Flight of Aquavit (44 page)

ting my gaze burrow comfortably into the fire.

“No, thanks, Mom.” I felt so very good inside.

At 9 p.m. Mom retired to her room to watch

reruns of
Matlock
and
Murder She Wrote
. I decided

to try for the Christmas feeling to go with this

new-found familial instinct I was developing. I

dug up Barbra’s Christmas collar—a ruffled thing

of red and green silk which she dutifully wears

every year with a minimum of apparent indigna-

tion. I found a red bandana at the bottom of my

underwear drawer (don’t ask) for Brutus. For

myself I snuggled into my favourite holiday

sweater, a worn and cozy thing with a trail of tiny

reindeers scampering around the threadbare collar,

cuffs and hem. That done I stacked celebrity-sung

Christmas tunes on the CD player and retreated to

the kitchen to pour myself a glass of eggnog heav-

ily laced with Gosling’s Black Seal dark rum. I had

just restoked the fire and settled in with my

thoughts when the front doorbell rang.

“Hey,” said a fellow beneath a utilitarian win-

ter coat, knitted toque and thick, brilliant bur-

gundy scarf. “Sorry to bother you.” He was a little

out of breath.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Come in.” It wasn’t too

cold out but the darkness made it seem so and the

heavy clouds were finally beginning to deposit

350 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

their cargo in the form of butterfly-sized

snowflakes.

“Oh no, no thanks,” he said. “I live down the

street.”

I looked closer. With all the winter parapherna-

lia covering him all I could really make out was a

fringe of dark hair sticking out from beneath the

toque, small dark eyes and an indistinct nose. I

supposed he looked somewhat familiar so I gave

him an “oh, of course!” sounding “Oh, hello!”

First it was the three monkey neighbour ladies

and now this guy. Where had I been the last few

years? Who were these people? I’m not a “can I

borrow some sugar” kind of neighbour, but I’d

always thought I could at least recognize most of

the people who live on my street.

“I hate to bother you—I’ve tried a few other

houses on the block but no one seems to be home

tonight. Out Christmas shopping I guess,” he said.

“I guess,” I agreed agreeably.

“The problem is that I only have the truck for

an hour before I have to take it back.” This said he

used his head to indicate an area in the general

direction of the street. Of course, with all the trees

surrounding my front yard, I couldn’t see a thing.

I took his word for it and continued to listen. “You

see I had a desk made special for my daughter for

Christmas and I borrowed a truck to pick it up.

The guy at the studio helped me load it into the

truck but I forgot I’d have no one to help me get it

out of the truck and into the house. It’s a surprise

for her. It’s got space for her computer and print-

er and all her other stuff. Cherry wood.”

Anthony Bidulka — 351

Oh, oh. Woodworking. Guy stuff. “Very nice,”

I said.

“So, I kinda need a hand.”

“You want me to help you get the desk out of

the truck?” I clarified.

“Yeah, if you could. Out of the truck and into

the house. Before my daughter and her mother get

home. I hate to disturb you…”

“No, no, that’s okay.” It wasn’t exactly a sleigh

ride in the park, but helping thy neighbour

seemed like a sufficiently Christmassy thing to do

to fit in with my theme for the evening. “Won’t

you come in while I get my coat?”

“No, no, I’ll just wait by the truck. It’s the big

one down the street. You can’t miss it.”

When he turned to leave I shut the door to keep

Barbra and Brutus inside while I threw on the near-

est coat in the foyer closet, a pair of boots, a kicky,

striped Gap scarf and some gloves. Instructing the

disappointed dogs to stay indoors and listen to

Celine Dion, I left the house and followed my

neighbour out to the street. Indeed, about halfway

down the block was a massive three-ton truck, its

box covered by a flat, metal roof, probably to keep

snow off the desk. The tailgate doors were open,

revealing a gaping, black hole. Somewhere in that

hole was the cherry wood desk.

“Big truck!” I said when I’d caught up. “Just

how big is this desk?” I joked.

“Hand-crafted,” he said by way of question-

able explanation. “Maybe you could get in and

start untying the bungee cords we used to hold it

in place. I have to get my gloves out of the cab.”

352 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

He stood and waited for my response.

“Sure,” I said, peering into the back of the truck

where I could see a faint square outline.

“Russell!”

We both turned around. The voice had come

from behind us. A familiar voice. One I wasn’t

expecting.

“Jared!” I called back.

Jared had pulled up in a black Jeep Cherokee in

front of my house and was now striding towards

us. He was wearing a bright yellow ski jacket,

jeans and a pair of Nikes. Even in the dusky light

given off by the street lamps his face and hair

shone with vitality and life.

“Hi,” he greeted when he reached us.

I checked his face for signs of anything amiss. I

hadn’t had a chance—on purpose or not, I don’t

know—to talk with either Jared or Anthony about

what had happened at Diva’s. Was that why he

was here? Had something happened between the

two of them? He didn’t look stressed or sad or

worried or anything, but he did look like someone

who was ready to have a good, long talk. “Hi,” I

said back.

“What are you up to? Sorry to just drop by, I

would have called but…” And he smiled impishly.

“I’m helping my neighbour get a desk out of

his truck,” I said rather proudly, gesturing

towards said neighbour.

“I’ll help you,” he readily offered along with a

wide smile at both of us.

“Oh no,” the man said. “No, that’s okay. Why

don’t you two have your visit? We can do this

Anthony Bidulka — 353

some other time.”

“No problem, sir,” Jared said politely.

“I thought you said you only had the truck for

an hour,” I said. “With Jared here it’ll take us two

seconds.”

“No really…I can get someone else…” he

began, but we’d already hopped into the bed of

the truck.

The desk was surprisingly small. I could have

pretty much done the job myself but I was glad to

have an activity to delay the inevitable discussion

with Jared. I needed time to think about what to

say to him. After we unhooked the bungee cords

holding the desk to the floor, I hoisted one end, he

the other and we began our moving-man shuffle.

That’s when we heard the sudden loud clang and

everything went dark.

“Russell?”

“Jared?”

“I just wanted to check I hadn’t passed out and

didn’t know it. What’s going on?”

Although we were only inches apart the black-

ness was so complete I couldn’t make out his face.

“The tailgate doors must have been thrown shut

by accident,” I said. “Come on, let’s put the desk

down and help him. Those doors looked heavy.”

“It’s so dark in here I can’t tell which way is the

front of the truck and which is the back,” Jared said

as we lowered the desk to the floor of the box and

bumbled our way around, often bumping into one

another.

When we reached the tailgate I pushed on it.

But it didn’t budge. It was the type with two doors

354 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

that swing open to the sides. There was a storm

coming and I surmised the rising wind must have

ripped the doors from their moorings and

slammed them shut.

“Push on it,” I instructed as I continued to do

the same.

“I am,” Jared answered from somewhere next

to me in the dark. “But it’s not moving an inch.

What’s your neighbour’s name? Let’s call out to

him. Maybe he got into the cab to warm up and

doesn’t even know what’s happened.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what? His name?” he asked,

incredulous.

“No,” I admitted sheepishly, bearing the full

weight of my ignorance.

“Hey sir!” Jared yelled out.

Nothing.

We both began calling out, hoping our voices

were loud enough to carry through steel.

Nothing.

We began to bang.

And then the body of the truck lurched.

“What the hell was that?” Jared asked, sudden-

ly alarmed.

In the utter darkness of the box, unable to see

even my own hand in front of my face, it was as if

a ghost had appeared in front of me and pushed

me backwards. I fell with a resounding thump

onto my ass. A similar sound to my right told me

the same fate had befallen Jared. He let out a mew

of pain.

“You okay?” I asked, concerned.

Anthony Bidulka — 355

“I landed right on my tailbone. Man that hurts.

But yeah, I’m okay.”

“That desk isn’t made of cherry wood,” I com-

mented flatly, a creepy suspicion having invaded

my brain.

“Huh?”

We sat there not saying anything for a few sec-

onds. We listened to the telltale sounds. Although

we couldn’t believe it, we both knew what was

happening.

The truck was moving.

We were being kidnapped.

Chapter 19

I THOUGHT OF ELISABETH KUBLER-ROSS and her well-

known, oft-quoted research on the stages people

go through when dealing with death: denial,

anger, bargaining, depression and finally accept-

ance. Although no one had died, as our trip in the

blackened bowels of the three-ton truck contin-

ued, I hit all five—several times. After getting

back to our feet we banged away on the locked

tailgate doors and sides of the truck box, yelling at

the top of our lungs, certain this was some sort of

mistake or stupid joke. But after twenty minutes,

grim awareness set in—there was nothing funny

going on. For a while we dumbly stood where we

were, not saying much to one another, listening to

the sounds and swaying with the motion of the

truck. At the beginning there were a lot of stops

and starts. City driving. But then the truck’s speed

rose and there were no more stops. Highway driv-

ing. We were being taken out of the city! This was

a discouraging realization. Having looked for and

failed to find a way to escape our steel prison we

were rendered inactive. And we were cold.

The longer we stood in the back of that truck,

the colder it seemed to get. We searched for any-

thing that might help keep us warm, but there was

nothing. All we had was each other. And a desk.

We found a spot no more comfortable than any

other in the barren space and slumped down next

to each other for warmth, our knees close to our

Anthony Bidulka — 357

chests. Jared was worse off than I. I had a coat,

gloves, scarf and a good pair of boots. All he had

was a jacket that was more stylish than warm and

a pair of Nikes. Not good winter wear if you’re

planning to be kidnapped and held captive in the

box of a truck so cold it might as well have been a

refrigerator. But who knew? I offered to share my

clothing bounty but he refused, claiming he was

okay as long as his hands were in his pockets, and

that he had really thick socks on under his run-

ning shoes.

It was a unique sensation being back there, in

the dark, not knowing where we were going. To

lose sense of sight and control of your own imme-

diate destiny is not a pleasant thing. They say

when you lose one sense the other four are

improved. Hoping that was true, I began to focus

on what else my body was telling me. The only

thing I could smell was Jared. For all the years I’ve

known him, he’s always worn the same cologne.

I’ve never known what it’s called or, to my knowl-

edge, smelled it on anyone else. I like that because

I always know when he’s near. It’s a subtle, spicy,

manly smell. Pleasant. The only nice thing about

what was happening to us. As far as taste, well,

the only thing I was tasting, and in abundance,

was fear. That left touch and hearing. I decided

that for my purposes feeling the movement of the

truck throughout my body was like using my

sense of touch. And together with the sound of the