This River Awakens (10 page)

My thoughts remained with the city. Though the old classroom and the faces were familiar, I now felt like a stranger, and the old world had lost its drama, becoming small, confined, crowded with meaningless gestures.

The bus arrived, and the driver greeted me with the now familiar refrain. ‘Morning, Mr Gloom.’ I nodded in his direction as I clambered up the steps, dropped my ticket into the change-holder, then headed down the aisle to my usual seat at the very back. I leaned against the side and stared out at the scene sweeping past, squinting to make out details through the green-tinted glass. Heat gusted up into my face, smelling of oil and metal and dust.

Mr Gloom. Yeah, well, who wouldn’t be gloomy? It’s too early in the morning for sane people.

Through the window the city took form, encroaching on my thoughts – buildings, stores, cars, people, colours. It all seemed washed out, as if mere moments from crumbling away completely – everything into piles of dust, even the people.

The bus edged its way into the city’s concrete heart. The buildings reached skyward, leaving the sidewalks in shadow. Monotoned clumps of people moved here and there, seeming less than human, more like cloaked creatures bent on harried tasks for some unseen overlord. They hurried from one dark hole to the next. I imagined them clutching rough black iron tools beneath their coats, and within the skyscrapers I pictured grey mazes carpeted with clumps of cotton and littered with rat pellets.

Mr Gloom.

The bus swung ponderously into the station. Pulled from my imaginings by the need for haste, I quickly left the station, crossed the street, and took position among the crowd at the bus stop. I hadn’t missed my connection – the crowd told me that much. It felt like the only kind of victory I was allowed to have.

At the end of this ride was Montrose Elementary School, a low flat-topped building painted white and cream-yellow. I’d known it since Grade Four. Before that there had been Lincoln Ness School, Doncaster School, and South Grosvenor School.

The bus arrived, and I joined the line filing into it, my head at chest level with nearly everyone else. I worked my way down the aisle and saw a familiar face, middle-aged and round, the eyes small and blue, all of it framed by short wavy blonde hair. It smiled at me.

‘Good morning, Owen.’

‘Morning, Miss Shevrin,’ I replied. The seat beside my teacher was vacant. I tried not to notice it.

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ She pulled the edge of her coat away to give me more room. Just a gesture, of course. I wasn’t big enough to spread all over the seat. Even so, as my teacher she was used to telling me what to do. I sat down.

‘Do you take this bus every day?’ she asked.

Her perfume swirled all around me, along with the sharp tang of menthol cigarettes. ‘Yes.’

‘You come to school pretty early, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘My car’s in the shop.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

My question seemed to startle her. ‘Well, it’s something to do with the transmission.’

‘My dad doesn’t do transmission work,’ I said.

‘Oh.’

‘Though he could if he wanted to.’

‘Mmhmm.’

The silence stretched a little too long, then she said, ‘So tell me, how do you like your new home?’

‘I like it.’

‘What’s good about it?’

‘It’s not in the city.’

‘You don’t like living in the city?’

‘It smells. I hate the smell.’

‘The pollution?’

‘Mmhmm.’

A minute passed. Miss Shevrin fidgeted in her seat. The school was getting mercifully close. She looked down at the books on my lap. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

‘
Jason and the Argonauts.
It’s an abridged version. For young readers.’

‘Oh! Are you enjoying it?’

‘It’s too much like the abridged version of
The Odyssey.
’

Miss Shevrin stared down at me for a moment. ‘I had no idea you read so much.’

Suddenly feeling nervous, I looked away. ‘Mostly I read comics,’ I said. ‘And horror magazines.’ I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to lie – I read everything I could get my hands on. I’d read all of Debbie’s English class books before she did. The only book I couldn’t finish was
Lord of the Rings.
The magic was fun, but I’d found it impossible to get excited about a hero who was two feet tall. For some reason, the sharp interest I’d seen in my teacher’s face had made me wary, almost skittish.

‘Do you think those comic books are well written, Owen?’

‘Sure. Some of them are great.’

We were nearing our stop. Miss Shevrin sighed and said, ‘Well, at least you’re not fighting all the time this year. I suppose that’s something.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Have you thought of why that might be the case?’

‘Sure,’ I smiled up at her. ‘I fight dirty.’

VII

Throughout the winter, bereft of heat in the shelters, the mink’s fur thickened and took on an oily shimmer. After especially large orders had been filled, the remaining mink fed well on what was left of their less fortunate kin. There still were times, however, when there was simply too much flesh and guts, and then Fisk piled them into a mound beside the maypole. Doused with kerosene, the remains burned all night.

Fisk had just filled a large order.

A breeze had sprung up from the west, taking away the afternoon sun’s heat. Fisk rested, leaning on his pitchfork. The wind also carried away most of the stench from the rotting meat, though he’d gotten used to the smell a long time ago. Still, he admitted to a measure of gratitude for the breeze.

This would be the last load.

After a moment Fisk resumed shovelling entrails into the wheelbarrow. The shaft of the pitchfork felt slick in his large hands. Blood and intestinal fluids covered his hairy forearms. It was still too early in the season for flies.
Thank God.

When he’d shovelled the last of the mink remains into the wheelbarrow he dropped the pitchfork and pushed the load around the house to the front. The mound beside the maypole was already three feet high and six feet across. Grunting, Fisk heaved on the handles and dumped the load.

He’d have to wait until nightfall before lighting it. Even out here there were ordinances regarding the burning of refuse. From a pile such as this one the cloud that would billow forth would be black, thick and greasy. It would rise up for a short distance, then fall back earthward, gathering like floating shrouds in the low areas.

There’d been complaints, every now and then, from neighbours. And once the RCMP and a health inspector had come out to his farm to look the place over. But he’d already buried the evidence, and so there was nothing they could do.

Now, he was mostly left alone. Except for the orders, which came over the phone, and the occasional trip into the city for supplies, Fisk avoided making any ties. His local legion had sent information his way, but he never responded. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want friends.

When he heard and then saw the brown Fargo pick-up truck driving up the section road, heading for his farm, Fisk scowled. As he stood beside the mound, he watched the truck pull into the driveway and then stop. Through the window was a vaguely familiar face, much older than the last time he’d seen it – which was before Dorry’s death, when neighbours weren’t just bitter reminders – older, and thinner.

The door opened and the man stepped out. Although of average height, he looked shrunken, thin to the point of emaciation, his hunched shoulders making his head jut forward. The man’s clothes hung on him like shedding skin, tattered brown and black. Greasy brown hair fell in strands over his face, which he pushed to one side in a habitual gesture that was to Fisk pathetic.

‘Goo’affernoon, Hodgson.’ The man’s words came out in a slurred croak.

Fisk nodded. ‘Sten, ain’t it?’

‘Tha’s right. ’Sbeen a few years, eh? Sten. Sten Louper.’ He approached, a little unsteadily.

Fisk realised that Sten was drunk, and it disgusted him. If there was one thing he hated, it was men who drank. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, wanting to get this meeting over with – he had no interest in small talk with a drunk.

Sten’s gaze fell on the mound beside Fisk. ‘Came t’talk ’bout that,’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘I wanna make a deal,’ Sten said.

Fisk frowned. He’d been expecting a complaint. ‘What kind of deal?’

The wind shifted around and Sten stepped back. ‘Whoo, tha’s some smell.’

Fisk grunted.

‘You get lotsa stuff left over, eh?’

‘Two, three times a season. Why?’

Pushing his hair back, Sten nodded as if Fisk’s answer had confirmed a suspicion. ‘I might like t’buy some, tha’s why. If th’price’s right.’

Fisk pocketed his hands and shook his head. ‘Buy it? What in hell for?’

‘I got three dogs. Dog food’s ’spensive.’

‘I doubt they’d eat it,’ Fisk said. ‘Maybe just roll in it, or something.’

‘I gotta grinder in the g’rage. I’d mix it up with reg’lar stuff.’

Fisk grunted again. ‘It might do. Give me your phone number. I’ll let you know when I get some fresh stuff.’ He turned and headed towards the porch. ‘Thing is, you don’t want it to go high. Might sicken your dogs.’

Sten laughed, as if at some private joke. ‘No problem there. Got lotsa jars. Fulla jam now, but I can empty ’em out.’

Fisk walked past him. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’

‘Wait!’

Stopping, Fisk turned. ‘What?’

‘Well, we ain’t ’greed on th’price, eh?’

‘Jesus Christ, Sten.’ Fisk shook his head. ‘I’m not asking a price for something I’d just burn anyway. You just come and pick it up when I call you. Hell, saves me the trouble.’

Sten blinked, then he nodded. ‘You call and I’ll come right over.’

Fisk turned back to the house. ‘I’ll get a pen and paper.’

‘Right.’

After he’d gotten Sten’s phone number and the man had driven away, Fisk made some coffee and retired to his rocking chair on the porch to await sunset.

‘Bloody drunk,’ he muttered.
That’s what happens when you don’t work.
He remembered hearing some story about Sten having an accident on the job – was working for the railroad or something. Living the last ten years on an injury compensation cheque. The man was probably a drunk even back then, and that was what caused the accident. ‘Once a drunk, always a drunk.’

He leaned back in his chair, watching the shadows crawl towards him. ‘All you need is a purpose. That’s all you need.’

VIII

The city falling behind me, I edged forward in my seat, feeling the anticipation growing inside. The day was over, but with the coming of dusk a new day would begin. And there’d be chill winds to sweep away the city’s residue from my clothes, from my thoughts. And there’d be the fields of sweet mud and the bounty carried in the swirling currents of the brown river.

I saw them waiting there on the side of the highway when we were still a quarter-mile distant. I pulled the cord, stepped out into the aisle. As I made my way to the front, I continued watching them through the windshield. Lynk still had his stick. He stood on the ditch’s other side, tossing stones into the air and taking wild swings. Carl stood next to Roland, who faced the bus.

With a hissing of air-brakes, we came to a stop and the driver opened the door. Grinning, I descended.

Roland nodded at the books under my arm. ‘Homework, eh?’

‘Yeah, my teacher’s a real bitch.’

Carl following, we jumped the water-filled ditch and joined Lynk. He swung his improvised bat, striking a stone, and the flat cracking sound was echoed a second later as the stone struck a wooden sign a few yards away. The sign stood at the corner point of two fence lines, its red-painted words faded to a dull pink.

Maypole Mink Farm Half-Mile.

On the sign a mink had been painted, running, its brown coat chipped and faded.

Lynk gave me a tight smile and said, ‘I hit that fuckin’ mink five fuckin’ times in a row!’

‘You guys play baseball?’ I asked Roland.

‘Of course!’ Lynk snapped. ‘Can’t ya see?’

Roland nodded.

‘I’m first base on my school team,’ I said. ‘I got a Cooper glove.’

‘Fuck that,’ Lynk said. ‘We play 500. None of that fuckin’ team shit. Playing first base is piss-ass!’

I laughed.

‘Let’s go,’ said Roland.

Without another word, he climbed over Fisk’s fence and began crossing his field.

CHAPTER FOUR

I

Three lots north of the Yacht Club, at the top of the hill, there was a stand of trees shot through with bracken. In its centre lay the crumbling foundations of an old house. When it had stood, perhaps fifty years ago, it had not been large; the pitted limestone walls, now only knee-high, showed only four rooms. If there had been a cellar or basement, it had long since been filled in and no sign of it remained.

The driveway that led into the decayed homestead was mostly overgrown; only a careful exploration would reveal it. Because it was a place of antiquity, because it was a place where something had ended and nothing had risen in its place, Jennifer thought it perfect.

The trees and brush fashioned a grey-and-black barrier, like a thickly woven web, on all sides. Jennifer led the way into the clearing, Barb and Sandy behind her. No one spoke as they entered the ruins and sat down on the foundation walls.

Jennifer studied her two friends. Absently twisting the curls of her short brown hair, Barb kept her gaze fixed on the path that had brought her here, to this place. Jennifer glanced at her other friend. Expressionless, Sandy’s face was turned in the direction opposite Barb’s.

‘Did you bring it?’

Jennifer turned to Barb, met her uneasy gaze with a smile. ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘Three hits, just like I said.’

Sandy stood up and looked around. ‘Is this the right kind of place, though?’ she asked.

‘It’s perfect,’ Jennifer replied, reaching into the breast pocket of her jean jacket. ‘There’s just us. No one knows we’re here. There couldn’t be any place better.’