“I have to go,” Véronique says, not convincingly.
“Why? It’s Sunday.” They’re lying in her bed, bodies entangled. They’ve been dozing and talking and having sex since he showed up last night.
“My cousin just paged me.”
“And?”
“It’s warm out,” she explains. “It’s probably the last weekend to take the boat out before the lake freezes.”
“You’re serious?”
“It’s my job.”
She told him what she does for a living, which she knows was a risk. The things they were sharing in the middle of the night were so honest and raw, it just came out. Maybe she was trying to shock him or impress him; maybe she wants him to know who she is before they get any deeper.
“How do you rationalize it?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Selling cigarettes to kids. Breaking the law.”
“I don’t rationalize it,” she said. “Why should I have to?”
“Let me guess. You’re entitled to do it because you grew up poor and oppressed by the evil, rich elite.”
“Something like that,” she said. “My parents used to rob banks for the FLQ. This is much less illegal.”
James laughed. “Less illegal. I like that.” Then he asked her if he could write a story about it. She said no and, for a flicker, regretted having divulged what she does.
She attempts to roll away, but he grabs her by the wrist. “Please stay.”
“I can’t.” She’d like to, but she doesn’t let on. She kisses him and he tries to pull her down on top of him, but she wriggles free and escapes. She walks over to her window and pulls open the blind, letting sunshine flood the room.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, squinting in the bright light.
She grabs underwear and a bra from her dresser drawer and starts to dress.
“Don’t,” he says. “Just stand there for a bit.”
“I can’t. I’ve got at least an hour’s drive and I need to get there before it gets dark.” She pulls on her jeans and a gray sweater that’s hanging on the back of her chair. “You can sleep a bit longer and let yourself out. Just make sure the door is locked when you go.”
“How about your number?” he says, looking up at her with his sleepy, dark-blue eyes. His blond hair is disheveled, falling over one side of his face; his bare shoulders, smooth and broad, are peeking out from under the tangle of sheets. She looks away.
“Can you leave it for me so I don’t have to keep showing up on your doorstep?”
She scribbles her number on a scrap of paper and leaves it on her dresser for him.
“We’re not going to discuss last night?” he says.
“What’s to discuss?”
“I don’t know. What happened, I guess.”
“What happened?”
“You’re not making this easy. I’m trying to say that although I was quite inebriated—”
“Quite.”
“—I meant what I said.”
“What did you say?” she teases. “I don’t remember.”
“I said I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She doesn’t tell him it’s been the same for her, even though it has. She would never admit it.
“It wasn’t just drunken bullshit,” he says. “It’s . . . it’s actually a problem.”
She smiles. He’s adorable, but again, she won’t let on that she thinks so. It’s not even a game for her; it’s self-preservation.
“Can I get a goodbye kiss?”
She climbs back on the bed and straddles him, her legs locked tightly on either side of his hips. She feels him get hard right away.
He pulls her head down and kisses her, tries to flip her around so he’s on top. They wrestle playfully on the bed, and although she would like to stay, Pierre and her uncle are waiting for her.
“I have to go,” she says.
James reluctantly gives up and lets her go. She slides off the bed.
“I’ll call you,” he tells her.
She doesn’t say anything as she leaves the room to go into the bathroom. When she comes back, James hasn’t moved. She’s relieved. She likes the idea of him in her bed, even when she’s gone.
She stands above him, watching him. He’s watching her, too. He reaches for her hand. They stand like that, fingers entwined, for a minute, and then she leans over him and kisses him. A tender kiss, less fervent than last night, but a kiss that leaves her wanting more.
Camil, Pierre, and Marc are waiting for her in the garage when she gets to Ste. Barbe. Marc is on his Game Boy and barely looks up when she walks in. He’s fourteen now, a handsomer, smarter version of Pierre. She’s always had a soft spot for him, an inclination to look out for him.
Pierre is already in his camouflage gear and a heavy parka, the shotgun leaning against his truck. “We were about to send Marc out,” Camil says.
“Marc can’t do a run. He’s just a kid—”
“What took you so long?”
“The roads are icy,” she lies. Really, she’s in a post-sex daze, distracted, thinking about last night, about James.
“Allo?” Camil says, interrupting her thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”
“What?”
“Billy and Tug’s mother died yesterday. She had cancer. You need to give condolences on our behalf.”
Véronique pulls on her camouflage pants. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Tell him we’re sorry for his loss,” Camil says. “And another thing. I just lost my only bilingual transporter. He’s in jail for assault.”
“And?”
“He does the universities in Ottawa and Kingston. I need you to take over for him.”
“My English isn’t good enough.”
“The money is good. One of my best customers is in Ottawa. Name’s Callahan. He’s a stoner, but steady. Decent guy. Always pays. He buys shitloads of smokes for the dorms on campus. Runs a thriving business. It’s an opportunity for you, Véronique.”
That’s how he always spins it when he’s trying to get her to do something she doesn’t want to do. It’s an “opportunity.”
She finishes dressing—tonight she needs a parka, tuque, and thick gloves—and follows Pierre down to the dock. “This’ll be our last boat run till spring,” he says, crouching down in his usual spot, shotgun across his knees.
She loves this moment, right before they head out on a run—the tension in her body, the fear prickling her skin, the knowledge she is brazenly living her life outside the law.
The sky is already dark as they set off, with the temperature rapidly dropping. She can see her breath in the air, and the wind out on the lake is violent. By the time they reach Billy’s marina, her face is numb and chafed.
Billy is the one who’s waiting for them tonight. The moment he spots them approaching, he starts unloading cases of cigarettes onto the dock.
Véronique climbs out of the boat first to pay her respects.
“Sorry about your mudder,” she says, in thickly accented English.
Billy doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even stop what he’s doing.
“My uncle send his condolence,” she adds.
Still nothing. She looks at Pierre, who shrugs and starts tossing the cases on his boat. Véronique helps him, embarrassed. No one says anything else. When they’re done, Billy says, “Tug’s not here to escort you out of the reservation.”
Pierre and Véronique nod silently, and then Billy turns and gets in his truck.
“I’ll drive back,” Pierre says when they’re alone on the dock.
“Why?”
“We don’t have Tug. I need to get us out as fast as possible. People on the reservation probably know about their mother. We’re vulnerable.”
“I can drive fast.”
“Not as fast as I can.”
Véronique’s heart is pounding. She has a bad feeling.
“You know how to use the gun?” he asks her.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Rest the butt really snug inside your shoulder and point it at your target,” he says. “Don’t forget to flip the safety off, and then squeeze the trigger like you’re shaking someone’s hand. Don’t jerk the gun up when you fire. Just be smooth. You want to keep both your eyes open. The kick of the gun is pretty powerful, so be ready.”
They get in the boat and Pierre starts the engine. Véronique sits down cross-legged on one of the cases, holding the shotgun. She examines it, placing one hand on the stock and the other midway up the grip.
“You won’t need to use it,” Pierre says, watching her.
She nods and he pulls away from the dock. Her heart is still pounding. There’s a feeling of powerlessness, being the passenger, especially as Pierre is picking up speed. She prefers being the driver. The lake is a black hole; she can’t see a thing in any direction. She tells herself that there are fewer boaters out than there typically are in the summer, but that doesn’t mean thieves aren’t lurking in the dark corners somewhere, hiding behind one of the islands or idling in their path, waiting for them to pass without an escort.
Pierre speeds up some more, and Véronique is sure he must be pushing sixty miles an hour, about the max the boat will go. “Slow down!” she screams, but the motor swallows her voice and he doesn’t hear her. “Pierre!”
She’s terrified, totally at the mercy of her cousin, who, at the best of times, is reckless and rash. He’s also high. He’s always high. She should never have let him drive. The boat is moving like a rocket in the dark. The wind is whipping her face, water spraying her like a hose. She’s gripping the edge of the boat with her gloved hands while the shotgun bobs around in her lap. She’s hasn’t exhaled a breath since they took off. “Tabarnak, Pierre, slow down!”
He glances back, laughing. He’s enjoying himself. Véronique checks her watch; it’s been six minutes. They’re out of the reservation. He can slow down, but of course, he doesn’t. He’s going to take them home like this, pushing the boat to its limits. She wonders sometimes if he doesn’t care about dying.
She closes her eyes and continues to hold her breath. The wind shapes the water into high, choppy waves; the boat slams against each one with such force her head is thrown forward and she goes flying into the air, landing hard on her coccyx bone. She’s never been a neurotic person, but in this moment, she’s certain death is imminent. By the time they finally reach Camil’s place, she’s soaking wet, freezing, and every muscle in her body aches.
Pierre brings the boat in, backing it in carefully, and then hops out to tie it up. Véronique stands up, her lower back throbbing. She can hardly turn her head.
“Hand me the gun.”
She bends down, wincing as she does, and grabs the gun. She hands it to him without a word. Her uncle joins them, and they start unloading the cases. “Did you give him our condolences?” Camil asks, handing over her share of cash.
She nods, too angry to speak.
“You okay?”
Another nod. She won’t look at him; she’s worried she might cry. She’s so wound up—so tense and taut—she doesn’t know what will spill out of her if she opens her mouth.
When all the cigarettes are safely locked inside the boathouse, Pierre offers her a joint. She’s tempted to say yes, just to stop the shaking, but all she wants is to get out of this wet parka and away from him. “I have to go,” she says, turning away.
“We’ll call you in January,” Camil says. “The next run will be by snowmobile. And then you’ll deliver the smokes to Kingston and Ottawa.”
Véronique doesn’t answer. She’s already on her way back up to the garage.
“Merry Christmas!” he calls after her.
She drives back to the city more slowly than usual, with the heat on high. She can’t get comfortable sitting—her tailbone must be badly bruised. She can’t stop shaking, can’t warm up. Her clothes are damp, her teeth chattering. The roar of the boat’s motor is still echoing inside her head, which also hurts. She doesn’t even bother to turn on the music.
It’s just after nine when she gets home. There’s a light snow falling, and it’s much milder here than it was in Ste. Barbe. She leaves the car on the street, not caring if she gets a ticket. All she can think about is a shower and her bed. She climbs the balcony with great difficulty. Her limbs are so stiff she has to pull herself up by the railing. When she finally lets herself inside, she exhales a long breath. It may be the first full breath she’s expelled since climbing into that boat.
The first thing she notices is the light still on in her bedroom, its warm syrupy glow spilling onto the hardwood floor. She hears music, too, also coming from her room. And then she remembers. James must have left everything on when he left this morning. She closes the door behind her and kicks off her wet boots.
“Allo?” he calls out.
“James?”
“In here.”
Her mood soars at the sound of his voice. She goes down the hall in her wet socks, her body tingling, feeling happier than she would have thought possible. And there he is, lying on her bed, reading La Belle Bête.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, looking up at her. “Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down.”
“You like Marie-Claire Blais?”
“Never read her before.”
“You’ve never read Blais?” She frowns. “She’s one of my favorite writers.”
“I can see why.”
“So that’s why you’re still here?”
“It’s the only reason,” he says, putting the book down beside him, grinning.
She sits down on the edge of her bed, which he’s made, and he reaches out to touch her hair. “You’re soaking wet,” he says.
“You’ve been here all day?”
“All day.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? I wanted to see you. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving here and having to wait.” He sits up. “Is that okay?”
“I guess so.”
“You sure you don’t want to be alone?”
She shakes her head, no. She didn’t realize how much she didn’t want to be alone until just now.
“I ate some of your food,” he confesses. “You don’t have much, but I managed. The cheese had a funny smell—”
All of a sudden she starts to cry.
“Hey, hey,” he says gently. “What’s wrong?”
He takes her in his arms, and she melts against him. Even as the tension eases in her body, the emotional hangover remains. The more James strokes her back, asking what’s wrong in his tender voice, the harder she cries.
“Véronique? What is it? Did something happen?”
She doesn’t tell him anything. Doesn’t tell him that her heart won’t stop racing or how angry she is with Pierre for his callousness with their lives. She doesn’t tell him that this is how she lives, perpetually on the cusp of danger, and that if he wants to be with her, he’s going to have to get used to it.