The Carpenter (22 page)

She looked coolly elegant, much as she had the first time he’d ever seen her, in the church when she’d played the piano. She was dressed in a pale satin dress, fitted in the bodice, bare across the shoulders. She was smiling as she came forward, and Pete felt his breath catch in his throat. She smelled like lilacs, and when she said hello there was peppermint schnapps on her breath.

Pete held up the corsage. Emily told him to come in, that they’d go soon.

Samantha was in the living room with her boyfriend, Doug.
Doug’s tuxedo trousers were short by a full two inches, and he’d paired white sports socks with the brown leather shoes he was wearing. Doug and the girls finished the drinks they’d been working on and they all went out and got into Pete’s car and set off for Heron Heights. Doug pawed at Samantha in the back seat. She was slapping his hand and laughing. They passed a mickey of rum between them and offered it to Emily. She had a sip of it, made a face, and passed it back. The corsage was pinned over her breast. She was wearing snow boots, but had brought along a pair of high heels to wear at the dance. Pete kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

They’d spent much of the past two weeks seeing each other. She’d called him at work one day, a little while after he’d seen her at the hospital. She’d admonished him for not calling her. The first two times they’d spent together, they barely touched. He’d not dared to put words to what might be happening. He avoided Billy entirely. Then, on a weekend afternoon, he and Emily had gone walking by the river and she’d stopped abruptly and said he’d better give her a kiss.

In the car now, Emily asked Pete how work was. He answered briefly, agreeably. He didn’t say anything about Billy’s visit.

They arrived at Heron Heights at a quarter past eight. Pete had only gone to a few dances at his old high school. He’d never gone to a formal.

They got out of the car, Samantha and Doug in the lead. Emily looped her arm through Pete’s. She said: Do you think a Christmas formal is too much? I feel like I at least have to make an appearance.

—We’ll have fun, said Pete. Will we see your other friends?

—One or two of them. There’s been some drama.

—Drama.

—I don’t like drama. But if you’re a girl you can’t get away from it. I envy you. Boys don’t become dramatic. Boys just hit each other like cavemen when they get mad.

They went into the school lobby. There was a national flag and a portrait of the Queen and a bulletin board. Music was coming through the doors to the auditorium. The students’ council had set up a reception table. A girl at the table greeted Emily and Samantha and Doug by name and asked Peter if he was Emily’s guest. She crossed their names off a list and told them to not forget about the photographer.

The auditorium was dark, hot and half filled with young people uneasy in their fancy dress. Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Some teacher chaperones policed the scene, prowling for booze. A local disc jockey had his equipment set up on the stage. He had stacks of LPs in milk crates and was just now drawing a record out of a sleeve. Nobody was dancing.

People spoke to Emily and Samantha and Doug. Pete was introduced. They spent some time idling about in their foursome and Emily was never far away. Fingertips on Pete’s hand or a tug at the edge of his jacket. He wondered at it. She told him when a good song came on she wanted him to dance with her.

After awhile, they went to a classroom where a photographer had set up his camera in front of a muted backdrop. Pete and Emily took up a position. The photographer came over and adjusted their pose, angled them towards each other. Pete’s free hand traced patterns on the small of Emily’s back. The photographer scooted back behind his camera and told them to smile their million-buck smiles.

Emily murmured: Is this completely ridiculous?

—It was your idea.

She pushed her back against Pete’s fingers.

The flashbulb went off and the photographer told them that was just great. Emily took Pete’s arm and they stepped away from the backdrop. Pete wondered vaguely what might become of the photograph.

Back in the auditorium, the music was slower. Couples were pairing up to dance. They spied Doug and Samantha out on the floor, turning slowly. Doug looked half asleep.

Emily led Pete out and they started to dance, and then over her shoulder Pete saw a small group of the people he’d wondered about. There was Nancy. Some other girls were with her. There was Roger. He was leaning against the edge of the stage. Beside him one of his mates was saying something into his ear. Roger had his head tilted the better to hear, and both he and his friend were looking at Pete. If Emily had seen any of them, she gave no sign of it.

When the song ended, Emily and Pete headed back to the chairs at the edge of the room. Sweat and perfume and cologne hung in the air. Doug had disappeared somewhere but Samantha had come with them. She said she needed more rum, would Emily go with her to the bathroom.

—Am I just going to leave Pete here? said Emily.

—We’ll only be two minutes, said Samantha. Can you take care of yourself, Pete?

—I’ll be fine, said Pete.

Emily put her lips against his ear. Her breath was warm. She told him she would be back and she kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. Then she was gone.

Pete was very hot. He made his way over to a refreshment table along the far wall, beneath a banner of the school mascot, a snarling cartoon Indian brave. Snacks were arrayed on the table around a big punch bowl. He poured a cup and drank it. The punch was not spiked but it was queasily sweet.

Nancy came up to him from somewhere. It was all on her face and in her voice. They said hello to each other and then asked the cursory questions people are required to ask—what have you been up to, what’s new? Her tone was clipped: How come you never called on me?

—I don’t know, said Pete.

—I thought you were nice. I don’t fool around with just anybody.

—I don’t know, Nancy. I’m sorry.

—Was it because of Emily?

—What?

—You thought I couldn’t see it? Well I’ve got one thing to say to you. Be careful.

—What?

—You think Emily doesn’t have big ideas about her life? No offence, but you’re a dropout. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Peter.

She seemed like she was waiting for a rebuttal. Instead, Pete went back over to the dance floor, tipping down the punch on the way. It almost made him gag.

Emily and Samantha had returned and sat in the chairs. Pete came up to them and Emily stood up and kissed him. He could taste rum.

—Is it just me or is it roasting in here?

—I’m boiling, said Pete. Actually, I think I’ll go splash some water on my face.

Pete went down the corridor outside of the auditorium. He found the boy’s washroom and went in. He was alone but for one pair of shoes glimpsed beneath a cubicle.

There was a round stone sink in the middle of the floor. Pete looked at himself in the stainless-steel mirror over the basin. He adjusted the stiff lapels of his rental tux and loosened his bow tie a little bit. He scrubbed cool water into his face and into his hair. Then he heard the door open and close. He knew who had come before he even saw them.

—Look who it is, said Roger.

He had a friend with him. Pete straightened, water dripping off his jaw. They had come around to the side of the sink, casually. Roger spat on the floor.

—Are you having a good time?

—The punch is too sweet, said Pete.

He had nowhere to go without having to go around them. They exchanged a look and then they smiled at him. It was their advantage and they knew it, and Pete wondered exactly how bad this was going to be.

But then the cubicle opened. A kid with long hair and an ill-fitting suit took two shuffling steps out. His face was dead white and he was smacking his lips.

—Buddies, said the kid. Buddies.

The kid swayed. He dropped to one knee and vomited onto what must have been Roger’s father’s oxfords. A stench of stomach acid and raw alcohol filled the air. The kid shuddered and vomited again. Roger’s face went bright red. He tapped out a peculiar dance to extricate himself from the waste on his feet. His friend looked like he was getting close to retching himself, going pale, staring, taking great gulps of air.

Pete stepped around them and went into the corridor. A moment later, he could hear voices lifting in outrage. He was ten paces away when he heard the washroom door clap open. He chanced a backwards look and saw Roger’s friend jogging into the corridor with a hand clasped over his mouth.

When Pete re-entered the auditorium, the heat was almost forceful. There was a slow song playing again and Doug and Samantha and everybody else were up dancing.

Emily came up behind Pete and took his arm. She was frowning. When Pete looked past her shoulder he saw Nancy in the near distance.

—Are you okay?

—I’m fine, said Emily.

—Well. Do you want to dance?

—No. I want to get out of here. This is ridiculous.

—What about your friends?

—They’ll be fine. Doug lives a block away and that’s where they’re going.

—Okay. Do you want to go home?

—Oh my God, Pete. I didn’t get dressed up to be home by ten. Let’s go do something. Come on.

Emily told Samantha that they were leaving. She linked her arm into Pete’s and they walked out. He was relieved. He got his
car started. Emily thought for a minute and then she told him exactly what she wanted to do.

It was a house league night but there were a few lanes open for the public. They switched their boots for the rental footwear. They bought colas and hot dogs and went to their lane and bowled badly. The house league teams were drunk, shouting at the balls thundering down the hardwood. Pete and Emily were objects of some amusement in the clothes they were wearing, but nobody bothered them.

Pete sat in one of the plastic chairs at the head of their lane. Emily took up a ball and launched it with unnecessary force. It curved into the gutter. She turned back around, laughing. Pete watched her with complete wonder. The sight of her in that moment was taking hold of him. Her eyes were big and clear, her skin was pale, and her mouth, usually set cool to match the way she carried herself, was pulled open in a wide smile. Through the times to come, whenever he thought of her, this was how she would appear.

By midnight, Pete’s car was parked close alongside a snowy meadow north of Echo Point. Lights passed infrequently along the highway. The back door of the car opened and Pete emerged, wrapped in a wool blanket, and jogged over the snow in his work boots. He went out twenty feet and opened the blanket only wide enough to pull off the condom he was wearing. He flung it away and urinated into the snow and jogged back to the car.

The car engine idled and the heater blasted away. Emily was sitting in the back with her legs up on the seat. Pete turned the engine off and got into the back seat with her and draped the blanket around them both. For some time they were quiet. The windows were foggy. Emily traced her initials.

—My grandpa’s place is close to here.

—Yeah?

—It’s the house on Echo Point. Right where … that boat crash happened. Your uncle.

—Where my uncle’s friend got killed.

—Yes. Grandpa’s lived there a long time. The house was in his family before that. He wants my folks to take it from him. My mom was an only child.

—How long ago did your grandma die?

—Two years ago. It was in the spring. She had a stroke and she died right in her garden.

—Jesus. That’s terrible.

—I think it’s kind of nice in a way, said Emily.

—Nice?

—She loved her garden. It was a beautiful morning. I remember because they called me into the office at school and I was looking out the window when I took the phone. Here’s my dad telling me, and I’m looking outside and thinking what a beautiful day it is. I didn’t get upset at all. Not until I got to the hospital and saw Grandpa. She was gardening when it happened, which was her favourite thing to do, and she just lay down right there. We should all be so lucky.

—My grandma is dying of lung cancer. She’s been sick since the summer. She smoked a pack a day for her whole life and finally she quit, maybe two years ago. But she was too late. She’s got a tumour in her lungs. They can’t do anything for that at her age. You know what I’ll remember best? Go get Granny her menthols, Pete. I grew up hating the smell of cigarettes. I hate them now.

The cold was creeping into the car. Emily moved closer against him. There was nothing to see outside the car, nothing of their surroundings.

—Was your granddad always a cop? said Pete.

—Yes, forever. He was sixty-two when he retired. I think he
had to at that point, legally and all, but it was hard for him. But when he was really young, twenty or so, he was a boxer. Grandma used to tell me about it. They had these old newspaper pictures. This handsome boy wearing funny trunks, with a funny haircut. A moustache. Got his dukes up. I couldn’t recognize him at all except for the eyes. It’s hard for me to imagine that time in his life.

—Was he a cop here in town?

—Always. Here’s something. The last guy they executed here? Grandpa arrested him. The man had killed another cop. They executed him, out behind where they have the library now. Grandpa never talks about it. I only know because my mom knew. She told me about it once when we were visiting her aunt. We took the train down to the city to visit, and on the way back Mom told me a lot of things I never knew. It’s funny what happens when you grow up. How you learn about things in the lives of the people you love. The big things, the bad things. They happened before you even existed.

—You find out and it changes things.

—I guess.

—You don’t think so?

—Well, I think with the people you love, unless you find out they’re murderers or something, you still love them. It’s just you find out they’re actually people. They’re not giants any more.

—My uncle is a murderer, said Pete.

—What?

—I can’t say for sure. There aren’t many things other than murder that you do that long in jail for. But I can’t say for sure because nobody in my family talks about anything except Jesus. My grandmother is dying and nobody talks about that. My real dad ran off somewhere before I was born and nobody talks about that. My uncle was in jail for seventeen years and definitely nobody talks about that. Half of what I make at the gas station goes to Saint Barry for rent—he counts it every time—
and you don’t hear anybody talking about that. I don’t even talk about it. If it weren’t for Jesus I would live in one quiet house. Are you cold?