So you say. I’ve never driven with you before, Buckle, you know that?
You should come on a long haul sometime just for the hell of it.
Yeh, I can see it all now.
The northern highway, uncrowded. Spruce and fir spearing upwards, and the high arched blue silences of the sky. When the truck stops, there are only small earth-close sounds – a few lethargic flies, the grass voices. Sun saturates and warms the moss and fallen bronze pine needles. He is poised above her – hard, ready, taut – and she can hardly wait for him to
— I must be berserk. I don’t even like him.
Don’t worry, Stacey. I wouldn’t play chicken if you were along.
Play chicken? What? Oh yeh. You still do that?
It passes the time.
It’ll pass it permanently one of these days.
I’ve never yet met a guy who didn’t give way.
You never give way?
I don’t have to. I know the other guy is going to.
That’s crazy. You can’t know.
Sure I know. I’m prepared to gamble that fraction of a second longer than he is.
You know all the truckers on the road, then? You know them all well enough to be able to tell?
I don’t have to know them all. It’s something I learned a long time ago.
You can have it.
It’s better on the night hauls because then you’ve only got the other guy’s lights to go by. Take a couple of weeks ago. I’m in the Cariboo, few miles past Hundred-Mile House, and it’s about three in the morning and I’m getting kinda bored when I see these lights coming. From the spread of the lights it looks like a diesel job, about the same weight as mine and she’ll do about the same speed. So I step on the gas just a little and pull out slightly. He does the same. He wants to play. I think it’s probably Charlie Norton, Excello Cartage guy, does this run back on a Tuesday and never drives day time. So I think, okay Charlie boy, we’ll see. He’s told guys in all the truckers’ cafés from here to Fort St. John that he’s going to take it away from me, see? Because they all know no one’s ever beat me. So we’re roaring along and he doesn’t swerve and I’m starting to sweat a little but then I think Charlie Norton’s the kind of guy who’ll say he’s going to do a thing before he’s done it and that is a dead giveaway. So I keep on, see? Well, when we’re practically close enough for both of us to see the sweat on each other’s foreheads, suddenly he gives a sharp right to the wheel and misses me by no more than a cunt-span if you don’t mind the expression. He sort of swivels to a stop, and I pull up too. He gets out and whaddyaknow? It’s not Charlie Norton at all. It’s some young guy I’ve never seen before, and he’s nearly drowning in his own sweat. We have a cigarette together, and he’s leaning against the front tires all the time, holding his own elbow so I won’t see his cigarette hand trembling away there.
You of course were perfectly calm.
I wouldn’t say that but at least I wasn’t shaking like a raped virgin. You can see what I mean about not having to know the guys. I’m okay while my luck’s in and it’s in because of what I know, see?
— Here we go again.
No I don’t see
Well it’s simple but if you don’t see it you don’t see it. Here we are, kid.
Buckle pulls in and halts beside a warehouse. Men who have been expecting this arrival now rush out, opening the back doors of the truck, beginning to unload. One of the men, sloping past, looks up at Stacey and grins knifedly.
— My God. It isn’t possible. He looked at me like I’m a whore or something. And I can’t say to him, Listen bud I’m a respectable married woman named thus. Because here I’m not. They don’t know what I am. They only see a woman in slacks and sweater, in the cab of Buckle’s truck. My, my. Doesn’t that seem strange. Do I mind? Am I offended? Hell, no. I’m delighted.
Buckle climbs back into the truck, waves to cohorts, starts up and they are off, back into the city.
How you doing?
Fine. Buckle, I think I should get home quite soon. I mean, if Bertha and Julian get back with Jen and I’m not there
Relax.
Yeh, well
Relax. How many days off do you get, Stacey? C’mon to my place. We’ll have a beer, and you’ll be home in lots of time to
I can’t.
Why not?
Well, I don’t think there’s time
There’s time.
Well
It’s settled, then. I never wanted to ask you and Mac to my place after Julie took off.
Why not?
Well, it’s not the same, like, is it?
Don’t you have to take the truck back to Ace?
It can wait. They won’t say anything. If they do, let them. They don’t want to lose me.
Grenoble Street, finally, not far from the docks, and Buckle draws into an alley to park. He climbs out, goes around to the other side, and hands Stacey down. The alley is wet with leftover rain, and littered with chocolate bar wrappers, crumpled newspapers, a few purple paper squares from the discarded paraphernalia of quick love, an eggshell or two dropped from emptied garbage tins and resting fragile on the edge of mud ponds, a grapefruit husk from the beginning of someone’s new day.
Okay, Stacey?
Yes.
The apartment is over a store which sells cut-price children’s clothes. Honest Ernie’s. The plastic raincoats glisten yellowly from the window, and the rows of rubber boots, black white or red, diminish from teen down to doll boots for creatures knee high to a grasshopper, who will plod purposefully through all the puddles of spring. Stacey looks away, reproached.
The stairs are covered with brown linoleum. On the second landing Buckle stops, takes out his key and opens the door. Stacey hesitates, smoothing her sweater down over her hips. Buckle takes her elbow gently, and they are inside.
The room is large. There is probably a bathroom and a bedroom or two elsewhere, but this room is for living and cooking. The window opens onto Grenoble Street, and the whine and wham of traffic curl upward and in. The floor is covered with the same brown linoleum as the stairs. A round oak table stands at one side of the room, covered in a white plastic lace-patterned cloth unrecently wiped over and yellow-flecked with egg yolk from the frying pans of the past. The gas stove stands in a corner, beside a sink which has a calico frill around its lower portions to hide the pipes. A chesterfield, once upholstered in grey, now worn to its cloth bone, stands gawkily in the center of the room. None of this creates more than a momentary flicker on Stacey’s eye camera. All she is looking at is the big armchair positioned near the window.
Arbuckle – that you?
Yeh. Who else?
The woman is gigantic, outspread like rising dough gone amok, swelling and undulating over the stiff upholstery of the chair, gaping body covered with tiny-flower-printed dress huge and shroud-shaped, vastly numerous chins trembling eel-like separate but involved, eyes closed, and at the end of the Kodiak arms, contrasting hands neatly made, fine-fingered, encrusted with silver-and-gold-colored rings which might almost have been costly, from the way the hands flairfully wear them.
Beside her, on a low table within easy reach, is a brown teapot and a pink-pearl opalescent glass mug. The hand reaches out.
Stacey makes as if to step forward. Buckle stops her, holding her shoulder.
You don’t have to. She doesn’t know you’re here.
What?
She’s blind.
Then Stacey sees that it is true, for the hand searches for the teapot’s handle, finds it, feels skillfully for the mug, and pours, the other hand slipped inside the rim of the mug to judge the rising height of the liquid. Stacey looks at Buckle. He is standing in front of her, her hands on his narrow hard-boned hips, and he is laughing but without sound. His voice is low, but not all that low.
She wasn’t always blind. Another broad threw acid at her once. No doubt she deserved it, for whatever it was she did. After that she couldn’t work her beat any more, but she was gettin
g beyond it anyhow. It was only then that she put on all the tonnage, though. Don’t worry, Stacey. She isn’t listening. Did you think it was tea in the pot?
What? I don’t know what you
It’s port, the cheapest money can buy. She likes it to be in a teapot, that’s all. She thinks it looks more respectable. Who sees it, but never mind. You gotta be respectable, maybe, if you’re a retired
Buckle. No.
You don’t want me to say it? Okay. I won’t. Well, now you know why I never asked you here. She moved in the minute Julie left. Hey, I was forgetting. That beer. There’s lots in the fridge. We got a fridge, in case you didn’t notice. Then I think maybe we’re gonna
I can’t
Buckle opens two bottles of beer and hands Stacey one. She does not want it, and puts it aside on the table. Buckle’s straight black hair falls over his eyes and he brushes it back. His face is brown, sharp, smiling.
You wouldn’t have come here if you couldn’t. So don’t give me that line, eh?
He is wearing his usual jeans which proclaim his sex. His shirt is a black sports shirt, decorated with artificial gold threads, open at the neck. Stacey smells him, the clean sweat smell, the dust, the oil, the smell of man-flesh. She holds herself in hiatus, waiting. Waiting for the clue, the instructions which she will follow. She can feel his shoulder bones under her fingers although she has not touched him. She can almost feel his sex in her. In the chair beside the window, the undersea giant woman raises the pearl-pink heavy cup to her mouth and drinks unspeaking, listening or not listening.
Can she?
No. I told you. It’s afternoon. She’s away to hell and gone. So?
Stacey moves slowly towards him, not with the slowness of caution but the opposite. Then, as she is about to place her hands on him, his acute rasping voice.
Okay that’s it don’t touch me
What he is doing now concerns only himself, his sex open and erect in his hands. But although he retreats from her presence, he watches her, needing to see some image in eyes, some witness to the agony of his pleasure.
You won’t get it Julie didn’t like it when I did it this way all she ever wanted was to take it you’re not getting it see
Stacey looks at him only for an instant. Then fear like tides. She turns for the door and finds beside her on the floor two silver coins, thrown.
There’s your bus fare, lady.
She realizes that she has no money on her. She reaches down to the floor and picks up the silver. Then she runs. Down the stairs, onto the inhabited street, to the bus stop.
Saturday, and Mac arrives home midafternoon. Stacey is ironing a dress for Katie to wear to the school dance this evening.
You’re home early.
Yeh. Where are the kids, Stacey?
Down looking at TV. Why?
Come on into the study for a minute, will you?
What’s up?
Just come.
Okay. Wait till I unplug my iron.
She follows him into the study. Mac lights a cigarette and stands looking out the window.
Close the door, Stacey, will you, please?
Hey, what is it? Okay. There.
Mac turns to face her, and she sees in his eyes some nearly unbearable pain. His voice is steady, deliberately contained, exaggeratedly calm.
Buckle phoned me.
The nerves at the base of Stacey’s stomach begin crawling.
Oh?
Yes. He told me.
He told you – what?
Everything. How you wouldn’t take no for an answer. How he finally took you to bed.
He told you that?
Yes. Well? What’ve you got to say?
Fury floods in adrenalin bursts through Stacey’s veins. She hears her voice, raucous.
What d’you mean, what have I got to say? Who’re you? God? You don’t own me. You believed Buckle, didn’t you? It’s a lie I never did any such thing
Then, at last, she hears the outraged virtue in her own voice
— Oh God. No, I didn’t do any such thing. But I would’ve, if Buckle had. No, damn it, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I don’t even like Buckle. Even at that moment I didn’t like him. I would’ve stopped. I would’ve found I couldn’t go through with it. Wouldn’t I? I don’t know. I think I would have gone to bed with him. Even there. With her there. How could I? Buckle was smart – he found a two-edged sword.
Why would Buckle lie about a thing like that, for Christ’s sake, Stacey?
If you don’t know, then there’s no use me telling you. But you’d take the word of a friend against mine, wouldn’t you?
He’s no friend of mine, not any more. Stacey – why? Why would you? Was it true?
No.
You went to his place, though, didn’t you?
Yes. I went. I don’t know why. I can’t explain. You wouldn’t believe me. But I went. All right, I went. But that’s all. I never I never I never
For God’s sake keep your voice down. No need to scream
I’m not screaming
You are. Now cut it out, see?
All right I won’t say a word what’s the use
Oh Stacey for God’s sake don’t go on like that. Quit crying. Okay. Okay. I believe you.
Do you?
Mac puts out his cigarette and lights another. His hands are not steady and his face is misshapen with a private grief.
I don’t know what the hell to believe. I just don’t see why you went to Buckle’s place at all, that’s all. It doesn’t make sense. I would’ve thought I could’ve trusted both of you.
It would be the absolute end of the world even if it had happened?
Mac puts one hand on her shoulder and tightens it around the bone.
I won’t have anybody else touching you see
Stacey yanks away and looks at him unbelieving.
— He’s really hurt. And I’d like to comfort him but how can I – it’s I who’ve caused it. And yet I hate him for feeling that way about me. I might as well be a car or a toothbrush. Damn him. Damn Buckle. Damn both of them. I want to go away by myself. Right away. Far.
What about the girl, Mac? Thor’s secretary. That’s different, I suppose. It’s okay for you to touch her.
Pain changes to anger in Mac’s eyes.
Yes, it is different, if you really want to know. It’s not what you’re obviously thinking.
I bet I just bet
— We go on this way and the needle jabs become razor strokes and the razors become hunting knives and the knives become swords and how do we stop?
Leave her out of it, Stacey. Just leave her out of it. You don’t know a damn thing about it, so shut up about it, eh?
I will shut up. I’ll just do that little thing. Don’t worry I won’t say a word about anything from now on
For God’s sake, Stacey, quit acting like a child.
I’m acting like a child? What about you? I suppose if a chance acquaintance told you I’d robbed a bank you’d believe that too
I told you I don’t know what in hell to believe
Well that shows pretty clearly what you do believe
Now listen here Stacey
Sh – the kids are coming upstairs.
That night in bed he makes hate with her, his hands clenched around her collarbones and on her throat until she is able to bring herself to speak the release. It doesn’t hurt. You can’t hurt me. But afterwards neither of them can sleep. Finally, separately, they each rise and take a sleeping pill.
The following day Mac’s father arrives for Sunday lunch. Matthew is as scrupulously dressed as always, his dark suit clean and well pressed, his fine faintly lemon-colored white hair brushed neatly. But there is one difference. He is carrying a black silver-topped cane.
Hello, Stacey, my dear. How are you?
Oh, just fine, thanks. How’re you? The cane is new, isn’t it?
Well, not exactly new. My congregation gave it to me some years ago, and do you know, at the time I thought
I would never have occasion to use it. But I’ve found a little bit of difficulty in navigating the steps at the apartment just recently, so I dug this out. It’s most useful. Where is Clifford?
Out cleaning the car.
Oh yes, of course. And the children – at Sunday school, I suppose?
Yes. The boys are, at least. Katie got home rather late from the school dance last night, so I thought just this once.
— Katie got home at two in the morning and I was frantic and couldn’t sleep despite sleeping pill and she was furious at me for being frantic. What if she gets pregnant? What if some guy is really cruel to her, sometime, ditching her? What if she takes drugs? Whatifwhatifwhatif? Then I think I’m worrying needlessly, just like my mother did, and Katie isn’t stupid and she was with a whole group of kids. And I think she’s probably a damn sight more principled than I am at this point.
Matthew is looking at her gravely, nodding his head as though with understanding.
Oh, I know Katherine doesn’t miss going many Sundays, Stacey. I quite realize that. But a few weeks of not attending can develop into a habit, you know. Not that I’m implying it will, in Katherine’s case. I’m sure you and Clifford are much too conscientious parents to allow that.
— I and Clifford as parents you do not have one single solitary notion about. If I ever said that, what would Matthew say? Would he have a stroke? Or would he just be quietly wounded? Nothing ever can come out. I sometimes see us like moles, living in our underground burrows, with eyes that can’t stand any light. Once I thought it was only people like Matthew and my mother who had that kind of weak eyes. Now I know it’s me, as much. C’mon, Stacey, say something nice, something agreeable.
How was church?
Just fine. The text for the sermon was from Psalms. One I always find particularly – well, you know – particularly fine.
What was it?
Matthew smiles and his voice is even, gentle, the almost toneless drone of one accustomed to reading from the pulpit.
Save me, O God, for the waters are come in unto my soul
Stacey looks at him, but can find no clues anywhere in his apparently untroubled face. She walks out of the kitchen and goes upstairs. She locks the bathroom door and when she has stopped crying she washes her face with cold water.