Smoke (19 page)

The doctor peers up from behind his glasses, perched low on his nose, and gives his head the slightest shake.

“Found it in the field, Mrs. Gray. Tripped over it walking home one day.”

“I found an arrowhead out there once,” says Hank.

“Neat,” says Jelly Bean. “My dad's got a whole pile of them, don't you, Dad?”

“Arrowheads, guns. My word,” interrupts Hazel. “For crying out loud it's the Christmas season. Let's talk about something cheery.”

“That reminds me,” says Walter. “I hear there's been a strange sighting just outside of town. Some kind of makeshift camp set up in the woods near Zenda.”

“That dairy bar thief,” says Bob. “He's a crafty fellow all right.”

“So close to here?” Hazel is alarmed. “That's just terrible. Walter I told you; we need better security at the store. These days it seems there's a desperado around every corner.”

“Perish the thought,” says Alice.

“Well, did they catch him?”

“Not yet. He drove off like the devil. Someone thought he saw an early model Oldsmobile but none was found.”

“Doc John's the only one I know with a car like that,” says Buster. “I suppose next folks'll be saying it's you who's the bandit.” There is a tense silence until Doc John laughs, his voice rising a notch or two higher than usual.

“Heavens,” says Alice. “That old heap. Wouldn't get him very far.”

“No fooling. And with these legs I'd be caught and behind bars already.” Doc John taps one foot and pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. His top shirt button has come undone revealing a fine collarbone. Slim wrists poke out the cuffs of his impeccable jacket. He moves to switch off the television. “Enough talk.” He glances in his wife's direction to gauge her reaction. “I've got a better idea.” He motions to Buster. “Fetch my clarinet, will you? It's just inside the office there.”

Buster takes another swig of his ginger ale before rising. He's never entered the doctor's office from inside the house before. He fumbles for a wall lamp, his eyes taking a few moments to adjust. Curtains are pulled across the window so that barely a hint of sun leaks through the material. “To your right,” he hears the doctor call out. He feels his way along the wallpaper with his palm, and coming to a sconce, turns the button and sets off a golden glow over half of the room. He scopes around for the clarinet case and without fore thought eases his way over to Doc John's desk, turning to make sure that no one is watching. Gently, with his head beginning to pulse, he lifts the lid. “Where'd you say you left it?”

“On the floor, over by the bookcase.”

Buster fishes inside the desk for bullets, finds them under a folded cotton handkerchief but has no time to grab one before Jelly Bean appears behind him. “Need any help?” He drops the handkerchief and turns to face her. Her cheeks are round and healthy, her neck vulnerable and exposed. The tiny blue buttons on her sweater set look as if they could, at any moment, pop free.

“No, I've got it covered.” There's a spiderweb shadow of lashes visible on her cheek and he wants to brush it away. His eyes are drawn down along her body where she swells out to meet him. They both blink embarrassment and Buster steps away from the desk, bumping into the hat tree. He catches it before it topples over.

“Close call.” Jelly Bean approaches. “Happens to me all the time.” She peeks inside the desk. “Hey, what are all these?” Piled inside, in disarray, is a mound of old newspapers.

“I don't know.” Buster moves to stand beside her and begins to root through the papers. Newsprint stains his fingertips. He smells the faint, sweet cinnamon odour of her breath and her perfumed shampoo. He wants to run his fingers through her hair but instead reaches for the paper bow stuck to his hat. He drops his arm before she notices, and returns to the newspapers.

Halfway down the pile is a cover photo showing three men in double-breasted black-and-white pin-striped suits, spats and expensive-looking fedoras, all being led into a courthouse in handcuffs. Their backs are to the camera but one man looks as though he turned to the photographer the instant before the flashbulb went off. His image is grainy and featureless except for caustic, marauding eyes that seem to have escaped time. “Wonder who he is?” says Jelly Bean.

The headline has been cut away but the name of the paper is unmistakable—
Detroit Free Press
—and the date, 1931. Buster flips to the next in the stack. A much younger man, from an earlier era this time. A bookish character in a physician's coat with two shady-looking types standing on either side of him and a child of about ten years in his lap. The girl has long, unruly hair and a wrinkled dress. Her legs hang indelicately apart and her legs and feet are bare. Buster stares at the child's hands—one around what he presumes to be her father's neck, and the other holding on to a black medical bag.

“What are you two doing in there?”

“Nothing.” Buster slips the paper back into the pile where he found it and quietly drops the lid of the desk. He wipes his hands on his pants, turns and scans the floor, then grabs up the black leather case with two shiny buckles on either end. He and Jelly Bean hurry out of the office without another word.

Alice helps Minister Duff and his wife off with their coats. Laura and Hubert Claxton arrive, and Walter moves to the television where he bends to retrieve his French horn case. Tom goes out to the truck for his trumpet and Buster hands the clarinet case to Doc John. His mother rises to put Lizzie, who is by now half asleep, down in the spare room upstairs.

Doc John balances the clarinet case on his knees, unsnaps it and lifts out the longest joint. He begins to assemble the instrument by moistening a reed between his lips while he screws together the bell, top joint and barrel, adds the mouthpiece and ligature and takes his time lining up all four manufacturer's stamps so that his breath can pass along the body of the instrument making the best possible sound. Then he slides the reed along the flat surface of the mouthpiece, convex side up, and fastens the screws. He slips the tip of the clarinet into his mouth, feels the sharp slivers of the reed. It tastes of a sweet, woody flavour and mildly of the beer he's been nursing. He knows it's his current favourite reed by its thickness and texture. He gestures to Bob and Walter. “Now what say we have some good clean fun?” His fingers fly across the keys but he doesn't breathe into the instrument. “We could use another clarinet player … Hank? Buster?” Both brothers shake their heads.

“Donny?”

“Sorry Doc.”

“Judy?”

“Doc John,”
she drawls. “You shouldn't tease. You know I never learned. They don't let girls play in the band.”

T
HE SUN SINKS
like a hidden treasure and Main Street is silent and still. Only the crunching of feet on snow makes any sound. It's as if the whole village has been swathed in cotton batting. It's snowing again, big flakes that make Jelly Bean think of doilies and paper stars falling from the sky. She opens her mouth to catch a flake on her tongue and it melts instantly. She and Buster walk farther along, the air so pure it can't be felt entering their lungs. Houses are outlined with brightly coloured lights and there is faint laughter and the distant clatter of dishes being scraped. One family has left a window ajar and inside, on the radio, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney sing
I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas
.

“How old do you think Doc John is?”

“Gee, I don't know.”

“Did he seem nervous tonight?”

“What do you mean? Nervous about what?”

“I'd wager he's seventy. Maybe seventy-five.”

“Nah-ah,” Jelly Bean shakes her head. “Not that old. Just frail.” She turns at the corner by the bank and they descend into the blue-black darkness of the park.

“He talks about Detroit all the time. He must have family there.”

Jelly Bean nods this time. “He posts a letter each month. I've seen him do it myself.”

“Really? Why do you suppose no one visits?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Buster kicks at a piece of ice with the toe of his boot. “I don't know why he would move here in the first place. Smoke is dullsville.”

“Where would you rather be?”

“Anywhere.”

Buster walks farther along the path until they come upon the creek. He wonders what would happen if he were to grab her and kiss her, or stand close and breathe in her scent. Would she pull back? He steps onto the ice. “Look, I'm Jesus walking on water.”

Jelly Bean giggles. “Don't let my mother catch you talking like that.”

“Or Mrs. Gray.” Buster stomps his boot heel. “Not even a crack, see? C'mon.”

“But I'm wearing my good shoes.”

“So.”

Jelly Bean steps delicately onto the ice, trying her best to appear graceful. Her shoes, without treads, are slippery and her feet slide out from under her. Buster reaches out to catch her but she's down before he gets the chance to break her fall. Her coat spreads out all around like a broken parasol. He laughs and she looks up at him as if she might swat his pant leg or cry, hasn't decided which. “That's not very gallant of you!”

He extends an arm and pulls her up. “Could've happened to anyone.”

“Sure but it always happens to me.” She wipes the snow off the back of her coat and waits for him to deliver a cruel punchline. He doesn't. “How can Mother honestly expect
me
to win Miss Tobacco Queen?”

“You're a shoo-in.”

“Think so?” She's surprised he would say this.

“Sure. You're a guaranteed wow.” Buster's tough, guarded veneer is gone for the moment. He removes the red bow from his hat. “Here,” he says, holding it out with a nervous hand. “Merry Christmas.”

“For me?” She hugs him and he pulls back stiffly.

“It's nothing.”

“Oh, thank you. It's beautiful.” She sticks the gift to the lapel of her new coat and runs to catch up. “Was it on one of
your
gifts? Or did you buy it? Why'd you pick this colour?”

“What is this,
The $64,000 Question
?” He's finally managed to hand over the boutonniere and here she is blathering on about nothing. He should know better than to be open with her now— she might like to talk with him when they're alone, even try and snag him into going to some bash. She might sincerely believe that she's his friend, but that's only her wanting to feel like a do-gooder.

Jelly Bean tucks her face into the collar of her coat, scolding herself for being such a busybody like her mother. “I'm planning to leave here,” she says, changing the subject.

“Oh yeah? Where to?”

“Toronto. For art school. Someday.”

“You're just saying that. You're not going anywhere. You'll stay here your whole life like everybody else.”

Jelly Bean's eyes narrow. She wants to throw the paper boutonniere in his rubbery face, compel him to take back his words. But she doubts herself. What
is
she saying? That she could succeed on her own, in a great big city? That she could paint pictures someone would ever want to hang? She bites her lip. Who is she anyway? Jelly Bean, her mother's nickname for her. Something small and inconsequential that can be swallowed in one bite. Still, she can't help imagining other students as interested in form and shape as she is, teachers with their paint-stained hands and the wide spectrum of brilliant colour. “I will not,” she insists. “What do you know about me, anyway? I've even got a job lined up so I can save. I'm going to help your mother during harvest.”

“At the farm?” His chest is a cave.

“Why? Don't you think I can do it? I count cash at the store every Saturday I'll have you know. I make deposits. I do exactly what Daddy says; wear my long brown skirt with the deep pockets, hide the cash in one of the pockets and his knife in the other in case there's trouble hanging around the park. And don't think I wouldn't use it either.” She corrects her posture while she speaks. “I march straight into the bank like I'm supposed to. Nobody ever bothers me. Heck Buster, I can handle practically anything!”

He is impressed. The way she looks he never would have guessed she had it in her to carry a knife. He wonders if she's carrying one now and if she really knows how to use it, but he's even more absorbed by the thought of having her close in the summer. Harvest with its impossibly long days seals a bond between workers. If she were there she would become a part of that. “Sure, sure, I just mean, you've never worked harvest before, that's all.”

“Uh-huh, I learn fast. I'll cook, and the rest of the time I'll work with the table gang.”

“That's great. I mean it's great that you'll be helping out.”

“Yeah. Then I'll have money for art school.” She marches ahead. “And a real future.”

He remembers that at Sunday school once, when they were young, she'd shown him how to mix blue and yellow water paints together to produce the colour green—a lesson he still recalls each time he looks out at his father's field. He remembers asking about the image she'd painted. “It's a dead bird,” she'd said, rather dismayed that he couldn't tell. And when he called the painting goofy and asked what she'd want to go and paint some ugly dead thing for, she'd been adamant. “It's not ugly to me, Buster.”

“Judy?” he catches up to her. “You know Ivan's New Year's bash?”

She turns. He's never used her given name before.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well I was thinking … if you still want to go?”

“With you?”

“Never mind. It was a dumb idea.”

Blood moves beneath her skin in swift currents. She's been flirting with the idea of Buster, with what it might be like to know him better, but agreeing to this would be real. What would people say? What would her mother say? She touches her fingertips to the petals of her paper flower and smiles.