The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (75 page)

“I thought your father was doing better,” I said. “Didn’t you tell me that he’d put a couple of words together this week?”

“Yeah, but that was the only good news. And there’s a lot of bad news. Blaine’s getting just about impossible to control. Sean says as soon as he turns around, Blaine tries to get to the telephone or out the door. And he has these rages when Sean brings him back. He’s terrible with Lorraine, too. Remember how he was with you that night at the lake? He’s like that with her now. It’s awful for Lorraine, and of course it could be fatal for my father. Sean worries that Blaine is going to get his blood pressure sky-high and have another stroke.” For a moment, he stood silent, lost in thought, then he shook himself.

“Anyway, I’d better get down there. Jo, why don’t you fix yourself a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I can manage.”

When Keith returned, he looked grim.

“So what’s going to happen?” I asked.

Keith took my hands in his. “I’m not going to beat around
the bush, Jo. I can’t go with you tomorrow. I’m sorrier than I can say, but this just has to be taken care of.”

I pulled him close. “Damn,” I said. “I was really looking forward to being with you. But I know it can’t be helped. You’re doing the right thing. Right now, if I could figure out a way to make you do the wrong thing, I would, but that’ll pass. I know it isn’t all polka dots and moonbeams at our age.”

Keith poured us drinks and we took them to the balcony. Across the street in the park, some boys were playing touch football: shirts and skins. The sun was hot; the skins team would be in agony by the end of the day. Toward the lake, a crew was putting up a sound system in the bandshell for Canada Day. I thought how nice it would be to sit with Keith on a blanket in the grass, eating hot dogs and listening to the symphony.

But it wasn’t going to be that kind of weekend.

I turned to Keith. “What happens next?” I asked.

He shook his head. “As usual, Lorraine has us organized. She’s found a place in Minnesota that’s supposed to be terrific. Out in the country, good staff-patient ratio, first-rate special care, and reliable security.”

“Security?” I said, surprised.

“I told you that Blaine keeps trying to wander off.”

I thought of that proud, elegant old man, and my heart sank. “What an awful thing for him,” I said.

Keith looked grim. “I know. That’s why Lorraine wants me to fly to Minneapolis with him.”

“How soon?” I said.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Don’t you usually have to wait months for places like that?” I said.

For the first time since he’d come upstairs, Keith smiled. “People who aren’t Lorraine have to wait months,” he said. “But Lorraine always manages to move right to the head of
the line. Anyway, this time, let’s be glad she was able to pull some strings. If this place is the best thing for Blaine, then it’s a case of the sooner the better.” He reached over and touched my hair. “Once I get Blaine in, I can come home. If we’re lucky, you and I can salvage at least part of our holiday.”

“Let’s hope we’re lucky,” I said. “Let’s hope.”

That night, as I sat at the kitchen table planning the route the kids and I would take to Havre Lake, hope had already given way to stoic acceptance. I’d replaced my new nightgown, silky and seductive, with the flannelette granny gown my neighbour had given me the year Angus was born. I knew that it got cold in the north when you were sleeping alone. There didn’t seem to be much to look forward to except a good night’s sleep and a seven-hour drive with two kids in the back seat.

Suddenly I thought of my old friend Hilda McCourt. Saskatoon wasn’t far out of our way, and I was in need of a sympathetic ear. When I called her, she said she’d be delighted to have us all come for lunch. “A Canada Day menu,” she said.

“Beaver soup?” I said.

“If all else fails,” she said dryly. “I can assure you that one thing we will have is a bottle of single-malt Scotch. I’m looking forward to toasting our country’s birthday with you, Joanne. Now, I’ll let you go. You must have preparations. Drive safely. I’ll look for you at twelve.”

Just the sound of Hilda’s voice made me feel better.

By the time I opened the windows, pulled up the blankets and turned out the lights, I was looking forward to the next day. I loved the north, and it would be fun to explore it with the kids. If all went well in Minnesota, Keith would join me,
and before the end of the week, the singing of birds and the voice of the turtle would be heard in our land.

The telephone began to ring not long after I fell asleep. My danger sensors must have been off full alert, because I reached for the receiver without a second thought. The sounds I heard were barely human: angry cries and shapeless vowels. Then, very clearly, I heard the familiar word, “Killdeer,” and, after a beat, two new words. “The rain,” said Blaine Harris in his unused, angry voice. “The rain.” Then the line went dead.

As I lay there in the dark listening to the dial tone, I was glad I was getting out of town.

When I woke up on Canada Day the rain had started again. I turned on the radio and lay in bed, listening. The local news was a litany of cancellations: sports days, slow-pitch tournaments, Olde Tyme picnics, tractor pulls, walking tours, bed races, mud flings, parades. Everything was cancelled because of the weather. I remembered Blaine Harris’s phone call the night before. “The rain,” he’d said. Maybe he’d just been giving me the weather forecast.

I put on my sweats and took the dogs for a run. Greg and Mieka would take care of them while I was away. Somehow, with wedding plans and love in the air, I had the sense that the daily runs might be sporadic. We made an extra-long run: around the lake and home. It was a distance the dogs and I used to do often when we were younger, but it had been a while. By the time we got back, we were all panting and pleased with ourselves.

I fed the dogs, made coffee, showered and spent ten minutes rubbing my body with the expensive lotion Mieka had given me the Christmas before. Finally, wearing the blue dress I had worn the first night I had dinner with Keith,
I slid the bracelet on my wrist. When I felt the bracelet warm against my skin, I understood why I had called Hilda the night before. I had thought then that I needed a sympathetic ear, but that wasn’t it. What I needed was advice. Every part of me that answered to the rules of logic said I should let Christy and Kim rest in peace. But life was not always ruled by logic, and Hilda McCourt was a woman who understood this. She would understand the power of the bracelet and the pull of my commitment to those dead girls. Hilda would be my final arbiter. If she thought I was wrong to keep pushing to discover the route by which Theresa Desjarlais had become Christy Sinclair, I’d give up. When I drove north, I’d stop at the Northern Lights Motel, have coffee with Beth Mirasty and tell her that her husband was right: the past was past.

When I came down, Taylor and Angus were sitting at the breakfast table, dressed, with their hair neatly combed, eating Eggos and fresh strawberries. The night before, when I had told Angus that Keith wouldn’t be part of our holiday, he had started with his usual barrage of questions, but something in my face must have stopped him. He’d given me a hug and wandered off to bed. He was learning discretion, growing up.

As I looked at Taylor wearing a shirt that was right-side out and socks that matched, it was obvious that Angus had talked to her, too. The exemplary behaviour continued as we ran back and forth to the car, packing in the rain. There were no complaints from anybody about getting wet or about having to leave things behind. We hit the road early, just as the nine o’clock news came on the car radio, and no one suggested we stop for drinks or a bathroom until we drove into Chamberlain, about ninety kilometres from home. The station where we stopped gave out small Canadian flags with a gas purchase. Angus stuck his in his hat and Taylor put hers in her ponytail. They looked so patriotic that the
gas station attendant gave them each a colouring book about a beaver who wanted to find the true meaning of Canada. Taylor was usually contemptuous of colouring books, but the beaver and his friends were cleverly drawn, and as we pulled away, she was already tracing the lines with her fingers, making them part of her muscle memory. The rest of the drive in the rain was quiet and companionable, and I enjoyed it.

We pulled up in front of Hilda’s neat bungalow on Melrose Avenue just before noon. The Canadian flag was flying from the porch at the front of Hilda’s house, a bright splash of red and white through the grey mist of rain. As Hilda opened the door and held her arms out in greeting, there was another burst of radiant colour. In her early eighties, Hilda McCourt was still a riveting figure. Today, she was wearing a jumpsuit the colour of a Flanders poppy and her hair, dyed an even more brilliant red than usual, was swept back by a red-and-white striped silk scarf.

The kids made a run for the house. Hilda stopped them at the door. “Let me have a look at you before you disappear,” she said. She examined them carefully. “Well, you’re obviously thriving. There’s a jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table for you. Quite a challenging one, at least for me. Harold Town’s
Tower of Babble
. Taylor, your mother told me once that she thought Harold Town was splendid. Why don’t you and Angus have a look and see what you think?”

As we watched the kids run down the hall, Hilda put her arm through mine. “Now, how about a little Glenfiddich to ease the traveller?”

I followed her gratefully. As we walked through to the glassed-in porch at the back of her house, I caught sight of the table set for lunch in the dining room. Red napkins carefully arranged in crystal water glasses, a white organdy tablecloth, red zinnias in a creamy earthenware pitcher.

“Lovely,” I said.

“Not subtle,” she said, “but I don’t believe this is the year to be subtle about our country.”

Hilda’s back room was as individual and fine as she was. On the inside wall, there was an old horsehair chaise longue covered by a lacy afghan. At the foot of the chaise longue was a
TV
; at the head was a table with a good reading lamp and a stack of magazines. The current issue of
Canadian Forum
was on top. Along the wall, a trestle table held blooming plants. In the centre of the table a space had been cleared for three framed photographs: Robert Stanfield, T.C. Douglas and Pierre Trudeau.

“That’s quite a triptych,” I said, looking down at them.

“Two men who should have been prime minister and one who probably shouldn’t have,” Hilda said briskly. Then she tapped the frame of the Trudeau photo. “But what style that man had, and what fun he was.”

She poured the Glenfiddich, handed me a glass and raised her own.

“To Canada,” she said.

“To Canada,” I said.

“Now,” she said, “let’s sit and watch the rain and you can tell me what brought you here.”

As I felt the Scotch warming my body, I realized how much I wanted to talk.

I took off the bracelet and handed it to her. “It all began with this,” I said.

She turned it carefully. “ ‘Wandering Soul Pray For Me,’ ” she said. “Intriguing, but I’ve seen a bracelet like this before, you know. In fact, there were several of them at the duty-free shop in Belfast. The story was that monks hammered the silver by hand. Whoever did the hammering, these bracelets are costly – in more ways than one, but I presume by your face you’ve already discovered that. The intent, of
course, is to remind the traveller that no matter how far afield she goes, the one left behind is still linked to her.” She handed the bracelet back to me. “Who have you left behind, Joanne?”

In the garden a tiny pine siskin was feeding at Hilda’s bird feeder. I watched until it flew away, then I turned to Hilda.

“Nobody,” I said. “And that’s the problem. There are two people I can’t seem to leave behind no matter how hard I try.”

“And you’ve decided to confide in me about it.”

“I’ve decided to let you tell me what to do next,” I said.

I told her everything, starting with the morning Mieka found Bernice Morin’s body in the garbage can behind Judgements and ending with Beth Mirasty’s letter.

When I was finished, Hilda looked at me levelly. “And your intention is to go to Havre Lake in search of Christy Sinclair?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “When I put it all together like this, my behaviour seems quixotic even to me. My husband used to say that there was nothing more terrifying than blind goodness loosed upon the world. You meet a lot of Don Quixotes in politics, you know. Certain they know what’s best for everyone, tilting at windmills, rescuing the downtrodden whether they want to be rescued or not. I don’t want to be like that, Hilda.”

“And yet you can’t walk away,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I can’t walk away.” I held up the bracelet. “Because of this. Because a woman gave me this bracelet and then she died. And suddenly it wasn’t just a bracelet any more. Hilda, tell me honestly. Did you feel the power in this?”

“No,” she said, thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Your grandmother wouldn’t have had any trouble putting a name to the pull you’re feeling. She would have called it conscience. And she wouldn’t have thought you were quixotic. She would have thought you were trying to
right a wrong you did to another human being. Joanne, I’ve been listening carefully to you, and I know why you’re so resolute about Christy Sinclair. To use a word that makes people uneasy these days, you feel that you sinned against her. A sin of omission. In your dealings with her you showed a want of
Charitas
. Most often that word is translated as charity, but you have Latin, Joanne, you know the correct translation.”

“Love,” I said.
“Charitas
means love. Christy needed my love and I didn’t give it to her.” Suddenly, I was tired of the burden. I slammed the bracelet down on the table.

“Damn it, Hilda, how could I love her? She was so unlovable – the lies, the obsessions, the need. She needed so much. Every time I turned around, she was there, needing me to love her.” My voice was shrill with exasperation. “How could I love her? I didn’t even like her.”