It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

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СКАЧАТЬ into the cavernous opening. But so many had boarded before she arrived that she soon gave up, knowing it was an exercise in futility.

      Next to the ferry brochure was her much read and well-creased road map, the route from her apartment in Andover, Massachusetts, to Tadoussac, Québec, highlighted in bright red. The helpful agent at AAA had assured Abby the drive would be a scenic one, albeit long, and had been telling the truth. Abby had made a right turn out of her driveway early the previous morning and had driven north in a straight line ever since. About halfway through the trip, late yesterday afternoon, she had left the interstate for the more rural highways of northern Maine. By evening, she had cleared Canadian customs and crossed the border into New Brunswick, Canada, picked up the Trans-Canada Highway and entered the province of Québec around midnight.

      So near and yet so far, Abby thought, looking out her windshield at the choppy waters of the Saint Lawrence.

      She sat up straighter as the last of the cars eased over the ramp between the dock and ferry. Abby could barely make out the ferry’s darkened interior, but it looked like there could be enough room for all the cars in her lane. Her optimism, however, was premature.

      Just as she was keying her ignition back on, she watched in horror as the terminal workers switched their attention to the scores of big rigs, panel trucks and large flatbeds that had been idling in the lane to her left.

      When the last the of the trucks had been allowed on board, Abby saw the brake lights on the lead car in her lane flash. As if that were the signal, all the remaining cars roared to life and the line slowly inched forward. A terminal worker approached each car, handed the driver a slip of paper and then waved the vehicle on. The closer Abby got, the more convinced she became that she would have to make a reservation on the next available ferry—eight hours later or drive miles and hours out of her way to Québec City and the bridge.

      She was now so close to the ferry, it blocked out the sky. She watched as the car in front of her—a late-model Saab with two mountain bikes lashed to the back bumper—was waved aboard. The attendant approached her car, the coveted white boarding slips in his hand. Rolling down the window, Abby offered him what she hoped was her most engaging smile, as if charm alone could magically create a space for her.

      “Good morning,” she said brightly to the young man, his Québec Maritime Windbreaker zipped to his chin, the hood pulled low over his eyes against the raw wind whipping off the Saint Lawrence. “Gosh, there are so many cars and I know I should have called ahead, but I really need to get across this morning and—” Abby knew she was babbling but couldn’t help it.

      The young man glanced in the car, saw Abby was the only passenger, mumbled something indecipherable, scribbled on the paper and handed it to her with one hand, pointing to the ferry with the other.

      Abby accepted the slip with a genuine “thank you,” clutching it in one hand even as she steered onto the ramp.

      Once on the ferry, another Québec Maritime worker directed her to a spot behind the Saab and against the boat’s port side hull. “We made it,” she said exuberantly to Figgy, who was now sitting up and looking around, the noises of the ferry’s interior—parking cars, slamming doors, metal clanging and the steady throb of the boat’s engine—having wakened her.

      Curious about the fate of the drivers behind her, Abby looked in her rearview mirror to see just how close she had come to being left behind. With the limited space behind her, it was obvious that, while she was not the last to board, not much of a cushion had remained. Her view was blocked as an older Jeep Wagoneer pulled up behind her, so close its grill filled the mirror.

      “Okay,” she said. “What say we get our stuff and head above decks?”

      Thanks to her proximity to the inner hull, Abby had to squeeze out of the car. She then walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and began gathering her purse, some bottled water, the previous day’s newspaper and Figgy’s leash. Snapping the leash to the dog’s collar, she stood and pulled gently for Figgy to follow her. Startled, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

      A crew member was standing just behind her, saying something in French.

      “Pardon?” she said.

      The crewman, with obvious impatience, repeated himself, and Abby did her best to follow his rapid speech.

      Dammit, she thought, why didn’t I pay better attention in high school French?

      She said, “I’m sorry, please slow down, I don’t understand.”

      Glowering at her, the man pointed at Figgy and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a sign on the far wall. Looking past him, Abby felt her heart drop when she saw the illustration of a dog on a leash with a fat red line through it. She didn’t have to be fluent in any language to know that symbol meant dogs were not welcome, allowed or wanted on the Felipe’s upper decks.

      “You mean I have to leave her here? In the car? What if something happens and I have to get to her?” Abby was horrified. Figgy had been her companion for the past five years, and there was no way she could leave her beloved pet alone in the dark musty hold.

      Then she realized there was another option. “Never mind,” she said to the crewman, not caring if he understood her or not. “I can ride down here. I can even take a nap.”

      She bent to put her things back in the car and again felt a tap on her shoulder.

      The crewman had obviously been through this before with countless other passengers and their pets. Shaking his head, he pointed to another sign, this one with instructions in several different languages, including English. Passengers are forbidden to stay with their cars.

      “Listen,” she said, “I can’t leave her down here. Can’t you make an exception? Please?”

      The crewman was looking at her impassively and Abby had the distinct feeling she’d have a better chance pleading her case to the nearby bulkhead.

      She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. She knew she was being foolish, that Figgy would be fine down here for a couple of hours. But she couldn’t get the image of some kind of maritime disaster out of her head. Abby knew she was tired; worn out from the stress of an all-night drive and then the uncertainty of getting on the damned ferry. All she wanted was to get up to the main deck, pay her fare, buy a large cup of coffee and find a sunny place to sit and enjoy the scenery for the next two hours.

      She opened her mouth, unsure of what was going to come out, when a masculine voice to her right said, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but can I help?”

      Turning, she saw it was the driver of the Jeep Wagoneer. Given the tight quarters on the car deck, he had been unable to get past Abby’s car since she and the ferry worker were blocking the narrow aisle.

      “What?” she said.

      The man smiled and, without a word to Abby, turned to the crewman and spoke in French. Abby couldn’t keep up, but she could have sworn she heard him say something about a doctor.

      After a further exchange, during which the worker cast several questioning looks at Abby, the driver of the Wagoneer extended his hand for the crewman to shake. Smiling briefly, the man shook hands and looked at Abby again, then left.

      Was that fear in his eyes? she wondered. No, she was just tired and seeing things.

      “Okay,” the driver СКАЧАТЬ