The Snow Falcon (38 page)

She sat on their ancient bed and looked at the walls. Parts of them were papered with an old, long-faded pattern; other places were bare, with smoothed gray patches of stopping compound spread over the board. The whole house was the same: unfinished, tottering between

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neglect and good intentions. Nothing had been done for a long time. They had started with determination and ended with disillusionment.

She should have told Pete she was leaving when she’d gone to the yard to talk to him, she decided. While he’d been away in Calgary, she’d had some time to think, to really think clearly, and she’d built a resolve based on the knowledge that if she didn’t go, Pete would drag her down with him. She had managed to feel determined by the time she got to the yard, and when she’d opened the door and found him asleep in the chair, unshaven, snoring with his mouth open, and the place reeking of liquor and stale unwashed clothes, she’d been momentarily appalled at herself for having waited this long.

In the end, she hadn’t had the nerve to say she was leaving him. She’d been afraid of how he might react, had thought that when he saw she was serious, he might even get violent. However, she’d been prepared for that. Instead, though, he’d taken her by surprise. He’d guessed why she was there and then hadn’t given her a chance to talk, telling her how he was going to stop drinking, how. they’d make things all right again, that he needed her. If he hadn’t said he needed her, she might not have listened, but he’d sounded naked and bleeding and she wasn’t made of stone. They had been married for a long time, and once, she had loved him despite his faults. She had always known his weakness, but she’d accepted him anyway, and she was plagued with a feeling of guilt now that she was planning on abandoning him. Still, she knew her feeling wasn’t rational. Hadn’t she tried to make their marriage work? Didn’t she owe herself another chance?

Maybe her guilt had a sharper focus because all the time Pete had been away and she’d been thinking about what to do, she’d kept remembering what it had been like talking to Michael Somers the night she’d met him in Clancys. For the first time in a long while she’d felt that she wasn’t just Pete Ellis’s wife, struggling to pay bills and feed the family. She’d experienced the heady rush that comes from being attracted to somebody and sensing that the attraction is mutual. She’d felt the way she had when she was younger, when she’d known men looked at her in a certain way and her whole life had been ahead of her.

She told herself she’d been crazy to listen to Pete. All that stuff about how he had some money coming from a deal he and Red had

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done in Calgary—she was certain that this was just hot air. All the same, he’d talked as if there really was something in it, as if this deal would somehow allow him to drag himself out of the hole he’d dug for himself. She hadn’t necessarily believed he’d stop drinking, that he’d get himself together, and she’d found his begging pitiable, but still, she’d backed down. Outside, taking deep breaths, she’d gone over in her mind everything he’d said. He felt sorry for himself, he thought he was being victimized, and that was what she couldn’t stand. He believed that his failure was the result of a conspiracy against him; he wouldn’t accept that it was due to his own shortcomings. She knew he’d never change, that this money was just another fantasy, because he was always looking for the magic solution. She’d almost gone back in, vowing to stick to her earlier resolve, but her sense that he was on the edge had stopped her. Everything about him—his tone, his appearance, his beseeching, desperate, bloodshot eyes—made her think that if she pushed him he would fall. It had scared her a little, and she’d wondered if he might do something terrible.

Since then, he’d called once to say he had to go away again with Red Parker. That was two days ago, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She’d known from his voice that his deal, whatever it was, hadn’t worked out, and that he just couldn’t face her. Unable to comfort him, she’d hung up.

She went to the mirror and held up the dress she’d bought earlier that day in Williams Lake. It was black and reached midthigh. Simple but flattering. She knew she looked good in it.

That morning, she’d called information for Michael’s number, and he’d picked up after the third ring. When she’d told him who it was, he’d seemed surprised and puzzled.

“I just thought you probably don’t get out much,” she’d said, trying to sound as if her words weren’t rehearsed. “Pete’s away at the moment, and I thought you might like to get something to eat, have a drink, you know?” She’d given it a moment. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, it was just a thought.”

There’d been a pause, then he’d said, “What did you have in mind?”

She’d spoken quickly, rushing to get the words out before her nerve failed her, before the thumping of her heart got so loud it drowned

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them out. “There’s a place toward the highway, the Red Rooster? Don’t be put off by the name, it’s better than it sounds.”

She’d given him directions, and if he’d wondered why she’d picked a place so far out of town, he hadn’t say anything. When she’d hung up, her hand shook with the faintest tremor.

Even now, holding up the first new dress she’d bought in years, she wasn’t sure what exactly she was doing. Maybe she just wanted to spend some time with somebody who wasn’t exactly a stranger but who felt as if he wasn’t from this town, either—someone who wouldn’t look at her and think of her just as Rachel Ellis who was married to a bum and a loser, who wouldn’t pity her and try to hide it, who wouldn’t notice the first signs of premature aging in the lines around her eyes. She just wanted to know what that felt like.

She ran a bath, pouring in a fragrant oil, and waiting for the tub to fill, she laid out the new underwear she’d also bought that day. She’d put it all on her credit card—the amount she’d spent bothered her, but she tried to put it out of her mind. She could worry about how she’d pay for it later, she told herself. For now, she wanted to forget about her life. The kids were with friends, it was anybody’s guess where Pete was, and she had the house to herself. She went downstairs and poured a glass of wine to drink while she soaked in her bath.

THE RED ROOSTER looked more restrained than its name suggested. It was a few miles off the highway and had once been a sprawling settler’s home. It was surrounded by landscaped gardens and a parking lot. Michael had imagined some bright neon rooster strutting the roof, a place where hamburgers were the chef’s special and a jukebox played in the corner. Instead, as he drove in he couldn’t see how the place had earned its name. There was a neon sign, and it was in red, but it was simply the name of the place written in understated flowing script and placed discreetly above the door.

It was ten minutes before eight. The host checked off the reservation, then showed Michael where the bar was. The restaurant was busy. The lighting was low, and music played at a level just below the hum of voices. Michael took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. While he waited, he reflected on Rachel’s phone call that morning,

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and as then, he was unsure about what to read into it. He’d been surprised by her call, but once he got past that, he knew he was going to accept. He didn’t want to think too closely about what his motives were. Just having her company was reason enough.

He stood up as she approached. She was wearing a simple black dress beneath which her body moved fluidly, the material softly caressing her hollows and curves as she walked. She smiled, and her eyes were soft and dark in the subdued lighting.

“Sorry. I’m a little late,” she said.

“I only just arrived myself. Can I get you a drink?”

“Maybe some wine,” she said, sitting down.

With their drinks in front of them, Rachel produced cigarettes and lit one. “You don’t, do you?”

“I gave up.”

“That’s right, you said.”

She smiled at him and sipped her wine. She was feeling just a fraction heady from the couple of glasses she’d had before she left the house, which was just as well—otherwise, she might never have come. In the parking lot, she’d sat for a minute in the dark, feeling nervous and exhilarated.

“By the way, thanks for asking me here,” Michael said. He looked around, making admiring noises about the place. The fact was, they were uneasy in each other’s company, but he didn’t know if it was because of him. It had been so long since he’d been in a restaurant with a woman, and he was keenly aware of the unfamiliarity of the situation.

Rachel smoked with quick nervous gestures, stubbing cigarettes out with sharp jabs when she’d just lit them; then, when the bartender replaced the ashtray, she’d light another.

“I hate smoking,” she said.

She knew that the way she was acting was affecting them both, but she couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t know what she was doing here, and she thought maybe she ought to tell him it had been a mistake. Her dress was making her feel conspicuous now; she was aware of his eyes drawn to her as they talked, flickering over her body. He wasn’t staring or being obvious, but she could feel his interest all the same. Before she could act on her thoughts, they were shown to their table, and that felt better. Her hands had something to do, though she barely tasted the food. He was so different from

Pete. He looked younger, for a start, and his eyes, though they were serious and kind of distant, touched her in some way when he smiled. She wanted to reach across the table and put her hand to his cheek, to feel the texture of his skin.

They talked a lot about the past, about school and people they remembered, and she told him what had happened to some of them. Over dinner they grew more relaxed in each other’s company. He was, she realized, as nervous as she was. This was a situation neither of them was used to. She asked him about what had happened in Toronto, how he’d come to be in prison. She didn’t want to dwell on it, but it would have been unnatural not to mention it.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine with me,” she told him.

“There’s nothing much to tell that you probably don’t already know.” He shrugged. “I had a kind of breakdown, and I let things get out of control. I lost my perspective on reality, as my friend Heller used to be fond of saying.”

“Who’s he?”

“A shrink. It’s all in the past. How about you, anyway? I know you’re married and you’ve got two kids. What else is there to know about you?”

“Nothing much,” Rachel said.

Michael shook his head emphatically. “Don’t put yourself down. You’ve got a family. Your kids are growing up happy and healthy; that’s a lot to be proud of.”

“You sound as if you really mean that,” Rachel said, surprised at the emotion in his voice.

“I do mean it.”

“I guess you’re right. I suppose I wish I hadn’t had them when I was so young, that’s all.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “Maybe I just wish I hadn’t gotten married when I was so young. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve just let my life drift by. I mean, I love my kids more than anything, don’t get me wrong.” She hesitated. “I don’t know what I mean, exactly.”

He didn’t say. anything, but smiled in understanding.

“I guess we all have our regrets, right?” Rachel said. “Can I ask you something? Do you miss your daughter?”

He nodded, his eyes clouding as if the room had become darker. “I think about her every day. I’m not sure I’d say I miss her so much,

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because I don’t know her, but I miss what could have been. Sometimes I think what I feel is like grief for the dead. I wish things hadn’t happened the way they did, and that we were still together, but that’s futile, isn’t it? She’s lost to me now. The same way her mother was before everything blew up.”

His voice held a taint of bitterness, she thought. “You blame yourself, don’t you?” she said at last.

“Who else would I blame?”

“I don’t know. Maybe blame isn’t what you should be thinking about.” She reached across the table and put her hand on his. It rested there a moment before she withdrew it. “You could still see your daughter, couldn’t you?” she said.

“She has a different life now. She wouldn’t even remember me.”

“Your wife wouldn’t have told her about you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want her to write or visit when I was in prison. I cut myself off from them. I don’t know what Holly knows.”

“She’s still your daughter. Children are forgiving; they’re not at all like us. Not like the people around here,” Rachel said.

“I suppose I think it’s better this way. Better for Holly.”

“Better for her not to know her father?”

“She’s better off without a crazy father.”

Rachel felt slightly shocked that he’d say something like that, and she could tell that he meant it. “You haven’t forgiven yourself, have you? You had a breakdown, you said it yourself, and it was a long time ago.”

A waiter came to clear the table, and for a few moments they didn’t speak. “Look, do you mind if we change the subject?” Michael said when they were alone again. “I appreciate what you’re saying, it’s just I’d rather talk about something else.” He’d felt a dull ache start up in his temples, which he absently massaged. He sensed that Rachel had problems enough of her own without being saddled with his. He imagined that anybody married to somebody like Pete Ellis had to have a few regrets.

“What?” Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

He realized he’d been drifting. His headache subsided. “Sorry?”

“You had a funny kind of expression then. What were you thinking about?”

“To be honest? I was just thinking about you. About what you were saying earlier, about getting married young.”

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“You mean, you were wondering why I’d marry someone like Pete?”

The directness of her question took him unawares, but he admitted she was right. He wondered if she knew about Ellis and his buddy coming after him the night he’d met her in Clancys, and he guessed that she didn’t or she would have said something. “You just seem like very different people.”