I always saw myself meeting a man from outside of here. If we get serious, I'll never leave. I suppose you'll be taking over your father's business.”
I never really confronted Wanda any further. There was no big shit storm of a fight over the whole thing. And I'm glad that I left her alone in the days that followed. Here's the thing: the worry and stress of taking those letters sealed her fate in the end. Her already feeble heart caved under it all. She had the boys and me and all the headaches that came with us. Travis was a promising hockey player and ate up a lot of her time; Rusty was wild, and she spent untold effort covering for him and his bullshit. She struggled to balance the books; I'll be the first to admit that. We kept making a little bit less each year, and she did wonders at making that money go far. She'd spent years as the peacemaker between Russ and me. And on top of all that, she took those notices, knowing that the shit would eventually hit the fan. She kept too much inside of her and tried to stop it all from exploding.
It messes with my head to remember the night she passed away. There's not much to remember, no big deathbed scene, but there are tiny images burned into my mind. Little things that should have tipped me off and had me on the phone to the doctor, maybe. The way she shuffled around the kitchen that evening, like she was completely exhausted. The way she was out of breath when she talked. The lack of colour in her face, and the line of misty sweat on her upper lip and forehead as she washed up after supper. Hockey Night in Canada was on the TV, but she turned in before the end of the first period, said she was feeling under the weather. Travis knew something was up. He went to check on her around a quarter to ten. He screamed so loud that Rusty dropped the bottle of beer he was fetching from the fridge. And that scream from the top of the stairs sent pure fear up through my spine and into my head. I felt crippled.
Two months after her funeral, Ronald Pinkman, the town-ship's lawyer, called me to his office. He was very cordial, said the right things, asked me how I was coping and smiled small and sympathetic when I said I was still in shock, it hadn't really sunk in. He told me he was sorry to have to do this so soon after Wanda's passing. He took a file folder from his desk and opened it. He said that the township was willing to offer me a further 20 percent for my property. They had reached this decision after the mayor had called a meeting and said that I deserved higher compensation because I both lived and did business on Commerford Road. Mr. Pinkman let me take a copy of the papers and told me to think about it, but to realize that the extra money was only on the table if I signed within the week.
I went down to the Copper Kettle later that day. Gus and Baxter were there, sitting in the usual booth at the very end of the joint near the coffee and cutlery station. Gus would lean over, grab the pot, and help himself. No one cared. Gus had been going to the Kettle all his life. I joined them and we whispered about the township's offer. I said that maybe if I hired a city lawyer I could hold things up, keep my business in the process. Gus kept on telling me that nobody could take on the government, not even a half-witted municipal government. Baxter was the postman. He was a pretty straight shooter and was a fixture in our town. He knew and cared about people, and gave good advice. He tipped back the last of his coffee and got up to leave. He put his hand on my shoulder and said that he knew what I was dealing with, reminded me that his wife had passed about three years ago. And then he said that I shouldn't confuse my grief over Wanda with my anger at the Township of Battleford. He smiled and warned me not to be a stubborn old ox, and to think about my boys.
What was I gonna do? I went to Pinkman's office on the way home. I signed the deal and took their stinking money. I thought that if I settled and got on with things maybe my troubles would end.
Time became mush after Wanda died. I don't know how else to put it. I remember little snatches of our lives after the funeral, and after I'd settled with the township. But there's no flow to it all. And the other thing I remember was how I couldn't bring myself to cry for her. It had nothing to do with being scared to show my feelings. It was like I missed parts of her, but felt relieved in some respects. I knew deep down she wasn't happy, and she knew that I'd be unhappy if we picked up stakes and moved. We had this quiet little standoff, this unspoken difference between us. And it had ended in her death. I'll always be sorry that we never talked about it. It seems wrong that she had to resort to tricking me in order for me to finally understand how badly she wanted out. And that weighed heavy on my mind, so heavy that I never really allowed myself to miss her, to think about her the way a man should think about his dead wife.
I worked a lot at the station during those days. Once the construction started over on Dunn Road, I really just tied up loose ends, cleaned the place, and made it ready to go dormant, the way you wrap your prize evergreens in burlap for the winter. Vic shuffled into the station one morning and gave me a resignation letter. He looked at his shoes a lot that morning, and we both knew why. He turned up as the assistant manager of the quick-lube place up near the new factory when it opened a few months later. That's neither here nor there, and I don't blame him really. It's just something I remember.
One afternoon, in a cloud of dust, grit, and noise that comes with construction, I heard an engine roar, tires squeal, and the sound of rattling metal. I looked up from the desk in the office to see Rusty's pickup speeding onto our driveway, out of control, tires spinning. He ground to a stop, staggered out of the truck, and did a drunken wander up to the front door of the house. He messed around with the keys for the longest time, finally let himself in. Dust and construction haze wasn't the only thing in the air. I realized that I'd lost track of my boys. Rusty had been working for me, when he felt like it, but he had gone AWOL in the months leading up to his mother's death. And Travis, I had no idea how he was spending his days. I assumed he was in school, but as I watched my oldest boy stagger inside our home to sleep off a mid-afternoon bender, I sat up and assumed it was a wake-up call. I decided that maybe time should have some flow, should have some pattern. Shit, I don't even know if I'm making any sense. Here's the thing: even though I felt tired and crushed inside, I figured I needed to pick myself up and brush myself off.
It's hard to talk about Russ and Travis in the same breath. Telling their stories together is going to be tough. They're both so different, oil and vinegar in most ways. They approached things differently, dealt with obstacles and just handled their lives differently. It's not that they didn't have time for each other. They could lead you to believe they were the best of friends, thick as thieves and all that. And when Wanda died my boys' opposite natures really became clear. Travis grieved and then decided he was going to get on with life as best he could. Rusty grieved and then decided he'd raise more hell, do what he wanted when he wanted, and dare anyone to tell him otherwise.
By the time I started taking notice again, it was late September, coming up on a year after Wanda passed. I was sitting at the kitchen table having a whisky, working out how we could live on the money from the township. It wasn't a whole lot of money, but I had it figured out so we'd be comfortable when I added in Wanda's little life insurance policy, and if I sold off some equipment from my business. I also planned on keeping some tools so I could service cars for some of my regulars. When I pieced it all together like that, the financial picture wasn't all that bleak.
Travis came in and went to the fridge. I put the bottle under the table, kind of sheltered it with my foot. He got himself a bottle of beer, popped the cap, snatched an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, tore into it, and sat down across from me.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Since when do you drink beer? You're only sixteen.”
He swigged the beer and bit the apple again.
“An athlete will have a beer now and then, after a really tough workout,” he said.
“Uh-huh. Well, Rusty shouldn't even have it in the house. I'm supposed to be on the wagon.”
“I was just downstairs pumping iron for over an hour. I'm bench-pressing my body weight three sets, six reps. I'm curling a hundred pounds for three sets, five reps. It's not
