The Ice Age (3 page)

After several days of lazy driving and laid-back stopovers, we've kicked back into gear. Gunther high-tailed it all day to get to this town where his friend Murray lives. When we got there it was well past dark, and his eyes were squinty and strained. He looked tired, and I thought not very excited to see an old friend. Some things are more of an obligation, though. When we got there Murray was sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair. It was all woodsy and dark. There was a warm orange glow filling the inside of the cottage, lighting up all the rustic clutter. He got up and gave us both a warm welcome. Gunther handed him a package wrapped loosely in cloth, or leather or something. Murray laughed heartily, then nodded, put it in the pocket of his big suede coat, and led us inside. That old shack was such a stereotype I thought it looked like a movie set. It amused me someone actually lived like that, full-time, all year round. This wasn't some fishing trip. He actually had a real moose head on his wall. And rifles. There was a roaring log fire, tartan blankets scattered everywhere, and of course, a bear skin rug that I thought looked like road kill. I don't really like dead things.

We sat around the big log table for ages. Murray served up a fairly substantial meal, which consisted of meat, meat, and more meat, with some bloody gravy, and a mash on the side that may have once been a vegetable. Those two were drinking red wine. I was on cherry soda. Gunther can hold his alcohol, but Murray was starting to talk a whole lot of shit that I didn't care to hear. Stuff about Gunther's playboy past; what a stud he used to be, how many delicate hearts he shattered as he fucked his way through a smorgasbord of hot babes of all description. And in perfect accompaniment to these orgies were all the drugs. Was there anything he hadn't tried, any path he hadn't merrily sauntered down? I stole a glance at Gunther. I didn't like to hear his dignity affronted like this. He looked weary, but unfazed. At length he said, ‘Yes, I suppose I was a bit of a hedonist back then.' Murray raised his glass as far as his fat arm could stretch above his fat stomach and exclaimed, ‘What a life, what a fucking life!'

Murray didn't look so good this morning. Last night, lit by firelight, various lamps, and the rosy glow of red wine in his cheeks, he was heartily robust. Standing in the hallway outside the bathroom door, in a white(ish) wifebeater with a towel over his shoulder, he looked like a surprised albino walrus. Doughy and pallid, with whiskers puffing out everywhere and tiny pink bloodshot eyes.

‘Hello, sunshine,' he said.

I said ‘hi'.

He made Gunther and me pancakes, and he made a hell of a lot of them. It was quite a production. It was nice to be in a house again, even if it was a house full of weirdo dead trophies and innuendo. It was still cozy. And all that crap about home-cooked meals being incomparable is true. Gunther said something to that effect, and I was just thinking the same thing. You can't go wrong with a six-inch stack of pancakes.

Still, it was good to get back on the road. It's become sort of a home in itself. I asked Gunther if he had really done all that stuff Murray said he had back there. Gunther said basically, yeah, although it wasn't quite as heartless, or soulless, or lamely macho as Murray made it all sound. He said back then if he wanted to try something, he tried it. He satiated his appetites and curiosity, but not at the expense of others. Like attracts like, he said. Suddenly I didn't feel so bad about it all, didn't feel like Gunther was in any danger of falling from grace. It was devil-may-care. Fearless. Almost gallant.

He said, ‘I just had too much energy.'

I said, ‘But it's probably made you a lot calmer now.'

‘Yeah,' he gave a little snort. ‘Or maybe just tired.'

Our next stop was a terribly bright diner perched on a hill, in kind of a cute, bland, medium-sized town. It looked like a plastic gingerbread house, although I don't think that was intentional. The waitress not only added to the effect, she brought it right over the top. She had on a hot pink, body-hugging minidress uniform. The name Taffy was sewn on a badge that teetered on the precipice of one of her ginormous tits. I suspect she had on one of those pointy 1950s- style bras. Those two blinding hot pink horizontal peaks were just jutting out like no one's business. It's like they were trying to make some kind of statement, irrespective of the rest of her.

I ordered pancakes again, which amused us both, but that's all I was in the mood for. Taffy leaned over Gunther every time either of them spoke, straightbacked, chest out, topless-dancer style. She had long yellow blonde hair, which she dangled over him. I think it tickled his face. She looked like she belonged in a heavy metal video. Gunther said he was waiting for the band to pop out, and wondered if we were going to have to start lip-syncing. It was all kind of hilarious, but damned if it didn't make me a little jealous. She had on the highest heels of any waitress I've ever seen. I thought all waitresses wore flat shoes. But I didn't see many customers so I figured she must go out the back and put her feet up a lot. Then again, some women can wear heels all the time; they really are that glamorous.

After that we were in for another long stint of serious driving. Gunther's brow was really furrowed for this one. We were headed for this lady's house, Stephanie. Gunther said her husband died a few months back. He didn't say how. He was a fine man, he said, and there would be a lot of sadness in this house.

She lives in a bigger town than most we've visited so far, more of a smallish city. It's not very lively, though. Kind of industrial and basic. Stephanie lives in the suburbs, in a two-storey house with a cute front porch and a small yard that spills into the neighbor's.

When we pulled up she was standing on the porch, wearing a billowy sun dress. She had long brown hair that fell straight down in subtle waves, with a fringe just over her eyes. I thought she cut an attractive figure up there. She was managing a little smile.

We got out of the car and headed straight for her, didn't start unloading or anything. She gave me a dazed glance, and kind of fell into Gunther's arms, all floppy like. She just stayed there for a while until Gunther began to extract himself.

‘You look well,' he said.

She didn't say ‘Thanks' or ‘So do you', or anything polite like that. She just gave him a tired, exasperated look that took her a while to make.

Gunther introduced us girls, and she showed me to my room; a puny box at the end of a hallway decked out in D.I.Y. picture frames and random crocheted thingies. I got the feeling she wanted me to stay there. Maybe she just assumed, me being a teenager and all, that I would want to hole up in my room. Naturally that was not the case, and I went downstairs again to check out the house and hear what those two were talking about. She'd be fixing us a snack soon, I figured.

When I got down there, Gunther was making three cups of tea. Stephanie took three sugars. That was a lot for a skinny lady, I thought. I thought a lady like that would be all princessy about watching her figure. I took her tea in, and Gunther came in behind with ours. I perched myself on the far end of Stephanie's couch. Gunther sat across from her in an armchair.

He said, ‘So please, Stephanie, tell me how you have been.'

There was a long pause, during which I thought she shot me a grumpy look.

‘Oh, all right considering, I guess,' she said at length. ‘I'm hangin' in there.' Then she looked at me and snapped, ‘Would you like to watch some TV?'

I said, ‘No thanks, that's OK.'

And Gunther said I was perfectly capable of carrying on an adult discussion, and grasping her unfortunate situation. Which was nice of him, I thought, because I hadn't given him much of an indication that I cared one way or the other.

She said it was hard with Ward gone. He hadn't prepared, so there was the financial hardship. She missed the companionship. Apparently they had been having their problems, and she felt it was a bad note to leave things on, for all eternity. I pictured a bad note, resonating. Eternally. That must be an uncomfortable feeling. I wondered if she meant to be that poetic, but it didn't seem so, it seemed like her words were just tumbling out.

Gunther was sitting back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, listening with his usual air of attentive stillness. It must be nice for her to talk to Gunther, I thought. It must be nice to be sitting there in all his attention.

She still hadn't offered us any snacks. And then she started drinking. Gunther declined, which isn't like him. He always accepts the hospitality of his friends. He likes his ‘social rituals'. Maybe that's a leftover from his hedonistic days. I know what he's on about, though. I was a cigarette smoker for a little while. Me and my friend Heather started smoking the day she turned eighteen. It was always more fun smoking with someone else; offering the pack, lighting their cigarettes, getting them to light mine…

Gunther rose and stood over Stephanie, who was clutching a glass of straight Southern Comfort with both hands. He asked if he could make us anything to eat; would she like anything, was there perhaps a restaurant nearby. Pizza place?

‘I'm not hungry!' she spat. ‘I'm sorry, I'm a shitty hostess.'

‘Stephanie, you've been through a lot.' Ever calm. ‘Let me get you something to eat.'

He ran through a few options, but got no response from her. I said I could go a pizza, so we found her phone book and ordered a large margherita with mushrooms, delivered.

Now that bitch ate nearly the whole pizza. And I know I should be nicer, with her a grieving widow and all, but she said she wasn't hungry. And she was being damned ungrateful to Gunther, and he's a decent friend to have. I don't know where she put it all. She still looked perfect in her fancy flowery sundress (just a bit hunched over).

Someone started banging on the screen door, shouting, ‘Hey! Stephie, you in there? I thought I smelled pizza!' followed by some snorts of goofy laughter.

The keeper of that voice was something to behold. He was one of those self-made rednecks. As in, he looked like hell, but it seemed like that was a look he'd cultivated.

There was the greasy black hair, slicked back and up in a partially collapsing bouffant. Probably what Elvis' hair looked like the day he died. Then there was the tracksuit top, unzipped past his navel, to expose a yellowing undershirt, and some formidable tufts of chest hair. A chest toupee. And, yeah, he had a medallion dangling over that gorilla plumage. He was barefoot, with tight faded Levis cinched under his gut by a Playboy belt buckle. I thought that finished the look nicely; I'd never seen someone that white trash so close up. And that is really saying something. Because, like I said, I come from a small town, and Gunther and I have been everywhere now.

‘Just kidding you all,' he boomed, ‘I saw the pizza truck pull up.'

Stephanie perked up a little, and said selfconsciously, ‘This is Jimmy, my um…' she gave a weak but perky smile, ‘neighbor.'

Gunther said, ‘Pleasure to meet you.' I almost laughed out loud. It cracks me up how overly polite he is to people I know he finds the most uncouth.

‘Well la dee da indeed,' was the witty rejoinder. ‘Where are you folks from?' His attention immediately shifted to the empty pizza box. ‘None left?'

‘No, sorry. I would have invited you over, but…' Stephanie seemed to have bitten off more than she could chew with this obnoxious white trash prick. He sat down and put his hand on her knee in a manner that could only be called proprietary. A shadow crossed Gunther's face.

Eventually Jimmy got tired of rambling on to us. We weren't offering much up in the way of replies, and I guess he got hungry. He probably knew now the pizza was gone, Stephanie's house didn't promise much in the way of food. He got up and left as abruptly as he'd entered.

I should have been quicker to grab those slices. But I like to watch my etiquette around Gunther. Eventually the hunger pangs got the better of me. That, and I was bored of listening to Stephanie dribble on to Gunther, tired of her shooting me sulky looks. So I got up and did a cardinal no-no. I didn't see what difference it made if I was a bad houseguest; she was such a damn shocking host. I slipped into her kitchen and started rifling through her cupboards, fridge, drawers. I was thinking chocolate chip cookies would do nicely, but I wasn't feeling overly choosy. Just anything remotely tasty would do.

This is where I started to feel properly sorry for her. I didn't see
anything
remotely tasty. She had things like plain crackers, and celery stalks. Cottage cheese, vanilla diet shakes, vitamin pills, raisins, whole wheat bread gone mouldy, low-fat milk. Here she was, trying to keep herself attractive, it seemed. A fat lot of good it had done her.

I poured myself a Diet RC Cola on the rocks and headed back in.

Stephanie was on her feet, teasingly swaying in Gunther's general direction, in a sultry swaggery dance. And then her arms were around his neck.

He said, ‘Stephanie…' and nodded at me, standing in the doorway.

She said, ‘What
is
it with the kid?'

Gunther said nothing.

‘Seriously, it's a little weird, don't you think?'

I was waiting for him to say something witty like, ‘Personally, I think you and Jimmy is a little weird.' But he didn't. He just sat there, absorbing.

She had another go at kissing him. He fended her off. He laid his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back down to her seat on the couch. Only Gunther could make shoving off someone's unwanted advances look like an act of delicate kindness. Suddenly he was on the couch with her, wrapping his arms around her, saying, ‘Sorry, so sorry.'

I imagine he meant sorry her dead husband was dead. That's why people usually say ‘sorry' to someone who's just lost a loved one. Maybe he meant sorry to see her in such a state, behaving like a total scrag and consorting with Jimmy. Or maybe he meant sorry he couldn't kiss her because he was in fact secretly in love with me. I considered whether she would make a good Soulmate of Eternal Darkness for Gunther, and decided that would be a lot of whining to put up with until the end of time. Besides, I bet I'm a quicker learner. She sat on the edge of the couch, looking wide-eyed and subdued. She really did look pretty then, even with a dripping ring of migrating make-up pooling under each eye.