That Dog Won't Hunt (3 page)

At a barbershop, she got me a haircut and the closest shave I ever had.

“Follow my lead. If we play it straight, we’ll have no problem at the border. After all, what do we have to hide?” she asked, touching my cheek and sniffing the aftershave. “Old Spice. George used to wear that.”

CHAPTER FOUR

O
ver the next couple of days, we made our way east, then north. I felt kind of sad driving through Utah without stopping. Not many folks appreciate this rough country. Dad said it was the last part of the US ever mapped. Gladys just grunted at the Book Cliffs.

“Nice if you like rocks,” she said. “But it’s one long sand dune with damn few places to drink. Look where we stopped for lunch in Green River. Dry counties. Supper clubs. That would never fly in Canada. We never even had Prohibition.”

“Pro…what’s that?”

“That’s when alcohol was illegal. Back in the twenties. Even before my time.”

“Liquor’s hard to find in some counties. Mormons aren’t supposed to drink. Where I live, they usually sneak down into Arizona to get their booze,” I said.

Colorado was pretty but ritzy with all those ski resorts. We passed a bunch of big gas-sucking rvs slowed to nothing at the Eisenhower Tunnel. At Denver we joggled up to Nebraska. One big cornfield. We passed Des Moines and skirted Chicago. North of Lansing we took the I-75 north on a straight shot for Canada. That’s when I started noticing the snow. Even in the desert we have a few inches at high elevations. This looked like the remains of twenty feet. It was collapsing on itself as it melted.

“Jesus,” I said. “There’s a million legs of dead deer sticking up.”

Gladys laughed. “Happens every winter when they cross the highway. Plows shove the bodies to the berm. Life can be brutal if you’re little…and weak.”

At Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, we slowed with the traffic. A sign said that we were heading for the same city in Canada. Go figure. Gladys freshened her lipstick in the mirror.

“Do just like I said, honey, and don’t be nervous. We’ve known each other for years. Your father and George were army buddies. Hunted together. That’s the way they think in Youperland. You’re coming up for the summer to give me a hand. Which is true.”

“Youperland?” I asked. Too many ideas flooded my head.

She sighed and shook her head.

“People who live in the Michigan Upper Peninsula are called Youpers. The U-P. Remember that big bridge?”

“Sure. This is one exam I’m going to ace,” I said. They called me a slow learner or something until I quit in grade ten. Slow nothing. I had better things to do.

“They may have their suspicions, but there’s not a damn thing they can do. Just imagine a tall, cool ice cube clear down to your toes. Slow your pulse. Think before each answer, but do it fast.”

“You’re the boss.”

“One more thing. I might as well use up my limit.”

We stopped at a hardware chain, and Gladys bought a Stihl. Biggest they had. When the clerk took it from the box, Gladys handed it to me.

“Here’s your chainsaw, boy. When we get home, I want land cleared for more cabins.”

Looks like she planned on getting her money’s worth. So what? Hard work never killed no one.

“Okay, hon,” I said.

After stopping a minute at the duty-free store, we crossed over into the Canadian Sault, and Gladys taught me the anthem as we started up the bridge.

“Coming south, George and I always used to sing it halfway to the flags, then the US anthem.” She turned that ring on her finger, and I heard her sniff.

“I admire your ring. It’s real unusual.”

That brought a smile. “We didn’t have a pot to pee in, starting out. George gave me a cigar band for a ring. Kind of a joke. Then he had this made. It’s always been lucky for me. Remember, I had it on when I won that jackpot.” She looked at it like an old friend. Maybe it was.

We headed for the booths. I pulled up to the window. She thought it would look better if I was driving. “Citizenship?” the officer asked.

“I’m American, and she’s Canadian,” I said. I showed a driver’s license, and Gladys had her birth certificate.

“Anything to declare?”

“Just a chainsaw, duty-free liquor and cigarettes.” Gladys handed over the slips. He glanced at them.

“You’re a long way from home, sir. And the purpose of your trip?” the officer asked, emerging from his booth. He stepped forward and took a note of our plate.

“Just a visit for the summer,” Gladys said.

The man’s face was hard to read. Poker would have been his game. He gestured to a building. “You’ll have to fill out a declaration form. Then see the immigration officer. Pull in over there and go up to the counter. Shouldn’t take too long… unless you have warrants that show up on the computer.”

Inside, a fat female clerk gave us a number, and we took a seat on a wooden bench. My stomach turned over and rumbled. Gladys crossed her legs and sighed.

An hour later, she went into a small room with a table and two chairs. Twenty minutes had passed when she emerged, giving me an unseen nod. She was one smart lady. Then I entered the room as directed.

“Mr. Cooper, I understand you have known Mrs. Ryan for a number of years,” the bald man said.
Haig
was on his name tag.

Like to have wiped that smirk off his face. I managed a decent blush instead. It had gotten me outta trouble more times than I can remember.

“Yes, sir. Daddy used to hunt with… Uncle George. Why, one time—”

“Never mind that.” Haig tapped his pencil on the table. “How long are you going to be in Canada?”

Soon after, Gladys was brought into the room and we exchanged glances.

“Everything okay, officer?” she asked. “I simply don’t understand why we’re been disaccommodated. I have a mind to call my Member of Parliament. He was a friend of George’s.”

I smiled. Damn. She had one good vocabulary.

Haig looked like he had swallowed vinegar.

“You can go. But you must return to the US after two months, Mr. Cooper. Is that clear? If you wish to work in Canada or stay longer than that, you must apply for landed immigrant status.”

“I understand. No problem.”

Gladys moved out like she owned the place. I held the door for her.

On the way back to the car, I wanted to give a high five. But she motioned me to keep walking.

“They can still see us. Smarten up.”

I walked straight and cool, never even looking back.

Gladys opened the rye and poured herself a healthy snort. I popped a beer. The Soo, as she called it, looked like kind of a dump next to the US side, but I kept my mouth shut. Didn’t want her to feel bad.

We stopped at a food store for some grocery basics. There would be nothing at the lodge but flour and a few canned goods.

“I could eat a horse. How about you?” Gladys asked. “Giovanni’s makes great pasta. And I could use a bottle of their Chianti. You deserve a treat too. That guy must have put you through the wringer.”

What did she mean about a ringer? They talked different up here.

“Yeah, kinda.”

It was past dark when we left the grill after a couple of pounds of spaghetti and meatballs. I could have done with a nap after the drinks, but I could tell Gladdie wanted to get home. I’d taken to calling her that, and she seemed to like it. Bucky was let out but never seemed to have to go. He could last twelve hours between pit stops.

“Got no Interstates up here?” I asked. “Says Trans-Canada, but it’s a two-lane cow path.”

“Behave,” she said. “Bigger isn’t necessarily better.” She muttered some directions.

An hour later we headed north around Elliot Lake. It was pitch-dark, but the snow cover on the ground and trees lightened things up. Pines, I guess, or spruce or fir. Reminded me of ponderosas but a hell of a lot smaller. The moon rising helped, and we passed swamp after swamp. Swamps meant mosquitoes. I had to use bug dope once when I went after trout at Fish Lake.

“Hope I haven’t passed the place,” I said to Gladys when she woke up. She lit a cigarette and the glow filled the cab.

Things all looked alike to me but not to her. “Another fifteen minutes,” she said. “That’s the old Royce cabin.” She pointed at a burned-out shell. It was the first place I’d seen in thirty minutes.

“What the hell did they ever do up here?” I asked. “It’s not ranching country.”

She shrugged. “Farming is piss-poor except for hay and potatoes. Trappers opened up the country back in voyageur days.”

“Like the hoser guys on
TV
? In plaid jackets? Back bacon?”

Gladys smothered a yawn. “Earlier than that. French Canadian explorers. Timber to follow. At Elliot Lake they had the uranium mine until that business went belly up.”

“Your place doesn’t glow none, does it?” I asked.

“It will now,” she said. “You’re going to make it sparkle.” Then she sat up. “Slow down, sonnie. Next drive’s ours,” she said. She rummaged in her purse for a padlock key.

I got out and opened up. I removed the chain and pushed back the large gate.
Call
of the Wild
was routered on a sign across the top. A mailbox stood by, barely on top of a snowbank. Someone had cleared the drive. Bucky woke up in the back and started barking.

“Home sweet home,” Gladys said. “Harvey Freedman down the road has a contract to plow. He’s been keeping her open all winter. Otherwise you’d need a backhoe.” Suddenly returned to life, Bucky was pawing at the back window. She let him out and he started to run. It was the first time I’d seen him in any kind of action.

The house was a hundred yards through the forest. I heard a barred owl. “Who cooks for you?” the hoot asked. A good omen. I was looking forward to some rib-sticking meals. Living on fast food in California, I’d even dropped a couple of pounds.

We pulled to a stop in front of the main house, she called it. It was like a superbig A-frame with two stories and two large wings. A motion-sensor light went on. Gladys got out and put her hand on her back. “Oooo. Stiff.” Then I heard a weird sound, like a mournful howl.

“Bucky’s glad to be home,” she said. “But he probably thinks George is still here. Dogs’ minds work that way.”

“I’ll call Harvey to say we’re back,” she added. “Bring the bags in. Then start a fire. It’s still damn cold here. Snow won’t be gone for another week.”

My breath hung in the air. “Okey dokey.”

The ceilings were low in the hall. Gladys went around flicking on the lights. Everything was paneled in tongue-and-groove pine. It was a nice place but needed some
TLC
. Kind of like her.

The Great Room had huge windows reaching up twenty feet and a monster woodstove tucked in a fieldstone chimney. “How come no open fireplace?” I asked. Would have looked better with the log walls.

“Have you ever been in minus forty? All the heat gets sucked up the chimney.” She turned. “God, I need a drink. Or five.”

There was a box of kindling and newspaper along with the maple and birch splits. I got a roaring blaze fired up. Some of the chimney rocks had gold and silver glints.

Gladys appeared in the doorway with a full glass in her hand.

“Nice going. I turned on the hot-water heater for morning. Now come to bed and warm my toes.”

“Yes, m…I mean Gladdie.” I tried to smile. She’d worn me out again last night. I wasn’t anywhere near her toes.

“Sweet. George never was one for nicknames.” She assessed me with a turn of her head. “The sheets are musty. I’ll be ordering fresh linen this week.”

The next morning I awoke under a big red blanket. Hudson’s Bay, she said. At first I thought I was in a hotel. Then I remembered. My nose prickled. Pancakes?

I got up and pulled on the new jeans and tucked in the pearl-buttoned shirt. A pair of sheepskin slippers was laid out for me. Bucky was still asleep in a big armchair in the corner.

The master suite, twenty by twenty, had log walls varnished to a shine. There was matching furniture with chests of drawers, a tall cabinet and a makeup table for Gladys. On top of a desk was a silver-framed portrait of a guy with thick white hair. Guess who? Seventies clothes and that mullet cut. Then a marriage shot of them somewhere with blue water and palms. Hawaii? George reminded me of my dad. That gave me a shiver. In the walk-in closet, one side held her clothes, the other his. I touched a charcoal suit. Custom-made in Toronto. Drawers of sweaters and rows of monogrammed shirts. Funny thing was, I was just his size, down to the shoes.

“George, old man, I think I’m going to like it here,” I said.

In the large marble bathroom, Gladys had laid out a shaving set. A bristle brush and a tube of some fancy cream. A razor and some Old Spice. I jumped into the weird shower. Controls, hoses and nozzles everywhere. I combed my hair and brushed my teeth. Clicked them together in the mirror. Even blew myself a kiss.

“Come and get it, cowboy,” she called from below. A triangle dinged. Something she used for the guests. I felt like a movie star.

I passed several bedrooms. Gladys had said that the overflow from the cabins sometimes stayed here. At higher rates, of course.

In the kitchen she was loading a platter with eggs, sausages, pancakes and baked beans. “I keep my men well fed, Rick.” I dug in and noticed that she helped herself to a full plate.

It was good, I told her. When I finished, I lit a cigarette. Gladys cleared the table.

“Any gold or silver mining up here? Saw those glints in the rocks in the fireplace.”

One corner of her mouth turned up.

“That’s fool’s gold. The tourists always try to pick it out with knives. Poor jerks. Adds to the atmosphere though.”

She was looking at her watch and frowning. I pushed back my chair.

“Come on outside,” she said. “There’s work to be done. We’re going to need three new cabins.”

Now the idea hit me. She never exactly said I’d get any help, but…

“Three? How can—?”

She tossed an arm around my shoulders. “Sleeping cabins only. Simple framing and plywood sheets. Post and beam. No foundations needed. No running water or bathrooms either. Part of the charm. We can do the electric. You’ll be fine. George built our main lodge almost all by himself.”