Part 11 (1/2)

”Well, I am. You better eat something, too, cuz I'm not stopping until bedtime after this. Not even if you have to use the s.h.i.+tter.”

”I'll wait here,” Fred said, staring ahead at the lot.

”Fine, then.”

Stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Tony parked next to a teal green SUV and unbuckled his seatbelt. He got out of the car and breathed deep of the cold air. The land was frosted in white underneath dark cement grey clouds that threatened to fall any moment. There were flurries in the weather forecast, but Tony hoped that he could escape Nova Scotia into New Brunswick before anything started. He figured he was an hour or two from the provincial border. He glanced around at the carefully snow-cleared lot and the row of white snow-capped trees behind the Irving station.

Driving.

When he had the cash, driving was the only way to go. Felt good to go. He stopped first at the men's restroom, made his way into the diner part of the station, thinking that he would fill up the gas tank as well when he got back out. The waitress standing at the cas.h.i.+er was named Cecile. She gave him a nice smile as she pointed to an empty booth near the back with red vinyl cus.h.i.+ons. A frosty picture window gave a clear view of the wintry forest behind the station. Tony sat with his back to the wall, gave the scene outside a moment's consideration, and plucked the menu from the table's rack. The waitress that visited his table after a minute was a woman in her forties named Irene, who apparently tried hard to camouflage her years. Tony wondered at times why women wore any makeup at all. It occurred to him that maybe they wondered why they wore makeup.

”Let me know when you're ready,” Irene told him after she deposited a gla.s.s of water on the table. Tony thought she had a nice smile, too, despite the overdose of cosmetics. Then, his stomach demanded attention. He decided on a hot turkey sandwich and tried very hard not to think of his mother in her hospital bed. He did not want to think at mealtimes. Not those thoughts. And then there were the moments when he would gorge himself for no reason at all, feel terrible after, and not eat anything for a day or two, or however long it took for the lightheaded weakness to set in.

It was all so d.a.m.n unfair.

And now he was driving across the country on a feeling to find a guy that did not want to be found, who was apparently pretty dangerous.

The sigh that left him was full of self-mockery. How did he ever get himself into this one? Then, he remembered the hard wad of cash on his person and half smiled. He studied the hair on the back of his hands, noting that his flesh still looked young. Still looked good. And he still had his hair. All of it. And other than the nagging little whisper sc.r.a.ping on the inside of his skull like a blunt chisel on hard wood, he believed he still had a grip on things. Most things anyway.

Irene returned and took his order. He thanked her and meant it, and the smile he got back told him that she believed him. He wondered how Irene thought of herself at those times of self-reflection, when there was nothing on the television, the radio was off and the silence hummed to itself. He looked across the way and saw a businessman in a blue suit glossing over something in a newspaper. The headlines were big enough for Tony to read. A parachutist had fallen twenty thousand feet and lived. Hopefully the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d had insurance.

Tony looked back the other way, and there was Fred.

Tony jumped, slamming one knee up against the underside of the table. ”Jesus! You're a quiet one, ain't cha!”

Fred was content to say nothing. He watched Tony's fading fright with those weird black eyes of his. Tony wondered if the man had some Asian blood in him.

”Yeah, well, you can flag her down then and order your own d.a.m.n meal,” Tony told him. He wasn't paying for it.

Without invitation, Fred sat down across from Tony. He slid a menu out from the table rack and opened it, slowly, like a child turning the first page of a Christmas book, his brow arching upwards with genuine interest at what he read. Tony wondered yet again if the man wasn't somehow r.e.t.a.r.ded.

”See anything good?” Tony remarked, not really expecting the man to answer.

”What is poutine?” Fred asked, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his mouth as he said the word.

Was the man from the States? ”Fries covered in gravy and cheese. I hope to h.e.l.l you don't eat with your mouth open. Or lips smacking. That s.h.i.+t gets on my nerves. If you do, you can move your a.s.s to another table.”

Fred held up his hand and caught Irene's attention. The waitress came over, and Fred pointed to what he wanted. He nodded and shook his head at her follow-up questions. Irene placed a gla.s.s of water before him and walked back to the kitchen. Tony watched the whole episode, and it bugged him that the man said nothing to the waitress.

”You could've thanked her, y'know,” he grumped.

”Could have?” Fred asked, returning Tony's hard look.

”Yeah, G.o.d only knows how many a.s.swipes she has to put up with in a day. And an honest to gawd thank you would be appreciated. Make her feel better and not like some d.a.m.n android. You make sure you leave her a tip, too, since you're paying for all of this. Call it a business expense. You can claim it on your taxes.”

Large black eyes studied Tony as if trying to decide where he should bite.

”f.u.c.k you,” Tony fired first in a low voice.

”f.u.c.k you, too,” Fred muttered back.

Tony rolled his eyes. ”Sweet Christ on a telephone pole,” he sighed. ”You gonna run off and cry to mom that I pushed you off a swing or something now? Just do me a favour and don't talk to me, okay? Just don't talk to me. If you do, we'll have issues. Just remember that.”

Without saying anything, Fred leaned back in his chair as if he were a smoker about to let off a puff towards the ceiling. He kept his narrowed eyes on Tony. Tony ignored the freak. Why couldn't he have been the one whose chute wouldn't open? Being suddenly stopped after a nice vertical drop from 20,000 feet would do wonders to the man's present features.

Irene brought them their food. Tony's hot turkey sandwich was served up with a yellow hill of corn giblets and a log jam of French fries. Everything was glazed with light brown gravy. It looked and smelled wonderful.

”Have a nice meal,” Irene said more to Tony than to Fred. Tony thanked her.

”Thank you,” Fred blurted out a little too loudly. Irene paused and smiled at the man.

”You're welcome,” she said.

Fred did not smile back. It was becoming quite clear to Tony that the man was socially inept. He did not want to think any more about Freddy. The turkey sandwich called to him and his knife and fork flashed and clicked to attention. He said a quiet prayer for his mom and dug in. The first bite was the best. The turkey was hot and tender. Tony could live forever on turkey. At least once a week. Chicken, too. f.u.c.k beef. It turned his stomach. Fowl, now that was a whole different meat.

Across the table, Fred watched the man devour his food. He considered the bowl of poutine. It was like a child coming to grips with the idea that if he wanted his dessert, he was going to have to eat his vegetables first. Fred finally took up a fork and held it overhand style with his elbow sticking out. It made Tony think of shovelling. A knife joined the poised fork, hovering just over the cheesy surface, and Fred made a thorough study of just where to stab and cut, from this angle or that. He eventually inserted the fork under the cheese and lifted, peeking at what lurked beneath. He dropped it back after a moment and, with his knife, pushed the cheese back like a layer of snow. He inspected the exposed fries underneath. He replaced the cheese, turned the dish around to the opposite side, and did the same thing: lift the cheese, peer in, replace, and turn the dish back to its original place.

Tony stopped eating.

Fred did not notice he was being watched. With his fork, he hoisted the edge of cheese up and pried it back far enough so that it would not slip. He placed a knife on the cheese fold to ensure it stayed there. Then, he got his fork and carefully selected a fry that seemed the appropriate size for his mouth. He stabbed the fry, fished it from the gravy and melted cheese, lifting it high from the dish and marvelling at the cheese string clinging to it. Holding the fry around forehead level, Fred moved in, birdlike, focused on the now sagging cheese string, his mouth opening slightly. He blew on it. Twice. Then, with a shy tongue protruding, touched it as if it would burn him.

Tony glanced around. No one else was watching, and he supposed he should give a f.u.c.king silent player to rosy Jesus above just for that. As of that exact moment, Tony was convinced that old Fred was indeed developmentally delayed.

Fred wrapped his tongue around the cheese, and pulled it into his mouth as if he were a centuries-old Columbian tree frog with an arthritic jaw. The man then sucked the strand in, taking deep breaths and stretching the cheese further as he went along. A look of stern concentration crossed his features as he drew the meal up and into his mouth as it were a f.u.c.ked up rescue rope of some kind. After getting it all in, he chewed, swallowed, and nodded at both the cheese and a performance well done. Then, for whatever reason, he made with his fork to tap his gla.s.s full of water.

”You f.u.c.king ting that gla.s.s and I'll hit you.”

The words made Fred blink in surprise. He fixed Tony with a sudden glare that froze the other man. It was like knowing that a double barrel shotgun was tapping ever so gently at your t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, just to let you know it was there and ready to operate, and Tony was distantly aware of his mouth hanging open, too terrorized to scream. He wanted to fling himself back from the table, flip over onto his belly and scratch crawl his way, a.s.s high, out the nearest door. He clenched his fork and knife, and drops of perspiration beaded on his forehead. His eyelids fluttered out a weak tattoo. He felt his lower stomach turn sick and curl over itself like some unearthed worm being scorched by the sun, and Tony knew then he was about to defecate himself right there.

Then Freddy turned his eyes back to his meal, and Tony collapsed at the table as if Darth Vader himself had just released him from an invisible strangle hold. He landed on the red vinyl cus.h.i.+on of the booth, white-faced and drooling, taking deep breaths. His fingers gouged the cheap vinyl upholstery of the booth, and he held onto it out of sheer fright. It was a concrete ledge to him and below was a fifteen storey drop.

The man in the business suit looked over, an expression of concern on his face.

Fred focused on him.

The man in the business suit blanched and jerked his newspaper before him like an unstable s.h.i.+eld. But it did not stop there as the wave of fear blew back towards the counter and the kitchen beyond. It caught Irene as she was filling the coffee pot with water. She spasmed and dropped the gla.s.s pot. It shattered on the floor. She grabbed for the counter for support, to try and control the room from spinning faster. Grey haired Robbie in the kitchen felt his fifty-year-old frame become suddenly cold as if an entire parade had just marched over his grave. The hamburgers frying on the grill sizzled and begged to be flipped, but he paid no attention to the sight, sound or smell of cooking meat. He stepped back and slammed up against the unmovable cutting table set into the middle of his kitchen. He held on to a corner and tightly shut his eyes, fighting for control of his stampeding heart and pulse rate.

Then nothing.

As quickly as the feeling came on, the sense of sheer terror pinched off as neatly as a kid playing with a garden hose. Relief poured over Robbie in the kitchen, with one hand on his cutting table and the other feeling for his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es (thank the Lord, they were still there). They felt like they had been hauled up inside of him higher than a church's steeple. Irene gulped for air and slowly became aware of the broken gla.s.s and mess of water on the floor. She went about searching for a cleaning cloth immediately, still feeling her hands shake. The businessman behind the newspaper stayed there. The day's headlines did not drop, and no doubt, the poor guy would not move until he was good and ready. Or until Irene finally peeked over the lip of the paper, stared into his wide eyes and asked in a very careful voice if he were okay.

Coming out of his own wave of fear, Tony slowly turned his head towards Fred. Fred had taken the first bite of his poutine and chewed on it with barely a sound. Black almond shaped eyes met Tony's gaze and delivered a thunderbolt of a message: don't f.u.c.k with me.

Tony willed his desert-dry mouth to work. He sat up with effort and reached for his gla.s.s of water. He downed it in seconds and returned the gla.s.s to its resting spot, fighting the tremble in his hand as he did so, willing it to stop.

Fred cut himself another bite of his meal. His eyes stayed on Tony, waiting to see if there were some smarta.s.s comments forthcoming. There weren't. No real surprise there. It was all Tony could do to keep himself from shaking. When Fred finished his food, Tony finally looked down at his own turkey sandwich. In a voice that was barely a whisper, full of memory of what had just occurred, Fred instructed him to eat it.