The same Alex who had attempted to disrupt the visit of the prime minister, over funding for the arts, was the Alex who wanted the poetry of a certain student banned for being too white and too male. He knew even as they tried to fire this student from the poetry journal, that the man was a fine and courageous writer. But the truth did not have to be present to pretend you were truthful. That was what masked truth at university. Alex became that man. The one who talked of Buddhism, but dismissed others with a calculating stare if they spoke of Christ. This was the same Alex who had sat in a circle and resigned his position; gave up his position on a point of honor, not knowing others would simply let him do so. That they wanted him gone just as he had distrusted them and wanted them gone. And that no other university in the cloistered Maritimes wanted him either. In fact, while traveling to those places seeking a job, he saw the safe, somewhat intellectually calculating faces he had left at his own, within the atmosphere of brick and brown and the studied aspect of the snow.
Always there were new ideas. It was an acquired taste promulgated at university, soured with cynicism and a feeling of superiority, a class consciousness based on the intellect, not much different in the final analysis than that of Leopold and Loeb. It was a vacuous condition of both men and women, certain of their entitlement. And it had brought him to exactly where he would have been if he had never finished grade 9. So he himself, over all this time, had no say in the matter. So he was not the master of his own fate he had set out to be. Thinking now of himself in his army jacket sitting in the mall, surrounded by his devotees and his protégés, he remembered his vast and rapacious ego, thinking the whole university would come down and his name be heralded. But he was turned on by his own group, betrayed by everyone including himself, and that’s why he needed the ticket.
——
Bourque himself had imagined Alex as a great man who went to university and whose name was in the paper because he wrote articles about the underprivileged. From the time Leo had gone away as a boy he had taken an interest in this fellow he had been on the bus with. But he thought he would never see him again, nor could ever conceive a time when they would be friends. (Though he liked to tell his wife that he knew him. In fact, there was a point when he tried desperately to sound like him.)
Then Alex came back—with the bid. To Bourque, seemingly the impossible happened. And he went and bragged to his wife that Alex Chapman (a man as important as that) needed him. Yet what happened? Leo’s life after that moment fell apart. Everything spiraled downhill for a variety of reasons, many of them having to do with the bid. And now this friendship seemed not as blessed as he thought it would be. And only the ticket seemed to him to be its saving grace.
The night was quiet and cooling, and small leaves were just beginning to be tinged with the faintest trace of gold—though Alex knew it would be another month before he would have to burn wood every evening, two months before the first uncertain snowfall, three months before the darkest days of winter. By that time, he decided, he would be in Greece and warm. No one would see him again—and he would bring to himself that quiet and peace he had longed for when he went to first communion with his mother. In those days, far away, in deep old Saint John, peace had seemed possible. What he tried not to think about was that he always remembered the church as being peaceful then, and his life of love and forgiveness, as naive as it was, better than his life of approval and disapproval.
He knew it wasn’t, and tried not to be gulled again.
Why didn’t she live, his mother, and was it possible that she had died of a broken heart—that in all the topsy-turvy of her life her uncle had been closer to the truth about that older man, that man named Roach, who left her without guilt or consequence? That the old uncle, as mean as he was, wanted to protect her from a charlatan?
This is what Alex thought of now. And then suddenly of something else.
It was as if once again his mother was directing his thought. Asking him to reconsider.
For his thought was this: If Alex had started out to protect the memory of his mother, he had done a very poor job—for he had used her troubles as an excuse to try to destroy Minnie, who he loved. And he had used the carte blanche of easy and contrived and commercialized feminism to do so. In so much, then, Alex had failed, and he thought of this in a second and he became angry with himself.
You have done what you have done, came the voice, and this angered him more.
Therefore, the ticket was the life vest to the drowning man.
“You said you would show me the ticket,” Alex said, trying not to show his impatience but unable to quell the tremor in his voice.
Bourque shrugged, now and then rolling down the window and spitting. All along the way he spoke about Poppy. Bourque would never be worried if Poppy had the ticket. Bourque loved Poppy. Bourque and Poppy were “like that.” All of this he spoke with his certain charm that was disarming to a man like Alex.
“Poppy would never betray us, I know,” Alex said finally, “even if it was twenty million.” (For some reason the larger the amount, the more chance of betrayal—as if thirteen million wasn’t enough to betray, but twenty was.)
“If it is where I say it is,” Leo said abruptly, “then you will have to admit I am very bright—though I lived in the woods until I was nine and have never got out of school—some said I never sat in a chair until I was seven.”
“Well of course I’d admit that—why wouldn’t I admit that—I would be the first to admit that.”
Bourque looked at Alex a moment, and shrugged as if slightly displeased by something. He was becoming displeased with Alex for the first time in years, he who had tried to emulate Alex at one time.
“Did you have to go to university to admit that I was bright?”
“No.”
“Did you have to go to university to think the Indians were okay?”
“No.”
“Did you know the band council was upset that you tried to take credit for Chapman Island?”
Alex of course did not know this at all, for the band council never said a thing to him, and there were those on the band council who wanted to use his name against his uncle. Bourque knew all of this—but for the first time he was allowing himself to agree with it.
“I have not had university or even high school. But so many people who have know very little, and that’s a fact. Would you say I am smarter than you are?”
“Oh, I don’t know—who cares.”
“Oh—you care very much—you told my wife she was brighter than I and deserved much better—so I know how you think!”
“Not at all.” Alex again trembled. “I never said that.”
Of course he had said that. That one night when he heard she was marrying Bourque. Yes, that was exactly what he had said. And of course he didn’t believe that a man like Bourque was anywhere near as bright as he was—but he never thought this comment would ever get back to Leo. Alex was the kind of fellow who never thought that Bourque being able to build a car from odds and ends, from used carburetors and cylinder heads, meant that he was bright.
But what would that matter, if they found the ticket?
Bourque said nothing for a while, then added: “You always thought you were much smarter than Sam Patch too.” He said this so matter of fact it sounded sad, and filled with an uneasy rural pathos. “And Minnie and me, and my wife. But you will never screw Minnie, as much as you want to.”
“I don’t want to—never, ever did I say that!”
“Liar,” Bourque said under his breath. But there was an added sting, a sadness again. “You wanted to for years and years, but a woman can tell when someone thinks they are better than them!” Then he added: “You didn’t have to tell her. I always knew my wife was better than me!”
Then, after a suitable pause, Bourque added: “If the ticket is not where I think it is, we are back to square one—and I will not look for it anymore. I will walk away from it. For it has already given me a different
opinion of you, and I am falling into hell. But if it is where I think, it changes everything. It changes our life—it makes me rich.” And he rolled down the window again to spit.
“Makes us rich,” Alex corrected. “So show me where it is—do you already have it in your pocket?”
They turned off on a log road fifty yards upriver from the old uncle’s little house, with its sunken back shed and one light on in the hallway. This was the night, Bourque told him, that Poppy was to make his signs for the fair, so he would be up late.
Below this house was the phone booth. It was as if only this phone booth that the French and English both used was in constant communication with some outward spirits in the air. A communal phone booth that had both English and French graffiti, and one scrawled Micmac phrase: “Nitchi Gitch.”
Only Bourque knew what it meant: “Suck my cock.”
Alex shut off both the lights and the engine, and waited. The wind rocked the cab where they sat. There were perhaps fifty people in the world who would know this old logging road they had turned down, that at one time went down to the spring, which fed the old seminary with water.
“I have to go up there before he goes to bed,” Bourque said. “I have to get him at the right time—just when he is finished painting his signs. He might be grumpy if I get him too soon.”
“What do you want me to do?” Alex asked. He could see the light—far away in the night—and he wondered why this light provoked the strange feeling in him it did, a sudden profound loneliness, not for Poppy Bourque but for himself. The shingles were all watered and weathered and brown.
“Do you actually know where the ticket is?”
There was another long silence. Alex was about to ask once more when his partner spoke.
“Ah,” Bourque said, “where do you put a ticket you have no interest in—do you even bother to bring it into the house?”
“Why?” Alex asked, as if this was a trick of some kind, and at the end of this long road there was nothing but whimsy from Bourque.
But then Leo added: “I want you to open up the glove compartment, and tell me if you see the ticket.”
It caught Alex by surprise, but then in a second he realized this too. Why had he even bothered to go into the house?
—
ALEX OPENED THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT—BY REACHING over Bourque—and there, sitting in Muriel’s old knitting basket, was the ticket. It had been there almost a month. No one had thought of it, looked for it, or cared. The numbers were evident upon it when Alex picked it out. But before he even got a chance to look at them, before then, Bourque grabbed the ticket from him. He had to let go, or it would have torn.
“What a row this will cause!” Bourque said. “We should rip it to pieces! Well let me ask you one question—shouldn’t we test our goodness and tear it into a hundred and one pieces?”
He said this as if in a trance. At first Alex had laughed but then became uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable because a new Alex was born, one who saw money making himself a powerful man.
Alex asked him to read the numbers back, to make sure they were the right ones, but Bourque simply said, “This will pay her back. I had no money—he had money—what will she do now? I could own him ten times over!”
“Don’t think of that now,” Alex said, frightened, “there is too much at stake.”
“Don’t tell me what is at stake—I know what is at stake—do not presume to tell me what is at stake.” Bourque finished in French. Then he said, “I am going to lose it—what will I do—”
“Give it to me and I will keep it for us,” Alex said.
Bourque looked at him and pushed him back with his hand so Alex banged his head. But then Leo guffawed, and said, “Didn’t I say I was brighter than you—?”
“Yes you did,” Alex said shaking, “you did—you are the brightest of all the bright men!”
Bourque then sat back in the seat and lit a cigarette, and puffed on it mercilessly, his eyes darting back and forth.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Go get Poppy.” Alex smiled. He was trying to be cautious.
“I don’t think I should hand the ticket in myself—but if I did, what would the trouble be—decide now or forever hold your peace—if I handed it in myself and kept the profit, who would be the wiser? Isn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?”
“I just think—people might know—”
“The only ones who know are you and I,” Leo said suspiciously.
“But there is Burton—so if we get your uncle—it—it shuts Burton up.”
“Yes yes, yes, yes, yes—I didn’t think of that—yes! Where will I put the ticket?”
“Leave it in the truck with me.”
“I have to take it to my uncle—I have to show him—show him what I got—”
“Just ask him, don’t get in an argument or anything,” Alex cautioned. “It’s too important not to alienate him.” All of a sudden that was the catch, as slight as it was, that they might do something to sow distrust in the old man. But this thought was fleeting and not taken seriously by either. You could see it in their smiles. Both of them were suddenly robust.
Bourque winked and opened the door. He got out of the truck, walked into the dark, then came back to the driver’s side where Alex sat. His face looked terrified.
“I lost the ticket,” he said. “It must have fallen—it’s not in my pocket—”
“You put it in your zippered pocket,” Alex whispered.
Bourque felt inside, and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Be quiet—you’ll get your share—I always have to do everything—”
Before Alex could answer, Bourque turned and left, walking pigeon-toed into the dark. After a while Alex began to shiver, half with excitement and half with dread. He waited—then waited again—and longer. He began to fidget, and after a time he got out of the truck and, frightened to go to the house, went to the back of the truck and watched, now and again scratching his head. Then he suddenly broke into a step dance. But then he stopped, as if he were too refined.
About twenty minutes passed. Finally he saw Bourque come down over the hill, and Alex ran and got back into the cab.
He wanted to yell out and shout, but didn’t.
There he sat. He kept watching for the door to open. It didn’t. But as he turned, he saw Bourque staring in the side window at him, with a look of great suspicion. Alex jumped forward in fright, and then opened the window, but not all the way. He had an inclination to lock the door. Why, he didn’t know.
Bourque pointed his finger. “He’s coming with us—you let me do the talking—we are taking him for a drink—I haven’t told him yet. Do you think everything will turn out okay? I mean, this is for my wife and daughter—nothing can go wrong, I have suffered too much for something to go wrong.”
“I know.” Alex nodded, and Bourque went to the passenger side and opened the door. Then, after about five minutes, Poppy came walking down the hill, a smile on his face, shaking his head, wearing his faded shirt with the large lobster, all of it covered with paint, and a bit of paint on his right ear.
“I’ve been painting my signs,” he said, getting into the truck. But he declared he was very happy they were going up to Brennen’s tavern to have a drink, and he settled back into the middle, looking first at one and then the other, his small nose scrubbed so it was shiny (to get the paint off). Poppy was a tiny man, so fit very easily between them. He kept looking from one to the other, smiling and watching them both.
It became apparent that he did not know yet about the ticket. Alex looked at Leo and he realized Leo was preparing to tell him, as he turned the truck on. Leo, in fact, was shaking. The lights shone on a large pile of sawdust old Poppy Bourque had placed there, in the center of the old side road. Poppy grinned sheepishly because he knew he wasn’t allowed to do so—but he had to have the truck free of sawdust to load his vegetables.
—
IN A WAY THEY SEEMED TENSE, IN ANOTHER THEY W
ERE like two boys filled with bravado after having a drink. And this is how Bourque spoke, and this is how Alex reacted. But this bravado was perhaps just part of the reason their junket would fail tonight.
That is, Bourque did not know, and neither did Young Chapman, how immediately Poppy would say no to the scheme once he was told it was a scheme, and once he found out why he was the one to have to take the ticket to Moncton and claim it. At first they did not realize they would have to tell him it wasn’t their ticket—but it became apparent that poor Poppy wanted to celebrate, and he told them the winner should cash the ticket so they wouldn’t get in any trouble. But this celebration was the last thing they wanted at the moment.
“No, you can’t say a word,” Bourque said. And that was Poppy’s first inkling that all was not right. Once he decided it was a scheme, he was harder to convince that it wasn’t, and that Leo, his nephew, once again was doing something he disapproved of.
“Why not—we’re millionaires—why can’t I say it? The owner of the ticket has to appear in public, that’s the law—you see, I know because I have been playing for twenty years! So you’ll have to tell people sometime. I can’t cash it, boys, because it’s not my ticket—so take it down yourself.”
He said this emphatically. Now that he had said this, they had to press on, for he already knew they had the ticket, and he suspected it wasn’t theirs.
So Alex told him that it wasn’t their ticket. It was someone else’s. But that Poppy should not worry.
“It’s mine but it’s someone else’s too,” he said.
“Whose?”
“Never mind.” Bourque smiled, putting his arm as tight as a python around Poppy’s neck.
They said they would do right by this other fellow with a million if Poppy just went along with it and cashed it for them.
Once Alex told him this, Poppy’s face became a mass of stubborn wrinkles, and once he began to mull it over, the little man soured on the plan.
The Lost Highway Page 20