23

Stacey wasn’t able to put into words the reason she felt compelled to earn high marks in school. Her Aunt Sadie hadn’t gone past high school, technically hadn’t graduated, and she seemed to find a life full of adventure and excitement. But Amber planned to go on to university somewhere and, in her mother’s words, make something of herself. A social worker maybe. Stacey couldn’t easily keep pace with Amber because everything she did had to be perfect, and sometimes Amber would dash off an assignment in one evening while Stacey would hone her work over an entire week. Rarely did either one of them miss a class. If a session bored them, they knew to get a head start on homework from their other courses, so they kept busy most of the time and socialized during Environmental Club meetings and sometimes on a weekend.

Amber and Stacey liked to carve out a few hours for themselves and pretend they didn’t have a care in the world. One Saturday they hiked all the way to Coal Creek and back just to see the remnants of what had once been a bustling coal town; another time they hitchhiked to Cranbrook to buy clothes. They spent most of their time together in the town of Fernie, sauntering down the railroad tracks until a train forced them off or hanging out at a coffee shop. Such days, flirting with an imbecile world, felt liberating.

One Saturday night, they saw Back to the Future at the theater, where they sat six rows behind Hugh, who was sharing popcorn with the girl beside him. Amber said it was his cousin from Revelstoke, and Stacey had no reason to believe it wasn’t true. Cousin or not, she had no problem earning Hugh’s attention.

Most nights after a movie, they went somewhere to talk, and they had plenty to discuss after Back to the Future, but Amber had promised her mother she’d be home early because the family was driving to Calgary first thing in the morning. Stacey didn’t feel like going straight home. She watched Hugh and the girl that might have been his cousin heading down 2nd Avenue, so she walked the other way, then turned down 5th Street toward the highway. In the dark, a train ripped through town then faded into the wilderness. Shortly after, she had a sense she was being followed. She turned toward the Elk River, walking faster than she wanted, and every time she glanced over her shoulder, she could see a man following in the shadows. Realizing that there would be little light by the river, she turned back toward downtown. The last place she wanted a man to follow her was into the woods where there would be no one else this time of night. She went down 2nd Avenue and wedged herself between brick buildings at the side of The Grand Central Hotel, crouched down and waited. It wasn’t long before Angus Bland loped past her hiding spot. There was something not quite right about Angus Bland. Almost forty, he lived with his mother in the oldest part of Fernie, a stretch of houses that had miraculously avoided the fire of 1908 that vanquished the town to smoldering ashes in a few hours. Angus’s aberrant behaviour was well-known in town, and a court order allowed him out in public only under the supervision of his mother in the daytime. Angus favoured children and girls. He would walk up close to people chatting on the street and watch them without saying a word. Often he urinated in public, if his mother wasn’t beside him, with picket fences and privet hedges his favourite targets. Some in town saw him as a harmless cretin to be ignored, but some with children battled the authorities, eager that something be done. Angus’s aging mother did the best she could, and rarely did Angus appear about town without her, but she often fell asleep at odd times, and when that happened, Angus took advantage of his freedom.

Stacey waited until he went a ways down the street, then watched from her brick hiding place and saw him head for 5th Street, the street she had been on earlier, no doubt thinking she might have followed the same route as before. She wondered if he knew where she lived. Probably not, but she didn’t want him to find out. She crossed 2nd Avenue toward the railway tracks then walked north toward the old railway station. She sat on a bench and listened to the frenzy of patrons drinking at the Fernie Hotel who spilled onto the sidewalk. She imagined Angus following the same route he had before, and that he might follow this route two or three times before he would give up and go home.

An elderly man walked south from the Fernie Hotel, and the way he walked, he’d been inside drinking most of the night. Morning Missy, he said and sat at the opposite end of the bench. His hands fumbled inside his coat pockets and extracted a pouch of tobacco and some papers. It took several minutes to roll a cigarette, and then he couldn’t find his matches, which had fallen under the bench when he’d searched for his tobacco. Stacey picked up the matches and offered to help light his cigarette, and the man accepted. It looks like it will be a beautiful day, he said, then stood up unsteadily and made his way across the tracks to home.

Stacey waited by herself until she calculated it had been the better part of an hour since she’d seen Angus Bland. Her mother would expect her to phone from Amber’s house unless she got home soon. She wandered down the main street, but few people were about and it was quiet. She stopped in an alcove to focus on some artwork on display in the window, and in the reflection of the glass, she saw someone standing behind her. Angus Bland, standing on the sidewalk, three feet from where she was cornered, his hands fishing inside his open fly. Hi, he said with confidence, as if they were acquaintances familiar with meeting under such circumstances. Stacey moved to the left to walk out onto the street, and Angus moved to block her. She tried moving the other way, but Angus was not about to let her get away until he was ready. I’ll scream if you don’t get out of my way, Stacey said, and Angus, with the hand that wasn’t busy fishing in his pants, raised a finger to his lips and said, Shush. Angus found what he was looking for and pulled his penis out into the cool air for her to see. Stacey screamed, and soon Hugh appeared in the alcove. He shoved Angus out of the way, and the man cowered against the door and whimpered.

You okay? Hugh asked.

I am now.

Angus is nuts, Hugh said. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Do you want me to walk you home?

No. I’ll be fine. Thanks for being here.

I saw you walking down from the station. I wanted to catch up to you. If I had, none of this would have happened.

Well, thanks anyway. I have to get home now. They’re expecting me.

Fair enough. Every town has an Angus. I’ll take him home before the police do.

Hart didn’t show up the first night like he promised. Della figured Molly had told him Sage was too tired. He showed up the next night about seven and checked his watch as he walked in, as if he had an appointment and was determined to be punctual. Molly had told him to check the carnations had water, so he did that.

Potholes, Hart said. Life is filled with them, but I’ve yet to find a road riddled with potholes I couldn’t travel down. What do you say I wheel you over to Fort Whoop for an hour? Change of scenery. Sage said nothing, but his left eye looked interested. Very well, then. Sound good to you, Della?

If he wants to go.

Oh, he wants to go. I know what this guy wants.

Before they left, Della explained about the clipboard and pen and told him to take it along to make things easier. Hart looked at what she had and tucked it under his arm.

Be careful, Della said. There’s no ramp out there.

I know, I’ll get on that tomorrow.

And there’s a lot of snow.

I’ve already shovelled a path to Fort Whoop. We’ve got everything covered.

Hart showing up like the good fairy caused Della and Stacey to look at one another like they’d just discovered a mountain of gold in the living room. Della could use the time to clean up and put her thoughts in order after a hectic day, and Stacey could watch any of the TV shows she liked without Sage sitting in the corner like an overseer. Della had told Stacey she could pick out one or two shows she wanted to watch every week and they would tell Sage that’s the way things worked, but now she didn’t need her mother to negotiate on her behalf. They both knew Hart wouldn’t have Sage back in an hour. The two of them would soon be mellow and oblivious to time.

When Sage had first arrived home, Della had insisted that Stacey at least go into the living room and say hello to her dad, so she did. Now she spent most of her time in the kitchen or her bedroom or somewhere other than the house. When she had reason to enter the living room, she did so expediently and didn’t look him in the eye. She no longer worried that Sage would say or do something hurtful, but his one good eye was still omnipotent. With each sojourn into the space her dad occupied, she felt braver and almost giddy, like the time years earlier when she and Tommy roamed the backyard during a warm summer rain, free to dance in muddy patches on the lawn, wearing only their underwear. He watched her, she knew, and listened too. Sometimes she’d say things out loud to herself while passing by. Tonight is going to be fun. I think I’ll take a long, luxurious bath. Yeah, only one week until the dance.

She hadn’t committed to attending the dance. Amber and Morgan were going. Hugh had asked her, and she’d told him if she did it would be a last-minute decision, but if she showed up, she’d dance with him once if he wanted.

She pulled her favourite chair up close to the TV but not so close that her mother would make her move back from the invisible rays she’d read about. She turned on the TV and passed over Married With Children because it apparently wasn’t suitable and settled in to watch Murder She Wrote. She put a glass of milk and two chocolate Peek Frean cookies on top of the TV and said a silent prayer in honour of Hart next door.

Inside Fort Whoop, Hart had a fire roaring and two joints rolled and ready to go. He lit one and handed it to Sage, who had to work hard at inhaling enough to fill his lungs with magic, but he managed. Hart talked to him because it was easier that way. He told him about some changes he’d made to the fort and how he was thinking of offering it as a bed and breakfast for people who wanted to step into the past. Molly thought it was a stupid idea, so if he went with it, he would have to organize the breakfast part himself, which he didn’t see as a problem because it would just be beans and bacon chunks and a bread he had painstakingly learned to cook in the fireplace in his portable oven. After his vivid description, he wanted to know what Sage thought, but the clipboard was hard for Sage to balance on the arm of the wheelchair and his legs, sitting there, were jittery and uneven. Hart took the clipboard and went to the small shop portion of Fort Whoop and soon had it cut in half lengthwise. He ripped the paper in half and then taped the contraption (using duct tape because he didn’t have thin wire handy) to the arm of the wheelchair. Then he attached the ballpoint pen to the clipboard with a string, so if Sage lost control, he could start again. He looked at the rumpled and dirty copy of desires someone had written, and he started again with a clean copy. At the bottom, he added smoke and home, and Sage was set, coming or going.

Hart wanted to delve into stories of the Wild West with Sage. He knew most of the American tales of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Wyatt Earp, Calamity Jane and Billy the Kid. These bandits were renowned because they were American and Americans excelled at talking about themselves. Physical reminders of every shape and size spread like smallpox across the skin of America everywhere you went. They call them heritage sites these days, Hart said. What thrilled him most, though, was the knowledge he’d accumulated about Canadian stories like Boone Helm, an American, true, but one flushed into British Columbia who enjoyed eating those he killed. He knew about the exploits of the McLean brothers, the horse stealing duo of Gaddy and Racette and his favourite, Bill Miner the Gentleman Bandit. These and other tales Hart never tired of reciting, so he did his best to limit himself to one a night. Most of the tales of the Wild West Hart had likely already told to Sage when they’d spent Sunday evenings in the woodshed, but good stories, Hart figured, can hold up to retelling in the same way as The Three Little Pigs which every kid had heard dozens of times growing up. And besides that, Sage, in this state in front of the fire, was a different person than before, a person who might not remember the stories that ran through Hart’s veins like thin blood. One a night. That’s what he’d decided. Then he’d move onto something going on in the world, something eating away at their tax dollars.

So that Mulroney as prime minister is a piece of work. Would you give him a thumbs-up or thumbs-down? Hart waited until Sage pushed out his left arm and pointed his thumb downward. That’s what I thought. Before he got elected, he was against free trade, and now he says we’ve got to have it. I wonder how much money he made with that deal. Our coal sold just fine without it. Say, did I tell you a Muslim family moved to town? They came into my office because someone told them they had to have insurance to live in this country. Imagine that. I straightened them out on that one. They pray five times a day and face east every single time. They live on south 11th Ave. That must mean from their house they pray toward the small valley between Fernie Ridge and Morrissey Ridge. That’s a good plan, I’d say. It’s about the only place a prayer could squeak out of this valley.

Hart wanted to know what had gone on next door before Sage had his stroke. Molly had offered a dozen possible scenarios, and she counted on him uncovering a few gritty details she could mull over. But Hart abandoned the idea on that first night, glad to have Sage back, sitting in the comfortable environ of Fort Whoop, the two of them able to ponder anything in the world without repercussion. If Hart had learned anything in life, it was that archeologists dug up the past and he wasn’t one of those, he was an insurance agent who believed in term insurance with a conversion privilege. He’d have nothing to keep him busy if people didn’t believe in the future, so he’d stick to that. The past had sucked for Sage, and his present wasn’t too rosy either. He knew without asking that his neighbour wanted things to operate this way too.