direction away from the heart. A radio voice droned from the living room, an interview, a heavy accent, something depressing about children in Lebanon.
And so what would Laura think of this showering with his clothes on? But how would she know about it unless he told her, and why would he? Unless she were here when he needed a shower or, for that matter, some clean clothes. He wasnât sure when heâd started the habit, but it was indeed a habit, since he no longer really thought about it. It just made sense to stand there under the spray and soap up your clothes while theyâre still on you. Then take them off, stomp on them like the tub was flat rocks and you were a bare-breasted Zambezi, and then take your regular shower, the clothes at your feet getting kicked around, properly
agitated
, and rinsed, then hung from the rod, to drip. Years ago, placing it just inside so the tub caught the drips, heâd installed a second shower curtain rod, the kind with the inner springs to hold itself up through its own endless tension (the thought of which could still make him mildly queasy).
Showering in his clothes wasnât about saving money. He had a new car that was too fast for him, he had a mortgage-free waterfront house that was too big, and if he bought a round in the bar these days he no longer gave it much thought. Nor was it about saving water, not in Prince Rupert, whose high-school team name was the Rainmakers and where, so one joke went, it rained 366 days a year. Nor was it easier than tossing his clothes into the washer. He didnât know what it was about.
But, to the point, what would Laura think? That her old boyfriend Andy Winslow had matured into a practical, innovative bachelor? Or that Andy Winslow was a kook, at thirty-nine owning eccentricities too ripe for a man his age? When he sees her, heâll resist describing the experiment where heâd stacked dirty dishes in the tub and lathered up with them too.
When he sees her.
Since her letter, since the rumours of her return proved to be true, Andy had not only begun losing sleep, heâd also begun seeing his world in a different way. His house, for instance. What (he found himself asking when he got home from work and parked and looked up) will Laura think of his house? She knew the house, had been in it a few times back when it was his parentsâ place, but it had been his alone for ten years now. The house centred its half-acre such that neither neighbour could be seen through strategically dense trees. It had two storeys, three bedrooms, was freshly painted a nice bone white, and of course it was medium-bank waterfront with zillion-dollar view. But Laura had seen all this, so the real question was, What will Laura think of him, thirty-nine, still living in his childhood house?
Eighteen years. What will Laura think about him still working at the grain terminal? What will she think of this shrinking town? Of the cruise ship docking here now? What will she think if she hears the wolves at night? What will she think of their mothersâ living arrangement? What will she think about the sushi and habanero peppers and acai juice you can buy in Safeway now? What will she think about Safewayâs fancy little boxes of smoked salmon, salmon caught here, shipped five hundred miles south to Vancouver to smoke and package, and then shipped back to sell? What will she think about todayâs dead fish?
Though he tried to keep it to once a day, lately he paused far too often at the bathroom mirror to ask the inevitable of his face: what will Laura think seeing
this
?
HEâD BEEN ASKING that question not just of his bathroom mirror and his Mustangâs rearview, but sometimes random windows on the street, hunching to get his full six-feet-four in. Tonight, he and Drew emerged from their Tuesday-night early movie (Johnny Depp really was a good actor, despite his looks) and, ignoring the rain, Andy paused at a shop window long
And so what would Laura think of this showering with his clothes on? But how would she know about it unless he told her, and why would he? Unless she were here when he needed a shower or, for that matter, some clean clothes. He wasnât sure when heâd started the habit, but it was indeed a habit, since he no longer really thought about it. It just made sense to stand there under the spray and soap up your clothes while theyâre still on you. Then take them off, stomp on them like the tub was flat rocks and you were a bare-breasted Zambezi, and then take your regular shower, the clothes at your feet getting kicked around, properly
agitated
, and rinsed, then hung from the rod, to drip. Years ago, placing it just inside so the tub caught the drips, heâd installed a second shower curtain rod, the kind with the inner springs to hold itself up through its own endless tension (the thought of which could still make him mildly queasy).
Showering in his clothes wasnât about saving money. He had a new car that was too fast for him, he had a mortgage-free waterfront house that was too big, and if he bought a round in the bar these days he no longer gave it much thought. Nor was it about saving water, not in Prince Rupert, whose high-school team name was the Rainmakers and where, so one joke went, it rained 366 days a year. Nor was it easier than tossing his clothes into the washer. He didnât know what it was about.
But, to the point, what would Laura think? That her old boyfriend Andy Winslow had matured into a practical, innovative bachelor? Or that Andy Winslow was a kook, at thirty-nine owning eccentricities too ripe for a man his age? When he sees her, heâll resist describing the experiment where heâd stacked dirty dishes in the tub and lathered up with them too.
When he sees her.
Since her letter, since the rumours of her return proved to be true, Andy had not only begun losing sleep, heâd also begun seeing his world in a different way. His house, for instance. What (he found himself asking when he got home from work and parked and looked up) will Laura think of his house? She knew the house, had been in it a few times back when it was his parentsâ place, but it had been his alone for ten years now. The house centred its half-acre such that neither neighbour could be seen through strategically dense trees. It had two storeys, three bedrooms, was freshly painted a nice bone white, and of course it was medium-bank waterfront with zillion-dollar view. But Laura had seen all this, so the real question was, What will Laura think of him, thirty-nine, still living in his childhood house?
Eighteen years. What will Laura think about him still working at the grain terminal? What will she think of this shrinking town? Of the cruise ship docking here now? What will she think if she hears the wolves at night? What will she think of their mothersâ living arrangement? What will she think about the sushi and habanero peppers and acai juice you can buy in Safeway now? What will she think about Safewayâs fancy little boxes of smoked salmon, salmon caught here, shipped five hundred miles south to Vancouver to smoke and package, and then shipped back to sell? What will she think about todayâs dead fish?
Though he tried to keep it to once a day, lately he paused far too often at the bathroom mirror to ask the inevitable of his face: what will Laura think seeing
this
?
HEâD BEEN ASKING that question not just of his bathroom mirror and his Mustangâs rearview, but sometimes random windows on the street, hunching to get his full six-feet-four in. Tonight, he and Drew emerged from their Tuesday-night early movie (Johnny Depp really was a good actor, despite his looks) and, ignoring the rain, Andy paused at a shop window long
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