Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  He parked on the street across from the townhouse complex, and sat in the car for five minutes after he'd turned off the engine. He felt like he should be bringing something. Flowers, maybe? Not a good idea. There might be no one home. It wasn't yet time for the monthly checks. It used to be so easy to bring little gifts home for the girls. Toys. Chocolate bars or licorice twists. Comic books. Now he didn't know. What kind of music tapes might they want? They probably collected CD's now. Books or magazines? Candy and chocolates were out of the question. They worried about their weight. They were slender and healthy and they worried about their weight! At Easter, he'd brought them each a box of Turtles; they scolded him for it before they'd even said thank you. They might not even want to go for dinner with him, but they had been brought up to be polite and he was sure they wouldn't say so to his face.

  Hunter inhaled and exhaled slowly, and heard a meaty thwack as a golfer, hidden behind a wall of leafy young cottonwood branches, connected with a golf ball at Burnaby Mountain's eleventh tee. "Jesus!" he muttered to himself, throwing open the door. "This is getting ridiculous! They're my daughters, for God's sake, not blind dates!" He slammed the car door and strode heroically across the street and up the walk.

  Chris didn't return his smile when she opened the door. For a second, her face showed pleasant surprise, but she responded to his cheerful "Hello" with a frown, then a shake of her head and "What the hell is the matter with you, Hunter?"

  He opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure if she was really angry, or was just pretending. Chris's scowl intensified, but she stood to one side and motioned him into the townhouse. "Come in! Come in!" she said, motioning more vigorously as if she were irritated by his hesitation.

  The past few years, he'd been able to perceive Chris more as the mother of his daughters, almost as their older roommate, than as his wife. Moments like this the memory of their former intimacy revived disturbingly, like traces of a faded perfume. She must have just recently arrived home from work, as she was dressed in a tailored white blouse and a tapered blue skirt with a wide waist band that flattered her figure, but she had taken off her shoes and stockings, so that her feet were bare. She held her age well. Hunter felt a tentative sensation in his groin, and was relieved when it passed quickly away. Its ghost lingered, unwelcome, in his mind as he followed her into the living room.

  "Sit down," she said. "Can I get you a beer?"

  Hunter sat on the couch, straining his ears to hear some evidence that Jan and Lesley were home. He could only hear a faint and fading dripping sound. The sliding glass door onto the sundeck was open, letting the smell of damp earth and vegetation waft in. A big basket of pink and purple fuchsias hung in the shaded corner of the deck, and a green plastic watering can stood just outside the door beside a pair of worn rubber thongs. He could hear no music or movement elsewhere in the apartment. He concluded that he and his ex-wife were alone.

  Chris handed him a can of beer, then settled resolutely into a leather recliner opposite him, pushing some stray strands of light brown hair away from her face with an abrupt sweep of her hand. She gave him a wry smile.

  "You haven't changed, Hunter, not that I expected you to." She shook her head in mock weariness, and the delinquent strands of hair began to re-emerge. "How can such a nice guy – yes, you are a nice guy and no one can ever make me say otherwise – but how can such a nice guy be such a colossal jerk?"

  He lifted his shoulders helplessly, waiting to find out what his crime had been.

  "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

  He shook his head, a cautious, conciliatory smile playing about this lips. "I'm sorry ... " He faltered into silence. He wished she'd get to the point, but didn't intend to provoke her by saying so.

  Chris leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Remember what I told you the day I asked for a divorce?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "I said that how you feel and what you say don't count for a thing unless you back it up by the way you behave. I knew, on one level, that you loved me and the girls – you certainly told me so – but you didn't act that way. You didn't show us that you cared about us." She sighed, uncrossed her arms, and tucked one bare ankle up under her other thigh.

  "I did the best I ... "

  "What you showed us," Chris interrupted, " – time after time after time – was that your job was more important to you than we were. I wish I had a dollar for every time you didn't come home when you said you would, every dinner you missed, even birthdays – the kids' birthdays – when you didn't even call and we sat around waiting to hear from you, not knowing whether you were on the way home or not, worried sick that you'd been stabbed by some crazed junkie or mangled in some goddamn car chase." She laughed bitterly. "And then to find out that many of those times you'd been hanging out with your friends in the bar."

  Hunter's jaw tensed and he averted his eyes. She was referring to Ken. Long sessions of talking things out used to help them both. Ken would say, "I've got a case of heavy duty burn out today. C'mon, Rayne, let's go put out the fire." One drink would turn into an hour, two hours, before Hunter realized the time had gone by.

  Chris must have realized she was hitting below the belt, bringing up Ken, because her voice softened. "I'm sorry. That's water under the bridge, and I don't ... I don't hold it against you any more, not for my sake, anyway. I know that you warned me before we got married that a Mountie's first duty has to be to Queen and country. You did what you had to do. That's who you are."

  "But I'm still a colossal jerk," he prompted. "Why?" He realized that he hadn't even taken a sip of his beer. He raised it to his lips and took a swallow. He could feel the cold slide of it down his throat. His throat muscles relaxed, making him aware of how tense he'd become. He kept his eyes on Chris's face.

  "Jan and Lesley ... ," her lips compressed and for a second she looked like she was going to cry.

  Hunter gritted his teeth. He always hated to see Chris or the girls cry. He'd rather be face to face with a rowdy biker or an armed robber any day. If you hurt somebody like that, you could live with it.

  Chris continued. "They love you very much, Hunter. I hope you ... appreciate that fact. They never say a bad word about you. Did you know that?"

  Hunter shook his head dumbly.

  "Now you've gone from being married to the force to being married to that damn truck, and that damn truck takes you away from them in more ways than one. Almost by definition, your job is being out of town. It's like you've made it harder than ever for them to get close to you, like you're running away from them." She stopped, swallowed, and took a deep breath. "They never come right out and say so, but I can feel what they're thinking. They're wondering what they've done wrong. They're wondering why you don't want to see them anymore."

  He frowned, shaking his head and letting his breath burst out in a hiss between his teeth. "Come on, Chris. That's ridiculous."

  "Listen to me, Hunter. Being with you is still important to them." She leaned towards him and raised her voice, enunciating each letter as if she were practicing her elocution. "Reach out to them. They still love you. Don't lose that, Hunter. Reach out to them."

  Hunter leaned back against the couch, his mouth open in confusion and disbelief. What on earth had brought this on? "But I can't ... I can't believe that. Being with me isn't important to them now. They're always busy, Chris. They're never home. And when I do see them they're always in a hurry to get somewhere else." He shook his head in bewilderment. "You've got it wrong, Chris. Jan and Lesley are grown up. They don't have time for me anymore." He gestured around the suite. "Where are they now? They're busy, right?"

  Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't interrupt.

  "Isn't that right? And what about tomorrow night?" He tried to sound angry, but when he heard his voice come out, it sounded hurt, almost pleading. "Will they be moping around, waiting for me to call? No. They'll be busy, right? And if I ask them to have dinner with me on Wedne
sday night, they'll say, Sorry, Dad. We've already got plans. Right?" He swallowed hard. His mouth and throat were dry, and he remembered his beer. He picked it up, looked at it hopelessly, then put it down again.

  "Where were you yesterday?" she demanded abruptly, leaning forward and lifting her chin.

  "What has that got to do with it, for heaven's sake?"

  "It was Father's Day. Where were you?"

  His voice dropped. "I was out of town. I was on the road."

  "It was Father's Day," she repeated.

  "Yes. It was Father's Day. I was in Kamloops." He shrugged. "My father was in Hawaii yesterday. I called him on the telephone." He felt dishonest. He'd enjoyed more than half the day at the Youngs' cabin on Shuswap Lake, out of touch even by cellular phone. He thought about telling her how he'd spent Father's Day last year, waiting for the phone to ring, eating alone at a lunch counter, coming home to a message that seemed to poke fun at him and his lonely day. Then he thought of the hang ups on his answering machine, and of what El had told him, that the girls had called and called, and seemed to be worried about him.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

  CHAPTER 25

  – – – – TWENTY-FIVE

  Sorry was choked. This wasn't turning out at all the way he'd expected it to. In Edmonton last week, Frank had made it sound like he was practically going to be in the game this trip, but judging by the way that Chinese asshole in Seattle behaved, he wasn't even on the bench yet. He glanced at a green and white mileage sign. Still about half an hour to Hope, where he planned to console himself with a steak dinner at the Canyon Hotel. His conversation with Mah made him feel like he was on fucking probation, and he didn't dare drive over the posted speed limit. He growled and bared his teeth at a little boy who stared up at him from the back seat of a passing car. Patience had never been one of Sorry's strong points.

  He'd played it cool in Seattle, of course. Last week Frank had simply referred to his "partners", and hadn't mentioned any names. It would have been stupid to make the first move in Seattle, so he left it up to Mah. Sorry just made some small talk and acted as dignified and responsible as he knew how. Although he tried not to show it, the slanty-eyed bastard made him sweat, smiling that smug and irritating smile, leaving it until the last possible second to give him any sign at all that he knew they were going to be playing on the same team. By the time Mah finally said something, it took all Sorry had to keep from grabbing the little creep by his fu manchu and pounding that scummy smile off his face.

  Sorry had already locked up the back door of the trailer, signed the bill of lading, and tucked the paperwork under his arm, when Mah, stretching and yawning, said, "I could use a little fresh air. I'll walk you out to your truck."

  When they got outside, Mah looked him up and down slowly as if he was inspecting a slab of meat, then said, "A friend of mine thinks you might be able to do a little job for us." Sorry clenched his teeth and said nothing, because what he wanted to say wasn't going to win him any points. Mah continued, "I'm not convinced you're dependable. We need a real Rock of Gibraltar type, understand? Somebody who's not going to screw things up by attracting attention, if you know what I mean." He wiggled his eyebrows, like he was expecting an answer.

  "You want a fuckin' Boy Scout?" Sorry asked, still being cool.

  Mah ignored his comment. "Last week you struck me as being some kind of magnet for the attention of the authorities. You looked like a severe case of attitude." He smiled slowly. "I've got to admit, you look a lot cleaner this week. And you haven't been fishing for uppers. Booze or any kind of dope while you're on the job, just one time, and you're out." Mah's smarmy smile evaporated in the snap of his fingers. His face hardened and his voice froze over. "And we're not afraid to play hardball if somebody fucks us around."

  Sorry stared him down. "If the price is right, I'll do whatever it takes. But if the price ain't right, I sure as hell don't intend to risk my butt doing anybody's dirty work." As he said this, he drew himself up to his full height, stuck out his chest. "So make me an offer."

  Their eyes stayed locked for a full fifteen seconds, then the Chinaman stretched and yawned again, flashing a gold molar, and strolled away.

  Still holding himself in, dignified and responsible like, Sorry yelled at the back of Mah's head, "Hey, man! You got the balls to make a decision, or not?"

  The Chinaman didn't even turn around, he just called over his shoulder. "Maybe next time, dude."

  And that was fucking IT!

  Sorry straddled the wooden stool at the bar of the Canyon Hotel. He had decided to have a smoke and shoot the shit with his old buddy, Crab, before he went in to order dinner. Crab came back from delivering a jug of beer and leaned both hands on the counter in front of Sorry.

  "You're lookin' border-line respectable these days, Sorry. Your old lady holding out on you or something to keep you in line?"

  Sorry sniffed. "Just following your lead, Crab, old buddy. Rumor has it, you've been pussy whipped into a fucking pillar of society up here in Hope."

  "Then rumor hasn't seen me on my day off," said Crab with a wicked grin. "Say, what'd you do to that Chuck guy last time you were here? He saw you comin' just now and was out the back door like a flash."

  "Chuck Wahl? The guy you pointed out to us?"

  Crab nodded, and jerked his thumb towards a half full glass of beer going stale on a table by the window.

  "What the fuck ...? I wonder what that's all about."

  It wasn't until after he'd finished his steak, and was waiting for his pie and coffee, that Sorry noticed Big Tits and her musclebound boyfriend leaving the restaurant. Could it be that they arrived at the hotel at the same time he pulled the Ranverdan rig into the parking lot? If so, that would explain old Chuckie ducking out of the bar like that. If not, what the hell was the old scuzzball avoiding Sorry for?

  El had managed to keep Murphy entertained in the office until Hunter pulled in on Wednesday afternoon. The big Newfie was leaning on the front counter, leafing through Truckers News and waiting for El to get off the phone when Hunter walked in and slapped him on the shoulder.

  "Hey, Murphy! How was Winnipeg?"

  "Flat." He laughed heartily. "How's the world treatin' ya, Hunter?" He made it sound like "warld".

  "It's a long story, Murph. Got a couple hours? I'll buy you a coffee."

  "You make it a beer, buddy, and I'm all ears!"

  They decided to meet at The Goal Post in Surrey in an hour. That would give Hunter time to finish up at El's office, and Murphy time to book himself a room at the hotel for the night, since there'd be a load for San Francisco ready for him to pick up in Delta the following morning.

  On his way out to Surrey, Hunter used his cellular phone to call his youngest daughter, Lesley. Chris had told him that Wednesday was one of her days off from the job at the mall. She answered on the third ring.

  "Dad! Hi!" she squealed. "It's about time! Didn't that lady give you our message on Sunday?"

  That lady? "You mean El? Sure she did. She told me you'd called, but I didn't talk to her until Monday. Your Mom told you I came by Monday evening, didn't she?"

  "Yeah. But you didn't call first. Remember, I asked you to? How were we supposed to know you were coming?"

  "No problem. You were busy, but I knew I'd get hold of you eventually. What are you and Jan up to tonight? Want to go for pizza or something?"

  "Jan's going to a play or something with a couple of her friends." She hesitated. "But I'm free, Dad."

  "Well, do you want to go for pizza with me later, then, or do you want to wait for a night when Jan can make it?" He wanted to leave her an easy way out, so she wouldn't feel obligated to go if she didn't really want to.

  "Um ... well ... would you rather wait until Jan can come too?"

  He paused. Was she trying to let him down gently, or was she becoming as insecure about their relationship as he was? He thought of what Chris had said, about how he was running away. "Would I rather wait
until Jan can come, too? No, I wouldn't rather wait. I'd like to take you out for pizza, or burgers, or Chinese, or whatever you feel like, tonight. If it's just you and me, that's all the better. We'll have a chance to really talk, right?"

  "You're on, Dad! It's a date! How about Greek? What time will you come by?"

  He looked at the dashboard clock. This time he would be there when he said he would. She wouldn't have to wonder where he was and when he'd arrive. "I'm on my way to meet a guy out in Surrey right now, and it's already after five o'clock. How about seven thirty? Is that too late?"

  Seven thirty was fine with her, as long is it wasn't later. He'd have to leave The Post no later than seven. No matter what.

  "I don't blame Pete for lookin' out for himself but, by Jesus, I sure am worried that all these problems are goin' to drive poor little Suzy to bail out of the business. Randy'll be turnin' in his grave, it meant that much to him to be able to pass the company on to her." Murphy tsked out of the corner of his mouth, shaking his big head morosely. "Here's to old Randy! Wherever he is now, may his tires never wear and his load never shift!"

  They raised their glasses of beer and drank. They were in a quiet booth against the back wall of the pub, with a jug of Okanagan Springs Pale Ale on the table between them. Hunter was pretty sure Murphy had already had a glass or two before he arrived.