Jer and Mike Karpuski and a lady who turns out to be AmberLea’s mom, Tina, arrive just before the ambulance does. Mike tells us he called the cops. “I parked at the top of Jackfish Road after you turned,” he says into the camera. “I was going to cruise down in a bit and make sure everything was okay when the bikers and the SUV all headed down there too, and that seemed kind of funny, so I called the plates in to the guys at the OPP detachment here. It turned out they were very interested.”
The staticky chatter of police radios washes over everything. Scratch and his homey are already in the back of a cruiser; Mustache and Orange Beard are being loaded into two separate ones. Al and the Wings are in a line, handcuffed, by the SUV. The rain of white powder has left them looking as if they all have really bad dandruff. KK keeps running a finger across the shoulder of his brother’s blazer, and then licking off the powder. “It really is icing sugar,” he keeps saying.
“I tried to tell ya,” Al says sadly. “The delivery guy never showed with the merchandise. That was supplies for the bakery.”
“Alphonso.” Rocco Wings looks up from where he’s cuffed to the seat of his walker. “On behalf ’a my boys, I apologize. It was their mistake. They’re young an’ hot-headed. It’s the delivery guy needs a one-way ticket, maybe. But lissen, it was business, nothin’ personal. I will square it with you by picking up the lawyers on this one.”
“Accepted. I unnerstan, Rocco; I got kids of my own. I’m honored to take your offer. I’ll send a special cake for your birthday.”
Rocco Wings nods, then glares at his boys. “Kids these days,” he says.
“Tell me about it,” Al says, as Mister Bones comes trotting over, the car keys jingling in his mouth.
Jer is standing by himself in the middle of the clearing, arms crossed, slowly looking things over. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on in Buffalo, except he’s added a too-long flannel shirt. Orange plaid. I know it’s not his, but I’ve seen it before.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Good.”
“Glad to hear it. Looks as if I missed some fun.”
“Not exactly.”
We look at each other.
“Thanks for being cool with Mom,” I say. “I mean, covering for me.”
“That’s okay, this once. We’re going to have to get our story straight on the way home though.”
“Sure.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. One pocket is kind of damp. Maybe I did wet myself a little. I pull my hands out.
“Uh, sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. First I didn’t know, and then—I dunno—I just had to do it.”
“I understand.”
I look at him. By now my glasses are so bent I can only see out of one lens. Jer is a little fuzzy around the edges, but the middle of him is clear and sharp.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I say. “You should hear first.”
“When you’re ready,” he says.
Then I think of something else.
“So, uh, what did you do for three days?” I ask.
Jer looks at me for a long time. “First I freaked out,” he says. “Then I ran into Erie Estates and they freaked out and called Tina. When Tina arrived, we all freaked out. And then I decided to do what you asked.”
“Huh?”
“Trust you.” He hugs me really hard. I hug him back.
Jer says, “I went someplace quiet and did some thinking. There were some things I needed to work out. I’ve ditched the novel, for one. Anyway, I’ll tell you later. You set a good example, kid.”
The ambulance is pulling in. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Jer. As the ambulance and I crunch across the gravel, I remember where I’ve seen the shirt. At the cottage. Grandpa would wear it on cool days. He called it his go-to-hell shirt. I guess Jer will tell me about it, when he’s ready.
GL is still on the ground. AmberLea and her mom, Tina, are crouching beside her. They’ve gotten her partly wrapped up in a blanket, and a coat is folded up under her head.
“…and then my leg just went out from under me,” GL is saying. Her face is pale. I notice for the first time that she’s not wearing much makeup this morning.
“I know, Mother. You’ve told us. It happens sometimes with older people. I just wish you’d told us what you wanted. I’d have—”
“I wanted,” says GL, “to share this with AmberLea, before she turned into me, doing wild, stupid things.”
“You could have shared it with me too,” says Tina. “I don’t even know what we’re doing up here.”
“I thought it was too late for that,” says GL. She’s biting at her lips. “I wasn’t much of a mother. I never even told you who I was. And then Amby getting into trouble…I thought at least with that ankle gizmo you’d know where she was.”
“The—oh, good god, that thing doesn’t really work. They just put it on to scare some sense into her. I’ve been frantic. If Mr. O’Toole hadn’t called me…”
“Doesn’t work?” says AmberLea. “You’re kidding!”
Doesn’t work? I think, remembering all those guns. I almost fall down myself.
“It’s not too late, Gramma,” says AmberLea. She’s holding GL’s hand, at least until the paramedics ask her to stand back. They swing a stretcher down into position, all calm talk and asking questions about what happened and where it hurts. GL winces and yelps when they lift her onto the stretcher. The ground is rough, so they carry it instead of using the wheels. As the paramedics lift her into the ambulance she spots me. “Spencer,” she says. “Like Spencer Tracey. That’s how I remember it. You’ve been a good sport, Spencer. Come here. In here. AmberLea!” she calls. “Bring the camera.”
I climb in and kneel beside her. “Lose the glasses,” she orders. “Prop up this pillow. More. There. You,” she says to a paramedic, “get a flashlight. We need a small spot.”
“Ma’am—” the paramedic starts to say.
“Just do it, we haven’t got all day. No wonder pictures go over budget.”
AmberLea sets up the shot for GL’s good side. GL directs the lighting. “How’s my hair? All right. Spencer, turn the other way; we shoot faces, not ears.”
I bend in. This close she’s a very old, very pale lady and her lips are quivering with pain. She reaches out a hand that’s all bones and blue veins and red polish. I understand and reach my hand out to her. Her hand is cool. It clutches tight. She pulls me in close for the shot. “I meant everything I said out there,” she whispers. Her breath is like a musty sweater. Then, louder, “All right,” she says, “this is for David McLean, from Wanda Karpuski.” She kisses me on the cheek.
I start to get up and she pulls me back. “And this is for Spencer, from Gloria Lorraine.” She kisses me again.
“Cut,” says AmberLea.