slow them down, they dizzied him until he left suddenly and sped out of the lot. He wondered now which weakening part of his brain made him drive down the wrong lane of the road that night. He sometimes ran it through his mind, what it was like to see headlights coming at him, cursing at first because he thought
they
were at fault, maybe drunk, then glancing to his right where the double line streaked past, disturbingly yellow in the dark, it was all wrong suddenly, there, on his right, and he had to force himself nonetheless to cross it, to sheer into that other lane just before the oncoming car blared past in terror and outrage. He’d picked up speed then, raced, shaking, across the bridge toward home not because he was afraid the fellow might come after him but because he’d call him an old fool whose licence should be yanked. He had been proud, until that night, that he could drive anything with wheels. Now, another reason for vigilance lest he die—and worse, take others with him—sooner than he needed to. Did he have a death wish that night?
Did he turn to memories too quickly, did he suck the life out of them?
He wept, it flooded into him, all his anger and sorrow and pity, he couldn’t hold it back, alone in his kitchen, his face clasped hard in his hands. When it was over, he sat numb, exhausted but calm, glad for it, that it happened here, in this peaceful room. No one to witness it but Cloud. The cat sat in the chair by the stove, observing him intently, pupils big and black in his owl-yellow eyes. “That’s done with, kitty,” Murdock said, “you won’t see me like that again.”
Well, they put him, my little brother Andrew, in the parlour, see, Willard said, we was living with Uncle Alec then, way up Aspy Bay, poor times, we got farmed out. No stove in that room. Took the lounge in there and put him down on it, the windows flung wide open, for him to get his breath, you see. Pneumonia. Him just in his pajamas and bedclothes, imagine. But see, he had a fever, he wasn’t cold at all, he didn’t mind it. Frost in that breeze, but the boy was burning, you see, burning. And I sat in that room all night with a fur coat on me, my uncle’s fur coat. We couldn’t get my brother out till morning. Three sleighs it took to get him all the way to North Sydney. Seven and a half hours it took, all the way to the hospital. They had to put two dollars and fifty cents worth of brandy into him, in his system, soon as we got there. Injected it all through him. His heart stopped for a bit, Andrew’s. Nineteen thirties that’s what they did, that’s what they had. Brandy. He lived though, he lived it out.
VII.
L ATE IN THE NIGHT A nna got up , squatted half asleep on the cold toilet, a pale nightlight at her feet, shivering, thinking only, God get me back beneath those quilts quick. But a single, isolated sound crept into her hearing. Howling? Distant, pitched not with menace or alarm but with pain, the slowly waking side of her said, and a coyote wouldn’t bark like that, would it, give away its peril? Holding her breath, she allowed the possibility—knowing at the same instant its absurdity—that it was the dog from the bridge, somehow it had survived.
Chilled and frightened, she dressed quickly, pulled on her parka and heavy boots, stepped out the back door. The night was so still, the wind she’d fallen asleep listening to had spent itself, the cold sharp in her throat. She had not intended to investigate any further than the back steps, but the howling did not waver and it pained her to listen to it. The way it rose to a wail, stopped, then resumed drew her slowly down the steps. It seemed to be coming from the pond as Anna walked into the darkness, every crunching step telling her to go back for a flashlight, but the sound pulled her forward. She found her way along, picking out the familiar path of tramped snow. The dog, a dark form out on the pond ice, did not move but it must have seen her, heard
they
were at fault, maybe drunk, then glancing to his right where the double line streaked past, disturbingly yellow in the dark, it was all wrong suddenly, there, on his right, and he had to force himself nonetheless to cross it, to sheer into that other lane just before the oncoming car blared past in terror and outrage. He’d picked up speed then, raced, shaking, across the bridge toward home not because he was afraid the fellow might come after him but because he’d call him an old fool whose licence should be yanked. He had been proud, until that night, that he could drive anything with wheels. Now, another reason for vigilance lest he die—and worse, take others with him—sooner than he needed to. Did he have a death wish that night?
Did he turn to memories too quickly, did he suck the life out of them?
He wept, it flooded into him, all his anger and sorrow and pity, he couldn’t hold it back, alone in his kitchen, his face clasped hard in his hands. When it was over, he sat numb, exhausted but calm, glad for it, that it happened here, in this peaceful room. No one to witness it but Cloud. The cat sat in the chair by the stove, observing him intently, pupils big and black in his owl-yellow eyes. “That’s done with, kitty,” Murdock said, “you won’t see me like that again.”
Well, they put him, my little brother Andrew, in the parlour, see, Willard said, we was living with Uncle Alec then, way up Aspy Bay, poor times, we got farmed out. No stove in that room. Took the lounge in there and put him down on it, the windows flung wide open, for him to get his breath, you see. Pneumonia. Him just in his pajamas and bedclothes, imagine. But see, he had a fever, he wasn’t cold at all, he didn’t mind it. Frost in that breeze, but the boy was burning, you see, burning. And I sat in that room all night with a fur coat on me, my uncle’s fur coat. We couldn’t get my brother out till morning. Three sleighs it took to get him all the way to North Sydney. Seven and a half hours it took, all the way to the hospital. They had to put two dollars and fifty cents worth of brandy into him, in his system, soon as we got there. Injected it all through him. His heart stopped for a bit, Andrew’s. Nineteen thirties that’s what they did, that’s what they had. Brandy. He lived though, he lived it out.
VII.
L ATE IN THE NIGHT A nna got up , squatted half asleep on the cold toilet, a pale nightlight at her feet, shivering, thinking only, God get me back beneath those quilts quick. But a single, isolated sound crept into her hearing. Howling? Distant, pitched not with menace or alarm but with pain, the slowly waking side of her said, and a coyote wouldn’t bark like that, would it, give away its peril? Holding her breath, she allowed the possibility—knowing at the same instant its absurdity—that it was the dog from the bridge, somehow it had survived.
Chilled and frightened, she dressed quickly, pulled on her parka and heavy boots, stepped out the back door. The night was so still, the wind she’d fallen asleep listening to had spent itself, the cold sharp in her throat. She had not intended to investigate any further than the back steps, but the howling did not waver and it pained her to listen to it. The way it rose to a wail, stopped, then resumed drew her slowly down the steps. It seemed to be coming from the pond as Anna walked into the darkness, every crunching step telling her to go back for a flashlight, but the sound pulled her forward. She found her way along, picking out the familiar path of tramped snow. The dog, a dark form out on the pond ice, did not move but it must have seen her, heard
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