by Stan Rogal
It has to end. What has to end? She isn’t sure, so, everything, obviously. What other choice is there, one thing part and parcel with the rest? How has she allowed it to go on this long? That’s the bigger million dollar question she asks herself over and over, though in her heart-ofhearts she knows the answer. She’s weak. She’s a coward. She’s a loser. She’s what her mother always says: lack of character; lack of backbone; lack of self-confidence/self-respect; lack of moral fibre; lack of inner resources. That and the medications, of course. Meant to keep her mentally and emotionally balanced. Un-disturbed. Help her avoid a nervous breakdown in a public space; avoid causing embarrassment to herself and others; avoid drinking herself half to death: One hour at a time, one day at a time, one step at a time. Instead, exist as a sleep walker, a pushover for the first kind word, the first available offer. Not to mention a pricey weekly shrink who quizzes her on where she buys her shoes, who does her hair, what particular shade of red is her lipstick. And like a fool she answers. A sucker born every minute. Not to mention regular AA meetings that make her want to puke. Don’t quit five minutes before the miracle happens. Fuck you, she replies. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. In her head she says this; what she thinks; what she believes, yet, keeps her mouth shut, continues to attend religiously, nods her head obediently: yes, master; yes, master. We are only as sick as our secrets. And she admits she is a seriously sick puppy. Yes, all of this and more. Though most especially a coward, as … what will she do? Where shall she go? How will she end it?
The answer to the first question is simple — who gives a rat’s ass? Whether type memos or wash dishes it all adds up to the same dull monotony in the final analysis: work to live or live to work makes no difference. Eat, shit, sleep, maybe go bowling once a week. First honey, then the knife. C’est fini! The answer to question number two? North! Isn’t that where everyone goes when they want to get lost? Not south where it’s nice and warm and sunny and anyone and their mother is happy to follow you just because. No, north, where there’s always a fair chance you’ll freeze your tits off or be eaten by ravenous beasts, so, goodbye Charlie! Answer to the third question? Being a coward, end it in a cowardly fashion, meaning … not with a bang but a whimper. No ending, no closure, no nothing. Not a note, not an email, not a text, no attempt at an explanation of any sort, because what explanation is there beyond the fact she is a royal pain in the butt to everyone around her and a complete and total screw up?
How else explain living with a man she doesn’t love, never loved, never will love and remains with because he happened to take an interest in her several years prior and said those magic words: “Will you marry me?” And promised you alone, forsaking all others for eternity? Or having an affair with a married man she doesn’t find particularly attractive either mentally, physically or personality-wise, does not find sexy in any way whatsoever and must (even) stifle her laughter when he undresses — something to do with the shape and/or colour of his penis — is years too old for her, yet agreed simply because he said he desired her? He “desired” her. Never mind the man is her boss, fer chrissakes. Or that to get her shrink back on track she devises mock confessions where she says she enjoys finger painting with her feces or has fantasies about sucking the cocks of young black choirboys or being finger-fucked on the sacred altar steps by an arthritic priest or has dreams of nailing her mother’s forehead to the ornamental teak dining room table. Interesting, the shrink goes, tapping her bottom lip with the eraser end of a pencil. Tell me more. Yeah, the more outlandish and horrific, the better. Meanwhile, omit items such as self-loathing, fear of intimacy and dissatisfaction with body image — breasts too small, ass too big or vice versa — issues which have become commonplace, almost normal, in our freak-obsessed society, talked to death by Oprah and others of her ilk, plus experts in psychobabble: Dr. Phil, Dr. Gupta, Dr. Ruth, Dr. Oz, and so, a colossal bore. Omit, as well, the items where she induces vomiting and cuts herself with a steak knife on her thighs and belly. Little more than a weak cry for help, yes, and, not so bad, she guesses, really, in the grand scheme of things, if it weren’t all so pathetic, lame and ultimately stereotypical. We are only as sick as our secrets. This being merely the tip of the cracked iceberg, just throw together a suitcase, a backpack and get the hell out of Dodge, pronto! Who’d miss her, anyway?
“Desired.” That one word, she knows. If she could only desire something or someone. Instead …
The truck bed drags beneath the weight of road kill. Reuben cruises, his foot heavier on the gas with the knowledge of another day’s work almost complete. By habit he continues to scan the surrounding area, highway ahead, lake to the left, to the right a blur of black spruce and alder. Beyond this, swamp. Higher up, white pine and trembling aspen. A few more kilometres and … what was that? He catches something out the corner of his eye, off the shoulder, part way into the trees. He cranks the wheel, hits the brakes, shifts into reverse. He cuts the engine, hops out and scouts the area. Maybe something, maybe nothing. Then, there it is. Body of a woman lying face up on the ground. She wears a man’s baseball cap with a Blue Jays logo on it, a blue denim blouse, dark blue cotton hiking shorts, one foot has a brown sandal on it, the other foot is bare. An oval patch of blood stains the right side of her blouse. Most likely hit by the headlight of a passing car, Reuben figures. Tore into her. She flew a distance, bounced, crawled; eventually gave in to the pain, the exhaustion, and rolled over. That, or she was hit, knocked a mile, landed on a sharp branch or rock, bounced, crawled, rolled over. Definitely crawled as there are drag marks in the dirt and grass. The missing sandal landed or twisted free several yards behind her. Also a backpack situated in close proximity.
Reuben regards her, like: This is not your regular sack of potatoes. As he considers possibilities, a snake appears, slithers over the woman’s arm and coils itself in the middle of her chest. The snake is grey with a row of large rounded black blotches down the centre of the back, three smaller rows of alternating spots down each side and the immediately recognizable vertical pupils. A massasauga rattler. Poisonous and seeming pretty cocky for a creature on the threatened species list. Reuben crouches, gives the snake a gentle nudge with the back of his hand to move it along, lifts the woman under her knees and neck and straightens. Light as a feather, he thinks. He carries her to the truck, instinctively goes to the tailgate, stops, regards the woman, regards the steam of carcasses, turns, sidles to the passenger side, opens the door, slumps her into the seat, carefully shuts her in. He retrieves the backpack, jumps into the driver’s seat, drops the pack at the woman’s feet. He uses two fingers to remove a CD from the player and snap it back into its jewel case. He drums the CD holder, puts his hand on one plastic case then another. He makes a soft sound in his chest, chooses a new disc and sets it playing. It’s Lucinda Williams: Car Wheels On a Gravel Road.
He lifts the gearshift toward him, drags it into drive and hits the gas.
When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, backed into a corner, balls to the wall, strange how few things one really needs to pack up and go. She climbs into her beater Ford Escort hatchback, winds her way through mid-morning traffic to the 400 north and doesn’t pull off the highway until she hits Barrie. She gasses up, checks the oil and wiper fluid, cleans the windows and empties the floor of city detritus: used parking vouchers, empty plastic water bottles, paper coffee cups, fast-food wrappers, bags and so on. Having seen too many cop shows where the person of interest is tracked through use of a debit or credit card, she pays the station attendant cash. Of course, these same shows tell us that a person can’t be reported missing to police until 24 hours have passed. Turns out this is bogus. Especially if the missing person is mentally unstable and/or there’s fear of self-harm. She certainly qualifies on both these scores.
She bounces into a TraveLodge, arms herself with a basic provincial highway map plus a handful of tourist information brochures, finds a local Tim Hortons, orders a coffee and toasted cinnamon raisin bagel and sits
and peruses the material. Sault Ste. Marie, she nods. Why not? She knows nothing about the place aside from the fact it has a romantic ring to it — the Soo. The Soo. She repeats the word aloud several times, mantra-like, intending to imbue it with a sort of mythic quality. The Soo. Besides, if it doesn’t work out — the Soo — there are plenty more places further north: Thunder Bay, Rainy River, Kenora, Weagamow Lake, Sachigon Lake …
Plenty of wide open space in which to disappear and start over again. Tabula Rasa. A clean slate. Just drive, he said. Who said? Steve Taylor. Jack Nicholson. Robert Creeley. Something about darkness surrounding us and what can we do against it. Something about buying a car. A goddamn big car. “drive, he sd, for christ’s sake, look out where yr going.” Or not.
From what dark swirl has she dragged these fragments of ephemera? She shakes her head, reads her brochures and chews on a bite of bagel.
Reuben heats water in a large metal pot on the stove. As the water nears the boiling point he squirts in a shot of green dishwashing liquid, removes the pot from the element, tests the temperature with a dipped finger, drops in a clean washcloth and sponge, carries the pot a few feet and sets it on a metal stool seat. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves. The woman is laid out on the kitchen table. A blue rubber mat cushions her body against the wood tabletop. Her head rests on a small blue pillow. She is perfectly still. The ball cap is gone as is the sandal, already discarded into a heavy-duty, black plastic bag along with the other sandal and the backpack. Reuben sets to work. He releases the woman’s belt buckle, unsnaps and unzips her shorts, slides the shorts and panties as a single unit down her legs, tosses them into the plastic bag. He unsnaps her denim blouse, notices it sticks to her skin where the blood has dried. He soaks the area with the hot, soapy water, allows it to sit a minute, carefully peels the material away. The bra snap is in front, making it a simple job to undo, remove one arm then the other from both garments simultaneously, give her upper torso a slight lift, subtract the bra and blouse, crush them into a ball and deposit them in the bag along with the rest.
A cursory glance reveals the woman’s otherwise pallid skin randomly stained by pinkish-red bruises tinged with purple. Reuben pokes at one or two almost absentmindedly. He bends at the waist, lays an elbow on the table and studies the gash in the woman’s side. He traces the outline with his fingertips. A clean cut, he thinks. Not wide, but deep. He sponges the entire area, squeezes water from the sponge into the pot, repeats the process until he’s satisfied the dried blood is removed. He goes on to wash the rest of the woman’s body, sponging her ribs, chest, breasts, under her armpits, over her shoulders, down her arms. He uses the washcloth to scrub her hands and fingers; her neck, face and ears. He erases any trace of make-up, which is minimal, anyway. There’s no polish on her nails, either fingers or toes.
He dumps the dirty water down the sink, rinses the sponge and washcloth, refills the pot straight from the hot water tap this time and returns to the woman. She fits perfectly comfortable on the table, with a few inches to spare on either end and at the sides. This is a good thing, thinks Reuben, to be comfortable. He guesses she’s five-three or five-four. Narrow build, perhaps too much so, with bony hips that look sharp enough to cut a man in the throes, do real damage, if he wasn’t careful. Reuben holds the sponge above the woman’s belly and allows it to hover there. Something has caught his attention. There are pale thin scars located on her flesh below the navel and across her abdomen, which continue in almost ladder-like patterns, rung by rung, to halfway down her thighs. The scars are healed, so obviously not due to the recent accident. Reuben presses a tip of the sponge against one scar and rubs, as if to wash it away. It doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He dips the sponge, squeezes it, knocks off the excess moisture and returns to the task at hand.
He sponges her belly, hips, thighs, the pubic mound. He notes the hair is light brown here while on her head the hair is a richer, darker brown with traces of red, suggestive of a visit or visits to a salon. He gently parts her thighs and wipes the labial lips: minora and majora. He sponges her legs, which are slim, firm and slightly bowed. He pays particular attention to her knees as there are small scrapes from crawling along the ground. He clears away traces of dirt, grime, blood, grass stains and other foreign matter. He switches to the washcloth for her feet, takes his time, being sure to get between and clean each toe individually. He uses his thumbs through the wet cloth to massage the balls of her feet, the soles and heels. He rinses the cloth several times.
He turns the woman over to reveal more bruising. He sponges her up and down: calves, backs of thighs, buttocks, lower back, upper back, shoulders, until her skin gleams. Once complete, he flips her again and covers her with a plain white sheet. He refreshes the water a final time in order to wash her hair. He pours shampoo into his hands, massages it into her scalp, builds up a lather and rinses her hair clean. He rubs it dry with a terrycloth bath towel and combs it out across the blue pillow.
He slips the comb into his pants pocket, carries the pot to the sink, empties the water, rinses the sponge, the washcloth, the pot, places it all in the dish rack, rolls down his sleeves, buttons the cuffs, goes to the fridge, grabs a bottle of beer, twists the cap, spins the cap onto the sink, takes a healthy swig, wanders past the woman into the living room and stretches out on the couch. He picks up the TV remote and hits the power button. The weather station comes on. No change for tomorrow. Hot and dry through the weekend. Zero percent chance of precipitation. Sweet.
Espanola, the woman reads. Population 6,000. Notable facts? In 2001 the town set a record for the longest continuous ice hockey game: three days. This record later broken and broken again, as all records are meant to be broken in time. Was home to the TV series Adventures in Rainbow County featuring Lois Maxwell, who later became Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond films. Also home to Domtar Pulp and Paper Mill, one of the most stringent zero-emissions pulp bleaching processes in the world. This, after a toxic spill in the early 1980s killed fish by the thousands in the Spanish River. Impressive, thinks the woman, though it can’t erase the mill’s stench which continues to dance through the town and surrounding area depending upon which way the wind blows. Also used as a German prisoner of war camp during WWII. Huh, who’d’ve guessed, way up here?
It’s late afternoon and the woman decides to celebrate her impending freedom by having a small drink at the local. She’s on meds, but it’s a low dose and how much can it hurt? There’ll be AA in the Soo — there’s AA everywhere: Be part of the solution, not the problem — and she can get back to her routine. She sits at the bar and orders a dry martini with olives. The bartender tells her it’s Happy Hour and for an extra buck, she can make it a double. A double it is, says the woman. To Lois Maxwell — shaken not stirred! She finishes the first and orders a second.
A guy half in shadow perches on a stool in one corner of the bar. He’s in his mid to late forties, heavy-set, bit of a paunch, wears a brown suede sports jacket, bolo tie, white Levis shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots. He nurses a beer and keeps his eye on the woman as she parts her lips and uses her teeth to nibble an olive from the plastic spear. Well, he thinks, why not? Better to be shot as a wolf than live as a sheep. He picks up the remains of his beer and walks over. Hi, he says, grinning. Interested in some company? And if I said no? I’d be disappointed. Ah, that’s so sad. Why, because you’d miss the pleasure of my sharp wit and sparkling personality? She recognizes the effusive effect the booze has on her and she enjoys it. A sort of Blanche DuBois feeling: I’ve always depended upon the kindness of strangers, and so on. Half in the bucket; warm and silky. Something like that, he says. The woman pulls a face. Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Please, be seated. Though I must warn you that I’m leaving soon. Uh-huh? Me too. Where you headed? The Soooooo. She drags the word out for the sound. Any particular reason? Do I need one? I guess not. She takes his left hand and examines it. Wedding ring? Yep. Kids? Three. Wanna see pictures? He reac
hes for his wallet and she stops him. S’OK. A no bullshit kind of guy, is that it? Oh, plenty of bullshit, just not about that. You’re funny. She spears the final olive into her mouth. I was thinking about ordering up some wings or something. You wanna join me? Big spender. That was a fer instance. Order what you want. Steak, seafood, vegetarian …? No, wings are good. I like wings. I like ‘em spicy hot. Good. Me too. Really hot. Fantastic. Suicide it is. Meantime, you need a top up? He indicates her empty glass. Yeah, though I better switch to white wine. Why? You look terrific in a martini. Haha, thass hilarious. Good one. You mean, like, drowning not waving, huh? She takes a deep breath, plugs her nose with a hand, bulges her eyes and cheeks, gives a weak wave with the other hand, sinks her head and shoulders.
The man isn’t sure how to respond. He looks at her curiously. No, I mean, like it suits you. Or you suit it. The way you toy with the olives before you eat them. Sexy, slightly dangerous. Oh, I see. Smooth, she says. Very smooth. OK, one more martini, plus wings, then it’s toodle-oo, off to the Soooooo S’aright? No pressure, no strings, no hanky-panky. The man throws his hands in the air and crosses his heart with a thumb, like: Wouldn’t dream of it! And … I pay my own way. No need, he says. I have a company expense account. She taps a finger on the bar. I-pay-my-own-way. S’aright? The man smiles and shrugs. S’aright. He twirls a finger and the bartender drops two fresh drinks. Easy as that.
She manages to open her eyes a crack and attempts to make sense of her surroundings. Her eyelids blink heavily, like malfunctioning venetian blinds. Her head is foggy and her vision is blurred. She knows she’s lying on her back. She knows this. She knows that directly above her the plastic blades of a ceiling fan spin in a creepishly retarded fashion. She doesn’t feel the slightest movement of air and wonders what’s the point? On the other hand, she doesn’t feel much of anything, neither too hot nor too cold nor too hard nor too soft. The single term that sticks is: comfortable. She feels comfortable. Though she’s uncertain as to what this means. She just is.