“Ah, I have some people to meet. Gotta see if I can get something set up for us east of here.”
Again, the cryptic response. Mike looked out the window. It was partly his fault. If only he hadn’t gotten into politics. “Well,” he said, “if you hear about any possibility of getting across, let me know, will you?”
Elvin’s response was grudging. “Sure.”
They came to the ugly sprawl of the border encampment. Hundreds of tar paper and blue tarp shanties had moved further out into the woods on both sides of the highway. There was trash and litter everywhere. The authorities had put out 55-gallon drums for trash, but they had quickly filled up and overflowed; the cold winds had done the rest. The piney scent of wood smoke mingled with the unmistakable odor of feces. Both men found the scene depressing and said nothing as they drove through. Five minutes later they pulled off the road and backed up to Elvin’s rig.
That night both families cooked a communal dinner over a big cheery fire. Mike and Elvin smoked and talked softly, carefully staying away from the charged arena of politics. Marie and Katy got on well, sharing stories about the beginning of the troubles and their flight, while Elly thrilled in helping and watching over the two little boys.
The next morning Mike, Marie, and Elly awoke to find that Elvin had not simply gone on some mission, but that the entire family had quietly slipped away in the night. The young couple and their little boys had provided a happy, but brief, respite from their recent trouble, and now their isolation and worry returned. That night Mike put his hand on Marie’s shoulder and she turned away from him. As he lay on his back looking up at the darkness he thought again about his and Elvin’s argument and wished he hadn’t said anything. After what seemed like a long while he slept.
VII
Mike walked along the highway in the dark. Marie didn’t like him going out after dark. There were reports of muggings and robberies. But most nights she had little to say to him and read her books sitting up in bed. Afterwards she would go to sleep without a word. The bitter cold had settled in for good and he’d started spending his evenings wandering through the encampment as campers cooked outside and talked, hoping for news in general and information about the availability of supplies and propane. This night he’d heard little he could use.
He wasn’t far up the road from the camper when he thought he heard something behind him. Before he could turn, someone slammed into him. He landed face-down on the ice-encrusted black top. He couldn’t breathe. His head a swirling rainbow of pain, he became vaguely aware of someone going through his pockets.
In the blackness a male voice said, “You get paid?”
Another voice, closer. “Fuck yeah!”
“What?”
“Fuckin’ shit pistol, man.”
One of the men laughed and they ran off.
Mike slowly pushed himself to his feet. His side ached almost unbearably. His face stung. Warm blood tickled as it ran down his lip. He put his hand into his pocket. They had taken his .38. He limped back to the camper.
Marie nursed Mike as best she could. The slightest movement unleashed excruciating pain in his side. Marie and he agreed that he probably had a broken rib, but there was no chance of getting a doctor to look at him. Marie did her best to tape his side tightly. He didn’t bother telling her that his revolver had been stolen. She wouldn’t care about it anyway. At least the little money he carried had been in his shoe. When Elly saw him the next morning she burst into tears. It took a month for the scar on his lip and his black eyes to heal and fade away.
Pale bluish daylight half-lit the interior of the camper as Mike sketched out his idea for a heating system. Some days it was stinging cold and they’d taken to wearing their coats and hats inside the camper. The propane was just about gone. Marie sat above in their bed, reading. She hardly had anything to say anymore, evidently completely taken over by her disappointment and depression. Elly sensed their unease and was uncharacteristically quiet. She sat on her bed listening to an old Disney CD. Mike looked up at Marie, then down at the sketch before him. He had no training in engineering or mechanics and he knew it was unlikely that he would find the materials and tools needed to craft such a device, but the planning and sketching took his mind off their plight. His current scheme involved running the hot gases from the truck’s exhaust pipe through a half dozen aluminum or copper tubes with radiating fins welded on. He took another look up at Marie and caught her eye.
“You want to take a walk… the three of us?”
Elly blinked at the sound of his voice. She coughed, but she did not look over at them.
“No, that’s okay,” said Marie. Marie too had come down with a cold. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
Mike felt annoyed but kept the anger out of his voice. “Okay. I’m going out to gather firewood. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
Marie said nothing in response.
Mike walked into the woods. He’d started staying away from the other camp sites as much as possible for fear that one of Julien’s acquaintances might recognize him. So far, he had heard nothing and assumed the Frenchman’s helper had kept the money and gone off somewhere. Falling asleep at night was difficult. Given the cold, Mike’s instinct was to move closer to Marie, but she used the excuse of her cold to keep a distance from him.
Mike searched beneath the grey skeletal trees and dark green firs for firewood. He turned to look back at the camper, visible in the distance. All he had, all he cared about, was back there. If not for that he’d head deep into the forest until he dropped.
He walked on, bending to pick up hefty branches here and there, occasionally muttering aloud as he prayed in his head. He was tortured by memories of better times—meals, family get-togethers, movies watched together on the couch, trips to the park with Marie and Elly. He found himself in Gunder’s Supermarket. The overhead lights, the colored signs, were vivid, the aisles full of meats, produce, dozens of varieties of pastas and noodles, sauces, soups, rotisserie chickens, wines, beer, cakes, pies… “Fuck!” he muttered.
He heard a footstep and turned. A man and woman foraging nearby had heard him. They turned and disappeared behind some fir trees, their footsteps crunching away.
“I won’t let them have her!” he muttered at their retreating backs. He continued searching for firewood, seeing Christ on his cross as he reached up to tear a large, rotting limb from a tree. And if they couldn’t get out of here when their money ran out completely, well, he still had agency. There was one last thing he could do.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do,” he muttered angrily to that other, more sane, part of his mind. “There ain’t any other fucking way.”
More weeks passed. The encampment grew and their money reserves shrank. One night as Mike lay wide awake, looking up at the ceiling of the camper, Marie’s voice came out of the blackness. “So, how long are we going to sit in this awful place and do nothing?”
Mike felt a faint hope. If they could resume talking and regain some of the trust they’d had, maybe they could all get through this. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are rumors that the Canadian government is gonna let a whole bunch of people in at once. Supposedly some UN observers already came through here. But, like I said, they’re just rumors. And there’s always talk in the encampment about people sneaking refugees across, but uh… that ain’t an option for us anymore.”