The Complex Arms Read online

  She vowed to play it safe this time. Her high-school boyfriend had made the same promise that night, “I’ll be careful, Adeen, don’t worry,” and Irene happened nine months later. After the birth, her doctor prescribed birth control pills, just new on the market, liberating women’s libidos. Her blood pressure climbed to dangerous levels so she discontinued their use, resolving instead to lead a healthier, albeit celibate, life.

  Frosty agreed to be a country gentleman, and Adeen believed him. She’d decided beforehand to drop him after this first date but brought along a box of condoms, just in case temptation overcame her. Mona, whose strength was in her intuitive power where men were concerned, was skeptical about a long-term relationship with this hound-dog cowboy poet and sensed his neediness. “If you’re looking for a romp under the stars with Roy Rogers and nothing else, then go for it. Have fun. You deserve it. But anything serious, Adeen, take it slow, girl.”

  The ride to Frosty’s, up hills and down into valleys, revealed a spectacular show of unspoiled canola fields on either side. The road seemed to deliver an undulating countryside stretching into eternity, a runaway spool of magical reddish-gold thread playing with her imagination. There was an incomparable beauty here, for sure, but there was a monotony to it; nothing like the Laurentians that always left her speechless, especially in autumn, the trees loaded with the colours of Mars.

  “Mona was right,” Adeen said. “The so-called mountains in Montreal are just big hills when you look at this.” Her arm reached out the open passenger window as though to touch the Rockies beyond this side of paradise.

  “I’ll take you to Jasper one of these days and you can see close up,” he said.

  “Nah, that’s okay. I like to look at them from afar.”

  The blazing sun eventually dissolved into dusk. They stopped at a gas station to use the facilities, to refuel both the truck and themselves. Adeen purchased a carton of cigarettes, soda, and bags of chips to sustain them until they reached their destination.

  “Can you turn on the air conditioning?” Adeen yielded to the heat wave after a fruitless marathon of fanning herself with a Post-it notepad she snagged from the dashboard.

  “Broken. Been meanin’ to get her fixed but it’s never been this hot.”

  Adeen, her hair in a loose ponytail, stuck her head out the window, whipping her head this way and that to catch the breeze. She held back her bangs and let the gentle breeze blow-dry the wetness from her forehead.

  “Nasty. Summers here have been warmin’ faster than a bowl of soup boilin’ over a campfire.” He leaned his head back against the seat and removed his cowboy hat to scratch his scalp, revealing a white demarcation where the brim shaded his forehead and where the sun burned his face.

  Eyes fixed on the meandering road ahead, he said, “You religious?”

  “No, but I’m spiritual.”

  “Makes us both then,” he grinned.

  When Frosty pulled up in front of what appeared to be a used RV, she could only stutter, “You. Live. Here?”

  “Romantic, ain’t it?” he leaped out and helped her from the truck. Her short legs did not agree with anything higher than a convertible.

  “Year-round?”

  “It’s what you call a fifth-wheel trailer and measures thirty feet, eight inches. Has all the amenities of home: sleepin’, showerin’, dinin’, cookin’, and entertainment. Has lots of space for storage, and big enough. What more does a man need?”

  The trailer was stationed in an open field that bore the ambiance of a deserted campground in the off-season. A horse, she presumed it was Boss, relaxed in the nearby pasture under the shade of a lodgepole pine.

  “I thought you lived in one of those solid mobile homes.”

  “Naw, this is more rustic. It’s parked, so it’s solid.” He could see her disappointment and said, “It’s only temporary until I have enough money saved for a ranch house on a couple acres of land. A bit tight right now, but, hell, I’m young and healthy.”

  Adeen, speechless still, at loose ends, trailed behind the lone cowboy poet. One sorrel in a corral; he’s not rich, she thought.

  “Like it?”

  But before she could answer, a dog charged out of the doghouse and almost ploughed into her.

  “You have a Lassie dog!”

  “Twister’s his name. Part collie, part shepherd. Here, boy. He obviously loves you,” Frosty said as he pulled a biscuit from his jeans pocket to steer Twister away from Adeen.

  “You always carry dog biscuits?”

  “Yep. Can’t let a dog go hungry. Here, boy.

  “Show you the inside. You’ll be surprised. And then I’ll give you a tour of the place once I unload your bag. I’ll have you meet Boss.”

  While the exterior seemed somewhat weathered-looking, the interior was something else entirely, not what she expected. Clean, neat; a small kitchen area to cook and eat; a couch that unfurled into a bed; a private washroom and an area for storage completed the floor plan.

  “The master bedroom, or livin’ room, sits over the truck bed up there and with that large picture window in back, you get a panoramic view of the land.”

  He set her bag of produce on the compact counter and laid the Mouton Cadet in the fridge, which carried the requirements for the barbecue and nothing else.

  “Don’t like to overload the fridge ’cause I’m not always here,” he said. Before she could respond, he was guiding her outside. “Come here and meet Boss.”

  Besides the RV, corral, and doghouse, there were no other buildings in sight. Tall lodgepole pines sheltered the fifth-wheeler. In the distance a house was barely visible, a square box with a sharp triangular roof, perched on a hill.

  “Who lives up there?” Adeen pointed.

  “That would be my landlady, old Mrs. Ruby Garnet. It’s her property. Since she become a widow five years ago, she rents out the trailer. She and her husband, when they retired, would hitch their truck and just hit the country roads. She said it was so freein’ to just drive around and stay in warm climates when winter turned ugly. I do chores for her when she needs doin’ and she lets Boss graze in her corral.”

  She stroked Boss’s head, repeating, “What a lovely horsey, what a lovely horsey,” then held strands of his mane against her head to compare hair colours.

  “Close,” she said, “but I think mine is more auburn.” First time she had come head to head with a real live horse. Boss nuzzled her.

  “Aw, he loves me, too,” she said.

  “Animals sense a good person. Atta boy.” Frosty patted his neck.

  She began to understand his pleasure in the beauty of these animals, this immeasurable verdant land. On the way back, with Twister lagging behind, they detoured to pick saskatoons by the side of the gravel road. She savoured their sweetness, not minding that they left her hands smeared in an abstract coating of inky juice.

  “Have you ever eaten anythin’ so tasty? So, you bake?”

  She shook her head. “Afraid I haven’t had much practice. Not a bad cook. I can do spaghetti and eggs. I mean separately.”

  He paused to study her as only a cowboy could.

  “What’s the matter? Something on my shirt?” she scowled, pulling the neckline away from her neck.

  “Nice muscled breasts, like Boss’s.”

  Another missed opportunity to take her exit right then and there, but she was still intrigued by this cowboy who lived under such secluded conditions with only a horse and dog and a sky with no borders. So, out of curiosity, she remained. For a bit.

  That evening he grilled burgers on a firepit and as dusk rolled into night, she drank her Mouton Cadet; he, his Molsons. She listened to him recite poetry. His.

  FOR ADEEN

  yur hair is like a forest fire

  wild in all its fierce flames.

  yur eyes, a mystery in

  blue and green and something else.

  yur skin translucent

  pure like winter snow,

  speaks m
y love.

  I am yur dove.

  “Ah, that’s nice,” she struggled, searching for the appropriate kind words. “I like the imagery for sure. And the last two lines rhyme.” She was trying to restrain herself from giggling.

  “Really? Maybe one of these darn days I can sell some of my poems to Nashville and they can make them words into songs. Then I’ll be rich and I can buy us a ranch.”

  “And more horses,” she said.

  “What’s a life without dreams, huh?”

  “You are rushing things, Frosty. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. It’s our first date. Don’t know if you noticed.”

  “What’s there to know? The first time I laid eyes on you, I just knew.” It sounded as though he were describing Boss.

  “Knew what?”

  “That you and me were meant to be. Hey, there’s a song right there.”

  She got up and brushed the dry grass and dirt from her jeans. “I think I better leave now.”

  “Not staying the night?”

  “No, changed my mind. I told you, this was just a visit.”

  “It’s a long ways back. I promise not to do nuthin’.”

  “Can you call me a cab?”

  “A cab? Not here, honey pie. You’ll have to walk.”

  “So I’ll walk. See you around, Frosty. It’s been swell, like they say in those old movies.”

  Alberta days ring warm, but at night, cool moonlit breezes fan the land with a dapple of branches swaying under the watchful eyes of insomnious owls begging the question, Who? Who? Who? Frosty accompanied her into the darkness of the highway.

  “You’re goin’ the wrong direction. It’s this way if you’re headin’ for home.” His voice raspy in the darkness.

  “Going to that house up that hill with the light.”

  He smiled and headed back to the trailer and waited and waited by the firepit. He and Twister. Didn’t take long before Mrs. Garnet pulled up.

  “This yours?” she said.

  Adeen flung open the truck door and climbed down.

  “I convinced her you were a good man and she should remain here for the night at least. Not figuring on getting a coyote at her. You’re plenty. So here she is, Frosty. All yours.”

  “She said you were a gentleman so better not make her a liar,” Adeen said.

  He just grinned as Mrs. Garnet waved goodbye. Twister barked and pranced around on hind legs like a circus dog, pirouetting as though he were glad to see her again and wanted a treat.

  Frosty made a bed for her on the hammock and he took to the sleeping bag. He honoured his promise.

  Midnight.

  “You cold?” he said. “I can hear you shivering all the way here.”

  “I’m not used to this camping out in the wilds of Alberta.”

  “Got more blankets.” And he joined her on the hammock.

  “Maybe we should sleep inside like civilized people.”

  “But you’ll miss the experience.” And his chilly hand searched her breasts for warmth.

  “I knew this would happen.” She slapped his hand away and sat up.

  “Just tryin’ to warm up my fingers,” he said.

  “Really? You gave me your word.”

  He leaned back onto the hammock with a loud sigh of surrender as she inched her way near the edge. They both scrutinized the sky, now an indigo blue, lit by a billion stars. Summer was on its last legs as it manoeuvred its way to the other side of the solstice. They searched for the early possibility of the northern lights without success. He pulled his long cowboy arm from under the blankets and waved his hand across the expanse of sky and said, “This here is mah home.”

  The gentle squeak and sway of the hammock lulled them to sleep, the only night sounds.

  ADEEN

  A year later, on a warm September day, we married. Have to tell you that Mona became hysterical at the news of our engagement, but I ignored her. “You’ll be sorry,” she said.

  I didn’t want to let her down, but he was such a sweet cowpoke, wrote poetry and dedicated these little notebooks to me, and Irene loved him. That last thing made him a keeper, you know. And no one has ever loved me like him. No one.

  “Do you love him?” Mona’s daily bombardment of questions aimed to slip me up, to make me reconsider, but I always replied that I loved that he loved Irene. “Yeah, but do YOU love him,” she would repeat and repeat. Honestly, I just didn’t know how to define what I felt.

  According to Mona, that wasn’t enough, but it was my life. She tried to make me feel guilty by reminding me not to come running back to her, complaining about Frosty, because Irene and I would be on our own.

  She’d complain about his lack of hygiene, but he worked in the stables at that time and carried the odour of horse manure, so what would you expect? “Love has no scent,” I would say in defence of Frosty.

  I liked that he had a soft spot in his heart for all those horses at the racetrack, and he treated them with such respect. It says a lot about a man — that he loves animals and children. I admired his compassionate, kind nature. He was so naive at times. I mean he barely finished high school and wasn’t into travelling or educating himself. Just wrote poetry about being a cowboy and all things western.

  He later told me his interest in writing poems came from his grandmother’s love of words. To compensate for his childhood fear of the dark and confined spaces, she would read to him until he fell asleep. His parents were going through a rough patch financially, so they parked him on his maternal grandparents’ doorstep for a year until things got better. Frosty told me he still remembered falling down a shaft into a dry water hole, pitch-black, crying, and Bogart, the family dog, apparently kept circling the well and barking nonstop. I guess to alert someone. His grandfather got tired of the ruckus and came out to shut the dog up. But smart Bogart just kept on yipping and yapping. The grandfather thought he heard a whimper, leaned over the well, and there was Frosty curled up like a doughnut in tears. Poor kid, he was only four. As a teenager, he started to write about the experience for therapy and said he loved finding the words to express his feelings. I mean, that was different.

  I finally answered Mona so she would stop bugging me. “Yes, I think I do love him. He has some fine qualities underneath that stink.” She told me to buy him some Old Spice and maybe she would come to the wedding. Best friends. What could I say?

  It was the perfect prairie day to get married. We both wore white cowboy boots and hats and I carried a bouquet of wild roses that withered as we said our “I do’s.” Frosty probably picked them by the side of the road just before the ceremony. I looked like Dale Evans to his Roy Rogers. All that aggravating fringe dangling from under our sleeves got in the way, especially at the wedding table whenever I reached over for a bottle of wine. Something would always get knocked over. Mona thought we would burst into “Happy Trails” just before we cut the cake, which was shaped like a dark chocolate thoroughbred, with figurines of a bride and groom on top a saddle. Mona took photos to mail friends back in Montreal. “They won’t believe this,” she said. Was this the western way?

  It was a simple outdoor affair at his brother’s ranch, the way I wanted it. Nothing fancy. I take all responsibility. Should have asked for a reception at the Hotel Macdonald downtown, but I’ve always been a cheap date, as I said, so now I was a cheap bride. Denton, second brother in command after Frosty, had six horses loitering in the corral behind his low-lying ranch house. Compared to his four younger siblings, who had yet to strike it rich, Denton was a success; his family held him up as an example of what luck, hard work, and perseverance could accomplish. Others attributed his wealth to crooked dealings and a violent temper. He was not shy about solving his money troubles with a revolver.

  When I was introduced to Denton, he bragged how Albertans are self-reliant. No handouts from government. There was a problem on the farm, everyone chipped in and helped. Really? No subsidies? But I didn’t go there. It was my wedding day, so I tried
to steer serious discussions to safer subjects that wouldn’t turn into a fighting match. I couldn’t help noticing how Frosty flirted with every cowgirl at the party and how he drank until he passed out. Red flags, which I ignored. A sign of things to come, obviously. I suddenly had a yearning for all things Montreal. Maybe Mona was right about Frosty, but she was the one who had wangled me to move out here. Okay, I made the choice.

  Not a good choice, given that there were a lot of other items on the bad side of the ledger. I can’t forget that first sighting of Denton’s crazy third wife and their peculiar-looking two-year-old daughter, a sad waif with a pathetic face like a character out of Les Misérables. The wife was giving us a tour of the ranch when we passed the kitchen window, and there she was, this elf of a child staring vacantly past us through a dirty pane, the remains of something burnt, smoke having settled on the glass surface.

  “Why don’t you both refresh yourselves in the hot tub while I get us some pork chops on the grill,” the wife slurred her words. “We spend a lot of time in there, me and Denton, drinking champagne, wondering how the poor people live.” A raucous laugh spit out of her raw throat. I wanted to smack her one, so startled was I by this ignorant woman. She could use lessons in how to keep her house clean and care for her daughter like any decent mother.

  I know it was wrong to measure all Albertans against the Whitlaws, but they were an odd bunch. Are there no normal families out there anymore? The Wild West would never be my way of life, I knew that for sure. I couldn’t relate to the conservative mentality, where money ruled the day. Good Lord! I should have turned my back on the wedding and just left. So many chances to walk away from this cowboy, but I remained stubborn. I wanted to prove Mona wrong.

  I agreed that Denton’s home would be appropriate for our wedding. No cost to us. How generous, I thought. El Cheapo is more like it when I look back. Of course, there was a catch. His family — mother, father, and all siblings — lived on the compound nearby, neighbour to neighbour. Ready-made help available whenever Denton needed it. I was yet to find out that Denton made arrangements for Frosty and me to live on the compound also, a small plot of land assigned to us; a sort of Alberta-made Dynasty. I wasn’t going to have any of that. Almost like a religious cult, without the praying and Kool-Aid.