FEBRUARY 1994
Callahan’s front door is unlocked, and Véronique lets herself in, as per his message on her phone. The house smells of weed, stale beer, and garbage, as usual. The front hallway is lined with empties—hundreds of them—because he can’t be bothered to return them to the beer store. They just keep piling up, more of them every time she comes.
“I’m upstairs!” he calls down to her. “Come on up.”
She leaves the hockey bags in the vestibule—two full of smokes, a third with CDs—and heads upstairs to collect her money.
“Hey, girl!” he says, coming out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a Maple Leafs cap, an open plaid shirt over a stained T-shirt, pale jeans. He smells minty.
She follows him to his room but stays by the door. “I really can’t stay today,” she tells him.
“It looks like the government is going to slash the cigarette taxes any day,” he says. “This could be our last time doing business together.”
She’s been discussing the situation with Pierre and Camil, trying to figure out what’s next. The prime minister will most likely cut the taxes on cigarettes this month in an attempt to stamp out tobacco smuggling, effectively killing Camil’s business. The price for a carton of cigarettes will be cut in half, and the demand for contraband will disappear. They’ve always known it would happen, but it’s no less devastating. “My uncle will figure something out,” she says.
Camil is already talking about switching to weed and booze. Pierre mentioned coke, but Véronique wants no part of that. She’s still got the CDs.
“Like what?” Callahan wants to know.
“Weed, I guess. Cheap alcohol.”
“I’ve got plenty of dealers already,” he says, loading a CD into his player. “But if your prices are better, it could work.” He turns to face her, lights a smoke. “You like Mudhoney?”
Véronique shrugs. She just wants to get her money and get back on the road. “I can’t stay long,” she says again. James is coming back from Cowansville, and she’s eager to see him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asks her, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a fat roll of bills.
“Twenty-four hundred,” she says. “Same as always.”
He turns around, his mouth stretching into a smile. “How about two grand?”
“Heh?”
“Come on,” he says. “You guys have made a fortune off me. How about a little more of the profit since this is probably our last deal?”
“Come on, Callahan.”
“Twenty-two K?”
“It’s not my decision,” she says. “This is my uncle’s price. You want to fuck with my uncle?”
Callahan considers this for a moment and then hands over the entire ball of cash. She takes off the elastic and starts counting.
“You don’t trust me?” he says. “After all this time?”
“I always count the money.”
Callahan takes off his Toronto Maple Leafs cap and sets it down on his desk. He runs a hand through his orange hair, which is flat and straight, and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “Want to do ’shrooms?”
“I can’t,” she says impatiently, still counting. “I told you I have to head back.”
“Come on.” He holds out the palm of his hand, revealing an ample pile that looks like dirt.
She ignores him, continues counting.
“Let’s do the ’shrooms and then go for a long walk on the canal.”
“It’s freezing outside.”
Unfazed, he shoves all of them in his mouth. “I had this whole afternoon planned for us,” he says, stepping closer to her. “You sure I can’t convince you to stay?”
His face is uncomfortably close. She can count the freckles on his cheeks. She notices his eyelashes and brows are pale orange. She’s never noticed before.
“We don’t have to go out,” he says, still chewing the mushrooms. “We can hang here, listen to music. My roommates are both away for the weekend.”
“I have to go,” she says, stuffing the money in her pocket. “I’ll be in touch about next steps if the taxes do get cut—”
Before she can finish her sentence, he grabs both her wrists and holds her arms down by her side.
“Let go of me.”
“What the hell’s been going on the past few months?”
“What do you mean?”
“Skating on the canal. Hanging out in the quad. Listening to music in my room.”
Shit.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of the messages you’ve been sending me,” he says. “No one is that stupid, especially you.”
“I didn’t realize . . .”
“The hell you didn’t.” He’s still holding her wrists, hurting her. “Does your uncle make you do this?”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with the customers. Lead them on so they’ll keep buying from you. Is that why he sends you—like you’re some kind of prostitute?”
“He sends me because I speak English,” she says angrily. “I don’t need to sell you cigarettes. Someone else will buy them if you don’t.”
Even as she says it, she isn’t certain it’s true. He is a great client, one of her best until now. Maybe—inadvertently—she has been leading him on, but never intentionally.
“You’ve been playing with me, Veronica,” he says, and she can see bits of mushroom on his tongue.
She’s trying to break free of his grip, but he’s deceptively strong. His bulk is not just baby fat. “Get off me!” she cries.
He slams her back against the wall and pins her arms above her head, holding them there with one hand. With his other hand, he rips the fly of her jeans open and attempts to pull them down.
“Stop!” she screams. “Get the fuck off!”
He tugs at her panties, but she’s squirming so violently, he has a hard time getting his hand underneath them. His knees are slightly bent, digging into her legs—pinning them against the wall so she can’t kick him. His free hand is on her breasts now, over her sweater and then sliding under.
When she tries to scream for help, he puts his mouth on hers and bites her lip. She can feel blood on her chin, and she rolls her head wildly from side to side. “My uncle is going to kill you!”
“Murder runs in your family,” Callahan says calmly, struggling to hold her still. “If you say anything, I’ll go to the cops and tell them about your little family business.”
“Callahan, please,” she says, her voice pleading. “Why are you doing this? I know you. We’re friends. Don’t do this.”
“You want this,” he pants into her ear. “We both know you do. I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch all of a sudden.”
“Callahan—”
With his free hand, he unzips his own jeans and shimmies them down to his knees, followed by his boxer shorts. She can feel his naked hard-on between her thighs, and she gags, then squeezes her legs together as tight as she can, closing her body off to him, fighting him with all her strength. He’s still wrestling with her underwear, trying to get them off and get his dick inside her while keeping her arms pinned to the wall. “Calm down, you slut,” he says. “Stop pretending you don’t want this.”
She stops fighting him and lets her body go limp. Encouraged, Callahan applies himself and succeeds in getting her panties down to her mid-thighs. “Attagirl,” he whispers. “Just enjoy it.”
But the moment he loosens the pressure on her legs, she raises her right knee and thrusts it hard into his groin. He lets out a loud cry and doubles over, collapsing to his knees and releasing her. It gives her enough time to step away from the wall, grab the purple lava lamp on his nightstand, and bash it against the side of his head before fleeing his room.
She pulls up her jeans as she’s running down the stairs, stopping briefly at the bottom to make sure the money is still in her pocket. She grabs her jacket and, at the last minute, randomly throws his DVD player across the room.
She gets in her car and swerves away from the house, her hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. As she races toward the highway, she vows never to tell anyone about what just happened. Why did she go upstairs to his room? How could she have been so stupid? She sees now that the power she thought she had was only ever an illusion.
She’s startled to find James on the couch when she gets home, reading and listening to music. He looks up when she comes in, and his face opens into a wide smile. “Hey, baby,” he says, setting his book down on the coffee table. “I missed you.”
She tries to force a smile but can’t manage it. She wants to shower, wants to be alone.
“Come here,” he says.
She goes to him, worried he’ll smell Callahan’s disgusting cologne on her. He pulls her down beside him and leans in to kiss her.
She pushes him away.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired,” she says. “I need a shower.”
“I’ll join you.”
“No.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out to touch her hair.
“I’m fine,” she says, moving his hand away.
“You sure?”
“I told you, I’m exhausted.”
“Let me take care of you,” he says, making another attempt to embrace her. This time she lets him. She doesn’t want to hurt him or rouse his suspicions.
She slumps against him, and he rubs her back, kisses the top of her head.
“You’re so tense,” he murmurs, and she’s aware of how rigidly she’s holding her body. His kisses and touches are making her faintly nauseated. She fights to keep back tears.
When his hand slides underneath her sweater, her back stiffens even more. “Stop it!” she cries.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“You sure?” he says playfully, grazing her nipple with his fingertips.
Something in her snaps, and she slaps him in the face, hard. “I said don’t feel like being touched right now. Can’t you just respect that?”
James looks stunned. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
He doesn’t say anything as he gets up. His hand is on his cheek, his expression incredulous.
“James, I’m sorry—”
She wants to tell him everything, but she can’t. He’ll be angry. He’ll say, I told you so. She’ll expose how vulnerable she is. Instead, she watches him disappear into her bedroom; hears drawers opening and closing, the closet door slam. He emerges with his overnight bag over his shoulder.
“Don’t go,” she says, panic constricting her throat. She doesn’t want him to leave. She wants him to hold her, but she doesn’t ask for that.
“I’m sorry!” she calls after him.
He doesn’t say anything, just opens the front door and leaves. Elodie’s words come back to her, pounding in her temples. You can’t bury something that’s still alive.