“I ever tell ya much about The Pug?” Roth asked.
“That’s what people called your dad.”
“Yeah. On accounta he was an aggravating little runt. Small but determined. But the little fucker knew how to work. He loved this job as much as you do, Frank, and I could never get that. I never knew him to hunt or ride horses or fish or anything that’d make him prone to love the cutting. But he plumb loved this. He’d hire on with anyone needed a faller. You know he wasn’t trained for nothing?”
“Yeah. I recall it.”
“Well, most of the time he wasn’t around,” Roth said. “He’d get on the trail of a crock of whisky and he’d be gone. Days. Weeks. Fuck, a month once that I remember. But he’d always come back, scratching at the back door like a whipped pup, and my ma would always let him in. He’d be all woebegone and shit, and mope around until his head cleared and the booze fog lifted, and then he’d get right back to work. He’d work anything and he was good at most things that a handyman might do but he never fell into it like he done with cutting. Took me a long time to figure out why.”
“What’d you figure?” Starlight asked.
“I figure he always knew he was a shit. Wasn’t no surprise to him to be called that, is what I’m saying. And maybe he didn’t really know why he was the way he was. He died drunk. I tell ya that?”
“Yeah. You did. First time we talked about my dad.”
“Sad. Anyway, what I was meanin’ to refer to was how he could be out here and be the happiest I think I ever saw him. Workin’ for shit wages but lovin’ every minute of this. I thought on that a long time and it was only after he was gone that I finally got it.
“His family life had never been no hell. I never met my grandparents, never knew nothin’ about where we come from, who we were, where we started. No one ever become nothing and my dad never did neither. But when he died it started to matter to me that I give him somethin’ so he could sit better in my head through the years. I see you out here and it takes me back to what I settled on.”
Starlight turned and regarded his friend.
“Now I got no clear way of knowin’,” Roth said. “But I chose to believe that my dad knew our roots and he believed we were farmers. And comin’ out here, cutting and putting away a winter’s worth of wood, was as close to farmer as he could get. He loved it because it made him feel connected, part of something bigger, something he never got the chance to touch. That sound odd to you, Frank?”
Starlight took his time rolling a cigarette. Then he handed it to Roth and while the skinny man lit up he rolled another for himself. He lit up and took a first long drag and exhaled it. “Don’t sound odd,” he said. “Sometimes we gotta fill in the holes in our history the best we can. I done that too. And now? How’s he sit with you?”
“I don’t think of him as drunk or a piss-poor provider. I don’t think of him as someone who only showed up in my life in pieces. I think of him out here. Smiling. Puppy-dog-eyed, head-over-heels in love with something. If I can give him that, the notion that he loved something, I can give myself the notion that he loved me too. No matter what happened. He sits better with me that way. Funny thing is, so do I.”
“You’re a damn good man, Eugene.”
“Yeah, well do me a favour and tell that to Betty Thoreson.”
“You kidding me? Betty Thoreson would about kill you. That’s a big strappin’ girl.”
“Yeah well, life is risk.”
Starlight laughed and stood and then they walked back into the work.
* * *
—
They stood in the amber glow of the yard light and studied the wood shed. They’d done twelve trees. They’d bucked and split and stacked and covered half the load with a tarp for the land owner and they’d hauled the rest in the pickup with a walled flatbed trailer on behind. It was late. Close to midnight. The stacking had taken all they had left to give and standing in that mazy yellowed light, staring at a wall of wood stood ground to roof in the shed, silenced them as good, hard work will do to a man left enervated and fuelled in the same measure. Roth nudged him with a fist and Starlight took the tailor-made cigarette held out to him and they lit up and smoked lazily, neither of them ready to surrender the day. They were weathered men. Their clothes were the tough and simple fabric of the farm, the field, the wilderness, and they stood together in that hushed silence, smoking and considering nothing but the gathered evidence of their industry. Above them the congress of stars pin-wheeled slowly and a knife slice of moon hung over everything like a random thought. They could hear the sides of cattle shunted against the whitewashed planks of their pens and somewhere far off the skittering soliloquoy of a night bird addressing all of it in plaintive, melancholic notes that rose and fell in counterpoint to their breaths, huffed with smoke. Then they nodded, each to himself, and turned in concert and began the slow, slumped walk to the porch and the house and the rustic simplicity of a bed, a quilt, and dreams wove from the experience of passing through a day, satisfied at the scuffed and worn feel at its edges.
THE TRUCK RAN LOW ON FUEL the same day the food ran out. She’d driven back and forth each day determined to find work and found nothing she was suited for or that employers were willing to chance to her. She’d filched garments from clotheslines to augment their wardrobes and to appear more fully rendered for job interviews. There was always a pang of guilt in theft. Still, she assuaged it with the thought that it was a means to a moral end and if that wasn’t completely satisfying, all she really needed to do was look at Winnie. It tore the heart right out of her to see the girl gnawing on a swiped tomato as her breakfast. Emmy felt the keen edge of desperation at her gut and a low, simmering anger for Cadotte and every act of acquiesence that had pinned her to the sides of men like him too often and for too long. Now, squatting for refuge in a deserted farmhouse, even that rough circumstance felt better than entrapment, but she still needed to find a resolution, even a temporary one.
She foraged in the cupboard and found a handful of crackers and cheese she scraped free of mould at its edges and placed them on a paper towel that served as a napkin and presented it to the girl along with a small cup of water. Winnie gave her a slip of a smile and ate the meagre food, staring out the window at the break of sun over the fields. The house was chill and damp and she wished for a fire but did not want to chance the smoke. No one had ventured down the driveway since their arrival and she had been careful to avoid any outright signs of occupation. She found herself tired of seclusion and secrecy. Still, she would not relent on the discomfort the lack of a warming fire caused. She turned her mind to a plan for supplies.
In the end it was the stealth and cunning she’d learned from Cadotte that propelled her.
They drove into Endako. Passing the grocery store, she parked on a side street a block away. A gravel alley connected the streets and she left the truck close to its end. Rather than take the short route to the store they walked around the block and she outlined what she wanted the girl to do.
“You need to take people’s eyes away from me,” she said. “Knock over some stuff and then run like you’re in a panic. Fall down or something. While everyone is paying attention to you, I’ll slip out with food stuffed in my bag and meet you at the truck.”
“How long?” Winnie asked.
“Not long. A minute or so. Just enough so I can get out and away.”
“How will I know when?”
“Dawdle around for five minutes. That’ll give me time to stash food.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know, honey. But we have to do this. We have to.”
“No one will take me, will they?”
She stopped and knelt down in front of Winnie with her hands resting lightly on the girl’s thin shoulders. “No. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was any danger of that.”
“They won’t take you away?”
“Not as long as I’m careful.”
“Be careful then.”
They continued their walk around the block and again Emmy was captivated by the casual air of the town and the townsfolk. No one paid them undue attenton but merely nodded or offered a small wave as they passed. Their yards were as well tended as their manners. The parking lot was lightly used at that early hour but there were enough people streaming in and out that she believed there would be enough motion in the aisles to shield her while she did what she needed to do. She got them both shopping carts. When they entered she walked briskly toward the produce and Winnie disappeared into the nearest aisle.
The girl was nervous. For the first while she merely strolled the aisle and then as she turned into the second aisle she began to pick things off the shelves, inspect them, and set them back or lay them in the cart as it suited her. She had no inkling of time passing. Instead, her tight breath seemed to make time slow inexorably and she lost her bearings and wandered loosely along the aisles, wondering how her mother was doing.
Emmy moved purposefully. The bag she carried was wide open and she deftly inserted cheese, sliced meats, fruit, and vegetables. In the cart she lay heavier, bulkier items to give the pretense of shopping. No one seemed to give her a second’s notice. Her hunger ate at her but she held it in check and only selected as much as she thought they would need. There was a reluctance in her for this act, as though it tied her to Cadotte, and she wanted it over with as soon as possible. When the bag was full, she ambled along the aisles, waiting for Winnie to create the diversion she needed to flee safely.
By now Winnie was lost in the absence of time. She grew confused over how much of it had elapsed since she’d left her mother. Her hands and skin were clammy, and she felt perspiration at her brow and lower back and it chilled her so that she shivered and rubbed at the length of her arms to warm herself. It didn’t help. Her stomach was in turmoil and she desperately wanted to use the washroom but she was spun by internal conflict and roamed the aisles as long as she thought was needed. Then she pushed the cart to a line of registers and stood there, uncertain of what to do next. She pinched her eyes shut. She tried to steel herself to take action but she couldn’t find one that seemed loud enough or extreme enough. She quaked.
Then the cashier called to her.
“Come along, sweetie. I’ll help you here.”
Winnie swallowed hard and pushed the cart to the end of the counter that ran to the till. Her panic was full-on and she had trouble breathing so she began setting things on the conveyor and the cashier smiled at her and began running the items through. There suddenly seemed to be people everywhere. She dropped a can and a big man behind her bent and retrieved it and handed it to her with a grin. She swallowed hard. Now time seemed to swirl and dip and spin and she was disoriented and confused and she reached out to try to haul down a rack of magazines but she didn’t have the strength. She tried to fumble down a short shelf of chocolate bars but only two fell out and again the big man behind her picked them up. When he went to hand them to her she broke. She pushed past her cart and ran toward the doors. The cashier called out and Winnie could see her mother staring from across the wide expanse of store. She chose the wrong doors. They were entry doors and she pushed at them with her palms and could see people rushing toward her in the glass and then she turned with her fingers splayed against the glass, twisting one way and then the other, uncertain, terrified and trapped. The white-shirted manager appeared, stepping firmly down the aisle. Her mother walked quickly by, angling toward the exit doors. A man and a woman stepped neatly from each side of the doors as her mother emerged and stopped her in her tracks and a struggle broke out. Grocery items fell to the concrete. Her mother wrestled mightily but they held her and turned her and pushed her back into the store. People had stopped moving where they stood, everyone turned toward the commotion at the front. The manager regarded both situations and then strode toward the ruckus with her mother. Two other white-shirted people moved toward Winnie. She dodged them and ran toward the exit doors. A large arm stopped her. The big man. He knelt in front of her and blocked her flight.
“Easy,” he said. “Easy. You’re gonna be okay.”
She doubted it and began to cry.
* * *
—
There were nine people in the long, narrow room that served as an office. It had large darkened windows and looked out over the store space below, the pasture of it broken into sections by aisles like fences. From here they could see everything and every shopper. The girl stared out over the store and shook her head sadly. Only she and her mother were seated. The rest milled about or inched for space in the cramped quarters: two store managers, the cashier, two security people, a policeman, and the big man. Everyone seemed tense or aggravated or both. Except for the big man. He leaned against the back wall and arched an eyebrow at Winnie when he caught her eye and smiled.
“So, Miss Strong,” the policeman said. “This is your daughter.”
“Winifred. Yes,” Emmy said.
“Your intention was to not pay for anything,” the officer said. It wasn’t a question. “If I read this right she was supposed to act as your diversion.”
Emmy pressed her lips together and nodded. She stared at the floor, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Yes,” she said.
“You know it makes you both guilty?”
“Yes.”
“You also know that asking a child to participate in a crime is a crime itself?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“We’re hungry.”
The officer shook his head. He looked at the store manager and they were both silent. “Putting up a fight at the doors wasn’t a very good choice either,” the policeman said. He spoke directly but kindly.
“No. I know.”
“It doesn’t leave me much room here, Miss Strong. When people are hungry they can get a voucher from one of the churches or their welfare worker. No one has to steal in this town.”
“I’m not on welfare.”
“Seems to me if you’re hungry with a young daughter then maybe you should be. Where do you currently reside?”
Emmy looked at him. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere? Everyone lives somewhere, Miss Strong. We don’t have a homeless issue in Endako. Are you just travelling through?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But we got a home, Mama. You said.” Winnie looked at her imploringly.
Emmy squeezed her eyes shut and wiped at their corners with a knuckle. “It’s not a real home, Winnie,” she said quietly.
“Are you staying with friends? Camping somewhere?” the officer asked.
“We got a house,” Winnie said.
“Where is this house if you don’t live anywhere, Miss Strong?”
“Out of town a ways. North and east. It’s abandoned.”
“Two-storey place? Kind of grey clapboard siding. Well with a concrete slab cover out back with a shed?” the big man asked but didn’t look at her.
“Yes. That sounds like it.”
The big man looked at the policeman. “Sounds like the old Wilton place, Jensen. Been derelict since I was a teenager. Surprised it’s still standing.”
“So you’re squatting there, Miss Strong? Is that what you’re saying?” Officer Jensen asked.
“I never thought no one would mind,” she said. “We cleaned it. We’re taking good care of it. We’re not botherin’ anyone.”
“I’m going to have to call Child Services,” Officer Jensen said. The store personnel nodded grimly.
“What does that mean?” Emmy asked.
“Well, it means a couple things. I’m going to have to charge you with shoplifting and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Without a fixed address, you’re not going to be released and someone has to take care of your daughter. Child Services will put her somewhere. She’ll be taken care of while you’re away.”
“Where are you going, Mama?” Winnie asked. She was crying. She stood up and walke
d to her mother, who reached out and drew her to her chest and cradled her there, staring up at Officer Jensen, wild-eyed and fearful.
“I have to pay for the groceries,” Emmy whispered.
“How long is that gonna take?”
“I don’t know. These people will take care of you while I’m gone.”
Winnie grabbed tighter hold of her mother and buried her head in Emmy’s chest. “No,” she said. “No, Mama. No.”
“I was caught, Winnie. I was caught. There’s nothing I can do.”
Winnie turned to Officer Jensen and looked up at him with a stricken face. “Please, mister cop. Please don’t do this to us.”
Jensen removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair and glanced around at the others like he wanted to be rescued. “I’m sorry,” was all he said.
The big man stood up and stepped closer to Emmy and Winnie. “Why are you squatting in a fall-down old building?” he asked quietly.
Emmy gazed up at him. The size of him rattled her. Her features shook with the effort of speaking. “We’re out of money,” she said haltingly. “And food. I been trying to find work but there’s nothing out there for me. I figured once I got work I could save for a real place.”
“Where’s your home?” he asked.
“Don’t rightly have one.”
“Ever?”
“It’s a long story, mister.”
“Frank,” he said.
“It’s a long story, Frank,” Emmy said.
“Man run off?”
“More like we done.”
“Drunk?”
“That’s part of it.” She looked at him openly. “Like I said. It’s a long story.”
Starlight stared at her for a moment. Then he turned, strode to Jensen, and whispered to him.
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