An American in Canada

"Thing is, prostitutes cost money, and Robert was draining what savings we had. To top that off, one of them let him smoke some of her crack, and he got hooked on that shit.

"Well, I blew up over that one. I'd given up worrying about all of the bimbos he'd fucked, and I guess that my self-esteem was in the biffy, but when cheques for the lights and heat bounced, I just lost it, and I threw a mickey at him.

"Naturally, I missed, but he didn't, and he beat the shit out of me for that. I'd had enough, and ran out of the house, straight into the arms of a cop. Robert got arrested and thrown in lock-up. Once there, it became obvious that he was hooked on something, so they dropped charges but required him to go through detox and rehab. He lost his job 'cause of that, but big deal, since he was blowing it all on hookers and drugs anyway."

"Sounds like a real winner, that one."

"Oh, he was a real hoser, but I was married to him, and we had kids early enough that I was stuck with him. I started to get my self-esteem back while he was away, and I told myself that I wouldn't put up with his shit anymore. Trouble is, I let him back in the house when he got out, and he slapped me around again, though this time he didn't use his fists. I ran into the kitchen, and I grabbed a knife. The hoser laughed at me, and said he'd take that knife away from me and cut my throat with it.

"Well, he didn't. He tried, but he was half-drunk and stumbled, and I guess that I wasn't thinking, but when he stumbled at me, I stabbed down, caught him in the back, and I guess I caught him in the windpipe or something, but he died right there.

"Of course, I knew that the police would never believe it was self-defense, because the wound was in his back. I threw what I had in his old beat up truck and just drove. I didn't have much cash, so I had to use my cards for fuel, though I always got cash back, y'know. That gave me a few dollars in my pocket, and once I had enough for a few tanks, I changed direction, heading here instead of Nova Scotia. I found this place off road, got what I thought I'd need and then lost myself, y'know? They'll never spot that old truck from the road, not where it is.

"I'd carried off Scott's old rifle, and some ammunition, but I don't have much left, and I'm almost flat busted on dollars. I've got enough gas left in the truck that I can make it to Fredericton, maybe get a job somewhere for some food and cash, and then back to hide out."

Damn! Linda's story was a lot shorter than mine, but she was also way more desperate. I mean, I can't go back to the States, not without worrying about getting locked up, but I have my Canadian ID now, a real one, as Claude. I'd managed to get a fake ID as Claude after he died, but was able to cop it to a real one when it came up for renewal. Hell, when the real Claude would have turned 65, since I was now him, I was able to get his Old Age Security pension, not that it was a lot.

Linda could never do that; she'd be arrested if she tried to claim her benefits. Heck, she couldn't even go to clinic for medicine, despite Canada's free health care system, because she'd be arrested.

One thing about living so far north, out in the snowy woods: it gets dark so early that people just naturally go to bed early. Linda took it upon herself to clean up after dinner, after I showed her where the hand water pump was, and I got out the spare bedding to make myself a nest on the floor. Sure, the floor was hard, but I'd slept in a lot worse conditions in my lifetime. Thing is, as I was puttering around, she showed her determination, and dove under the covers I had set up on the floor.

"Linda, those are for me," I insisted, but whatever spunk her dead husband had beat out of her, she'd found it again, and refused.

"I'm sleeping down here, and if you're going to insist, then you'll be getting in bed with me, and you said you wouldn't force yourself on me."

"Damn it, Linda, you're the guest here!"

"Too bad, Claude, or Jack, or whoever you are. I'm staying where I'm staying." With that, she sat up in the bed-on-the-floor, chattering on as I packed more wood into the stove to last the night. I made my outhouse run, and when I returned, I shut down the oil lamps; the only light was the glow from the glass doors on the wood stove. With Linda firmly ensconced on the floor, I climbed into my nice, warm, cozy bed.

The ideas were roiling around in my head. How could I make sure that Linda could survive? Canada had a great social welfare system, but if she tried to use it, she'd be arrested. Yeah, she acted in self-defense, but it still worked out that she'd stabbed a man in the back, plus she ran; it would just never look good in court, even with her husband's record. Remember: he'd gone through detox and rehab, but didn't have any actual criminal record.

"Linda," I whispered to her, "maybe we should get married."

"What? Are you daft? We just met! Why should we do that?"

"No, listen, it can all work. We don't have to live as man-and-wife, but here's what we could do. We can sneak back into Maine, and get you a faked American ID. It really isn't all that hard. Then we come back to Canada, and get married, and presto, you become a Canadian through marriage to me, and you'll be eligible for medical care and eventually Old Age Security."

"So, what, a real Canadian becomes a fake American so she can marry a real American who's a fake Canadian, so that she can become a Canadian immigrant? You know how stupid that sounds?"

"Yeah, it sounds dumb, I know, but it could work, don't you think? They won't check your ID to closely in town, not just for a marriage license."

"They might. Heck, if we did that, and I'm not saying I would, wouldn't it be easier to get married in Maine instead. After all, you have a real Canadian ID, and aren't your marriage laws easier?"

I thought about it, and it kind of made sense. They don't check American IDs too closely for much other than plane rides, so a fake drivers license for her, especially if it was out-of-state, say New Hampshire, wouldn't be scrutinized too closely, and my Canadian ID was genuine; I really was Claude Duvalier!

"And this would just be a marriage of convenience, right? You wouldn't be expecting anything else?" Linda was persistent on this. I guess that she really had no reason to trust men at all.

"Yeah, that's all it would be. No pressure on you for anything."

"Yeah, well, I'll have to think about it. Are you sure you aren't still married to that bitch in Virginia?"

"Oh, I'm sure she divorced me after I disappeared, but even if she didn't, she's married to jack Armstrong, and I'm Claude Duvalier!"

"Yeah, right. Well, I have to go to the privy." With that, Linda got up, grabbed my flashlight, and headed outside. I paid attention: she hadn't grabbed enough clothes to try to make it back to her shack, so I hadn't scared her off, at least not too badly, with my cockamamie idea.

Her being out gave me a couple more minutes to think about it. Yeah, it could work, although it would have to wait until spring; having to hunt down someone in Maine who could make fake IDs would be a lot easier once the ice and snow was gone. Plus, by then, people's winter stores would be gone, and they'd need cash, and maybe that fake ID would be a few bucks cheaper. After all, one cost me $100 back in 1988, when things were simpler. That was 22 years ago, and shit had just gotten a lot more complicated, especially after 9/11. Still, it could be done, I was sure, and Linda's idea that it would be simpler to get our fake marriage in Maine than New Brunswick was probably sound. Either way, she'd have to apply for Canadian citizenship eventually, which would be odd, but not too difficult. After all, she'd never been arrested for killing her loser husband, so there were no fingerprints for her on file.

Linda came back in, stamping her feet from the cold, with a hearty "Brrrr!" coming from her lips, and a dusting of snowflakes on her parka; it must have started snowing again. She shucked the parka and her boots, and walked back to the bed-on-the-floor. She took one look at me, and I guess a decision was made, because she them climbed into bed with me.

"It might be a fake marriage," she said, "but that means you have the real duty of keeping me warm at night."