Broke City Page 2

  The man that was filling their car with gas at the service station on 118th Avenue was wearing a green uniform too. How many green uniforms were there in this world? This man’s uniform had B A on a badge on front and small B A badge on his hat.

  ‒ Clean your windshield sir? He called her father sir. Sir.

  Who was the gas station man, really? What was the story of the gas station man’s life? She would never know him, but she could imagine his life as a story. Who would she tell it to? How would she tell it?

  When her father had ripped the little pine tree’s cellophane wrapping open with his teeth it sounded like breaking glass. He tore a corner off its cover with his teeth, “Puh” and spit the bit of plastic from his mouth out the window, crumpled the rest of the small tree’s cellophane cover and threw it after it. With his bit-to-the-quick fingernails, thick fingers with dirt in the cracks of his knuckles he wound the pine tree’s green string around the car’s rear view mirror. He flicked the little tree like a bug and it swung from side to side. Christine smelled pungent green, pine, but not the same as the smell when her mother washed floors. This pine smell mixed with the smell of cigarettes, and dust, and the warm scent of a dying August.

  ‒ Why are you hanging that tree there, Dad?

  ‒ Hide the smell of cow shit as we get closer to the farm, hey? He laughed and looked across the front seat at Christine’s mother.

  ‒ I don’t think we should go now, not with what’s happened, Christine’s mother said.

  ‒ A guy who kills that many people is not going to stick around some rinky-dink town. Naw, whoever did it will be long gone.

  ‒ Did you know the people who were killed? Christine asked her mother.

  ‒ Not really. I think the oldest girl went to school with . . . no, I don’t know them.

  ‒ Did you know the people, Dad?

  ‒ No, I played ball with their neighbour’s cousin though. That family lived out our way.

  ‒ I wonder who did it? her mother said.

  ‒ Probably some stranger. Some guy passing through.

  ‒ Passing through what? There’s nothing all the way out there. No, it has to be someone from around.

  ‒ Could be a hired hand? Some of those guys are kinda funny . . .

  ‒ You just never know I guess. It gives me a funny feeling that’s for sure her mother said, looking out the window.

  It was a peculiar time of day. The sun with its last breaths of the day was bright, shining orange as it was disappearing behind the car and shining in the rearview mirror. Christine could smell the little pine tree in the back seat. She could taste the smell in the back of her throat and then it travelled up the back of her head and into the top of her skull. She didn’t want to get car sick. She stuck her head out the window and closed her eyes against the thundering sound of the wind. The tight, tart smell of the ditch weeds and rushing air replaced the green pine taste at the back of her throat. Green to yellow.

  ‒ Do you wanna get your head cut off? Get back in the car and roll up the window!

  What if I had no head? Would I still be able to see?

  Would I know I was in a car and where I was going?

  Would I even know what a car was? Could they sew my head back on? Would I live?

  Christine’s mother turned toward the backseat and swatted the air randomly trying to land a slap on her leg. Christine quickly slammed herself down in the corner of the backseat. Her mother missed. Her sister was asleep already in her pyjamas.

  ‒ You’re damn lucky. Don’t stick your head out the window again.

  The front windows were rolled right down and the radio blared a song telling her to wear flowers in her hair if she ever went to San Francisco . . . but they weren’t going to San Francisco they were going to Saskatchewan. Then the music and the sound of typewriter keys and the announcer with Nooow . . . the news. Police continue their manhunt for the person or persons responsible for the gruesome murders of nine family members from . . .

  The sun was an aching orange, yellow, red and it reflected like a shot off the rearview mirror. Christine’s father had his right hand on the wheel, a cigarette and a stubby brown bottle of Bohemian Maid beer in his left hand. Christine compared the location of her father’s hands on the driving wheel to the car clock. His hands made 2 o’clock. The little pine tree was green, the inside of the car was green, the clock was green and it still worked. She knew that it was 7 o’clock. They would change the time when they crossed the Saskatchewan border. There always seemed to be some problem with changing time whenever they went from Edmonton to Saskatchewan or from Saskatchewan to Edmonton. Clocks had to change. Watches had to change. Saskatchewan time or Alberta time. Now she could tell the difference between the changing times. Her father took a drink from the bottle in his left hand.

  ‒ Goddammit, this sun is bright he said reaching to adjust the mirror and take a sip from the bottle of beer.

  ‒ Look Ma’, no hands he said and looked at Christine in the back seat. She laughed.

  ‒ Do that again, Dad.

  The bright green triangle of the little tree swung back and forth and covering and uncovering red flashing lights in the distance.

  ‒ Mounties! Sunnuvabitch!

  ‒ How fast were you going? Shit! Gimme the bottle. Quick!

  In one motion, Christine’s mother shot a cigarette butt into the mouth of his beer bottle. It made a sssssttttt sound before she hung her arm down the side of the car and back-handed the bottle into the ditch. Christine’s father slowed the car down and her Mother reached into the back seat and smoothed the blanket over the case of beer.

  ‒ Keep your feet on that blanket and keep your mouth shut.

  ‒ What’s wrong Dad? Were you speeding? Was it the ‘Look Ma no hands?’

  ‒ Never mind. Just keep quiet.

  A Mountie walked out to the middle of the road wearing a red coat with golden buttons and black pants with legs that curved out of his shiny brown boots.

  He wore a beige hat and when he motioned Christine’s father toward the shoulder of the highway the red sleeves of his coat hit the brown leather pouch at his side.

  Her father pulled over to the narrow shoulder where there were already three other cars parked behind the two RCMP cars. The lights on top of the cars flashed red. Christine felt scared. The loose gravel on the shoulder of the highway crunched slowly. In all the trips they had taken on this highway from Edmonton to Saskatchewan, they had never been told to stop by the Mounties.

  ‒ What’s wrong Dad? Are you in trouble?

  ‒ No . . . quiet.

  ‒ Keep your feet on the blanket.

  Mounties walked from the parked cars ahead of them to the RCMP cars holding something in their hands. Her father pulled in behind the line of vehicles. The silver water tower in the distance said HAFFORD. Christine thought it looked like a silver spaceship, a round circle on top of thick metal legs, a criss-cross of narrow metal for landing gear. Christine imagined they were in a movie. This was an alien invasion and the aliens had come to earth in the Hafford water tower. She worried a lot about aliens invading earth.

  Especially at night. Flying saucers. Her grandfather had shown her magazines with actual pictures of UFOs. Her father had said that it was just a hoax but, maybe, it was true after all. This was the alien invasion. HAFFORD on the water tower could mean something in the alien language. It could mean Hafford was the half way point to aliens taking over the earth and the Mounties were trying to stop them. Lloydminster was the halfway point on the road to her grandmother’s but if you took one of the L s from Lloydminster and put it in HAFFORD it would be HAFFORD. HAFFORD already sounded like halfway. Maybe not in alien language, though . . .

  The car in front of them signalled and drove off onto the highway. One of the Mounties motioned with a flashlight for them to drive ahead and fill the spot. Her father turned the radio right down. The Mountie walked over to the car.

  ‒ Good evening, sir . . . ma’am.


  The Mountie called her father “sir” too, like the man at the gas station. He called her mother “ma’am.” Only men who came to the door to sell things called her mother ma’am.

  ‒ Good evening officer her father said. Her father never talked like that.

  ‒ Can I see your licence and registration please?

  Christine’s father fished his wallet from his back pocket while her mother opened the glove compartment and handed a bundle of papers to her father. She craned her neck to look at the Mountie through the driver’s side window. Christine’s father handed everything over to the Mountie.

  ‒ Thank-you sir.

  The Mountie touched the brim of his hat and walked to his car, the red light still silently flashing. The Mountie sat in the front seat and Christine could see him leaning over to the centre. Her heart was beating faster. Is the Mountie checking up on her Dad? Maybe the flashlight was also an x-ray gadget that could see through the blanket and he would know there was beer in the car.

  ‒ Bet they’re looking for the guy who did it.

  ‒ Christ, I hope he doesn’t smell the beer.

  The Mountie brought the papers and driver’s licence back to her father.

  ‒ Thank-you, sir. He shone his flashlight in the front and back and Christine stayed frozen in the back seat, her feet on top of the blanket, on top of the beer.

  ‒ Where’r you heading? the Mountie asked.

  ‒ Leask.

  ‒ Leask? The Mountie paused. Tipped his hat.

  ‒ Well, you folks can be on your way now. Safe travelling.

  Her father pulled onto the highway and Christine looked out the back window at the lights, the other cars pulling over to the shoulder. The HAFFORD spaceship was getting smaller and smaller. Her mother pushed in the cigarette lighter, then turned and reached toward the back seat making a beckoning motion with her hand.

  ‒ Pass me a beer . . .

  Christine pulled back the blanket, took a beer from the box and leaned forward to hand the bottle to her mother. She liked the picture on the bottle, the smiling woman with black hair and a red scarf, and the drawing of the green leaf beside the woman. Her mother took the bottle and popped the top off with the opener on her key chain — which was a real rabbit’s foot. For luck. The little green pine tree swung from the rearview mirror moving back and forth to a rhythm that kept softly beating in the back of Christine’s mind.

  Don’t be scared don’t be scared don’t be scared.

  When she tried to pinpoint one specific thing she feared she couldn’t do it. It seemed to be everything and everywhere. Whoever killed those people, UFOs, the Vietnam War. Those three things. Don’t. Be. Scared.

  ‹›‹›‹›

  The sky ahead of them was turning black and the sky behind them was orange and red and yellow and bright white. They were driving straight into the mouth of the night and the numbers on the radio and the dials were glowing green and Christine’s father was pressing the silver buttons click click click to try to find a station that was in range. In reach. The voices on the Saskatoon station were different the ads for different things and the little bits of noise that came on before the news sounded different than the Edmonton radio station they listened to all the time. Then a blur of sudden white in front of the car and a deadened thud.

  ‒ What the hell . . . ?

  ‒ Shit, must’ve been a bird.

  ‒ My grandma said if a white bird flies in front of you it means a death in the family.

  ‒ Do you think it’s dead? Christine asked.

  ‒ If it isn’t I sure as hell stunned the little bugger, her father said.

  ‒ Who will die, Mom?

  ‒ No one, it’s just an old wives’ tale.

  ‒ That bird’s number was sure up . . .

  Her parents laughed low and soft not like the sound of real laughing but laughing without opening their mouths. Then they were quiet. Smoking their cigarettes and drinking from their bottles of beer looking straight ahead into the white light created by their car, bright and ominous. White broken lines double solid lines where cars were not allowed to pass. Tap tap tap her father’s cigarette on the lip of the ashtray. A louder tap tap tap as insects seemed to propel themselves straight toward their car. The radio playing Bobbie Gentry. Her father cut the silence.

  ‒ What did the bug say when it hit the wind shield? If I had the guts, I’d do it again.

  They all laughed, except her sister who seemed to be sleeping through everything on this trip.

  ‹›‹›‹›

  Two deep ruts formed the path to the porch of her grandmother’s house and the headlights of their car pushed their way through the night-blue darkness around them. The sky was painted with stars, why were there so many more stars here than there were in the city?

  Christine wanted to be first out of the car, so excited to see her grandmother. Her father hadn’t turned off the car, the headlights would light the way to the back door as he carried the beer to the house. Her mother was carrying her sleeping sister. The radio blared into the night. Dogs barked. Christine stopped. The bird was stuck to the grill of the car. It was a white bird. Its eyes were closed and its beak was wide open as if it might have been trying to call out to the other birds, warning them to stay away from this car, this family.

  ‒ Dad.

  Christine pointed to the bird. Surprised there was not more blood. The headlights cast the small thing’s grotesque shadow, it seemed much larger as its distorted shape seeped on to the hood of the car.

  ‒ Goddammit! Probably cracked the grill, her father said and spit.

  ‒ What are you going to do with it, Dad?

  ‒ It’s not going anywhere. Scrape it off tomorrow.

  Christine could feel the lights and the shadows on her face at the same time, saw bugs flying in the car lights. The bird’s feet dangled from under it.

  ‒ If it had the guts, it’d do it again! her father laughed.

  The bare light above the back door with moths flapping and bashing themselves against the glass. If they had the guts . . .

  Her mother opened the door, the dogs barked, and her sister didn’t wake.

  ‒ You made it I guess, Christine’s grandmother shouted over the dogs, hugging her mother and smoothing her sister’s hair.

  ‒ Mom, you’re not even locking your door?

  ‒ Well, I knew you were coming . . .

  ‒ We could have been anybody. They still haven’t caught the guy. We were stopped outside Hafford . . .

  ‒ If somebody wants to come get me, well, it’s my time I guess . . . you can put the little one in the back bedroom. Her grandmother kissed the top of Christine’s sister’s head.

  ‒ That’s just nonsense . . .

  Christine’s father followed behind Christine, holding the beer box like a suitcase.

  ‒ You hit something, Christine’s grandmother said, holding the door open and shading her eyes against headlights, as if the beam had the hurt of bright sunlight.

  ‒ Yeah, goddam bird . . .

  Christine’s grandmother bent to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.

  ‒ Hello girlie, she said. Christine took one last look at the crumpled bird and went inside.

  Christine’s father stepped past her grandmother.

  ‒ I hope they catch the guy soon, her grandmother said as her mother closed the bedroom.

  Still her sister slept.

  ‒ Everyone’s looking at each other and wondering “Is it you?” It’s a terrible feeling, just terrible. It could be one of us.

  ‒ You should be locking your door, Mom.

  ‒ Are you hungry? I’ve got a pot of coffee on the stove.

  ‒ I’ll have a beer first.

  ‒ I don’t want you to drink alone, Christine’s father said, taking a beer from the box by the sink. He popped the cap using the metal bottle opener attached to the side of the counter. This bottle opener was familiar to Christine. She remembered the opener always being there. It said �
��Coca-Cola.” Her mother opened a bottle too, and her father made a clicking sound with the side of his mouth, winked at her mother as she drank from the squat bottle. Christine thought her grandmother looked sad. Only for a second.

  ‒ Where’s Daddy?

  ‒ Downtown.

  ‒ He should be here protecting you instead of at the beer parlour with his drinking buddies.

  ‒ Phht . . . don’t think he’d be much protection, her grandmother laughed and lit a cigarette.

  ‒ Pass me that?

  Her mother touched the lit cigarette to hers and drew her breath in and out. Her cigarette burned red at the end. She blew smoke toward the ceiling and Christine followed its trail to the sepia-tinged shape above the kitchen table. The smoke from so many cigarettes had made a map on the ceiling and the capital city was the bare bulb. Christine stared. Where was this map’s legend? What would the light bulb symbol mean? The bulb cast a strange light in the kitchen. Like the way the headlights had shone on the poor dead bird.

  ‒ What will you do with the bird, Dad? Christine asked quietly.

  ‒ I’ll put it in the garbage tomorrow.

  ‒ Can we bury it?

  ‒ Worry about it tomorrow. C’mon get to bed, her mother said to Christine. Go wash up. Scoot.

  ‒ Can’t I stay up a little later? It’s summer holidays . . .

  ‒ Half an hour. Go watch TV.

  Her grandmother hadn’t turned off the TV when they got there. No need to “warm up the idiot box” as her father said. Christine sat in her grandmother’s worn red velvet chair while the grown-ups were in the kitchen. She could see her grandmother standing at the counter, flicking ashes into a small metal ash tray resting on the lip of the sink. There was a movie on TV. It might have been in colour but her grandmother had a black and white TV, so there was no way to be sure. The title was The Family Way and Hayley Mills was in it. Of all the actors with English accents, Hayley Mills was one of her favourites. There was another one who looked like her in The Three Lives of Thomasina. The cat died in that movie. Stiff as a board. Christine tried to sit quietly, stiff as a board in the chair, but she could see her grandmother’s detective magazines in a pile on the arborite coffee table, along with another metal ash tray with a few cigarette butts in it, her grandmother’s liquid embroidery tubes in a plastic bag and the table cloth she was doing, with a wooden hoop circling a cluster of pine cones attached to a sparse branch. Christine could hear the conversation in the kitchen and tried to concentrate on Hayley Mills’ accent but the talk in the kitchen kept breaking into her.