Bodily Harm (13 page)

Now Lora opens her purple bag and rustles through it, and suddenly everything falls into place. What she takes out is a poly bag of grass, about an ounce, Rennie guesses. She wants Rennie to buy it. The price, by Toronto standards, is ridiculously low.

“The best,” she says. “Colombian, it just came in.”

Rennie of course refuses. She’s heard about dope laws in foreign countries, she knows about being set up, she has no intention of spending any time at all growing fungus in the local jail while the local bureaucrats try, unsuccessfully, to put the squeeze on her mother. Her mother is a firm believer in taking the consequences for your actions. And who else would get her out? Who would even try?

Lora shrugs. “It’s cool,” she says. “No harm in asking.”

Rennie looks around to see what has become of Lora’s drink, and feels herself turn cold.

“My God,” she says.

There are two policemen in the bar, they’re going from table to table, it looks as if they’re asking questions. But Lora stares calmly over at them, she doesn’t even put the dope away, she just moves her cloth bag so it’s covered. “Don’t look so weird,” she says to Rennie. “It’s cool. I wouldn’t say it was cool if it wasn’t.”

And it turns out after all that they’re just selling tickets to the Police Benefit Dance. Rennie thinks she recognizes them from the airport, but she’s not sure. One sells, the other stands behind him, dangling his swagger stick and checking out the scene. She produces her own ticket from her purse. “I already have one,” she says, a little too smugly, because the one selling grins at her and says, “You need two, man. One for your boyfriend. Some things you can’t do by yourself.”

The second one laughs, a high giggle.

“That’s a real good idea,” says Lora, smiling a little tightly, her Holiday Inn smile; so Rennie pays.

“We see you there,” says the first policeman, and they saunter off.

“If there’s one thing I hate it’s cops,” says Lora, when they’re hardly out of earshot. “They’re all in the business if you ask me, one way or another, I’ve got nothing against that but they take advantage. It’s unfair competition. You ever been stopped by a cop? For speeding or anything? Back home I mean, around here they don’t bother that much about speeding.”

“No,” says Rennie.

“They look at your driver’s licence. Then they use your first name. Not Miss or Mrs. or anything, your first name, and you’ve got no way of knowing any of their names at all. You ever have that happen to you?”

In fact Rennie hasn’t. She’s having trouble paying attention, there’s too much rum in the drinks. Lora, however, has just signalled for another one, it’s not bothering her.

“That’s where it begins,” says Lora. “Where they can use your first name and you can’t use theirs. Then they think they’ve got you, they can look down on you, like. Sometimes they give you a choice, fork out or put out.”

“Sorry?” says Rennie.

“You know, pay the fine or go down on them. They always know where the vacant lots are, eh?”

Lora looks at her slyly and Rennie knows she’s supposed to be shocked. “Really,” she says, as if she’s been through it herself, dozens of times.

The Women’s Movement would have loved Lora, back in the old days, back in the early seventies when they were still doing pieces about the liberating effects of masturbation. They’d have given her ten out of ten for openness, a word that always made Rennie think of a can of worms with the top off. Nevertheless, Rennie did several pieces on the movement back then, until its media potential burnt out. Then she did a piece called “Burned Out”: interviews with eight women who’d explained why they’d gone into weaving placemats and painting miniature landscapes on bottles, instead. It was the infighting, they said. The bitching. The trashing. Other women were just so difficult to work with, you never knew where you stood with them. And it all went on behind your back. At least with men it was out on the table, they said; and Rennie busily wrote it all down.

Great stuff, said the editor. It’s about time someone had the courage to speak out.

Lora smiles but she’s not fooled; she can tell this is one of the things Rennie doesn’t know. But she’s generous, she’s willing to share. Ten out of ten for sharing.

“Listen,” she says, “at least you have the choice. You can always say you’re worth more than a speeding ticket. I don’t know which is worse though, no choice at all or just a lot of bad ones. At least when you don’t have a choice you don’t have to think, you know? The worst times in my life I had choices all right. Shit or shit.”

Rennie doesn’t want to hear about the worst times in Lora’s life, so she doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, why dwell on it?” says Lora. “That’s what my mother used to say. There’s enough bad things in the world, there’s no shortage, so why dwell on it, there’s better things to talk about.”

Rennie wonders what these may be, since Lora can’t seem to think of any. She slurps at the bottom of her glass with the two plastic straws. “You like maraschino cherries?” she says. “I can’t stand them.”

Rennie hesitates. She does like maraschino cherries, but she isn’t sure she wants to eat the one Lora is now poking around for at the bottom of the glass with her bitten fingers. However, she’s about to be rescued, because Paul has just stepped out onto the patio and is standing there scanning the tables as though he’s looking for someone.

Rennie knows it’s her. She waves, and he strolls over to their table.

“What have you been up to?” he says, smiling at her.

“Research,” says Rennie, smiling back.

“You’re late,” Lora says to him. “I’ve been here for hours.”

“I’ll get myself a drink,” he says, and walks over to the bar.

“Just a sec,” says Lora. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my bag?” She stands up, pushes back her hair, straightens up so her breasts stick out more, and walks over to join Paul. They stand there talking, for a lot longer than Rennie wants them to.

The third piña colada comes, the one for Lora, and Rennie drinks some of it, for something to do.

Lora comes back from the bar and sits down. Her drink is there but she doesn’t touch it. Something has happened, her face is no longer a dollface. Rennie notices the skin under her eyes, too much sun, in a few years she’ll shrivel up like an apple. She looks at Rennie, dolefully as a spaniel.

“What’s wrong?” says Rennie, knowing as she says it that she shouldn’t have asked. To ask is to get involved.

“Look,” says Lora, “can you do me a big favour?”

“What?” says Rennie, on guard.

“Elva’s sick,” she says, “that’s Prince’s grandmother. Over on Ste. Agathe.”

“Prince?” says Rennie. There can’t be two of them.

“The guy I live with,” Lora says.

“The one in the election?” says Rennie, who can’t quite put it together.

“That’s why he can’t go over to Ste. Agathe,” says Lora, “he’s making a speech today, so I have to, she sort of lives with us. She’s eighty-two, it’s her heart, and there’s no doctors over there and nobody to, you know. So I have to get over there right away.” Is it possible she’s almost crying?

“What can I do?” says Rennie. In Griswold it would be cupcakes or a pumpkin pie. This is familiar ground. She’s friendlier towards Lora now that she knows Lora’s living with someone. Who is not Paul.

“There’s this box coming into the airport tomorrow,” says Lora, “you think you can pick it up for me?”

Rennie is immediately suspicious. “What’s in it?” she says.

Lora looks at her and manages a grin. “Not what you think,” she says. “There’s one thing around here you don’t have to get mailed in from New York, that’s for sure. It’s her heart medicine. She’s got this daughter there sends it to her all the time. You can’t get stuff like that here. She ran out of it, that’s why she got sick.”

Rennie does not want the death of an eighty-two-year-old grandmother on her hands. What can she say but yes? You’re too distrustful, Jake used to tell her. Try the benefit of the doubt, for once in your life.

Paul walks over, he’s taking his time, he never seems to move very
fast. He puts his half-empty drink on the table and sits down. He smiles, but Lora doesn’t even look at him.

“What you need to do,” Lora says, “you need to go there tomorrow morning around eight, the window that says Customs. Here, you need this thing here. It has to be around eight.” She rummages in her purple bag, she can’t seem to find it. Finally she takes out a creased and folded piece of paper. “Right,” she says. “Just say she sent you and give them this. You ask for this fellow called Harold, he should be there; if he’s not you have to wait.”

Rennie takes the paper; it’s a simple customs notice. There’s nothing to pay, no complications. “Why can’t I just hand it in at the window?” she says. “Anyone should be able to deal with this.”

Lora gives her a patient but exasperated look. “You don’t know how they do things around here,” she says. “He’s the one I gave the bribe to. If you don’t do that, they just open it up and keep half the stuff. Or they might keep all of it and never tell you it got here, you know? Sell it on the black market.”

“Really?” says Rennie.

“Every place has a different system,” says Lora. “But they’ve all got one. You just need to figure out how it works.” She’s more relaxed now, she siphons up the rest of her piña colada and stands, scraping back the metal chair. “I got to go to the can,” she says, and disappears into the main building.

Rennie and Paul are left sitting together. “Can I get you another?” Paul says.

“No thanks,” says Rennie. She’s on the edge of being quite drunk. “How do I get back from here?” She realizes this sounds like a request. “I’ll call a taxi,” she says.

“Taxis don’t like to come out here,” Paul says. “The roads are too bad, they don’t like to wreck their springs. Anyway, you’d have to wait for hours. I’ll give you a lift, I’ve got a jeep out front.”

“Only if you’re going back anyway,” says Rennie.

He stands up, he’s ready to leave right now. “What about Lora?” says Rennie. She doesn’t want to ride back with Lora, but it would be rude to leave her stranded.

“She’ll get back on her own all right,” Paul says. “She knows a lot of people.”

On the way out Rennie sees Lora, who isn’t in the can after all but is standing near the kitchen door, talking with one of the waiters. Rennie goes over to say goodbye.

“Have a nice time,” Lora says, with her Holiday Inn smile. She presses something into Rennie’s hand; it feels like a wad of Kleenex. “It’s a gift,” she says. “You’re doing me a favour.”

“Is Lora a friend of yours?” Rennie asks when they’re out side, walking across the Driftwood’s thick lawn.

“How do you mean?” says Paul.

Rennie founders. She doesn’t want to reveal jealousy or even interest, though she suddenly realizes that she feels both. “I mean, do you know her very well?”

“Well enough,” says Paul. “She’s been around for a while.”

“She seems to be living with some man, over on Ste. Agathe,” Rennie says.

“Prince?” Paul says. “Not exactly. Off and on, the way they do. He’s into politics, she’s not.”

“She seems to be into just about everything else,” says Rennie.

Paul doesn’t say anything, he’s staying completely neutral. Rennie’s real question hasn’t been answered and she can see it won’t be.

They reach the driveway and find the jeep, which is small and battered, with open sides and a canvas top. “Is it yours?” Rennie says.

“Friend of mine’s,” says Paul. He doesn’t open the door for her and it takes her a while to get it open for herself. She’s definitely had
too much to drink. Paul takes out a pair of mirror sunglasses and puts them on. Then he turns the key. The jeep scoots backwards into the ditch, which seems to be the only way to turn around, then accelerates forward, wheels spinning in the mud. Rennie clamps her right hand to the metal frame at the top, her left to the seat, which is also metal. There are no safety belts.

They drive through the forest that surrounds the Driftwood, huge hothouse trees draped with creepers, giant prehistoric ferns, obese plants with rubbery ear-shaped leaves and fruit like warts, like glands. Some of the trees have toppled over, tearing up swaths of earth, their thick snarled roots in the air now.

“Allan,” Paul yells over the noise of the jeep.

“What?” says Rennie.

“The hurricane.”

Now they’re in a coconut plantation. It seems to be abandoned, some of the trees are dead, the coconuts are everywhere, on the road even, the road is worse here, they’re hitting every pothole. Rennie’s hands are cold, she’s sweating, she no longer feels drunk but she thinks she’s going to be sick.

“Could you stop?” she shouts.

“What?” says Paul.

“Stop!” she says. “Please stop!”

He looks over at her, then pulls the jeep off to the side of the road. Rennie puts her head down on her knees; she’ll be all right if she can just stay like this for a minute. It’s a drag, stopping like this, she feels silly, but it’s better than vomiting on him. “Throwing Up In The Sun,” she thinks briefly. Tippy would say everything’s raw material, you just have to know how to work it in.