Pig: A Thriller (14 page)

Friends as much as lovers, the two of them filled a gap in the other that needed filling. They shared their first attempts at calf roping, first kiss, first place in the district spelling bee and first dance at the high school graduation prom. Neither ever imagined leaving the foothills, content to ranch and be with each other every day.

Nothing suited the two better than to saddle up a couple of paints with carefully packed saddlebags and head halfway up the Castle range and escape to the sanctuary of each other, cuddled up by the fire under a sleeping bag with a guitar and the smell of wood smoke flavouring the mountain pine, sleeping in late, sharing a sleeping bag, listening to the chipmunks chattering, the whisper of the wind sending pine needles tickling down the side of the tent.  At night, the Northern Lights stretched from horizon to horizon, sheets cascading across the sky, Chinook arch off in the distance. It was just like being inside a huge neon tube sending coded messages only the two of them understood. One night, Snow stepped out in the middle of the night to pee, naked as newborn calf, arching a steaming geyser off the ravine into the crisp, fall air. He stopped to throw two chunks of spruce onto the fire, and a crack rent his world in two.

For no reason Snow could possibly discern – he’d puzzled over it for decades now -- a poplar had come crashing down in their clearing, crushing the tent and Jillian sleeping inside. Snow, just inches away, tending to the fire, was left unharmed. There was no wind, no storm, no reason for it to come down.

The fucking tree just fucking fell.

Snow’s next great love became vodka: the first sip, that tingly feeling at the back of his throat, that slow sensation of warmth in his chest, the onset of ease, almost sexual even, as full and rich and sensual and complex as a real relationship, the language and languor of liquor, a splash, a twist, the sounds of a gentle clink of ice in a glass, the hollow pop of the stopper leaving the bottle, until the whole relationship between the two of them grew like kudzu, rising and creeping over him until he couldn't imagine life without it.

“If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear?” – (possibly) George Berkely, philosopher

“If a tree falls in the forest, it kills Schrödinger’s cat.” --  Magda Perskanski

After that, Snow tried. He tried to pick up the pieces of his life and go on. He really did.  He had gotten as far as living with a woman once. He had not disliked her. She was decent enough company, fulsome, pretty good in the sack. Even had a nice rack that he was kind enough to appreciate. Still, she left him. She’d wanted more of him than he was willing to give. He had been willing to give nothing.

“Your phone is unplugged,” Magda observed. The cord was disconnected and tucked under the handset like a fresh cucumber tendril climbing up a trellis of chicken wire.

Snow noticed the bingle of her earring against her neck, the flash like a spoon calling to trout.

“I know. If I want to phone someone, I plug it in.” The handset was covered with dust. It didn’t look like that happened often.

“What if someone wants to phone you?”

“No problem. They usually give up after a while.”

“Know what? You can live without a telephone. You can’t live without friends.”

“Wanna bet?”

Snow had told Pig he hadn’t needed a telephone, to give it to someone else. The Camp Boss had informed him he had to have one in his room in case of a work emergency. Obediently, Snow had promptly put it on the desk table – unplugged -- and ignored it, having no desire to talk to people, not old friends, not family, not relatives, certainly not someone canvassing for the Heart Society or someone claiming they could save him money on his phone bills. What Snow wanted was to be left alone. Alone with his pain.

             
“You need anything?” Pig asked, pushing in through the door without knocking. Speak of the devil, there was that sulphur smell again.

“Yeah, the fucking lock fixed, by the looks of it. You’re the second person to barge in here without an invitation tonight.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the fucking lock,” Pig answered. “Snow just gets in the crack and blocks it open.” That was the Slavic way: deny anything was wrong so you didn’t have to do anything in response. Maybe the problem would just go away by itself.

“I phoned, but there was no dial tone. I told you before, plug your fucking phone in or I’ll hardwire it into the wall.” That was the Slavic way, too, deflect blame onto someone else. “I came by to check if you were enjoying tonight’s porn, take any requests for next week’s titles, get your vodka order,  but I can see you’re in even worse shape than I thought. Thank God I came by. Listen, you need to get your fluids drained,” – Pig waved a thumb at Magda – “I can help you out with something a lot better than this … this …
ebanatyipidaraz
, this fucking grandmother. Shit, man, are you fucking blind as well as desperate? Half her girls look even worse than her.”

             
“Nice to see you, too, Pig,” Magda said. “
Kor-rovie khuy-ee
. Your mother sucks cow dicks.”

“
Sloocha
. Slut,” Pig acknowledged. “
Sosi ebnataya suka
. Suck it, you fucking whore. Look, I told you. What you do in town is your own business. In camp, selling whores is mine.”

“It’s a free country,” Magda said. “
Ti ne podmakhivai.
Mind your own fucking business.”

“No, it’s a capitalist one,
khuyesos’
. Nothing is free anymore. And in this camp, I’m the capitalist. So bugger off.”

“
Dolboeb
,” Magda cursed him. “Fuckhead.”

“Hey! I went to MGU. While you were slutting it out, I was hitting the books.”

“For lunch maybe,” Magda countered. “Plug your phone in and call me if you’re interested in what I said,” she tossed over her shoulder at Snow, no longer interested in being in the room. Without Snow noticing, she’d written the number on a scrap of paper she’d left on the table.

             
“
Wed’ma
. Witch,” Pig cursed her back as she left.