night drivers. Night drivers seemed more inclined to understand, even
sympathize, with the notion of escape, or flight, or adventure in a way that
those who travelled openly and respectably in the propriety of daylight
might question. Jeremy answered as few questions as he possibly could
without being rude—easier at night, somehow—though he willingly
participated, as best he could, in any conversations his benefactors chose
to initiate, seeing it as the least he could do under the circumstances.
But Jeremy still held back as much personal information as he could.
He knew his mother would find him eventually, if she chose to, but he
was determined to leave as sparse a trail as he could. In his mind, he
entertained cinematic, paranoid fantasies of police interrogations of the
drivers who moved him farther and farther away from Parr’s Landing.
At seventeen, those interrogations seemed entirely feasible in a world
where a seemingly omnipotent
magna mater
like Adeline Parr could lift a
telephone from its cradle and, with one call, condemn her own son to six
months of torture and sadistic psychological experimentation—all with
no more effort than it took her to order a freshly killed animal from the
butcher shop on Martin Street in Parr’s Landing.
The last eight-hour leg of his journey from the town of Thunder
Mouth was in the back of the red Volkswagen bus driven by the lead
singer of a folk quartet from Saskatchewan—three men, John, Wolf, and
David, and their “girl singer,” Annie—who were moving east to follow the
burgeoning music scene that was in full flower in the coffeehouses of the
run-down Yorkville section of Toronto. They told Jeremy about a club
called The Purple Onion where they had been invited to perform. Annie
told him he reminded her of her baby brother, Victor, back in Estevan.
When they stopped at a Red Barn on the side of the road just before
Durrant, Annie bought him a Big Barney and fries, and a chocolate
milkshake. Jeremy was certain that nothing he’d ever eaten before in his
life had tasted as good as that hamburger. She watched him devour it as
though he’d never seen food before and quietly ordered him another one.
He ate that one slower, but only marginally.
Back in the van, he fell asleep in the back seat to the sound of them
singing “Jimmy Crack Corn” in four-part harmony. When he woke up, it
was early evening. They had arrived in Toronto and were driving down
Yonge Street. Looking out the window at the shops and the people, he
touched the breast pocket of his jean jacket where the carefully folded
piece of paper with Jack and Christina’s address was, and breathed a
deep sigh of relief. If he’d believed in God, he would have said a prayer.
He felt entirely safe for the first time since he was a small child.
At Bloor Street, the musicians let him out. Annie tucked a five-dollar
bill into his pocket and told him to come see them play sometime.
“I’m sorry we can’t take you right to your brother’s, but we’re running
behind schedule as it is,” said Wolf, squinting down at the map in his
hands. “The neighbourhood you’re looking for is called Cabbagetown.
According to this, it isn’t far. Just walk east till you get to Parliament,
and then turn right. You should be able to find Sumach Street real easy.
If you can’t, just ask.”
“Thank you guys so much,” Jeremy said. “And thanks for the
burger, Annie.” Impulsively and clumsily he reached out and hugged her.
Inhaling in the caramel scent of her hair and skin, taking the soft, warm,
nurturing femaleness of her, he marvelled at the difference between her
hug and the agate-hard brittleness of his own mother’s hibernal embrace.
Jeremy held tightly to Annie for a moment, and then let go.
“Be safe, little man,” Annie said, ruffling his hair. “Have a big life.”
Then she climbed back in to the waiting van and the door slid shut.
The red Volkswagen
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