4.2
Gritty smoke eddied coarse and choking in the air, muting the humid tang of rich earth.
"Can you see the flames from there?" Sam asked.
Phone pressed to his ear, Gord tilted his battered tan cowboy hat further up on his forehead and squinted towards the northern horizon, obscured today by billowing chartreuse clouds. "We're not that far north, city boy."
"No, I know," Sam laughed. "The fire just looks so big on the TV, I kinda imagined it must be visible for hundreds of kilometres or something."
"Can sure smell it," Gord admitted. "Feels like I just smoked a whole pack, after breathin' it all day."
Gord sat on the back porch, sweat still dampening his t-shirt in the unusual warmth. A shovel rested against the freshly sanded railing and muddy gloves were discarded on the small wooden table beside him. At the bottom of the garden, furled buds were just beginning to blink open tender green leaves along the gracefully arching branches of the apple trees. At their roots, freshly turned dark earth striped grey soil still winter dormant.
Sam's phone call had interrupted Gord's work in the garden. He didn't mind. His lungs were aching, even though he had only put in a few hours of work after getting back from town.
"I've been watching the footage on the news," Sam told him. "It's pretty surreal. Eighty thousand people evacuated, they said. I didn't even realize Fort McMurray was that big."
Gord squinted at the rising smoke. "Miracle there's only been the one car accident and no one else hurt."
"Have you had any evacuees come through town? Or are you too far out of the way?"
"No, we're full," Gord told him. "Grocery store's stripped, gas station's dry, curlin' rink's wall-to-wall cots and air mattresses. Took over a few crates of veggies from the greenhouse this afternoon, just so's they'd have somethin' fresh, and Stan's never had so many customers." He laughed softly. "Mayor's beggin' those who can to move on, but most folk don't wanna go further from home than they have to. Sure and most brought almost nothin' with 'em."
"I wonder how soon they'll be able to go back."
"Too early to say. But seems like everyone's pitchin' in."
"Could be worse, I suppose," Sam agreed softly.
Gord settled further back in his chair, kicked his heels out before him. "How're things goin' with you?"
"Good," Sam told him in a quiet voice. "Really good. Two months sober on Friday. Starting to feel like myself again."
"Beauty." Gord's smile was audible in his voice.
"Thank you for being so patient with me."
"'Course. We got all the time in the world."
For a moment they just listened to each other breathe, soft exhales in their ears, a kind of closeness despite the distance.
Eventually, Sam said, "I've been thinking about coming up soon, if you're okay with that. I've got a job interview next week, but maybe after that?"
Gord's teeth were white against his dark beard. "I'd like that, Sam."
After they said their goodbyes, Gord tidied away his tools, then whistled between his teeth for Quip. She came bounding around the side of the house and trotted obediently through the door while Gord held it open for her.
Light faded from gold to a sickly orange as the smoke-shrouded sun sank into evening. Gord puttered around putting together a simple dinner, humming under his breath and pausing occasionally to jot down a line or two of lyrics to the half-composed song haunting his thoughts. When he sat down to eat, Quip settled patiently beneath the table, her snout across Gord's feet.
The hush hung densely about the small house. Shadowed memories still whispered in the soughing walls, unsilenced by the veneer of fresh paint, new floors, brighter memories that had been woven between them in the intervening years.
When Gord sighed, the house sighed with him.
Dumping his dishes in the sink, Gord pulled the enormous bag of kibble out of the cupboard and scooped a generous serving into the metal dog dish. Quip snapped hungrily at it, jaws smacking loudly, while Gord washed his dishes slowly and set them in the drying rack. Outside the window, fluffy grey squirrels scampered playfully through the greening branches of the apple trees. A tiny, tuft-furred baby clung precariously to the back of one of the bigger ones.
"Ah," Gord said quietly to himself. "That's it."
Drying his hands, he leaned over his notes and scrawled out several more lines of lyrics.
Quip followed Gord to the front door and sat watching him expectantly as he tied his shoes, her tail sweeping the floor. Gord patted her on the head.
"You stay here, honey," he told her fondly, settling his hat on his head. "Be home soon."
He took the old rusted blue pickup truck. The door groaned in protest when he opened it, and the engine coughed once before it kicked into gear, a plume of black exhaust belching upwards. Gord watched in the rearview mirror, frowning.
Though the truck grumbled beneath his feet, it still drove fine. He turned off the driveway onto the township road and gravel dust mixed imperceptibly with smoke behind him.
A vivid red sun bellied low behind billowing clouds of smoke. Cawing raucously, a flock of crows lifted black against the blazing sky. Patient fields flowed past, empty.
Thick caragana shrubs in a meandering queue demarcated the border of the graveyard. There was no church, only a rickety iron fence separating bare farmer's field from hedge and soft mown grass. Gord pulled off into the ditch, tires bumping through gopher's holes hidden beneath the long, dry grasses. His truck door slammed loud in the hush.
The gnarled branches of the caraganas threw long, twisted shadows across staggered rows of weathered tombstones that loomed large in the yellow gloom. Gord walked slowly down the path towards the back corner, eventually coming to a stop in the tangled shadows.
There was no tombstone, only a small bronze plaque engraved with a name and two dates, the start and the end. The plaque had been cheaper than stone.
Soft, emerald grass sprouted thickly around the marker. There had never been a body beneath, only ashes in a cardboard box, likely all folded into indifferent soil by now. Tiny, peeping yellow wildflowers had strewn themselves across the grave, and wild roses sprung up just beyond, a thorny whirl beneath the hedgerow. Soft pink blossoms were still weeks away from peeking out of tightly knotted buds.
It was more peaceful than Gord remembered from the day of the funeral, when the raw dirt was still a wound.
Gord fumbled for his pack of cigarettes, drew one out. He cupped his hand around his lighter against the gusting breeze. Grey smoke twisted up to vanish against the burning sky.
"S'pose you'd still be awful disappointed in me if you could see me now, wouldn't you?" he asked softly.
Somewhere, a magpie croaked.
Crimson sun slowly sank roots into the western horizon. Vast sky blazed red and gold and orange. Blind shadows spread grasping fingers between the graves.
Gentle susurration of grasses faded into the rumble of an engine, the grit of tires on gravel. Gord expected the vehicle to continue by; instead, it slowed, the engine lowering to a purr before cutting out entirely. The tinny clang of a car door slamming echoed off the trees.
Gord looked around with vague curiosity, putting his cigarette to his lips.
A short, round woman climbed down from the dusty white SUV that had pulled up beside the truck. The rusty iron gate screeched when she opened it, then screeched again as she pushed it shut. She barely glanced at Gord before lowering her eyes to the weathered tombstones. Moving slowly, she progressed down the rows towards him. When she reached the newer graves, she began leaning in to peer nearsightedly at the names on each.
"Help you find someone?" Gord called.
"Actually," the woman began as she straightened, "if you wouldn't mind, maybe you know--"
Her words cut into a strangled gasp; one hand lifted to clasp trembling at the base of her throat as she stared wide-eyed at Gord.
She might have been in her mid-fifties; creases rumpled her plump face, and her very blonde hair swung against round cheeks in a smooth bob. Her eyes were shadowed behind big, pink-framed glasses.
The woman took several steps closer, gawking at Gord as though he were a ghost, her rosy face gone as white as a sheet.
"God help me," she whispered. "Yer the spittin' image of 'im."
Gord stared back at her, stony-faced, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers.
"Stan--" Taking a quick breath, the woman went on, "Stan in town told me yer back at the farm. I didn't realize..."
Her voice trailed off. She blinked rapidly, clear green eyes huge in her pale face.
Gord swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. She was older, of course, and he didn't remember her being so fat, or so short. He might not have recognized her if he'd seen her on the street, but that molasses-thick voice was unmistakable.
"That his hat yer wearin'?" the woman asked in a faint voice. "He always did wear one just like it."
When Gord spoke at last, his voice was flat and quiet. "Mum."
"Gordie," she responded softly, uncertainly. "You've--you've grown up."
"Been near twenty years," he pointed out, voice cracking slightly.
A tremulous smile tugged at her lips. "Some mum I am, right?"
Gord's voice came rough. "What the hell're you doin' here?"
Her smile vanished. Shadowed crow's feet deepened the corners of her eyes. "Same thing you are, I s'pose. Makin' sure yer bastard of a father's really dead in the ground."
Wind wailed in the bare trees, whipped blonde hair around her face. Gord clapped a hand to his hat to hold it in place.
"This him then?" she asked, looking down at the plaque.
"Not anymore."
For a while they were both quiet, staring at the grave. Gord pulled at his cigarette, the other hand clenched inside the pocket of his worn leather jacket. Smoke burned in his lungs.
"You wanted to be sure he was dead, you coulda come to his funeral," Gord pointed out, accusation in his tone.
"I coulda," she allowed, putting a palm over her mouth. "But I'm a coward. Couldn't face the thought of seein' you or Mel."
She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, a slight tremble in her limbs. Gord exhaled coils of fermented anger with his smoke.
"Never expected to see you again."
"If I'm bein' honest, I never expected to come back." Shame was in the shadows of her cheeks. "Guess God had different plans for me."
Fitful gusts of wind whispered veiled memories between the gnarled branches of the greening trees.
"So why the fuck are you here now?" Gord demanded harshly.
His mum let out a long, sad sigh. At first she didn't answer, just dug her toe into the soft loam and studied the wildflowers wreathing the bronze plaque.
At last, she said, "When I left here twenty years ago, I wanted to run far as I could, 'til the northern lights swallowed me whole or the polar bears took me in and made me one o' them. I ended up in Fort Mac."
Kicking breeze rustled the tender leaves of the tangled rosebush beyond the graves.
She smiled sadly, her eyes far away. "I've got a nice setup: a little trailer all my own, a job that pays the bills plus a bit, friends to share the time with. Don't know if any of it'll even be there when I go back."
Gord took one last, long drag of his cigarette, the end flaring briefly into glinting coals, then tucked his hand into his other pocket.
"Scariest thing I've ever seen." She swallowed deeply and met Gord's eyes. "Drivin' outta there, that two-lane highway packed bumper to bumper, fifty-foot flames on both sides of the road. Like a scene straight outta hell. Half expected to see demons dancin' in the fire. Maybe this sounds like some kinda crazy hippie talk, but-- nothin' like seein' everythin' you have go up in flames to remind you what's important in life, y'know?"
"Think I've got an idea what that's like," Gord admitted, quietly.
His mum nodded slowly. "I was watchin' the wind whip up those hungry flames, wonderin' if I might die, and all I could think about was the two little kids I'd left behind all those years ago."
Dense shadows crept long across soft green grass.
"Didn't expect to run into you," she confessed. "Wasn't sure I'd have the courage to go by the house, even. But wanted to at least come spit on this fucker's grave." She laughed a little, coarsely, so many years of bitterness and sorrow in the sound. "And I'm not sorry yer here. Even if you never wanna see me again--now I know yer alive, least."
She fell quiet. For a long time, neither of them said anything. The bronze plaque glinted in the last weary rays of sunset.
Wind rose and fell and rose again, pouring through the grass in waves, creaking the branches of the shrubs. The tiny petals of the yellow flowers had pressed their faces closed as the bleeding sun oozed into the horizon.
"Do you hate me?" she asked eventually, voice falling thick with old sorrow.
"Used to."
She nodded again, brushed hair from her eyes. "Don't blame you."
Finally, twenty years too late, Gord asked, "Why didn't you take us with you?"
"Didn't have the strength to have that fight," she said softly. "Not when I was so sure next time he came home swingin' drunk he was gonna kill me. And he never did touch you kids, so..."
More sadness than anger, now, Gord said, "Things changed when you left."
"Oh, Gordie," she whispered, pressing her fingers up behind her glasses to wipe at springing tears.
"You made the wrong choice," he told her, voice strangely hollow.
"I know," she said quietly, her voice twisted tight with regret, and shame, and the knowledge that it was far too late to apologize. "God help me, I know."
The last flaming rays of the sun dipped below the smoke-obscured horizon. Indigo shadows drifted on the breeze. The wind exhaled two decades of bitterness.
"But yer doin' okay now," she said, half a question shorn with hope.
A sighing gust raced across the fields, dark earth waiting expectantly to be sown with the seeds of new life; shuddered through the branches of the leafing caraganas that burst with promise; set the furled crimson buds of the wild roses dancing.
"Mum--" Gord paused, cleared his throat. "You wanna come back to the house? Catch up a little?"
She didn't answer immediately. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she stared down at the bronze plaque and let out a long, sad sigh.
"You sure?"
"Got some lemonade in the fridge."
"I'd love that, Gordie," she whispered. "Just... just give me a few minutes here with yer old man. I'll be by soon."
"'Course."
So Gord left his mum there, the rising wind whipping spindly branches into a frenzy, carrying away the sound of her sorrow.
Quip was glad to see him home, dancing excitedly up onto her back paws before she pushed forward to nuzzle for hugs. Gord obliged, kneeling down and pulling her close, burying shuddered breathing in her shaggy brown and grey fur while her tail pumped happily. The scent of her musk filled his nostrils, soothing.
"Wish Sam were here," he told her, running his fingers through her fur as he pulled away. "He's better at this sorta thing."
Quip whined and licked excitedly at Gord's arm.
The house was lit warm and cozy when his mum arrived. It took her a while to muster up the courage to get out of her SUV. Feeling like a stranger here, she knocked, and Gord let her in, led her into the sitting room and brought lemonade.
"Wouldn't mind somethin' a little stronger," she suggested sheepishly.
"Don't keep alcohol in the house," Gord told her.
His mum gave him a sharp look but accepted the lemonade without further comment. "That yer old man's truck out front? I swear it's the same one he was drivin' twenty years ago."
"Needed some work when I came back," Gord agreed.
"You've taken good care of it," she said softly. "The house, too. It's lookin' cared for."
Conversation lulled. They sat in silence for several minutes.
Quip paced back and forth between the empty hearth and their armchairs, unsettled. Gord stared down into his lemonade, pulp swirling between lavender petals like wisps of dreams long forgotten.
"No family, then?" his mum asked, eventually. "Yer livin' here alone?"
"Got a lover," Gord told her. "Sam."
She smiled softly at him. "Been dating long?"
"Couple years, long distance."
"Any talk of a weddin'?"
"Not yet."
She laughed sheepishly. "Well, if my advice means anythin' to you, don't rush it. And yer sister? Melanie? She married?"
"David. Works for the government. They live in Ottawa. Three kids."
She nodded slowly, eyes downcast. "Grandkids, huh," she murmured. "God, the things I musta missed in you kids' lives."
Gord cleared his throat hoarsely. "Mum, this's awful strange."
"Sure is," she agreed.
"It's gonna take time."
"I hope yer willin' to let me have the time, Gordie. I'd like to get to know my son, if you'll let me."
Gord took a long sip of his lemonade.
Managing a weak smile, his mum asked, "Will you tell me 'bout yer girl?"
Gord choked.
Whining, Quip trotted over to examine him as he coughed and gasped.
"I'm sorry," his mum said hurriedly, looking sheepish. "Too soon? Too personal?"
"Don't have a girl," Gord managed at last.
She frowned at him in confusion, pale brows drawing together above pink frames. "But--Sam--yer lover, you said--"
Slowly, feeling very strange to be having this conversation with a parent for the first time at twenty-nine years old, Gord told her, "Mum, Sam is a man."
Her green eyes went very wide. "Oh," she said. "Sam. I thought--Samantha--"
There was a moment of quiet as she stared at him wonderingly.
Then: "A man?"
"Yup."
"How in God's name did you find yerself a man livin' way out here in redneck country?"
The tiniest of smiles pulled Gord's lips up. "Got lucky."
"Sounds like." She laughed uncertainly, pushed her pink glasses further up her nose. "Will you tell me 'bout this man of yers, then?"
When eventually his mum left, Gord stood in the doorway watching her drive away, yellow headlights cutting soft darkness. A breeze sighed in the eaves. The stars were all shrouded behind the smoke, the night dark as freshly turned garden soil.
Gord let out a long breath, inaudible beneath the whisper of tentative hope on the wind.
Quip padded up behind him and nudged at his hand. Gord scratched her behind the ear absently. Tendrils of smoke caught in his throat, and he coughed, harshly, loud in the quiet.
"Might be about time I think about quittin' smokin'," Gord told Quip. She snuffled in response, set one broad paw against Gord's ankle.
The white SUV turned onto the township road, gravel dust pluming behind it as its lights faded slowly into the heavy, smoky arms of night.