woods, and how someone had reported it to the police and had it towed, load of dope and all. Bullard would not have enjoyed the story.
I got out and took a closer look at the situation, and took a tire iron to the little spruce, or pine, or whatever it was that was jammed under the back bumper, pulping the poor thing to mush. Then I rolled the truck downhill, away from the mess my tires had carved into the path, and tried again. It took a few attempts. I was gentler on the clutch, but it wasn’t particularly smooth — the truck shook and the smell of burning clutch spread through the cab and probably the entire forest, but eventually I made it to the fork and from there through the lower meadows and down to the highway.
The last job of the day was done. I’d driven from Chilliwack to Harrison Lake, from deep-woods grow ops to a depot a few blocks from Bullard’s strip club. The final delivery was to Randle’s hash factory, where Johan — the skinny dude who liked workie-green clothes and shared child-care duties with his girlfriend — offered a cup of tea. Since Bullard’s visit, we were like war buddies, tested under fire. He and Astrid, the girlfriend, chattered with me about ethnobotanicals, the magical, mystical and curative plants that have been used for millennia, they said, from Ayahuasca to iboga bark, peyote, salvia, yerba maté, and various fungi. I’d been pleased with myself — I didn’t just listen, I could hold my own in a conversation with these people. I was a beginner, sure, but I was picking up a few things about the products and the processes, and they were treating me as an equal.
Now I was heading back in the general direction of the highway, and only a little bit lost. Getting there had been easy. Skip’s directions had been clear, but a couple of the streets had been one way, so I couldn’t return by exactly the same route. I wasn’t worried, there was the one main highway that paralleled the American border, and as long as you headed toward it you’d eventually find your way.
Back roads like this were perfect for driving practice, with plenty of slowing and speeding up and hills that needed downshifting. I still freaked out when a car crept up behind me at a stop sign or red light — rolling backwards into them was a real possibility — but on these streets there was barely any traffic. It had been range land once, and still felt like a cowboy might come moseying into view, but fields had been parcelled off into suburban-style lots, with double carports and trailer-sized garages, and trucks and ATVs in the front yard, and signs for hairstyling or piano lessons.
The road rose and then dipped, and I had to slow down in a cloud of acrid, heavy smoke. A house fire, from the smell. As I got closer I could see that the flames were out and the fire crew was cleaning up. The roof was a gaping, ribbed hole, and sky-blue vinyl siding curled off the walls in waxy sheets. Folding tables were strewn across the driveway, and firefighters were shovelling metal light stands and coils of air ducting out of their way. It was a grow op fire, and a grow op that I knew, although I’d only seen it from the inside. I knew the three-car garage, tall enough for an RV. And I knew the Chevy Cavalier in it, wheels burned tireless, grey paint charred, interior gutted. I knew about the secret compartment that was inside its warped, buckled trunk. It wasn’t going to be crossing into the U.S. anymore.
A man in an orange vest stood on the street, waving me on, yelling at me to keep moving, keep moving.
Chapter 11
Only Beth let the kitchen door screech like that — Bree and I couldn’t stand its tortured squeal, so we lifted the handle up when we came in or out that door. Beth did too, when she remembered.
I called out from the piano room, “Hey there. I’ve been waiting for you. Wait ’til you see what I’ve got.”
“Any messages from Eleanor at the gallery?” Her voice carried in.
“Nothing on the machine.”
“Why aren’t you at work?” She sounded tired.
“I don’t work Wednesdays. Come in here, I have something for you.”
“You didn’t work Monday, either. Jeannie called looking for you.” She sounded edgy, like Eleanor was supposed to have called, and she was feeling ignored. Not the best mood for the demonstration that I’d set up.
I heard the kettle clunk on the new sink, and the sound of the strong new tap.
“Why didn’t Jeannie call my cell?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? Your phone was in the café and you weren’t.” Her tone said, And where were you?
Of course I’d been running weed for Randle. Left the phone behind because those were the orders. And I hadn’t worked many shifts lately. Christine was happy to sub for me, and Jeannie hadn’t complained.
“Jeannie’s confused sometimes,” I improvised. “She changes the schedule and then doesn’t tell anyone. She took me off the Monday shift and ended up short-staffed, and then yesterday there were three of us and the afternoon was dead. I don’t know what she’s experimenting with. But forget that, come see what I’ve got for you.”
“Not until I have my tea.”
She made me wait for the whistle, and then the required minutes for the leaves to steep before removi
ng the strainer from the pot. She might not sit down to eat, but she wouldn’t rush her tea. I waited patiently, cross-legged on the floor with my back to the Bösendorfer, surrounded by crinkled squares of bubble-wrap and green plastic wire-ties. On the carpet between my feet sat a cone-shaped electric device made of stainless steel, the size of a small kettle, nearly featureless except for a black knob, a red button, and a green light. White script identified it as a Volcano. Beside it lay a foot-long deflated balloon of floppy clear vinyl. In my left hand I held a small herb grinder.
With a large earthenware mug warming her hands, Beth rounded the corner and took it all in, her brows furrowed. Whatever greenhouse work she’d been busy at, it had been something brutal. Her clothes were filthy with sappy residue and her fingers were red, the knuckles swollen and recently scabbed.
I felt like a salesman. “This is a vaporizer.”
I twisted the grinder, dropping a few fine shreds of Randle’s best medical marijuana onto a saucer. Beth’s eyes were dark. I knew my timing was wrong, but I pressed on.
“I know it looks weird, but don’t freak out. The device here is on loan. And I got this free,” I nodded at the pot. “So you could try it.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
I was nervous all of a sudden, making quick, twitchy hand gestures as I explained the Volcano and its operation.
“I know these ladies, all right? Up the valley there’s a compassion club, a support group for cancer patients using medical marijuana. It’s for people in remission too. They asked about you and we got talking.”
“How would you know such people?”
“You probably know them too.” They’re everywhere, I wanted to say, but I had to get back on topic. “They do good work. This is prescribed by doctors. Cancer patients use it, and MS patients, AIDS.”
“For God’s sake, Tate, I do not want to discuss this.” Her mug clunked down and she crossed her arms. Her posture was rigid, like she was ready to panic. “Take this thing out of here.”
I hadn’t known how she’d react, but really, her generation, I’d figured she’d be less uptight.
“Look, don’t freak out, just give it a try. I know you’re past the worst of the hospital stuff, but I see you every morning and I know you still feel weak and crappy a lot of the time. This is supposed to relieve nausea and help your appetite. If it works for you, they gave me a doctor’s name, where you can get a prescription.”
“That’s enough.”
No it wasn’t enough. This was one topic I knew about. “It’s ready now, see the light? You put a half-gram in, about a teaspoon. Then you hook the bag on. It doesn’t take long.”
I slid the plunger-like marijuana container into the cone’s narrow opening and clipped the plastic sac to it. A low hissing sound escaped and the bag began to rise, slowly, like one of those popcorn makers from when she was a kid, before microwaves.
“The thing with medical marijuana is how you ingest it. If you smoke it, you’re sucking all this tar and stuff into your lungs, which didn’t do Bob Marley any good, did it?” I grinned, trying to lighten her up. “And medical users are already sick, or compromised or whatever. Some people bake brownies, but you lose half the good stuff in the heat of the oven. But this is designed for safe delivery, it’s hot enough to vaporize the essential oils without burning the leaves. All the good, none of the bad. The light’s on, here you go.”
“That’s enough, Tate, I heard you out, now I have work to do.”
I unclipped the bag, filled with hazy grey mist, and held out the mouthpiece. “Just hold the nozzle to your mouth and inhale.”
“No. I won’t have you bringing drugs into my home.” Her voice was getting up into warning territory.
I was pleading now. “Give it a try. People gave me this stuff as a favour to you, because it’s for nausea and pain. I know you still get sick.” I stood, and extended it to her.
“I won’t.” She pushed it away.
“Come on, Beth, nobody gets busted for an ounce or two of weed. It’s like, a technicality.”
“Two people just died in one of those grow ops. Is that what you call a technicality?” She moved in on me like when I was a kid and she was winding up to whack me one. “It’s all people were talking about at work. Right here in Wallace.”
She snatched the bag and clapped it flat, then pulled her palms apart like she’d killed a juicy, disgusting bug. The clear vinyl sagged and dropped, expelling a cloud of humid, savoury vapour. “Pack this up and take it back where it came from.”
“My god,” It was Bree, standing behind me, coming around from the far side of the piano. “You’ve got a Volcano? This is a house of weed freaks and no one told me? Those things are so cool.”
Beth sputtered, the bag clenched in one hand. “What are you doing here? You should be in school.”
Bree raised her eyebrows. “School has been out since last week, mother. I’m so glad you noticed.” She turned to me. “This is yours? Where did you get the money for a Volcano? First you’re wearing two-hundred-dollar jeans and now this? Are you selling dope?”
Beth nearly screamed, “Get out, both of you. I — have — work — to — do. Doesn’t anyone in this house understand that? Tate is getting rid of that thing, taking it back to whoever he borrowed it from and that is the end of it.”
“So I’m not going to get a hit?” She teased. Big mistake.
Beth spun on one heel and slapped Bree flat-handed across the face. She immediately jerked her arm back and flushed with what looked like shock at her actions, and retreated to the kitchen. “Get this out of here! I’m going upstairs to work. When I come down, I want every trace of this gone! Every trace.”
An hour before my morning shift, my phone beeped. A text from Skip: pick you up, HBeans, 9 am.
So the “no calls or texts for business” rule only applied to me. I called Christine, then Lucas, and finally got Alexa to cover me. I got to the shop early, on foot — Randle still had my skateboard, and I wasn’t going to be seen in the truck, not there — but Skip was late. I made myself a coffee, then another, and sneaked one of Jeannie’s butter tarts before his van careened up to the shop, swaying from a hard U-turn.
“Get in, dude, we’re building the one-day grow op. Or I’m fucked.” His eyes were yellow and bloodshot with deep black bags, and the van smelled of him. His head swivelled to the highway traffic and put his foot to the gas. “Prick! See the signal?” He slammed his palm onto the horn button but nothing sounded. “We’re short dozens and dozens of plants, lost a full cycle.” His sweats were dark in the pits and looked like he’d slept in them.
“I saw the fire. Drove past the firetrucks and all the mess. It even made the news.”
“I pay for protection and this is what I get.” He rubbed at his nose as he cut an un-signalled left turn into a gravel road. “It wasn’t ripped, it was a torch job. It’s the fucking Bible belt out here. First they want to burn books, now they’re burning houses.”
I didn’t want to argue, but if half the valley was in the business, then there had to be a lot of churchgoing growers. And how did he know they didn’t rip the weed out before torching it? And if we were playing detective, who’s to say his hot-wired electrical system wasn’t the cause. But I kept those thoughts to myself.
“There were people in that house, man! And an innocent little dog.”
“Two people, right?” That’s what Beth had said.
“And Mabel.”
I clung to the door handle as Skip took a washboarded road at speed, ringing the van like a tin drum. We skidded to a stop on the front lawn of a two-storey house that lay like a fallen rock at the base of a steep hillside. Once painted yellow, its brown shingles were dark and curling with age.
“Look at this shitpile,” he muttered to me, but mostly to himself. “Why isn’t there a rusty Camaro in the yard? It just screams grow op.”
My thoughts exactly. Silver foil peeled off the picture window. The yard was littere
d with green plastic pots, some containing shrunken root balls of weed, and a collapsed stack of various lengths of PVC piping. Under the porch, a sun-faded Big Wheel tricycle lay on its side.
“I take it you’re the proud owner.”
“Bought it from the Bull. Protected six ways to Sunday, he assures me. Anybody touches this place, even to steal that tricycle, their nuts’ll be in tonight’s spaghetti. That’s what he says.” He sniffed again, wiping a forefinger under his reddened nose. “But we’re facing a total rebuild. This is set up for pesticides and Miracle-Gro. Biker shitweed.”
He was on coke. I’d worked with him for weeks, and seen no sign of any kind of lifestyle, no clothes, cars, jewellery, friends. He had to be making good money but even though he talked nonstop it was never about having any fun. Looked like his earnings went up his red, running nose.
“C’mon,” he said. “Power and plumbing’s roughed in, we got to clean it up and put in the hardware, then lay out the grid. If I can get the temp and humidity up I’ll be putting in the babies tonight. Might only miss a couple of shipments. Yeah. Maybe only one.” He punched a dent in the sagging storm door. “I got penalty clauses.”
Inside, the house was a barn, stripped to wood studs and exposed wiring. A couple of workers, Asian guys, were ripping out old wood shelving and pulling water-stained plastic sheeting off the walls and ceiling. The air was rank with dampness and mould, and the resinous smell of bud.
“This is the kind of place the cops take photos of and plaster all over the news. ‘Fraser Valley grow op busted.’” Skip said, loudly, “I paid too much for this, Randle.”
Randle leaned against the back door, where he was supervising the demolition in jeans and a dusty sweatshirt.
“What price can you put on security?”
“You think the Mounties don’t know about this place already?” I had to say something, it seemed so obvious.