Jules drove back to Preston Mills left-footed, his right foot in a cast. Crutches leaning against the passenger seat. He crossed the border at Cornwall, the bridge arching high over the enormous St. Lawrence River. Dark and rough and rippling with menace. Some days, to Jules, it looked like it was teeming with monsters, masses of tentacles unfurling, waving just below the surface. The metal grate of the bridge made a hum against his tires. On the Canadian side, he pulled up to the customs window and handed the officer his birth certificate.
“How long were you in the United States, sir?
“Twelve hours.”
“And what was the purpose of your visit?”
Jules offered a mumbling summary of events. “I’m a professional daredevil,” delivered with a smirk. Sheepish.
“I see.” The border guard looked down into the car at the crutches and the cast. “Room for improvement, I guess.”
“Absolutely right.” Jules nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“On your way, then. Welcome home, Mr. Tremblay. Drive carefully.” A wide smile broke through the guard’s tough-guy demeanor as Jules pulled away.
Ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. Maybe he should have mentioned his TV deal, his future jump across the river, his big plans. But who would believe him, the shape he was in? Bags under his eyes, unshaven, slumped into the driver’s seat in a filthy sweatshirt. His bare toes sticking out of the cast looked purple, suffocated. Pathetic. He turned onto the old highway to drive along the water, the road winding along beside marshy inlets and the old stone canals. Farm houses set far back in the fields down long lanes lined with scraggly wind-blown poplars. Grassy ditches flowing with muddy water. A dog here and there chained to a spike in the ground. Cows huddled together in pastures.
What a sad, magic place this was.
Every single thing looked unloved, forgotten, left behind.