right out?”
“Nope. When you carry scars like that, everyone who knows you probably has it at the back of their mind all the time, but there’s just no opening to ask, you know? Like 'So, Francy, how about telling me who burned your face off?’ I don’t think so.”
Morrison nodded.
“Francy told me just after she got pregnant,” I said. “We were up at the cabin, partying a bit, and got to talking about fetal alcohol syndrome and ‘smoking can harm your baby’—that sort of stuff. Francy was having a hard time quitting the old vices, but she said that at least her kid wouldn’t inherit the scars. She just came out with it and then laughed. I waited and she told me what happened. Her father was like your Dad was, except he didn’t torch the couch. He torched his daughter.”
“Why?”
“Why? Does there have to be a reason? Like maybe she did something to deserve it? Like maybe you did something to deserve getting beat up by your dad? I don’t know, Earlie. She didn’t tell me that. All I know is that after the accident, as she called it, he hanged himself. She moved up here to stay with a family as a nanny, and she never went back. She said that after a childhood like hers, she could handle anything. I guess that’s part of why she stayed with John. She compared her early experience to the stuff he doled out and figured she was in heaven.”
“Poor kid.”
“Uh-huh. She had a blind spot where John was concerned. But after he was killed, she certainly wasn’t consumed by guilt, as that stupid note apparently says. She was getting on with it. She was happy.”
“Becker wont buy it.”
“Then how come he’s at Kelso’s trying to talk to John’s friends? He must have some doubts.”
“Loose ends, mostly.”
“And so if he finds out something that points the other way, he’ll ignore it, right?”
“That would be unprofessional.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well. It might just get him thinking. He knows I don’t think Francy Travers killed her husband, but what I think doesn’t count for nothin’ with him.”
“How come you guys don’t get along?”
“He always gets the girl, eh?”
“Quick, Earlie. Very quick. But really. How come you dislike him so much?”
“I was up for promotion, and he swings in from the city and snatches it away from me. How about that? Or, he’s a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and I’m a slob. How about that? Or, he hates my dog. How about that? I got my reasons.”
Morrison’s face was red, and his tone was vehement enough to turn a head or two.
“Hey, hey. I’m sorry. Rude question. It’s none of my business anyway.”
Morrison took a swig of cold coffee and grimaced.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said. “Next stop Kelso’s.” He looked at what I was wearing. “Couldn’t you have worn a mini-skirt or something?” he said.
Twenty-Five
Hey, boys, those boobs would do that
even if they all just lined up
jump jump jumping the whole number.
—Shepherd’s Pie
Kelso's tavern is the oldest drinking establishment in Laingford—and the sleaziest. It’s housed in an old wooden former-hotel on the ridge overlooking the train tracks. Long ago, the ridge was a prestigious address, with its spectacular view of Lake Kimowan and the mist-covered, pine-studded hills on the horizon. Then, during the Depression, the neighbourhood started slipping and it hasn’t stopped.
Kelso’s still hops, though. It was boarded up like its neighbours for a long time after the hotel trade died, but a guy from North Bay bought it in the seventies, gutted it, painted over the windows and stuck a couple of neon signs at eye level. A big billboard in the parking lot says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.
Morrison had left the cruiser back at the station, which was, rather happily for the local constabulary, right next door to the Tim Horton’s.
“If a cruiser pulls up at Kelso’s,” Morrison had said, “the place’ll empty faster than a loose bowel. Er, excuse me, ma’am.” He snickered. I stared at him, memory flooding back from the night before, at the community hall in Cedar Falls.
“You don’t have a relative who’s a musician, do you?” I said.
“My brother Dave’s the lead for Baggy Chaps,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Baggy Chaps. Were they playing the Cedar Falls Harvest Dance last night?”
“Where Becker’s brawl was? Yup. So?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.”
I let Morrison come with me in the pickup, although it meant Lug-nut would have to sit in his lap. The dog really liked him. I guess he has a thing for cops, like I used to. Morrison did rather resemble Luggy’s big, brown pillow at home. The dog kneaded Morrison’s mammoth thighs like a cat would, then settled down with a sigh and moaned as Morrison played with his ears.
My palms were slick on the steering wheel. I felt like I was taking my Young Driver’s test all over again. I hadn’t felt that way driving Becker the night before, but then, there had been enough sexual tension to make the rules of the road absolutely secondary to the rules of the dance. No sexual tension with Morrison. I felt him watching my every move. I just prayed that he wouldn’t ask me to parallel park.
When we got there, it was ten-thirty, and the lot was half-full. Becker’s Jeep Cherokee was parked a couple of rows over, and I chose a spot well away from it. No sign of the pickup boys, thank God. I could feel the bass-rumble from the open door through the soles of my boots.
“Remind me why we’re here, again?” I said.
“To give Becker the money,” Morrison said. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Maybe. Look at me. No way I’m dressed for this.” I wasn’t wearing barn-chore clothes, but it was close. I had changed out of my rubber boots and overalls, but I hadn’t dressed to go dancing—either on or off the tables. I was wearing the kind of outfit that sometimes elicits homophobic comments from the kind of guys who go to places like Kelso’s. You know what I mean. I had on baggy jeans. Work boots. A flannel shirt and a baseball cap. It was the same thing I had worn in the Lumber-R-Us store the week before, when a guy behind the counter had said “Can I help you, sir?” When I told him I was a ma’am, he was so embarrassed he scuttled away and got someone else to serve me.
Sometimes, I get called a dyke. I think it’s because I don’t bother with makeup and I have short hair. It doesn’t bother me, in fact, it sort of makes me feel proud. I know that this kind of attitude is likely to offend genuine lesbians, but I can’t help
