of the ring), telling him, in that sincerely insincere way that some of them could master, Oh, we enjoyed your classes so much. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter, to him or to them. They smiled, he smiled, the ritual was over. Others who happened by the store might pretend they didn’t know him at all, easy enough if they hadn’t liked him anyway, easier yet if he them. It was always quietly embarrassing to bump into a student who’d disrespected him because they both felt, by now, sheepish about it, that mutual failure.
“Nobody this side of the island has a bicycle but kids,” Shane said, sitting on the cooler, looking them over.
Malcolm lifted his gouty foot off the stool slowly as if it might detonate. “Take your life in your hands riding on this road, not much shoulder for a bike, and those ditches are backhoed deep.”
“Not a bad road really,” the shorter cyclist said, retying his blond ponytail. “The grades are easy. Aren’t they, Mel?”
“We’re circling the island, then heading north,” Mel said, “Cabot Trail. St. Aubin’s kind of a side trip.”
“Yes,” Lauchlin said. “It is.”
Sometimes on summer weekends cyclists would pass, crouched seriously into expensive equipment, skin-tight clothing, neck to shoes. Lauchlin let them fill their water bottles in back and use the toilet. Curious, they might ask about the big leather bag hanging in the backroom, but Lauchlin would point vaguely to the framed photos of Cape Breton boxers on the wall. It’s just a souvenir, he’d say. Old times.
“Not hard going on this island, sure,” Malcolm said, “young men like yourselves. But see that mountain across the channel there?That’ll wake your hearts up.” They had pumped over worse than that, Mel said, steeper, higher, and you could tell by their legs they had, their bodies were lean and their thighs powerful. Shane followed them outside and chatted with them as they readied their bikes, pointing at the gears, the seat, then at his well-chromed black Honda raked and ready under the big poplar tree. The cyclists bounced their tires and smiled, then mounted their bikes and eased into the pedals, cutting smoothly onto the road and away, leaning into that languid physical confidence that Lauchlin remembered, when death was the fate only of the old and the unlucky.
For a good while after he quit fighting he would, when alone, fall into throwing punches, ducking, weaving, bobbing, not intensely, not the headshaking shoulderjumping craziness you got worked up into in a gym, in the sweat and stink and that pounding energy that came from every corner, now more like a little dance his body asked for, his mind needed, it loosened him up—a peculiar way of moving in the world that had once set him apart, like an animal in the woods. But he did not want to be seen at it anymore. Punch-drunk, they’d say, look at him, he’s gone foolish, they get that way, you know.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Lauchlin remarked that he hadn’t seen Slide MacIvor’s car go by again, he hoped it hadn’t quit on him way up at the Head where he paid calls on a certain woman. It doesn’t take him as long as it used to, Malcolm said. Isn’t he a little old for that? Shane said. Listen to him, Lauchlin said, I’d better hang it up. But it wasn’t Slide at all who showed up near suppertime but a new pickup with a metallic green paint job, and it came up to the pumps badly, backfiring. Lauchlin didn’t recognize the driver at first as he sulked in the cab for a good minute revving the rough engine. Then he jumped out, stopping to sniff the gas pump nozzle. He reamed his finger around in it and sniffed that too.
Shane laughed, sliding off the cooler. “He planning to get high on that or what?” He was down the steps quickly but stopped short after the man said something to him Lauchlin couldn’t hear. Shane shrugged and the man pushed past him. Seeing his face, Lauchlin checked himself and stayed behind the
“Nobody this side of the island has a bicycle but kids,” Shane said, sitting on the cooler, looking them over.
Malcolm lifted his gouty foot off the stool slowly as if it might detonate. “Take your life in your hands riding on this road, not much shoulder for a bike, and those ditches are backhoed deep.”
“Not a bad road really,” the shorter cyclist said, retying his blond ponytail. “The grades are easy. Aren’t they, Mel?”
“We’re circling the island, then heading north,” Mel said, “Cabot Trail. St. Aubin’s kind of a side trip.”
“Yes,” Lauchlin said. “It is.”
Sometimes on summer weekends cyclists would pass, crouched seriously into expensive equipment, skin-tight clothing, neck to shoes. Lauchlin let them fill their water bottles in back and use the toilet. Curious, they might ask about the big leather bag hanging in the backroom, but Lauchlin would point vaguely to the framed photos of Cape Breton boxers on the wall. It’s just a souvenir, he’d say. Old times.
“Not hard going on this island, sure,” Malcolm said, “young men like yourselves. But see that mountain across the channel there?That’ll wake your hearts up.” They had pumped over worse than that, Mel said, steeper, higher, and you could tell by their legs they had, their bodies were lean and their thighs powerful. Shane followed them outside and chatted with them as they readied their bikes, pointing at the gears, the seat, then at his well-chromed black Honda raked and ready under the big poplar tree. The cyclists bounced their tires and smiled, then mounted their bikes and eased into the pedals, cutting smoothly onto the road and away, leaning into that languid physical confidence that Lauchlin remembered, when death was the fate only of the old and the unlucky.
For a good while after he quit fighting he would, when alone, fall into throwing punches, ducking, weaving, bobbing, not intensely, not the headshaking shoulderjumping craziness you got worked up into in a gym, in the sweat and stink and that pounding energy that came from every corner, now more like a little dance his body asked for, his mind needed, it loosened him up—a peculiar way of moving in the world that had once set him apart, like an animal in the woods. But he did not want to be seen at it anymore. Punch-drunk, they’d say, look at him, he’s gone foolish, they get that way, you know.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Lauchlin remarked that he hadn’t seen Slide MacIvor’s car go by again, he hoped it hadn’t quit on him way up at the Head where he paid calls on a certain woman. It doesn’t take him as long as it used to, Malcolm said. Isn’t he a little old for that? Shane said. Listen to him, Lauchlin said, I’d better hang it up. But it wasn’t Slide at all who showed up near suppertime but a new pickup with a metallic green paint job, and it came up to the pumps badly, backfiring. Lauchlin didn’t recognize the driver at first as he sulked in the cab for a good minute revving the rough engine. Then he jumped out, stopping to sniff the gas pump nozzle. He reamed his finger around in it and sniffed that too.
Shane laughed, sliding off the cooler. “He planning to get high on that or what?” He was down the steps quickly but stopped short after the man said something to him Lauchlin couldn’t hear. Shane shrugged and the man pushed past him. Seeing his face, Lauchlin checked himself and stayed behind the
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