Footprints (15 page)

Then she throws up.

She's sitting on one of the stools at the counter when the boys arrive.

Drumgold greets her with, “I've been worried sick.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you all right?”

“'Course I am.”

She grabs her coat from him and puts it on, pulling it tight around her.

“Are you sure?”

“I told you – yes.”

Drumgold looks carefully at her and says, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“
What?
”

“He asked me out.”

“And you told him to go to hell, right?” Isora doesn't reply, and Drumgold repeats, “Right?”

“I'm seeing him tomorrow, at the Riverside Café, at seven o'clock.”

“Jesus, Is. What are you thinking of?”

“What was I supposed to do? He kept asking and I was afraid someone would see I'd been hitching and tell Dad. It was the only way I could get rid of him.”

Harper says, “You can't go.”

“I don't know how to get out of it.”

“Just don't show up,” Harper suggests.

“He'll come looking for me. He'll come here, to your house. He thinks this is where I live. Then your folks will think I'm dirt–”

Harper starts, “No–”

Isora cuts him off. “Yes. And they'll tell Dad and I'll be in serious shit. I'll have to meet him.”

Drumgold says, “I guess you must like him then.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid is agreeing to go on a date with a guy twice your age. Or do you get a kick out of hanging around with older men?”

“Now you're being really stupid.” She seizes his arm and shakes it. “Drumgold, I don't know what to do.”

Drumgold snarls, “You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out of it.”

He stalks from the house.

When Harper arrives at the Riverside Café the next evening, Isora and Curtis are the only people there, apart from a single server, who sits behind the counter, her head buried in a paperback book.

The café is at the far end of Main Street, where the road splits, one fork leading to the mill on the other side of Back River, the other turning sharply and following the waterway's winding course. Through the day its south facing aspect makes it a bright and cheerful place as mill workers and shoppers drop
in for breakfast, coffee and lunch, but in the evening, when the sun dips behind the mill, it becomes gloomy, a mood that seems to infect the few people who visit at that time.

Harper buys a coffee and makes his way to the table at the back where Isora and Curtis sit across from one another. Neither has noticed his arrival. Instead of her hitchhiking outfit, Isora is wearing her usual jeans and tee-shirt. Harper thinks she looks about twelve years old. As he approaches, he hears Curtis say, “Then we can go to my place, watch a video, get comfortable...relax...”

Harper sits beside Isora and says, “Hi, Is. What's up?”

She looks up and smiles. “Harp! Where did you come from?”

“I was cruising around and saw you in here. Thought I'd drop in and say hello.”

Curtis says, “Who the fuck's this?”

Isora says, “He's a friend, Harper.”

Curtis says, “Nice to meet you. Fuck off.”

“No. It's
Harper
. Not Fuck Off,” says Harper.

Isora giggles.

Curtis looks blank.

Harper explains, “That was a joke – like you thought my name was Fuck Off. So you said, ‘Nice to meet you, Fuck Off,' instead of, ‘Nice to meet you,
Harper
.' Get it?”

“I get it. Now fuck off. This lady and I are trying to have a quiet evening out.”

“Mind if I tag along?” says Harper. “I'm at a loose end. Where shall we go?”

“The only place you're going is some place else,” says Curtis. He turns to Isora. “Where do you know this jerk from? D'you babysit him or something?”

“I said – he's a friend.”

“A school friend,” Harper adds brightly.

Curtis looks at Isora. “You're in school?”

She nods.

“Grade nine,” Harper supplies.

“That makes you somewhere around...fifteen,” says Curtis.

“On the button!” says Harper. “You're some smart.”

Curtis stands abruptly, knocking his chair over. “You fucking little whore. You got your ride into town, so what are you trying to get from me now?”

The server looks up briefly and returns to her book.

Curtis leans towards Isora, his clenched fists resting on the table. “I know what it is with sluts like you. You're looking for someone to give it to you, aren't you, because none of your kindergarten friends, like dickhead here, can get it up? Maybe I should put you on your back and give you what you're asking for and to hell with the consequences.”

Harper says, “Don't talk like that.”

Curtis ignores him. “I'll tell you what else dirtbags like you need. You need a good slapping around, to put you in your place.” He reaches across the table, grabs Isora around the neck and pulls her towards him until her face is only centimetres from his. “Maybe I'll do it right here and now.”

Harper says, “Don't do that.”

Without releasing Isora or looking at Harper, Curtis says, “And just what are you going to do about it?”

“I'm asking you.”

“Ask away, dickhead.”

“Let her go.”

“I didn't hear you say ‘please.'”

“Let her go –
please
.”

“Fuck off.”

Isora suddenly stabs her fingers upwards against Curtis'
throat. He gasps, “You poxy bitch. I'll teach you a lesson.”

The server says, “Curtis...”

He rounds the table, reaches across Harper, and seizes Isora by the wrist, pulling her to her feet.

Harper stands, too, and says again, “Let her go.” He grabs Curtis' arm.

The server, reaching for the telephone, warns, “Curtis...”

Curtis turns to her and growls, “All right.” He relaxes his grip on Isora and shakes Harper's hand from his arm. He says to Harper, “You and I better settle this outside – man to man.”

Harper nearly laughs. It's like a line from a bad movie.

Curtis heads for the side door, which opens on to the little car park beside the café. Harper doesn't move.

Curtis stops at the door, looking back at Harper. “Are you just going to stand there, or do I have to drag you outside so you can defend your cunt-happy girlfriend's honour?”

Isora gasps.

Harper starts for the door.

Isora says, “Harp...”

He follows Curtis outside.

Curtis faces him, flexing his shoulders, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He pokes Harper hard in the chest. Harper retreats a step, wondering at the amount of pain inflicted by such a simple blow. Curtis stabs him in the chest with his finger again. Harper takes another step back and stops.

Curtis says, “Come on, chickenshit.”

Harper takes a step forward and his cheek seems to implode. He puts his hand to it, expecting to find a hole there, at the same time as he feels another implosion on the side of his nose. He realizes the blows have come from Curtis. He can't understand how he can move so fast. Curtis seizes him around the neck with his arm, flings him to the ground, and grinds his
face against the gravel of the parking lot. Harper hears Isora scream. He rolls his head to one side and sees Curtis' boots, inches from his face.

Then he sees another pair of feet and hears, “Leave him alone.”

Drumgold.

Curtis laughs. “Now we've got the whole fucking kindergarten class here.” He swings at Drumgold, who steps back, easily avoiding the punch.

“Come on then,” says Curtis, breathing heavily.

Suddenly Drumgold has a knife in his hand, the blade open.

Curtis laughs and says, “You're not going to use that.”

Drumgold says quietly, “You want to find out?”

Harper, pushing himself to his knees and seeing the knife, mutters, “Jesus, Drumgold.”

Curtis sneers, “You're not worth it,” and backs away. He crosses the car park and stands beside a red half-ton. He looks back at Isora and snarls, “Cunt-happy whore.” He climbs in and speeds away, fishtailing and screeching his tires.

Drumgold and Isora help Harper to his feet. Drumgold takes one of Harper's arms and hauls it around his neck. He puts his other arm round Harper's waist. Isora slips her arm round Harper's shoulders. She's crying. She puts her face against his. He feels her tears trickling down his cheek and catches them with his tongue.

They return to the café, Harper stumbling between Drumgold and Isora.

The server, who'd been watching from the back door, shakes her head and says, “That Curtis – he can be a mean one.” She brings them coffee and says, “On the house.”

Isora sits close to Harper, stroking his head. He's trembling. He can't understand why he's not in pain. All he feels is a
rawness on his face. He dribbles gravel from his mouth and catches it in a napkin. He's sorry to lose the taste of Isora's tears.

Drumgold sits on the other side of the table.

Harper mutters, “Where did you come from?”

“I wanted to make sure Is was safe.” He looks at Isora. “And to say sorry.”

Isora scoffs, “A bit late for sorry, isn't it?”

Harper says, “Where d'you get the knife?”

Drumgold shrugs. “I always carry it in my camera bag, for doing repairs and stuff. Thought I'd bring it along. Just in case.”

Isora starts to cry again. Harper puts his arm around her. Drumgold reaches across the table and takes her hand. She pulls it away. He takes it again and she lets it stay in his.

She whispers, “I feel dirty.”

Harper says, “No.”

“You heard what he called me.”

“He was just sounding off,” says Drumgold. “You can't mind what someone like him calls you.”

“But what he said about me being a...a...dirtbag and a slut. It's sort of true, isn't it? Because I said I'd go out with him if he showed me the cottage, and I knew what he...what he thought he was going to get. And I used that to get what I wanted.” She puts her face in her hands on the table, sobbing. “I'm just what he said.”

Harper says, “No!”

“It doesn't mean anything, Is,” says Drumgold. “We all used him.” He folds his hands around hers. She raises her head and lets it fall back so that it rests on them.

Harper takes his arm from her shoulders. Suddenly he feels out of place and his ties to his friends slipping away, his adoration of Isora and his admiration for Drumgold undiminished, but his relationship with them a tenuous, unflattering
thing in the light of his ineffectual and humiliating attempt at gallantry. He feels somehow left behind by them. He realizes he could never match their resolve. He wouldn't risk his safety in pursuit of something, like Isora did to get the code, nor would he – could he – pull a knife on someone, like Drumgold, even in defence of a friend. They've moved beyond him, leaving him in his dull, safe world. He's content there, at the same time as he envies and admires the obduracy of their will that leads them to court danger. Better to call it quits now and to relinquish their hold on him, before something even more serious happens.

He mutters, “I'm out of my depth. I don't belong, not with stuff like this going on.”

Drumgold says, “Come on, Harp.”

Isora takes his hand. “Stay, Harp.”

“No. Nothing's worth this kind of crap. I'm out of here.”

He eases himself gently away from Isora and leaves the café.

Harper is on his way to the daycare in the late afternoon. He plans to hide somewhere across the street and watch for Isora when it closes. He hasn't seen her for two weeks, not since he walked out on her and Drumgold at the Riverside Café. Usually the little intimacies his special friendship with her, through Drumgold, allow – the casual touches, the glimpses of innocent dishabille – are enough to satisfy him and to feed his fantasies. But now – absurdly, he tells himself – he can't remember what she looks like. He puts it down to trying too hard to conjure her
image, and knows he should wait for it to arrive, unbidden, but is impatient. He thinks just a glimpse of her will be enough to sustain him during another two, or more, weeks of separation. He tells himself he's pathetic, needing this glimpse of her, but he can't help himself.

He doesn't know what his status with Isora and Drumgold is now. Although he'd rejected them, and had meant it, still, the first few days after the incident at the café, he thought they might come looking for him. After all, he'd gone there to try and help Isora. Then he thinks bleakly, perhaps they were glad of the opportunity to be rid of him. Heaven knows he's often felt like some kind of hanger on – some kind of voyeur – when he was with them. The thought that the split might be permanent, although that was what he'd intended, gnaws at him.

He positions himself behind a delivery truck and peers around it at the daycare. He realizes it's closed. He must have been cutting lawns for longer than he thought.

He walks on.

Two police cars speed down Main Street, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Harper recognizes Sgt. Chase and Camera Woman in the first, but doesn't know the police in the second. He guesses it's something to do with what his father was talking about when he came home for lunch. He said the talk at the mill was of security guards at Eastern Oil in Saint-Leonard spotting a terrorist hanging around near the doors.

“How did they know it was a terrorist?” Harper had asked.

“He was wearing a heavy jacket although it was warm, and it looked like he had something under it, like a bomb, because it stuck out. He was wearing sunglasses and a low hat, too, like for a disguise.”

“Probably someone overweight who doesn't like the sun,” said Harper.