Little Boy Blues. Mary Jane Maffini
put up the semblance of a fight.
“Fine,” I said. “Can you arrange hotel reservations? I have a few urgent things to take care of.” That was code for doing a bit of laundry, washing my hair, picking up some cash, figuring out which files couldn’t wait until I got back and throwing my toothbrush into a satchel.
“I’m on the job,” she said.
“The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back. Let’s get cracking.”
“Now?”
“Two hours to get ready and drop the keys to P. J. and to let the traffic on the Queensway clear up.”
“Excellent.”
“And, one more thing.”
“Name it, Ms. MacPhee.”
“I am absolutely the only driver.”
“Victory will be ours,” she said, “however long and hard the road may be.”
Eight
The trip to Sydney had shades of the lost weekend about it, without the light-hearted fun.
I felt a twinge about commandeering the Buick, but I believed Stan would understand it was almost a matter of life and death. If he didn’t, Edwina would make it clear to him. The plan was to drive straight down to Sydney, deposit Alvin, assure his well-being, get him an appointment with an appropriate therapist and then turbo straight back home to normal life. I would be the only person to touch the steering wheel, so what could go wrong?
We clipped along the 417 toward Montreal, making excellent time, slowing briefly to join the Friday night crawl across the top of the city on Boulevard Metropolitain. From the soft snores coming from the passenger seat, I figured Mrs. P. was dozing. Alvin lay limply in the back seat. I hoped he was asleep, for his own sake. As for me, I tried not to think what could have happened to a boy like Jimmy, last seen standing by the harbour. Except for stops every two hours for coffee and bathroom breaks, the Buick shot through the hot summer night. It gave new meaning to the word boring. You don’t hear a slogan that says “See Canada by Dark”, and for good reason. I kept busy hoping we weren’t heading straight towards a funeral.
At around four in the morning, I pulled into an all-night gas station outside Edmunston, New Brunswick, and prepared to limp stiffly to the ladies room. Mrs. Parnell headed in first. Rank has its privileges. Alvin teetered to the men’s. I offered to pick up the refreshments.
When I got back to the car with a Coke for Alvin and coffee for Mrs. Parnell and me, I found she had managed to get herself into the driver’s seat. She proved impossible to dislodge, even when I put down the coffee and gave it a real good try.
Sometimes we have to yield to a higher power.
“Let’s see what this baby will do,” Mrs. Parnell said.
Alvin perked up in the back seat.
“Pedal to the metal, Violet,” he said.
Normally, I would have bitten his head off, but I was glad to see him looking like himself. I hung on.
As it turned out, the Buick could get up to one-fifty without so much as a shimmy. I told myself Stan had it coming after all the times he’d put fake dog poop in my briefcase before important court appearances. On the other hand, I didn’t feel entirely ready to die. It took a certain threat level in my voice to get slowed down to well over the limit.
“And don’t encourage her,” I said to Alvin. “We need to be alive to help your family.”
“Ms. MacPhee, cut the boy some slack.”
“Slow down, or the only cutting will be with the jaws of life.”
“Lovely machine, this. Reminds me of the good old days.”
“Watch the road, Mrs. P.”
“Personally, I would prefer something with a bit more horsepower.”
Mrs. Parnell had the cruise control set at one-forty, and I had a hard time keeping my eyes off the speedometer. Alvin was leaning forward, asking excited questions about World War II.
“Mrs. P., I know we agreed to drive right through, but it’s better if we take shifts.”
“That’s what we’re doing. You had your shift and now it’s mine.”
“Yes, well.”
“Close your eyes, Ms. MacPhee.”
“Why don’t you pull off at the next rest stop, and I’ll get in the back. You two can enjoy war talk, and I’ll get some sleep, then take over driving again.”
“Superb idea, Ms. MacPhee. Why wait? I’ll pull off right here.”
Highway act. Schmighway act. Mrs. Parnell is above all that mundane stuff. I had to admit the Buick had great braking capacity. I settled in the back seat and positioned myself to keep an eye on them.
“Dear boy,” Mrs. Parnell said, “we can relax now.”
They could chatter on about Dunkirk and Dieppe. I was in charge of worrying about what we’d find when we got to Sydney. And what the hell we were getting Alvin into.
• • •
I opened my eyes to a thunderous roll.
“Keep your heads covered.” I dived for the floor of the Buick.
Alvin said, “It’s just music, Camilla. Shostakovich is the dude to set the mood.”
I stared out the window, stunned by the sight of a Nova Scotia road sign. “What happened to New Brunswick?”
“You slept through it. And you snored,” Alvin said. “I’d get something done about that if I were you.”
“I slept through an entire province?”
“One and a half. New Brunswick and now a chunk of Nova Scotia,” Mrs. Parnell said. “You must have been exhausted.”
“I wonder why that would be. But I’m awake now. So I guess it’s time to stop and switch drivers.”
“No point, Ms. MacPhee. We’ve broken the back of the journey. We’re almost to Cape Breton. One final push over the hills.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you two put something in my coffee?”
“You wound me, Ms. MacPhee.”
“Every minute counts,” Alvin said. “Look Violet, the Canso Causeway.”
“Be sensible. You shouldn’t drive all those hours straight.”
“Au contraire, it’s a wonderful idea. Reminds me of the war.” I knew what she meant.
• • •
We arrived at the Ferguson home less than five minutes after the Buick shot past the Sydney city limits sign. Mrs. P. and Alvin were elated. I was thirsty after too many bags of pretzels and irritable from seeing my life flash by on the 105 through Cape Breton. The black clouds gathering overhead fit my mood.
Alvin’s family knew we were coming thanks to the miracle of my cellphone. As we pulled up to the Ferguson home, several people exploded out of the front door. For added drama, the neighbours appeared on their front porches and applauded. I spotted Donald Donnie MacDonald and Loretta waving. I gripped Alvin’s elbow and propelled him forward. I felt him wobbling. “Pull yourself together, Alvin.”
Alvin kept his mouth shut, which I thought might be a good thing. On the other hand, Alvin’s mouth had been shut for the entire last leg of the trip, and that was anything but normal. I wondered whether he was slipping. I didn’t want to try to explain that to his mother.
The four people who had stampeded from the house stopped and stood on the lawn, composed