The Fall of Man

Part I chapter 12

Chapter 12

I wake up invigorated, and with a new sense of purpose. For the first time in months, my dreams are not of impending global doom or ghostly visions of Joanna. But with a new focus comes new clarity, and I can see that our current incarceration is no more sustainable than the ticking time-bomb outside. It is time to clean up our act.

Too much sitting in perpetual darkness has taken its toll on my body. No more pills or junk food. We need sunlight, fresh air, exercise… and money. The journey itself is sure to cost a great deal of money. As oil prices escalate, the act of travelling will inevitably become a luxury again – a privilege enjoyed only by the rich. So, to finance our relocation, I will sell the two cars that languish in our garage, and the house we are leaving behind. The paltry kingdom that Joanna and I worked so hard to create will help to pay for our fresh start…

Our itinerary doesn’t take long to plan. I intend to avoid the busiest places, so we’ll fly from Bristol airport. It will take four or five hours to travel the hundred and twenty miles to Bristol by train. A few months ago, aeroplanes were still departing from Bristol for Calgary daily. Flights cost around five hundred pounds each. God knows what we’ll have to pay now. Buckmister Fuller estimated that the true value of a gallon of crude oil, accounting for the time and energy that must be expended to bring it to maturity, is in excess of a million dollars. By this rationale, the tickets are likely to represent pretty good value, even at today’s exorbitantly inflated prices.

Calgary International Airport is about ten kilometres north of the city centre, from where it’s a short ride on the C-train to Trisha’s house. I should speak to Trisha…

“Hello?”

“Hi Trisha, this is Arnold.”

“Arnold?”... Awkward pause. “Oh Arnold. HI howareyou? How’s Noah?”

“He’s well, thankyou. We’re both well.” I have prepared my lies carefully in advance. The nib of the Biro I’m holding nervously worries dark inky holes into the paper in front of me. “How are you all doing?”

“We’re good.       Are you sure you’re alright? We didn’t get a chance to speak after Joanna… after the funeral.”

“Really, we’re doing ok. I know that you had to get back to the girls and Harry.”

“Yeah well… If there’s anything we can do to help…”

“Actually, I was hoping to ask you a favour?”

“Of course, ask away…” Immediately I detect a change in her voice. The singsong tones flatten. Time to be tactful.

“We’re planning a trip – a holiday, I mean. To Canada. I was wondering if we could stay with you for a few days when we land? – Just until we find our feet, that sort of thing.”

“Suuure. That would be great…”

I think back to the handful of conversations that I had with Joanna about her trip to Canada. I remember her stories as if I had been there myself. I remember how passionately she spoke of the clean air that brought all the detail on the distant horizon into crisp focus, of the ever-present mountain backdrop, and the changeable high-altitude weather. Images borne from her words flash across my imagination like a gatefold chain of cheap postcards: a moose standing ungainly on the side of the road; chunks of broken ice bobbing untethered in the ocean; deep thick forests wrapped around cool glacial lakes; a rough-hewn cabin still encrusted with bark, set on a rocky outcrop in the rolling foothills…

When I think back on my own memories of time spent with Joanna, they seem pale in comparison – fuzzy and ill defined. Hour after hour sat in a car, in front of the television or reading the paper; the regularity with which these events took place somehow weakens them, as does the knowledge that they were all tainted by her – our – unhappiness. The memories shift and change to accommodate all the slight variations on a theme. Each one fails to stand out in its own right. Truly memorable events are few and far between. My two remaining mental images are ones that I would sooner forget.