Deadroads

by Robin Riopelle

  “Sol, Sol, goddamn it!” She sounded frantic, whoever she was, and Sol opened his eyes, but vision was too much, too much color, too much movement. He felt sick.

  He tried to tell her to back off, not so close, then he thought: Baz.

  Forcing open his eyes, he saw Lutie, near enough he could barely focus on her. He was sitting upright on the cold ground, leaning against—he turned his head in an effort to get his bearings. God, he was dizzy. Lutie’s car. He was slumped against Lutie’s car, his sister on her knees beside him, both fists in the shoulder of his parka.

  “Stop shaking me, chère,” he said, but it came out so quiet he didn’t know if she heard it.

  Apparently, yes, because she froze, hands still on him. Then she drew him against her, wrapped him in her arms, and he wished she would stop it, because he wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or not, but moving him around like that wasn’t making him feel any better.

  He got his hands up, finally, gently pushed her back a little so he could see her. Her face was pale, tear-streaked. “Where’s Baz?” he asked, then he lifted a hand to the door handle, pulling himself up, holding onto the car, looking over the hood to the river, where he saw his brother, lying among the dead rushes, unmoving.

  Only three steps before Lutie got Sol’s arm over her shoulders, holding him up before he fell, and they staggered over to the riverside, where he stumbled to Baz’s side, one hand going out like he was finding a connection. And he was, he realized, this was exactly what he was doing. One hand on Baz’s chest, hoping to find life, and it was there, pressing up against his hand, making to leave, to vacate.

  “No,” Sol whispered, looking to Lutie, then back to Baz’s still white face, eyes closed, no response. “No, you don’t. J’te laisse pas faire ça, Basile. I don’t let you do this,” but so low, a murmur, nothing wrong with Baz, not physically, nothing for Sol to do but prevent him from dying.

  Across Baz’s body, Lutie laid her hand on top of Sol’s. She was crying, Sol knew it, heard it, and one tear dropped on the back of her hand as she bent to kiss Baz on the forehead, fair hair covering his face.

  Then the pressure subsided, as though it had changed its mind, and maybe it had, maybe Baz had. Maybe he knows we’re waiting on him, Sol thought, as Baz took a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open, the color of sky and water combined. He coughed, Lutie clutching him as though he might jump up and run away. Sol fell back on elbows, then all the way down on frozen ground, staring at the Nebraska winter sky, blue.

  Far in the distance, a train’s whistle blew, two longs, short and a long. Look out, coming through, Sol thought, and started to laugh.

  TWENTY

  IMAGINING HOME

  Lutie’s Toyota rolled to a halt in the motel parking lot. Nobody moved, not for a long time, so long in fact that Baz thought maybe Sol had fallen asleep in the back seat. Better that they get inside the room before resting, but that would mean moving. He heard Sol clear his throat, heavy with what had set up shop there, and then the liquid sound of a dry tongue forming the first words Baz had heard from him. “It’s gone. The devil.”

  Lutie set eyes straight ahead through the windshield, acted like she hadn’t heard.

  After a bit, Baz shifted in his seat, looked over his shoulder at Sol. Something lying dead at the roadside was in better shape. “Well. Excellent.”

  Sol started laughing, a little thin, too close to some edge. He soon stopped, catching his breath, knuckles caked with dried blood as he raised one hand to the Toyota’s door handle. It lay there for a moment and Sol’s mouth tensed as he pulled up, the door swinging out against his weight. Twisting round, he strained to see in the hard noon light, light that hid nothing, disguised none of what had happened to him. Finally, Lutie loosened her grip on the wheel, took a deep breath. “I took care of Lewis.” She turned, stared at Sol. He wasn’t smiling, he was concentrating on trying to move, Baz could see that. “That’s one ghost gone.”

  She sounded very sure of herself.

  Sol raised his head. “That’s good. That’s good, Lutie.” Pride, maybe, was in there. Sadness, definitely. Baz didn’t want to figure it out. Sol swallowed, and Baz looked away. “I’m gonna need a hand, getting out of the car.”

  Goddamn. Asking for help, so weird and surprising Baz hadn’t seen it coming. I should have seen it coming. Without another word, Baz jumped out the passenger door, felt fine, felt good, like he was shiny from the inside. He could do this. Lutie was catatonic and Sol looked like he’d seen the business end of a wood chipper. That left Baz to take care of things, finally.

  Lutie lurched out her door and together they got Sol into the room, deposited him on the bed. He asked for the medical kit and so Baz got it. First thing, Sol downed a glass of water. Another. Then one more, slowly, to swallow a bunch of pills from a variety of containers. Baz got ice from the gas station across the street. Sol checked Lutie’s shoulder, made her hold out her arm, wiggle fingers, rotate like a pitcher. She didn’t cry, even with the bruise. Ice pack. Painkillers. Then Sol saw to himself, but they were out of gauze, and out of tape, and out of butterfly bandages. Sol tossed paper onto the floor, sorting through empty wrappers for enough to suffice. The kit was almost as depleted as they were. Sol said as much.

  Baz started laughing, slowly, and then Sol joined in and Lutie looked at them like they were both nuts. “You,” she said, pointing at Sol, “You get to bed.” Sol’s laughter faded. She turned to Baz, “You make sure he gets to bed—”

  “I heard you, Lutie.” Sol chided, but softly.

  “Put him to bed,” like her radio wasn’t tuned to Sol’s station. She was crying now. “He needs to—”

  “I know,” Baz said quietly, putting an arm around her. “I know.”

  The numbers flashed by, calculating cost upwards, and Lutie was so tired she thought she could just lie down over the hood of her car, let the tank overflow, gasoline everywhere. Instead, she shook her head, kept her hand steady on the nozzle. Beside her, Baz unlatched the hood and lifted it, cocked his head, searching for the dipstick.

  Make him sing. Just one fuckin’ song, just one song for me, girlie.

  The ghost wasn’t great company, for starters, that hadn’t helped her sleep. The fact that Lewis had smashed her shoulder hadn’t made things easier either. Sol had slept for more than thirty-six hours, right around the clock and into the next day. Her? She’d had Lewis in residence for a day and a half, and she was scared to go to sleep: catnaps, dozing fitfully, waking, afraid. Maybe I’ll never sleep again. The ghost was belligerent, which Lutie could have predicted, but also reticent, which she hadn’t counted on. What the hell was I expecting? An imaginary friend? A buddy to keep me company? At the moment, and ever since she’d bound the ghost, she’d had to put up with its murmurings, musings, the muttered comments of a middle-aged man not well-versed in social graces, angry and unwilling to answer her questions, to interact with her on any level. Other than to swear at her.

  Sol couldn’t know. She’d decided that, driving back from the Megeath crossing. He’d warned her, it was the one thing he’d implored her not to do, and she’d done it. Caught a ghost. Not because she wanted to read fortunes, or to keep other ghosts away, but because she’d wanted her brothers back. Lewis had been her only lead, her only chance at redeeming the mess she’d made. Binding his spirit hadn’t made a difference in the end; the angel and Baz’s singing had gotten Sol back. Still, no regrets. Severing the devil’s hold on Lewis had allowed Sol to put the devil on a deadroad, and that was one less thing to worry about. For Sol to worry about.

  No way was she going to ask Sol to take care of this for her. Lewis had tried to kill her brother, more than once. It had almost succeeded. Lutie would handle Lewis herself. She would find a way.

  You got more than you bargained for, girlie, didn’t ya?

  Lutie pressed the gas nozzle more securely, ignoring Lewis. The ghost twisted in her, suddenly thumped at her interior, rushed up her spine, trying to wrest
control. Lutie concentrated on the dazzle of sunlight against her car’s roof, stared so long and hard her eyes watered. Finally, she pushed the ghost down, like keeping the contents of her stomach in place. “Please tell me this gets easier,” she whispered, not to herself, not to her dead mother. To Lewis, but the ghost did not answer.

  “What’s that?” Baz called, wiping the dipstick against a piece of torn paper towel, then lowering the hood, satisfied.

  She shook her head, tried for a smile. “Nothing.”

  Just one song, he can do it, just one.

  Baz edged closer, bent down, eyes sparkling in the midday light. Ants in his pants. “You sure about this?”

  God, of course not. Of course she wasn’t sure. How could she be? But she nodded anyway. “Yeah, it’ll be good. I’ll like having the company.” Whether he would like her company was another matter. “Are you sure?” He glanced involuntarily at the Prairie Paradise Motel, across the intersection from the gas station. Lutie followed his gaze: the back of the Wagoneer was open, and Sol carried a box out of the room, placed it on the tailgate, his limp evident even from a distance. “He could probably use your help.”

  After a moment, Baz shook his head. “Nah. Some things I just can’t fix.” He hadn’t said much about what had happened, after the white light. Neither had Sol. They’d been together, Baz had admitted that much, licking his lips nervously. Sol hadn’t said anything, but then, he wouldn’t. Now, Baz looked like he might say more, but then Lewis started nattering again, and Lutie brought her hand to her mouth, turned away. Collected herself. She heard Baz crumple the paper towel, and he brushed by her to put it in the bin. “Anyway. Toronto’s gonna be fun. I have Dad’s fiddle, a few hundred bucks, nothing keeping me here, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, you can pay for the next fill up.” Her voice was terse, trying to hold down Lewis, trying to have a conversation. “And if you’re planning on staying in Toronto, you’ll have to get dual citizenship. But that shouldn’t be too hard.”

  He grinned, and a fierce burn started in Lutie, that he wanted to come with her, wanted to see where she lived, who her friends were, where she hung out. “Citizenship? I’m not planning on getting a job or anything.” Just in case she’d gotten the wrong idea.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  “I’ll get my things ready. See you back at the motel.” She watched him go, his bouncing walk, running across the street, stopping a car with one hand and a tip of his fur-trimmed hat. God, he’s going to drive me nuts. But he wasn’t. She knew it.

  She finished gassing up, noted the price, and went to the counter inside the station to pay the spotty attendant. There was awkward flirting on the kid’s part, and Lewis hissed with covert amusement. She handed over her credit card and stared blankly at the boy behind the counter as he commented on the Canadian bank account, her accent, why was she here anyway. He wasn’t even really looking her in the face, eyes roaming all over, checking her out, searching for a pen. She signed quickly, tried to ignore Lewis’s filthy suggestions about the kid, about what they could do in a locked roadside bathroom.

  If the attendant noticed she was odd, was shaking, it didn’t deter his enthusiasm for the chase. Even his parting words, “Come again,” sounded grotesque to her. She turned on the ignition, jammed the car into gear, and crossed the intersection back to the motel.

  “I am getting rid of you, first chance,” she said out loud, firm as she could manage. A raw chuckle reverberated in her ears.

  You can try. I’d like to see you try. Cut the ghost away, and it would turn on her. She knew that. Sol had told her. She parked the car, slid out, wished she could leave Lewis behind as easily.

  At the moment, Sol was too beat up to notice the ghost. He had woken earlier that morning, swallowed a bunch of painkillers with juice that Lutie had brought, ate a stale muffin, then another. He was at the motel room doorway now, in shadow, but she felt his eyes on her, a smile slowly coming over him as she slammed the Toyota’s door. Sol had made it his mission to sever fortunetellers from their spirits. Does harboring this jerk make me a fortuneteller? Maman had read tarot cards, tea leaves. Lutie didn’t know how all that worked, it wasn’t something that Mireille had ever showed her. Isn’t psychology just modern fortunetelling?

  “You got enough gas to get you out of this one-horse town?” he asked as she approached. Lewis was quiet within her, wary. The ghost knew what Sol could do, Lutie guessed, wasn’t looking for a fight, or to get severed.

  She nodded. “Yep, fill up costs less than a case of beer.” Met his curious gaze, but only for a moment. “Value for money in this country.” She came around the back and opened the trunk of her Toyota for Baz’s gear, came back around. She leaned against the car, Sol still watching her. Over to you, Mr. Inquisitive. “Sure we can’t talk you into seeing a doctor?”

  He looked away with a short strangled laugh. He was wearing a dark hoodie with a firefighter’s fun run logo on the front, fetched from somewhere in the back of the Wagoneer, covered in dog hair. Out of laundry, time to go home, he’d joked. Past check-out time now, the manager would be coming by any minute, looking to collect another night if they weren’t careful. Sol checked over his shoulder, and moved out of the way to let Baz through.

  It was too early to know exactly what had changed between them, but Lutie saw that Baz was less deferential, more forthright about what he was thinking, what he was wanting. For example, this morning Baz hadn’t backed down when he’d told Sol he was going to Toronto, even though Sol had tilted his head, put one hand on his hip and sighed mightily. Baz hadn’t tried to razzle-dazzle with explanation, he hadn’t bent under Sol’s understated ‘hasn’t she had enough of us?’ stare. Finally, Sol had simply shrugged.

  Not quite giving up, but letting things go when a fight wasn’t necessary, wasn’t winnable.

  Sol had finished packing, but would see them off like it was his duty and maybe it was. He wasn’t the one who did the leaving, Lutie realized. A point, with him. Baz passed by her on the way to the trunk, swinging his duffle bag, hip checking her into the car, grinning, promising trouble. He slammed the back, just one bag and the fiddle, not taking the box, giving that to Sol to take care of. He walked slowly back to the motel doorway, empty-armed, and stood in front of Sol.

  Baz cleared his throat. “We could come with you.”

  Sol scratched his chin. “Jesus, Baz, I don’t need you to come with me. I’m not made of sugar.” He flexed his hand, rolled his shoulder slightly. “Besides, the chief is gonna take one look at me and it’ll be the desk for the rest of the week. Sit on my ass and drink coffee, that’s about it.”

  She heard Baz chuckle. “Think you can manage that?”

  Sol didn’t quite smile, but his glance slid past Baz’s shoulder and met Lutie’s eyes. “You don’t let him behind the wheel, T-Lu. He’s an accident waiting to happen. And he don’t have a license, either.”

  Baz’s eyebrows shot up. “Merde, Sol. I can’t let la p’tite soeur drive me everyplace.”

  Lutie sighed. “Sure you can. It’s my car, and I know the way.” She smiled, hard. Despite her hurt shoulder and the bound ghost, it would be fun, everything would be an adventure now. Baz’s very existence seemed to promise that. And when he sang, Lewis calmed right down. She could do this.

  The brothers didn’t hug, it wasn’t like that. Baz laid a hand on Sol’s shoulder, softly, told him to drive safe, say hi to Robbie for him, that he’d phone, he’d be back to pick up the rest of his stuff soon. Sol had a careworn expression that told Lutie he’d heard it all before. Same. Different, because he didn’t even make an effort to open his mouth in argument, in disagreement.

  Sol did move slightly to see around Lutie as Baz retreated into the white car, nodding to him as though Baz had made some face, then attention back to Lutie as the door slammed shut, sub-compact tinny. He considered her without speaking. Waiting was okay, really. Lewis was so still, Lutie couldn’t feel the ghost within her
, could only feel the great weight of not wanting to leave. “It’s a long drive,” she said.

  “You should get going then, chère.”

  She couldn’t look at him. Instead, she dug in her large purse, pulled out what she’d removed from the cardboard box back in Minneapolis the week before, when she thought she’d never see these guys again. She’d stolen from her brothers, from her father, when she still thought of them as the enemy. Baz hadn’t been looking. It was easy to take advantage of Baz, and it felt cheap now.

  She handed the photograph to Sol, who took it, glanced down quickly, would have glanced back up, but he checked himself, kept his eyes on the picture. Their mother, their father. The Caraquet Festival, 1980. When things had started, wheel in motion.

  Lutie cleared her throat, tried to explain. “Aurie had it at Jean-Guy’s place. I think you should keep it.” He already had most of their father’s other things—his clothes, his fake IDs. The ring, the blue songbook. Why not this too?

  Sol turned it over, looked at the inscription, ran one finger over his mother’s handwriting as though that brought her closer, like he was touching her, this vestige of her. Finally, he looked back up. He was still too unknown for Lutie to name what was moving in his dark eyes, but it wasn’t anger. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, give some kind of explanation or ask a question. Closed. Open, shut. He dropped his attention to the photo again, overcome. He held their parents in his hands, together.

  After a long moment, he said, “You look like her,” like he was noticing it for the first time. He nodded as though confirming it. “You’re like her.” Said it because he wanted her to know it.

  Lutie raised both eyebrows. “That’s a good thing?”

  And then Sol did the unthinkable: voluntarily, he stepped forward and put his arms around her, not tightly, but enough that she knew he meant it. One arm high, the hurt one low, keeping in mind her own injured shoulder. He smelled of engine oil, and dog, and ash. Into her hair, he whispered, “Yeah, that’s a good thing.”