Alligator - Lisa Moore [24]
There was a TV on in the living room. He had a belly that was hard and round and grey hair sprouted out from under his arms and above the neck of the white undershirt and he got out a package of Jam Jams, slit the plastic with his thumbnail, and put them on the table.
Frank saw the man’s hands had a kind of tremble; they hovered over the cookies as if he were deciding how best to offer them. The trembling made Frank think the man was in financial need and would demand a good price for the hot-dog stand.
His mother reached across the table with a sigh and poured the Carnation milk from a bit of a height and gave the tin a jovial little dip and twist when she had enough milk and she stirred the tea very quickly and knocked the spoon on the edge of the cup three times.
He saw that his mother was prepared to engage with the owner of the hot-dog stand as if he mattered greatly to her. She would warm him the way she warmed everyone who came into her path, and this might be enough. His mother’s natural, enduring warmth might carry the day.
The kitchen was clean, there were dishes drying in the rack, and a cuckoo clock sent out a bird nine times and they had to wait for it to stop before Frank felt comfortable talking about the hot-dog stand. He felt a reckless anticipation.
The truth was he wanted the hot-dog stand and he had only $1,000 and the man was asking $1,300 and it was possible, Frank felt, that if he went home without the hot-dog stand it would break his will.
COLLEEN
SHE HAD HITCHHIKED on a Friday evening for six hours and then began her walk up the timberline. She walked for three hours with just the moon and a flashlight beam to show up the stumps sticking out of the earth. She felt a blister form on the back of one heel and felt it break and rub against her leather sneaker. The breeze was chilly and when it rushed through the trees, making them jostle together, she became aware of how audacious the vandalism would appear. She felt adrenalin rush through her and she was exhilarated and weary. Nothing could compel her to turn back.
There had been a short-lived group at the university who had come together to protest the clear-cut that was endangering the pine marten. They’d argued whether it was true about the Newfoundland pine marten being a separate species and how it could be saved and how they could raise funds and how urgent it all was. There was a definite sense of urgency. There was talk about a bake sale and a letter to the premier. They were dressed mostly in Polarfleece, and hiking boots; they were studying biology or literature or geography. Colleen had gone because of an ad she’d seen on a paper placemat at a café downtown.
She’d downloaded material about international groups and people who had handcuffed themselves around the trunks of trees and people who had gone without food or set themselves on fire. She had photographs of Julia Butterfly Hill, who had climbed a tree and refused to come down for two years. But she couldn’t bring herself to speak up. They were all older and seemed to know each other. She sat in a desk at the back and listened and her cheeks burned red and her blood thumped in her temples and finally she drew her material from her knapsack and flicked at the edge of the folder with her thumb, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She’d gone to a meeting in April and only two other people had shown up. At the final meeting in May, when university was winding down, no one had shown up but her. She’d sat with her back against the locked door of the seminar room and waited for a half-hour. She felt oddly humiliated. She decided to act by herself.
The shadows of the underbrush stretched out and swivelled away from her as the beam of the flashlight travelled over the brush and the stars were very bright. She had to be in and out before the morning shift showed up.