Two-Man Tent Read online

  BREAKWATER

  P.O. Box 2188, St. John’s, NL, Canada, A1C 6E6

  WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Chafe, Robert, author

  Two-man tent / Robert Chafe.

  Short stories.

  ISBN 978-1-55081-660-0 (paperback)

  I. Title.

  PS8555.H2655T86 2016 C813'.54 C2016-905774-7

  Copyright ©2016 Robert Chafe

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Business, Tourism, Culture and Rural Development for our publishing activities. PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA.

  Breakwater Books is committed to choosing papers and materials for our books that help to protect our environment. To this end, this book is printed on a recycled paper that is certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  So he slept on a mountain

  In a sleeping bag underneath the stars

  He would lie awake and count them

  And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way

  Would never let him

  Die alone

  – JEFF TWEEDY

  FOR CHARLIE

  CONTENTS

  No Swimming

  Woof (1)

  Thankful

  Woof (2)

  Waygook

  Two-Man Tent

  Woof (3)

  Totalled

  A Mandatory Evacuation

  Woof (4)

  The Pigeon Caves

  NO SWIMMING

  THAT was the summer your mom got sick and we spent most days on our bikes going to and from the swimming hole down in the valley. Our town was one big bore and when summer came and the days warmed up there was nothing to do but sweat it out, or swim in the near freezing water of the brown river. Back in the days before cars I’m sure our town was green and nice, and the river clear, but all we ever knew was brown water and floating garbage and big metal pipes under the roads. North of it all, at the edge of the tree line, where the noise of the cars gave way to the sound of running water, the river was still like something wild. A long dirt road followed it upstream, away from the main part of town, and at a place that was flat enough, they made the swimming hole by building a dam of logs that looked like the wet wall of a cabin. Even farther upstream the river ran past a pig farm and on days when the wind was right you could smell the pigs and even hear them.

  We would go down there pretty much every day it wasn’t raining, you with a big towel around your neck and that pink hat your mom made you wear. You said she was afraid of the sun ever since she’d gotten sick and I made fun of you anyway.

  I didn’t usually care that you were my best friend and a girl except when you were wearing that hat. You could always pedal faster than me on account of your long legs. I used to ask you to slow down and you always did unless we were passing Bertie’s house. That long stretch of road with nothing but trees on both sides and old Bertie’s rundown shack and his dogs and his boozy breath you could smell for a mile. Bertie was the reason Mom wouldn’t let me go to the swimming hole unless you were with me. She called you responsible which is dumb because you were only two years older.

  Mom said your family moved in across the street when I was still in diapers. She said you were only a baby yourself. She used to take care of you because your family was one of those ones where the mom had to work too. She used to work, and then she didn’t. I used to be allowed in your house, and then I wasn’t anymore because she got sick. Her skin used to be tanned and brown, and her white teeth, and those weekend lunches she would make us: tinned tomato soup and cheese slice sandwiches, with bottles of pop from the refill store at the centre of town. We lived on those until your Mom found a dead bumble bee floating in a root beer, complained to the town council that she thought the store must be washing the refill bottles by setting them out under the rain gutter, and it turned out to be true. You used to roll your big round eyes up in your head when you were embarrassed, or when you thought I was being dumb. Your smile was like your mom’s: wide open, full of white teeth, and contagious.

  Every kid in town would ride up that old dirt road to the swimming hole, and on hot dry days no matter how early you went you could see the dust kicked up from their bike wheels that was still hanging in the air. We would arrive at the park and hardly be off our bikes before we were in the water, big mouthfuls of the river gulped and spat out in fountain streams. The lifeguard there came to know us pretty well, and he always called you my sister and we never told him the difference. He would let us plant ourselves right next to the dam, stand on the sand bags at the muddy bottom, and let that fast running water take our arms with it. One day some of the smaller kids in the shallow end lost their beach ball, and we could have rescued it but we decided it should wash out to the sea. The sun burned my back that day even though it was mostly cloudy and you said I would have to sleep on my stomach like your mom. On our way home, your dad pulled up in his little car. He was serious and forced your bike into the backseat and you into the front.

  I didn’t get to see you much after your mom died. Your curtains were open all the time, but my mom told me not to go over. People came and went in the evening, the glow of lamps in the living room. I was driven half nuts. The sun was out every day and everyone was at the swimming hole except me. I was just riding my bike around and around the outside of my house, waiting for your door to open across the street and you to come out with your stupid pink hat on.

  The day of her funeral I got in a fight with my mom because she wanted me to go, and she wanted me to wear the suit that she had bought me for my uncle’s wedding, even though it was too small already and had a shiny collar that I never did like. We got to the church late and me, Mom, and Dad had to sit all the way in the back row. The funeral was really long, and awkward, and there were a lot of people there that we usually only ever saw at the grocery store, and I couldn’t see you anywhere until the very end of it. Everyone was dressed nice, hair slicked back or bunched up or a hat on. Mrs. Stone and that fat lady that worked at the Red Circle, they were sitting in front of us and talking out loud about how bad your mom must have looked because they couldn’t even open the coffin at the wake. When the minister asked everyone to stand, I kept sitting until Dad pulled me up by the collar of my coat.

  Two weeks after the funeral, I had just about had enough of not going swimming and I told Mom I was old enough to ride down to the river by myself and that you weren’t responsible at all, just tall. Something about me being so mad made her smile, but she still said I couldn’t go. She tried to hug me, which was weird, and told me I shouldn’t be afraid. Then she started going on about dying being just like going to sleep, even though that wasn’t even what we were talking about. I asked her again and she still said no, and when she did that I said a bad word and your name, and went and slammed as many doors in the house as I could find. I lay there on my bed then, waiting for Mom to change her mind, and watching the afternoon shadows stretch and grow. Dad wasn’t home yet and Mom was working in the garden, her knees in the dirt and her big gloves on, and so I turned on the TV in my room and I went out the front door. When I got to the swimming hole I had a crust of dust on
my forehead and I just wanted to put my whole body under water so bad but the pool was empty and everyone was standing around looking at it. I thought there might have been an accident, because Mom was always saying it was only a matter of time before there was an accident the way some of the kids got on when they were at the swimming hole. Everyone was so quiet and creepy, and then I saw that they were looking at this thing. There was this thing floating in the middle of the swimming hole and I thought for sure there was an accident until one of the kids threw a big rock at it and the thing bobbed up and down in the water really slow and heavy.

  I knew it was a pig for sure, but only when I saw its feet. Its skin was grey and blue, not pink like it was supposed to be. The moving water twirled it in a slow circle and tiny bubbles burst up and around it. The sun was hitting a swarm of flies buzzing above. No one knew exactly what to do, and neither did the lifeguard, but he said no one was allowed to go swimming. He wondered if maybe he should call someone, and I guess he did, because he was gone then for a while and when he came back there were these men in dirty clothes and big boots. They parked their green van all the way on the grass and they lay on their stomachs next to the water with long poles trying to hook the pig through its skin and bring it in. I thought they should take off their pants and go get it, and I must have said this out loud because Kelly Blunt from down the valley said no one was allowed in the water at all now and she pointed to a sign on a stick they had driven into the ground. So all of us sat there in our swim trunks on the grass in the long shade of the van and watched the men fishing for a pig.

  And sitting there I was thinking about school and how long the summer was, and how it felt like it would never end. And I suddenly wanted it to. I wanted to be back in school because at least I would get to see you on the bus, and maybe in the cafeteria, even though you couldn’t sit with me because that would be ridiculous.

  Two of the men finally managed to grab the pig by its front feet and pull with all their might until it slid out of the pool and onto the grass. I could see its nose and face then, its eyes rolled up and white. Its mouth was open and some dirty water ran out through its teeth. It was big and bloated and smelled really bad, so the men covered it with burlap. I asked one of the men how it ended up in the water in the first place and he didn’t hear me or didn’t know because he didn’t answer. Maybe it was getting a drink, or maybe it was swimming too. I was looking at the pig and its blue skin and its yellow teeth and its bad smell and I was wondering if this was why they had to keep your mom’s coffin closed.

  I rode home on my bike, still dry, and the sun was moving fast across the sky. The green slime of the ditch was glowing like an alien thing and I was so hot from biking that the sweat was running down into my eyes. It felt like everything was going down the tubes and I was so upset I thought about driving my bike right into that ditch, and lying there for as long as it took to see if anyone would even notice. But that would be bad news and Mom had said that everyone had had just about enough of that already. As I passed by Bertie’s house, some of his dogs were out and on the road. I wanted to pedal harder then, but that’s what you would have done so I didn’t. I was so mad at you that I slowed down and stopped, I didn’t even really think about it, and that dog of Bertie’s, the biggest one, he stayed over on the other side of the road looking at me like he didn’t know what to do with himself either. We just stared at each other, the buzz in the power lines above and a giant black beetle on the road between us. And then Bertie himself came out of his house tucking in his shirt like he had just put on his pants, like he was only now getting up even though it was getting set to be dark soon. His dog was named Jack, and he called Jack so low I could barely hear him and Jack went running to his side and hid behind him like I was the one to be afraid of. And then Bertie and I looked at each other for a second, like Jack and I had done, and I didn’t know what to do so I said hello and he didn’t say anything like he hadn’t heard me so I said it again. There was a wind in the trees and then it was in his hair, blowing his hair and his beard around so you could see how long and dirty it was. A car was coming down the road, and Bertie looked up and saw it and then looked back at me. I said hello again, trying not to sound like I had said it twice before, and he did nothing but look at me. And when that car reached us it slowed down until it stopped right in the middle of the road between Bertie and me and rolled down its window. It was the man who worked the butcher counter at the grocery store and he looked at me and then at Bertie and then he asked me if everything was all right and I said yes. And he asked me what I was doing and I said nothing, and then he told me I should get back on my bike and head home. I said I was all right, and the man told me again to get on my bike, in that way that let me know he wasn’t going anywhere until I did what he said. Bertie watched it all from the other side of the car, his hand on Jack’s head petting him. Bertie petting Jack in a way anyone would pet their dog. And I thought about Bertie and Jack and his other dogs living alone in that little shack, no one coming around, everybody afraid of him. And I thought of what might happen to Jack if old Bertie were to get sick and die like your mom. And I was thinking about that and upsetting myself for real when the butcher told me again to go on home.

  He said: Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?

  I didn’t say anything to the butcher man but I nodded and I hopped back on my bike and started heading up the road. The butcher watched me go and just sat there in his car to make sure I was gone. I was looking over my shoulder, and I could see him roll down his passenger-side window and talk to Bertie, but Bertie didn’t even look like he was hearing him. And when I saw the butcher’s car finally roll on and away and out of sight, I pulled a U-turn and headed all the way back down the road to Bertie and Jack.

  Bertie was still standing next to the ditch and he watched me come down, and Jack started running a little circle around him. When I stopped I asked if I could pet him, and Bertie didn’t say no, and so I reached out my hand and Jack danced and bucked backward like I meant to hit him or something and then clawed the ground like a puppy. Standing this close to him, I could see now that Bertie was just lonely. Even with Jack and all those dogs. I could see that so clear suddenly and I understood that too.

  I got off the bike and wheeled it past Bertie towards the little shack. Its front door was open, and Jack was bouncing with disbelief and wanting me to follow. With the last little light of sun I could see an old mattress in the corner, a rusty kitchen chair with a rip on its seat, the white stuffing fluffing out. The floor of the cabin was rough dirty wood, and there were some blankets and clothes and empty cans and beer bottles. Something moved in the darkest corner and only then I noticed the other three dogs curled up on the far side of the mattress, their eyes flicking little bits of light back out at me.

  Bertie walked past me like I wasn’t even there and in through the door and put his hand to the chair and slid it away from him across the floor. Jack joined the other dogs on the mattress and Bertie found something else to sit on and then all of them were there in the dark looking out at me in the doorway and wondering what I would do.

  He was a stranger too, that butcher man, as much of a stranger as old Bertie. How come we can trust some strangers and not others? And how are you supposed to tell the difference anyway?

  I went in and sat in the chair and told Bertie I couldn’t stay long and that my mom was going to miss me soon. That she was going to have roast beef for supper that night, with potatoes and gravy, and that me and her and Dad would sit in front of the TV after we ate and watch Three’s Company and The Price is Right and she would even have a pie for dessert. I wondered if he knew what a TV was, because he was just staring at me. And we sat there a long time like that. Old Jack licking my hand and the sun starting to set orange across the ceiling of Bertie’s shack and then darkness and the rotten windows cracked and peeling and broken so they were all but open to the warm air and the sound of crickets in the grass. I thought about my
house, so far up the street, and your house too. Your curtains were probably closed for the first time in weeks and your house was probably dark too. I closed my eyes and I could almost see it.

  I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologize for being angry at you, because I knew that as bad as my summer had been, yours had been worse. I wanted to tell you I had seen you in the church. I wanted to tell you that because when you followed the coffin out at the end with your dad I knew you didn’t see me. I wanted to tell you about the pig and its teeth and the men in the green van and the sign on the stick they had driven into the grass. I wanted to tell you all that but I couldn’t. And so I told old Bertie instead.

  I wanted to cry, and felt really stupid about it, but I couldn’t stop.

  Bertie got up from where he was sitting then, and in the last light of the dark cabin, I could see him walking towards me.

  WOOF (1)

  Oct. 1, 2012

  Technically I am too far away to write but you woofed at me, and your profile is funny. And you’re hot. So sue me.

  Thanks bub. You’re cute too ;--p

  Your right. I am pretty cute. ;)

  We should probably make out n’ stuff.

  Probably. Meet you in Wichita?

  Let’s meet in Austin. They have the musics, the bbq, and the alcohols.

  That’s some serious airmiles you’re talking. BBQ is on you.

  Oct. 3, 2012

  I prefer the profile shot of you shirtless. In case you were wondering about the tastes and opinions of Canadians.

  Thanks bub. What you can’t see in the photo is the strategically placed maple leaf.

  Our country thanks you. But please don’t stand on ceremony for me. Take off the leaf.

  ;--*

  An asterisk for a puckered kiss? Or a dimple? I am a novice in the ways of the emoticon.

  A kiss.