The workday passed quickly for a change and by five o'clock the truck was back at the office. François backed it carefully into the depot and they unloaded quickly, passing the sacks to the vault cashiers. They removed guns and holsters, Tom returning his to the property desk, François and Frank putting theirs in their lockers. When they had finished, François went immediately to the time clock, punched out and waved good-bye on his way out the door. Tom lingered over Frank, who was still completing paper work.

"You go ahead Tom. I still have some book work to do before I can leave. I'll see you on Wednesday." Then more quietly, he added, "It went very well today."

Tom nodded shyly at this encomium and headed for the time clock. Frank saw George Wells and one of his cronies watch him pass. They huddled together afterward, talking in low voices. He smiled secretly as his head lowered once more over the log.

Twenty minutes later he was on the freeway, nosing into the stop-wait-and-crawl traffic that was the norm at that time of day. He had experimented with every possible route to his home and had found none so quick or direct, but he often took an alternate route just to relieve the routine or to prevent overheating in very hot weather. The block where Frank lived was residential but it was on a major thoroughfare with an access ramp to the freeway just two short blocks away. The houses were all duplexes which had been constructed when the street was a rural road and before the farm property behind the ribbon of frontage lots had been developed into housing projects. Frank, his wife and seventeen-year-old son lived in the upper half of one of these. There was a shared laneway at one end of the building and Frank's kitchen was accessed by an outside stairway and landing above the lane. He arrived home a few minutes before six. His son Rodger had his bicycle turned upside down at the foot of the stairway and he was adjusting the chain.

"How's it going?" Frank asked cheerfully.

"Just fine," he replied sardonically.

"What's wrong?"

"You'll see."

"By the way. I thought I asked you to mow the grass when you got home this afternoon. It's not done."

"I don't have to do it. Mom said you were home all day tomorrow with nothing to do and you could do it. I have homework."

"But you're not doing homework, you're playing with your bicycle."

"I'm fixing it, besides you can take it up with Mom. I started to do it and she told me to shut the mower off, she was trying to rest."

Frank began to climb the stairs. "Funny," he thought, each step sounding heavily on the wooden steps, "I didn't feel this tired when I left work."

He entered the kitchen and surveyed the scene before him. The table wore the evidence of the day's activity; cereal bowls and plates lay where they had been emptied, and at one end stood a teapot, cup and saucer, accompanied by a full ashtray. The sink was piled high with dishes, pots and pans from the previous night's supper and the space of counter-top normally used to prepare meals contained the waxed paper, butter, peanut butter and so on that Rodger had used to prepare his lunch before school. Frank considered removing his shoes and then looked at the floor. He scrubbed them on the mat instead, unwilling to risk stepping on crumbs and grit in his sock feet. The television was playing loudly in the living room and he moved toward the sound. He had his uniform cap in his hand ready to be placed in the front hall closet, and as he passed the living-room door he ventured in a friendly voice, "Well, how did it go today?"

"What do you mean by that?" Diane snapped in reply.

"Oh nothing, I was just trying to make conversation," he answered, resignation in his voice, as he continued toward the cupboard.

She stood behind him in the door-way now. "No you weren't. You know what I mean you bastard. You were trying, in your sneaking weaselly way, to ask me what I did all day. Well, I'm not a slave to you, you know, and I don't take orders from you, and I don't have to justify my existence to you either. I'll clean this place up when I find the time and not when you beat around the bush and hint around that maybe I'm not doing my share around here." This was delivered in a shrill complaining tone and with hardly a pause for breath.

"No you won't. I'll do it tomorrow, like I do most other weeks on my day off. You know, if you got dressed, and took the curlers out of your hair and took a shower you might feel more like doing something during the day. What's the matter, are you sick or something?"

She thrust her face into his wide-eyed, and spat out her reply. "No, I'm not sick … you sarcastic bastard … you see, that's what I mean about you. You don't have the guts to say what's on your mind. You know I'm not sick. What you really want to know is why didn't I get busy and cook and clean and wash today like I'm supposed to be doing while you're out doing your brainless little job. You sat on your arse all day didn't you?"

The discussion, if it could be called that, had now taken a familiar turn. The fact that Frank was paid to do a job that required very little physical effort while on the other hand, Diane was expected to do menial household chores for no remuneration at all, created in her a strong resentment.

"Look, I've told you I don't know how many times, go and get a job! It's not as though we couldn't use the money. There are all kinds of do-nothing sit-around jobs out there. Go and get one!"

"I had one remember? I got laid off."

"You don't call it being laid off when they hire someone else to replace you," he stated matter-of-factly, shattering the illusion that it had been somehow beyond her control that she had lost her first and only job two years previously. He knew this would result in her immediate and complete defeat and that it was cruelly hurtful to her, but he had coldly administered the blow anyway. She pushed past him and stamped heavily down the hallway to their bedroom. Frank felt mean now, as though he had punched her in the face. He and Diane quarrelled often, and knew each other's sore spots, the tender points in their egos that hurt when poked or prodded. There were other points too, he knew, that elicited anger or defensiveness; it was simply a matter of feeling mean enough or tired-and-fed-up enough to inflict the necessary jab. Frank had vulnerable spots too, but his were less easy to detect because he tried not to let on when he had been hit. This, combined with a cool ability to debate point-by-point, gave Frank an edge over Diane so that he could end an argument almost at will. Unfortunately, it also often left him feeling like an intellectual bully.

"If only she wouldn't start in on me like that! I was tiptoeing around her, for christ's sake, … as if I couldn't see how her day went."

"You're talking to yourself again," she shouted from the bedroom and he could tell by her voice she was crying. He crept into the room and sat beside her on the unmade bed.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You're right," she blubbered, "I got fired, I made mistakes, and I wasn't fast enough. Besides the people there didn't like me, nobody ever likes me. I don't have to be reminded."

She sat facing the mirror and was pulling curlers impatiently from her head and throwing them into a little woven basket that served as storage for them. The tears cascaded down her face. She wiped them off her chin with the back of her hand and looked balefully at him in the mirror. He placed his hands upon her shoulders.

"I didn't mean it. You are a nice person. Rodger and I love you don't we? And it wasn't your fault you were fired, perhaps you just aren't suited to that kind of job. Maybe they wanted to hire a younger person, who knows? You'll get another job, you'll see, and I'm sure you'll do just fine. Besides, we can get along the way things are. Our tastes are simple, we don't need much. Come on, don't cry."

They stood then and she wrapped her arms around his chest and placed her head under his chin. Her body shook with uncontrolled sobbing. Their quarrels often began and ended this way, with an unwarranted and unexpected attack on his dignity, manhood, pride or whatever, until some hurled insult or barb struck a nerve and he became angry and hurtful, at which point he would smash out, wanting to hurt back, destroy even, then having been verbally pummelled into submission she turned to him for comfort and compassion. These later scenes could be very tender, and after long periods of abstinence sometimes ended in lovemaking.

Rodger could be heard entering the kitchen and Frank went out to meet him.

"Where's Mom?" he demanded, his eyes wary.

"In the bedroom, it's okay." He knew Rodger had heard the argument, had anticipated it in fact since he returned from school. He would be happy to know the air would be clear for the evening.

"Maybe he'll stay in tonight," Frank hoped without conviction. It seemed lately that the boy found every excuse to be absent when his father was home. He did his homework at the library and worked two evenings a week and Saturdays at a local hamburger restaurant, other times he said he was at the home of a friend, but Frank was never really sure where he was until he returned home after ten o'clock. He was up and gone to work before his son awoke most mornings.

"What's for supper?"

Frank felt himself tense, but answered calmly enough, "I don't know but if you'll just relax a minute I'll see what I can put together. Are you in a hurry?"

The boy didn't answer but watched as his father opened cupboard doors and examined their contents for the makings of a meal. He took out a large tin of baked beans and then checked out the refrigerator freezer. "Weiners, just the thing," he thought aloud. "How does weiners and beans sound?"

"Okay, I guess," Rodger replied over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall. Frank knew that would be the last he would see of him until he was called for supper, and afterwards he would rise from the meal and go directly outdoors. After putting the ingredients into a saucepan on the stove Frank began his ritual of clearing the counter and restacking the dishes in the sink, which was filling with hot soapy water. When the first sink full had been washed and dried and the pots and pans were nearly completed Diane entered the room. She had combed her hair and was dressed in jeans and a blouse. Her face, though tearful, looked as if it had been washed. She smiled sheepishly, "I was going to do those after supper."

"There'll be more after supper, you'll have your chance," he stated evenly, "besides, we had nothing left to eat off of." He pulled the plug and collected dishes and cutlery from the table and piled them in the now-empty sink. He wiped the table quickly with a damp cloth and began re-setting it for the evening meal.

"Rodger, come and eat," he called out.

Rodger came and served himself from the pot, helped himself to bread and butter and began to eat quickly and silently. He rose, poured himself a large glass of milk and drank it over the sink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and departed through the back door. Diane and her husband had just begun to eat.

"Where's he off to?" Frank inquired.

"Oh, he has something at the school, he told me about it this morning but I've forgotten. I can't keep up with his schedule, it seems he has something every night … Guess what I've decided to do?"

"I can't guess."

"I'm going to become a songwriter."

"You're what?" Frank started.

"I'm going to be a songwriter," she reiterated slowly and distinctly as though he hadn't heard her correctly the first time. "I even have a publishing company who'll buy everything I write. They send you a guitar and books to teach you how to play it, how to read music, and music paper and everything. Then they buy your songs. Lots of people have done it, even some famous country music stars started out by writing music in their homes."

"Where did you learn about this?" he enquired, mildly fascinated.

"It was in the paper." She often referred to the scandal sheets and police tabloids she purchased at the convenience store as "the papers".

"I already sent away for it today."

He stared at her, incredulous. "You mean to say you sent money away in the mail for this scam? Are you serious? How much have you wasted this time?"

"Only a hundred dollars, and I didn't waste it. I'll pay the rest in instalments. Of course after awhile I'll be making more than the payments will be, so it won't cost anything."

"I see". He fought down an urge to let himself go. "So how much is the total cost?"

"Only four hundred and ninety-five dollars and you get a guitar, an agent and everything. So you see it must be honest, otherwise how could they make any money? It's because they make it on the songs people write."

Frank buried his face in his hands and shook his head sadly. "You are absolutely fucking dangerous" he muttered in amazement. "Did you send these people a cheque? Wait a minute," he said, suddenly hopeful, "you haven't been out of the house all day. How could you have mailed a letter?"

His hopes were quickly dashed. "Rodger took it for me. he's going to take up the guitar too."

He couldn't believe it. "No wonder the little son of a bitch skinned out of here so fast after supper," he thought, "he's plenty sharp enough to recognize this for what it is, but he's doing all he can to abet her. Why does he take such delight in tormenting me?"

"Don't you realize how much five hundred dollars means to us? That's two weeks pay … before deductions. We can't afford this, even if it was a good idea, which it isn't. You're never going to learn to play that thing from a book, and you're not going to write any songs either."

"There you go, putting me down again. Why do you always feel you're so superior to everybody? You think because you earn all the money you can dole it out and make all the decisions around here. Well I have news for you, I have a right to write cheques on that account too. Remember there are two names on them!" She spat this last out emphatically and waved two fingers before his face.

"Sure you can, when there's money in the account; which there isn't, and the car insurance is due next month. Tell you what, put your financial genius to work and figure out where that money is going to come from. I thought I had it covered. Now I don't."

He threw his fork down noisily on the empty plate and left the table. He put on a windbreaker over his uniform, went down the front stairs and out the door. Jim Stanton, the downstairs neighbour, stood on the lawn with his wife's French poodle on a leash.

"How are things Frank?"

Frank managed a broad grin and replied happily, "Never better Jim." He hurried on down the drive and turned left to avoid any further pleasantries. Besides, if Jim knew Frank was out for a walk he might want to come along. He never wanted to walk very far and he had to stop every few yards to permit the dog to piss on peoples lawns, lamp-posts and shrubbery. Jim's dog was a chronic irritation for Frank, though he managed to conceal it well. The landlord deducted sixty dollars a month for the maintenance Frank performed on the property and Frank took pride in seeing the grounds well tended. The dog's urine left little dead circles all over the front lawn where they usually "walked" it, and made the area unattractive for use.

Frank began walking at a moderate pace, thinking that Jim wasn't a bad sort really, it was just that tonight his patience was already spent. He planned to cover about four and a half miles, taking a direct route to the river, then along the bicycle pathway for a mile or so, followed by a haphazard choice of quiet residential streets for the return home. He had travelled about three blocks when he heard a female voice call his name. He froze in his tracks and began to swear quietly but intensely under his breath, a long string of the most venomous invective he could piece together. He turned to watch Diane run the last half block to where he stood, arriving quite out of breath.

"Where are you going?" he demanded gruffly.

"I thought I'd come with you for a walk. What's the matter, can't you even take your wife along for a walk like a decent man? You never want to do anything with me. I haven't been out of the house all day and now you begrudge me an evening stroll. Where are you going that you don't want me to come along?"

"I'm going nowhere. Come along if you like, I don't care."

"I don't know why you're so angry Frank, I think you're just negative about everything I do. You think I'm too stupid to learn the guitar, but I'll show you. Besides I thought if Rodger took an interest in it he might stay home more. You'd like that wouldn't you? Other boys his age have musical instruments and spend a lot of time playing them."

"If Rodger had wanted a guitar he could have discussed it with me and I could have helped him to find one … for a lot less than five hundred bucks I might add. The truth is he hasn't shown any interest in music, this is just another one of your hair-brained schemes."

"There you go again, putting me down. Haven't you ever heard of trying to build up a person's ego, instead of trying to destroy their aspirations all the time? Maybe if you weren't always trying to make yourself look better and smarter than me we'd get along better, and I'd feel more like doing things for you, like making meals and housecleaning." Diane was speaking in a voice low enough that she wouldn't be overheard by someone working in their garden. Then she said more loudly. "Slow down will you, we're not in a race. Why do you have to walk so fast?"

"Because I came out here to get some exercise and work off some steam, that's why! Then you came along and expect me to slow down to your pace. Next you'll want to turn around and go home," he replied irritably. Frank placed his right hand at the back of his neck and closing his eyes began to roll his head in a circle. It was beginning to ache, just at the base of his skull. He slowed down now and they walked in silence for another two blocks before she took his arm and steered him firmly toward home. Frank made no effort to resist, his headache had begun to throb by now and any physical effort seemed to increase its intensity.

"Do I have a clean shirt for tomorrow?" he asked in a tone more curious than peremptory.

"I don't think so … I thought tomorrow was your day off."

"Well it is, but I heard they have a special in the morning to the Bank of Canada. It would mean four hours minimum, but they probably won't call me. It's been quite awhile since I got any overtime; the god-damn part-timers are getting it all. I think they'd like to run that company entirely on part-time help."

"Well I don't think it's fair. Some of those men have good jobs already. This is just pocket-money for them. I don't understand why your company even wants them, they're not making a career out of it like you are."

"That's why they want them dear", he explained in a patronizing manner. "They don't need much money, no-one can live on what a part-timer earns per hour, but because they already have another income they aren't pushing for higher wages. Remember old Joe Quinn? He retired six weeks ago and they haven't created another full-time position to replace him yet. I don't think they intend to either."

"If they're getting rid of full-time people as you say, do you think they might get rid of you eventually?" She looked worried.

"They can't fire me. Not without 'just cause', but you can be sure if they ever get anything on me I'll be gone pretty quick. There's nothing to worry about," he added quickly, "but knowing they're just waiting for their oldest employees to quit doesn't leave a fellow with very loyal feelings toward his employer. I guess I'm getting fed up with my job," he admitted. "Remember when I first went to work there? The pay was pretty good compared to other jobs, but we've been losing ground steadily for the past few years, now there are more part-timers than ever, and we've won no new benefits like other labour groups; we're too busy trying to hang on to what we've got. I'd quit, but to start at the bottom somewhere else would mean even less money, and anyway who wants a thirty-seven year old guy with no trade?"

"Well, don't worry, maybe soon I'll be making lots of money."

He didn't answer, thinking, "Jesus, if she brings up that songwriting bullshit again I think I may lose it right here on the sidewalk."

They turned into the laneway and walked toward the kitchen steps in the gathering darkness. Frank couldn't wait to take the pain tablets for his headache and lie down in a dark room. That was the only thing that relieved the pounding in his head, and when it occurred at work there was nothing he could do about it, no remedy seemed to work in the steady banging and jostling of the truck. He chased four aspirins down with a glass of water and retired to the bedroom to undress and lie down. First however, he did something that struck him as odd. He made the bed, pulling the sheets tight and plumping up the pillows, placing them on top of the blankets where he had folded the top of the sheet down over. Then he turned down one corner of the bed and got into it. This was the kind of fastidious behaviour that drove Diane crazy. He could no sooner leave that bed unmade than get into a dirty one. He would press uniform shirts and trousers that she said were wash-and-wear; meant to be placed on hangers as soon as they were taken from the clothes dryer. He insisted that all members of the family remove their shoes in the house, yet if he detected any dirt on the floor he would leave his own boots on. While Diane had at one time tried to meet his expectations, she no longer bothered, accusing him of being neurotic and unreasonable. Frank piled his soiled clothes on top of a hamper that was filled to overflowing and in less than ten minutes he was asleep.

He awoke some time later feeling refreshed, the headache gone. He listened intently for a moment, not hearing the television which should have been on, as Diane had not yet come to bed. He looked at the luminous dial on the clock behind his head. Four-thirty! He knew now what had happened. Diane had fallen asleep in front of the t.v. again. It happened often enough, Frank would go to bed early to be up at six, while Diane found she couldn't sleep at that hour, having risen after Rodger left for school, at some time between nine and eleven.

Frank switched on the lamp at the headboard shelf and padded barefoot in his underpants to the livingroom. The television was emitting a low whistle. He turned it off. Diane started up from her semi-prone position on the couch.

"Hey, I was watching that."

"Watching what?"

"The movie."

"The movie has been over for hours. It's time to go to bed." He turned off one of two lights still burning.

She yawned, stretched and finally rose and left the room. Frank extinguished the remaining light and followed. Diane was undressing.

"I suppose you're all wide-awake and bushy-tailed after going to bed at eight-thirty" she accused him crossly.

"Wide awake," he countered with a broad grin.

"Well," she snorted, angry now, "I hope you don't have any ideas that include me. I'm tired you know; it's four-thirty in the morning. I know what's on your mind, you're so selfish sometimes!" She turned her back to him, and reaching behind, unhooked her bra. Frank watched her, his hands laced together on the pillow behind his head. She donned a heavy cotton nightgown, slipped quickly between the covers, and with her back toward him proceeded to resume her interrupted slumber.

Frank reached above his head and turned off the light. He knew it was pointless to attempt any further sleep. His normal wake-up time was a little more than an hour away, and he'd already slept eight hours. He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling; alert, frustrated, angry, his hands clenched into fists. "I'm quite aware it's four-thirty in the morning," he reflected resentfully, "but now what the hell am I supposed to do for two hours? Maybe it is a little thoughtless to expect sex at this hour, but it has been three weeks, besides it seems like every night we get maneuvered into a position like this, a sort of 'how could you under these circumstances' type of situation."

Frank could remember a time when sex hadn't been such an overpowering urge in him, when he had a more take-it-or-leave-it attitude, but Diane and he had been more affectionate then, so maybe he hadn't needed it so much. Certainly there had been no question of sex before their marriage. Frank began to realize later that this had meant no real hardship for Diane. Although she had once loved him, the idea of sex with him had never held any strong allure, indeed it was unattractive to her almost to the point of revulsion. She had tried at first to accommodate him, but as they grew more accustomed to one another she became more honest about it. She resented the forced intimacy of marriage, the sharing of a bed, and a bathroom, the picking up of smelly socks and dirty underwear, and a dozen other routine tasks that spoke of close human contact.

Diane had never been denied much as a girl. Her parents, somewhat late in life, had raised one child and had provided her with every amenity, requesting no assistance with household chores in return. Unlike Frank who had grown up in a tiny war-time home with five siblings, and parents to whom poverty and large families were as natural as rain, Diane and her folks shared a spacious bungalow and two incomes. Frank, having been the oldest, was well-used to the intimacy that a crowded home engenders. He had changed his little sisters' diapers, cleaned up their vomit, and washed huge stacks of dishes as he grew; while Diane's only responsibility was to make her bed and place the laundry hamper in the hall on Tuesdays, a task she routinely forgot. She found Frank's home crowded, and thought it smelled disgustingly of human habitation, but of course she made no mention of it at the time, and Frank had remained unaware of her feelings.

"I should have foreseen all this," he mused, angry at himself. He recalled two incidents from their high-school romance that to an older or more experienced person, would have held ominous portent.

The first time he had tried to French-kiss her she had jerked away, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth frantically; with a grimace she blurted, "Don't stick your tongue in my mouth, I don't like that."

As time went on she became more receptive to his attentions, but only at times, and he had never been able to predict when those times might be. Once during the excitement of a long kiss he had placed his hand on her deliciously nylon-encased kneecap and had had it roundly smacked in response. The subject of sex had never been discussed in any but a peripheral manner, but Frank had assumed, that like his parents, and he supposed, Diane's parents too, they would enjoy a regular and satisfying sex life after marriage. "Yeah right," he growled, "and I'll have a regular and satisfying life after death too!"

When Frank realized that his newly aroused biological drives were to be consistently denied, resentful arguments had ensued. These grew increasingly bitter, until the criticisms and recriminations of heated debate had cooled all passion for one another, spilling over even into the quiet times until a mutual apathy and low regard came to overshadow their lives. There were other problems as well, but none so demoralizing or insistent.

If he could only get laid once in awhile, anywhere, it would be easier to overlook Diane's stupidity, lack of effort and inability to cope with her daily responsibilities. It would put him in a better mood, he thought. "We might even get to be friends again," he raged silently, "and stop this relentless bickering. Oh, I am so sick of it all." And so he was, sick of it: emotionally drained, psychologically damaged, and now with the recurring headaches, perhaps physically ill as well. The need for companionship was becoming the most powerful underlying force in his life. He yearned for the feel of a loving suppliant body next to his; his need was ever-present, but at times like this, having just seen his wife's body naked before him he felt an insistent tugging in his loins which being unattended, would soon give way to a dull ache in the groin, spreading through out the entire pelvis and into the small of his back.

"They say the needs for food and shelter are more primal than the need for sex … but if I could get laid right now I think I'd rather be like the tom-cat, getting home after three days away, half-starved and suffering from exposure." He rose carefully from the bed, and taking his housecoat from a hook behind the door, tiptoed silently from the room.