Bow Grip (5 page)

“It’s good to see you, Joey. How’s your mother? Help yourself, I’ve just made a pot of fresh.”

I hadn’t seen Whit for more than three months. He looked older, the long bones showing through the skin on the back of his hands, water in his eyes. He leaned on a worn rubber-tipped cane. The only time I’d ever seen him use it before was when he was walking around downtown.

“Use the blue mug, it’s clean. I already got myself some tea in my thermal cup here. You got yourself one of these yet? The granddaughter got me mine, from the Starbucks. Made by Nissan, believe it or not, but they sure keep your drink hot. Did I ask you already how was your mother? Lily has been missing bingo since her wrists have been acting up, and I’ve lost my news source.”

“She’s good, Whit. Busy as ever. Nothing seems to slow her down.”

“It’s that new beau of hers, that’ll do it.”

I sipped my tea, looking at his face to see if he was pulling
my leg. “My mom has a boyfriend? Where did you hear that?”

“Lily, who else. You didn’t know? She told me about it couple months back. Quite the stir it was making with the old birds at bingo, I guess. The guy is loaded, apparently, owns the new golf course. Used to be a lawyer type, for an exploration outfit out of Edmonton, I think it was. I met the guy, seems a nice enough sort. Lily thinks he’s dead handsome. He came by looking for something or other for that ’59 Ford of his. Nice truck. All stock.”

“The robin’s egg and white one?”

He nodded. “The very same.”

“My mom hasn’t said anything to me.” I shook my head. “The guy with the goatee? Always on his cell phone?”

“I didn’t notice that. But he didn’t stay for tea. Lots of folks don’t anymore, though.”

“I stood in line next to him at the liquor store two weeks ago. He could have been buying wine my mother drank. Nobody tells me anything.”

“I’m telling you, aren’t I? Maybe your mother thinks you won’t approve. But it’s been four years your dad’s been gone now, Joey. You should be happy for her, a little this and that, it’ll keep her young.” Whit winked, then coughed, hollow in the back of his throat.

“I’ll be happy for her as soon as I’m over being shocked. Isn’t he a bit young for her?”

“Five years, I think Lily said. And filthy rich and good-looking. No wonder the old tongues are wagging.”

“Good for her, then,” I said. Then I wondered if my mom had told Franco. Sarah knew, no doubt.

Whit looked at his watch and cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to run, Joey. I got the nephew to haul the
part around to the side door for you. Lily has a roast in the oven.”

The sun was going down as I drove back up the highway towards the shop, making the frost on the grass beside the highway glow orange. I would have to fire up the furnace in the shop tonight, so I could work late. I was going to fix the cowboy’s car tonight, and tow it straight out there tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I had to figure out what the fuck I was going to say to the guy when I gave him back his car. I could hardly tell him I hoped it was going to run fine from now on.

I even wondered for a minute if the guy had been kind of ass-backwardly asking me for help. He hadn’t made much of an attempt to hide the signs very well. I thought about asking my mom or Franco what they would do, but I didn’t want to spill the guy’s private life all over town. Those two, running their own public address system, it seemed to me. I never ever thought of killing myself before, even when I was a teenager, but I imagined if I did, I’d want to be kind of private about it. Wouldn’t want someone bringing it up in the Food Fair or something. I figured the best thing I could do with the cowboy’s little secret was to keep it to myself.

Three hours and two cups of coffee later, I got the Volvo to turn over. I parked it outside, locked up, and went home.

I towed the car back out to Archie’s with the new flatbed truck first thing the next day. It had been purchased by my father almost nine years ago, but it was still called the new flatbed for some reason, mostly because it wasn’t the old flatbed. When I first pulled up into the gravel lot, I noticed there was no smoke coming from the bus. Then I saw Archie’s blue pick-up. The cowboy had said him and Archie
tried to stay out of each other’s way, but there was the old landlord himself, loading the neat stack of firewood into the box of his truck. My heart thumped behind my undershirt. Maybe the cowboy had tried another method. I jumped out of my truck, my boots crunching cold gravel.

“Hey, Joe. What brings you out here?”

“Got this car fixed for Jim Carson. He around? In the bus?”

“You missed him by about an hour. He just left.”

“Did he say when he’d be back?”

“I hope never. Told him three years ago he could stay for a month. Was a friend of my wife’s when they were kids, I only did it as a favour to her. She woulda wanted me to, had a thing for strays, may she rest in peace, but I’m still feeding her remaining four cats. I hate the critters.”

“He left for good? Without his car? He said he needed it fixed right away. I only picked it up yesterday afternoon. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“Tell me one thing about that fella that isn’t strange, I dare you to. I never took to him. He woulda been gone a long time ago, except he kept so much to himself, I could never come up with a good enough reason to get rid of him. Kept an eye on the water pump for me, never came knocking for anything. Not too pleased he’s left this eyesore of a bus behind, though, but he did leave me two hundred bucks to have it towed, or for my trouble if I manage to sell it to someone. You need an old school bus, Joey?”

I shook my head. “Did he mention where he was headed, Archie? Leave an address? I guess I’ll need to call him about the car, since it’s his by law, he filled out the transfer papers and all.”

“He left on foot. Barely even thanked me. Didn’t ask
him where he was headed cuz I couldn’t much care. You best turn around and take that car back with you too, or it’ll end up one more thing I have to do, if I know how these things tend to go.”

“He left town on foot? What about his stuff?”

“Guy never seemed to have much. Books, mostly. He left with one duffel bag and an old guitar case.”

“Mind if I take a look in the bus?”

“Knock yourself out, Joey. And give your mother my regards. Is she gonna marry that lawyer of hers, or just run around town with him?”

Fuck me, I thought. Even Archie knows.

The bus smelled of wood smoke, and that must-and-rust vinyl tang of old vehicles. The smell that meant happy to me if the sun was shining, and something else altogether when it wasn’t.

All of the passenger seats had been removed, save for the one behind the driver’s, and the floor had been re-covered with tongue and groove plywood, stained a mahogany colour, and then varnished. There was a tiny one-legged table, one edge screwed into a two-by-four attached to the wall of the bus. A woodstove, a box for kindling, and newspapers beside it. One chair. A single bunk, its spare foam mattress stripped of blankets or sheets. A bowl-shaped sink in a three-foot wide countertop, shelves with no doors underneath, and a two-burner Coleman stove. A label-less tin can beside the sink contained one knife, one fork, one teaspoon, one soup spoon, and a spatula. A bookshelf above the bunk, empty now save for a box of matches. The faded curtains that covered the bus’s windows facing Archie’s house were all pulled shut. The ones on the windows opposite were tied back, revealing the close-cropped hayfield
outside. The cowboy had boxed in a small garden between the bus and the field, four two-by-tens on their sides nailed together in a tidy rectangle. The garden had been harvested, and the soil turned and raked for winter. A frost-weary squash plant soldiered on, lonely inside an old tire planter beside the empty vegetable patch.

The guy obviously wasn’t long on luxury. Sparse was the first word that came to mind. No wonder he hadn’t invited me in for coffee. He only owned the one chair. The cowboy had walked off with just a duffel bag, according to Archie, yet had left almost nothing behind.

I noticed what looked like a couple of maps, folded up and clothes-pinned to the sun visor above the driver’s seat. I pulled them out, curious. I wondered where this old bus had travelled, before the cowboy parked it here. There was a map of Western Canada, the kind that shows you where the rest areas and showers and campgrounds are, one of Alberta logging roads, and a street map of Calgary. There was a round compass suction-cupped just below the rearview mirror, a cup holder, and a little storage compartment behind the handle that opened the bus door. Inside it, I found a water-stained repair manual elastic-banded with the registration papers, and a little book that said “Service, Repair and Mileage Records.” I opened it. I’m a mechanic. You can tell a lot about a guy by how he treats his engine. I told my sister this before she married Jean-Paul, but she wouldn’t listen.

Jim Carson had changed the oil in the bus every five thousand clicks, since he started keeping records anyway, which was twenty years ago, according to his tidy script. The bus had been getting approximately twelve miles to the gallon of high-octane gas when it was parked, not bad for
an old beast like this. I liked a man who put high octane in an old vehicle. Showed a little foresight, my dad used to say. I wondered if the motor would turn over. Looked like the cowboy had taken care of it. The keys were under the visor.

The driver’s seat squeaked cold air under my cheeks when I sat down. The keys were on a leather keychain, shaped like a totem pole with the words “Pemberton Towing” on it. No other keys, just the ignition and the little silver one for the gas cap. Archie’s tail lights were now disappearing down the road in the dust. He wouldn’t care if I fired it up.

The engine turned over a little reluctantly, but caught and coughed to life. Once it warmed up a little, it sounded all right. I rubbed my palm on the shiny grip of the gearshift. The metal of the clutch arm had worn through the rubber foot-pedal. There was something on the floor, a little corner of white paper peeking out from under the Bluebird floor mat.

A postcard. I turned the ignition off, and the bus grumbled into silence.

I picked the postcard up, feeling a bit like Lenny from
Law and Order
, when the clue music starts up. The picture side was a shot of Drumheller’s Largest Dinosaur in the World sculpture. I hated that thing. You could buy a postcard just like this one in every gas station and corner store in town. Not much of a clue.

The other side contained two lines, thin blue stand-up script, same as the handwriting in the bus’s records. Jim had written a postcard to someone and never mailed it.
Dear Cecelia, Seth, Isaac, and Lady: Thought the boys might
like this. Things are fine, and I’ll see you for Christmas, love Jim.

It was addressed to a Cecilia Carson in Calgary. This sleuth business was easier than I thought. Sounded like he had an ex-wife and a couple of kids, young ones, probably, less than two hours away. I would call directory assistance, leave a message with her. Let him know his car was fixed, and then at least I could say I had kept good on my half of our deal.

M
y big plan ground to a halt about half an hour later back at the shop, when directory assistance informed me that there was no listing for a C or a Cecelia Carson anywhere in the Calgary area. I checked the postcard, which I where in the Calgary area. I checked the postcard, which I had folded and tucked into my pocket next to my smokes. There was no date on it. Who knew how long it had been sliding around on the floor of the bus? Maybe Cecelia and the kids had moved years ago.

I took out the company chequebook from the bottom drawer of my desk and paid all the bills in the inbox on the counter. Checked the shop schedule next to the phone, and the work orders on the clipboard. It looked like we weren’t busy for the rest of this week. Always slow this time of year, after the snow tires go on and the fall tune-ups are over with. Franco was rotating the tires on a Saturn in the service bay. I brought him a cup of coffee, one sugar with Coffee-mate, just how he liked it.

“What do you want?” He took off his work gloves. He always wore gloves when he worked. My dad used to give him a hard time about it, how he would slather his paws with the hand cleaner that had lanolin in it every morning, and then squeeze them into buckskin work gloves. “I like to caress a woman, not sandpaper the skin off her,” Franco would say, showing his teeth.

“You mind if I take off for a couple of days? Things are slow enough, should be fine with just the one guy.”

Franco gave me a look as he sipped his coffee. “Take
as much time as you want, I’ll be fine here. I could always call the kid in if things got busy.” The kid was Jerry Collins’ oldest boy, Nicolas. He worked for us the last two summers, part-time here and part-time at the RV car wash next door. Good kid. Nick could give Franco a hand if something came up.

“Going hunting with Davis?”

I shook my head. “Into the city. I need to take Allyson the last of her stuff.”

Franco stared at me.

“And I’m going to look into finding a cello teacher.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Still got that thing? Thought maybe you traded it back when you towed the Volvo in here again.”

“Carson left town this morning without taking his car with him, and Archie wouldn’t let me leave it on his property. Didn’t even tell me he was leaving, or what he wanted me to do with the car.”

“I told you that guy was weird. Law says if he abandons the car for more than thirty days without paying the bill, it belongs to the shop that fixed it. Then you got yourself a car and a cello. Good deal for you.”

“Except I told Jim I would pay the bill for the repair, because I felt bad it broke down on him so soon. Wonder what the lawyers would have to say about that?”

“Common sense would say the guy didn’t want the car, so he left it with the guy he got it from. I figure if he left the papers in the glove box, it’s yours. You going to Calgary alone then?”