Waiting for Joe Read Online Free PDF Page A

sails, jolted him from his tantrum and sent Joe to his knees. He’d gathered them up, vowing to himself, and later to Alfred, that his stay at Deere Lodge was only temporary.
    “That’s right, you told me,” Alfred says, his voice thinning to squeeze back another paroxysm of coughing, and failing. “I’m here,” he says a moment later.
    “That cough of yours sounds pretty serious.”
    “You’ll be back when?” Alfred asks.
    “The end of May, first week in June at the latest,” Joe says above the sudden blare of a car horn, the screech of brakes. He looks up to see the near rear-end accident at the intersection beyond. Antsy, he thinks. Everyone’s antsy this morning, including him, to finish talking, to get on with what he needs to do next. Call Steve. Get to McMurray and find some work, fast.
    “I’ll get the girl to write that down,” Alfred says and calls to the woman attending him.
    “Not now,” Joe interrupts.
    “What?”
    “I’ve got to go now, Dad. I’ll call later on in the day.”
    “When?”
    “Later.”
    “It’s the girl here, wants to know what time. They’ve tried reaching you at the house and the shop, and both of the phones are down.”
    “I gave them this number,” Joe says, exasperated. “I told them to call me on my cell.”
    “You’re not exactly answering that phone either,” Alfred says. “Where’s Laurie?”
    “She’s here with me. Why?”
    “She wasn’t there yesterday. Clayton Wells went by the house looking for you and no one was home.”
    Joe’s mind reels with confusion for a moment. “That’s because we’re travelling right now. I just told you that. Ofcourse Laurie wasn’t at home, she’s here with me, Dad.” Why was Clayton Wells at the house? he wonders.
Was
he at the house, or is Alfred confused?
    “Well, put her on then,” Alfred says. “I want to have a word with her. She should stop sending flowers. I’d do better with a shot of brandy now and then, and the chance to see her ugly puss.”
    “I can’t put her on. She’s up in the hotel room. I came down to get some breakfast,” Joe lies.
    “You’ve been gone four days, you must be in BC by now,” Alfred says. His moment of lucidity is unsettling.
    “Why did Clayton go to the house?” Joe asks.
    “He says you still owe him a couple of months’ wages.” Alfred’s voice is clear and strong. “He came round yesterday looking for you. I said I didn’t know where you were. And I don’t know why the damned phones aren’t working either. He’s a good man, Joe, you can’t afford to lose him. What the heck is going on?”
    Nothing, Joe thinks. He’d paid Clayton as much as he could, a good chunk of the garage sale cash went to him when he came begging, his three kids hanging out the car windows wanting to give Uncle Joe a hug. Crafty son of a bitch. His face grows hot and he loosens the neck of his hoodie, welcomes the shock of cold air at his throat. It’s easier to start a business than it is to stop one. It’s a voracious machine that needs to be constantly fed. People become dependent on you for their mortgage and car payments, their kids’ hockey careers, their ex-wives’ support; their various habits. What comes out at the end is such a small turd for the number of hours, the amount of effort, the uncertainty. The only people who profitfrom a small business are lawyers, accountants and lending institutions.
    “I’ve got to go,” Joe says.
    “Yes, this must be costing money.”
    “I’ll call around eight tonight,” Joe promises. He’s seen a Shoppers drugstore nearby. He will buy more time for the cell there.
    “The girl is going to take me down to X-ray now,” Alfred says.
    “X-ray? What for? Let me talk to her, will you?”
    There’s a muffled riff of sound, and then the woman says, “Mr. Beaudry?”
    “What’s this about my father needing an X-ray?”
    “A chest X-ray. The doctor ordered one. Your father has a bit of a temperature. When you call this