— I’m going back to Hearst for awhile, said Veda. Going back home. It’s my dad’s place and it’ll do till things get back on track. Dude, if I had a tail, it would be between my legs. Put it that way. Anyways, where are you going, Pete?
— I’m going west.
— And how long are you going for?
— However long they’ll have me.
— Sounds like quite a move. But hey, dude. Shit like that I can respect. Anyways, if you’re going west then it seems you’d be going through Hearst on your way. Six hours from here.
— I get the feeling you’re proposing something.
— I won’t fuck with your radio.
— Okay, said Pete. You can ride with me.
They left New Liskeard early the next morning. He picked her up at the campground where she was staying. Veda packed her tent into her knapsack and got into the car.
— I’m going to say what ten billion girls have said before me. You seem like a nice guy. We get on the road, in your car, don’t turn evil on me, okay? I’ve got an eight-inch switchblade in my bra and I’ll stick you if I have to.
They had breakfast at a gas bar on the edge of town. It made him think of the Texaco. With everything that had happened, it had been necessary for him to stay on at the Texaco for some months longer than he’d intended, once he’d been able to resume working again. His last day at the Texaco had been the twenty-fifth of June. Duane had walked him to his car, smiling his townie smile.
— You take it easy out there, Pete. You’re a bit of a shit-magnet.
— I’ll do what I can. I’ll send you a postcard.
— You probably won’t.
Behind them a car was pulling onto the apron.
— One of us has to get back to work, said Duane. See? Some things never change.
They shook hands and Duane turned and sauntered back towards the pumps. There was an oil rag hanging out of his back pocket and in the other pocket was the round shape of his chew tin. A few days later, Pete was on the road.
Once he and Veda had finished breakfast and started driving, she fell asleep and she didn’t wake again until ten o’clock. She smacked her lips and looked around.
— Where are we?
— We just passed a place called Tunis.
— Tunis.
— There wasn’t much to it.
— I know it. I know Tunis.
This was pretty country, with great stretches of bush separating the villages and towns they drove through. They passed fields where the long grass was fiery with hawkweed and devil’s paintbrush.
— It’s your dad’s place in Hearst?
— Thanks for reminding me. I wasn’t thinking about anything and it was nice.
— Hey, sorry.
— Oh, don’t fret it. My dad, he’s a good guy. But, like, he’s a hometown guy. The farthest he’s ever been is Sudbury and he is A-OK with that. And Hearst, I just … Hearst is Hearst, right? One time I heard this comedian say that the thing about a small town is once you’ve seen the cannon in the park, you’ve seen all there is to see. It’ll do for a little while, until things get evened out.
— Things in Montreal?
— Yeah, in Montreal. And other places. Here, for starters.
She was tapping the side of her head.
— I hear you, said Pete.
— So this is the part where …?
— Where what? What part?
— The part where we exchange our stories.
— I was just making conversation.
— Exchange our stories and figure out what they mean. When you’re on the road, everybody you meet is going somewhere to get away from something.
— I’m not getting away from anything.
— Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Peter.
— I’m not.
— Come on, what was your issue? What did you do? Who did you lose?
He looked over at her. He looked back at the road. The last time he saw Emily, she’d been kind. She said they both knew what was inevitable. For Christmas, she’d gotten a leather coat and she looked really good in it. For reasons he couldn’t understand, Pete resented the coat more than anything, more than any of what was said about how they had to part. She could go in peace, but if it were up to him the coat would be torn to rags.
To Veda, he said: Well, I lost my grandmother about six weeks ago. I lived with her my whole life. She died of lung cancer.
— Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you with my craziness or anything.
— It’s okay. You asked.
— Can I ask you something else? Do you think it means anything?
— My grandmother dying?
— Yes.
— It means about as much as the next thing.
— You’re keeping something back, aren’t you. You’ve got some information up your sleeve. That’s cool.
— Jesus. Look, are you hungry?
— I’m getting to be.
They had an early lunch in Smooth Rock Falls. Veda told him a little bit about Hearst. A logging town. Her father was a sawyer at a mill. Theirs was one of the few families in town for whom French was not their first language. She’d grown up with a lot of native kids and she spoke of a few who had taken their own lives. But she said there were worse places to have to hide out for awhile. She said Hearst had its charms.
— There’s this giant crosscut saw people take pictures of. You’ll see. You can stay for Canada Day. My dad is always happy to entertain. He doesn’t need much of an excuse.
They got going again. Sometime after Cochrane, he looked over and saw she’d kicked off her tennis shoes and leaned her seat back. Her feet were white against the brown of her legs. One of the toenails was black. As they drove, she took out a small zippered pouch and opened it and brought out the makings of a joint and rolled it.
— I’m guessing you’re one of those people who want things to mean something, she said.
— I’m not sure what you mean by that.
— I’m not so, you know, good at saying what I think. So never mind.
— No no, said Pete. Tell me.
— Well, that one thing happens and it means something. Or, let me see if I can explain this better: one thing happens because something else happened before it to make it happen.
— But doesn’t that make sense? You know, one thing leads to another. Like, I could stick my leg out and I trip you, you fall down. That’s one thing leading to the next.
— Yeah, then I get up and I bust your nose. Again, by the looks of it.
Without thinking, he touched his nose. It had reset crookedly. He was never sure how apparent it was to people who saw it.
— What was it? said Veda. Hockey?
— No.
— Anyway, that example, that’s all that is. You can’t look for a bigger plan there.
— Well, yeah. I guess there’s nothing bigger in that. Okay.
— So do you believe in God?
— Do I what?
— It’s an easy question, dude.
— I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.
— Well, that’s disappointing.
— Yeah, well, the house where I grew up, there was a lot of talk about God all the time. And not much talk about anything else. I think whatever it is I do believe is kind of based on the opposite of everything that was talked about at home, because all I could ever think about was what didn’t add up and where the holes were. And, no, that’s not me saying I don’t believe in anything at all, either. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you.
— It makes enough sense for now. Okay. You haven’t let me down as bad.
— I’m glad I got your approval. But is this something you believe in? God?
She shrugged. It was a full, exaggerated roll of the shoulders. She crossed her eyes and said: I don’t know about God but there’s always the bet.
— The bet?
— This French guy I knew, he told me about it? So basically there’s a coin toss and you got to bet on it, heads or tails-this is what he told me-and if you bet on heads, or God, you win everything. All that stuff about heaven, right? But if you bet on tails, that there isn’t any God, and you lose, you lose it all.