stood in the snow in a darkened park ringed by enormous dark trees that rustled their dead leaves and whispered. Spacey told him about the totem poles and longhouses, the preserved Gitxsan village of Ksan. Later she took him to a viewpoint over a chasm and told him of a dramatic rescue that took place here. She drove down to a winter-dead meadow with train tracks and a river, and they walked southbound along the ties and talked, mostly about her life and troubles. But she was funny, and she didn’t seem worried that he wasn’t laughing or had little to say, as though she knew he appreciated her even in his silence. He looked across at the trees growing on the far riverbanks, leafless, tall, and ragged. The trees looked like a tribe of giants deep in conversation. Black cottonwood, Spacey told him, following his eyes.
A train came and went, also southbound, and it was while it flooded past, shaking the ground they stood on, that Spacey put an arm around his waist and stood close, tilting her face for a kiss. He wrapped her in both arms to complete the embrace, and completed the kiss too, feeling the warmth of arousal as their mouths met, and something even better: a dramatic change of mood, a teasing sense of bliss.
Spacey pushed him away with a smile and said it was high time for a drink. They returned to the RAV4, and she drove along a road that followed the river a ways, pulling into the parking lot of a large post-and-beam structure that glowed like a cruise ship in the dark. The Black Bear Lodge. A couple dozen vehicles sat in the snow, all of them four-by-fours, and Spacey said, “More traffic than you’d think, even in winter. You got your heli-skiers and skidooers and hunters. And a few locals, anybody with extra money in their pocket. This place isn’t cheap.”
Inside they found the bar was doing good business, even at this hour, nearly midnight. The lights were warm and the music just loud enough to add milieu without hammering the eardrums. Spacey said she’d only have one beer, and she’d make it last, no problem; it wouldn’t even touch her bloodstream. Afterward, they’d go to her place and play Scrabble. She said it with a wink.
His first clue that something was wrong came as he followed Spacey through the bar and she reached back to grab his hand, guiding him to a table with a good view on the brass and glass of the long bar itself, at the attractive, brown-haired woman mixing drinks there, who was looking across at them with what looked like stony-faced wonder.
“Why’s she staring at us?” Dion asked as he took a chair, returning the stare.
“Because she’s a nosy, jealous bitch,” Spacey told him. “That’s Megan.”
Megan, if Dion recalled right, was Jayne Spacey’s ex-friend, which made this spot the worst possible choice in the whole bar. Before he could object, Spacey leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth. Then she sat back and grinned at him. “It’s okay. Kind of awkward, but she won’t bother you. I will have to ask you to go up and order, though, since she and I aren’t speaking.”
He pushed his chair back. “We can move. We’ll sit over there. I don’t need her glaring at me like this.”
“She’s not glaring at you, she’s glaring at me. You she likes. She’s always had a thing for native guys, like my ex, Shane.”
“I’m not —”
“Whatever. Just smile at her nicely and make her twitch, horny little cow.” She tilted her head, reading the doubt on his face, and her voice went smoky. “C’mon, do me a big favour and play along. I’ll pay you back in a big way.”
Understanding was jolting through him now, followed by amazement, followed by mute anger. This wasn’t friendship, and it wasn’t even sex. He was a prop, and she’d brought him here to fling daggers at the one who’d hurt her. He opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again, knowing anything he had to say would only take the situation on a fast downhill slide. He would play along for as long as it took to drink one beer, then he’d insist they leave.
He stood and dug out his wallet, walking up to the bar. He ordered two draft pints from Megan. He didn’t smile at her, and she didn’t smile back. He left a generous tip, brought the mugs back to the table and settled in, his back to Megan. He drank his beer and let Spacey do her thing, chatting and posing, showing her ex-friend what a great time she was having with her new boyfriend.
About halfway through his beer, just when he was getting used to the idea of being a prop and deciding he actually didn’t care, a hulk of a black-haired man in black leather walked up to their table, glowered at Dion, and said to Spacey, “Get over here and talk.”
So this would be the cheating husband Shane, still crazy about her, the Shane who she’d never forgive. Spacey stayed in her seat, and Dion remained next to her, mouth shut, marvelling at how she’d fixed this scene. He listened to Spacey telling her ex, “You’re looking kinda desperate, Shane. Why don’t you go poke Megan in the ol’ beaver pelt? Looks like she could use the exercise.” She put her arm through Dion’s as she spoke, and it was here he messed up badly by losing patience, removing her arm, and standing up, telling her he was done.
Outside, a cab stood idling and wreathed in vapour, its roof light on to net the drunks who spilled out like clockwork around closing time. He climbed in and said “Super 8.”
Back in his room, he turned off the phone, not checking the messages. He didn’t call Penny, breaking another promise. He turned on the TV and found an old movie that he couldn’t follow, black and white, a man and a woman talking wildly at each other. He sat on the bed and watched and listened, without seeing or hearing. He thought about the train hurling by, and the black trees having their conversation, and a strange notion of wanting to join them, learn the language, stand in their midst, and let the elements take him.
He pushed the thought away. All that really bothered him right now was the twenty-five-minute difference between his wristwatch and the time on the cabbie’s dashboard clock. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, studying the watch up close. His face felt feverish and his airway was tight. He lifted the watch to his ear, and it ticked softly, chk-chk-chk, pretending to do its job. Such a simple job, to stay with him, keep track of the minutes and display them. Not much of a conversation, but a conversation all the same, and it couldn’t even manage that.
It was a black-faced Smiths military watch. It had been old when he’d got it from Looch seven years ago, a birthday present, and like everything with moving parts, it had a life span. It’ll outlive you, Looch had promised, but apparently Looch was wrong.
He took the watch off to adjust the time, giving its stem a clockwise winding, carefully, slowly, stopping when he met resistance and giving it a little back-off twist, as he’d been taught. Held it to his ear again, and it sounded fine now, so everything would be okay for a while. He sat on the bed with the watch in his hand and the TV light strobing over him, battening down the fear.
Four
Willy and the Watch
HE WOKE BEFORE THE ALARM went off. Most every morning he woke with resolve that today he’d find his bearings and start walking into the light of normality. But today was different, and he felt defeated before he opened his eyes. When he did look, the sky was pitch black and the clock radio said six thirty. He rolled, fumbled for the light switch, and under its fuzzy blare checked the Smiths. It told him it was 4:02. The TV was still on, now playing a morning talk show just loud enough to not raise complaints from the other guests.
With two hours before shift, he showered and shaved and dressed with care, and went downstairs to the Super 8 diner, picking up a newspaper from the stand by the door. News in the north was never hot off the press, since delivery took a while, but it kept him current enough with the city. The restaurant was empty except
