ALLIE TRIES NOT TO FLINCH when Marge tugs hard on her hair. Natural blonde, thank you very much. She never liked Marge in high school and every time she comes to Marge’s Miracle Makeovers she likes her even less. The salon is bright and airy and fake, fake, fake. It is all about the gossip. Nobody cares about the truth. But Marge’s is the only salon in town and she can’t be bothered to drive the thirty minutes south to Edson. She’ll do that for a belly ring, but not for a haircut. That’s the problem with living in rural Alberta, there is never much to choose from. In anything.
“Oh, sorry,” Marge says.
Another tug from Marge’s comb and that is it! Allie knocks the tray of hair clips from the arm of the chair. “Oh, sorry.” Her voice is saccharine, too. “My hand slipped.”
Sandra Marples, sitting next to her, looks up from her People magazine. If the town gossip isn’t enough, celebrity gossip will fill the need.
Allie resettles in the chair. In the mirror, she sees Marge’s pinched mouth, but now her comb is tamer, the snips of her small silver scissors smoother. Snip, snip, smooth, smooth. Like all the lies Doug has been telling. When had she become so blind? Willing to believe whatever he said because it couldn’t be about . . . that. But all the lies are adding up to only one thing.
“Bruce got a new job,” Sandra says, putting down her magazine. “He’s driving truck now. For Bison’s.”
Working on the road. Allie wants to tell Sandra to get ready to kiss her marriage goodbye. Not that Bruce is such a catch but he pays the bills.
Just like Doug. She has never worked. If she were to ask her parents to support her and the girls, they would. But she can’t go back. Her mother’s righteous attitude would be too much. But maybe she could help out in the back office of Patterson’s Hardware. She could track the work done by Daddy’s off-site contractors. Glory is decent on the computer. Maybe the girl could teach her how to do an easy spreadsheet.
“Bison pays good,” Marge says, “and it’ll keep Bruce away from you, hon, his hands off of you.”
“Things are getting better,” Sandra says. She holds out her wrist, tries to jangle the cubic zirconia bracelet, but the chain is too tight. “He got me this, you know.”
It’s goddamned fake diamonds, Allie wants to yell. She keeps quiet, weighed down by the hot air. Marge’s air conditioner is broken and the glass door is propped open. It does little to get the air flowing through the shop. She flicks a clump of hair off the arm of the chair, watches it drift to the ground, break into single strands, four or five touching down, disappearing into the pattern on the vinyl floor. Is that her life? Disappearing? No, her life disappeared years ago, when she was in high school, when she set her sights on Doug. When she told Daddy that Doug would take care of her and the unborn baby. When she told Daddy that she loved Doug. What else could she say? That she had screwed up? Huh. No, she screwed him. And she got pregnant. And her mother took it as a personal sin. So she stuck her chin out, threw her shoulders back, walked away from the easy money and the easy life for the boy who was supposed to be no more than her bad-boy phase. And now, now he is some other woman’s bad-boy phase. No. That can’t be. He wouldn’t do that to her. She gave it all up for him. She squeezes her eyes tightly, squeezes back the tears that threaten to fall. She must be wrong.
“Did I get hair in your eyes, hon?” Marge asks, fluffs the pink towel across her hot face.
“Don’t drop anything, Ben,” Matt gets out between clenched teeth. “We’re being watched.”
“What? Where?” Ben makes like a bobble-head doll. Patterson’s Hardware is almost empty.
“The old guy up front.” Matt wants to be pissed about being pegged as a potential shoplifter. But truth is, he’s shoplifted enough to be a pro. The couple of times he got caught with a jar of peanut butter or a package of ham slices stuck in his coat, he was able to string together a good enough sob story to be let off with a warning. He tried not to think too hard on how most of his story was an accurate depiction of his fucked-up life.
“I just want to look at that iPod.” Ben stretches but still can’t reach the top of the rack.
“Why?”
“Why?” Ben says.
“Not as if you can buy it. Fuck. You can’t even reach it.”
Ben blows his bangs out of his eyes with a long, deep breath. His put-upon face slides into place. “I know I can’t buy it. But I still want to look at it.”
If he tries dragging Ben out now, the kid will throw a fit. The old man at the front of the store has already rubbed the skin off his hands, looking all kinds of antsy. And a bitch-fit from Ben now will trigger the alarm bells in place for the next time they are in Patterson’s. And there are only so many stores that sell duct tape. It is his turn to blow out a long, deep breath. He reaches down the iPod.
Ben turns the package over, reads the back. “Huh, it’s not the newest iPod Touch. I didn’t think it was. And it’s not even marked down.”
What the fuck? Which part of they can’t afford it does Ben not get?
Ben rights the package, looks at the blank screen. The kid isn’t into music so why the fuck is he so interested? And even if they did get an iPod Touch, they can’t afford iTunes cards on a regular basis. Not as if they have a computer to download songs from.
“Finished getting your music-geek on, Miley Cyrus?” He holds out his hand and Ben reluctantly places the small package in his palm.
“Can I help you young gentlemen with anything?” The voice booms behind.
“Fuck,” Matt says and the iPod slips from his grasp.
Ben’s hand shoots out and he rescues the device from shattering on the floor. “No, sir,” he says. “We were just looking. I thought it was the newest iPod Touch, but it isn’t.”
The man looks wary, but Ben’s instant dimples reel him in. “No, we’re even out of the iPod Nanos. We’ll be getting a new shipment shortly. You can check back then.”
“Sure, we’ll do that,” Matt says, voice tight.
Ben’s eyes gleam. Matt’s stomach churns, but the kid should know by now when he is trying to blow someone off.
“Here you are, Roland.”
Great. A fucking staff meeting.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Patterson,” Ben says. His head swivels between the woman and the man.
Mrs. Patterson studies Ben then turns back to the man. “Roland, these are the two boys who live near our granddaughters.” Her voice is chilly like her ice-blue pantsuit.
Ben’s smile drops.
“That’s us,” Matt says, shoves his hands in his pockets. He has the urge to grab Ben and run the fuck away. He doesn’t like Mrs. Patterson any more now than he did when he met her on the front lawn of the Rutgers’ townhouse.
Roland Patterson nods his head, sticks his hand out to Ben. “I am Mr. Patterson. The grandfather.”
Ben grins and shakes Mr. Patterson’s hand.
“Tell him your name, bro,” Matt says.
“Oh. I’m Ben. And this is my brother Matt.”
Mr. Patterson offers his hand. The handshake is firm. Dad says a man can be judged by his handshake. According to Dad’s criteria, Mr. Patterson is a fair man. And he caved at Ben’s dimples.
Unlike Mrs. Patterson. “What do you have there, Ben?”
“Oh. It’s an iPod. We were just putting it back,” he says.
Mrs. Patterson holds out her hand and Ben passes the merchandise over.
What-the-fuck-ever. Does she think they’re going to pocket the fucking thing with her and her husband standing right the fuck there?
“Roland, this is an older model. And it looks slightly scratched. Why don’t we just give it to the boys?” Mrs. Patterson says, one eye on Ben, one eye on Mr. Patterson. Mr. Patterson stands mute. Ben looks as if Christmas has come early.
No fucking way is he taking anything from this stuck-up bitch.
He hooks his elbow around Ben’s neck. “We’ll hang on for the new shipment.”
“We throw out the old stock. Or donate it to charity,” Mrs. Patterson says. Her voice has not thawed.
Matt opens his mouth, but it is Ben’s voice that comes out.
“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. We’ll come back. Let’s go, Matt.” Ben drags him to the door then he turns around and says, “I’ll tell Becca I met you, Mr. Patterson.”
They are half a block away from Patterson’s Hardware before Matt braces his feet on the sidewalk, pulls Ben to a halt.
“What the fuck!” he yells to the empty sidewalk. He turns to Ben and his voice is lower, harder. “What the fuck?”
Ben shrugs. “I know. Weird, huh?”
“Weird? Weird?! Not the fucking word I would use!” He turns around, paces two steps back to Patterson’s Hardware.
“Matt,” Ben says.
“I can’t fucking believe that bitch!”
“Matt,” Ben says. “Let it go.”
The boy’s words are soft, but they hit hard. He hangs his head. Let it go. He lets too many things go. Way too many. But this he will do for Ben.
Jack hates working at Rath’s Garage. Check that. He loathes working at Rath’s Garage. The only perk is Tanya Rathenburg. That woman is sex on two legs. Oozes the scent. He has long suspected that Rath knows his wife gets it on with other guys. And he figures Rath knows about him and Tanya. There’s the sideways glances the old man throws his way, along with the occasional shitty shift. He has accepted those minor fuck-yous as Rath’s way of maintaining his manhood. Maybe if Rath lost some weight, shaved a little more often, showered once in a while, Tanya wouldn’t be looking elsewhere. But as long as he isn’t fired and he can keep boning Tanya, who is he to complain? Especially when he can deliver his own fuck-yous to Rath by doing Tanya in the old man’s bed.
The door scrapes open up front and he puts down the fuel pump he is cleaning, wipes grease from his fingers with a shop cloth. He makes his way from the cluttered work station in the back to the doorway leading to the sales counter. Cal, that little bugger, is supposed to be manning the front. The boy is nowhere in sight. As usual. He should drag Matt in, introduce him to Rath, get the boss to give his boy a job. Matt can do better than mowing lawns. He can make good money at the garage, pick up a skill or two. Boy is already good with his hands, good with mechanics. That would prove to Benny that his old man has some pull. The kid needs a bit of humility knocked into him. Benny still believes in rainbows. It is Matt’s fault. He does whatever the kid wants, lets the kid think life isn’t full of shit. Well it is. It is full of shit and the sooner Benny realizes that the better. Nobody ever gets what they want. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There is no goddamned rainbow.
“Hell, Cal,” he mutters. He throws the cloth on the counter, gives the guy in front of him a quick look. He’s a regular. “What can I do you for?”
“Just put twenty in my tank,” the man says, pulls out his wallet.
“Need to top up on oil? Windshield wiper fluid?” He looks over the guy’s shoulder, out the streaked window. “It’s going to rain one of these days.”
“Nah.” The man takes out a couple of tens. His driver’s license falls to the counter and Jack catches the name: Doug Rutger.
Rutger must be a travelling tradesman, something like that. That would be a shitty job to have, always on the road. But on the upside, lonely housewives up and down the highway. Maybe not so shitty after all.
Rutger ignores his fallen license, instead focuses on the shelves behind the cash register. “But, you know what? I’ll take a couple packs of Export A.”
Jack unlocks the cabinet, slides out two packs of cigarettes, puts them on the counter next to the license. The photo is old, should be retaken.
“Don’t smoke that much, but I’m always out of cigarettes. Beginning to think my oldest girl is helping herself,” Rutger says. He stuffs his ten-dollar bills back into his wallet, pulls out a fifty. He slides his license back in, too.
“I never really got into that habit,” Jack says, rings up the sale.
“Stealing or smoking?” Rutger asks around a lop-sided smile.
He stops with his fingers poised over the button of the register. “Neither, I guess. Well, no pilfering cigarettes. I did snag a bottle or two from my old man when I was a kid.”
“Only a bottle or two?” Rutger pulls the cellophane off one of the cigarette packs. “I knew guys who were taking one or two bottles a week as soon as they hit twelve or thirteen.”
“Party a lot, did you?” He leans back, watches Rutger crinkle the cellophane, leave it on a corner of the counter.
“Oh, yeah. Nothing like those who-gives-a-shit high school days. Especially in a town like this. Nothing else to do.” Rutger puts all his attention into tapping out a cigarette.
“Yeah, them good old days. Before the kids came around and the responsibilities piled on,” Jack says.
“You can say that again. Now it’s the kids and the . . . old lady . . . and all those goddamned bills.”
“Yeah, life just keeps on giving.”
“Don’t it?” Rutger sticks a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Jack taps the countertop. “I won’t light up in here.” The cigarette bobs as Rutger speaks. “Although last time I checked, Rath smoked like a fucking chimney.”
“Nicorette now. Tanya’s on his case to quit.”
“Guess that’s a start. Guy’s a fucking slob.”
“Regular Jabba the Hut.”
“Ain’t he?” Rutger’s grin is sly.
Christ. He shouldn’t have said that last thing about Rath. Everybody knows he’s boning Tanya, but putting it out there is just plain stupid. But Rutger started it.
“You’re my neighbour,” Rutger says.
“That so?”
“Yeah, we live a couple door down from you.”
What the hell? They’re supposed to be instant buddies now? Complicit in crime? No. No way. Rutger wants something. Well, fuck him.
“That’s it?” he asks sharply.
“Yeah, ah, that’s good.” Rutger fumbles with the other pack of Export A. His feet drag on the tar as he crosses to the pumps. He stands by his Ford Supercab, hesitates at the driver’s door. A moment later he is gone.