of Molson Ex. These patrons wear tennis whites and golf clothes. They hurry through the lobby with their racquets, or drift out of the dining room where the checked cloths have been replaced by white, and the stuffedhead of the moose has disappeared from above the stone fireplace, and the waitresses bustle through a setting of white and cream, of tinkling water and tropical leaves, bathed in music so soft it is possibly an illusion.
A young woman clutching a handful of menus hurries toward him. Baring her teeth, she flicks a glance down his body to the boots he blacked that morning with a burnt stick.
“I’m here to see Gerald Spicer.”
“I’m not sure he’s in right now. Perhaps you could come back later?”
“Why not check,” he says quietly. “Gerald and me go way back.”
He enjoys her hesitation, enjoys the defiant flicking of her ass as she hurries upstairs. As he waits, a middle-aged couple stops outside the entrance to the dining room.
“Just go on in,” he tells them. He meets the woman’s startled glance with a smile.
In a few minutes the hostess is back. She directs Billy to the second floor, where an open door leads into Gerald’s office.
“Billy Johnson!” Gerald cries, rising behind his desk. Jack’s son: the remote young man grown into this crisply authoritative fellow in dress shirt and striped tie. Behind him, a picture window, like some glowing aquarium, reveals the green, sunstruck expanses of a golf course.
Gerald’s hand is damp, his smile brief, rabbity, under his trim moustache. Offering Billy a chair, he returns behind his desk. On the wall beyond him, where Jack’sphotos of hunt camps and fishing trips used to hang, is a large colour shot of racing cars, herding through a bend under an orange sun.
“So what do you think of it?”
“Ah…”
“All the changes!”
“Impressive,” Billy says.
“Totally changed the name of the game here, whole new type of clientele. I loved the old lodge, but it just wasn’t cutting it any more. We decided the time was right to go upscale, really put some money into the place. People still want to think they’re getting wilderness, but they don’t want to put themselves out too much – go figure. So we sell what we call the northern experience – great food, luxury accommodation, golf, tennis – all in the same great surroundings. Of course a few still want to go fishing and so on. We take care of them too. How you doing, Billy?”
“Good.”
“Good. Excellent. You’ve been away for some time. What, a couple of years now?”
“’Bout that.”
“How are things at home? It’s been some time since I’ve been to the Island. How’s your big sister?”
He tells him everything’s great.
“Good!” Gerry’s hands are rapidly fiddling with a bit of paper, twisting it up and pulling it apart. Billy misses Jack’s old, dim office; he misses Jack’s stories, spun out to the accompanying clink of bottle on glass. Jack’s way of doingthings had been so relaxed and off-hand, he hardly seemed to be working.
“Say, sorry about your uncle!” Gerry says, looking up suddenly. “Sorry – I forget –”
“Matt.”
“Yes, Matt. Tragic, really. My dad was very fond of him, you know. One of the best guides we ever had – really something, I guess. So – what can I do for you, Billy?”
“Was wondering if you had anything in the guiding line.”
It is all he can do to say it. He feels that close to walking out. Now he watches Gerald’s face change, its surface animation gone smooth, blank, as he fixes on the paper in his hands. The other man has gone away to where he keeps his true accounting; and in that place, there is no room for Billy Johnson. There is something shameful about this, for both of them. For a few seconds they can no longer even pretend they are connected. Glancing at him, Gerald tosses aside the paper and says in a more serious voice, “You have to realize, Billy, that the emphasis here is different. We’re not really
A young woman clutching a handful of menus hurries toward him. Baring her teeth, she flicks a glance down his body to the boots he blacked that morning with a burnt stick.
“I’m here to see Gerald Spicer.”
“I’m not sure he’s in right now. Perhaps you could come back later?”
“Why not check,” he says quietly. “Gerald and me go way back.”
He enjoys her hesitation, enjoys the defiant flicking of her ass as she hurries upstairs. As he waits, a middle-aged couple stops outside the entrance to the dining room.
“Just go on in,” he tells them. He meets the woman’s startled glance with a smile.
In a few minutes the hostess is back. She directs Billy to the second floor, where an open door leads into Gerald’s office.
“Billy Johnson!” Gerald cries, rising behind his desk. Jack’s son: the remote young man grown into this crisply authoritative fellow in dress shirt and striped tie. Behind him, a picture window, like some glowing aquarium, reveals the green, sunstruck expanses of a golf course.
Gerald’s hand is damp, his smile brief, rabbity, under his trim moustache. Offering Billy a chair, he returns behind his desk. On the wall beyond him, where Jack’sphotos of hunt camps and fishing trips used to hang, is a large colour shot of racing cars, herding through a bend under an orange sun.
“So what do you think of it?”
“Ah…”
“All the changes!”
“Impressive,” Billy says.
“Totally changed the name of the game here, whole new type of clientele. I loved the old lodge, but it just wasn’t cutting it any more. We decided the time was right to go upscale, really put some money into the place. People still want to think they’re getting wilderness, but they don’t want to put themselves out too much – go figure. So we sell what we call the northern experience – great food, luxury accommodation, golf, tennis – all in the same great surroundings. Of course a few still want to go fishing and so on. We take care of them too. How you doing, Billy?”
“Good.”
“Good. Excellent. You’ve been away for some time. What, a couple of years now?”
“’Bout that.”
“How are things at home? It’s been some time since I’ve been to the Island. How’s your big sister?”
He tells him everything’s great.
“Good!” Gerry’s hands are rapidly fiddling with a bit of paper, twisting it up and pulling it apart. Billy misses Jack’s old, dim office; he misses Jack’s stories, spun out to the accompanying clink of bottle on glass. Jack’s way of doingthings had been so relaxed and off-hand, he hardly seemed to be working.
“Say, sorry about your uncle!” Gerry says, looking up suddenly. “Sorry – I forget –”
“Matt.”
“Yes, Matt. Tragic, really. My dad was very fond of him, you know. One of the best guides we ever had – really something, I guess. So – what can I do for you, Billy?”
“Was wondering if you had anything in the guiding line.”
It is all he can do to say it. He feels that close to walking out. Now he watches Gerald’s face change, its surface animation gone smooth, blank, as he fixes on the paper in his hands. The other man has gone away to where he keeps his true accounting; and in that place, there is no room for Billy Johnson. There is something shameful about this, for both of them. For a few seconds they can no longer even pretend they are connected. Glancing at him, Gerald tosses aside the paper and says in a more serious voice, “You have to realize, Billy, that the emphasis here is different. We’re not really
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