Light Lifting (28 page)

Another pair of lights rises up, but they seem different and more threatening. The beams aim and come directly and the horn wails from too far out. He covers his eyes and turns his back. Hears the tires as they hit the gravel. He makes himself small. Crouches. Feels the skidding up through the ground. There is a hot smell of exhaust and burning rubber. He puts his chin on his knees and waits for the blow, but it doesn't come. A door opens and slams shut. He hears footsteps and sees a darkness in front of the light. Then a hand sweeping his face, fingers on his cheek. The voice from the telephone. A weak connection, but the signal coming through. I'm here, she says.

Fresh water pouring over his head. She puts the bottle to his mouth. You need to drink. Drink this.

His eyes adjust. She is coming back and, at first, he is not sure if this is real. It could be a stranger, just another person in a car. Perhaps he is making himself see something. It takes a second before he knows. She is there and it is true. He puts both his hands on her shoulders, tests it, and then transfers some of his weight over.

Where have you been? she yells at him. There is no apology in her voice. The forgotten phone call happened years ago. Her eyes are bright and scared and she is spitting the words.

I've been going back and forth on this road for hours. You know that? Just looking and looking and hoping I'd find you before something happened. Driving past that same spot again and again. I didn't know what you'd do out here by yourself. I almost called the police, Dad. You almost made me call the police.

She pulls her hands through her hair and looks far off to the side. The cars roar by and each one makes her wince. She seems exhausted. Older than he remembers from the last time.

She leads him over to her car, engine still running.

Get in, she says, and she opens the door. We need to go home. We need to get you into a bed.

She waves her hand into the space at the passenger's side but he will not enter. He is standing in the mouth of the car, the V between the open door and the interior, and he tells her no. Tells her he won't.

A motel, he says. How much farther? The idea is there, but the words slur a little. A motel in Essex. I need to get there. Just for tonight. Then we see.

She shakes her head, no. No. We need to stop this right now, okay? I've been out here for hours and I want to go home. Please stop this. Just get in. Please get in. Please.

He hears a hint of alarm in her voice and knows she is trying to cover it up. She likely thinks he isn't right in the head anymore. Her hand goes to his shoulder and she pushes him down, tries to lower his body onto the seat.

He resists, feels his feet set hard on the ground. A sense of clarity returning and some strength. The shock of water helping. Everything is coming back to him now. Her hand on his shoulder. The right place at the right time and they are here together. This has always been the plan.

I am going to a motel tonight, he says. And you can come or you can go. Just tell me how much farther.

I don't know, she screams. How am I supposed to know? Why are you doing this? Maybe a couple of miles that way. Her hand waves in the dark. Let me bring you at least. It will take us five minutes.

The still moment of confrontation. They stand one foot apart on the side of the road. He sways from the ankles and she looks at his hair and his clothes and his feet. Streaks of filth running behind his ears and down his neck. She shakes her head, stares at the space between his eyes and then looks away. He can see it when she turns. A tremor moving through, the crack in this hard performance. Her cheeks flush and he watches the anger and frustration mix with something else he can recognize. There are things we must allow each other that have nothing to do with kindness.

This doesn't change anything, she says and she spreads both her arms wide as if to absorb the whole scene. A muscle ripples in her cheek. You know that, right? This won't change what you did.

She pushes the heels of her hands hard against her eye sockets and then she shakes her head again and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. She walks back to the car, puts it in gear, checks over her shoulder, and sweeps through a U-turn. When she pulls up beside him, she hits the hazards and he looks to her through the window. She flicks her wrist and waves him ahead and he nods and starts to walk. She follows with her tires rotating to match his pace, a half-turn at a time. The four-ways flash and her headlights shine up on his back. He walks on the shoulder, then on the side, then in the middle of the lane and his shadow stretches out in front, the outline of a human body cast down onto the pavement, but still moving. Other cars come up from behind, slow down and almost crawl. There is a moment of confusion, a pause. A string of red tail lights extends back into the darkness and the whole strange parade inches forward.

Acknowledgements

Several of these stories appeared in slightly different forms in the following journals:
The Fiddlehead
,
The Notre Dame Review
,
Exile
and
The New Quarterly
. I want to thank the editors of these publications, especially Kim Jernigan at
TNQ
, for their support. Dennis Priebe did a wonderful job with the design and typesetting of the collection and the whole team at Biblioasis worked very hard on this book. I received arts grants from The Canada Council and The Nova Scotia Ministry of Tourism and Culture and I gratefully acknowledge these contributions.

Thanks to my family for showing the way along this ‘road we must walk.' And appreciation, also, to the Garrett, Ryall, Gervais, and McCormack clans. A special, very deep, reservoir of gratitude is saved for my friends: Jason and Jason, Rich, Drew, Mark, Jere, Michel, and Seán. Saint Mary's University has been a great place to work. My colleagues at the school, especially Brian Bartlett, have been inspirational and our students have taught me a lot about how to read (and maybe even write) a story.

Three people helped me with this collection in ways that merit special recognition. Dan Wells called the book into being and, in all the important ways,
Light Lifting
is our shared labour. His keen editorial eye saved me on several occasions and he has cared for and about these stories in ways that I can't ever repay and will never forget. Harold Hoefle read and re-read every word and scribbled and spidered his way across every page. He and I are in it for the long haul and his talent, generosity and brute diligence have already carried me over many miles. My wife, Crystal Garrett, is responsible for most of what is good in here and none of what is bad. Her journalist's mind cuts always to the core and her gut feelings should always be trusted. The day we met was the luckiest day of my life.

About the Author

Alexander MacLeod
was born in Inverness, Cape Breton and raised in Windsor, Ontario. His award-winning stories have appeared in many of the leading Canadian and American journals and have been selected for
The Journey
Prize Anthology
. He holds degrees from the University of Windsor, the University of Notre Dame, and McGill. He currently lives in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia and teaches at Saint Mary's University in Halifax.