Albert woke to the clink of his grandfather’s Zippo. He burrowed deeper under the covers and pictured the silver lighter, almost lost in the old man’s callused hand as he flipped back the lid with his thumb and flicked the tiny wheel for a spark. Albert saw the flame lifted to the cigarette between thin lips, the red glow swelling, the ash lengthening in front of the curling smoke. Clink as the lighter’s lid snapped shut. He heard a throaty cough, and tobacco smoke filled the room.
Albert sat up, knuckling sleep from his eyes, and climbed out of bed. He straightened the bedclothes before rolling the cot under the chesterfield that filled the end wall of the single-wide. He pulled on the drawstring to raise the venetian blinds and looked out the window. Flat grey light flowed from a low, steel-coloured sky. Frost rimed the lanes between the mobile homes, the garbage cans beside the driveway, the neighbours’ cars.
He padded to the kitchen nook where his grandfather sat at the table, his mug of tea before him. The Zippo rested atop a small green box of cigarette papers, which in turn sat on a matching packet of Macdonald’s tobacco. Albert poured tea for himself, added milk and two spoons of sugar and sat down opposite his grandfather. Still half asleep, he stared at the picture of the young woman on the tobacco packet. Blond curls flowed from under her tam, and the clan plaid was draped over her shoulder. Albert had always suspected that his grandfather smoked Export because his family name was Macdonald.
“Might be our last trip of the year,” his grandfather commented, looking out the window into the November sky. “They’re calling for snow tomorrow or the day after.”
Albert stirred his tea to cool it, then took a sip.
“How many slices?” the old man asked, getting to his feet.
“Two, please.”
“Strawberry, I guess.”
Albert’s grandfather put the bread in the toaster and took a jar of jam from the fridge. “Looks like Cuddy will be able to play tonight after all,” he said.
“Great. Now the Leafs will win for sure.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it.”
Grandad was a Habs fan, but Albert loved the Leafs. The two of them never missed Hockey Night in Canada. Next Saturday, the Leafs and Montreal played at Toronto, and Albert and his grandfather would rib each other all through the game. His mom, who disliked hockey and complained good-naturedly every week that her TV was commandeered for the evening, would make popcorn.
“Where’s Mom?” Albert asked, blowing on his tea.
“Workin’. That big stone house on Birchgrove Lane.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll have to eat quick like,” the old man said, stuffing his cigarette makings into the pocket of his flannel shirt. “We need to pick her up at noon. She said she’d be done cleaning by then.”
Albert climbed into the pickup truck through the driver’s side and slid along the seat. An accident a few years before had permanently jammed the passenger door. Albert’s grandfather hauled himself behind the steering wheel, slammed the door and turned the key. “Here’s hopin’,” he muttered. The starter motor wheezed weakly, the engine coughed a couple of times, then held. He eased the truck into gear. It shuddered as it rolled out of the trailer park.
“Truck’s more gutless every day. I think one of them pistons is just goin’ around for the ride.”
“Yeah, sounds like it,” Albert said.
The old man headed toward the big highway that bypassed the town of Langdon. He turned onto a ramp, rounded the cloverleaf and, instead of merging into the light Saturday-morning traffic, pulled off onto the shoulder and parked under a bridge.
“Cans or bottles?” he asked, opening the door.
“Bottles, I guess,” Albert replied.
“Thought it was my turn.”
Last weekend, Albert had noticed his grandfather struggling with his sack, breathing more heavily than usual. The aluminum cans were much lighter than the bottles.
“Suit yourself.”
Albert and his grandfather grabbed burlap sacks from a heap in the back of the truck. Albert stuffed three of them inside his jacket and unrolled two more. The old man took one, and they set off. Eyes trained on the dry grass, they slowly made their way along the ditch beside the road, the old man picking up beer cans, the boy carefully placing beer bottles in one bag and soft drink bottles in the other. A raw wind stung Albert’s face, and soon his hands were red and cold. He wished he had brought his gloves. But his grandfather never wore gloves on their Saturday pickups, so Albert didn’t either.
Cars swooshed by, tires singing; trucks shifted down for the long hill. In the intervals between, Albert heard his grandfather’s laboured breathing. He checked his pace. If he wasn’t careful, he would unconsciously leave the old man behind. His grandfather walked slowly, dragging the potato sack behind him, bending carefully to pick up his prizes, sometimes dropping one because he had arthritis in his left thumb and it didn’t work too well. “Like that damn old truck,” he would say.
The bypass that circled the town was four kilometres long, divided evenly into one-kilometre sections by bridges. Each Saturday, Albert and his grandfather walked one of the sections, covering the entire bypass once a month.
Albert allowed his mind to wander as he searched the dead brown grass for bottles. He turned his head when an eighteen-wheeler thundered by and caught sight of the driver’s shoulder through the side window. What would it be like to sit up there and go for miles and miles, every day a new and different destination? Maybe Grandad would let him drive the truck again today. For the past few weekends they had found a quiet spot on a country road and Albert had struggled with the stiff clutch and crabby gear shift, his veins buzzing with excitement.
As he walked, bent, stood, walked some more, accompanied by the faint clink of bottles in the bag he dragged behind him, eyes squinting against the chilly wind, Albert imagined the warm comfort of Renée’s Cafe and a steaming plate of french fries smothered in gravy, fried beef and onions, peas and melted cheese. A glass of pop, beaded with condensation.
“Cherry cola?” his grandfather would always ask.
“Fries with the works, I suppose.”
“Yup,” Albert would answer, then watch his grandfather roll a smoke as they waited for their orders. The snack was their reward for the morning’s work. His grandfather put the remainder of the money away “for a rainy day.”
After a while, man and boy reached the next bridge and leaned their bulging sacks against the concrete. Albert’s grandfather sat on his, pulled out his makings and rolled a cigarette. Clink, clink went the Zippo.
At length they hid the sacks in the bushes beside the bridge and waited for a break in the traffic before they made their way across the highway. They took up their work again, using the sacks Albert had kept inside his jacket. He had cooled off a little during the break, and the thin cloth of his coat was no match for the damp wind. His grandfather was moving more slowly during this second leg, so Albert took his time. It was ten o’clock before they found themselves opposite their truck on the far side of the highway.
They propped the bulging sacks against one another, crossed once more, and drove along the shoulder to retrieve the sacks they had hidden in the bushes. They took the exit ramp, crossed the bridge and headed in the opposite direction, stopping to pick up the second set of sacks. A big circle, Albert thought. Every Saturday we spend the morning making a big circle.
The old man and the boy visited three local parks, rooting through the trash barrels for bottles and cans, but at this time of year the yield was small. When they had checked every barrel in the third park, they took their sacks and some empty cartons from the truck and, on the scarred top of a picnic table, transferred the pop and beer bottles to the cartons.
“Not, bad,” Albert’s grandfather said when they had finished and Albert had hiked the boxes into the truck bed. “We filled all six cartons. That’s—”
“Seven twenty,” Albert said. “Not counting the cans.”
His grandfather grunted. “Knew I brought you along for a reason.”
They drove to a supermarket at the edge of town and, while his grandfather sat in the truck smoking and listening to the radio, Albert carried the two cartons of pop bottles into the store and waited patiently until the cashier was free to redeem them.
“Have a nice day, Albert,” she said, handing over a few bills and counting out the coins.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Guess everybody’s stocking up for the hockey game tonight,” Albert’s grandfather commented as he pulled into the crowded parking lot of the beer store and slipped into a spot by the doors. There was a lineup inside the store.
The old man pulled on the handle and leaned his shoulder against the door to force it open. He went around to the back of the truck while Albert fetched a shopping cart. They loaded empty bottles on the cart and Albert wheeled it into the crowded store, followed by his grandfather dragging the sacks of beer cans. They queued up under the Returns sign, along with half a dozen men.
A few moments later, Albert had collected the bottle money and returned to the truck to wait for his grandfather. He turned on the radio and spun the dial to find his favourite station, but got only static. The car next to him backed away and a full-ton diesel “doolie” pulled in. Albert let out a low whistle and gazed at the shiny candy-apple red hood, the polished chrome grille surmounted by a gleaming statuette of a charging mountain sheep. The powerful diesel rumbled and clattered for a moment, then fell silent. A young man in black denim shirt and pants hopped out and went into the store.
With nothing else to do, Albert watched the customers. The lineup inside the store lengthened. A woman emerged, carrying a six-pack in her two hands as if it weighed ten kilograms. A man in a baseball jacket followed soon after, pushing a cart laden with cases of beer—all the same brand. Albert wondered what beer tasted like, what all the fuss was about.
A while later, the man in black came out, a case on one hip. He hefted the box into the back of the pickup and opened his door.
“What the hell was the holdup?” his buddy asked, flicking a cigarette butt out his window.
“Ah, some old fart in there, counting out empties, dropping them all over the friggin’ place.”
“Oh, him. Yeah, that’s his wreck, the one with the hillbilly kid in it.”
Albert fixed his gaze on the dashboard, on the hole where the cigarette lighter used to be.
“Pathetic,” the man in black commented, slamming his door. “Friggin’ welfare bum. Friggin’ beer can man.”
The big engine roared to life and the truck backed away.
Albert could see into the store. Saw his grandfather’s back as he stood to the side of the Returns counter, waiting for the clerk to count the empties as he put them into boxes. Saw the tattered windbreaker, the baggy pants with the frayed cuffs, the boots broken at the heels. Saw the men in the queue staring at him, exchanging glances.
Hurry up, Albert whispered under his breath. Hurry up.
Finally the clerk handed some bills to Albert’s grandfather. As the old man came through the door he caught Albert’s eye, held up the bills and smiled. Albert shifted his gaze, looked out his window at the compact car that had replaced the red truck. There was a furry white dog in the back seat, his tongue lolling.
Albert’s grandfather climbed into the truck, pulled the door closed and turned the key. “Here’s hoping,” he said softly. The truck’s engine struggled to life, and the old man backed away.
“All right,” he said. “We’ve got time before we pick your mom up. We’ve got a few bucks in our jeans. Let’s hit the café. I know they’ve got a plate of fries-with-the-works there with your name on it.”
“I’m not hungry,” Albert said.
“Eh?”
“I don’t want to go to the restaurant. And I don’t want to drive this stupid goddamn no-good truck, and I don’t want to pick through garbage at the park any more!”
“What are you talkin’ about? What’s the matter?”
Albert stared through the cracked windshield, wishing he could explain.
On Thursday, his grandfather, who hadn’t been himself all week, went to bed early. Albert cleared the supper dishes while his mother wiped down the table and swept the floor. When they had finished, his mother said, “Sit down for a second, Albert.”
Albert pulled up a chair, watching as his mother opened a cupboard and reached to the top shelf. She placed a small envelope on the table and sat down.
“Take a look,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.
“It’s addressed to Grandad,” he said.
The envelope said callfortickets.com and had a return address in the city. Albert opened it to find two tickets. “Montreal at Toronto” was printed in bold letters.
“They’re for Saturday’s game!” he exclaimed.
“We can catch the four o’clock bus,” his mother said. “We’ll have to take our supper with us. We’ll get home late, but—”
“Are we really going?”
Albert’s mother crossed her arms on her chest and leaned back in her chair. “You’re holding the tickets, aren’t you?”
The day after tomorrow they’d be riding the bus along the big highway to the city. To the loud, teeming streets, the sports centre near the lake, lit up like a castle, just like you could see on Hockey Night in Canada. Albert had never been inside a real hockey arena or seen professional players up close. But the day after tomorrow he’d be there, cheering for his favourite team. And Lorne Cuddy, the best centre in the league, the best player ever, would lead the Leafs and trounce Montreal, and Albert would kid his—
A sinking feeling pushed aside Albert’s excitement.
“Mom, you don’t even like hockey.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, it might be fun,” she said without conviction.
“Grandad bought the tickets, didn’t he?”
“He sent for them a month ago. They got here last week. He saved up for almost a year.”
“For a rainy day,” Albert whispered.
Albert paused outside his grandfather’s door. He heard the double clink of the Zippo and the rustle of a newspaper being opened. He knocked.
The room was just big enough to hold a single bed, dresser and night table with a small lamp. The old man was sitting on the bed, pillows at his back, reading the paper. He lowered it, took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped it on the edge of the ashtray on the table.
“You look a little glum,” he said.
Albert searched for words and couldn’t find the ones he wanted. He stood silently for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he managed.
Slowly, his grandfather closed the newspaper and folded it twice. He raised his cigarette to his thin lips. In his other hand, he turned the Zippo over and over.
“You was ashamed of me,” he said. “At the beer store that day.”
“No! No, I wasn’t!” Albert protested. Again, he rummaged for the right words. To explain. To justify. And once more the words fled before he found them.
He had been ashamed.
But only for an instant. Only because those guys in the shiny red diesel were laughing at his grandfather. At Albert, too, sitting in the beat-up truck, eyes fixed on the empty socket in the dashboard. How could he describe the sudden realization, the knowledge that came like a sharp pain, that so much was closed off from him? That he loved the old man holding up the line in the beer store, yet for that brief flash of time hadn’t wanted people to know he was with him?
Albert stared at the counterpane at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I wish I could tell you,” his grandfather said, “that someday, if you work real hard, you’ll live in a big house and drive a fancy new car and have lots of money in your jeans, but I can’t. Maybe it’ll happen, maybe it won’t.” The old man took a last long drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “That’s just the way things are,” he said.
“Grandad,” Albert said. “I don’t want to go to the game if you’re not going.”
The old man picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. He shook it open, turned a page, held it up to cover his face.
“Says here,” he began, “that Cuddy could break the scoring record Saturday night. That would mean another record for those damn Maple Leafs, wouldn’t it?”
“Yup,” Albert said.
“Well, I guess I better go along to the game and make sure that doesn’t happen.”