This Time Next Week – by Richard Rebel
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Butch and Sundance are pinned down and bleeding in the shadows, about to go out in a sepia-toned blaze of glory. Redford – he’s got the stoic and determined thing down pat, with the boyish charm still there just below the surface. Newman’s blue eyes shine, even when the rest of his face isn’t smiling.
Dad shifts in his chair. There is a cold cup of tea beside him. He says something about William Goldman and this being one of the first ’70s movies, maybe the first, even though it was ’69. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, story-wise, he says. It’s like they made it up as they went, just a string of scenes … but it’s a fun ride anyway, you know.
I’m glad the film is almost over. I have work tomorrow. I still have to drive home. I slept in projector-flickers last night. There are these cats that prowl the lane next to my place. Sometimes they’re silent, sometimes they hiss or growl like little lions, but they’re always there.
Last week we watched Red River. It had been years since I’d seen it. Cattle stampedes and river crossings aplenty. Monty Clift desperate for John Wayne’s fatherly approval. That weird little guy who wouldn’t take off his hat, because it was his hat.
Dad sighs, and there is also a new kind of groan that I barely notice now, but I’ll remember it later.
This has become our thing when I visit each Sunday night. Some sludgy dinner that Dad cooks or reheats on his dinky little stovetop, some talk – about my work, his garden, where the weeds are slowly invading, or a garage project not quite finished, vague reports of doctor appointments or neighbour happenings – but not much else. Talk that skates across ice that never cracks. Then an oven-heated frozen apple pie or something similar. A pot of tea. He still has VHS tapes, and while he rummages through the collection suggesting titles, I quietly remove anything from the fridge that looks questionable, murky jars and uneaten leftovers. He doesn’t comment about this but I’m sure he’s still sharp enough to know what I’m doing. He chooses the movie – maybe a steely Jimmy Stewart shooter or a sentimental John Ford. Once, he suggested Lonesome Dove, but an episode a week for the next month seemed like too much commitment.
Somewhere, maybe in a drawer or a shoebox, I have a photo. It’s Dad astride his ten-speed in the driveway of our old house. He is wearing a beige jacket and a wide tie with brown swirls. He used to ride to work every day, regardless of weather. He had a thin metal band that clamped around his right calf to stop his pants catching in the chain. In the photo he is smiling and squinting into the sun. The sky behind him is an amplified blue. I imagine how his tie would have flapped in the wind as he rode, maybe trailing behind like a flag.
Now Butch and Sundance are talking about heading to Australia, and even though I know what’s about to happen, I find myself hoping, wishing they’d somehow get there. I think they’d have fit right in – maybe a swindle of some sort on the goldfields, or finally going straight and raising cattle or sheep. But – of course – they’re never going to get more than a few panicky steps out the door.
And right then, I recall being in the car with Dad, on our way back from somewhere. I was maybe eight or nine. Winter, night, sleet hitting the windscreen. Headlights flashing yellow across trees as we snaked around curves. Now, I think of treacherous ice on the road or poor visibility, but then I just let the back seat cradle me as the car rocked with the road’s bends. I half-slept, remotely aware of Dad gently braking and his strong grip handling the shiny black steering wheel with a light touch.
I don’t know it yet, but this time next week I’ll be on the phone to my brother, arranging things.
Here they go, Butch and Sundance, guns ready now. The desperate scramble out the door. A final moment – just a second – of the old swagger and confidence and hope that they’ll get out of this, just like all their other scrapes. And then that knockout last frame: they’re frozen, forever mid-step, an eternal last breath before the mad storm of bullets. ▼
Image: Sebastien le Derout
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