The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (67 page)

“Which will be never,” I said.

“Which will be never,” he agreed.

We brought the food to the table, and he lifted his glass to me.

“To music,” he said.

I sipped my wine. “Good,” I said. I tasted the fish. “In fact, more than good. Everything’s wonderful. Do you know this is only the second seduction meal of my life? When I was sixteen, the boy across the street invited me for dinner. His parents had left him alone overnight for the first time. I guess the temptation was too much. He made the most romantic evening – vodka and orange juice and candlelight and his mother’s tuna fish casserole and, of course, music.
Guess what he played during dinner?”

“ ‘Bolero,’ ” Keith said.

“That was later,” I said. “During dinner he played ‘Rhapsody in Blue.’ ”

Keith smiled. “What happened?”

“He told me about George Gershwin’s tragically short life, trying, I guess, to impress me with the need to gather our rosebuds while we could. And I drank my screwdrivers and ate my tuna casserole and cried like a baby, because George Gershwin died so young and because I wasn’t used to vodka.”

“And then?” Keith asked.

“And then he walked me home. It was 1961. People took virginity seriously in those days. He ended up studying math and physics at U. of T. Last I heard he was a high-school teacher.”

“I’m too old for a change of career,” he said.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said.

Dinner was wonderful, and I could feel the darkness lifting. Keith Harris was easy to talk to, and it was fun to trade stories about political battles. When we were finished, Keith said, “Do you like Metaxa? I have a bottle I brought back from Greece for a special occasion. Let’s have a little and I’ll put on the wisest piece of music I know.”

He took Gould’s 1955 recording of Goldberg out of the
CD
player and dropped in another
CD
. “This is the version of the Goldberg Gould did in 1981,” Keith said.

We took our Metaxa out on the balcony. Across the park, the lights from the legislature shimmered in Wascana Lake. The air was cool and smelled of fresh-cut grass and damp earth. We sat side by side in the stillness and listened as Glenn Gould played Bach. The interpretation was very different, not brilliant and risk-taking, but mature, rich and thoughtful. It was the work of a man who had learned a few
things about life and about death. Good music to make love to when you were closer to the end of life than the beginning. I felt the familiar stirrings of sexual desire, and moved closer to Keith.

“Ready?” he said softly.

“I think I am,” I said.

He took my hand and together we walked down the hall to his bedroom. Suddenly, I was unsure. I walked across the room and looked at the framed photographs on Keith’s wall. They were unmistakably pictures of the north: the sun boiling on the horizon while the pines reached dark fingers into the red sky; a wood grouse standing one-legged on a piece of driftwood floating in shimmering water; a close-up of wildflowers growing through dead leaves.

“Beautiful,” I said.

Keith came and stood beside me. “Blue Heron Point,” he said. “I’m the photographer. I’m not exactly Alfred Stieglitz, but with the north as a subject, you don’t have to be. I have a place up there. It’s not much, just a cottage on the lake.”

“A squeaky screen door and sand on the floor and dishes that don’t match?” I said.

Keith smiled. “And a wood stove where you can boil your coffee and fry your eggs too hard and a woodbox filled with old
Saturday Nights
. Best of all, it really is away from everything. Not like that palace of Lorraine’s on Echo. But I guess she had enough of the north growing up. Anyway, sand and squeaks and all, I love it.”

“Angus is going to camp at Havre Lake in July,” I said.

“Good, let’s take him up together, and we can stay at the lake.”

“Just like that?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Yeah. Remember George Gershwin. No use waiting around.”

“Right,” I said. Keith took me in his arms, and I felt as if
the broken parts of me were coming together. When he caressed my breasts and kissed the hollow of my neck, the darkness that had been hanging over me lifted.

I kissed him. “Remember that Marvin Gaye song ‘Sexual Healing’?” I said.

Keith’s hands slid over my hips. “I remember.”

“I’m beginning to believe in it,” I said.

When the telephone rang, shrill and insistent, we looked at each other.

“Damn,” said Keith. “Do you want to let it ring?”

“Yes, but I’d be worried all night it was one of my kids.”

Keith picked up the receiver and said hello. He listened for a while then he said, “Just keep him quiet. I’ll be right there.”

Keith turned to me, “My emergency, not yours. Apparently, Blaine was trying to get up and he fell. I’d better go down and have a look. Why don’t you come along?”

“I don’t think I feel like going anywhere,” I said.

“It’s just downstairs,” he said.

“Downstairs here?” I asked.

“Yeah, I thought you knew. This building is sort of a family place. Lorraine owns it and she has the bottom floor. I have this. And since my father had his stroke, he and the nurse who takes care of him have stayed in the apartment at the back. It’s been great, really – he has his privacy but we’re close.”

We walked downstairs and knocked at the door at the end of the front hall. A man in his mid-twenties wearing sweatpants and a very white T-shirt answered. He had the powerful shoulders and upper arms of someone who worked out. Keith introduced us, and the man, whose name was Sean Gilliland, shook hands with me, then turned to Keith.

“Your father got out of bed and fell,” he said. “I’d bathed him and brought his bedtime snack and we watched the
news together. Then I turned out the lights and came into the living room. I was doing my stretch and strengthens when I heard this crash. I went in and he was on the floor. Mr. Harris, he’d been trying to make a phone call.”

Keith looked at him incredulously. “A phone call?”

Sean shook his head. “I know. But that’s what he was doing. He was over by that little table with the telephone. He must have dragged himself over on the furniture. He still had the receiver in his hand when I found him.”

As we passed through the living room, I glanced at the TV. The sound was turned off; on the screen, six men as muscular as Sean were silently working on their abdominal muscles.

Blaine’s room was cool and dimly lit. I stayed in the doorway and Keith went to his father. The old man looked pale and shaken; even across the room I could see the ugliness of the purplish knot rising on his forehead. Keith talked to his father for a while, soothing words I couldn’t hear, and Blaine seemed calm. Then he saw me.

As soon as he caught sight of me, the old man tried to push himself up to a sitting position. All the while he was pushing himself, he was trying to talk. The sounds that came out were garbled and desperate. Finally, he got out a single word, “Killdeer.” As soon as he said the word, he fell back on the bed exhausted. But his eyes never left my face.

“Killdeer?” I said. “Do you mean my name, Kilbourn?”

He began to push himself up again. Sean came over to me quickly. “Would you mind staying in the other room? Mr. Harris isn’t supposed to get upset.”

I went into the living room. Keith came out almost immediately. He put his arms around me. “I’m going to call the doctor. Do you want to go upstairs and wait for me?”

I shook my head. “I think I’ll take a cab home. The day seems to have caught up with me.”

He kissed my hair. “Damn,” he said. “This evening shouldn’t end with your going home alone.” He smiled. “Jo, if I can find a copy of ‘Rhapsody in Blue,’ will you give me another chance?”

“I’ll bring the tuna casserole,” I said. “Call me later and let me know how your father is.”

Keith called the doctor and then he dialled a cab for me. While I waited for it, I watched the strong young men on the television stretch and strengthen their already perfect bodies.

When I got home, Mieka was sitting at the kitchen table in her nightgown working on her business accounts.

“Can I retire yet?” I said.

She made a face. “Not unless you have a source of income I don’t know about.”

“Is it going to be okay?” I asked.

Mieka smiled. “It’s going to be fine. Lorraine’s going to set up a line of credit for me on Monday.”

“She’s really good to you, isn’t she?” I said.

“I don’t know what I’d do without her, Mum.” Mieka took off her glasses. “Are you warming to her at all? I know she’s not the kind of woman you cozy up to, but you know, Mum, she hasn’t had an easy life. She kind of manipulated the wedding with Greg’s dad, and I think she got more than she bargained for. Alisdair had pretty well gambled away all their money by the time he died, and Lorraine had a little boy to support. She’s had to work hard to get where she is.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I knew Greg was just a baby when his father died, but I always thought it was the Harris money that kept things going there.”

Mieka shook her head. “All Alisdair Harris left Lorraine and Greg was that place on the lake, mortgaged to the hilt, and a lot of angry creditors. Old Mr. Harris just about went broke himself trying to pay off his son’s debts. Keith tried to
help, but Lorraine insisted she could do it on her own. And you know, Mum, when she was getting started in real estate, women had to be …” She hesitated.

“Men pleasers?” I said.

“Yeah, I guess. Lorraine still talks about having to use her womanly wiles. But to be fair to her, the kind of men you knew at the university and even in politics were more enlightened than some of the men Lorraine had to deal with. She’s done very well for herself, you know.”

“I know she has,” I said. “And I intend to smarten up.”

Mieka laughed. “See that you do. How was dinner?”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Anything I need to know about around here?”

“No. The kids had three Big Macs each and fries and milkshakes, then Angus made himself a grilled cheese sandwich before he went to bed. There were a couple of phone calls for Peter. Jill called for you. She’ll call tomorrow. I think that’s it. Except for a prank call. Someone called and made weird noises and then dropped the receiver. Probably some meatball friend of Angus’s.”

“Probably,” I said.

But I knew who had called, and I knew it wasn’t a prank. I climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a woman who had just about been made love to. I smiled at my reflection. Then I remembered, and I stopped smiling. What had Blaine Harris seen in my face? What was there about me that had made him drag himself along the furniture in his bedroom and risk his health to call me on the telephone?

“Killdeer,” I said to my reflection. “Killdeer,” and I turned away and went to bed.

As I dressed for Christy’s funeral the bedroom was dark. Since the early hours of morning, thunder had cracked and lightning had arced across the sky. Now the rain had come, steady and relentless. I smoothed the skirt of my black silk suit and checked my reflection in the mirror. The silver bracelet encircling my wrist gleamed dully – Christy’s bracelet, now mine.

Three days earlier, Mieka had sent the keys to Christy’s condominium to a friend in Saskatoon and asked her to go to Christy’s place and choose a dress for her to be buried in. The woman had found a simple cotton dress the colour of a new fern; the price and the care instructions were still pinned to the sleeve. When Mieka brought it to the house to show me, I’d shuddered.

“Your great-grandmother always said that a green dress was bad luck.”

Mieka had looked at me grimly. “I don’t think Christy’s luck could get much worse,” she had said.

Christy wore the green dress. I dreaded seeing her at the funeral home, but it seemed to come with the territory when
you were next of kin. Mieka and I drove over together the morning before the funeral. We were silent as we looked at Christy. Finally, Mieka reached over and touched the bracelet on my wrist.

“We should put this on her, I guess,” Mieka said. “I never saw her without it until that last night.”

“She wanted me to have it,” I said.

“She did? But I thought …”

I turned it on my wrist so I could read the Celtic lettering. “Wandering Soul Pray For Me.” In that moment, I felt the bracelet’s power. Marcel Proust called these objects that are charged with independent life “Madeleine objects.” Sensible people don’t believe in such things, and I am a sensible woman, but from the moment I put it on, Christy Sinclair’s bracelet was both a reminder and a spur.

I turned to my daughter.

“Mieka, would you mind leaving me alone with Christy for a moment?”

Mieka looked apprehensive.

“I’m all right,” I said. “I just want to say goodbye.”

She left, and very quickly I stepped to the casket and reached my hand under the small of Christy’s back and half turned her. I pulled up her skirt. I could see the outline of the tattoo through the thin material of her panties, but still I had to know for certain. I pulled at the elastic waistband and slid Christy’s underpants down. On her left buttock was the teddy bear tattoo. It was exactly the same as the tattoo I had seen on Bernice Morin the morning after she was murdered. I pulled the skirt down and turned Christy onto her back again.

“What does it mean, Christy?” I said. “What does it mean?”

We took two cars to the funeral. Peter was going with Mieka and Greg, and I was going with Jill Osiowy and Keith
Harris. When he phoned and asked what time he should pick me up, I had told him that he didn’t have to be part of that sad day. His voice on the other end of the line had been matter of fact. “I’m interested in the long haul, Jo,” he had said simply, and I’d thought that having Keith Harris with me for the long haul might not be a bad idea.

Planning the funeral had brought us face to face with all the unanswered questions of Christy’s life. Who were the people who cared about her? Beyond a few colleagues at the biology lab, there didn’t seem to be anyone. We had put a photo at the head of Christy’s obituary notice in the Saskatoon and Regina papers, hoping that someone who had known her before would see it and come. But it seemed a slim hope, and we had chosen the smallest of the chapels at the funeral home to avoid the depressing symbolism of empty pews. What were her favourite flowers? Her favourite pieces of music? No one knew. Pete remembered a couple of songs she’d commented on when they’d been listening to the car radio, but they were songs for the living.