Читать книгу The City Still Breathing - Matthew Heiti - Страница 9

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Francie Duluoz opens her eyes and sees the mobile above her bed going lazy one way and then back, just like it’s been doing every morning since her dad put it up there when she was three. The light through the shutters on the carpet, the poster of Ivan Doroschuk on her door, the stairs, one two three fourteen of them, the kitchen with the butterfly wallpaper, her favourite bowl, favourite spoon, the taste of the cereal so known, so familiar that it’s no taste at all. Moving through everything this morning just like yesterday and the day before and every day of Francie’s days on this planet to now.

She sucks up the last of the milk in her bowl and fiddles with a pad and paper on the kitchen table. She gets as far as dear mom and dad before running out of words. There’s the purring of a car over gravel and she scratches out the dear, heads for the back door. Grabs her bag on the way.

The Duluoz backyard is a dead, overgrown mess. Even in summer, but now in the late fall, it’s greyer and deader than ever. Her dad pays attention to the front because that’s what the neighbours see. The back is his own damn business. Let her mom plant tomatoes or something. But there’re so many roots the only thing that grows is rhubarb. Francie hates rhubarb, and strawberries and pie crust by association.

Slim’s on a branch of the old twisted maple. Wearing that smelly denim jacket with the sleeves too short. Trying to look like a rebel and maybe he does a bit. Right away she sees him dangling his new fashion statement from the branch. Cowboy boots.

‘Where’d you get those shitkickers?’

‘Found em. Around.’

She sits on the ground, back against the trunk. ‘Liar.’

He laughs because they both know it’s true. Slim always lying about everything because he thinks it’s funny. Because it’s easier that way. He pulls a sucker out of his pocket, peels the plastic and tosses it in the breeze.

‘That’s littering, y’know.’

He shrugs, sticks the sucker in his mouth. ‘When’re your parents back?’

‘Funeral’s today, so probably tomorrow.’ Feeling with her hand the place he cut their initials in the bark. ‘You’re late.’

‘It’s early.’

‘You’re still late.’

He drops out of the tree and heads for the driveway. ‘Let’s book then.’

‘I’m in my fuckin pyjamas, Slim.’

‘They look great.’

Francie grabs her bag and follows him out to the red Dart, all polished up and not a spot of rust on her. On the passenger side, Slim runs his hand from headlight to handle, touching it like he touches Francie sometimes when nobody would notice. He swings the big door open for her. She tries to duck past him, but he grabs her bag.

‘Trunk’s full.’ He tosses it in the back seat. ‘That all you got?’

‘Don’t need much.’ She looks up at the house. Grey with burgundy trim – like Cape Cod, her dad said, like this was cultured, like this was the excuse for never repainting and letting it peel like some old onion. The house of yesterday and the days and days before, the house of this morning, and that was it.

Slim clicks the heels of the cowboy boots together three times and holds the door wide for her. ‘No place like home.’

As they pull away, she watches her upstairs window, catching a bit of her mobile. Spinning one way and then back.

Francie rolls down the window to let in the fall air and when Slim gives her The Look she says, ‘It stinks,’ because it does. Slim cleans the dash with a toothbrush and vacuums the upholstery, but the car still reeks three years after Heck puked in the back. Four milkshakes and an hour swinging around in a rubber tire and no amount of shampoo can get the smell out. Today worse than usual.

Slim crosses Regent and trucks on down Ontario, hardly a car out yet. ‘Where’re we going?’

‘Got a couple stops to make.’ He rubs his eyes, red rimmed and grey bagged. Scratches some of his poor excuse for stubble.

‘You look tired.’

‘What?’ He puts a hand on her leg like he’s trying to reassure her. But the hand is a dead thing weighed down by that big dumb gold watch and he’s looking at the road with some thousand-mile stare like he’s seeing anything but her, this car, this road.

‘You okay, Slim?’

He takes his hand away and pops in the New Order eight-track, Francie’s favourite. The same album they played racing through the slag heaps in summer, sweating and tangled in Slim’s secret cabin, talking their way into the next day, the next month, all the nexts you could come up with. Music sounds different on different days. Today as that echoing guitar kicks in, all she can hear is the grey blue of all the loneliness in the world. Both of them singing along, I’ve lost you, I’ve lost you, oh, I’ve lost you. Slim slapping the steering wheel out of time as the drum rolls on.

He pulls right up to the base of it and pops the parking brake on. Francie staring up at the big coin. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

Slim reaches across her to the glove compartment and pulls out his Polaroid. Swings his door open.

‘C’mon.’

‘You’re not kidding.’

‘People get their picture taken with the Eiffel Tower, don’t they?’

‘It’s so tacky.’

‘We’ll do a whole series of you in front of giant coins. Big dimes, big pennies. It’ll be my first show.’

He laughs, Slim all over again, and his laugh is so stupid, honking like a goose, that she’s laughing too. Out of the car, him chasing, her dodging. She jumps up on the concrete base and strikes a pose, something she saw in a magazine, one leg bent and a hand on her cheek. Slim goes down on one knee, holding the camera like a rifle, a real professional.

‘Hey, isn’t that Normando?’ Slim points his camera off to the side and buzzes a Polaroid through.

She follows his aim and sees they’re not alone – off at the end of the lot, a black truck, some ugly old man sitting on the fender staring at her with ugly eyes, drinking an ugly beer. ‘Who?’

‘The popcorn guy. Y’know, with the popcorn cart?’

‘The one who eats children?’

‘He doesn’t eat – Jesus, he’s like a local legend, Francie. They practically built the city around him.’

He looks like he could be that old. All the ugly oldness of this city. She’d been to Toronto last summer. Those high-rise apartments up in the clouds. All the restaurants and shops. Everything so new and fun and everything even uglier when she got back here.

The buzz of the Polaroid brings her back to Slim, grinning up at her.

‘Catch me!’ And she’s jumping off the pedestal, Slim trying to grab her with one arm, protecting the camera, both of them tumbling over in a dusty laughing heap. She looks up at the big dumb coin.

Laughing at this great tourist act. Laughing that in all the days of ­Francie’s days on this planet, this is her first time up here. The whole city down there and the rim of slag like a ring tight around the two of them. She laughs so hard she might puke. ‘Oh god I hate this place.’

She dozes off in the car for what feels like five minutes and then they’re stopping already. Slim pulling up at Gloria’s and she says, ‘It’ll be midnight before we get there.’

‘I’m hungry.’

She sighs, making it as noisy as possible and says, ‘I’ll meet you inside’ in a wait-for-me way. But he’s already out and slamming the door. She pulls the rear-view down and checks her hair, ties it up to one side. She thinks about changing out of her pyjamas but doesn’t.

Every girl in her graduating class wore a pound of makeup. Her friend Caitlin says she’s a natural beauty, but that’s just another way of saying princess and she isn’t that. She just doesn’t like makeup and anyway she does wear a bit of eyeliner now and then. If she feels like it. But not now, now she looks like she just crawled out of bed, but Slim says she looks good any time of the day. The way he takes her picture, he has a way of making her feel easy – not in that way – but in that moment, in the camera flash, she feels like she can be whatever it is she’s gonna be.

Whatever. She gets out of the car. Slim’s waited just long enough to start to wonder.

It’s a blue haze inside the diner, graveyard shifters and nine-to-fivers rubbing elbows over greasy plates and bad coffee. Francie finds Slim in the corner booth, leg up, showing off one of the new boots, back to the wall, reading the menu like it’s the work of one of his Russian poets. Two steaming mugs on the table.

Here comes Lucy, her shoulders all hunched up in her ears, gum going. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’m fine with coffee.’ Francie slides the menu across the table and Lucy snatches it away, swivelling her little eyes onto Slim.

‘Two eggs over hard, home fries, brown toast.’

‘Only got white.’ Scribbling on her notepad like she might need to testify later. ‘Ham, bacon, sausage.’

‘Nope.’

‘Eh?’

‘No meat.’

‘It comes with meat.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘No meat?’ Like she’s never heard of this before, like he might as well eat a baby as eat breakfast without meat.

‘Nope.’

She gives him a nuclear stare and then walks off to the kitchen, still shaking her head as the doors swing closed.

Francie goes through her pockets and comes out with her pack of smokes, lights one. Slim giving her That Look. ‘What? It’s a menthol.’ He shrugs as if he doesn’t care and looks away. ‘So I’m thinking, first thing we do is we start looking for an apartment.’

‘Thought your sister had space.’

‘She does, it’s just my parents are going to kill her when they find out. And we can find something closer to school so you don’t have to drag all your lenses and stuff around on the subway.’

‘You know how expensive rent is, Francie?’

‘I know.’ The diner coffee is brewed so black she might glow in the dark. Slim not even touching his. Habits are reassuring. Something to collect, like she used to do with her marbles. Handfuls of alleys and a few croakers still in a bag in her closet. Left behind. ‘But I’ll get a job or something for a bit and I’ll be pulling in some money soons I get an agent.’

‘Right. Might as well get a penthouse, all the cash from the magazine covers.’

‘Don’t.’ That easy, with a tone or a word or a look, to take all the light out of it. To puncture a dream. Like Francie’s sister using a pin on a balloon at her birthday party and her crying, Dad coming over with more, no one understanding that other balloons were not that balloon. So easy to make someone else feel stupid. ‘Don’t make fun of me.’

‘Sorry.’ Because he sees right away what he’s done, and all of a sudden he lets himself not be cool. The leg comes down and he leans across, takes her hand. ‘You’re fucking gorgeous.’

‘Sure sure.’

‘You are. To the max. You’ll be all over the place – billboards, TV.’

‘It’s not about that, it’s just … I want it so bad. I’ll work my ass off.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’re gonna be great.’

‘And you’ll do the photo shoots. My personal photographer.’

‘Sure.’ His hand’s still there but now he’s pulling away.

‘When you can. You’ll be busy with school and putting on art shows at little museums. I’ll help you hang the photos. I’m good at that.’

He leans back to make room for the plate Lucy drops in front of him. Heaps of everything, bacon piled on the side, oozing grease. She refills Francie’s mug. ‘No school today?’

Slim answers by driving his bacon onto the tabletop with his fork. Lucy almost chokes on her gum. ‘Slim Novak, you little devil.’

‘It’s Slider. My last name is Slider.’

‘What?’ Lucy’s eyes bug out like a cartoon character and Francie swallows a giggle.

‘Yeah, I changed it.’

‘Your poor mother,’ Lucy says with a huff and then she’s off with her coffee pot, spreading joy.

Slim picks at his potatoes. Francie grabs a piece of his toast, too bleached for him to eat. ‘If we leave right after this, we’ll be there by one, right?’

‘Mm.’

‘I can’t wait to get there. We can go get some food at this rad little Mexican place around the corner from Morgan’s – you’ll love it.’

‘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.’ He laughs, one forced note he swallows before it’s done. He plays with the zipper on his ski vest, ahems a few times and then, ‘You got any quarters? I gotta play some Rygar.’

‘What’s goin on, Heck?’

‘What? With what? Nothin.’

She angles the rear-view so she can see his face. ‘What’s up with him?’

He squirms around in the back seat. ‘I’ll just get some quarters inside.’

After he’s gone she looks back out the window, Christ the King down at the end of the street, a bit of pale sun coming through, lighting up the big stained-glass rose window in the tower. The first colour she’s seen all day.

She changes in the back seat, jeans and her favourite purple Vuarnet sweatshirt, and she’s still trying to dig the underwear out of her ass when she gets to the sign, that big monkey grinning down on all the traffic passing by. Top Hat Amusements.

Inside it’s all lights and noise – pinball machines and pool tables and arcades and all the other shit she grew out of ages ago. Kids in outfits so lame it’d make you sick, things they were wearing down south like last year. Kids skipping class to go to the arcade, while their parents skip work to go to Elm Town Square or Towers or god knows where, just to get away from something. Each other maybe.

Francie makes for the back where the old ones hang out, past Heck shouting, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ at some cabinet, passing Feldman leaning against a pillar keeping an eye out, and there’s Slim lounging at the Moon Patrol tabletop, across from Duncan, who’s plucking at his green mohawk. They’re just finishing up, Dunc sliding a small vial across and Slim sliding a few bills back.

Before Slim spots her, she ducks into the photo booth, sits on the ripped leather cushion in all that beaver panel. Her fingers find the cool disc of a quarter in her pocket and she thinks, like what the fuck, and drops it down the slot. The machine purrs and then Francie hears Slim’s chair slide back and then Dunc’s raspy voice.

‘Slim, thought you should know – Milly’s comin in from ­Spanish.’

‘Okay.’

‘He’s looking for his brother.’

‘Okay, so?’

‘Disappeared a few days ago, just walked straight off the farm, and y’know Lemmy’s a fuckin retard, so Milly figures he mighta got himself froze to death.’

‘Bummer.’

‘Yeah, so anyway, word is cops found some dead kid out on 17 last night.’

‘Lemmy?’

‘Dunno, but Milly thinks maybe, so he’s comin to make sure. He fuckin loves that kid, practically raised him.’

‘That’s a bummer.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, I’m just sayin cause the word is the cops lost the body.’

A shutter click, a flash, and Francie’s world is a white sheet.

‘So maybe someone took it or somethin. That’s what’s goin around anyway – that someone took it.’

Click, flash.

A groan from Slim. ‘Fuckin Heck.’

Click, flash.

‘Yeah, well, anyway, thought you should know. It’s gonna look pretty bad for whoever stole that body. Milly sure loved that kid.’

Click, flash. She rubs her eyes. Trying to brush the white spots out.

A clunk and a strip spits out of the machine. Slim walks past the booth, heading back into the mass of brats. Francie grabs the strip, four white squares fading in, and stuffs it into her pocket, slides out of the booth. Dunc leaning over the tabletop, his face lit up by the game like he’s telling a ghost story and maybe he is. He flashes her some teeth. ‘Hey, Francine.’

She gives him the finger and heads for the door, dragging Heck away from his game yelling, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ the whole way.

Back in the car she doesn’t bother with the window anymore, she stares straight at Slim. Even Heck shuts up when he feels the air go sour, or he’s still sulking about his stupid arcade game. Slim keeps giving her sideways glances and his forehead’s softened up. Then they turn off Regent and she finally loses it.

‘Where the fuck are we going?’

‘Just hold on.’

‘I’m not gonna fuckin hold on. We’re supposed to be halfway to Toronto but instead we been driving all over the city and I wanna know what the fuck for!’

‘Just one last stop, Francie.’

‘I swear to god, Slim, if we’re not on that highway – I swear to fuckin god.’

‘I’ll get you there, don’t worry, babe.’ And it’s got to be real bad, because pet names make Slim barf. As some kind of peace offering, he jams the tape back in the eight-track. The vocals kicking in, and I’m stuck here two years too long, and Francie thinks ain’t that the fuckin truth of it. In the summer this was a love song and now it’s a song about this day and yesterday and all the days before. Stuck, stuck, stuck. And then Bernard’s voice gets all crunched up as the deck mangles the tape. Francie wrenching it loose.

‘You’re gonna wreck it, Francie!’ Slim trying to grab the tape from her, but she rolls down her window and tosses it. ‘Fuckin psycho!’ He pounds the wheel.

Heck forces one of his stupid pig laughs from the back seat.

‘You guys.’

In the mirror, she watches the magnetic tape unspooling behind them in a big oily ribbon, the tape clattering on the pavement. Francie laughing. Just Married.

Slim swings the car around behind Wembley Public, stopping in the trees down near the metal bridge over the creek. So far past talking, the three of them just watch the water, a shopping cart upended in the middle, brown foam pooling around it.

Slim pulls the vial out of his jacket and spills three blue microdots into his hand. He drops one and passes one back to Heck. The last one to Francie, her holding the blue tab like a bug she might squish. Placing it on her tongue. Dropping this little bit of colour down her throat, down inside her. A little blue into all that grey, like the food colouring her mom used for cake icing. Sometimes a little drop is all it takes. The blue’s falling into her and outside the snow is just starting to fall.

Before five minutes have passed, Heck’s already rubbing his face. ‘It stinks back here.’

Slim snorts. ‘Because you fuckin blew chunks back there.’

‘It really stinks.’ Heck’s struggling out of his jacket. ‘And it’s hot, like a sauna.’ Then he’s out the door, rolling around on the gravel.

Francie pulls her legs up on the seat, chin on knees. ‘I don’t wanna be dicked around, Slim.’

‘I’m not dicking you around.’

‘You’re lying – ’

‘I’m not – ’

‘ – or you’re not telling me something, whatever, I don’t even give a shit, I just want to get down south.’

‘What’s the big deal? Toronto’s nothin special.’

‘It’s better than here. There’s so much to do there.’

‘There’s stuff here too.’

‘Like what – hanging out at the arcade? What’s up with you, I thought you hated it here too.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not okay – it sucks! I want to do things, I want to be something, and this town is dead. It’s dead. You can’t be a photographer here.’

‘Who says I can be a photographer anywhere?’

‘Your stuff is so cool, Slim. The way you take people – it’s so fuckin cool. Nobody’s cool like that.’

‘It’s kids’ stuff. I’m done with it.’

‘Why’re you saying that?’ The blue is spreading through her, syruping over the grey, tinting everything. ‘You don’t mean it.’

‘Photography – art, whatever – it’s not real, Francie.’

‘But what about school?’

‘Fuck it.’

‘You said it’s one of the best in the country.’

‘Well, I was wrong. It’s stupid. I’ll get a real job.’

‘Where?’

‘Wherever. Maybe you should think about it too.’

‘I don’t wanna be a fuckin waitress, Slim.’

‘My mom’s a waitress.’

‘Yeah and you hate her.’

‘I’m just saying maybe it’s time you gave up this fantasy, Francie.’

‘Shut up.’ Flakes of blue coming down, everywhere they hit, the grey going blue, the ground the trees the hood of the car, a world of blue. ‘Just tell me.’ But Slim’s face goes even greyer, becomes an iceberg. ‘Are we going or not?’

And he opens his mouth, so wide his skull might crack, and out comes the grey of the word No, all that grey spilling across his seat toward her and she swings the door open, falling back onto the dirt on her ass, the world rolling underneath her like dad’s sailboat on the lake in the summer, stumbling across the deck, scattering stones down into the water, her a stone, Slim’s words scattering her, sending her forward over the edge of the boat, and she’s falling down down down into the lake the creek the water down into Slim’s mouth she’s drowning in all that grey drowning in the pit of this town today tomorrow next all the nexts of Francie’s days on this planet, one grey mess, and then she catches herself. Her hands on the railing. The cold of the metal. Something solid under her feet. The bridge. The creek below her.

Her hands around the railing blue. The bridge blue. Her insides the blue world. She’s colder than she’s ever been, so far beyond cold she misses the plain numb of grey.

Something slides around her, someone holding her – no, a jacket – Slim’s jean jacket around her, the warmth of his body whispering around inside, but even this warmth just another kind of cold. She pulls it tight around her anyway.

‘Dear Mr. Slider.’ Slim leaning on the railing beside her. He’s got that envelope from the diner and a white sheet of paper in his hand, reading. ‘Thank you for your application and portfolio but we regret to inform you … ’ And then he just keeps reading that part over and over again, we regret to inform you, we regret to inform you, saying it as he crumples the paper up in a ball and drops it down into the creek, regret, regret, regret.

‘Francie. I’ll still drive you down, okay? I’ll come back here and work, just for a bit and then I’ll come down. Then we’ll do everything, go to that Mexican place, whatever.’

But all she can hear is regret, regret, regret. ‘Liar.’

‘A few months tops, I promise.’

‘Liar.’

Because it’s easier. And he might be right next to her, but he’s still all grey and she’s over here in a galaxy of blue. Right next to each other but so far away.

Then Heck’s between them, his shirt off, big hairy belly flopping around and he’s still sweating.

‘Okay, I’m ready, Slim.’

‘For what?’

‘C’mon, man, don’t fuck around. You gotta show us.’

Francie remembers something about this, a million years back at the diner. ‘Show us what?’

‘Regret, regret, regret.’ Slim’s singing it, wandering back to the car, Heck and Francie trailing him, following the music of regret, Slim prancing ahead doing his Jethro Tull impersonation with an imaginary flute, the pied piper of regret.

He leads them around the back of the Dart, and there the three of them stand, staring down at the trunk. The look on Slim like some bad magician about to do his big trick. It was like that TV show she watched with her mom where they were opening a sealed tomb for the first time – all the excitement of what was inside, and then bullshit.

Slim puts the key in the trunk, a twist, and the whole thing comes open. All the grey of the world coming out. Francie watches it pour out of the trunk, onto the ground, staining all the blue back to grey.

Heck pukes immediately, like his stomach was on standby. At first Francie can only think it’s a joke, like this pale naked man is going to jump out of the trunk yelling surprise. But she takes one look at Slim, one look at his forehead, smooth and dead, to know that everything is fucked. Nobody talks for a while, only Heck gagging.

‘Who is it?’

‘I dunno.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I dunno.’

Older than them, but maybe not too much, brownish hair, not too tall. Lips drawn back, almost like a smile, and something dark around the throat, like another smile. This is the first dead thing Francie has ever seen in all her days on this planet, and it’s not even really that bad. With the big poplars swinging back and forth above them, the water in the creek going by, it’s almost peaceful. Almost like the four of them are just hanging out here together.

‘I was just drivin around, comin back from the pawn shop, and there was the van pullin into the station, lights goin, and so I drive up, see what’s happening. Pull up right alongside the thing, nobody inside, nobody around. So I get out, go around to the back and the doors are open and there it is.’

‘And so you took it?’

‘No, I swear to fuck, Francie, I was there lookin at it and then I was pullin into your driveway.’

‘So what – it just appeared in your trunk?’

‘I don’t fuckin know. I mean I guess I put it there, but it’s like I blacked out. I got that letter yesterday and it’s like my brain just shut off. I mean who the fuck am I? I was up all night, got in this fight, sold the cameras and there it was – this fuckin dead guy, right in front of me. And I thought fuck it. I’ll stay here, I’ll go back to sellin weed or popcorn like fuckin Normando or whatever, it doesn’t fuckin matter, because I’m not gonna do covers for National Geographic or art shows. I’ll never get outta here. I’m just gonna end up in the back of a fuckin van. No name. Nothing.’

Slim sits on the ground next to Heck, who is holding his head between his legs. ‘Aw, jinkies.’ Heck spits. ‘I thought it’d be cool. This isn’t cool. He’s dead, man. He’s really dead.’

Francie stares right into the dead man’s eyes. Just one of those faces, like they say about serial killers – could be anybody. Might’ve passed him in the mall, or sat next to him on the bus. Now none of that’s there, nothing in the eyes. Like when she’d wake Slim up in his cabin, that brief moment when he hadn’t returned from sleep. His brain would be reeling his soul in and for a second he’d be no one.

She says, ‘So is this Milly’s brother?’

‘What?’

‘At Top Hat, Dunc said – is this Lemmy?’

Slim groans and turns his head to look in the trunk. ‘Maybe.’

‘You never met him?’

‘Milly had him out at that old farmhouse. Oh fuck.’ He hugs himself, shivering in his T-shirt. ‘What do we do with it?’

‘The fuck should I know?’

‘Please, Francie.’ Hands knit together like he’s begging or praying. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

She sits down on the dirt, all three of them lined up against the fender. ‘You give him back to the cops.’

‘Fuck that – you crazy?’

‘Give him to Milly then.’

‘You are crazy. Jyrki fuckin Myllarinen – you know what he … his own fuckin parents – you have any idea what he’d do to me?’

‘It’s his brother.’

‘We don’t know that. Anyway, thanks to this asshole,’ he slaps Heck, ‘he’s gonna think I stole the fuckin body. I’m fucked. And if I show up with some dead guy that isn’t his brother, I’m fucked anyway.’

‘So what then?’

‘We’ll split.’

‘What?’

‘The car’s already packed. We’ll head for Toronto.’

‘I’m not going to Toronto with a dead body in the fuckin trunk, Slim!’

‘Fuck!’ He jumps to his feet and kicks the fender. Then kicks it again. And again. Then he kicks Heck, who rolls away. Slim moves away, kicking trees, kicking rocks, kicking anything in his way.

Francie stands and walks down the slope to the creek. Slim let the grey out of that trunk and it was grey again, grey everywhere, only worse this time because it had sunk its teeth in and wouldn’t let go now. But looking down, her hands are still blue, and closing her eyes she can feel a shard in her heart pumping blue through her veins.

This is the picture she’d like of herself – blue Francie. Not like her magazines. Pictures and pictures and pictures of beautiful people in beautiful clothes in beautiful places. That’s why a lot of people do it, she guesses – to live in that state of beauty. But everything is ugly. It’s just about being seen. More than Dad peering over his paper to say Good morning, or Mom pretending to care when she says How was your day, honey, or your friends looking straight through you to see only what you can give them. It would just be nice to be seen, all of her, like Slim used to see her through his camera. But that dead look on that dead body is the dead look you get everywhere. The dead look even on Slim’s face these days. It’s only a matter of time before someone else drags you down. Blue Francie slowly becoming grey Francie.

Splash! A body hits the water and Francie looks up to the bridge to see Slim at the railing. Looking back to the water to see the body pop to the surface.

‘What the fuck’re you doing?’

‘Getting rid of it!’ Slim looking all pleased, like he’s solved a problem, not ruined everything.

It’s floating away, and she’s following along the bank, pushing through the bushes, branches clawing at her face and hair, trying to keep it in sight. Slim yelling something stupid and pointless behind her. The body just going all peaceful, carried along by the creek. The path curves away and the brush is getting so thick she’s going to lose it, so she steps into the water. She expects it to be needle cold, but she can’t feel anything. She wades out into the middle of the creek, waist deep, so close she could touch it.

But then it’s by and she’s missed her chance. On it goes heading for the culvert where the creek runs under the road. The black mouth opening to swallow the body. Francie’s voice shouting blue words, ‘I can see you! I can see you!’

Slim’s arms around her, pulling her back, Francie still fighting, trying to keep seeing. Both of them finally falling back on the shore. Slim crying. Francie just lying there, feeling the weight of each snowflake. Flake by flake covering them up, maybe even burying them.

She stands, brushes the snow off. Slim reaches for her. ‘I’m ready. We can go. Let’s go now.’

‘No.’ Because you can’t pin your dreams on other people, like some kind of game of pin-the-tail-on-whatever. ‘No.’ Because she was that close, like the body floating by, close enough to touch, to see, and Slim and her, they both missed their chance. ‘No.’ Because way off over the trees, it almost looks like there’s a little crack in the sky, a bit of blue starting to show.

And as she walks away, she looks for her smokes and finds the photo strip in her pocket. The four little squares of her still white, still waiting to be found.