Zack
Page 7
You’d never have known it by Dad’s peppering her with questions. Should we bring this? Did you pack that? He, who was basically a groupie after all, had two suitcases containing everything from his laptop to exams to mark, to journals he wanted to catch up on, along with enough clothes to outfit a platoon for a month.
The last thing he did really burned me. Without even making a secret of it, he copied down the odometer reading from the pickup. He wanted me to know I wasn’t to use the truck too much. Get ready for a big surprise when you come home, Dad, I thought.
We loaded the whole catastrophe into the back of the truck and headed for the airport. An hour and a half later Dad pulled up to the curb on the departure deck under the watchful eye of a Mountie who looked at us as if we were shipping bags of cocaine back to Colombia for a refund.
“Be careful,” was all Dad said as he loaded the gear onto a cart.
“Now, we’re trusting you to act sensibly while we’re gone, Zack,” Mom told me for the tenth time. “Don’t let us down.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Remember to turn out all the lights and lock the doors when you leave the house. And don’t leave dirty dishes around.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And water the plants. Give the lilacs and the flowers in the yard a good soaking.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She kissed me and laughed. “I’ll bet you wish I’d shut up and get on the plane.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“All right. We’re leaving. Bye, dear.”
“Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.”
I watched them push the cart through the automatic doors and heaved a sigh of relief. As I drove off I even waved to the Mountie.
The first thing I did when I got back to town was hit the supermarket, where I bought two cases of apple juice in small bottles and a case of tonic water—sue me, I don’t like cola—three boxes of soda crackers, a big jar of crunchy peanut butter, three blocks of cheddar cheese, half a dozen packs of sliced meat and two bags of ice cubes for the cooler. At the Canadian Tire store I picked up a Canada/U.S. road atlas, a plastic rain poncho, some bug lotion and sun block. Next stop, the bank, to buy American dollars.
Back home, I packed the food into the fridge and tossed the cubes into the freezer chest. In a trunk in the cellar I located Dad’s old sleeping bag and took it out into the yard to air out in the sun. I removed the thick foam mattress from one of the chaise longues on the patio and retrieved a pillow from my room. Sleeping accommodations done.
I stuffed enough clothes for a week into a flight bag Mom never used, threw in a couple of detective novels from the bookshelves in the living room, added my portable CD player and some discs and headed for the garage.
Suspended from the rafters by a series of pulleys and ropes that only my father could have devised was a truck cap he had bought at a garage sale and used once—on the way home from the garage sale. It took half an hour and a lot of cursing and knuckle-skinning to get the cap onto the Toyota and locked in place. The truck’s box was now a weather-proof compartment accessed by a tiny door at the back.
I realized afterwards that it would have been a good idea to pack my gear into the Toyota before I installed the cap. Grumbling at my own stupidity, I swept out the compartment and put in the mattress and bedding. The rest of the stuff could wait until morning.
In the kitchen I put the kettle on while I made a list, then assembled more stuff—the cooler, a flashlight, Mom’s extra long-distance calling card (she kept it in a kitchen drawer) — and last but most important, I rummaged through my desk for a Christmas card sent to us years before. I had retrieved it from the garbage when Mom wasn’t looking. My uncle had written my grandfather’s address inside it, hoping, I guess, that Mom would relent and write to him. Fat chance.
I fired up Dad’s computer and ran off a copy of my Pawpine research paper, which I added to the pile of stuff on the kitchen table. While I sipped my tea, I consulted the road atlas and planned my route. Then I began to water Mom’s ten thousand houseplants before I turned the garden hose on the lilacs and her little flower farm in the yard.
“So, are you going to miss me?” I asked.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jen said. “And, no, I won’t miss you. Soon as I get to Calgary I’ll go to a bar and find a guy with a cowboy hat, tight jeans and a nice butt.” She wiped ketchup from the corner of her lips and added, “Are you going to miss me? Or is the excitement of this illegal and crazy trip of yours too much?”
“I wish you could come with me.”
“So do I, Zack. But I’d just get in your way.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look sexy with pizza sauce on your chin?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to notice.”
“Come here,” she said.
Chapter 3
I have never been a morning person. Although I had set the alarm for six-thirty it was nine before I hauled myself out of bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, showered and dressed. After Jen had left the night before, I had lain awake listening to the breeze outside my open window, and the Grand River flowing along, wondering if the whole idea of the trip was a mistake. It was late before I fell asleep.
After a breakfast of toast and coffee I packed up all the gear and stowed it in the truck, then I did a tour of the house, checking to make sure all the windows and doors were locked, the timers set on the upstairs and downstairs lights, and the water main in the basement was shut off. It was ten o’clock when I pulled out of Fergus and headed south on Highway 6, my atlas open beside me on the seat.
I followed 6 into Hamilton, stopped at a doughnut shop to use the bathroom and pick up a coffee, and lost half an hour tearing up and down one-way streets, cursing and trying to find the Queen Elizabeth Way. The highway was thick with cars whose drivers seemed bent on killing themselves and each other, along with hundreds of huge transport trucks that looked eager to help. Unused to driving on big roads, I gripped the steering wheel and kept the Toyota in the right lane, buffeted by powerful draughts from the passing trucks. At St. Catharines I kept my eye open and when I saw the sign for Twelve Mile Creek I pulled over onto the shoulder.
I hadn’t known what to expect. What greeted me was pretty unexciting—a sluggish stream winding through a flat, unremarkable landscape before it slipped under the ugly concrete tangle of the highway, which howled with traffic. I tried, without success, to imagine what the creek looked like a century and a half before, when Pawpine pioneered his homestead there.
Instead of crossing at Niagara Falls I followed the signs for Queenston and drove past the statue of General Brock, big hero of the Battle of Queenston Heights who was killed fending off the American invasion in 1812. Pawpine may have fought there too. No statue for him, though.
I paid the toll and drove over the bridge that spanned the Niagara River thundering and boiling on its way east to Lake Ontario. Behind a huge motorhome from Texas I came to a stop at the row of customs booths. When the motorhome moved off I drove up to the booth and rolled down my window. The agent studied me behind mirror aviator sunglasses and spoke in a bored monotone.
“Citizenship?”
“Canadian.”
“How long do you plan to stay in the United States?”
“A week or so.”
I wondered why he needed sunglasses sitting in a dimly lit enclosure under a shaded roof. His next question threw me.
“What’s your destination?”
“Er, Natchez.”
“Where’s that?”
Was this a test? I wondered. Or was this guy’s knowledge of geography as dim as his eyesight? “In Mississippi,” I said.
So far, I had felt like I was under arrest as each question came harsher than the last.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
To pick up a ton of heroin and a nuclear warhead, I felt like saying, but something told me that he had a severe irony deficiency.
The agent adjusted his sunglasses. “You got proof of ownership for that truck?” he asked.
I stretched across the seat and rummaged around in the glove compartment amid road maps and used-up ballpoint pens until I found the small blue plastic folder Dad used to keep the ownership and insurance slip. I handed it over. The agent examined the papers carefully before handing back the folder. But he wasn’t done with me.
“What’s your grandfather’s address?”
I passed across my uncle’s Christmas card. The agent turned it over, read the inside, then peered at the stamp on the envelope as if he suspected it was counterfeit. He gave it back.
With the warmth of an iguana he said, “Enjoy your stay.”
I threw the truck into gear and pulled away, turning onto Highway 190. The city of Buffalo seemed to be having a pothole competition with someplace. I got to the New York State Thruway and turned west, stopping for gas at the first station. The highway was straight, flat and boring. At Erie I took Interstate 79 south towards Pittsburgh.
By then it was late afternoon. If the road west was dull, this one was worse, pushing though flat, featureless farm land. I was learning that what the interstates offered in convenience and travel time they balanced with boredom. Driving along, I seemed to be sitting stationary on a conveyor belt, other cars and trucks scattered around me, pulled through the countryside at a steady numbing pace.
Near Pittsburgh the terrain became hilly. I bypassed the city and turned west again on I-70. At the Ohio border I stopped at a “welcome station” which introduced me to the state with washrooms, vending machines and racks of pamphlets advertising motels, tourist attractions, stores and other hot spots.
I pulled up in the nearly empty parking area and shut off the truck. After I stretched my legs and twisted the kinks out of my spine, I fished my longdistance calling card out of my wallet and walked to the bank of pay phones. It was time to set Operation Deception in motion.
I made a call to my house. The phone rang only twice before the answering machine picked up, indicating that a message had been left. It was Dad, telling me their hotel’s phone number and room number. I jotted down the information on the corner of a page I tore out of the phone book.
Our answering machine could be programmed from a phone. When it was clear Dad’s was the only message, I used the telephone keypad to erase his message. Then I erased the out-going message, punched in another code number and held my fingers over the receiver.
Pitching my voice as high as I could, I said in a nasal monotone, “I’m sorry. This number is not in service.”
Pleased with the detective-novel ruse, I hung up and redialled, using the calling card again. Sure enough, the phone rang four times, the machine picked up and I heard myself tell me that our phone didn’t work. So far, so good. Squinting at my scribbled note, I called my parents’ hotel in Montreal and asked to leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Lane.
“Shall I connect you to their room?” the receptionist asked.
“No, I’ll just leave a message, please.”
“Very well. You may record your message when you hear the beep.”
I reported that our phone was acting up. I said Grandpa had tried to call a few times and got a “not in service” message. “So I’ll call you every couple of days, Mom. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. Bye,” I ended cheerily.
One more call to make.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Grandma. It’s Zack.”
“Hello, dear. How are you?”
“Oh, fine. Just watching the tube, you know. Um, I called to tell you and Grandpa that there’s something wrong with our phone. I can call out but people can’t call in.”
“That’s strange.”
“Yeah, isn’t it, though? Anyway, I’ll be in touch with you every couple of days, okay?”
“Yes, dear, but—”
“Oh, jeez, the kettle’s boiling. Gotta run, Grandma. Talk to you later, bye!”
I hung up quickly, no longer puffed up with my trickery. Fibbing to a machine was one thing. Tricking my grandma was something else.
I climbed into the back of the truck, opened the cooler, made myself a sandwich of ham, cheese and peanut butter and took it to a picnic table under the trees beside the building. Long shadows striped the parking area and the air was cooling down. As I ate, cars pulled up, travellers walked to and from the comfort station, sat in their cars consulting maps, drove off again. It was a lonely place. Nobody knew anybody else—didn’t want to know. They left the familiar interior of their vehicles for a short excursion and returned as quickly as possible, closing and locking the doors, safe again.
The food made me drowsy and I felt my eyelids droop as I sat on the hard seat thinking those profound thoughts. I climbed into the cab of the Toyota and curled up in the front seat. Just a short nap, I told myself, then I’ll get going.
When I woke up, cramped and a little chilly, it was dark out and the condensation on the windshield blurred the light coming from the building, giving me the sense that I was under amber-coloured water. A slight headache throbbed behind my ears and my mouth was sticky. In the rear-view mirror I saw the yellow dots of light along the top of a transport truck. There seemed to be no one else around.
The clock on the dashboard read 12:42. I pulled the keys from the ignition, locked the cab and crawled into the back. Carelessly I kicked off my shoes. I crawled into the sleeping bag, burrowed deep and went back to sleep.
I dreamed I was trapped in an underwater cave, drowning in white light that burned through my eyelids. I thrashed in panic, desperate to escape. Groaning with fear, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled the sleeping bag over my head. Darkness fell and I could breathe again. Then came deep hollow voices, the scrape of leather boots on concrete.
“… in here,” a voice said—male, straining with tension.
A fist pounded on a door. It was my door. It was the door of the truck cap.
I snatched the covers from my face and bolted to my knees. The rear window of the truck was an explosion of piercing white light. Blinded, I shielded my eyes with my arm.
A second voice, muffled, deeper than the first. “I see him!”
The door thumped and rattled as the fist struck it again. My heartbeats throbbed in my head as I scrambled for my clothes, as if pulling on my jeans would stop the terror that dried my mouth. I remembered news reports from last winter, stories of tourists in Florida murdered for their cash on the edge of the Interstates. Frantically I groped around for something I could use as a weapon, knowing I was trapped. My fingers closed on the handle of the knife I had used to make my sandwich.
Behind the glare of light a voice boomed. “You in there! Come out now!”
The door handle rattled. I had locked it when I had climbed in. I turned away from the blazing window and looked through the cab out the front of the truck to see a looming shape, a movinglight. Behind me, the door thundered.
“This is the Highway Patrol. Put down your weapon! Come out of the truck with your hands on your head. Now!”
At first I felt a wave of relief. Cops. I was safe. Then, fear again. What if they weren’t cops at all? I couldn’t see them. Momentarily I considered waiting them out. I was trapped, yes, but they couldn’t get in.
“How do I know you’re police?” I yelled.
For an instant the light disappeared from the window and shone on a human shape. A badge gleamed, then the light returned, full into my face.
“Come out!” the voice boomed. “Keep your hands in sight.”
I dropped the knife and shuffled on my knees, hands held out before me like a beggar. I reached to slide back the bolt on the door.
“I said keep your hands in sight!”
“It’s locked,” I said, surprised at the firmness of my voice.
“Put your right hand on your head. Unlock with your left.”
I did as he told me. My fear had lesse
ned, but not by much. The door flew open and a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt closed on my shoulder, bunching my T-shirt. Fingers dug painfully. I was dragged out the door so violently that I couldn’t get my feet under me. I fell headlong to the pavement, striking my head, and a new burst of light blazed behind my eyes. The air exploded from my lungs when my chest hit the ground. Dazed, I felt my arms pulled behind me. A knee ground into my back, the skin on my wrists pinched and I heard two loud clicks.
The cops lifted me to my feet and slammed me against the side of the truck. A light was trained on my eyes.
“Where are the keys?”
“In my back pocket,” I gasped. I could hardly breathe.
A hand was thrust into my pocket. My keys jingled. The truck door was opened and noises told me the second cop was searching the cab.
“Could you put that light down, please?” I said. “You’re hurting my eyes.”
The glare dropped away and I blinked the sparkles away from my eyeballs. When my vision returned I found myself facing a very large man wearing a Smokey the Bear hat, unzipped windbreaker, leather belt with gun in holster and nightstick dangling. His face was round and fleshy and his breath stank of cigarettes.
“Where’s your ID?” he said.
“My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
“Turn around.”
The cop jerked my wallet from my jeans and ordered me to face front. He checked my driver’s licence and student card.
“Nothing here, Duane,” the second cop called from the cab.
“Look in the back.”
My wallet was stuffed back into my pocket. The big cop grabbed me under the arm, lifting me enough to keep me off balance, and hauled me to the cruiser. Its engine was running but the lights were off. The rear door squeaked as the cop pulled it open and shoved me head first into the car, so hard I sprawled across the edge of the seat then fell onto the floor, my face burning when it rubbed against the carpeting, my shoulders pinched back as I was squeezed into the narrow space between the front and back seats. The door struck my feet when he closed it. A front door opened and the car sagged when the cop got in.