Funny that sleeplessness seemed to be a purely human concern. He’d never seen a dog or cat suffer with it. Perhaps animals were braver than people, he concluded. Feared death less. One of the most frustrating things about being an insomniac was that he’d fall asleep at long last near four or five in the morning, only to have to wake up a couple of hours later, start the day, and assume that the elusive fatigue would inevitably show up like a Mack truck at some point in the afternoon. Take today, for example. He’d just started awake. He was embarking on a journey to Port Readie to attempt a truce with his fragile and long-estranged son. And he was going to attempt this fool’s errand under three handicaps: insomniac fatigue, jet lag, and one hell of a hangover.
The bedroom was overwarm. A layer of dampness coated Johnny’s chest. He sat up. Across the room sat Corran’s old bed, rumpled from Chemal’s recent sleep. Through the years, on the occasions when he came to visit Corran on his own, Johnny bunked up here with his son, and in this room, he had always felt like a kid at a slumber party. It wasn’t like that when Pauline came with him. Then they would book a room at a little B&B overlooking the Clyde, make a vacation out of it. The stays in Corran’s room had been different when his son was a child. Johnny could lie awake and watch the shadows of alder trees dance across the moonlit ceiling, could listen to the sound of Corran’s breathing, and could try to make sense of the words the boy murmured in his sleep. “Electric!” Corran had called out one night. “I’m not bleeding,” he muttered another time. Johnny would sit up, peer across the dim room, trying to understand it all.
Now, the morning after the pub, the sound of different voices murmured up through the floorboards, and from these—modulated, bright—Johnny gathered that Chemal was still getting on well with Sharon and Toole. Ah, but those two were good at boys, weren’t they? Knew how to tend to them, how to love them in that loose, baggy way boys respond to. Nothing too sweet now, nothing cloying. Jokey stuff—farts and burps and lightly barbed insults. Keep ‘em laughing. Pocket money and huge meals. Now and then big bear hugs, a kiss on the top of the head when the guard was down. Sharon and Toole made it look so easy.
A magpie cackled from the eaves just outside the window, and Johnny recalled an old superstition his mother used to tell him: A magpie near the window foretells death. Brilliant. He got up, went over to the window, and shook the curtains against the glass pane. The magpie departed. He looked at his watch. Nearly nine! The last he’d looked at the clock it had been three-thirty a.m. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofen, then showered quickly and made it downstairs in time to find Sharon and Chemal already packing the Polo for Port Readie.
They made it as far as the high street before Johnny had to stop at a convenience store and get a cup of coffee for the drive. No sense welcoming in a big headache before they even got started. And then he remembered that he hadn’t peed on his sugar strip, so he had to dig through his suitcase to find the damn things and then wait in line to use a men’s room that looked like something out of Trainspotting. He had the feeling that men had been just standing at the threshold of the doorway and arcing their urine in the general direction of the john. He held his breath and got the procedure over with to satisfactory effect, but then he was so repulsed by the idea that he’d likely been stepping through a thick coating of other people’s piss that he went to the counter and bought a tiny bottle of Germ-X (for £3.50!) and stopped by the side of the car to squirt it all over the soles of his shoes.
“Really?” Chemal said. “What, now you’re OCD or something?”
“You didn’t see that loo, mate.”
“You think too much.”
“Better too much than not enough.”
“Hey, now,” Chemal said. “I think just enough. What do you think, Miss Sharon?”
“I think you’re both mad,” Sharon said. “Let’s get going.” By the time they finally got up to speed on the highway, it was nearly ten o’clock, and they had a three-hour drive ahead to Port Readie, the first twenty minutes of which Johnny spent wondering if he’d successfully eradicated the E. coli he’d picked up in the men’s room and then wondering if he was now OCD. What was wrong with him? Was Mr. Meningioma acting up? It wasn’t like him to be so fastidious. Still, that men’s room. Oh, God. Let it go, Johnny. Let it go.
He texted Pauline: Hi kidda. He waited a moment, but seeing no response, he pulled up a browser on his phone and checked the Jacksonville news. The Times-Union had another opinion piece on the Bold City Ice Plant, this one written by a spokesperson for a newfangled environmentalist group Johnny had never heard of: JaxGreenDreamers. Well, all righty. The editorial was refreshing in its stance, he had to admit: Rather than crucify the ice factory’s principals over issues of employee safety and human health like most critics had been doing, this writer had, as he stated coyly, written on behalf of a victim unable to speak for itself: the St. Johns River.
Johnny shook his head. The river? This was a new one. “Harm to our city’s most precious and historic waterway by the Bold City Ice Plant from its negligent release of unidentified toxins is not only inexcusable,” the spokesman wrote, “it’s also abwhoren’t [sic].” For the love of Christ. Unidentified toxins? Try pure anhydrous ammonia, jackass. It was right there in the accident report, which was on public record if you cared to check. And harm to the river? The ammonia never came within a quarter-mile of the St. Johns. It dissipated into the atmosphere over Little Silver within an hour of the rupture. The accident at the Bold City Ice Plant, it seemed, was becoming favored fodder for any uninformed hipster who wanted to see his name in the paper.
“Do your homework, you fucking numpty,” Johnny said aloud.
“Who are you muttering at?” Sharon said. “You’re always making yourself mad for no reason. Why don’t you put the phone down and enjoy the scenery?”
“You’re using data there, Iceman,” Chemal said. “I keep telling you about these overseas roaming charges. Stay off the Internet, dude. You’re going to have a beast of a bill when you get home.”
Johnny looked from Sharon to Chemal. Now, how had he managed, for the past fifty-three years, to make his way through the world without these two to tell him what to do? He bit his tongue, checked once more for a text from Pauline, and, seeing none, put the phone back into his pocket. A mail truck bulleted past them on the left.
“I’m glad you’re driving, Chemal,” Sharon said. “I hate the motorways. Too aggressive.”
“No worries, Miss Sharon.”
“And I hate the way Johnny drives. Like he’s being chased.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Johnny said. “You could at least wait until I’m out of earshot to insult me.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to see your reaction,” Sharon said. “I’m sure you could imagine it.”
“Yes,” she said, absently. “I suppose I could.” She dug in her purse and came up with a CD. “Would you two mind if I brushed up on my Spanish while we drive?” she said. “I’m doing an online class. And I’m so far behind. Dios mio.” She handed the CD to Johnny. “Put that in the player,” she said.
“Hablo español,” Chemal said. “Mi madre es de Puerto Rico.” Sharon hesitated. “Help me out a bit,” she said.
“I said ‘I speak Spanish. My mother is from Puerto Rico.’” Sharon gasped. “Really? Oh, my God, this is fantastic! Can you help me practice? I never have anyone I can practice with.”
“Sí.” Chemal grinned.
“Forget the CD, Johnny,” she said. “Eject it.”
“¿Por qué estudias español?” Chemal said.
Sharon hesitated again, then shook her head slowly.
“Nope,” she said. “Not there yet. Give it to me.”
“Why are you studying Spanish?”
“So she can order people around in another language,” Johnny said.
“Ha ha,” she said.
“Señor Hielo está de mal humor,” Chemal said.
“What does that mean?” Sharon said.
“‘Iceman’s in a bad mood.’”
Oh, and then they laughed. Christ, this was going to be a long ride.
Just outside Crianlarich they passed a sign for a spiritualist camp. Sharon leaned forward from the backseat.
“I’ve always wanted to go to that place,” she said. “Montebella. I drive past it every weekend but have never taken the time to stop. Did you see that sign?” Johnny had seen the sign. And his first thought upon seeing it was that he hoped Sharon hadn’t noticed it. He’d never known anyone in his life as enamored of mumbo jumbo as Sharon. She was always on about one new trend or another: Enneagrams, or biorhythms, or meditation, or God knew what all else. He couldn’t understand it. She was a perfectly intelligent woman in all other respects. But let her catch one whiff of new age bullshit and she’d fall on it like a dog on a bone.
“No, sorry, I didn’t see a sign,” he said.
“I saw it,” Chemal offered.
“It’s a spiritualist camp,” Sharon said. “They have psychics and readers. Mediums, you know? Communicate with the dead and see your future, like that. You can just walk right in, don’t need an appointment. This girl Maura I work with, she went there. She and her husband had been trying to have a baby, but nothing was happening. So she went there and saw a psychic, who told her she was pregnant right then! She went home and took a pregnancy test. And guess what? He was right.”
“No way,” Chemal said.
“Sharon,” Johnny said. “That’s bullshit.”
“I don’t think so. I think there’s something to it.”
“Yeh, there’s something to it. It’s called sex. It makes babies.”
Chemal nodded.
“What are you nodding about, smarty?” Johnny said. “Like you know something about it?”
Chemal scowled. “Well, I know how babies are made, if that’s what you mean.”
“How?”
Chemal stared straight ahead at the road. “I’m not talking about it with you. And anyway, just because the people might have been having sex, that doesn’t mean the psychic was a fake. He knew she was pregnant before she even did.”
“Exactly!” Sharon said.
“I know Chemal’s hungry right now, but that doesn’t make me a psychic,” Johnny said.
Chemal’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know I’m hungry?”
“Because you haven’t eaten anything in an hour. Easy.”
“Well, anyway. Wouldn’t it be interesting to stop in Montebella?” Sharon said.
“Yeah!” Chemal said.
“No,” Johnny said. “And we’ve already passed the turn.”
“I can yooie,” Chemal said.
“Come on, Johnny,” Sharon said. “This could be very helpful. Maybe we could even get some advice. On Corran and such. And your accident case, yeah?”
He rolled his eyes. Sharon! The woman was smarter than nearly anyone else he knew. So why was she so attracted to idiocy? Of course, if he’d asked her that, she’d probably respond that it was lucky for him that she was, since without that weakness she’d never have hooked up and had a child with him. She could do that—zing off a one-liner that would cut you off at the knees just as you were getting your arguments lined up solid. And come to think of it, it was the same with Pauline. In verbal sparring with both of his wives, he was always slain before he even started. How had he managed to intellectually handicap himself so spectacularly, not once, but twice? Chemal was slowing down. Johnny was about to protest further when his phone rang. He looked at the screen. Dr. Tosh.
“Uh-oh,” he said. He hesitated, then answered the call.
“Johnny!” Tosh said. “How are you, friend?”
“Fine,” Johnny said. “You’re up early.”
“Dang straight, rise and shine. I’m calling to check on you.”
“I’m good.”
“Feeling all right, then?”
“Yeh.” Chemal was exiting the road. Sharon was still leaning forward, giving Chemal directions.
“Take the roundabout,” she was saying. “We can double back.”
“No!” Johnny said.
“You’re not good?” Tosh said. “What is it?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m good. I was talking to someone else. Hang on.” He lowered the phone and turned around to look at Sharon. “Sharon, this is daft!” he said. “Psychics?”
“Oh, hush,” she said. “It won’t take more than a half hour. We’ve got time.” Chemal accelerated back up the road, back in the direction they’d come.
“Johnny,” Tosh said. “Are you at home?”
“Well,” Johnny said. “No.”
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I know. I’m taking it easy.”
“You’re not driving, are you?”
“No.”
“Still taking the steroids?”
“Yeh.”
They were now approaching the turn for Montebella, but Chemal was still moving at a pretty good clip.
“Here!” Sharon shouted.
“Whoa!” Chemal said. He curved the Polo sharply to veer around the turn. “Almost missed it!”
“Johnny,” Tosh said. “Where are you?”
“Well,” Johnny said. “I’m in Scotland.”
Tosh didn’t answer for a beat. “You’re in Scotland,” he said finally. “And on what page of your treatment plan did it say to go to Scotland?”
“Don’t worry,” Johnny said. “I’ll be back in time for the big event. I know we’ve got a date.”
“Not with me, friend. With a brain surgeon. A dang cranky brain surgeon who is expecting me to manage my pre-op patients.”
“I know, I know. I’m good, okay?”
“Is Pauline with you?”
“No. She didn’t want me to come.”
“I bet she didn’t. In fact, I bet she wants to slap you silly right now. I know that’s what I want to do.”
“Well,” Johnny said. “You can’t always get what you want, Dr. Tosh.”
Tosh sighed. “It’s your rodeo, Johnny.”
Johnny hung up with Tosh and looked out the window to find they were parked in front of a crumbling Airey-style duplex painted chalk white on one side, potato brown on the other. On the brown side, a sign over the front door read “Matthew Terry: The Sixth Sense.” And beneath that: “Clairvoyant * Medium * Healer.”
“Why doesn’t it just say ‘Con Artist’? That would cover it,” he said.
“Come on, Chemal,” Sharon said. “Let’s leave Prince Charming out here. He’ll only stink it up in there. Sit here and wait for us, Johnny.”
Johnny was remembering now why he and Sharon were no longer married. He looked at his watch. How long had this realization taken? Around sixteen hours, total. And around six sober hours. That seemed about right.
“Ask the psychic if you’ll ever stop being so bossy,” he said.
Sharon gave him a look but climbed out of the car with Chemal. They disappeared into the house. Johnny grabbed his iPhone and found that the wireless network from the psychic’s house was named “Truth in All Things.” He checked his emails. One from Roy with the week’s production report. One from Tosh’s office with more insurance forms. And one from Sam Tulley. Johnny clicked on it.
From: [email protected]
To: MacKinnon, Pauline
Cc: MacKinnon, Johnny; Kaplan, Claire; Grassi, Roy
Subject: Need Vendor List!
Hi Pauline!
I think we’re making good progress! ☺ We’ll find something, I know it! I forgot to ask—could you please forward factory vendor list? Need to document suppliers of equipment, materials, etc.
Thanks!
Sam
PS, ran Hart this morn. Go early, no traffic!!!
Now wasn’t this guy just the shit? Johnny got out of the car and took a walk around the psychic’s house, where the sounds of water beckoned him down a small incline. Sure enough, a few minutes’ walk revealed a tin
y rushing creek, and he crouched by the water and smoked half a cigarette, then put it out and stuffed the butt into his pocket. After the surgery, he was quitting for good, he decided. A bright blue stone, glinting in the shallow waters of the creek, caught his eye. He had a thought to pocket the stone for Pauline, but when he started down the bank to fetch it, his foot slipped on a patch of brown moss and he ended up skidding gracelessly into the creek and muddying up one whole leg of his trousers. His right foot was completely underwater. His right thigh was a filthy mess. But at least, he realized as he heard the ringing, his phone hadn’t gotten wet.
“Och,” he said. He managed to get up and out of the water before answering the phone. It was Pauline.
“I just fell into a creek trying to get a stone for you,” he said.
“Are you drinking already?” she said. “Isn’t it still early there?”
“I’m not drinking,” he said. “I’m just a klutz.”
“I missed you earlier,” she said, and he was touched, until he realized she was simply talking about the phone call he’d placed a little while ago. “I was out running,” she said. Then she was unexpectedly chatty, telling him about Ed’s latest trade show leads, and about her run training, and about the retreat and disappearance, finally, of the Cuban tree frogs.
“I’m glad you’re talking to me,” he said.
“Obviously I’m talking to you.”
“So you’re not still mad at me?”
“I’m absolutely mad at you. I’m furious. But I’m not so juvenile that I’m going to have a long-distance snit about it. It can wait until you come home. It can probably even wait until after your surgery. Then I’ll let you have it.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Fine. Good. Tosh called me a few minutes ago.”
The Ice House Page 21