“That sounds like a great activity for a small child,” I murmur.
“Good way to pass the time.” His focus drifts out the window, seemingly lost. “Too many years to ride out, I guess. I’m runnin’ outta room.” There’s something acutely sad about the way he says that.
“You could probably make some decent money off them—”
“They’re not for sale,” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “Not everything has a price tag on it.”
“Relax. It was just an idea.”
After a moment, he says, “Who the hell’s gonna pay money for a bunch of wooden animals, anyway?”
“People would. Ones as nice as yours, anyway.” I feel Roy’s narrowed gaze on me as I turn off the main road and onto the one that will lead us home. “Before I forget, I won’t be here tomorrow or Sunday to help you with the chores.”
“Why? Where are you goin’?”
I can’t help but hear an edge of something in his tone. I smother my smile with the idea that Roy might be getting used to me being around, might have begun to prefer it. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, so we’re flying somewhere in the morning. I have no idea where.” I’ve been needling Jonah for hints, but he hasn’t divulged a thing. “Don’t worry, though, Toby will be by to help.”
“That big, dumb ox,” he grumbles.
“Hey! He’s a nice guy!” I spare a second to glare at Roy with disapproval. “And a friend. He helped you only days ago, so stop being such a jackass.” I’ve never spoken to anyone besides Jonah like that, and certainly not to any sixty-something-year-old man.
But if there’s one sixty-something-year-old man on the planet who deserves it, he’s sitting beside me in this old beat-up truck.
“He lets Muriel walk all over him,” Roy says, as if that’s justification for his harsh words.
“She’s his mother! He’s being respectful. You should try it sometime.” Not that I disagree with Roy’s assessment.
Roy glares at his cast as if it’s the cause of his discomfort, and not the arm it’s protecting.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it tickles.” After a moment, as if catching himself on his sharp response, he admits, “Yeah, it hurts some. They gave me a local anesthetic before they started poking and prodding, but it’s wearing off.”
“I’ll bet one of those painkillers would help, when you get home,” I suggest.
He grunts. “I don’t do drugs.”
I check my side-view mirror as an excuse to roll my eyes at his obstinacy. “It’s not crystal meth, Roy. Your doctor prescribed it. Taking a few at night before bed isn’t going to kill you. It might even help you sleep.” Which, by the heavy bags beneath his eyes, he hasn’t been doing much of lately.
“Just a few at night, huh? So easy.” His brow furrows. “Me and addictive things don’t mix well.”
Is that another glimpse into Roy’s life? A dark sliver of his past?
It clicks. “Is that why you don’t drink, either? I noticed you didn’t drink your beer at the Ale House.” He held it, he stared at it, but he never took a single sip.
“First a spy, now a detective,” Roy grumbles, then purses his lips, as if deciding whether he wants to explain himself. “Haven’t had a drink since I came up here, thirty-three years ago.”
But he must have had more than one before then, enough to know that he has problems with addiction, enough to not trust himself taking pain meds when he desperately needs them.
“What made you stop drinking?” I dare ask.
“Life.”
I hesitate, but only for a second—the opportunity is too tempting to pass up. “You mean, your wife and daughter?”
His jaw tenses.
“I saw the picture,” I admit, though he’s probably figured that out. He’s hid it since then, for fuck’s sake.
“It’s none of your goddamn business.” His normally bitter tone is laced with something colder, harder, scarier.
My stomach tightens as regret stirs. I’ve clearly hit the nerve I knew I would hit if I brought it up. But I’ve already cracked the proverbial can of worms and, seeing as Roy did open up about his past as, I’m guessing, an alcoholic, I can’t help but hope he might tell me more, might tell me something that makes sense. “I know it’s none of my business,” I offer in as contrite a tone as I can muster. “I was wondering what happened to them.”
“They smartened up, is what they did. Got the hell away from me. Is that what you wanna hear?”
So, what Toby said about Roy’s wife leaving him was accurate. But has he seen or talked to them since? Does he have any relationship with his daughter? I have so many questions.
Suddenly, Muriel’s claim that Roy and I have things in common doesn’t sound so farfetched.
I was a daughter estranged from her father.
Is Roy a father estranged from his daughter?
I let a few minutes pass before I ask, “Have you talked to your daughter at all since then?”
He doesn’t answer.
We’ve already passed my driveway, and I know the trip is almost over, so I try a different tactic. “My mom and I left Alaska when I was little and moved back to Toronto. I didn’t see my dad again until last summer. I didn’t even talk to him for about twelve years—”
“Lemme out here,” Roy grumbles. The rustic wooden sign that marks his driveway appears in the bramble ahead.
“Here? That’s, like, a twenty-minute walk to your house. At least.” In good health, and Roy is far from that.
“So what? I like walkin’.” He paws at the door handle with his left hand.
“Do you remember the doctor telling you to take it easy?”
“Do you remember me tellin’ you to mind your own damn business?” he shoots back.
I sigh, exhausted from a day of dealing with Roy’s volatile temperament. “Is this because I brought up your daughter?”
His jaw clenches. “No, it’s because you’re gonna hit every goddamn pothole from here to my house, and it’ll hurt like hell. I can’t believe we made it home alive, the way you drive. Whoever gave you your license should be shot.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my driving!” I snap, my patience finally evaporating. I pull into the laneway—there’s nowhere else to go with it being a dead-end road.
He pops open the door the second the wheels slow, forcing me to stop abruptly.
“Are you crazy?”
“Probably.” He shifts to move out, but then pulls back, glaring at the laneway ahead. “What’re you doin’, girl?”
“I’m trying to get you home in one piece!”
“No, I mean, why’re you keepin’ this up? Comin’ around every day, bringin’ me dinner and muffins and shit.”
“Because you need help?”
“Whatever you’re lookin’ for here, you ain’t gonna find it in me.”
I feel my cheeks flush with indignation. “I’m not looking for anything—”
“I’m no replacement for your dead daddy, and I don’t wanna be.”