Patrick looked around the small convenience store. He was in line behind a customer buying cigarettes. In his arms was a family-sized bottle of Coke, a large bag of Humpty Dumpty potato chips and a bag of pre-made ice cubes. He looked at the neatly packaged items on the shelves. Pre-sliced bread, soups in tins, packages of cake mix that only required liquid, a quick stir and into the oven. He thought back to the kitchen at the farm when he was younger: his Aunt’s soda bread, large pots of stew, mounds of carrots to be chopped and potatoes to be peeled. He wondered about the nutritional value of the food around him. Food would be like that in Labrador as well: of questionable freshness and quality, boiled up in large batches and served dormitory-style. He paid for the items, noticing the considerable premium they charged for the convenience of pre-preparation.
Back at boarding house, as he mounted the old creaking staircase, he heard another voice in his room, where he expected to hear only one. The door was ajar and he moved into the room without knocking. An old friend had dropped in on a surprise visit: Buzz: a bush pilot he knew from his days at Val d’Or. Patrick had turned on the radio equipment, leaving Buzz at the microphone. Buzz was, of course completely at home on shortwave, and was checking in with some of his regular contacts. The radio hissed and crackled quietly in the background, punctuated only by the occasional sign-on or off. Buzz’ attention had been drawn by the arrival of a second visitor, who must have come while Patrick was at the store. Becky and Buzz were already in animated conversation, as if they had been old friends, which was not likely. He placed the paper bag and its contents down on the small surface beside the sink. Buzz had shown up with two-thirds of a bottle of rum and a duffle bag. He travelled light and was always looking for somewhere to do laundry.
“I see you two have already met. Buzz is on one of his rare visits to civilization. He flies a twin-engine plane out of Sudbury. And Becky, who’s one of the Governesses at the University where I teach. Treat her nice, she holds the purse strings.”
“So, you two know each other from up north? Was it Coppermine?”
“Naw,” Buzz didn’t stand on ceremony or introductions too formally. “My plane doesn’t have that much range. Even refuelling, it’s nip and tuck if the winds turn the wrong way. It’s also testy in the really cold weather.”
“Buzz runs a circuit from Sault Ste-Marie to Val d’Or. Prospectors. And people looking for remote fishing locations.”
“Indian reservations and a lot more military stuff going on these days. I shuttle regularly between North Bay and Val d’Or.”
“I bet the fishing must be something,” Becky said, obviously engrossed by the burly presence of Buzz, who was imposing even in larger rooms than this. “Is it a floatplane?”
“Pontoons in the summer, skis in the winter.”
Patrick was always on the sideline when Buzz was around. Buzz liked only one thing better than flying and fishing adventures: that was talking about his flying and fishing adventures. Becky was engrossed with the notion of landing a plane on a frozen lake with skis. He didn’t get a chance to ask Becky if she was staying, so he took out three tumblers, measured three shots, not carefully, and filled the glasses with cola and ice. He opened the bag of potato chips, poured them into a bowl Alison had given him for such occasions, and placed the bowl on the small table, which was positioned conveniently close to Becky and Buzz. He then passed around the glasses. He had a moment to eyeball the weather instruments. The mercury was dropping and the barometer rising. Alison and Andrei were in for a cold night at the cabin, if they were still there. He hadn’t seen Alison all day and wondered how he could get an all-clear sign to them. Alison might well stay away for a few more days – journalists had a lot of freedom to research stories. Her next class wasn’t till Thursday. He manoeuvred the third chair into place opposite Buzz and sipped at the rum, while the ice tinkled against the edge of his glass.
“The taste of the fish really depends on the clarity of the lake. Down south (meaning here), the lakes are muddy and reedy. To really get the taste of the trout you got to go to one of the cold clear lakes further north. You pull them out of the lake, fillet them on the spot and grill them on an open fire. It’s exquisite.”
“Do you camp, like put up a tent?”
“Sometimes. The military guys like that. They’ll bring a map, tell you a set of coordinates to drop them off and a second set of coordinates to pick them up five days later. That’s real woodsman stuff. Like the prospectors. Too rough for me. We usually stay in cabins – preferably with a wood stove and an outhouse. We ice fished, though, didn’t we Paddy-Boy?”
Patrick nodded, remembering some of the remote runs he made with Buzz, who was always looking for a fishing companion. Being alone in the bush can drive people cuckoo. Especially someone like Buzz who was an incessant talker.
“Ice fishing. ’Tis not really as much of a sport as fly fishing. The fish are still moving around under the ice and hungry as banshees. But the cold-weather survival adds to the challenge.”
“How cold do the nights get?”
“Sometimes thirty below zero. Fahrenheit. When it’s like that, you have to leave the airplane engine running, and light a fire under the nose. Otherwise the oil turns to chewing gum.”
“How do you sleep at night?”
“Nothing to do but stoke the fire and bundle up.”
Patrick sat back, sipped at the rum, letting the sights and sounds of the north swirl back into his memories, conjured by Buzz’ stories. He switched off the shortwave and switched on the radio, which was playing big band jazz: now little more than nostalgia from a by-gone era. There was still a trove of such records back at Avalon. Occasionally he’d play some for his Aunt Rose, watching her go into raptures. He saw the outlines of the much younger girl in her relaxed face, remembering the days of her courtship with Uncle Gaspard.
As interested as she was, Becky eventually had to extricate herself from Buzz’ stories and make apologies to depart for another rendezvous. “I shouldn’t keep you boys from your reminiscences.” She got up to move towards the door. Patrick stood up and moved with her. “I left my coat and purse in Alison’s room,”
“I’ve been meaning to ask, you haven’t heard anything more about the RCMP round-up, have you?”
“Oh, that? Silly gossip after too many martinis. I hope I didn’t have you worried.”
“No, no. Just curious.” They entered Alison’s room; Patrick switched on a table lamp close to the door. The room was neater than his, although she had obviously left in a hurry, and hadn’t been back since. “I think she’s at the farm. Was’t Alison you came to see?”
Becky reached for her purse and noticed with amusement the sound of the music coming softly through the heating grate. “Actually, I wanted to give you something. I hope you don’t mind.” She pulled a picture frame out of a bag she had with her, handing it to Patrick.
“Hey, that’s me!” The sketches she had done had been excised from the sketchbook and framed together. “Tracy said not to take it lightly if you gave me something. Framed and signed. Thank you.” Becky nodded approvingly at the mention of Tracy, as if to say: see, your life would be much better organized with a wife like her.
“There’s a little gathering next Sunday at Professor Johnson’s. A few of the faculty and wives. I thought you and Professor Johnson should get together before you leave – have a little chat. He’s on the Tenure Committee. I assume you’re not disappearing into the wilderness forever.”
“No one’s mentioned anything about me coming back yet.” By now they were at the front door, which was open and letting in air that had become noticeably cooler.
“That’s why you and Professor Johnson should talk.” She nodded knowingly at Patrick, leaned forward and drew him closer by the arm, planting a sisterly kiss on his cheek. “I’d better be off. If it gets any colder, I’ll have trouble starting the car. Say goodbye to your friend for me. Let me know when he’s in town again. I’d love to hear more of his stories.” Patrick watched her walk away. Her high heels clacked noisily on the cold pavement; a swarm of sparkling ice crystals lit her way like a shimmering path.
~ fin ~
