Odds of being killed in a bus accident:
1 in 436,212
“Hang on!” someone behind them yelled, as a laptop clattered to the floor.
Marion grabbed at him, her book already gone, while he threw his arms straight out to brace himself against the seat back. The driver braked, and the gym bag flew across the aisle, bouncing around the bikers’ shins like a loose fumble. For a second Art thought of extricating himself from her grip to fall on it, but—just as quick—saw the problem with that option, and waited, rigid, still braced for impact, as the bus slowed, then stopped.
“What the hell.”
Marion relinquished her grip. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“I don’t think that was part of the deluxe package.”
“No.”
“Is everyone all right?” a woman up front asked.
“No,” an older woman answered calmly.
The gym bag lay on its side in the aisle, safely zipped. As he bent forward, stretching to retrieve it, the biker guy reached down, picked it up by one handle and passed it to him.
“Go Tribe.”
Art blanked, then caught up. “You know it. Thanks.”
“Whatta ya got in there—bricks?”
“Ha!”
Outside, copper-tinted snow blew through the high lights. They were sideways across all three lanes, the stopped traffic behind them cockeyed like bumper cars when the ride ends.
Up front, the driver was checking on the woman who wasn’t all right. Across the aisle, people were collecting their possessions, craning at their windows, calling on their cellphones. Gradually news filtered back. It wasn’t a car. A U‑Haul trailer had gotten loose and run into them, or they’d run into it. There were clothes all over the road. The biker concluded—unhelpfully, Art thought—that they weren’t going anywhere for a while.
“Great.” Marion held up her book by its flimsy cover, the pages butterflied. “I lost my place.”
Sitting there with the bag as she flipped the pages, he allowed himself to think of all the problems it would have solved if the bus had rolled and he alone had been killed. How clean it would be. No one could call it suicide, and Marion would receive the full half-million benefit, more than enough to pay off their debts. The policy had been in place forever, so no one would suspect. It was true that more than a few times over the last year he’d imagined his own death, though he would deny he’d ever been suicidal. He preferred to think of himself as practical rather than depressed, so that even now he viewed the crash as a missed opportunity, like a crime he wasn’t quite skilled or steely enough to pull off. He suspected there was something wanting in him to think like this, some lack of courage or integrity. His life had been staid and sedate for the most part, yet now that he was being tested, he grasped at the most dire solutions.
With a blip of static the driver came on the intercom and announced there would be a delay. He’d already called dispatch; a replacement bus was en route. He apologized for the inconvenience.
“Just what I want to do,” Marion said, “get on another bus.”
“Hmp,” Art snorted, to let her know she’d landed the joke, and that at heart he agreed. She went back to her book. As a complaint it was a mild one, delivered wryly, and well-deserved. He was hungry too, and tired. He understood that she didn’t want to be there, that this was just another ludicrous episode in the worst year of their lives—or possibly the second worst—and yet, while it was probably just a reflex, he was happy that, literally in the face of death, of all the possible reactions she might have had, she’d reached for him and hung on.
Odds of a vehicle being searched by Canadian customs:
1 in 384
The Peace Bridge was lit up like a carnival ride, its trusses bathed a gaudy purple. Below the road deck, red navigation beacons warned boaters away from the great stone piers, tinting the dark river, making Marion think of all the freezing water headed for the Falls. It might beat them, depending on how long they had to wait at the tollbooths. He’d called and changed their reservation so they weren’t late, but after the delay, and changing buses, she was impatient.
Their first time they’d crossed during the day, a steamy Sunday in June, the two of them alone in his old Corolla, their friends’ squiggly shaving cream letters dried on the side windows. Just married—it was hard to recall the feeling, though she could see herself in her favorite white linen sundress, showing off her new ring to the customs agent. The idea made her wistful for that time before everything, the two of them younger than their children were now.
She’d been doing foster care in Cleveland and met him at a farewell party for a fellow caseworker who’d had enough of the revolving door of family court.
He was one of just a few men there, and the only one in a suit, having come directly from the office. He was tall, with broad shoulders like a football player, but had the gangly, near-concave leanness of a boy. The bridge of his nose was generously freckled, his hair a lank cinnamon brown, a little long for her taste, and from time to time as they spoke he had to dip his head to one side and swipe it out of his eyes. He wrote grant proposals for Children’s Hospital downtown. His newest was for a mobile pediatric clinic—basically a tricked-out Winnebago—that would visit low-income neighborhoods on a rotating basis. In an effort to impress her, he was overly enthusiastic, as if he was on a crusade to fix the city. She wasn’t so cruel as to tell him it couldn’t be done. As he was describing its monthly route, ticking off names of notorious housing projects where she regularly did home visits with her clients, he threw one arm wide, sloshing beer out of his cup in a liquid arc that fell splashing to the hardwood floor. Before she could stop herself, she let loose a whoop of a laugh, drawing the whole room’s attention, and to her astonishment, the overgrown boy in the suit before her blushed deeply, red-cheeked as a leprechaun.
“I’m glad you think I’m funny.”
“I’m glad you’re funny,” she said.
Their courtship lasted more than a year, but in that moment she had already chosen—wrongly, it turned out, at least in one important category, which made it that much harder, now, stuck in the bus, to recall the happiness she’d felt then. Her entire life had not been a ruin. There were seasons she’d keep, years with the children, days and hours with Art and, yes, despite the miserable end, with Karen. Vacations, special occasions. The patients she’d come to love and then learned to let go. She’d be damned if she’d let Wendy Daigle poison everything.
BRIDGE ICES BEFORE ROAD, a sign advised, and they motored up a swooping approach and onto the span itself, suspended, briefly, between the two countries. Snow swirled purple through the superstructure. Earlier they’d both filled out declarations swearing they weren’t bringing any produce or plants or potentially damaging insects or animals into the country, or more than ten thousand dollars Canadian. Legally, he said, you were allowed to bring in as much as you wanted. The crime was not reporting it. The law was really about money laundering and funding terrorism, not what they were doing. Most likely they wouldn’t be searched anyway, being part of a tour. His blitheness disturbed her, as if once again he’d become that other person, the one who would say or do anything to get what he wanted. Did he understand how hard it was to believe a word he said when he lied so easily?
Spotlit flags flapped atop the tollbooths. As she remembered it, the plaza was smaller, and there was no modern-looking glass cube in the middle, no fancy rock fountain. They angled their way past the lines of stopped cars to an empty lane dedicated to buses. As they slowed for the jersey-walled slot, he shoved the bag under the seat in front of him, sliding a foot on either side. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a clownish grimace, as if he knew how useless this was.
They stopped, the bus releasing a pneumatic hiss, and the cabin lights snapped on. The door opened, letting in a few flakes, and a customs agent in a baseball cap with an embroidered gold badge climbed the stairs. He conferred with the driver
, jotting something on his clipboard, then turned to the passengers. He filled the aisle, blocking any escape. The bus went silent, awaiting instructions. Marion couldn’t tell if he had a gun, but he was fit. She pictured him tackling Art, their bags ransacked, the money confiscated. They would lose it all anyway, but, after everything, to never have that chance, slim as it was, seemed wrong. Was that how he rationalized what they were doing? Because, for the first time, she could see it.
“Welcome to Canada, folks,” the agent said. “We’re going to ask you to disembark for just a couple of minutes. Please have your passports and customs forms available for inspection.”
They filed off, braving the cold for a moment, then standing in a switchbacked line in a bright office. The agents here were hatless and sat behind high counters like bank tellers.
An agent waved them up together and inspected their passports. “Where are you coming from today?”
She let Art answer, nodding confirmation.
What was the purpose of their visit? What hotel were they staying at? Did they have anything to declare?
She waited for Art to stumble over the last one, but he just shook his head as if the question was moot. “Nothing.”
“Enjoy your stay.” The agent gave Art back both of their passports, and they went outside and got on the bus again.
The bag was still there.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “They didn’t even stamp our passports.”
“You want to go back?”
“No, but…I kind of wanted a Canada stamp. I don’t have one yet.”
“Okay, settle down,” she said, because he was too pleased with himself.
“I’m just saying.”
“And I’m just saying.”
They let it rest there, a stalemate, but as they rode along, the lights whipping past beside her, she realized they were actually going to do this, that there was nothing stopping them, and had to admit she felt an illicit thrill, as if they’d gotten away with something.
Odds of a U.S. citizen being an
American Express cardholder:
1 in 10
The driver took them in via the scenic route, curving with the river, the rapids adding to the suspense. On the American side, disembodied headlights glided through the night. Somewhere on the dark water separating them bobbed a line of buoys beyond which rescue was unlikely if not impossible. Art kept this information to himself, watching for the first glimpse of the Falls. Ahead, an orange halo rose from the city, silhouetting a long black lump.
“Is that Goat Island there?” he prompted.
“I hope so. I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”
“It must be,” he said, because just ahead he could see a pink column of mist boiling up, spritzing the windows, turning the streetlights blurry. The river surged, sluicing ice chunks past snow-topped rocks, throwing off foam. Beneath the dieseling of the bus, subtle at first, then insistent, came a deeper rumbling, as of a great engine. The tremor grew to a muted roaring, enveloping them like the mist, vibrating in his chest as if the whole earth were shaking, and then, in an instant, the river dropped away to reveal the famous panorama, a mile wide, colored blood-red for the weekend.
Oooo, everyone said.
Marion had turned to the window. He leaned across, nestling against her back as if to get a better view, taking in the warmth and scent of her neck. He thought of wrapping his arms around her, but resisted, afraid of ruining the moment. Often when he was trying to be affectionate she accused him of just wanting to cop a feel, as if he were a teenager. The charge hurt worse because he was at least partly guilty. He’d always loved to touch her. He’d thought it was a compliment, his ardency, but somehow, now, it was a burden for her to be desired.
“Why do they have to do that?” she said. “Why can’t they just have moonlight on it?”
“I think it’s supposed to be fun.”
“I guess I’m no fun then.”
“I think you’re fun.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I know what I am.”
Had he said anything like that? He was baffled at how quickly they’d gone from riffing to these recriminations, as if she’d set a trap he’d been dumb enough to blunder into again. As always, not knowing what the problem was, he traced her unhappiness back to Wendy, for which he took full blame, though, after so many years, he thought they’d both suffered enough, a judgment he wisely kept private and which made him all the more guilty and unable to answer her. The safest response he could offer was silence.
“God, stop with the poo-poo face,” she said. “It’s fine, I just need to eat something.”
He forgot about holding her and accepted this as his quest, as if it were a solution, not an excuse.
They were nearly there. The hotel rose directly opposite Bridal Veil Falls, the sinuous aluminum facade meant to resemble the cataract, the casino at its base a muscular whirlpool flinging off huge fanciful water droplets outlined in aqua neon. The bus pulled up the circular drive and as a group they tramped through the spongily carpeted lobby, open to the casino floor, manic with the jangling of slot machines.
Another tour had just arrived, so they had to wait. They stood in line like conscripts, minutes of their lives ticking away. Marion took out her book.
GAMBLING PROBLEM? a state-sanctioned poster asked. CALL 1‑800-GAMBLER.
“We can go grab something and come back,” he suggested.
“That’s not what you want to do. Let’s just stick with the plan.”
The front desk hadn’t lost their reservation, as he feared. The receptionist had them down for a nonsmoking Fallsview suite on the top floor with a queen-sized bed. All she needed was an imprint of a credit card.
He’d booked the room with his American Express, and handed it to her, watched her swipe it briskly through the machine. Technically, since he had no intention of paying the bill, he was guilty of fraud, or could be once he filed for bankruptcy, but that was months away, and by then so many other charges would have accumulated that the trustee assigned to his case would rightly assume he’d mismanaged his finances so badly that, owing alimony and with a piddling income, he was forced to use his credit cards to live. The debt would be forgiven, discharged with no more serious repercussion than he would never again own an American Express card.
“There you go,” the receptionist said, holding it out between two fingers.
On its face, by his name, in a masterstroke promoting brand loyalty, the raised date reminded him that he’d been a member since 1981, the same year they were married. It was possible he’d used it here then, and in a flash he saw a map of the world with all of their travels connected by dotted lines. England, Ireland, Hawaii. In the Florida Keys they drank rumrunners and made love on the beach, rinsing themselves in the warm shallows. How many flights had they charged to this card, how many meals?
The receptionist ripped off the slip. Somewhere in a windowless room he was on camera, flattening the receipt against the counter in lo‑res black-and-white. Fearing whoever was watching could read his intentions, he took the pen she’d given him and signed his name.
“Will you need help with your bags?”
“No, we can handle them,” he said, because they’d spent enough money they didn’t have and he wanted to leave—which turned out to be hasty, and the wrong answer, because in the elevator Marion asked him why he couldn’t have just paid the bellhop the five dollars.
Odds of a married couple reaching their
25th anniversary:
1 in 6
There were roses and champagne waiting for them, and a red-cellophane-wrapped fruit basket with a note from the management. The sitting room was modern, everything made of bent chrome and black leather, even the lamps. It was bigger than their own living room, the drapes open to show off the Falls, floodlit and hallowed far below like an empty stage. Art went ahead, finding the lights, pointing out the amenities as if he were selling her a condo. There was a second
flat-screen TV in the bedroom, a glass-walled shower stall and a huge jacuzzi for a tub. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or upset by such opulence. She reminded herself that people stayed at much more luxurious places all the time.
“Check it out,” he said, pulling a blind aside. “A tub with a view.”
“That’s great. Did you see an iron anywhere?”
He left her to search the bathroom cabinets, a minute later called from the hallway, “Got it!”
He came in beaming, holding it up like a prize. “It was in the closet.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Was there a board?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“They wouldn’t have an iron without a board.”
She checked, and of course, in the same closet there was a small one hung from a bracket. “It’s okay,” she called. “I’ve got it.”
He was hunched on one corner of the bed with the gym bag, trying to figure out the safe.
“Do you have anything you want me to iron?”
“Just a shirt.”
What if she hadn’t asked? He would have worn it wrinkled. He was like a teenager, or a bum, he honestly didn’t care what he wore, never had. There were jackets in his closet from before Emma was born, resoled shoes he refused to throw out.
Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) Page 2