Mattawa

Notice: I have never been to Mattawa. I don’t know anything about the local religious figures. I am using the local church because I like being detailed to areas. I am doing Mattawa because that is the order of the song. The priest in this story is here because I needed someone to fit the role in advancement of the story. He bears no resemblance to any real people living or dead. I needed this kind of figure to create the power dynamic that would create a scenario that works for the characters’ intentions.

The Silver Meteor actually arrived in DC early, which was uncommon nowadays, and the boarding call was actually a few minutes early. This meant I had the chance to grab dinner in the dining car. Amtrak had introduced “Simplified Dining Service” aboard the trains a few years earlier and the meals were not exceptional. Food was not being cooked on board, but rather was being prepared off train and reheated in convection ovens.

I had an “herb roasted half chicken”, which was about as good as a reheated convection oven half roasted chicken could be. Which is to say, edible but not fantastic. The meal was proceeded by a salad consisting of iceberg and two over-juicy grape tomatoes. It came with some gummy string-beans and carrots, and some mashed potatoes that were clearly of the instant variety. I ordered a split of cabernet to wash down the meal, and it was the kind of cheap wine you’d expect to accompany the meal.

I was seated with a family of three people who resisted sitting with me, but accepted it when the dining car steward insisted. The father sat next to me, the mother and daughter sat across from us. They had their noses turned up at me, but I thawed them a little bit. They were startled when I told them I was going to catch the ms Rotterdam out of Lauderdale for a sixteen-day cruise to San Diego.

We had a conversation about my life and my meeting up with my girlfriend and our two children. I didn’t mention that they were not my only children, or the other female friends of my life. While I explained that I was essentially a hobo, I told them that I tended to save money well and was trying to win back the affections of the woman. I went into some detail how tired I was of roaming and hoboing and how I wanted some stability.

It was some truths laid in with a bit of ... I think “puffery” would be the right term. I didn’t really tell any outright lies. But I also didn’t delve into the other women in my life, or how conflicted I was on the course of action Kelly had set me out on. Or that the relevant course was laid out by another woman I had a kid with. I was going for enjoyable dinner conversation, not freaking a respectable family out with my “meshugaus“ as Rachel called it.

After finishing our meal, I went to the cafe car, bought a few little bottles of overpriced spirits, and took them back to my little roomette. Naturally, I drank them all in quick order while laying on my made up bed. I was nervous as hell.

What was I hoping to accomplish here? Well there were several possibilities, and I didn’t know which one I wanted to happen more. A lot of it depended on Jenny’s reaction to who I was, in detail. Jenny was never Rachel or Kelly. She’s a good person, and I cared for her, but she was not on that level of similarity to my mindset.

That was part of the problem; I don’t think Kelly understood that Jenny was not the ideal girl for me, at least I strongly suspected she wasn’t. I think she was a relatively normal person with a strong sense of loyalty, a limited libido, and a degree of love- primarily for the person I was 22 years ago. I was a bit different then, and we really hadn’t spent enough time together in the ensuing years for her to fully grasp that.

Cheryl is not a normal woman. She has some distinctly strange ideas about life, children, love, behavior, and morality. She had shaped a little world into which she brought up kids with her belief system. I largely agreed with her belief system. I thought it worked quite well; her brood was wildly successful in whatever they wanted to endeavor into. She was different enough to fully understand what I was, and love me- respect me, even- for being exactly what I was.

Rachel was a kindred spirit. She loved me for what I was because we were, in a lot of ways, two of a kind. Kelly had been crushed to pieces as a kid, and knew exactly what kind of horrific place the world could be. Then I picked up the pieces, and brought them to Cheryl to put them back together, which she did. She had been brought up with Cheryl’s belief system, and almost a worshipful attitude towards me. She could fully grasp what I was; she had seen both sides of it. She loved me for who I was.

Jenny was on a honeymoon with me whenever we got together for a brief period of time. I never sat down and told her who Rachel was, people we exacted revenge on, people I extracted vengeance on my own from, and certainly not the few people whose lives I decided were of sufficient detriment to the world that I put an end to them. I had mentioned before that I had a couple of kids with Cheryl, but never put it beyond that.

One of my goals on this cruise was to show Jenny the stranger behind the mask. Not just me at my most generous, as she knew me to be. Me when I was at my angriest, my deadliest. Not by demonstration, but by explaining to her some of the things I had done. If we were going to forge a family together, she needed to know that side existed. More than that it existed, but that I wasn’t ashamed of it.

I feel no compunction about killing horrible people. If I am 100% sure I can accomplish it and disappear into the night, I’d do it. I’d do it more if I wasn’t nervous of being discovered, or somehow being kicked to federal for being a serial killer. I certainly felt no regret extracting my revenge in other ways. Breaking up couples with abuse. Tearing apart people who cheated on their partner. Demolishing operations that preyed on the weak and innocent. I wasn’t the masked avenger or anything. I didn’t go looking. But when one of these things hurt somebody I cared about...

Most of my life was about self enjoyment without hurting other people within my defined code of ethics and morals. My code of ethics was distinct and not always the same as the so-called Judeo-Christian moral code. But I lived by them.

If Jenny couldn’t put up with all that, I’d understand. I knew the worst parts would take place in San Diego where I could disappear into the night. If I had to cut ties with her, that was ok. She was doing a good job raising our kids, and had her life in order and set. I don’t think I owed her anything.

It would be better if she could. I hoped she could. Then it would depend on what she wanted to do. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to marry her, or at least commit to her. I wanted to have a reunion at Cheryl’s farm, and bring all of my children, my family, my father, together.

If I could manage it I wanted to move my father and Jenny, Johnny Jr., and Susan to Cheryl’s farm. Cheryl had promised me she would be happy to accommodate them. I wanted to maintain my relationship with Kelly. I wanted to tone down my wandering, but not end it. I mean the truth is I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too. Of course that’s what I want.

I had minimum conditions. Firstly, Jenny could not expect me to fully settle down and not wander from time to time- she could expect faith as a partner, but not the lack of motion. I could take her with me much of the time. But I suspect inertia would genuinely prevent me from not traveling. Objects in motion stay in motion. Secondly, she had to accept my family in North Dakota, full stop. She didn’t have to accept a relationship with Kelly, but she had to accept that I loved her too, that I loved all my children, and that she had to be part of that family too. I could understand her staying in Reno, but we had to visit them frequently- and as a family.

I had some money and valuables I could bring into the arrangement. Rachel and I had managed to save about $40,000 between us. I could make money through various means in Reno. I could put my talents at crafts or my talent for hard work to use and make us a bit more money. Between the money she made, the money she had from my big gambling win, and a bit of money I could make on the side, we’d make it.

If we moved to Fargo with Cheryl, life would be a lot easier. Cheryl’s farm made good money, Cheryl very apparently had money to begin with, and the money we could contribute from selling the house in Reno and joining the family’s collective finances would mean that living would be easy. But I don’t know if farm life would suit Jenny, nor if she could find something that would suit her in the Fargo area if it didn’t.

If she could not accept these things, it would be silly to pretend we could forge a life together. I would maintain as much contact as she was comfortable with, but I would come back to ND and settle down, such that I could, with Kelly.

It would be up for a lot of discussion and planning, but I knew where I wanted to go with it. I suspect Jenny herself had some idea of where she wanted to go, too. I don’t know how the reality of the situation would change her mind, though.

I started thinking about Rachel again. I remembered the first time she killed someone. Of course I do. She killed someone who was trying to kill me. Way back in Buffalo, 22 years ago, in the basement of an abandoned office building. It changed her. It changed me. It changed both of us, and in ways we both took a long time to come to grips with.

The fact that the body of our victim was never even identified, that the investigation was closed within a week or so, and that fact that we had rid the world of a murderous lunatic all changed our decision making paradigm. Her’s more than mine, I admit, but between us we killed a man. She felt empowered, ultimately. I felt pretty good about it.

The change wasn’t immediately apparent. But when we separated in Chicago a few months later, and I got away from being with her, I sorted myself out better. As I pondered it I realized that I had several strange but very strong convictions. One of which was that Rachel had not done wrong; in fact, she had done right. Another was that if our roles had been reversed I would not have hesitated to do the same thing; and I would have done right, too. I had been happy to assume the dead man’s identity, and have been using it ever since.

We existed in the shadows. Nobody knew who we were, where we came from, or where we went when they stopped seeing us. Outside of a few places we frequented- Chicago, New York for Rachel, Fargo for me- we were anonymous. We didn’t really exist. Man dead, suspect tall thin brunette female with huge nose who looks way older than she is. Scumbag conned out of money; suspect tall ugly bearded fat fellow named John. Neither seen since. Please advise.

Even that’s only if we screw up and they even connect it to us. Considering we generally did not have a relationship with the people we went after, and the people we went after were not sympathetic characters, usually the list of likely and plausible suspects was lengthy. All of this was carefully considered by me until I realized that if I wanted to kill someone, or hurt someone, or get back at someone, I could do it with near impunity.

Rachel independently came to the same conclusion. A few months after, I was back in Chicago and got a letter from Rachel, who had found work in Mattawa, ON on a temporary logging crew...

She said in the letter that she had a few month long gig working as a temporary worker on a logging crew. The money sounded fantastic to me, and I wanted to see her again desperately. She had left a General Delivery address at the post office in Mattawa, so I sent her a letter telling her that I would be there in a few days and to meet me at the post office at 5:30 AM; she should check until she found me.

After sending the letter, I booked a coach ticket on the Lake Shore Limited to Schenectady, where I would transfer to the Adirondack and get off in Montreal. There was a train to Ottawa, and then a series of busses that would get me to Mattawa. It would take me three days to get there, and then I would have to wait around for her out front of the post office.

Now that I knew that John O’Connell was not considered dead, his drivers license would be sufficient ID to get across to Canada. Photo IDs were not required in 1988. As I’ve mentioned before, so-called security made travel a lot harder in more recent years. I hate it but I have to live with what it is, not what I would like it to be.

I got a seat in a 60-seat Heritage coach, and we departed Chicago on time at 5:50 PM. I had already grabbed food in the newly refurbished station food court. It wasn’t great but it was edible. The train was not full and I had a seat pair to myself. It was one of the older coaches that still had good recline and a full leg rest, so I got to sleep quite comfortably, after enjoying a night cap. I was over 21, and so was John O’Connell (quite a bit, actually) so I grabbed one to help me sleep.

In those days the Amtrak lounge cars had actual bar service and I enjoyed a couple of martinis before heading back to my seat. The thought of seeing Rachel again was a very happy one, and I was enjoying the idea. I went to sleep slightly drunk but very contented about eight that evening.

I woke up the next morning to an announcement that breakfast was being served in the dining car, at about 7:30 AM. We were in between Syracuse and Utica. I went into the diner and had french toast, with sausage links. It was a decent meal, prepared freshly aboard the train. It was served on plastic tableware but it was worlds better than what they would be serving 21 years later.

After breakfast, where I was seated with some people who were too asleep to have a conversation of any kind, I went up the train to the Boston section where they had a dome coach. It was a nice experience, but the scenery along the water level route was not exactly the most impressive in the world. I assume the main value of the dome coach was the ride through the Berkshires.

I would be getting off before that, though, so I wouldn’t get to see that. We pulled into Schenectady a few minutes late, and I hoofed it off with my backpack. Schenectady (pronounced, as a pretty car attendant visibly demonstrated, Skin-Neck-Titty) was, and is a run down New York industrial city, and the station was an Amshack. I had a long and boring wait on an uncomfortable plastic chair of the kind found at bus stations around the world.

I was having good luck that day, as the Adirondack pulled in a couple of minutes early, and I was in a tolerably comfortable Amfleet II coach seat, once again to myself. The scenery through the northern Adirondacks was much more appealing and I enjoyed the ride. I read the provided Amtrak magazine, and wrote my thoughts down in my journal. It was a pretty ride.

Customs was extremely easy and they passed me through with little drama. Different world when you can fly through customs with the appropriated ID of a man your girlfriend killed in a city 300 miles away. But it was a different world. Since I have no evil intentions, I personally think it was a better world. But I’m sure a lot of people would disagree with me on that.

Montreal Gare Centrale as the Francophones call it is a bit art deco but almost a prototype of brutalist architecture. It was built to consolidate stations from several different operators as a government project, and it shows. It was past the ends of the Beaux Arts period and so it was not really designed to be beautiful, but primarily just functional.

I boarded a train to Ottawa. It ran with the LRC cars that Rachel and I had rode in the last time we were heading to Ottawa, but in the opposite direction. It was not the most scenic journey, and unlike last time I did not have Rachel to occupy my boredom. When I got to Ottawa I boarded a series of busses that got me into Mattawa. The bus ride took almost five hours. It was not a fast ride, with a lot of stops. The buses were not particularly comfortable. I got into Mattawa at about 4:15 in the morning.

I was really tired and it was more than a little cold. The trip had taken me four days, not three. I didn’t know if the letter would precede me or not. It was a tiny little town with only a few thousand people. The area around the post office was not very busy, and I sat on a bench across the street from it facing the river. It was a pretty view.

About an hour later, I was knocked over by The Rachel Express as she impacted with me. I almost rolled down the bank into the ... well I’m not sure if it was the Ottawa or Mattawa river, since it was right where the Mattawa branches off from the Ottawa. Anyway it was a bit nippy for enjoying that kind of thing at the moment. Not the hugging, landing in the river, I mean.

“Rachel,” I said to her, “my love, don’t try to drown me!”

“I wasn’t tryin’ tuh drown yuh,” she laughed, “I got your lettuh just yestuhday, I’m really glad yuh came, dey are really payin’ well on de loggin’ crews, and I betcha I can getcha a job dere, too. Okay?”

“Damn skippy,” I said, then pulled her close to me and gave her a kiss.

“I thought we weren’t doin’ dat no mawh,” she said, kissing back “I’m glad I was wrong. Right?”

“No,” I said, “I hope we do that forever. So how do we get to the job?”

“I got a car,” she said, “But firstcha should come up tuh my room and drop off your kit. Okay?”

She walked back towards the post office and then past it. It was down Main St. just a few blocks. It was called Le Voyaguer Hotel. It was quite old, but seemed decent. Splitting the room between us would make it about $15 a night for us, so it would be relatively affordable. There was a hot plate in the room and a food store between the hotel and the post office. The room had one bed, but I’m sure we could manage it.

I wanted to make out but she told me we would be late for work, so I followed her outside. In the hotel’s parking lot was a 1979 Lada 1600 sedan in rust-splotched beige. It wasn’t that old a car- just nine years, but it looked like it had been through the ringer- just like the last Lada we had coming home from Winnipeg. She had apparently gotten this one even cheaper, just $365. But it was a solid little car, and it ran just fine. She drove stick pretty well for someone who never received formal driving lessons. I had driven last time.

No wonder she had warned me we would be late. It was almost 45 minutes drive over roads that were increasingly bad. Rachel had an uncanny ability to find cars with fake plates. It wasn’t like nowadays with ALPR systems. They’d generally have to stop you to go to the point of checking your plates against registrations. I doubt most police cars up here even have computers; they’d have to call it in for a check.

We got to the site. To my surprise it seemed to be a clear-cut type of operation. I wondered if it was legal, but didn’t particularly care. It was money, and I was with Rachel again. We got out of Rusty, as she called the little Soviet tank we were driving, and walked over to a fancy GMC pickup truck.

“Hey, Paul,” Rachel greeted the driver of the pickup, “I’ve got anudder hand fawh yuh. He’s a hard wawhkuh, I’ve known him fawh a long time. Okay?”

“You want to work here, eh?” he looked me over, “Its $65 for the eight hours, eh?”

“Suits me,” I said, “Where do I start?”

“Rachel knows what to do, eh?”

Rachel took me over to a bunch of chain saws, and gave me one.

“See de tress wit’ de marks on dem, or what?” she rolled her eyes, “Yuh take dat and cut dem de hell down, eh?”

“You couldn’t sound Canadian if you tried,” I laughed at her, “Yuh know what I’m sayin’?”

“I’m holdin’ a chainsaw, kid,” she smirked at me.

I didn’t need any more guide to get to work. It was a fairly simple concept. Cut the trunk of the tree and then push it in the direction of no people. Easy peasy lemon squeazy. There seemed to be no real safety protocols, which further raised my suspicion that this was not being done legally. But then, I wasn’t working legally, was I?

We broke in the middle for lunch; Rachel had thankfully packed me a thermos of soup. It was cold out, and I needed the warmth. It was hard labor, but it was easy work, and the pay sounded pretty good. In those days I would make $30 and whatever scraps were around at the end of the night pearl diving, so this was good money for me.

At the end of the day, we got into the car. I drove this time. The gear change was a bit vague and the steering box was a bit tough. The car had 422k kms on it. It was a well used example, apparently, but then for the price it wasn’t too bad. It was slow and noisy but felt solidly built.

When we got back to the hotel, Rachel and I went back to the room. Rachel made us some ramen noodles on the hotplate. We were making good money, really. The Lada got good mileage and cost us about $5 to get to and from the job site. The room cost us $30, and food was about another $5. We were making $130 and had $40 in expenses. $90 a day to put into Rachel’s already sizable stash. $450 a week.

We talked about our adventures of the time we had been apart. We hadn’t been apart all that long, so the conversation wasn’t that long winded. Rachel went in for a shower, and I came in and joined her. We washed each other, in a sort of sensuous way. I enjoyed feeling her body against me. It wasn’t the part I had really missed though.

It was just being with her. I had missed that tremendously. It wasn’t the sexually charged feeling of pulling her against me, rising to the occasion against her cute little butt. It was the sensation of holding onto her at all. Just being with her. Just snuffling her hair, feeling the nape of her neck with my nose, knowing she was alive beside me in bed.

We went along like this for about six weeks. We ate cheap, worked hard, and spent the nights cuddling together. We spent a little eating out here and there, and a little on some cheap booze. We spent most of our time off walking around the cute little town, along the river, and talking over life and current events and other nonsense.