Knife Fight and Other Struggles (35 page)

“Stupid stupid drakeela head, stupid stupid drakeela head!”

The drakeela managed to get to its feet before Lucy and Leonard could get around the desk. It had nearly made it to the toy cupboard by the time they had caught up with it. Susie touched her cross to the drakeela’s hand, and it screamed with a sound like a strangling kitten. When the wood came away, there was a burn mark on its knuckles, like it had been branded.

The drakeela stuck its head into the cupboard and tried to get inside, but Leonard managed to get ahold of its legs. When it kicked, it nearly sent him flying. Leonard reached into his belt-loop for the twelve-inch ruler and tried to stick the drakeela with it, but it was too far inside.

“I can’t hold on!” yelled Leonard.

“I’m coming!” hollered Jason.

“Wait for us!” squealed Lucy.

It was a tough fight, but together, Lucy and Leonard and Susie and Jason managed to pull the drakeela out of the toy cupboard and lay it on its back. It thrashed back and forth, its legs going like pinwheels, and its fangs nearly gave Leonard a cut on his hand.

Leonard got his twelve-inch ruler. He took a deep breath. Susie took hold of the pointed end and put it against the drakeela’s chest.

“That’s where its heart is,” said Susie. “I know ’cause I’m a doctor.”

The drakeela’s eyes were screwed shut. Its shoulders and knees trembled where Jason and Lucy held it pinned.

“You’re not a doctor,” said Leonard.

“Am too,” said Susie. “Ask Lucy. She’s a nurse.”

Leonard was about to ask Lucy when a shudder went through the twelve-inch ruler and he almost lost his grip. The drakeela coughed, and its mouth spasmed open. Its two thin fangs slipped out from beneath its leathery lips for the barest instant. They looked like nails, Leonard thought. Little nails like his mom used to hang pictures in the living room.

The drakeela’s lips folded back over its mouth, and its eyes opened. Their glow was diminished by shadows, but the eyes still reached up to Leonard. They pleaded, and tried to draw him down.

“No way!” screamed Jason. He let go of the drakeela’s knees, reared up on his own knees and slammed his hand down on the top of the ruler. The fabric of the drakeela’s T-shirt pushed in as the tip of the ruler slipped over a rib, but Jason’s weight wasn’t enough to push the stake in by itself.

Leonard shook his head rapidly and said, “That was close.” He put his hands on top of Jason’s and added his own weight.

The drakeela’s T-shirt began to redden.

Lucy let go of the drakeela’s shoulders and grabbed hold of the ruler as well. The drakeela flailed, and it snapped and bit and shrieked as the splintering tip of the ruler pierced its ribcage. It was harder than any of them had imagined—on Mr. Hammer’s matinees, the stake always went in after one or two whacks from a mallet, and the drakeela just hissed a bit before it got killed. Killing this drakeela was hard work.

Finally, Susan piled on top. Combined, the weight of the four of them was enough to send the ruler the rest of the way into its chest, and the drakeela’s cold, congealing blood shot up like a geyser. Its eyes shut tight, then opened wide, and then they became still, their orange glow extinguished.

Jason started to sob. He had pressed down too hard on top of the ruler when he jumped on it, and now his own hands were bleeding freely. The other three were fine, but hearing Jason, one by one they followed suit. Leonard was the last, and his tears came reluctantly.

The recess bell rang at 10:50 a.m., but Mrs. Semple, the vice-principal, told the kids from the morning kindergarten to stay outside for a while longer. When one of the kids said she had to go to the bathroom, Mrs. Semple had one of the older children take her around to the big kids’ washrooms on the other side of the school.

Mrs. Shelby stayed in the kindergarten until the police and the ambulance came. She ordered the hallway from the gym to the door to the schoolyard sealed off, so that no one could get to the kindergarten but her.

She looked at little Timmy Slitzken for what seemed like a long time. They were all so small at this age, and this one . . . There was something precious in the special ones, wasn’t there? Mrs. Shelby knew that she should have called the parents already, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Not right away.

The parents of the special ones had seen so much pain already. Who knew what Mr. Slitzken would do in the face of this tragedy? Mrs. Shelby felt a February chill as the door to the yard opened for the paramedics’ stretcher, and she shivered.

We cooked her, feathers and all, during the last hundred miles of that long drive to Agatha’s Perch . . . and oh, her fume filled the cab with such a wonderful, peaceable scent. One might drift off to sleep by it—and that is precisely what I did.

I dreamed of the kitchen, hot with the afternoon sun and fire of the wood stove, the steam off the slowly cooling meat pies on the sill. . . . Gudrun, my dear sister, humming an old chant as she rolled out dough for more—out of sight, in the pantry. . . .

Were it not for that, I almost might have forgotten—what I’d come to do.

William had gutted her with an old scaling knife. After wiping the blood off, he applied the blade to coring crab-apples we’d filched from the same farm as we’d found her. He stuffed them up inside the cavity until she was ready to burst. He shoved salted roast peanuts and some pork rinds up between skin and breast, and he took two layers of thick-gauge tinfoil, wrapped her up tight and wedged her against the exhaust manifold. Then he turned the oven on—that’s to say the oven of his truck, by driving it fast on the straightaways and too fast on the turns, into the foothills, up to the Perch.

“Black Hen à la Ford,” he said when he finally cracked the hood and pulled her free.

She was hot in her bright shell, and he tossed that hen from hand to hand as we all gathered in the late afternoon haze, in the shade of that old house on the ridge.

“Voila!” he hollered, and we all howled.

William is a good grandson. Not the best, but I’d never dream of telling him that.

There were a lot of grandchildren at the Perch already and more to arrive before nightfall. Grandchildren, and nieces and nephews—great-grandchildren, maybe even a great-great-grandchild.

I lose track of them all, but I know the families: Alfred’s and Rainer’s, Kerr’s and Lars’s, and of course Gunnar’s.

It was their turn this time. So of course they were there.

Janet, Gunnar’s wife, had set up long tables on the front lawn, and dangled paper patio lanterns above them from the tree branches. She’d even arranged for two old blue plastic privies, side by side next to the old garden house.

Not far from that, a long green hose dribbled water into the grass. It was a good idea; you could wash up after doing your business, without ever feeling need of setting foot indoors.

Janet took the chicken from William and ran up the path to the house so William could go to the back and get my things.

There wasn’t much to get: just an old suitcase with a new frock and a set of iron fry-pans—wrapped up in newspaper and covered in a green garbage bag. I packed them myself two days back, with great care. Wouldn’t do for them to rust; it’d taken decades to season them right.

William carried them in one trip to the long porch, set them down next to where Janet had laid his offering. Then it was off to the privy. It’d been a long drive and we’d only stopped the once. Janet took me by the arm, hauled me over to a big green Muskoka chair at the head of the first table.

She said, “You look good, Granny Ingrid,” which I didn’t care for. No one tells good-looking people they look good.

Janet, now. What Janet looked was tired. There were new lines around her eyes, and her face was red with sunburn. She had probably earned it. The drive was long enough for William and me. We weren’t hauling a trailer up the mountain road; there were no children in William’s truck. William was young enough to have reserves. I’m old enough to know my limits. Janet, stuck between us, would have wrung herself dry with work, and with worry.

“Where are the girls?” I asked.

She pointed over to the Lookout. My great-grandchildren were there, on their toes, peering over the stone wall that came up to their chins. That was good. The drop off the lookout was fierce and far, and Lars and his boys had built it so even a grown man would have to mean it, to tip over that edge.

“They’re getting big,” said Janet. “Amanda’s going to be in high school next year.” She saw my perplexity, and pointed to the one on the left, coppery hair cropped short at her shoulders. She was bigger than I remembered. But it had been five years. One can’t expect time to stand still, where a child’s concerned.

“Mandy. And Lizzie—” the smaller of the two, with darker hair braided down her back, was bending down to pick up a pebble “—is she talking yet?” I asked. Last time, Liz only spoke to scream, and there were no words. She was five years old. We’d made a chant then—one of so many—that she wouldn’t grow up a retard, but I hadn’t much hope for her.

“She is,” said Janet. “We put her in a special program at school. Now you can’t shut her up.”

Liz flung the pebbles overhand, and they rattled through the branches of the poplar trees below.

“Well that’s a blessing.”

Janet smiled, and waved to her daughters. “Come on over and see Granny Ingrid!”

Amanda waved back, and nudged her little sister, who looked over at us with a stricken expression.

“Oh, let them have their fun. I should go unpack,” I said, “before the rest get here.”

Janet smiled thinly, and nodded toward the porch.

“That’s been taken care of,” she said, and I looked over and saw it was true.

The porch was empty. While we were talking, Gudrun had collected my things, William’s bird—and carried them all inside.

“I’ve got lots to do,” said Janet. “Talk to your great-granddaughters. She . . . your sister can wait.”

Janet left just as her girls arrived. I made a smile for them, and gave them both hugs, and asked them only a few questions before they set in with their talk.

Amanda was enrolled in a basketball program and she was very good at it, thank you very much. Lizzie was learning how to play chess and she wasn’t very good yet, but would be soon. Amanda and Lizzie were both fond of a series of novels about a girl a few years older than they were, and her lover, a young man a few years older than she. According to Lizzie, Amanda had let a boy who was also a few years older than she kiss her, and when Amanda shouted no, Lizzie said all right, Amanda had kissed the boy, and asked if that was better? I believe Lizzie was trying to shock me, but it didn’t work.

“Are you going to cook today?” asked Lizzie, and Mandy said, “You don’t have to,” and thought about what she said, and added, “I didn’t mean that I don’t like your food,” which scarcely made matters better.

“We’ll see how it goes,” I said.

“Mandy means you can let Granny Gudrun do it if you’re too tired,” said Lizzie.

“I don’t think that would do,” I said, and lied: “The recipes take two to make their magic work.”

“Magic!” said Lizzie. “Black magic!” Her sister shushed her.

“It’s just cooking,” said Mandy, and then she said to me: “It’s not black magic.” And after a heartbeat or so, she asked:

“Are you angry with us?”

Now that made me smile. Mandy had put her arm around Lizzie and her eyes were round. Lizzie was a step behind her sister, but as I watched, tendrils of worry crossed her face, like cloud over moon.

“I’m not angry,” I said finally. “I’m not tired either. I had a wonderful nap in your Uncle William’s truck on the way up. I’m ready for whatever the night brings. Black magic or not.”

Mandy tried to smile, tried to laugh, failed at both. Lizzie did better just keeping quiet. I could barely see her trembling as I heard the familiar footsteps approaching behind me.

“You’re good girls,” I said. “You can run along now.”

“They don’t have to be told twice,” said Gunnar as he stepped around the chair and bent to give me a kiss. “Help your mother!” he called after them as his daughters ran toward their family’s van.

Gunnar opened a canvas chair beside me and sat in it.

“You look good,” I said, and I
wasn’t
lying. Gunnar’s daughters had grown beyond recognition, splendid little weeds that they were; Janet’s sunburned face was gradually taking on the texture of cowhide, and she was, to be honest, going to fat. Yet Gunnar—here was the same handsome, strapping lad I’d hugged the last time we’d gathered here. He had cut off most of his long blond hair, and shaved the little pirate beard he’d been so proud of. Past that—the years had treated my eldest grandson tenderly. One might even say neglectfully.

“I don’t know what you said. But you scared the noses off my girls,” he said.

“They scared their own noses off.” I reached over and tapped the end of his nose, and finished with that old trick that had made him laugh so when he was but a tyke: lifted my fist, with thumb poked out, nose-ish, between index and middle fingers. “I’ll give them this one. They can fight over it.”

And that was all it took to make my Gunnar laugh again. But the laughter passed too quickly.

“You have to go in soon,” he said.

Soon didn’t mean right away. Before I went, I made sure Gunnar brought me up to date.

It had been a good five years since the last hootenanny. Gunnar began the first year still working for Mr. Oates at his construction company. By the end of the year, he was promoted, and in the middle of the second year was promoted again to a job in the office. At three years, Mr. Oates named him his second-in-command. Four years in, and he was a partner. Last year, Mr. Oates took ill, and went home, where he would probably stay until the end. Fingers crossed, I said to Gunnar.

They had a house now. In its back yard was a swimming pool. At the side was a garage, big enough for the minivan and one other car, a fast little red machine that was Gunnar’s alone. The house backed on to a shallow ravine with pine trees. It wasn’t too far from the office. The girls were happy there, as was Janet.

I too was very happy about all that and said so. I kept my peace when Gunnar leaned close and told me about Marissa, the accommodating young girl from the city that Gunnar would visit twice a week. I couldn’t say anything—for that too had been on his list, five years ago. Whatever I might think of it, he had wanted that too.

And then it was time to go inside.

“Good luck, Granny,” he said, and gave me a hug. I held it longer than he offered it—though not a quarter as long as was my due.

I found more offerings on the porch when I climbed the steps: a ring of green Jell-O, inside of which were suspended slices of frankfurter, three daisies and perhaps a dozen insects, including a hornet and an enormous dragonfly; long links of a black blood sausage, coiled on a green-tinted plastic platter; a casserole dish, covered in tinfoil and smelling not unpleasantly of paint thinner. It was heavy as a pile of bricks when I tried to lift it. So I left it with the sausage, and carried the Jell-O ring into the foyer.