Vancouver: A novella (Wisdom Tree Book 3) by Earls Nick

Author:Earls, Nick [Earls, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Exciting Press
Published: 2016-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

From the I-5 at least, Bellingham takes a long time to resolve itself into a city. We pass by neat, clean-looking factory buildings with their car parks full, then the inevitable car dealerships and chain motels set among trees. There are American flags everywhere, on flagpoles, printed and taped to the insides of office windows, on placards hammered into lawns, small plastic versions clipped into the windows of cars and flapping so fast they’re almost buzzing. It’s as if we need to remove all doubt that America is in every thought, that that September day is in every thought, still.

The Lakewood Drive exit takes us under the highway and onto a suburban road with strip malls, and traffic lights on long arms over the road. As Janet indicates a turn, there’s a glimpse of a lake ahead of us. Lake Whatcom, calm at water, no battleships. The new road takes us into woodland with houses set well back in the trees, some hidden completely, the only sign of their existence the mailboxes on posts at driveway entrances. The woodland becomes the dark green forest of a nature reserve. Knut winds the window down to smell the sharp, clean conifer smell.

‘To think,’ he says, his hair buffeted by the wind, ‘in taxis around the world, people try to get that smell from a piece of cardboard swinging from their rear-view mirror.’

The road curves around the hillside and we turn into Lost Fork Lane. Their house is timber, two-storey, with the branches of the huge trees behind it settling on its roof. It’s cream in colour, with white rails around its front deck and a matching cream two-car garage with brass carriage lamps either side of the roll-a-door.

As we drive in, Knut says, ‘You want to email home?’ He’s confirming it more than asking.

This time he’s not as stiff when he gets out of the car. It might be the forest air or being home, or just good luck. The wheels of my suit-case make the only noise as I pull it across the concrete. Then a bird calls out from the direction of the lake.

‘My office is the best spot for emailing.’ He steers me under the deck with his hand on my shoulder, cunning quadruped again. ‘Janet was planning to make tea, I think.’ He says the word ‘tea’ as if it isn’t natural. ‘Coffee or tea. We can do both. I seem to remember your parents drank a lot of tea.’

‘It was the seventies,’ I tell him. ‘Coffee hadn’t arrived in Brisbane then. Either would be great. I’m very happy with coffee, if you’ve got it.’

‘Good.’ He squeezes my shoulder and then releases it.

We’re standing at a double glass sliding door with faded green curtains behind it. The upper level of the house is high at the front so, once he has stooped to go inside, Knut can stand fully upright with room to spare. He looks around his office, trying to appraise it with a visitor’s eyes, house keys in one hand.

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