‘Mm.’
He’s not looking at her, but she doesn’t need his eyes to see right into him. Some people say that whole eyes-are-the-window thing, but with Slim it’s his forehead. Which eyebrow is up, how many creases, one two or three, what shade of red is streaking across – an equation only she understands. Not just a window but an airplane hangar into his soul. ‘You’re not comin, are you?’
‘What?’ Dropping his fork. ‘What are you talking about – I told you we were going. We’re going.’
‘You’re acting all weird – what’s your damage?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘That’s not it.’
Big sigh. Francie you’re such a child. ‘I had to pawn some stuff, okay?’
‘What stuff?’
‘The lens pack, my flash … the Nikon.’
‘Your gear?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you loved that camera.’
‘Yeah, well I pawned it at Oz’s.’
‘Why the hell?’ She can feel her voice rising and she catches Lucy giving them a nasty look from a table over.
‘For money – that’s why you pawn stuff, Francie.’
‘But we got enough for the trip.’
‘Yeah, for the trip, but that’s not enough.’ He’s been playing with the salt shaker, wiggling it like a little man across the tabletop, like this conversation isn’t worth anything. But she grabs his hand and the touch brings his eyes up.
‘Why didn’t you pawn your stupid watch then?’
He pulls his hand away and picks at that chintzy gold thing around his wrist. ‘It was my dad’s, Francie.’
‘It’s not even real.’
‘Francie.’
A dumb thing to say, even she knows it. ‘We gotta get your gear back – we’ll just return the money.’
‘Fuck it. Listen, Francie – ’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and comes out with a crumpled envelope, and his eyes are no window, but she can see he’s going to say something real and true for the first time in forever. But then he looks past her and the envelope disappears back into a pocket.
‘Hey hey hey!’ This moment broken by Heck sliding into the booth next to her, already munching away on a slice of bacon he’s grabbed from the tabletop. ‘So today’s the big day or what?’
‘Where the hell’d you come from?’
Heck pulls at his long hair with bacon-fatted hands, making sure it’s smooth down his shoulders, then picks at his bangs. ‘Mom dropped me off.’ He takes a sip from Francie’s mug, looks at her over the edge. ‘Jeepers, why’re you still wearing your jammies?’
Francie pulls her mug away, the handle all coated with grease. ‘How’d you know we were here?’
‘Slim called me.’ Something bangs under the table and Heck grabs his knee. ‘Ow, fuck, I mean I saw Slim’s car. What the hell’d you kick me with – steel toes?’
Slim flashes his new boots.
‘Where’d you get those?’
‘Yeah, where’d you get those, Slim?’
‘Kicked some guy’s ass last night and took em.’
‘Whoa! Didja?’
‘Liar,’ Francie says.
‘Didja, Slim?’
Slim just leans back and smiles all mysteriously.
‘Didja go all Macho Man on him?’ Heck starts thrashing around, flexing his biceps. ‘Like, ooh yeah!’
‘Shut up, Heck.’
‘Flying elbow drop!’
‘Heck.’ Francie cutting in. ‘What’re you doin here anyway?’
‘Well, I just wanted to say goodbye. Or whatever … ’ He trails off, giving a look around like he’s making sure no one’s listening, then coming back to Slim. ‘So where is it?’
‘Shut up, Heck.’
‘Where’s what?’
‘Oh shit, you didn’t tell – ’
‘Shut up, Heck.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Oops.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yeah, nothing.’
‘Sounds like something.’
‘No it’s nothing. Totally nothing. We’re not talking about anything.’
‘Shut up, Heck.’
Then there’s silence and sitting, Slim looking out the window, Heck at the floor and Francie at everyone, trying to figure out what she should be getting ready to be angry about. Slim sucks his teeth and slides out of the booth. ‘Let’s book.’
Heck stuffs the last of the bacon in his mouth, a piece of toast, one more sip of coffee, and then he’s out the door after Slim. Francie stuck with the bill.
She focuses on the window – the grey bungalows and grey sky and a few grey snowflakes snaking the grey pavement and grey morning oozing into grey afternoon – everything a grey paste moving by, helping her block out all that silence coming from Slim. Heck chattering away in the back seat, something about a movie he saw at the Odeon, like anyone gives a shit.
All that grey it’s a wonder the city doesn’t just puke it all up. A big wave right down Highway 69, the Dart riding the front of it all the way to Toronto. All of it giving over to the colour of Yonge Street, the spinning neon of Sam the Record Man, the grey in her sucked out just like that. But instead Slim has them going against it, right back into the ruined heart of the city, back downtown. She cracks her window, lights a menthol and lets the smoke trail out with all the rest of it.
When Slim parks at the end of Durham, she lets him ask twice, ‘You coming?’ Her still staring out the window, not saying boo. In the reflection, Slim’s forehead set like when his mom talks to him, and she knows she could bitch at him from now until Christmas but it’d just be a waste of good bitching. She lets him get out without asking a third time because her silence is the only weapon she’s got against all that forehead.
Heck halfway out the back seat, head flicking between Slim going and Francie staying. ‘You guys.’
