The Life of Hope (20 page)

Cairine had a manner of walking, more a march than anything else, that caused her bubs to pump up and down like a drum beat. Cairine marched over to the tin tub and climbed in. Her backside was tiny, two little pear-shaped mounds, and right at the top of the cleft was a large birthmark, thick and black and looking like a leech. Cairine McDiarmid always splashed the most as she entered the bathwater. She didn’t really enjoy being wet, and she spent the shortest time washing herself. When she got out, even though a fire burned some few feet away, Cairine’s body puckered with goosebumps and her teeth began to clatter. Abigal Skinner wrapped Cairine in a large towel, and then the little woman marched over to the stove. Cairine opened the towel and let the heat play upon her body.

Mr. Opdycke felt something growing in his trousers. He was tempted to deal with it straightaway, but decided, as he always did, to wait for his favorite.

Mary Carter De-la-Noy was third. (Opdycke had another sip of whiskey, and everything became tinged with a light blue. This was a mischievous trick the witch-piss often pulled, coloring the world in different ways.) Mary De-la-Noy had the most beautiful body of the women, in fact, Mary probably owned
one of the most beautiful female bodies in the world. Michelangelo might have chipped Mary Carter De-la-Noy’s body out of marble, that’s how perfect it was, that’s how alabaster white (blue now, as Mr. Opdycke saw it, but normally white) and smooth it was. Mr. Opdycke didn’t much care for it. Opdycke couldn’t imagine forming the Beast with Two Backs with Mary De-la-Noy, he couldn’t imagine twisting her long legs over her head and trying to split her down the middle. Opdycke couldn’t imagine chewing on her nipples (Mary’s nipples were just a shade or two darker than her white skin, small soft circles) and he certainly couldn’t imagine ramming her up the bunghole.

Mary Carter De-la-Noy enjoyed her bath more than the other three. She lay back and closed her eyes contentedly, and Abigal Skinner slowly soaped the whole of Mary’s body. Mary made small noises as this was done, a purring deep in her throat. Once or twice Mary twitched as Abigal’s fingers touched some ticklish spot. Mary De-la-Noy soaped her own breasts, lathering them so thoroughly that Opdycke imagined no dugs in the world could be cleaner. Mary’s nipples blossomed under the soap-bubbles, appearing almost out of nowhere. Finally Mary stood up, glistening, and Martha Q. Hope poured water on her, hot water that streamed down in violent twists and turns as it followed the curves of Mary’s body. Mary Carter De-la-Noy’s fleece, even soaking wet, was a golden blond. Cairine McDiarmid came over with a towel. (Cairine was warm again, so warm and comfy that she hadn’t bothered to put on her cotton frock. Cairine McDiarmid didn’t mind being naked, seemed to think little or nothing of it.) Mary De-la-Noy made haste to cover herself, drawing the towel across her body perfunctorily, and then pulling the frock over her head even though she was still damp. The material clung to her body, her nipples plainly visible, and this effort at modesty struck Mr. Opdycke as oddly exciting, and he slowly undid his trouser stays. His pecker jumped out, a short, pugnacious little brute. Opdycke took another sip of the whoozle-water, and everything in the world colored a dark red. Mr. Opdycke took his penis into his hands, for now it was time for his favorite.

Abigal Skinner was not particularly pretty; indeed, calling her plain was something of a kindness. Her eyes were too small,
and placed close together on her face; between them was a crooked nose. Abigal had thick lips and an overbite, the overbite causing her weak chin to be displayed prominently. Abigal’s best feature was her hair, which was colored a dull brown but kept long, tumbling down to her waist if she allowed it, which she did on Thursdays, bathing days, alone.

Abigal stepped out of her frock. Mrs. Skinner was slightly obese, her breasts pendulous, her belly round and pushed forward. Abigal’s nipples were huge, the dark brown aureole covering almost the whole area of the breast. Abigal’s thatch was black, and a heavy line of down marched up, across her stomach, and surrounded her huge, protruding navel. Mr. Opdycke knew that this was not beautiful, knew that in some ways it was unsightly, but he pulled at himself with abandon. Abigal turned around and tested the bathwater. She bent over to do this, and Mr. Opdycke went into a frenzy. Abigal’s backside was the true object of Opdycke’s lust, a huge world of flesh where a man might live happily ever after. Mr. Opdycke knew Abigal Skinner’s behind by memory, knew where it puckered and dimpled, knew how it shook whenever she made the slightest little move. Opdycke was determined to own that globe, to mount the hill and claim it as his own. Abram Skinner’s presence was no deterrent. Indeed, if Mr. Opdycke understood correctly the implications of much of what J. B. Hope said, it would speak worse of Abram if he made any objection. No one spoke much of these implications but (and Mr. Opdycke came into his own hand, hot and thick) Opdycke was going to do something about that.

I woke up and knew it was time for some roadwork.

Beside me snored Mona. She lay on her stomach, awkwardly spread-eagled, her face crushed against the mattress. There were no sheets on the bed; Mona, thrashing during an obviously bad dream, had hurled them clear across the room. I studied Mona’s backside, and knew that it was time for some roadwork. I said the word aloud, speaking it to the fat yellow sun perched on the windowsill. “Roadwork,” said I.

Mona seemed to have little intention of waking up. The sun told me that it was between nine and ten o’clock in the morning, so she had some time before the legal Ontario bar opening of eleven, and at any rate I judged that The Willing Mind and its regulars weren’t overly fussy about legal hours.

Mona flipped over on to her back, so suddenly that I had no chance to get out of the way. A set of enormous knuckles clipped me on the bridge of my nose.

Mona’s snoring became incredibly loud, each snore serving as a drumroll for the dramatic and regal rise of her breasts.

“Roadwork.”

I jumped off the bed and hunted down my clothes. Items of apparel, both Mona’s and mine, were strewn everywhere. It looked as if a hurricane had howled within the tiny room. I dressed and then tiptoed through the door, perfectly aware that there was no need for quiet. Mona, I imagined, could sleep through almost anything. But such is how I chose to vacate the room, furtively, holding my boots in my hand until the heavy door was shut behind me.

The staircase to the rear parking lot lay at the opposite end of the hall; halfway down the hall was another staircase, wider and more substantially constructed. I guessed that it led down to The Willing Mind tavern itself, and decided to take it. I certainly didn’t want to face Joe, still tied up outside, howling occasionally
at the waking world. It wasn’t the hound’s bite or even his bark I was afraid of, it was his bloodshot, leery eyes.

By the time I arrived at the bottom of the staircase, I was in pitch blackness. The dark surprised me, coming all at once and with no real warning. I pushed at the walls around me, at first methodically and soon with something like panic, and finally one gave way and took me through to The Willing Mind.

“Hey-hey-hey!!” Big Bernie sat in his usual place, a nicely chilled martoony in front of him. But Big Bernie was not wearing his four-dollar hairpiece, and I was startled to discover that he wasn’t simply mostly bald, he was totally and absolutely bald. Neither did Big Bernie have his tinted glasses on, and his eyes, which I always imagined to be as fat and languid as the rest of him, were like those of a cornered wildcat. “It’s Paulie!” Big Bernie announced to the assembled.

They were all there, Jonathon Whitecrow and the two Kims, who were locked together as usual. The boy Kim was wearing only a pair of underwear, white BVDs, while the other Kim was wearing a negligee. She was quite obviously naked underneath it, a happy assortment of fattish bulges. It was definitely time for some roadwork.

All this was somewhat alarming, but nothing more so than the appearance of Jonathon Whitecrow, who would have needed considerable cosmetic improvement to look dead. Jonathon Whitecrow was quivering. Sitting in front of him was a shotglass full of whiskey, but every time Jonathon reached for it his hand began to shake so violently that picking it up became impossible, and he would pull his hand back and rest it on his lap, where it twitched like a wounded animal.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” answered Jonathon, forcing a smile. Sweat ran off his high forehead, made his hair hang in thick, tattered clumps. “I’m just a wee bit hanged over.”

“Yeah,” Big Bernie put in. “
Moi aussi
.”

“I get fairly bad hangovers,” Whitecrow explained. “Gruesome.” He made another attempt to pick up the shotglass, even managed to touch his fingers to its side. Then his hand jerked away suddenly, knocking the drink but fortunately not upsetting it.

“Fucking piss!” he snarled. “Fucking goddam whiskey.”

Kim disengaged herself from Kim and turned toward Jonathon. “You want some help, Mr. Whitecrow?”

“Yes.” Jonathon stared straight ahead as he said this, stared into the mirror that lurked behind the bottles of liquor.

Kim reached over and picked up the shotglass. She touched it to Whitecrow’s lips, and he more or less inhaled the whiskey. After a few moments, his shaking stopped. “Ah.” The whiskey bottle sat on the wooden counter, and Jonathon poured himself another measure with a steady hand.

“Hey, Paulie,” said Big Bernie, “if you want a little pick-me-up drinky-poo, just go and help yourself.”

“No,” I answered, although God knows I longed for a little pick-me-up drinky-poo. “No, thanks. I’m gonna go do some roadwork.”

“Sometimes,” Big Bernie reflected, “I need a little pick-me-up drinky-poo in the morning.” It was hard to talk to Big Bernie with his gleaming bald head and panic-stricken eyes. It was likewise hard to talk to Kim in his BVDs, Kim in her negligee and Jonathon Whitecrow in general.

“Good morning!” said a voice. I have to admit, it was even a welcome voice.

“Hiya, Little Bernie!” I responded.

“Every morning I wake up, it’s the same friggin’ thing,” complained the stomach. “Back in this old dump.”

“It’s better than some places,” commented Big Bernie.

“So, Hemingway, what are you doing here? Have you come so that you and me could get together on this book deal? Hey, listen, I had another idea for a title. This is a lot classier than
Straight From the Gut
. Get this:
An Unbounded Stomach
. Is that class or what? It’s Shakespeare, no less! You like it?”

“Pretty good,” I mumbled.

“Pretty good?!” shouted Little Bernie, outraged. “Hey, Mister F. Shoo Fitzwerrit, I haven’t heard you come out with any great ideas!”

“I got to go,” I told the assembled. “I got to do some road-work.”

I hitch-hiked home, getting a lift from a thirteen-year-old boy
driving a huge red Dodge. The boy sat behind the wheel, steering with one finger, using his other hand to hold a cigarette. The boy and I did not make much conversation. When I told him that I lived at the Quinton place he gave me an odd look. The boy dropped me at the bottom of the laneway and did not turn on to the property.

I hadn’t run for some days, not since I lived in Toronto and was happily married to Elspeth. We usually ran together, Elspeth setting a panting pace, her arms and legs turning with cool precision as I clomped along behind. I enjoyed running behind Elspeth and staring at her muscled backside. Elspeth wore nylon running shorts, and with every footfall the material would flip up and the pantie portion could be seen digging into her rump. Needless to say, Elspeth was oblivious to this.

I put on my shorts, shoes and a T-shirt that had a picture of a moose on it. I stretched out of doors, limbering up on the stonework patio. The day was a beautiful one, cloudless and still; after a few stretches I was coated in perspiration, hot and slick. That, after all, is the purpose of roadwork.

Then I lit out for the territories.

My plan was to run to Lookout Lake and back, a distance of some five miles. This, I figured, entitled me to five guilt-free beers. Then I remembered that Canada is a metric country, so I converted the distance to eight-plus kilometers, upping my liquid reward to as many ales.

I knew from the outset that it was going to be a long and odd run. I hadn’t gone more than ten yards before a sharp, pointed pain materialized near my heart. “Hi! Mind if I join you?” I did my best to ignore it.

Out there they cover the gravel roads with a layer of black stuff so that passing cars don’t raise huge clouds of dust. This stuff (I understand it’s crankshaft oil, but I’ll call it what everyone out there calls it, goosh) had for me an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma. Of course, I couldn’t identify the scent of goosh with anything specific, but it filled me with my childhood and made the sharp pointed pain jump up and down. I ran harder, so hard that the goosh-related memory almost came to me. It had to do with wargames, clods of dirt fired from slingshots; it
had to do with a time when the world seemed to make mathematical sense (and the only mathematics I knew was what four plus three made: six).

At that point I bounced to my left to avoid stepping on a snake. I don’t know why I bothered. The snake was dead already, paper-thin, flattened by a car’s tire. The sun had dried its skin and bones, and in a few hours there wouldn’t be anything left but snake-dust.

I took off my T-shirt and tied it around my head. I was sweating everywhere, even from my elbows and kneecaps, which is, of course, what roadwork is all about.

I remembered naked Mona, and for some reason that made me increase my pace substantially. The sharp, pointed pain attached itself to my heart so that it wouldn’t get thrown clear.

Various parts of my body began a debate as to just whose idea this goddam roadwork was. My legs were perhaps the loudest, screaming incoherently about spasms and seizures. My stomach and digestive tract pointed out that there was no real food to work with; they’d salvaged what energy they could from the little reservoirs of alcohol that I’d left scattered about, but it just wasn’t enough. Scotty, the Chief Engineer down there, estimated I could last another three-quarters of a mile. Meanwhile, my muscles unionized and complained about the horrid conditions, how they were being viciously bounced along a gravel road in ninety-degree weather; and my shriveled, dehydrated corpuscles began to wail for water.