Clearwater by Kim McCullough

Author:Kim McCullough
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dislocation, Reconnect, Emotional growth, Coming of age novel, Clearwater Lake, Mixed race, undercurrents, Absentee Mother, Sexual assault, Suicide, Northern Manitoba, Alcoholism, Aboriginal
Publisher: Coteau Books
Published: 2013-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

The snow disappears at the border and gives way to rolling hills of long, dry grass that bows in the west wind. For some reason it reminds Jeff of the lake, of the movement of the water on a windy day.

But instead of the bright blue of Clearwater’s waves, everything here is rendered in shades of brown and yellow. The only trees are planted in regimented rows on the west side of farmhouses. Even the sky isn’t blue, it’s white. Goddamn prairie. It’s something he would have liked to ask Stonefield at the art gallery. How do you find any inspiration in this dry, barren landscape?

When they stop in Medicine Hat, Jeff refuels the truck, then goes into the gas station to pay. Standing at the counter, he sees a help-wanted sign. Damn. Minimum wage. But it’s full time. And it’s not at a bar.

And he needs to dry out.

He asks the woman at the till about the job. She gives him the same long look that he gets everywhere. The grocery store. The bus. At school. Here comes the Indian, that look says. Then, sure enough, she notices his eyes and surprise lights her face. It’s the same every time. He’s not a real Indian after all, so he must be okay. He shakes off the bitterness.

She gives him the job.

He heads out to tell James to carry on without him. He grabs his things.

“You’re crazy, Jeff. Hot chicks and lots of money in Calgary. Look me up when you get sick of this dump.” James pulls away.

Jeff spends the day shadowing Frances. She’s in her forties, a little overweight, but her hair is long and red and it shines. The station is just off the highway, and it’s busy. During the lulls, he organizes the shelves and cleans the coolers. Families come in to use the washroom and buy treats for the road. Truckers hang around a little too long and chat Frances up. She flirts with all of them, but shows preference to none, just waves them out.

“My ex-husband mortgaged our house and bought this place right before he left me for his little twinkie. I tried hard to sell it, but no takers. I think it actually saved me. I was too busy to be sad.” Frances laughs as she says this.

She eyes his pack and the portfolio that leans against it. “Where are you from?”

“North.”

“Long way from home?” She busies herself arranging a small display of lighters.

“Not sure. Still looking.” Jeff rests the mop against the door to the back room.

“You have a place to stay?”

“Nope. I have money, though. If I can crash in the back room here, I’ll check out some places tomorrow.”

Frances chews on the inside of her lip. “There’s a cheap motel across the highway that rents by the week.”

Jeff raises his eyebrows. “Not by the hour?”

She laughs. “No, they rent to oilfield workers and construction crews. I can call over and see if they have room, if you like.”

He starts

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