Police story

Constable Cal Calrson had been third tallest in his 42-member RCMP cadet class. He was the 38th smartest, but he didn’t know that and wouldn’t have cared. After three years on the job he had three commendations in his jacket, no reprimands, a wife and a daughter. He exercised enough that he had Amanda take in the waists of his shirts, special ordered to house his shoulders and chest. His favorite expression was “let’s go get ‘em.”
Earl Shurler had been the shortest boy in his Grade 9 class, his last full year at school. He was a painter, but jobs hadn’t worked too well, especially since he lost his licence after the Mounties found him asleep in his car at a red light. He didn’t have a wife, or at least didn’t know where she’d gone when she walked out of the trailer eight months ago. Her note, written in lipstick on the front door, just said Fuck You, Asshole. All his clothes were too big; he liked them that way. His favorite expression was “fuck it.”
Shurler and Carley met for the first time in the parking lot of the Tall Pines Mall.
Earl had been drinking rye, coke on the side, in the Ranchers’ Steak House lounge, sitting at the bar since he left the job at 4:30. He’d was quiet, watching hockey highlights, looking around, tapping the heel of his hand on the bar, trying a joke on the waitress. She seemed to warm to him, especially when he tipped well when she got him some cigarettes.
He liked sitting at a bar, liked the dark. He was a bit worried at first in case anyone saw he had to reach with his toes to touch the brass rail , but after five drinks he felt warm and relaxed, liked the look of himself in the mirror, sandy hair and moustache, face divided by the bottles behind the bar. In the dark, the bloodshot eyes looked fine, the scar furrowed from one corner of his mouth across his chin almost vanished, the paint-spattered pants were hidden. He raised his glass, toasted himself, smiled at the bartender, looked for the waitress in the mirror.
As he toasted, dipped his head, they laughed. He turned red, without looking, because he heard the waitress laughing, using the same laugh she’d used when he told her the joke about the roughneck and the coyote. He turned slowly, gripping the bar with one hand, heel resting on the rung of the bar stool.
She was with two guys in dark jackets and bright ties, ha ir slicked back, each with a cell phone on the table, laughing as she brought them beers. They weren’t looking at him, but he stared until the nearer one looked up, and then stood quickly.
“What’s so God damn funny? What exactly is so funny.”
He took a step toward them, cowboy boots creaking, grabbing at the bar to steady himself, his other hand shaking just a little until he stuffed it in his pocket.

One suit started to rise, just reached out to the table from the low chair, then looked at Shurler’s red face and bright eyes and sat back, picked up the cell phone. The waitress looked at the bartender, leaning forward behind Shurler, then moved quickly to him, tight steps in a small black skirt, links arms, half pulls him back to his seat, scratches his neck just a little with her nails when he turns quickly back to the men, but she talks low and fast, promises a drink, tells him it’s all fine, sits him down.
T he suits sit still. Shurler gets his free drink, downs it quickly, pays, glares at the suits, leaves.
But the edgy bartender had expected a fight and had already pushed the speed dial for the police. And Constable Carlson is already in the parking lot, having just had a coffee at JJ’s Restaurant at the other end of the mall. Shurler moves through the dusk, smells the wind from the fields, cool after the smoke in the bar, enters his truck, starts it. But Carlson has seen him walking too fast and too careful and strides quickly over. Motions for Shurler to open his window, slowly moving his big hand down.
Earl does. Watery eyes, smell of rye. Bad smile, teeth bared, face already flushing, angry.
The waitress, she probably knew the cop was coming, probably held him up, the suits laughing with her now. Now this cop, phony smile, laughing like them, trying to take his truck.
“Can I see your licence please sir.”
“Why, what have I done?”
“Could I just see your licence please.”
“I haven’t done nothing, I’m just going home.”
“Step out of the car please. Out of the car.” Carlson is leaning in the open window, a little too close, his face like a mask.
Shurler looks up, tries to think of anything to say, a plea that would work, a threat, but nothing comes. He reaches for the door handle to get out, let the fucking cop win, nothing he can do anyway, no licence to show even.
Then in the next row, a woman loading groceries into her car sees her three-year-old trying to eat a stalk of rhubarb she’d bought, his chubby face screwing up in disgust, and she laughs lightly. It carries across the parking lot on the wind. Shurler hears the laugh and freezes, sure it’s the waitress, won’t look but can imagine her standing with the suits, waiting for him to be pressed against the truck, waiting to see the big Mountie over him.

He hears the laugh, like a nail in his spine, and instead of opening the door he shifts into gear, presses the accelerator, tentative. The truck is old, rusted, the engine fai ling. It’s slow, but begins to roll.
Carlson is 27.
“Stop the fucking car. Stop now. You’re making this worse.”
Shurler looks straight ahead, dignified as a chauffeur.
First Carlson walks, then runs alongside, trying to reach the ignition keys, then he clubs Shurler once in the cheek, bringing tears to his eyes, then the car is going too fast, and he lifts his feet, reaches for the steering wheel, for Shurler’s shoulder, scratches at his eyes. Then it’s all he can do to hold on, his left hand stretched down, scrabbling with stretched fingers, until he grabs the recessed door handle, his right arm stretched across the seatback, his chest pressed against the door, the handle digging in to his ribs, his feet now up, now dragging on the pavement.
Forty yards, still slow enough to let go, but Carlson feels he has a grip, doesn’t even yell, just says, reasonably, “ Stop the car, now.”
Shurler doesn’t. He leans to his right, farther away, steers with one hand, doesn’t touch Carlson. He can barely see over the dash, he’s stretched so far from the window. He’s humming now, almost grunts, some forgotten tune, a child’s song.
He turns his head, steals a look, sees the Mountie’s arms stretched like a swimmer, his eyes wide, still talking like he’s in control.
The truck is going faster, headlights shredding streaks across the asphalt, parking lot almost empty so Shurler doesn’t have to worry about hitting anyone.
And then, it seems too late to let go, and Carlson is scared for the first time, his stomach tightening when he almost slips and the pavement rips off his right boot, almost pulling him from the window. He screams, “Stop the car.”
Shurler is already scared, not yet sober, knows he can’t stop now, can’t believe the cop is tormenting him, hanging on, squeezing into his world His face is wet, warm, either tears or the spray from the Mountie yelling at him. He can’t think of anything to do but drive, hope the pavement noises rising through the window will drown out his thoughts. The air from the open window is chilling him.

His lights flash back at him, the chrome bars of a shopping cart ahead, and he swerves around it, the old truck slewing on worn shocks, just as Carley’s fingers slip from the inside door handle. He catches the spoke of the steering wheel, locks around it, sounding the horn and wrenching the car left. The left front wheel hits a ring of rocks surrounding a small island of grass and trees in the parking lot, three dark scraggy pines that will be dead by the next year, poisoned by the oil and gas runoff. The tire, old and bald, compresses, the rim bounces off the rock and the car rises three inches from the ground as Carley’s hand slips from the wheel, then catches the side mirror, then slips again. His body goes backwards and his right hand slides from the seat back, all leverage gone. He slides down the truck, his feet hit the ground and bounce up over his head. He flies, almost slowly, upside down, until he lands headfirst, bounces off his right shoulder, lands again on his back, sliding to a stop, ragged body dead on the parking lot, eyes open looking at the stars, blood from his lef t ear, one shoe gone, uniform ripped at the right shoulder and hip.
Shurler straightens up, slows, looks back in the mirror but can’t see anything, He leaves the lot, turns right, drives carefully, singing louder now but still no words.
He feels the back of his neck, a warm line where Carlson’s fingernails had traced across his skin, a lover’s scratch.
What to do. His hand shakes when he takes it from the wheel, he drifts into the left lane, then corrects. He breathes, stares until his eyes water, breathes, trying to think, hoping this is a dream, wondering whether to go back to the parking lot to see if the cop is there, back to the lounge to see if he can start this all again. Breathe. Fucking cop.
No thinking. He pulls into the Esso, parks beside a rusted Chev half-ton, sits for a minute, lights a cigarette, sweating and freezing at the same time. He turns off the truc k, hears the clunk of the key, the engine running on, faltering, cylinders firing on their own, out of time.
Into the coffee bar, after eight, three truckers at a booth, a woman with brown straw hair in tight conversation with a skinny man with a cowboy hat sitting on the table beside him, blurry prison tattoos on his arms.
Shurler takes a seat at the counter, legs trying to stay in contact with the floor. He orders a coffee, double, double, feels the waitress’ eyes on his grey, sweating face, fells his brown t-shirt soaked through. He picks up the coffee, but he shakes and it spills, leans down to sip, lights a cigarette. He sees the waitress through the heat waves from the flame, watching him, waves for her. She moves slowly, swimming through the fluorescent light haze, watching his eyes carefully. Earl asks for her pen, writes his name slowly in the matchbook cover, shaky back-slanted printing.
“Call the Mounties,” he says. “Tell them I’m here.”

When we don't say goodbye

“Are you happy?”
He watches the television, changes the channel, turns his head to look at her, changes the channel again.
“It’s a hard time to know that,” he says.
“Maybe. But I’m not. I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
He runs through more channels.
“It’s not good to be unhappy,” he says, looking at the television, .
“So what are we going to do?” She’s on the edge of the green chair, leaning forward, her hands together, the ends of her fingers growing pinker.
He changes channels again, once, twice, three times. He looks towards her, not sitting up.
“I don’t know. Wait. See if things get better. I’m not sure.”
She can hardly hear him over the laughtrack.
“I can’t wait much more.” She keeps looking at him. She stares so hard her eyes water; she remembers staring at her old bedroom closet door without blinking to keep the creature inside.
He looks at the television. His skin changes, green, blue, pink, as images on the screen light the room. His age changes with the colours. He changes channels again, stops on the real estate channel, photos of expensive houses, descriptions of modern kitchens and multiple bedrooms.
They both wait.
“I don’t know,” he says.
He holds his breath, afraid of what a sound would say. She breathes, smells damp, stale air, windows too small and too high. In the winter the room never gets warm.
He puts his hands behind his head, elbows raised, so his face is blocked by his arm. He stares harder at the television, but can’t make himself change the channel, so he watches houses for sale roll by, one every 30 seconds or so.
“If you don’t start caring more, I’m going to have to start caring less.” She speaks quietly, threat and pleading all in one sentence. She pulls the sweater a little tighter around her shoulders, brushes her red hair back. Her fingernails are chewed short.
He lowers his elbow to look at her and knows she has already started caring less.
“I’ll try harder,” he says, and changes the channel again. He keeps changing channels, looks at her again, then raises his elbows and watches the colours on the screen.
She waits, then stands and leaves. He hears her feet down the hall, up the stairs, into the bedroom. He changes channels, turns up the TV.
“I’m going to the gym.” she tells him 20 minutes later. She has on black leggings, sweat shirt, her hair tied back with a scrap of black ribbon.
“Work hard,” he says.
He hears the car leave and walks down to their room. He sees the sweater, pants, underwear she was wearing, thrown in a pile in the corner of the room near the door. He goes and lies on the floor, his head on the clothes, the sweater scratching his cheek. He takes a deep breath, inhales her smell from the clothes. He knows it’s the last time her clothes will smell that way.

A note, a hole, betrayal

I’ve always wondered about the note. I can still see the white paper, folded four times to fit into my father’s shirt pocket. I can see the creases, imagine the roughness of the fibres at the folds. I could see it resting on my parents’ dresser, one corner sticking up, beside cufflinks and Kleenex and powder, reflected in the mirror behind it.
The note wasn’t addressed to me, but I wondered. Then it vanished.
Everything was vanishing.
My brother had already vanished.The police came after midnight, two of them to carry the news, offering official sympathy in awkward French-accented English, one needing a shave, crumbs still nesting on his dark blue jacket front.
I woke to my father’s hesitant knock on the bedroom door. The light from the hall was behind him; his face was hidden in darkness. He was calm, his voice even, his hair slightly mussed.
I drove him to the hospital, along roads almost deserted, glad when cars came towards us and I could hold my eyes half shut against the headlights. I found myself humming, softly, and caught myself. In emergency the smell of soap and machinery and fear touched the back of my throat, and I coughed. A woman holding a child frowned at me. My father gave his name. The nurse behind the desk, black circles under her eyes, something chalky in the corner of her mouth, offered a look of sympathy, but with it a question.
My father went through swinging doors. I waited, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the moans of a man from somewhere down the hall. I felt cold, and realized I had no shirt on under my jacket. We went home.
The vanishing kept happening. I drove again, the next morning, to the Palais de Justice, and the trip vanished as I made it. I waited in the car, illegally parked, while my father went in and did what the law required.
The sun hurt, splintering off the dusty, greasy windows of a restaurant across the street. Looking up, I tried to see where three men had escaped from the jail on the top floors, climbing down an improbable string of prison bedsheets. The radio told me about traffic on the bridges. I closed my eyes, turned off the radio, and wondered what the note said.
More vanishing. My parents vanish, to make arrangements, then again, alone for a service. I drive Jenn to school while they are gone.
There’s a grave somewhere. There’s a small newspaper story, which someone rips out - I don’t know who, because it’s there, then it’s not there, just the space with other stories around. Lay the page flat, and the type behind shows through the hole, and it disappears.
We sit and watch TV four days later, and the air is brittle, so we breathe carefully, and speak rarely, anxious to avoid a jagged breath. The house seems to have dried, so when I go to get a drink I walk carefully on the dark brown carpet, fearful the floorboards and joists underneath will shriek if steps are too hard, or too fast. There is something wrong with the drink, a dry, metallic taste.
The last thing to vanish is the empty space and the silence.
At first, I walk around the empty space. It claims a whole bedroom, a space at the table. We walk carefully. My father is almost pulled in once - I can see him stumble as he nears the space, but he catches himself and is out the door.
We fill the space. A chair goes missing. I walk closer to the space, returning to straight lines.
The silence takes longer to vanish.It fills the room even when radios are playing, and television is laughing.
But we wait it out, then we push back, talking about errands and neighbours and the weather until the silence has vanished too. We pepper the silence with questions.
“Did you have a good day?” “Have you done your homework?”
“Do you think it will rain?” “What do you want in your lunch?”
“Do you need anything at the store?”
And with practical talk we drown out the questions in our heads. No space; no silence; no note.
Except the note hasn’t really vanished. It’s gone, I know. But at least one night a week, I have a dream where I can see it has not disappeared, it’s stuck to my dark cork bulletin board. It is, beside a quote from Thomas Hardy, about the coming universal urge not live.
But I never get up to see the note. I know there will be another dream.