Read Online The Hour of Bad Decisions by Russell Wangersky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Russell Wangersky
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Fantasy, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Canadian Fiction, Short Stories; Canadian
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Scott came back, he just shook his head. There had been a trail of footprints in the fresh snow, he thought, but only until heâd reached a busier street.
âSorry, doc,â he said. I noticed Scottâs hair was full of loose and perfect snow flakes. âNo sign of him.â
No sign at all.
Dealing with Determinism
H ELEN SAID SHE WOULDNâT GOÂ â AND SHE didnât.
âNo way,â she said, not even looking up from her book. âItâs just a bunch of drunks I donât know, and all their cigarette smoke and noise. I canât think of a worse way to spend an evening.â She was in their bedroom, a blanket over her legs, knees drawn up into a small but stubborn mountain range.
âIâve got to go,â Kevin said, standing at the foot of the bed. âItâs the Christmas party. Iâm expected.â
âYouâre expected? Itâs your office. Go ahead then. It doesnât mean Iâm expected.â
âFine.â
It was, he thought, an argument they used to find time to have. But now they just walked away, positions entrenched. They had reached a point, Kevin thought, where arguments were over before theybegan. It was the flash point that wasnât â it was, he thought, surrendering, giving up, letting go.
Outside, there was wet snow already. The spruce trees were heavy with it, and there was enough down on the road that the occasional cars left tire tracks that lasted only moments before they started to fill in. Pulling out of the driveway, before the tires bit down to the pavement, Kevin stepped on the gas and the back end of the truck gave a sudden shuddering lurch to one side, and for one small moment, he thought about backing up and just pulling back into the driveway. But the thought made him set his jaw, and he drove away.
Later, it would occur to him that somehow it was all her fault, just because she wouldnât go, that it would have been different if she had. And what an easy way out that was: it was his first excuse.
But he had others.
âThere arenât good guys or bad guys,â he liked to say afterwards to anyone willing to listen to him talk about it. âNothing is as simple as that. Nothing is black and white.â Just saying it wasnât his fault, that there were other things involved, that none of it would have happened if things had been going better between them.
âYou donât just go out and sleep with someone else,â heâd say, defensively, as if it were some kind of legitimate explanation, as if it wasnât exactly what he had done.
Sure, he would think sometimes, sure it was sordid and tawdry and everything else. Thinking aboutthe way a girl named Pat from customer service at the office had put her hand on his leg under the table, and that it wasnât an accident, and that her hand had moved slowly up his thigh while he had tried to keep talking, his mind spinning while his body responded urgently to her touch. Pat Connolly, small and blond, packed into a short black formal dress: he had seen her coming up the stairs to the second floor of the bar, Pat and Denise Mouland and the new girl from the front counter, the quiet, skinny one with the big, hollow eyes. Kevin couldnât remember her name.
The group had settled onto the bench on Kevinâs side of the table, with Pat pushing down against him because there wasnât quite enough room.
It could have been innocent enough at first, he reasoned, because they had all been laughing, and her hand fell on his shoulder first. Collegial, even though her hand felt charged against his back. They all had free drink tickets, numbered tickets unwound from the same big red coil, and the table â a long pine table with heavy benches on both sides â was covered with empty beer bottles by then. The bar was on two levels, and downstairs half the office was dancing on the small dance floor, laughing as they
âSorry, doc,â he said. I noticed Scottâs hair was full of loose and perfect snow flakes. âNo sign of him.â
No sign at all.
Dealing with Determinism
H ELEN SAID SHE WOULDNâT GOÂ â AND SHE didnât.
âNo way,â she said, not even looking up from her book. âItâs just a bunch of drunks I donât know, and all their cigarette smoke and noise. I canât think of a worse way to spend an evening.â She was in their bedroom, a blanket over her legs, knees drawn up into a small but stubborn mountain range.
âIâve got to go,â Kevin said, standing at the foot of the bed. âItâs the Christmas party. Iâm expected.â
âYouâre expected? Itâs your office. Go ahead then. It doesnât mean Iâm expected.â
âFine.â
It was, he thought, an argument they used to find time to have. But now they just walked away, positions entrenched. They had reached a point, Kevin thought, where arguments were over before theybegan. It was the flash point that wasnât â it was, he thought, surrendering, giving up, letting go.
Outside, there was wet snow already. The spruce trees were heavy with it, and there was enough down on the road that the occasional cars left tire tracks that lasted only moments before they started to fill in. Pulling out of the driveway, before the tires bit down to the pavement, Kevin stepped on the gas and the back end of the truck gave a sudden shuddering lurch to one side, and for one small moment, he thought about backing up and just pulling back into the driveway. But the thought made him set his jaw, and he drove away.
Later, it would occur to him that somehow it was all her fault, just because she wouldnât go, that it would have been different if she had. And what an easy way out that was: it was his first excuse.
But he had others.
âThere arenât good guys or bad guys,â he liked to say afterwards to anyone willing to listen to him talk about it. âNothing is as simple as that. Nothing is black and white.â Just saying it wasnât his fault, that there were other things involved, that none of it would have happened if things had been going better between them.
âYou donât just go out and sleep with someone else,â heâd say, defensively, as if it were some kind of legitimate explanation, as if it wasnât exactly what he had done.
Sure, he would think sometimes, sure it was sordid and tawdry and everything else. Thinking aboutthe way a girl named Pat from customer service at the office had put her hand on his leg under the table, and that it wasnât an accident, and that her hand had moved slowly up his thigh while he had tried to keep talking, his mind spinning while his body responded urgently to her touch. Pat Connolly, small and blond, packed into a short black formal dress: he had seen her coming up the stairs to the second floor of the bar, Pat and Denise Mouland and the new girl from the front counter, the quiet, skinny one with the big, hollow eyes. Kevin couldnât remember her name.
The group had settled onto the bench on Kevinâs side of the table, with Pat pushing down against him because there wasnât quite enough room.
It could have been innocent enough at first, he reasoned, because they had all been laughing, and her hand fell on his shoulder first. Collegial, even though her hand felt charged against his back. They all had free drink tickets, numbered tickets unwound from the same big red coil, and the table â a long pine table with heavy benches on both sides â was covered with empty beer bottles by then. The bar was on two levels, and downstairs half the office was dancing on the small dance floor, laughing as they
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