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Some things money can’t buy.
I ain’t hurtin’ for a bob or two. Get to my age, an investment here, a diamond heist there, ya’ don’t hang about with the likes of Yukio or Felicia without it rubbin’ off. If ya’ my drift.
But I don’t really own much. Don’t see the point, just ties ya’ down, makes it hard to move on, when ya’ have to. And you always have to. In the end.
But a few decades back, bought myself a little place outside of Ottawa, on a lake, real quiet, real private, suits me just fine, nearest town, Georgeville a good four miles away.
T’other side of the lake has got all fashionable now, skiing in winter, yacht club in summer, shit like that. Back when I bought the place, there was nowt up there but me an’ the elk an’ the fish. But my bit is still unspoiled, quiet. Mine.
Cabin is nothin’ fancy neither, though I’ve done it up a bit, over the years, bought a generator, mostly for the beer fridge in summer. Even got a bathroom half-fitted, goin’ out to the privy in middle of the night in eight foot of snow loses its charm some when ya’ get to my age. Someday I’ll get around to gettin’ it all finished.
Never taken anyone up there.
It’s mine, it’s private, an’ I like it like that. ‘Sides, like I said, it ain’t fancy, classy dame like our ‘Ro? Our Jeannie? Hell, even Nina or Fliss? Nah, they’re gonna want somewhere with clean sheets an’ a proper cooker, not two gas rings. Without socks on the floor. And underpants.
But for some reason, I decided to bring him up there.
We’d had a crap few weeks, I needed to clear my head an’ guess he did too.
Ours is tough gig, hard, dangerous work an’ he just soldiers on, never complains, never kicks up a fuss. He’s pretty low maintenance, apart from the custom gym kit. An’ shoes. An’ his murderous mother. And stepmother. Okay, so he’s low maintenance compared to the rest of us.
But I asked him, he said ‘yes’ an’ that was that.
It’s a long, six hour, drive from Salem Centre, the last couple of miles over rough terrain, we’re both glad to be out of the cab. But the sun is setting over the lake, it’s quiet apart from a bittern calling and has that magical late afternoon light, he scrunches through the snow in his swish new custom boots, to look out across the jetty, as transfixed as I was the first time saw the place.
He stands there, a slim shadow, in his ridiculous red and white holiday sweater and bobble hat. His tail sways slightly.
An’ I’ve never seen anything prettier. All those beautiful women, some of them casual, some of them much, much more, an here’s me, gettin’ all soft over a guy?
Go figure.
“So, what ya’ think?” I come up beside him.
“It’s beautiful, Logan, it really is.” His breath smokes in the frigid air and he gives me that warm, genuine smile. The winter sun is the same gold as his eyes.
The steps up to the porch creak under my weight, more than I remember, and the door is damn hard to open, warped by damp, the peeling grey paint don’t offer much protection from the elements. He tilts his head as I struggle with the lock.
“Need a hand?”
“Nope, I’ve got it.” I manhandle the feckin’ thing, almost off it’s hinges. The door gives with a worrying crunch and it swings open. “There ya’ go.”
He steps inside, giving me a look but doesn’t say a word. I give him the grand tour. It don’t take long. “Lounge.” It’s mostly taken up with the big couch, sagging in front of the stove with the ancient moth-eaten elk hide before it. The curtains have mostly disintegrated and there’s a bird’s nest in the rafters, it smells a bit damp.
“There’s a tile or two missing off the roof, meant to fix that in the summer, but ya’ know how busy we were. Kitchen is in here,” I chivvy him over.
There’s not much in there, a big sink with a pump for water, old range which don’t work no more, probably just needs a good clean, but I never bothered, put a little gas primus ring over it, enough to boil the coffee pot. He likes his coffee, does my lad.
The bedroom only has the huge pine bed. Wardrobe collapsed couple of years back so I burned most of it on the stove, my clothes are piled on a chair. And the floor. And the bottom of the bed.
He looks round the room, absently bends and picks up a stray sock. An eyebrow raises.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Been a while since I tided up the place.” Bathroom is in what was once the second bedroom. “I plumbed the sink in, with my mate from town, Jake, showing me how,” it’s a bit wobbly but apart from that, I was quite proud of myself. “He’s right handy, he fitted the toilet, got all the right tools, see, it easy if ya’ got the right tools.”
‘Cos it’s the bathroom, it’s got a bath, big claw-footed thing, right old too, me and Jake had to take half the wall down to get it in, but I never got round to getting hot water, would need some kinda back boiler behind the stove? I dunno, always felt too much like hard work to get it sorted.
He’s looking at the wall, maybe we didn’t do a brilliant job in putting it back in; the draft stirs the curl of dark blue-black hair poking out from under that stupid hat.
He still hasn’t said anything.
“So. Whaddya think?” I grin up at him. “I know it’s not that much to look at...” Why’s he so quiet? He’s always got an opinion on everything. He looks around.
“It’s certainly... full of character. Rustic.”
“Yeah, rustic. An’ it’s unspoiled. Ya’ should see some of the cabins along the lake, they’re ruined. They fit ‘em all out, strip them down an’ do ‘em all up.” I wave my hands in the air. “Underfloor heating, double glazing, saunas!”
“...saunas...” he murmurs. And he smiles at me. “It’s very you, and I can tell how much you love it.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “See, I knew you’d understand. I’m gonna go and fire up the generator, before it gets dark.”
***
Rustic. Unspoiled.
It’s a shack.
And it’s filthy.
Everything in it is dirty. Musty. Mouldering. Peeling. The smell.
I don’t want to touch any surface, not without gloves on. I might get fleas. Mites. Termites.
Oh, but his face. He loves it, he’s in love with the place. The lake, the peace, the solitude, I can see the attraction.
And it could be beautiful.
I know what he means, about over developing it, it would lose its soul, that would be a terrible shame. But it needs the basics, a new roof, it needs a kitchen, for heaven’s sake it needs hot water.
But currently? It’s a semi-derelict shack.
I draw a deep breath, and instantly regret it. The first thing it needs is a bloody good clean!
Oh, how do I tell him?
***
I go out to start the generator.
And damn me, the bloody thing won’t work. I kick it. It splutters unhappily but still refuses to catch. Damn it. I kick it again, nope, no go. Oh well, it’s not a biggie, we’ll make do with kerosine lamps, I can pick up a new one in Magog tomorrow.
I go get the bags from the truck and stomp back into the house, my foot goes through one of the steps. Huh, need to get that fixed.
He’s still standing where a left him, on the door mat, just inside.
“Shift ya’ ass,” I grumble, amiably. He does as asked but he’s still quiet. Elf alway has summat to say. Always.
“Logan,” his voice is soft.
“Huh?” I dump the bags, the thunk of them hitting the deck stirs the dust and cobwebs drift down from the ceiling.
“I can’t.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Huh?” I’m so erudite. “Whaddya mean, course ya’ can.”
He turns towards me, graceful, always graceful.
“Schatz it’s... it’s not habitable.” His tone is gentle, conciliatory, calm. “It’s a shack. It.. smells.”
“Whaddya mean?” Look, I’m tired, it was a long drive an’ I did most of it, don’t like other people driving my pickup, particularly not in the snow. If I’d not been so tired I might not have been so... well... grumpy. “Ya’ mean it’s not good enough for ya’, mister? Where do ya’ go tellin’ me that my place ain’t good enough!”
My voice is loud and I get into his face. He looks down that sharp nose at me, pissy little queen that he is. Lookin’ down at me, in my own place.
“Logan, it’s filthy...”
“It’s rustic ya’ snobby bastard!”
The yellin’ goes downhill from there.
Just ‘cos he’s so laid-back, it don’t mean he won’t stand his ground. An’ he’s not scared of me, he ain’t never been scared of me, even when at times he damn well should be. He’s also not impressed by me. I’m the goddamn Wolverine, unstoppable killin’ machine, an’ him? He’s just a glorified acrobat. I point that out to him.
And he tells me I am a slob who is happy to live like a troll in a filthy hut in the middle of nowhere.
This goes on for some time.
Me an’ Elf, we never argue. Okay, he never argues with me, I do sometimes er, yell at him. A bit. Sometimes.
Like I said, he’s pretty easygoing.
But he does have a thing about clean, I know that. He likes being clean.
And warm.
An icy breeze whips around my ankles and our breath smokes. Inside isn’t much warmer than out.
He snatches up his bag and heads out the door, the door knob comes off in his hand. He growls in frustration and his hand fumbles with the splintered wood to get the door open. He manages it and steps onto the porch.
“Where the hell do ya’ think ya’ goin’?”
“I don’t know!” he yells over his shoulder. “There was a town a couple of miles back, I’ll find a hotel, a motel.”
“It’s damn well freezing out there!”
“I don’t care, it’s warmer than in here!”
“Yer gonna have to walk, ya’ mad bastard, yer not driving my truck.”
“Good. Fine.” He stands on the porch, looking out into the night, his back rigid, like an offended cat, his tail thrashes. The sun has gone down, it’s pitch black out there and damnably cold. I wait for him to come back inside. He pauses for a heartbeat then slams the door. More dust and plaster rains down, burning my sinuses and making me sneeze. The stairs creak and then he’s gone. Damn fool idiot, good riddance!
***
Damn fool idiot man.
Me or him?
Er, possibly both of us.
Oh, it’s cold out here!
The moon is up, reflecting on the ruts made by the pickup, glittering silver blue on ice crystals. My night vision is excellent, it’s only a few miles. I pull gloves and a spare sweater out of the bag, my coat is still in the shack. I am not going back for it. I shoulder my bag, pull my scarf over my mouth, tuck my ears firmly under my hat and set off, snow squeaking under my boots.
Stupid man.
My anger keeps me warm for the first mile or so. Stupid, stubborn, infuriating...
By the second mile I’m getting really cold. Moving (and fur) helps but the rutted track is quite hard going. It’s easier once I get to what passes for the main road but there’s no footpath and I have to step onto the slushy, grey, half frozen snow every time a car or van passes; I’m wearing dark colours, I don’t want to get hit. But there isn’t much traffic. I vaguely consider trying to hitch a lift, my hands are getting numb and my feet cold and wet. Tail is curled, miserably around my waist. Neither of us is happy.
Sigh. Of course, Tail is why hitching a lift might be a bad idea. And my ears. Not to mention my eyes...
And walking up to reception at a motel? How is that going to play out? Simple. That involves money, that will be fine.
It can’t be that much further, can it?
A big vehicle pulls up next to me, lights bright on the dark road, flecks of new snow are starting to fall, the flakes showing clearly in their glow.
***
Crap. It’s starting to snow again.
I rub the back of my neck. Still can’t get the generator working and there’s no gas in the primus stove. I’d kill for a coffee.
It’s four miles to town. He’s very fit, he’s used to hard physically exercise.
It’s freezing out there.
I pull out my cell, his is the first number, of course. Crap. No signal. Of course there isn’t, that’s why I bought this place. I pull on my coat. Double crap; his coat is next to it. Is he determined to get hypothermia and freeze to death just to piss me off even more?
The snow dances in the headlights as I manoeuvre the pickup down the track, I go slow, but I’m expecting him to have got further than this. I stop, soon as I get out of the cab I can see his distinctive two toed footprints clearly. Yeah, piece of cake, his spore is unique, easy to track. I light up a stogie, get the cab nice an’ fragrant for when I catch up with the little drama queen.
The road is a bit harder; the asphalt shiny wet but his footprints are clear along the verge. Until they’re not. I pull up an’ go lookin’. What if he’s wandered off the road? The trees loom, huge and silent in their shroud of white.
What if? What if a car hit him? He’s damn hard to see in the dark, it’s a handy trait for our job, but not so much on a rural highway at night. What if he went cross country? He’s not daft. He wouldn’t do that. Would he?
Goddamn it, Elf, don’t do this to me.
I cast along the road, there’s not much traffic, only a couple of vehicles swoosh past, spraying me with wet slush and covering his tracks.
I go back to the truck, he walked about a mile from the end of my track then vanished. No, no he didn’t. He hitched a lift.
He looks like, well, like he does. Who the hell would pick him up?
It’s Kurt.
He hitched a lift. I just know it. In his funny, fuzzy head he’s Errol Flynn, even though he ditched that Image Inducer years ago.
I check my cell, I’ve got a crappy signal, but it’s there. I call him. And it rings out, goes to that bloody annoying. bloody cheerful, voice mail message. Damn it, Elf, I throw it on the seat and head into town.
Which is shut.
Georgetown ain’t very big and on a cold Sunday night, the stores and cafes are shuttered up. Ski season hasn’t quite started yet, another couple of weeks. There’s no hotel, couple of guest houses. What do I do? Start knocking on doors? Asking if anyone has seen le diable recently?
Think Logan. Think.
Crap, if he’s lying in a ditch by the road, ‘Ro will kill me. Not to mention Jeannie. An’ Kitty.
Kitty.
I look down at the black slab of cell phone. I hate the ugly thing. I remember Kitty talking me through how to use it. I was only half listenin’, I only have it because Summers insists we all have one. Bastard, he just wants to keep track on us.
Kitty whitterin’ on about what it can do. She talks even more than my Elf.
I pick it up and glare at the screen.
There’s a little green button which says ‘Find My...’
I press it with my thick, clumsy fingers...
Ya’ little... Gotcha.
***
My French is quite rusty, but it’s amazing how fast it comes back to me, and the children, Henri and Aubrey are bi-lingual and fantastically curious. The couple in the front of the car, their grandparents, Giselle and Robert, are lovely and don’t seem to be at all worried by my outré appearance, they’re more worried about me wandering a cold, deserted road at night.
Giselle tells me that her sister’s son, who was born different, who has had a difficult life but who has found his place working in the theatre, he’s a set designer. They are all very proud of him. It’s only a small, provincial, theatre but even so. He has gone far.
Robert shakes his head, Georgetown has nowhere which will be open at night, the nearest town is Magog, their destination, and has any facilities I should need.
I sit back, blissful warmth washes over me and I entertain the children with circus tales.
***
“Tim ‘effing Horton’s?”
He licks sugar from his fingers and gazes sadly into the empty Timbits box. He’s holding his vast vat of hot chocolate in his tail. Show off.
“Well, that’s what les enfants wanted.”
I shake my head. He had the whole shop laughin’ as he juggled cups, spoons an’ sugar packets, charmed every one of them, staff an’ customers an’ random folks passin’ by.
My pulse has just about got back to normal, I swear, he’ll be the death of me.
We pull into the hotel.
***
It’s a cabin, no it’s a chalet.
And it’s beautiful. Six of them sit on the edge of the lake in the hotel grounds.
Polished wooden floors glow gold in the low light, thick rugs, rustic wall hangings. It smells of beeswax and pine.
A crackling fire. It’s warm, toasty warm, snug and welcoming.
The bed is vast, crisp white sheets, soft fluffy pillows with a mint on each of them. There’s a spa bath. There’s a sauna in the suite.
Plush bathrobes.
I finish warming myself up in a hot bath. A very hot bath. With bubbles.
***
Room service is eye-wateringly expensive, but they have a fine selection of Canadian beers, I order a few, well, a lot. And a couple of steaks, with all the trimmings. Ah, it’s good to be home.
What the hell, it’s only money. He’s worth it. Mostly.
He stretches out on the rug in front of the fire, in the bath robe, his eyes glow like the logs. Damn, he’s lovely. And he knows it, knows the effect he has on me.
We don’t get no further because room service have brought dinner. He disappears into the bathroom while they set up the dining table. Yep, suite has a dining table. Candles. Romantic dinner for two.
Which we eat sat on the sofa while I watch the hockey on the huge TV above the fire. Food is a bit fancy but it’s good, beer is even better, we’re both happily stuffed.
I rub his feet, no sign of frostbite, thankfully. He’s futzing on his ‘phone, probably to Kitty. Or Betsy. Or any one of a dozen girlfriends. He’s relaxed, his tail lying beside us, the tip moving slowly, slightly, I give it a gentle scritch too. Most people ignore it, it makes folks uncomfortable somehow, even his friends, dunno why, it’s part of him. I blow a raspberry on his bony ankle and he giggles. Game is dull, he ain’t.
He moves up me, the glow of the fire guilding his fur with gold. Beautiful, he really is.
His sweet mouth tastes of mint. Chocolate mint.
“Ya’ ate the mint?”
“It was complementary.”
“Let me guess, ya’ ate mine too?”
“You don’t like chocolate mints.”
“How the hell do ya’ know that?”
Those unique eyes blink at me. He reaches for the remote with his tail and turns off the television, he makes me forget all about hockey an’ mints for a while.
Worth it.
***
Post Script
It’s been eight months since we last bounced down this track, I swear the pot holes have got bigger.
But we get to the lake and there it is, in all it’s glory.
“Wow!”
He turns off the engine and rests his hands on the steering wheel.
“Quite summat’ ain’t it?”
“It’s beautiful,” and it is. It’s the same design as the ones the hotel had; a kit built, pine framed chalet, nestled into the woods as though it had always been there.
“It’s got a sauna...” he breathes in my ear.
And the pickup goes over a particularly big rut and jolts me awake just as we pull up in front of his beloved shack. Oh. Joy. It’s even more run down than last winter, the door is off its hinges and some of the roof has fallen in.
He bounces out of the cab with too much energy after a six hour drive.
“Up an’ at ‘em, Elf!” he bellows as he dives into the flat bed and starts pulling out wood and boxes of shingles, hammers and power tools. He has no clue as to what a big job this is. And even less skill at repairing things.
I groan and cover my face with my hands.
Why do I do this to myself? Why do I say yes to him?
He grins at me.
Sigh, that’s why.
I swing my legs out of the cab and go join my best friend in another stupid adventure.