Crabbe by William Bell

Author:William Bell [Bell, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781554559336
Publisher: Fitzhenry & Whiteside
Published: 1986-01-30T05:00:00+00:00

Crabbe’s Journal: 13

That first month or so was pretty rough. Oh, I don’t mean the work or the demands Mary made on me to learn skills that would raise me to a notch above “useless” on the evolutionary scale, Mostly, I enjoyed that part. And I wasn’t, as you might think, having problems controlling my animal urges with this beautiful woman around. I had them, I’m not saying I didn’t, but Mary didn’t come on like the women on T.V. — either syrupy smiles, big fluttery eyes, and an air of helplessness, or more manly than a truck driver (to prove she was liberated) — no, she was just Mary. Hell, I was the helpless one, not her.

The real problem was that I was still having trouble getting along without my “pal,” Silent Sam. It wasn’t easy, stopping dead like that, and I don’t know what made me think that I wouldn’t need it when I ran away.

I never really lost the desire for a talk with Sam during the day — it was a bit like a slow burn. But once or twice, usually if it was in the afternoon and usually if I was taking a break, I’d really get the craving. I’d get jumpy and bitchy and lose all my patience. This state would pass after awhile.

Mary was pretty good about it. She picked up pretty quickly on what was happening and began to watch for my bad moments. She would often suggest we do something distracting like go for a swim or have a canoe lesson or go pick wildflowers along the ancient, disused railway line about a mile away. I’m ashamed to say I told her to bugger off and leave me alone a few times.

One evening after supper I was washing up the “dishes” — cans, tin plates, bush knives, porcelain covered tin cups — while Mary sat sipping Labrador tea. She’d been quiet for quite awhile and I recognized the look. Her graceful brows would tense up, her eyes seemed to go out of focus, and she’d tap the end of her nose with her right forefinger.

“What’s up?” I said, more to break the silence than anything.

“Ummmmmm?” She looked up. Her eyes locked in again.

“I think I have an idea, Crabbe. Yup. It might just help.”

And, standing, she turned on her heel and walked casually across the campsite into the bush.

I knew where she was headed, too. To that big pack she kept hidden from me. The mystery bag.

She returned with something in her hand and resumed her favourite seat on the log by the fire.

“Here, take this,” she said, holding something out to me.

It was a pipe, with an apple shaped bowl and a short stem, maybe five inches.

My Father smokes a pipe. He has eight thousand or so of the damn things — probably thinks they improve his corporate image — and he’s forever stuffing the bowl, lighting, tamping, relighting, coughing, and blowing sweetish “aromatic” smoke all over the house. He

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.