tion>The Next Rainy Day
For Sherri
The Next Rainy Day
a novel
Philip
David
Alexander
Copyright © Philip David Alexander, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-editor: Andrea Pruss
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer:Webcom
Permission for excerpt from “Absolution” by John Smolens granted by the author.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Alexander, Philip David The next rainy day / Philip David Alexander. ISBN-10: 1-55002-593-7 ISBN-13: 978-1-55002-593-4 I. Title. PS8601.L345N49 2005 C813′.6 C2005-903981-7 1 2 3 4 5 09 08 07 06 05
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Printed on recycled paper.
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The Next Rainy Day
May your eyes be open day and night toward this house, the place where you promised to set your name, and may you heed the prayer that your servant prays toward this place.
— 2 Chronicles 6:20
He wants his life back. Or, perhaps I should say, he wants the life he believed he had back. See, I stole it.
— “Absolution,” by John Smolens
Bert Commerford
There's no halo around my head. I want to be damn clear about that. And I'll tell it straight because that's the only way I know. A lot of people would throw some kind of slant on it, some psychobabble that lets them put the blame on someone or something else. But I don't go for that. And I'll tell my version because that's the only one I truly know. There won't be any of this business where I try to get inside someone else's head. I hate that shit.
There's no way around it: things happened that put my family on a bus ride to hell, and there were times when it seemed like it had no brakes. And we crashed slowly. We didn't just slam into an overpass and twist and shred; we had three bad collisions, with plenty of time in between each one. I can't say that I was the only one in the driver's seat, but I took my turn, pedal to the metal as they say.
These days I watch a lot of those TV talk shows that start around 10:00 a.m. and run back to back until damn near dinnertime. I see all these losers willing to air their dirty laundry in front of an audience — usually of an audience of slobs who should be at work, but we won't go there. The so-called guests sit up on stage, waiting for the mike to hover in front of them so they can cry and blame their fuck-ups on Mom, Dad, a perverted uncle, or the government, or just society in general. What they don't realize is they're just garden-variety morons with daytime TV problems and no one really cares about the husband cross-dressing or that the wife has declared herself a lesbian after thirty years of marriage. I watch them because their lives are coming unglued and there's something oddly gratifying about how seriously they take their pathetic, self-made woes, tabloid bullshit. I've drafted up a couple letters to some TV talk shows in Toronto and New York.
I basically ask, “You want a story about a family mess? A real tragedy? Sit back and read this.” Those letters sit stamped and ready to go. We'll see what happens. Some days it seems like a great idea. Other days I figure, why lower myself.
It's tough to know the best place to start and what to tell and what to leave out. I mean, there are some things that I'm accused of having done that I'm still not so sure about. I've got no way of confirming it. So I'll tell my side of things using my head and my heart, but mainly my gut.
A few years ago I had a pretty decent lot in life. Things weren't perfect, but we got by and everyone was in one piece. I had an auto garage that I took over from my father. He'd had the business for years, built it from the ground up. I had a good, solid wife and two sons, both full of piss and vinegar. Travis, my youngest, channelled his energy into hockey. The other, Rusty, old enough to know better, channelled it into whatever was closest: cheap whisky, women (mostly underage), bar brawls. Sure, I had worries. Who in hell doesn't? But one morning not too long ago, I woke and felt change in the air, and in my gut.
I'm not one for remembering dates. I used to get in hot water all the time for forgetting birthdays and anniversaries. But I remember October 8, 1993, very clearly. That's the day when things started to slide. I got up that morning before dawn because Travis had a pre-season game over in St. Catharines. I left the house just after six and crossed the road to my garage, Commerford & Sons Auto Service. It was cold as hell; I remember turning on the little electric heater in the office. I was out of cigarettes, so I'd planned to just dart across the road, grab a pack, and get back over to the house to wake the boys and whip up breakfast. I helped myself to a pack of Export As and some gum from the little confection stand we kept in the office. I left a note for Vic, my mechanic and right-hand man, reminding him that Emily Stewart was bringing in her Toyota for a tune-up sometime before lunch. And then I locked up. The funny thing is, I also remember turning toward the house after locking the office door. I stood there and admired the place, nodded and approved of the tall, rock-solid Victorian home where my wife and boys were still in their beds. I gloated a little, I guess. The guys in town at the Copper Kettle Diner would tease me when I dropped by for coffee. They'd get a kick out of telling me that most guys had to commute to work, but me, I crossed a two-lane road to get
