Fresh snow conceals the rough corners of our town. Its surface is still unmarked, untouched by anything except the yellow orbs of streetlights and my solitary footprints. It bears witness to this thing I’m doing while everyone else sleeps; tracking me from my silent home to where I’ll surely end up.
In the morning people will shovel their sidewalks. If they’re generous, they’ll shovel their neighbour’s walkway too. Then they’ll head off to work and to school and to all the acceptable things good citizens are apt to do. But for now, the town sleeps. Except me. Instead, I’m out in the cold and in the dark.
I could turn back; could turn my back to the wind and head home, keeping my promise to Grah. But I don’t. I can’t escape my worries at home, awake and restless while everyone sleeps. No, that doesn’t work. My hand curls into a fist around the strap of my purse, and I keep slogging through the untouched snow.
I leave Main Street behind and make my way to the highway. Before long, obnoxious commercial light filters through the wispy brush. It illuminates my way toward the twenty-four-hour trifecta that sits on the outskirts of every small town in the province—gas station, licensed diner, convenience store—and it draws me in like a beacon for the lost and desperate.
It’s not long before I’m pulling the iced-up glass door open, heat escaping into the night. I slide into the building and force the door closed behind me faster than the automatic hinge wants to go. The warmth makes my face and fingertips tingle after the crisp temperatures outside.
A young woman sits behind the gas station counter, a shelf of chocolate bars and gum separating us. She looks up from her phone, and I point toward the diner. She nods and returns to whatever she’s scrolling through.
The diner is the kind of establishment that sells both breakfast and dinner all day and all night. As soon as I walk in, the night server spots me and walks over.
“Menu?” he asks by way of greeting.
I decline and motion with one cold hand toward the back wall. It’s why I’m here. It’s what pulled me out of bed and through the quiet snow.
He nods and turns back toward the kitchen.
“Maybe a coffee,” I decide at the last moment.
He glances back over his shoulder and gives me a nod.
I make my way to the back wall and turn into the little alcove. No one’s back here, so I sit down on the middle stool, the lucky one, and rub my hands together to get the blood flowing. Blow into my cupped hands and rub again. The server brings my coffee and I add two sugars. Stir.
Okay. I’m ready.
I stand for a second, lightly stomping my feet to get the blood flowing through my cold extremities, then take my wallet out of my purse and pull out my cash. I don’t have a credit card; had to give that up as part of my deal with Grah.
I rub the small stack of bills between my fingers and thumb. I’ll have to be careful.
I feed the first twenty into the machine.
The red and orange light on top of the lottery terminal lights up. I play three lines—three magical chances to win. I press the red spin button. Press it again and again. And again. It soothes me. Numbs all my worries in a way nothing else can. The lights. The spinning images. The slow settle.
It’s weird how this machine sucks me in. I’ve never been able to explain it. Not to myself. Not to anyone else when I’ve needed to justify it, but I know how it works. As soon as I get low on credit the machine throws a small win. Somehow, I know this is to give me hope even if none exists.
It works. Every time. I slide in another bill.
Tonight the money goes fast.
I switch machines. Slide my last tenner and a five in.
The server leans into the alcove. “It’s almost 3:00 a.m.” I nod. I don’t have long.
Before I know it, I have a single five left and I’m out of time anyway. I pay for my coffee, pull my toque back on my head and begin the walk home.
Pressing the spin button again and again is easy. It’s the long walk home, the return, that gnaws at my conscience. I stop walking when I get back to our street, place my hands on my knees and take a deep, shattering breath before I can continue. In a few hours I’ve got a new start. I won’t slip again. I promised Grah. Promised myself.
I sneak back into the house as quietly as I can. Finally, I sleep.
I hit the spin button. The reels whirl and settle. I press it again and again and again.
I’m in the kitchen making coffee when Dylan wakes, runs in, and wraps his little arms around me. He grins, his eager young eyes filled with excitement. “It’s today, right, Mom?”
“Sure is! I’ll get office-fancy after you’re off to school.” I pour cereal into his bowl and add a big splash of milk the way he likes. The milk flows into the cereal weave, into every nook and cranny the same way love flows through my heart for this boy. “What do you think, Dylan; pink flower blouse or the purple one with the neck scarf? Which screams dental receptionist to you?”
His eyes scrunch up as he considers. He picks up his spoon and digs into the bowl, putting a large spoonful in his mouth and crunching. I put the milk away, thinking about the dilemma myself. Whatever I don’t wear today I’ll be wearing tomorrow. The real trouble will be deciding what to wear on day three.
“You know, Mom, I don’t think you should wear either of those your first day.”
“You don’t?” I bite my lip. “My black button up, then? It’s getting a bit old.”
“No! Ugh. Not that. Why don’t you wear…” and I turn just as Grah sneaks into the kitchen with his hands behind his back, his grey hair still wet from the shower and already braided into a long, neat rope down his back. Dylan points to his grandfather just as Grah pulls a plastic shopping bag from behind his back. The bag says Peavey Mart, which is Grah’s preferred vendor for almost everything. He hands me the bag, and they both grin like jackals.
“What do we have here?” I’m apprehensive but try not to let it show. I reach into the bag and pull out a women’s suit jacket, navy blue with white piping trim. It’s a classic, a timeless piece of clothing, and unlike anything I own. “This isn’t from Peavey Mart.”
“Got ya, didn’t we?” Grah and Dylan laugh with glee, little bits of cereal flecking from Dylan’s mouth in his exuberance.
“You two! What am I going to do with you?” They’re both proud, chests puffed up, and grins ear to ear and I push down the nagging worry that is never far away. What if I fuck it up?
“I hope you didn’t spend a lot.”
“Worth every penny, my dear.” Grah puts his arm around me. I’ve lucked out in the stepfather department. That’s something I’ve always known.
“Worth gramps’s old snowblower, at least!”
“What?” My heart drops. “You did not! We might need that again. What if your back goes out?”
“Pshh.” Grah flaps a hand in the air, giving Dylan a look. “Am strong as an ox, I am. Anyway, that’s why a man has grandsons. I’ll be leaving it to this one, next time the ole back goes. Isna that right?” He musses the kid’s hair and Dylan howls.
“Gramps!”
I take it all in. This family wrapped around me, and I’m thankful for nothing else as much as I’m thankful for this family. I put my worries aside. There’s no way I’m letting them down. Last night was just a last time blip.
“Okay, boys, time for one of you to hurry up and finish getting ready for school. And you,” I point at Grah as Dylan leaves the kitchen to fix his hair. “Troublemaker.” I clear my throat, grab the old man by the shoulder and pull him toward me. “Thank you. It means a lot.”
Grah pats me on the back. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one. Janet tells me it’s a nice office.” Again, a niggle of fear tightens my throat. I wish I’d found a job myself and not had Grah call in a favour from a friend.
Grah clears his throat. “Where were you last night?” His voice is low, so low his words won’t carry down the hall.
I force a slow, cool-as-a-cucumber smile. “Went for a walk around town. Couldn’t sleep.” The lie tumbles out with ease. Old habit. I’ve had lots of practice. I turn toward the pile of dishes in the sink and put the plug in the drain before turning the tap on. I’m squirting a generous amount of dish soap onto the breakfast dishes as Grah studies me.
He’s waiting for more. I don’t give it to him.
Eventually he sighs. “Charlotte.”
“Graaaham,” I say in the same long, drawn-out tone. I know what I promised, but it still kind of grates. Grah never remembers how my wins have helped us out. He only remembers the losses. I glance over my shoulder and give him a cocky grin to show him everything is just fine. It was just one time. The last time. It doesn’t have to mean anything. “I learned my lesson, haven’t I? A little faith, old man.”
He shifts his weight and leans against the countertop, trying to decide whether to believe me. Wanting to believe me, no doubt. I want to believe me too and I do. It’s a new day. I’ve got a job. A respectable job, and things will be different.
“If you’re going to stand there, grab a dish towel.”
Grah’s shoulders drop and he chuckles, hearing his oft repeated words come back at him. He snags the towel hanging from the oven handle and sets to drying dishes.
I plaster a wooden smile on my face as the last patient of the day gives her purse zipper a disgruntled yank and leaves the office. It’s been two weeks since I started, and I’ve come to loathe nothing more in life than filling out dental insurance claims. The worst is when the patient stares like a hawk from across the desk. It’s like I’m a performing animal on display. At least Janet has been supportive, swooping in to help me out. Until now.
“Jeez, that lady.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “You’d think I was messing up her insurance on purpose.”
Janet folds her arms across her chest and grimaces. “That patient is a customer here, Charlotte. She’s paying our wages, right? She deserves to have her invoice accurate.”
My cheeks flush. Janet created a cheat-sheet for me, so I’d know exactly what to do for each insurance company, but for some reason I still make errors. Every day. But I’m trying. That should count for something. Besides, these customers are snarky as hell, even to Janet sometimes. I try to lighten the mood. “Well… it’s her insurance company that is paying our wages. Not her.”
Janet doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge I’m right. Her lips thin out, and she puts a hand to her forehead before speaking again. “You’re lovely, Charlotte. You really are. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, but we need someone with a bit more experience with the paperwork side of things.”
My stomach plummets. I should be grateful the lobby is empty, but all I can think is she’s been waiting all day for this moment to give me the news. Anger builds in my chest. “If that’s what you needed, experience, then you should have been looking for it in the first place, don’t you think? You’ve kind of wasted my time here. Time I could have spent looking for other work.”
Janet fidgets with the pencil in her hand and won’t make eye contact with me. “Grah and I, we go back. I wanted this to work, Charlotte, I really did. It’s just, I’m sorry. It’s not a fit.”
I switch tactics. Desperation driving me forward. “I can make it fit. I just need a bit more time to learn.”
It’s too late, though. The decision has already been made.
I have options. I could walk straight to the employment counsellor’s office and demand to see someone. I could go straight to that church on the corner and ask for a food hamper for next week. We’re going to need it soon anyway. Gawd, I do not want to do that. I could walk down Main and see if there are any help-wanted signs, but I already know that is a long shot in a town this size.
Instead, I take the path that snakes around the lake. The sun glints off the ice and I can see the first shoots of spring pushing through where the snow is thin.
The path is meant for tourists, not for us townfolk. It triples the distance needed to get anywhere useful, with its weaving in and out of the forest. I take it not because it’s the more scenic route but because I can avoid the eyes of busy neighbours doing the things good citizens do.
It’s not long before I’ve circled back to the highway. Pickups loaded with skis and semis hauling stacks of virgin pine hurtle by on their way to better places. At one point a trucker flashes their lights behind me and I hear a diesel engine slowing. Without turning to look, I wave them on. I’m not looking for a ride.
A wet snow begins to fall, and the gravel tarmac of the shoulder gets slick under my office shoes. I keep my hands clenched in my pockets and my face pressed into the collar of my coat. My new navy suit jacket is tight across my shoulders. It cuts into the soft flesh of my armpits where it’s compressed by my winter coat and my misery.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. On. Off. On. Off. Probably Dylan or Grah. I was expected home an hour ago, but what does it matter now? I can’t answer it. What would I say?
I pull my hood over my head, although my hair is already wet and ropy from the spring snow. The wind blows it off within seconds. Soon it won’t matter because I can see the lights of the truck stop ahead.
One foot in front of the other until at last I’m at the trifecta gas station, convenience store, diner. My fingers itch for that red button. For the bid. Spin. Numb. I pull the door open, stomp my feet twice on the mat, then walk right past the Let Us Seat You sign. No one I recognize is sitting in the booths, only truckers in baseball caps looking at their phones over bowls of chili and mile-high burgers.
I pass them all. Walk to the back and turn into the alcove behind the half wall. I haven’t been here in two weeks, but my favourite stool is waiting for me.
The waiter walks up with a menu, but I wave it off. “Just a coffee, please.”
He nods, sticks the menu under his arm and returns with the glass carafe and a white ceramic cup. He pours, a stream of hot, black coffee fills the cup, and he sets it down next to a little bowl of creamers and sugar, then walks away. There. I’m just about ready. I add two sugars and stir.
My fingers are pins and needles from the cold, and I fumble trying to pull my wallet out. It’s the grocery money. Four twenties. I take one out. Then another and another and slide them into the machine.
The VLT lights up.
I hit the spin button. The reels whirl and settle. I press it again and again and again. The repetition numbs everything else. I don’t count the wins. Nor the losses. I just hit the play button and watch the computerized reels spin.
A few times I’m on my final spin, but each time the computer gives me a win and keeps me ensnared. I should feel annoyed at this mindless game playing with me, keeping me trapped in front of it, hoping for a miracle. But I don’t. I don’t feel anything.
The reels settle on cherries, bar, cherries. Five bucks left in the kitty. I cash out, give the slip to the waiter in lieu of a tip and head back into the cold. It’s a relief my phone doesn’t ring again.
Joy Norstrom lives in Treaty 7 territory. Her novels include Frying the Nest.
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