Bad Ideas Page 3

  Gratitude made her weak, made her body limp. “I want the operation. Thank you, Dr. Cameron.”

  On the day of Trudy’s procedure, Tammy drove her to the hospital in Harristown, half an hour away. The sisters held hands across the bench seat the whole way there and said nothing. Trudy looked out the window so she didn’t have to look at Tammy’s belly almost touching the steering wheel.

  Two weeks after her surgery, Trudy had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Cameron, where she sat through his gentle — and embarrassing — speech about preventing unwanted pregnancies. As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t learned her lesson. She left the clinic with a year’s supply of birth control pills in her purse. Free. Just in case, he said. You’ll have them if you need them. Ninety-nine percent effectiveness rate, he told her.

  But she knew a way that was one hundred percent effective. It had worked for her in the past and it would work again.

  Zero access. Closed for business. She put the pills in the top drawer of her dresser, buried beneath underpants and nightgowns.

  Until five years later when Jules Tremblay walked into the Jubilee restaurant.

  Because you can’t help looking

  Trudy wondered how things had turned out at the Jubilee that night. If there had been a fight, surely people would be talking about it, but she had heard nothing. She thought that likely Jules and James had taken her advice and left quietly. Maybe they had simply gone back to wherever it was they had come from.

  Then, a few weeks later, there was a sighting.

  She had been walking from the grocery store to her car, a bag balanced on one hip, Mercy holding her hand.

  “Trudy.” Mercy came to a dead stop and pointed across the parking lot. “Trudy, your friends are here!” Mercy’s tiny, bony fingers dug into her wrist as she worked to pry her hand out of Trudy’s grasp.

  “Mercy, stop! You’re hurting me. You stay right here. There are cars.” She looked up, and sure enough, there was James walking toward them with yet another stranger. As if once they began there would be no end of strangers just appearing in Preston Mills. This new stranger had floppy blond hair and pale blue eyes. He looked nothing like Jules Tremblay. Except for the sideburns. It seemed to Trudy that a person could identify any man not from Preston Mills by his sideburns. James shot a twinkly smile at Mercy.

  “Mercy, my friend! How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You really are fine.” He said, making Mercy giggle. “And how is this fine lady?”

  “Trudy? She’s fine!” Mercy shouted. Trudy said nothing, shifted the groceries to her other hip.

  “This is my friend, Mark. He’s visiting from the wild west.”

  “Is he a cowboy?”

  “Absolutely! You see that belt buckle?” Trudy couldn’t help it. She let her eyes drop to the silver belt buckle gleaming in the sunlight. “That’s from a real rodeo.”

  “Mercy, come on. Let’s go.” Trudy pulled on Mercy’s hand until she sort of toppled toward her.

  “Bye!” said Mercy.

  As they walked away, James yelled after them, “Trudy! Jules would love to see you!”

  Trudy kept walking, dragging Mercy along.

  “I’ll tell him you say hello!”

  Trudy was blushing and sweating as she fumbled with her keys, trying not to drop the groceries as she unlocked the car. Mercy was bouncing straight up and down as if she were on a pogo stick. “Trudy, you have so many friends now!”

  Because the black water wanted to swallow you whole

  Her car. How Trudy loved her car! A nine-year-old Dodge Dart purchased from a high school friend who owned a body shop out on the highway north of town. Two-door, dark green with black vinyl seats and a horn that worked about half the time. She had saved her money for five years to buy it. It was not that she loved it as an object, especially. But she loved the feeling it gave her. False to be sure, but it gave her the feeling that she was the master of her own destiny.

  Often, she would go for a drive after dinner, turn the radio on, and, if it was warm enough, crank the windows all the way down. She would open the giant ashtray, big as a dresser drawer, and push the lighter in. To Trudy’s amazement, the car had come equipped with a dash-top cigarette dispenser. It was a small black leather box with silver trim and a button on the front left. She could just hit it and a cigarette would pop up like a little soldier, filter end up. Amazing.

  After the grocery store and their encounter with James and the cowboy, Trudy dropped Mercy off at home. She pulled into the driveway, put the car in park, and, with the engine running, reached across Mercy and opened the passenger door. “Out you go. Grandma’ll make you dinner.”

  “Aren’t you coming, Trudy?”

  “Nope. You go in, sweetie. I’m going for a drive.”

  “What about the groceries?”

  “I’ll bring them in later. You go. Out! Shoo! See you later.”

  Trudy watched Mercy run to the side door and bang on it with both fists. The door opened, Claire leaned out and waved, and Mercy disappeared inside.

  Trudy backed out of the laneway, eager to be away. She headed east, out of town, turned onto River Road, and followed what was left of the old highway along the river. The road dipped and curved. At certain points it came alarmingly close to the water, tilting the car on a sharp angle. As if the road wanted to tip you into the river. As if the river wanted to swallow you whole. No guardrails. Just the water, black and rippling on the right, almost level with the road.

  And farms, apple orchards, houses, shacks on the left.

  Coming around a sharp curve, past the Riverside Campground — which was more trailer park than campground — Trudy hit the brakes, almost colliding with a giant bulldozer inching its way across the road. She put the car in park and waited for the machine to cross. She looked over at the field on the left and was stumped by what she saw. What used to be a grassy pasture was covered with earth. Piles and piles, tons and tons of dark brown earth. Mountains. Trudy tried to guess what might be going on. It could, she supposed, have something to do with shipping. A new pier? Whatever it was going to be, it was ugly now. She put her foot down and pulled around the back of the bulldozer. Clouds had crowded over the sun and the sky was as grey as metal once again.

  Trudy drove away, past the graveyard, up the hill to the parking lot at the Point. She pulled up to the chain-link fence facing the lock, shut off the engine, and lit a cigarette. Turned on the radio. “Big Yellow Taxi.” God, she hated Joni Mitchell. There was something so phony about her, so shamelessly girly. Too much feeling. It set Trudy’s teeth on edge. She turned the radio off and rolled the window down. The air was mild and damp. The breeze rippled through the grass on the hill leading down to the narrow channel of the lock. The deep groan of a ship’s horn sounded to the west. She could see the ship in the distance, rust-red and black. She got out of the car and leaned against the fence, forearms resting on top. The sun broke out of the clouds as the giant bow of the ship nosed into the channel. From where she stood, it looked as if there were only inches between the side of the ship and the cement wall of the lock.

  The boat was as long as a football field. And tall. The men on deck looked like ants. Out of habit, she waved. They waved back. She had been doing this her whole life. She and Tammy had stood at this very fence as little girls, ice cream cones in hand, sticky ice cream dripping onto their fists, waving high above their heads, hoping the sailors would wave back. And they always did.

  The ship inched along through the cement channel, passing Trudy by. The black lettering on the rusted hull said UNDAUNTED. Each letter as tall as a man. She watched the stern move slowly away, the water churning white behind it.

  Because the light at sunset can make anything look golden

  The sun was setting as Trudy pulled back onto River Road, red and orange and shining right into her eyes. She pulled
down the visor and leaned against the door, trying to find an angle that wasn’t blinding. She wanted to drive back past the construction site at Robson’s farm for another look. The sky was darkening behind her as she pulled over to the side of the road by the field. Across the road, the river was pink with the reflection of the sun. The sunset made the piles of dirt look different now: metallic and golden. The yellow tractors and bulldozers were still, scattered across the field, as if all the operators had been vaporized mid-shift.

  Headlights from behind lit up the inside of her car, getting brighter as the car approached. But instead of going past, it veered off onto the shoulder of the road, coming straight at her. Trudy braced for impact, but the car came to a halt just inches from her back bumper, spraying gravel into the air. She sat frozen as the lights went out and the engine sputtered to a stop. She heard the thump of the driver door closing, the crunch of boots on gravel coming toward her, but she was too frightened to turn around. Suddenly the golden light turned grey. The sun had gone out. And Jules Tremblay leaned into her passenger window, smiling that smile.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re an asshole. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “I mean, what do you think of my little project?”

  Jules opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

  “You see that island over there?” He moved over beside her and pointed past her face out the driver-side window at the river.

  Trudy saw the long, narrow island covered in brown grass about halfway across. She could feel the heat coming off him, his chest almost touching her back. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “We’re building a ramp in that field, and I’m gonna drive a rocket car off the end of it and land on that island.”

  “A rocket car.”

  “That’s right.” Jules pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and produced a folded-up newspaper clipping. It was faded and limp with wear. There was a picture of what looked like a Cadillac with a turbine strapped to the trunk and strange, stubby little wings attached to its doors. The headline read, “Crazy Canuck to Jump St. Lawrence in Rocket Car.” The car in the picture was a fake, he explained. Cobbled together for promotion. Tinfoil and glue and fireworks. The real rocket car was being built in Chicago. It would cost a hundred thousand dollars.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious. I’ve got investors. Even got a TV deal.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Jules shrugged and looked out the window. “Yeah, maybe.”

  They sat there for a while — Jules looking out at the piles of dirt, Trudy looking at the island — not knowing what to say next. Jules opened the passenger door and got out. He turned back and put his head through the window again.

  “Was that your kid?”

  “What?”

  “Back at the restaurant. That little girl. Is she yours?”

  “No. She’s my sister’s. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “You should come visit us some time. Me and James. We’re out on Old Murphy Road, right before the tracks. Bring the kid if you want.” And he turned away. She watched him in the rear-view mirror, walking back to his car. He nodded at her as he opened the door and got in. The engine made a loud, deep rumble. He backed up at top speed, then roared past her and cranked the wheel, spinning the car around in a full circle, leaving a black doughnut of rubber on the road. The rear end of the car dangled off the edge of the road, tipping toward the riverbank for a second, before the wheels caught the turf and the car sped away.

  Idiot, she thought. Crazy, stupid idiot.

  With dark brown eyes. And eyelashes like a girl.

  Christ.

  Because sometimes you have to set the world on fire

  Back at the factory for another shift, Trudy found herself thinking about her father and how little she knew about him. She knew that his first name was Darren, but her mother refused to tell her his last name. She never understood why Claire protected him, why she wasn’t furious about being left alone with two kids. Trudy struggled to understand why, in fact, Claire still pined for him two decades later. “I’d have him back,” she would say, with that soft look on her face. That soft, crumbling, injured expression that was on her face most of the time. It was infuriating.

  Trudy was pushing pillowcases through the machine, dropping them into the bin in a trance. She wondered what Darren was doing now, if he had kids with his actual wife. If they all got up every morning, went to school and work, came home and had dinner together in complete ignorance of his other offspring. She wondered if these imaginary kids were somehow better than Tammy and her. If they were finishing high school, playing sports, saving themselves for marriage or whatever. Probably. She wondered if it could possibly be true that Darren had loved Claire. That, as Claire claimed, he had loved Trudy and Tammy but had to do the right thing and go home. Coward. He was a coward, and her mother was, too. Trudy would have followed him home, toddlers in tow.

  Or so she thought.

  She liked to think of herself as tough, as a trailblazer, but maybe she was just a pushover like Claire. Look at her now, taking care of Tammy’s kid, working nights in the same shitty factory as her mother and every other loser in this town. It wasn’t as if she was setting the world on fire.

  An empty serger spool hit Trudy in the back of the head and she flinched, pulling the pillowcase she was sewing to the side, the seam veering off the edge of the fabric. “Look alive, Johnson!” Trudy turned around to see Jeannie Burns leaning back in her chair, laughing along with the other hyenas in the fluorescent light of the sewing room. “You think you’re good, don’t you, Trudy?”

  Here we go, thought Trudy. How was it possible for someone with absolutely nothing to do with your life to have such strong feelings about you? It had always been this way. Since they were little kids. Jeannie hated Trudy. Was it jealousy or just sport? Who knew? But it was time to shut it down. “Shut up, Jeannie.”

  The other women turned back to their machines. Pretended to focus on their work.

  “Not sure why you think you’re so great, Trudy. Slut for a mother, slut for a sister.”

  Trudy lifted the foot on her machine, pulled the pillowcase out and cut the threads, reached for the seam ripper, and started to tear the seam out.

  “You pretend to be so pure, Trudy, too stuck-up for guys around here. But I heard otherwise. I heard Jimmy Munro had you under the bleachers when you were fourteen. Said he couldn’t fight you off.”

  “In his dreams.”

  “More like a nightmare, if you ask me. He said you were like an octopus, hands everywhere. So desperate.”

  Trudy threw the botched pillowcase on the floor. She got up from her chair and walked toward Jeannie’s station, not sure what she was going to do when she got there. Though Jeannie looked startled, she got up from her chair and braced herself. She stood tall, pressing her fists against her thighs. But Trudy could see them trembling. The radio, turned to the usual American station, was playing “Da Doo Ron Ron” by The Crystals. Trudy grabbed Jeannie’s wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. She put her other hand on her throat, pushed her thumb and forefinger into either side of her neck.

  “You’re right, I am like a fucking octopus, Jeannie. See? And what are you like?” Trudy drove her knee into the back of Jeannie’s knees, so that she collapsed forward onto the ground, kneeling. “What are you like, Jeannie? Tell me.” Trudy was kneeling behind her on the hard cement floor, twisting her arm just a little further behind her back before releasing her. Shoving her forward onto the ground. “Nothing. That’s what you are.” Trudy dusted herself off and walked back to her machine. “And tell that fucking retard, Jimmy, to keep his mouth shut.”

  Trudy’s hands shook as she fed another
pillowcase into the machine and lowered the needle into the fabric. The air vibrated around her.

  Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Da-doo-ron-ron.

  Because not everything has to make sense

  “Wanna go for a drive, Mercy?”

  “Sure!”

  “Alright. Go get your kangaroo jacket. But don’t tell Grandma, OK?”

  “OK!” Mercy tore up the stairs to get her jacket and returned, struggling to put it on. “Why can’t I tell Grandma?”

  “Because if you tell her, I won’t take you again.” Trudy spun Mercy around so she was facing away, pulled the sleeves of the jacket right side out and pulled Mercy’s hands through, then spun her back around and zipped her up.

  “Why’s it called a kangaroo jacket, Trudy?”

  “Guess.”

  “Because it makes you feel like hopping!” Mercy hopped around the living room with her hood up and hands in her pockets.

  “Try again.”

  After a few seconds: “Because it has pockets like a kangaroo!”

  “Bingo.”

  “But kangaroos only have one pocket, Trudy. My jacket has two.”

  “That’s true. Not everything has to make perfect sense, you know. Kangaroos have pockets, the jacket has pockets. Close enough. Come on, let’s go.”

  “OK.” Mercy bent deep at the knees and hopped through the kitchen toward the back door. Trudy grabbed her keys off the rack and followed her out to the driveway. You didn’t have to spend much time with little kids to realize that they were not so different from dogs: sometimes the best thing, the only thing, was just to get them outside and let them run around until they wore themselves out.

  Because not all unicorns have horns

  “Can you put my window down, Trudy?”