Smoke by Elizabeth Ruth Page A

pants. His white coat. Alice, the daughter of a strict United Church minister, is an ardent believer in the evil of drink. “Not to be confused with other spirits,” she sometimes reminds her Sunday schoolers. Together, the Grays are a formal and tactful couple who never raise their voices in public, rarely disagree in private. They are childless, despite almost twenty-five years of marriage. Doc John is growing slower and feebler than a man his age should (sixty-three according to his birth certificate) and Alice, younger by ten years, worries about his flagging energy.
    Buster raises his hand to acknowledge the doctor and cuts across the lawn. He mounts the front steps and hurries to drag a chair over so the old man won’t struggle on his behalf. He sits, stretching his legs out before him like two felled logs.
    Doc John is wearing a thin blue wool cardigan and a white dress shirt with suspenders. His pants are black with wide hip pockets. His bushy eyebrows rest high and tilt on his forehead like two downy caterpillars unable to crawl away. His hair, in the unforgiving afternoon sun, is also white and a hint of pink scalp peeks through. His face is the colour of sunlessness. He removes his old wire-frame glasses and when he speaks his jowls shake like a rooster’s comb.
    â€œMorning,” he says, as if he’s been expecting company. The side door slaps open and shut and Alice appears with a tall glass of milk.
    â€œI thought that was you coming across my yard, Buster McFiddie,” she smiles. “Thought you might be thirsty too.” Buster stands to greet her. Her thick dark hair, streaked with grey, is cut straight across and pulled back behind her ears. She is wearing a short-sleeve pin-dotted dress. Nothing in her posture suggests that she is forcing her enthusiasm. She doesn’t even flinch at the sight of him. He is more than grateful. “So you’re up and about again?”
    â€œUh-huh.” Buster offers his chair.
    â€œThank you, no.” She waves him back down. “Hazel’s on her way. Be here any minute as a matter of fact. We’re quilting and trying to decide what quantities of material to order.”
    Doc John pokes Buster in the ribs. “These women been planning already.”
    â€œPlanning?”
    â€œFor the sesquicentennial.”
    â€œYes, and we’re busy, busy, busy. We Rebekahs have become quite determined to raise a goodly amount of money for new playground equipment. Buster, can you keep a secret?” Alice winks at her husband.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œHazel and I are also ordering firecrackers!” Alice’s voice rises at least two notches. She rocks onto the toes of her shoes and back down again. “Not the usual sort. There’s going to be a large display in all colours of the rainbow. That’ll be something different won’t it?”
    â€œFireworks,” Buster repeats.
    Alice holds up her finger as if it’s an exclamation point and continues enthusiastically. “I know we do them time to time, but this will be some show. We’ll also have darts, animal tricks, clowns, the Miss Tobacco Queen competition of course—you name it. We’re going to draw a real crowd. Hazel says it’ll be exotic as all get-out. Now remember, the fireworks are to be a surprise.”
    Buster forces a smile. Everyone he’s ever met in attendance, and an overblown hundred-and-fifty-year-old party raises nothing but dread in the pit of his stomach. “As long as you don’t skimp on your cream pies,” he says, changing the subject.
    â€œOh, I won’t,” Alice beams. “And in the meantime don’t you be a stranger around here.” She reaches for Doc John’s empty cup, gives him a squeeze on one shoulder. “I hope you’re not going to be filling this boy with any more of those ridiculous stories, John.” She faces Buster once more, smiles, and walks off into