Ghosted - A Novel Part 25

Boom.

Seth was on on today. He was in the zone. His voice had a bit of cut to it. Even the questions were sharper. today. He was in the zone. His voice had a bit of cut to it. Even the questions were sharper.

"How long since you've seen your family?"

"About five years."

Six in the end.

"What are you hiding from?"

"Myself, I guess," said Mason. He'd meant it to sound trite, to undercut the question. But his voice had gone too high. Seth let the silence stretch, then took another shot.

Mason hadn't yet decided what to do with the information he'd got from Chaz, but questions like that last one made him want to beat Seth-still save him of course, but bring him down a notch at the same time.

Seth rattled the corner.

Mason took aim.

Fourteen in the side.

"Do you live with anyone?"

"Nope."

Mason stepped back from the table. He looked at Seth, who was chalking his cue. "We're playing for the truth," he said.

Seth looked up at him.

"You live in a halfway house," said Mason. "With sixteen other ex-cons."

They stood there for a moment. "Why don't you shoot?"

"It's not your turn for a question, Seth." He lined up a combo. The nine skidded and missed the pocket.

Seth stepped up to the table. No a.s.sessment, he just leaned in-and boom boom, he hammered down the four ball.

"How long you been a drug addict?"

No time to answer. Boom Boom.

"And a drunk?"

Boom. "And a lousy gambler?"

Boom. "And a f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.y?"

Seth stood up, pushed back the brim of his hat and they looked at each other. Mason didn't like what he saw.

He's still worth saving.

Is he, though?

"About five years," said Mason.

Boom. Eight ball in the end.

Seth grinned. "Who's the Man in the Black Helmet?" he said. Then he turned to put his cue away.

Mason just stared at the back of his head.

"By the way," said Seth. "I don't have your money." He pulled something out of his jacket pocket, turning back around. "I brought you this instead." He tossed it onto the table, the b.a.l.l.s scattering sadly. A brown notebook. On the cover, in raised hokey font, it read Notebook Notebook.

Mason walked over and picked it up. Seth was already out the door.

55.

They are in the paddock, drunk, hair still wet from the lake-saddling up beneath a silver moon. The big house is dark: Aunt Jo and three more generations sleeping off the wine. Mason holds the reins for Sarah. She gets up on Warren and he pulls the cinch tight. Warren starts to prance.

Mason swings onto Zevon's back and the long gate falls open. They ride through it, a line of trees on one side, the fence then the steep hill down to the land on the other. He angles towards the high road, digs in his heels and they're off, hooves thundering over the earth. When he turns back he sees Sarah's hair, like wings, shimmering in the moonlight.

56.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANThis is my notebook. Like a diary but my new counsellor, Mr. White, said I didn't have to call it that if I don't want to. He is the one who wants me to right in it. I don't like to right very much because when I read it out loud it doesn't sound like it should. It sounds like I'm a little kid or something.But Mr. White says it doesn't matter if its good or not and I should do it even if its bad stuff. And n.o.body else will look at it. Its private. Even he's just gonna look fast at the pages-to see that I'm doing what he asked.Mr. White wants me to right about what happened to me when I was attacked and what I feel and what my thoughts are. He says jail is for thinking about all kinds of stuff. He calls prison "jail." He says I should right about what bothers me and what makes me angry. Also, he said I should call him Larry.So! Do you want to no what bothers me? One of the things is I feel like people don't care to much. Even people who are supposed to help you-like doctors. They didn't even give me drugs when I left the hospital. Can you believe that? If your in jail they don't care about you. They don't give you pharmacuticals for the pain, and they didn't even try to fix my head. So now I'm basically a freak. Thats something else that bothers me!

The doorbell was ringing. Mason put the notebook down and looked at it.

What the f.u.c.k?

This was not the man he'd met. He thought about this as he walked to the intercom.

It was Chaz. "I got something for you."

"Why don't you come up?"

"I've got to open the Cave," he said. Mason pulled on a shirt and headed down the stairs.

Chaz held out a piece of paper and Mason took it. Jonathan Follow. 10 Apple Road. Utopia, Ontario Jonathan Follow. 10 Apple Road. Utopia, Ontario.

"Is this a joke?"

"Nope," said Chaz. "It's a real town. Real road, too. Go ahead and Google it."

"Thank you," said Mason.

Chaz nodded. "I've got to open up."

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANNow I'm going to tell you about Mr. White-oops, I mean Larry!He has gla.s.ses. And he's already like a friend to me. He said I can tell him anything in the world! Even if it's really bad! And also he kind of looks like a woman. But not like a hot one. More like a fat one with no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, you know? Like a fat, flat b.i.t.c.h. I know thats sort of mean-but I don't mean it that way. Its just true. (I sure am glad he's not going to read this!) And another thing about Larry-that fat b.i.t.c.h is f.u.c.king patronizing. He thinks everybody is as stupid as he is, poor f.u.c.ker. But really, there's not much to do here. So if Larry White wants me to write-I'll guess I'll write ...It reminds me of that song. How's it go?"If Barry White saved your lifeOr got you back with your ex-wifeSing Barry White (Barry White)Barry White (Barry White)It's all right (It's all riiiiiiiiiiight ...)"

Mason closed the notebook. It was weird all right, but he didn't have time for this s.h.i.t, kept thinking of Sissy Follow.

Saving people is a matter of minutes.

He picked up the piece of paper and the Google map he'd printed.

You know what you have to do.

He knew what he had to do.

57.

It was four in the morning when he left the city limits. He crossed onto Route 7, a two-lane back road, heading northeast at thirty miles an hour. There was no one else on the highway.

When you opened her up like this, the Dogmobile got loud-three small wheels with a Smurf-like engine. He switched on the radio. At first he thought it was between stations, but then he heard it: the low spooky opening of "State Trooper." It made him shiver. They hardly ever played this on the radio. He turned it up and lit a smoke. The sky was full of stars.

On the last of Springsteen's mournful howls, begging and defiant at the same time, Mason slowed down to twenty and poured some c.o.ke onto the stainless steel counter. It was going to be a long night. He cut with one hand and steered with the other. He did a line and looked out from beneath the poppyseed brim. For a moment he had the same feeling as when he'd been in the QT room, staring out at the darkened Cave. He was right here and, at the same time, light years away-floating and trapped where no one would ever know, all-seeing and never seen, his visor a one-way mirror. But then the feeling was gone. It was hard to stay anxious driving a Dogmobile, the stars all shining bright.

He lit a smoke and pressed down on the gas, easing back up to thirty. At these speeds he'd be lucky to get there by daybreak. On the map it looked tricky-a ways off the highway, with an old train track running through. Apple Road was probably gravel, or even just dirt. At least he wouldn't be conspicuous, bouncing along in a motorized, fibregla.s.s, big-city hat.

But how did Seth know about the Man in the Black Helmet?

He turned up the radio.

It was the first grey of morning. The Dogmobile crept through the outskirts of Barrie, past its belching, slumbering form.

The light turned silver, shimmering from the horizon, and the sides of the highway began to take shape. Mason drove west on the county road, the sun rising behind him, the first hint of warmth like animal breath on his neck.

He'd been doing lines to stay awake, and now the dawn made him feel twitchy and aching. He wanted a drink.

Will Utopia have a bar?

What time would it open?

"Rain Dance" by the Guess Who came on the radio. Another anomaly. It felt like he was coming onto something-what with the c.o.ke and the sunrise and the songs they never played. He stepped on the gas and the Dogmobile stopped.

Not all at once, mind you. First it stuttered, shook, skidded and banged. After that that it stopped. There was a hissing sound that made Mason want to run for the hills. He turned off the engine, wiped the c.o.ke off the stainless steel counter, then stumbled out of the hissing hat, onto the highway. it stopped. There was a hissing sound that made Mason want to run for the hills. He turned off the engine, wiped the c.o.ke off the stainless steel counter, then stumbled out of the hissing hat, onto the highway.

He walked up the side of the road for a minute or so, then turned and looked back. Left to right: spooky tree in the middle of a barren field, mess of chicken wire and vines, dilapidated barn, gravel, ditch, giant fedora on wheels, the faded centre line of the county road, ditch, log fence, another barn, then fields into infinity. He waited until the Dogmobile stopped making that unsettling sound, then walked back towards it.

No point in looking at the engine. He wasn't even sure where it was. "Probably a gasket," he said. "Or a hose. Or maybe ..." He noticed he was talking out loud and stopped. After trying the ignition a half-dozen times, he took out his cellphone.

No reception.

He did a line, then set to work. He stuffed two bottles of water, a package of chicken dogs, three bags of chips, sungla.s.ses and Seth's notebook into a plastic bag. He put the clutch in neutral, dropped the bag on the side of the road, then began to push the Dogmobile off the highway.

This was awkward. The chrome made it heavier than it should have been, the fibregla.s.s made it lighter, and tippy. And the odd number of wheels didn't help with the balance. Control was a delusion.

When the Dogmobile hit the gravel it slowed down a bit-but didn't stop. It was a singular sound-a giant chrome and fibregla.s.s fedora tumbling into a ditch. Three hundred ravens alighted from the surrounding fields. They dispersed in the air like awakened souls.

Mason stood at the side of the road, waiting for a car to come. He drank some water. Then, to kill time, he pulled out the notebook.

THE B BOOK OF H HANDYMANThe Day I Was Degloved, by S. Handyman Dedicated to Mr. Larry White (Sing Larry White)It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was in the exercise room for my trice-weekly const.i.tutional. You should know, dear non-existent reader, that prisoners in my position-for our own safety-do most things separately from the general population. On this day I was on my own, but for a guard named Jacob, and I was working on my triceps and forearms. Lying face-up on a padded bench, I was holding a barbell above me, doing vertical curls. My forearms are particularly impressive and young Jacob was watching closely-until suddenly he wasn't. Within a second of realizing I was alone, no longer was I alone.I don't know why, with all the equipment in there, they bothered to fashion a weapon; men become bored in prison. From what little I could gauge in that awkward moment, they'd made a hatchet of sorts-heavy and pointed, but also dull. It struck the top of my head, denting but not splitting my skull. The blade, however, caught beneath my scalp. Scalp is very thick-five separate layers of skin and flesh, adding up to almost an inch. But should something get through a few layers with sufficient force at the right angle, they lift right up, like peel from an orange.That was, in a life full of fascinating sensations, the most memorable. It felt as if my brain, though still connected to my nervous system, had been ripped from my head. The sound was like amplified Velcro. I didn't lose consciousness. In fact I sat straight up, hurling the barbell across the room. The top of my head was flipped back but still attached, so that it stuck up in a semi-circle, like a blood-red sun rising above the Earth. I shouted, and my attackers fled."If Larry White makes you writeAbout getting scalped in a jailhouse fightSing Larry White (Larry White)...."

A car was coming. Mason stuck out his thumb, trying to make eye contact with the driver. Smiling. And then it was gone.

The sun's been up a while.

Mason looked down at the notebook. Seth was emerging, but he'd have to wait.

Every minute counts.

He stuffed the notebook back in the bag and headed down the road.

47. I've never had a favourite color, or animal, or tree.

48. The world is what we make it.

How many roads had he walked like this before? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. It had been a while, though: his boot heels on gravel, the sound of crickets and wires humming overhead, the crackling of someone making a phone call, the distance stretching out in all directions. It was like being home-the side of the highway in the early morning, comforting and intense. He hadn't known he'd missed it so much. Sure, he was high as a satellite, but there was no mistaking this feeling-completely alone, yet connected with everything. He took it all in: the tennis shoe on the fence post, golden flashes on the silos, the dragonfly threesome buzzing through the gra.s.s, bullet holes in the speed limit sign, the smell of dry dirt and rotting wood, the shimmer of a car approaching.

What have you been doing all this time? He stuck out his thumb. This one didn't stop either. He pulled out his phone and checked the little bars on the faceplate. Still nothing. He turned and kept walking, the Save-On-Foods bag swinging at his side. He stuck out his thumb. This one didn't stop either. He pulled out his phone and checked the little bars on the faceplate. Still nothing. He turned and kept walking, the Save-On-Foods bag swinging at his side.

Finally he came to the sign: Utopia 6 km. There was an arrow pointing south down another road. It was paved but potholed, with no dividing line. The sun was a quarter way up in the sky. Mason bent over, digging into his cowboy boots to pull up his socks. He put on his sungla.s.ses and headed for Utopia.

58.