The Long Stretch

by Linden McIntyre

  She stopped about twenty feet from me and just stood there, arms folded. She was wearing a pale blue checked blouse and pink pedal-pushers. Effie.

  “Where are you heading?” I said.

  She squealed. “Cripes,” she said, when she saw it was me. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Sorry.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Just having a smoke,” I said.

  “A smoke!” She was grinning at that. “When did you start that?”

  “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  And I jumped up.

  When she bent her face into my hands to take a light, the flare of the match made her look like a woman.

  “So,” she said. “Waiting for somebody?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Just hanging around.”

  Then I heard the purr of a car out on the Trans-Canada.

  “That’ll be him,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “A woman’s instinct.” I could picture the smirk.

  “I thought he had Hollywood mufflers,” I said calmly.

  “Who?” she said. “Oh, you’re thinking of him. He’s gone back. To Ontario.”

  “So who’s this?”

  The headlights were intruding already and the hum of the engine was getting louder.

  “You’re way behind,” she said, laughing at me.

  Then the car crunched onto the shoulder and pulled alongside. The driver leaned over and pushed the door open. The dome light came on. Warm radio sounds. I found my thrill…on Blueberry Hill. I recognized the fellow at the wheel, somebody else home from away with his hair all creamed into a black, shiny tangle like you’d see in the movies. Wearing a black leather jacket. He gave me a limp two-finger wave as she swept onto the seat beside him. I noticed then that she was chewing gum. I hated that.

  “See ya round,” she said as she slammed the door.

  The car wheeled in toward where I was standing by the tree, then backed out swift and smooth. Then whipped away with a rattle of gravel. Leaving her smell and the smells of the car and Brylcreem all mingled in with the night.

  Labour Day weekend, the Sunday. The old man was restless all evening. Then got up and walked out without a word. I followed him, at a distance. Out of the house and down the lane. Who knows what was going on? Caught a glimpse of him at the end of the lane, just strolling casually, hands in his pockets. Then the shadows swallowed him.

  The night was quieter than usual. The summer sounds of insects screaming at each other were gone. The sky was luminous with stars and constellations, a full moon hanging there.

  I began to focus on a dark shape near the big pine tree. A parked car. I wanted it to be Effie and a boyfriend. But I knew it wasn’t.

  The way his step quickened, I got the impression he was expecting it to be there. He walked right up to the passenger side, opened the door. The inside light came on. He climbed in and shut the door. It was only for a flash, but I could see that there was a woman behind the wheel. Golden hair piled on top of her head. Then I could imagine plain old Ma, home. Frowning and wondering.

  The car started quickly. Obviously a V-8, probably a 420 engine under the hood. A big Chrysler by the look of it when it pulled out from beneath the tree and turned toward the Trans-Canada. They drove some distance before they turned on the headlights. Which was a good thing because if they’d turned them on pulling out from the tree they’d have seen me standing there like an idiot.

  I was still living through those days when I met Millie. Memories still feeding on me the night I drove her up the General Line, over the back of Creignish Mountain, and showed her how the sun falls into St. Georges Bay. Except I didn’t have his faith in its cleansing power.

  “I guess I’ll never forgive him,” I said to her that night.

  She let the statement sit there. Me wondering if it was because it was too much for her to embrace or too silly to be worth acknowledging.

  “Forgive what?” she said finally. “Him dying?”

  “It’s more complicated that that.”

  “The Swede’s wife?”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “It’s possible,” she said, “you were just jealous.”

  “For Jesus sake. That’s sick.”

  “She could make quite an impression.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “I think I remember her,” she said.

  Part 7

  1

  Around Labour Day weekend Ma came down with something. Nobody was sure what. But it was bad. She was losing weight and was generally low. And she was cranky, which was unusual for her. These days you’d think cancer right away.

  She refused to see a doctor and by the end of the first week of September she wasn’t getting out of bed. Grandma cooked the meals.

  Jessie would often be there when I’d get home from school. Up in the room. You could hear them talking. Grandma and Grandpa pretty well ran the house. Which was okay except for the cooking. As time dragged by something about it all made me think I didn’t really want to be in on it. Adult emotions. Alien territory for sure. I could imagine what it was about but I more or less tuned out.

  The old man was hardly ever around. Of course this wasn’t unusual. He’d be out at night a lot working. New power lines going through. Substations being built. There was even talk of a new generation station over by the pulp mill. A couple of nights a week you could expect him to stop at the Legion on the way home. Or he’d be over visiting Angus. When he was home, I’d be out cruising around with the truck. Staying out of the way.

  I had my licence by then and he was pretty liberal about letting me take his rig when it was available. He’d even throw in gas money.

  Sextus is standing by the kitchen window, looking out at the storm.

  Maybe Millie was right. Maybe I was just jealous of the bastard. I’d never seen the like of the Swede’s wife this side of a movie screen. I remember when the papers and magazines were full of Lana Turner, when her daughter supposedly murdered the boyfriend, Johnny Stompanato. Or when Grace Kelly married the prince of Monaco. They had nothing on the Swede’s wife for looks. The thought of my old man, with his caved-in skull and the gloom where a personality was supposed to be, going with her was enough to make me feel like throwing up.

  When I was little I’d feel that quick tingle when I’d hear them say Sandy the Lineman. Now they were saying Sandy the Stickman. The gossip about him and the Swede’s wife getting loud enough to hear. Even for me and Ma.

  Ma told me once about birds conducting electricity through their bones and out. He was like that, I thought. Of course that wasn’t possible but it was an image that stuck. The electric man. It gave a funny glow to his eyes. Made his hair frizzy. Kept him lean and tense. Explained the angry flashes. Gave me distance. Ma never talked to me about the trouble. And I wanted her to think I didn’t know. Grandma and Grandpa hardly breathed.

  I’d just drive around. Out to Hastings. If there was a dance somewhere not too far away I’d hang around outside. The mill was pretty well up and running so there was a lot happening in Hawkesbury. A new by-pass and a shopping centre. There was a new drive-in up on the Sydney Road. It was historic in a way: first time you could get a proper hamburger anywhere around here. Big and fat and juicy with lettuce and tomato and onion squishing out of them. There would always be people sitting out in front in cars. Later there would be an A&W and a Colonel’s, and a Dairy Queen. Prosperity was setting in.

  One night sitting in front of the drive-in I saw the Chrysler arriving. This time a guy in a suit gets out. He had the kid with him, the boy. The two of them went inside and came out a few minutes later with a bag of food. When they were gone, I went in, returning my pop bottle. Asked the Newfoundlander behind the counter, “Who was that?” The guy shrugged and said, “Some big shot from the mill. One of the Swedes. Why?”

  “Just admiring the car,” I said.

  “Some car, a
ll right,” he said.

  Just once I talked to Uncle Jack about it. In Tilt Cove. Or maybe it was Bachelor Lake. You could see how uneasy he was.

  “There was bugger all to it,” he said.

  Me nodding. Regretting I ever raised it.

  “People got nothing better to do than talk. I told the wife years ago, keep to yourself. Give them nothing to talk about. You know what I mean?” Started rolling a cigarette. Slow and deliberate. “The wife was only going to card games. But it doesn’t take much to get them started.” Rolling the tube gently, with great concentration. “Jesus Christ,” he said, as if to himself. Licked the paper with the tip of his tongue, sealed it with one hand, between thumb and forefinger. Then just looked at it.

  “Only way he could have known her was when his crew ran the power into the new house, the place they built up back of Grant’s Pond.”

  The mansion. It had a big carport for at least two or three rigs.

  “Right,” I said.

  That was my point. There was just no common ground between them. No common meeting place. It was totally illogical. And her a foreigner. Maybe even a German.

  “It’s an awful thing,” he was saying sadly.

  “Yes.”

  “The talk of them.”

  2

  The only time the priest had ever been at the house was one winter Grandpa got the flu. We were sure he was gone so somebody called the priest. I remember Ma meeting him at the door with a lit candle. Them hurrying upstairs quietly, the candle flickering. Me, Aunt Jessie, and Sextus on our knees in the kitchen. Grandpa surprised everybody by recovering. After that he was always joking that he’d had more of the sacraments than anybody else in the house. All but one of the seven.

  “Only one left is Holy Orders,” he’d say.

  “Never too late for that one,” someone would inevitably reply.

  “Only thing holding me back is getting rid of the old woman,” he’d say, winking at Grandma. Everybody would laugh.

  The priest came more than a few times that fall. He’d just walk in after the first time, like any old visitor. No candles or formalities. Usually just wearing a sweater or a jacket. I’d never hear what they were talking about. They’d be down in the living room. Ma would get out of bed for it, so it was important. The old man would be home for that. I’d take off with the truck.

  For the longest time the only one who said anything to me was Aunt Jessie. One night we were playing cards at her place and she put her hand down all of a sudden, looking at me. Here it comes, I felt.

  “You’re all right, are you, Johnny?”

  “Yes,” I said. You always knew, when they called you Johnny.

  “They’ll get through it, you know,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Your ma and dad,” she said, picking up her cards.

  “What’s the matter with them?”

  “Ach,” she said, studying her hand. “Couples go through little problems now and then. It happens to the best of them.”

  “You and Uncle Jack never have any problems.”

  “Ha,” she said. “He’s never around long enough.”

  “It was good,” he says, “you and the old man having each other. After Uncle Sandy.”

  “You don’t think of it like that. But I suppose.”

  “I had nobody…when everything went to ratshit for me.” He’s swishing the drink in his hand. Not noticing me at all. “When my old man pops off. Later. And. Well, you know where I turned. Not that it’s any excuse.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” I say.

  “You know I actually picked up the phone once to call you. After she pulled the bung on me. To ask you…how long before you start to feel normal again. Is it a year? Two years? Then I thought, What the Christ do you think you’re doing? And started to laugh.” A big smile.

  “She gave you a pretty good run for your money,” I say. Feeling giddy.

  I remember the house being cold all the time. And damp. As if life had stopped. Which was ridiculous. The old people, Grandma and Grandpa, pitched in like they were setting up housekeeping for the first time. And Jessie was around, trying to keep things normal. Except that her being there so much wasn’t normal. And the priest wasn’t normal. And the old people acting like a young couple wasn’t normal.

  Then I had a great insight. What’s the worst thing that can happen? One of them moves out. Him. So what would be so bad about that? So people would talk. So weren’t they probably wagging their tongues off already? Any change would be for the better. Of course I was wrong there.

  My only real friend then was Effie, and she was distracted. By boys with big cars. With duck’s-arse haircuts. Sextus and Duncan were away in university. Caught up in new lives. As September limped by, my feelings about the Swede’s wife started to change. Boy crush wearing thin. The light dawning. My only claim to fame in her eyes was looking like my father.

  I saw her with her husband a couple of times and they looked like they were on their honeymoon. What are these people all about, anyway?

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he says suddenly.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re the only fucking person in the world who ever went through hard times.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t think we didn’t know. We heard all about the detox and the rest of it. Don’t think we didn’t…agonize.”

  The storm thumps the house again.

  “I’d rather not relive it,” I say.

  He jumps to his feet. We’re standing face to face.

  “For fuck sake give me something.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Who cares anymore?

  I was tempted to become a spy. You get that way. Heading to town one night for a burger, I saw the big car on the Trans-Canada. Pulled a quick U-ey and followed it. Caught up and sure enough it was the Swede’s and there were two people in the front. The old man was supposed to be at work. Something about the new substation. Said he’d be late. Maybe sleep at the shop. I knew it was him but I didn’t have the stomach to follow when they turned up Rhodena Road toward Ceiteag’s. I turned and went to town, knowing somehow Ma would know and that eventually, inevitably, they’d be up all night for another marathon harangue. Urgent talking. Quick footsteps. Then the sickening smashing when he wore down. At about that moment I started hating her.

  Maybe I should have followed them. Maybe that was what caused me to spy on Effie.

  Once I hurt Ma. I blurted out: “I’m going to talk to that damned Swede.” I knew his name by then. Erik Sandgren. Knew the posh house up back of the pond.

  Ma’s face was white. Her mouth and eyes perfect zeros.

  “You just mind your place, young fellow.”

  She had a dishtowel in her hand and she slapped the table with it. Now it seems almost a comical gesture. But it didn’t seem funny then. Her words were white hot.

  “There’s nothing that you need to be concerned about, young man.”

  Young man?

  “Good enough,” I shouted, and headed for the door. Nothing for me to worry about? Dandy. Screw it all.

  Whatever was going on, I guess I was a beneficiary. In a sick way. The truck was practically mine. I’d be on the road all the time. Liberated from the cold ugly house. But it was a queer kind of freedom.

  If I did venture into the drive-in for a burger, I’d pull my cap down over my eyes and try to avoid looking at anybody. I’d go to the dances early but I’d stay outside in the truck, where I could see everything. A lot of guys popping the trunk-lids, finding their bottles, passing them back and forth with great joy and loud laughing.

  Near the end of September on a warm Friday night, listening to the music from the Creignish hall. A fight exploded at the rear of a nearby car where a group of Judiquers were drinking. Two guys pounding at each other, slipping and sliding on the gravel like cows on ice, one getting the worst of it, stumbling toward the pavement backward, then down in a tangle of
arms and legs. The other straddles him, smashing at his face. Then the flash of a dome light from a large car near them and my father materializes. And in one swift motion snatches the guy on top to his feet.

  The guy turns, fist up. Sees who it is and instantly opens his hands, hold them flat out in front of him.

  Pa leads him away. The other fellow stirs and sits up. It all happened in no more than a minute. Then panic sets in and I start the truck and roar away, sending a shower of gravel skittering along the pavement behind.

  Wishing the stones were bullets. Penetrating car doors. People’s skulls.

  Maybe Pa recognized his own truck. But never said anything to me. Big surprise!

  “One night I put the kid, Sandy, in the car and we drive right across the city. Found the Irishman’s place on the Kingsway. Walked in on them. They were in the middle of a nice candlelit dinner. Not sure what I expected. Maybe catch them in the act. Anyway, there I am, holding the kid by the hand. She goes apeshit. The kid goes apeshit.” Shaking his head. “I remember the wood. Fancy panelling. And books. And they had their wine in a fucking crystal decanter.”

  Then near Hallowe’en, Pa was home more often. Sitting in the dining room with the paper. Until bedtime. Everything quiet. Grandpa would listen to the fiddle music program in the evenings at 6:45 with his ear right up against the radio. Ma and I’d watch TV with hardly any sound. Everybody seemed normally tense again.

  Then Ma started bugging him to go to a masquerade dance with her over in Glendale. A dance? He’d be more likely to go to church than to a dance. Hated dances, he’d say when I’d be going. Can’t see people wasting their energy jumping around to music, he’d say. People want to burn off energy, I’ve got a woodpile out beside the house. That’s the place to burn off excess energy.

  Excess? There’s a queer word.

  I of course never mentioned the night I saw him outside the hall in Creignish. Not that he was dancing there. But it was a dance. Then, on the day of the Hallowe’en masquerade, he just announced that they were going. He even dressed up, like a scarecrow. He had fake arms stuck out from his shoulders and a big wad of hay under his hat. And a mask. They won a prize and people nearly died of surprise when they took their masks off. Sandy Gillis and the wife.