Smoke (37 page)

“I can tell that you do,” Alice grins. “But they'll have to wait.” She stands, straightens her dress. “I'm due at the church. We're putting the final touches on the banner over there and we'll have to carry the cake down to the park.”

“I'd better go too.” He feels his abdomen sear. “Meet you back here for dessert?”

“Oh, John. I just told you. We'll be having cake.”

He winks. “Nothing at all wrong with my hearing, dear.”

For months his colour hasn't been good. He explained to Alice that it was a lingering cold, then influenza, and refused to have himself checked by another physician. He said he could care for himself as well as anyone could. After several weeks without sound sleep, Alice told him to see Elgin Baker in Tillsonburg or not to bother coming home. She'd not been thinking clearly for if she had she would've admitted how dangerous such a simple visit could be. He went to appease her, but spoke only of passing on some new patients. So, they'd gone on and on together, a merry-go-round of comforting routine the same as always.

He didn't need to tell her what was happening to him physically; she didn't demand to know. The pain in his abdomen hasn't been easy to hide, though he has tried, and his face has aged significantly. In fact this morning he noticed it has lost its sense of humour entirely and sunken in on itself. He hasn't told a story in weeks, and this, more than any physical sign, alerts him to what must be done. So he stashed money in Alice's drawer for Buster, along with the name and address of a surgeon at the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto. And he started writing Alice one last letter. Left it unfolded. Later—after—when she comes to discover it, she may wish that she had known in advance. He doesn't want her to. It wasn't planned this way but he must disappear and no one will be the wiser. His only wish now is that when his time does come he will be judged more for what he made of himself than for what he did not.

A
LICE FINISHES WASHING
their breakfast dishes, changes her clothes and walks around the corner and up Palmer's Hill to the United church with a flirtatious step. She's been looking forward to this celebration for a year. The Women's Institute has put together historical displays of the region and the Violet Rebekahs will have their own float in the parade. Hazel is late, so Alice sits alone in the church basement on the piano stool and finishes decorating the banner. She sews two long ribbons to either end and rolls it up; it will be easier to cart down the hill folded under her arm. She removes the large square cake from the church refrigerator and waits. After twenty minutes Hazel still hasn't turned up and it's getting on, so Alice gathers what is needed and carries everything by herself.

J
ELLY BEAN FINDS WHAT SHE NEEDS
right where she hid it, in the hall closet on the top shelf beside two bags of yarn, a set of knitting needles and a bottle of white glue. Then she locks herself in the washroom.

The first streak is the hardest, as if she's painting over her old self. She stands a second or two with the dye brush poised, smells the clean, mean sound of colour mixing, and watches in the mirror as the blondest strands darken to mysterious feathers. After that it's easy.
Stroke, stroke, stroke,
until her bangs are brown, almost black, and she's coloured around the ears, on top and at the back. For someone dyeing her hair for the first time she thinks she's done a fair job, but her forehead and ears are stained in spots. It doesn't matter; each streak banishes the sense she's had of being at odds with herself. Beauty is uncommon, she thinks while she covers the blond. Beauty is remarkable. She paints away the rest, getting as close to the scalp as she can, matching her roots. A head of fine, unnaturally white curls colours over and vanishes like a total eclipse of the sun.

The Miss Tobacco Queen contestants line up at Main and Dover in their tiaras and pink and black chest banners. Each of the service clubs has decorated a float. Several local boys in period costumes saddle up restless ponies and Simon Vandemaele balances atop a penny farthing. Visitors park, honking horns and waving to one another through open car windows. There is a cool fall breeze and the pavement is still wet from the early-morning rain but the sky is clear. The smell of cotton candy and roasted walnuts filters through the village centre.

Buster is ready. He is dressed in full formal attire—the fedora of course, but also his tie, suit pants, suspenders, shirt and vest. He found a proper holster for his gun by taking up part of Hank's old Davy Crockett costume. It's riding low around his waist like a leather horseshoe offering good luck. It's how he imagines Solly Levine wore his under his coat on the day he disappeared. There are coloured lights on both sides of Main Street, banners and streamers, and several flags—the provincial and the Union Jack, some made especially to celebrate the sesquicentennial. Store windows are frames for antiques and collectables. The streets are lined with vintage cars. Buster flattens on the ground beside the bank, hidden by a thicket of bushes. This is an excellent spot from which to observe both ends of Main Street. The bank is closed. He and Donny have been positioned here since dawn.

“Okay, let's go over things one more time. When we find him, let's say jimmying the lock or breaking a window at the back, I'll approach head-on. ‘Stick 'em up!' I'll shout, and when you hear me what do you do?”

“That's my cue to jump him.”

“Good.”

“But what if he shoots me?”

“Don't worry; I'll have your back. And even if he's a big fella, pound for pound the two of us can take him.” Buster swats a fly. “Remember; we have the element of surprise on our side. This chump hasn't got a prayer.”

“I hope you're right, Buster.”

“I am. Today's the day. It's gotta be.”

“That's what you keep saying.”

Buster cups the fly in his hands.

“Trust me, our man's gonna make his move today. I can feel it.”

D
OC JOHN CREEPS DOWN
into the park and finds the others already arranged in proper formation—horns together, tuba at the back, woodwinds up front. Walter is polishing his French horn with an old cheesecloth, Bob admires his distorted reflection in his trumpet—and they're all waiting on Tom. Percy Bozek stands a few feet away puffing on his bagpipes and making them whine like a cat in heat. There are twenty-five men who form the Smoke Brass and Woodwind Pipe Band, all members of the Oddfellows or Kiwanis clubs. “I'm slow today,” says the doctor when he reaches the bottom of the hill. He sets his clarinet case on an empty chair, glances at the sheet music tucked under silver clips in the music stand.

“You're not the last,” says Walter. “I rang Tom about the petition. I expect he's none too happy.” Walter gestures in the direction of Len and Ivan Rombout who are hollering back and forth to each other a few yards away. They are busy erecting a large tent. It was used before—on Dominion Days and for fall fairs—and now it will be used for the sesquicentennial.

Tom has no intention of being run out of his own village by anyone, least of all by Len Rombout. As soon as he and Hank finish loading up the back of his truck with chairs and folding tables from the town hall he'll catch up to the band. They will crowd together in one corner of the tent when it's up. The swimming pool, which has already been cleaned, will attract children who will splash nearby and do handstands in the water, and the band will blow and drum and mewl off-key through several old favourites and a few new tunes.

“Let's start,” Walter says. There are nods and much scrambling to adjust the height of music stands and flip through sheet music. Walter releases the spit valve on his instrument and Doc John unbuckles his clarinet case. He uses a weight cloth, pulls the weight through the longest section and tugs the cloth after it. When he looks down the barrel of the joint to inspect, he sees a shiny, smooth, dry finish inside the black tube. He lifts his clarinet to his lips, resting most of its weight on his right thumb where a slight groove has formed over time. When he gives the first hard blow he feels a space break open inside, a scrappy tear coming from somewhere deep, immediately followed by a wet wave of nausea. He ignores it and blows harder the second time, pulling back to execute greater control over airflow as he tries to hit the upper-register notes. His instrument squeaks instead of sings while the others play on at the proper tempo. He can't maintain pace. He stops, counts another bar by tapping his right foot and joins in once more.

This time when he blows he cannot relax his diaphragm; he is tense, his lips tight, and the music comes out sounding stiff and tentative. Not music at all, merely disconnected notes. He blows harder, too loudly, and his abdomen feels as though it's ripping wide open. He grows light-headed but makes his fingers go through the motions of playing so that the others won't notice. A moment later a gnawing fire eats into his belly and a current of fear runs through him. A tart woody taste coats his tongue. His mouth fills with a warm liquid and blood, as brown as rust, drips from the bottom of his clarinet out onto the earth below. He swipes the ground with his foot to cover the tiny speckles dotting at his feet. When the burning and the bleeding don't stop, he swallows and it becomes harder to breathe, to think. He stands, careful to maintain his balance, shuffles his belongings, disassembles the clarinet and packs it up. Walter waves the others to stop. “Something the matter, Doc?”

“No. Keep playing. Forgot to do something for Alice that's all. See you boys later.” He hurries across the short patch of grass and up the small hill again, as fast as he can manage, which means that he relies more on his cane than he's ever needed to before, and stops at the cenotaph to catch his breath. Leaning against the engraved plaque he drops his clarinet case, the pain in his stomach so severe that he doubles over. The case doesn't open and he doesn't bother to try to pick it up, but instead kicks it into the brush where it won't be found until the following spring when Hank and Susan stumble upon it as they walk with Susan's daughter, Jenny, through the woods.

Several strangers from out of town scurry down into the park chattering, oblivious. The doctor moves the same as he always has, deliberately, but this time he is holding on to his stomach with one hand and advancing without the comfort of music. As more people pass him on the wooden steps, no one guesses where he's going. No one guesses where he's been.

T
HE SHADOW OF A FIGURE
appears beside the bank.

“There he is!” Buster is propped up on his elbows, ready to pounce.

Donny stiffens and then Doc John emerges from around the corner. “Oh, nice call.” Donny rolls onto his back and stares up at the clear blue sky. “Let me know when you see something real.”

“Ah nuts. I was sure we had him.” In the distance the band is playing. Buster notices the doctor's pale face, his pained walk. “Wait here. I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going? Hey! I'm not doing this alone.”

Buster jogs across Main Street. “Everything all right, Doc? You don't look so good.”

“Just need to lie down for a bit.”

“But you'll miss the parade.”

Doc John clasps his ribs and Buster reaches to steady him, sees that his teeth are stained pink with fresh blood. They walk, the old man leaning on him for support. “Just need to catch my breath,” he says. “Just need a rest.”

When they reach his driveway Doc John hunts in his breast pocket for car keys.

“You can't drive,” says Buster. “There's no way.”

“Leave me be. I'm all right.”

“I'll run back and find Mrs. Gray.”

“No,” Doc John coughs, spitting up more blood. “No point in worrying Alice. I can cart myself over to Doc Baker's. You go on about your business now Buster.” He opens the Oldsmobile's heavy black door and collapses onto the front seat, pulling one leg and the other inside, and shutting the door. He reaches across and locks the passenger side. “Don't fuss over me, you sound just like a woman!” Then he waves dismissively. “I'll be seeing you, son.” He starts the engine and is gone, a dry wake of dust spilling out behind him.

Buster runs as fast as he can up Main Street and stops in front of the hardware store where he finds Donny's car parked. He opens the driver's-side door but there are no keys in the ignition. Jelly Bean emerges onto the front steps.

“What's the matter?”

“It's Doc John. He's sick. I've gotta get Donny.” He faces her a moment. “What's wrong with your hair?”

“Nothing's wrong with my hair.” Jelly Bean is at his heels, following up Main Street. “If you don't like it too bad. Guess I won't be Miss Tobacco Queen after all.”

“I like it. I'm just saying.” Buster points beside the bank. “Over here.”

Jelly Bean reaches for his hand.