Mr. Roberts is reading Ellery Queen in his green easy chair, and Mrs. Roberts is ironing sheets while listening to Frank Sinatra on the radio.
“Will you close the curtains and blinds, dear?” says Geneva’s mother. “By the way, Gladys Hartley wants you to babysit Saturday night. Call her tomorrow, just to be sure.”
“But I was planning to go to the show with Darla.” Geneva stands at the picture window, staring at the Northwest poplars. One of them, the third one from the end, the most abundant one, seems different.
“It’s still Gigi. And you’ve already seen it twice.”
“But I want to go again before it changes.” Her voice trails off.
“What’re you looking at?” her mother asks.
“Nothing, I guess.” She yanks the cord so the curtains swish together.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be alone, with just a baby, in someone else’s house. You know, with Martin Fry around.” She moves to close the venetians on the side windows.
“The police will take care of Martin. Your dad talked to Pierce and he’ll handle it.”
“Maybe we should lock the doors.”
“If it would make you feel better.” Mrs. Roberts sets the iron on its end while Frank Sinatra sings a Gershwin tune about wanting to be watched over. Mr. Roberts keeps right on reading while Mrs. Roberts goes to the front door, turns the barely used lock, and then lifts one corner of the lace panel to take a peek. She immediately screams her head off.
Mr. Roberts drops his Ellery Queen and runs over to her. “What in heaven’s name…?” Geneva stands frozen, her hands to her mouth.
“He’s out there. His face was right up to the window, looking right at me. Oh my God, lock the back door, call Pierce.”
Frank continues singing about someone who carries a key to his heart.
“Turn that damn radio off,” says Geneva’s father as he hustles to the back door and locks it up. He calls the operator. “Get me the RCMP. What do you mean he’s not there?” Eva Shantz, the operator, knows how to reach everyone in town. Between her rubbernecking and people treating her like an answering service, she has the goods on most everyone. “Yes, it’s important, dammit. Why else would I be calling? Well put me through to the hotel then, if that’s where he is.”
Geneva is almost in shock, but not to the point of missing this tidbit on the whereabouts of Danny Pierce.
Her father mutters, “Why would he be there, just when we need him?”
Her mother answers, “I heard he’s got a love nest.”
Then he’s back on the line. “Hello. Hello Pierce. We’ve got problems with Martin Fry. He’s looking in our windows. God knows what he’s up to. You gotta come and get him. Well get some backup! I don’t give a damn who you get, just get over here.”
“Next thing you know he’ll have her pregnant,” says Mrs. Roberts.
Love nest? Pregnant? Geneva stares at her parents.
“He’d better get here soon,” says Mrs. Roberts. “Martin must know we reported him. He must have seen Pierce come over to talk to you. That damn Pierce! Oh my God, close all the windows. What about the basement?”
“Calm down.”
“I am calm. I am calmly thinking of all the possibilities. And don’t just stand there!”
Mr. Roberts goes around to the bedrooms and then down to the basement while Mrs. Roberts waits at the top of the stairs. “He’s crazy. They never should have let him out,” she natters into the stairwell.
Geneva stares at the enamelled front door. Suddenly there’s a knock, hard and persistent. “Someone’s at the door.”
Her mother hollers down. “You’d better get up here. He’s knocking at the door.”
Mr. Roberts comes up out of breath; his eyes dart around the room as he gauges the situation. He goes over and pushes aside the lace curtain to face the knocker, and Geneva and her mother lean forward to see what they can see.
Martin’s face is contorted; his mouth forms words they can’t hear. He points toward the driveway at the side of the house.
“What? What’s that you’re saying? You’re calling me a fat liar?” Geneva’s father hollers through the glass; neither one can hear the other.
Martin yanks at the door and raises up his hands, exasperated. Suddenly two figures emerge from the shadows of the caraganas: one small and hunched, the other broad, bold, and in uniform. There’s a thump on the door and scuffling sounds from the veranda. Voices fade and a car door slams. Then comes an officious knock and Mr. Roberts opens up.
“Okay, we’ve got him!” Pierce looms in the doorway. “We’re driving over to Ponoka tonight,” he says to Mr. Roberts. “By the way, you have a flat tire.” He points to the side of the house.
Geneva and her mother rush to the front window and push aside the curtains. As Pierce opens the cruiser door and the interior lights flash on, they spot his backup, Emily Fry.
“Thank God,” says Mrs. Roberts. “Poor Emily. So it’s true about Pierce and Shelly Walsh?”
“Who cares?” says Geneva. “Who cares?”
Mrs. Roberts has proved prophetic. Shelly Walsh got pregnant while her husband Dennis was in Drayton Valley working on the rigs. Darla’s mom said everyone knew that he was cheating on Shelly right from the start—but just the same Shelly shouldn’t have gone and got pregnant. Shelly has escaped to her sister in Red Cliff, and Pierce has been transferred to Medicine Hat, which, according to Darla’s mom, is a move up the totem pole and only about ten minutes from Red Cliff.
It’s spring and the tulips are in bloom. The Roberts take a Sunday drive to Ponoka and invite Darla along for the ride. The girls giggle and whisper in the back seat of the Ford Fairlane and sing “Great Balls of Fire,” then they all fall silent as Mr. Roberts turns into the hospital driveway.
“I wonder what room he’s in,” whispers Darla. “Look, there’s someone watching, up on the second floor. It could be him. My mom says they shocked him with electricity, cleared out his brain, so he wouldn’t recognize us anyway. Won’t remember anything. Can you imagine?”
Geneva remembers the last thing Pierce said to her—“Here’s looking at you, kid!”—when he stopped at the hardware to say goodbye. She can barely conjure up the faces of Martin Fry or Danny Pierce nowadays, but she can still see the look, fleeting as it was, on the face of Emily Fry: mouth pinched and curled into an ironic twist, eyes intense and estranged from everyone, including her son.
The Case
BILL ACKERMAN ALWAYS CARRIES BAGGAGE: a duffle bag for hockey games, a briefcase for sales, and now a flat leather zip case. The leather case seems to go with him everywhere. He brings it to family picnics, ball games, shopping, and always on the road. Being prudent, Geneva Roberts never asks about the case.
Bill is married to Geneva’s favourite aunt, the youngest of Geneva’s mother’s family, who is only seven years older than Geneva. When Aunt Terry married Bill, there was a big hullabaloo because, according to all the relatives, he wasn’t up to par. He was her high school sweetheart, cocky, with a measure of celebrity in Bradshaw, though likely a flash in the pan elsewhere. He was handsome in the way a five-foot-nine, junior left-winger can be with a scar across his nose and another above his left eyebrow (insinuating ruggedness) and a sensual mouth advertising lust to susceptible girls. Some still have crushes on him. There is talk that he could head to the NHL in spite of his size, and even Geneva’s parents won’t deny the possibility. They attend games like everyone else with the duplicitous notion that success could rub off on them if the unlikely should happen.
Terry was a luminous beauty, five-foot-two and barely nineteen when she wore her princess gown, satin gloves, and hand-sewn veil. As her junior bridesmaid Geneva wore periwinkle taffeta, dyed slip-on shoes, and a band of flowers in her hair. The outfit now hangs in a plastic bag at the back of Geneva’s closet with the periwinkle shoes settled at the bot
tom. If she unzips the bag she can still smell Evening of Paris and inhale the promise of romance. Geneva believes people in love are bound together no matter what the others say.
Terry and Bill have had two babies since then: Denise and Jeffy. They are enthralling cousins—cuddly in Geneva’s arms, chatty or coy from across the room, and flutter-bugs at her feet. She often stays over—it’s almost like having a second home—and colludes with Terry on domestic dreams, sharing the ironing and the baking without her mother overseeing, and observing the embraces and groping when Bill gets home from a trip. Terry no longer follows him to out-of-town games.
He plays for the Ponoka Stampeders and sells mutual funds on the side. These are both considered to be temporary measures—Toronto or Boston, Detroit or New York, even Chicago (probably not Montreal) will be calling. He was written up in the Red Deer Advocate and the Edmonton Journal as an up-and-comer, the favourite to succeed.
Geneva’s parents have driven her to Ponoka to stay with Terry for the weekend. Before they reach the house, they take a quick tour of the mental hospital grounds. Geneva’s mother wants to see the place with a fresh dusting of snow—her idea of a winter wonderland. She also gives a rundown of the latest Bradshaw residents staying at the hospital: Edna Hillman, who helps her husband at the drugstore and apparently helps herself to too many powders and tablets; Inga Jensen, who should be over menopause by now but engages in girlish flirtations and has stories of young men flocking to the coffee shop because of her sex appeal, not her burgers; Angus Beamer, whose wife of fifty-one years woke up dizzy and then keeled over while cooking his bacon and eggs, sending Angus (the one with the high cholesterol) into perpetual mourning and depression; and of course Martin Fry who is still there since he harassed the town almost four years ago.
At Terry’s they have dinner and talk about Martin Fry. They say he mutilated a cat just two weeks before he went into Roberts Hardware to look at knives and gun shells. Denise and Jeffy play with their meatballs and spaghetti.
“Obviously something’s wrong with a guy to do a thing like that,” says Geneva’s father. They all agree.
“Well enjoy yourself,” says Geneva’s mother later as they hover at the door. “We’ll be back to get you Sunday night. Don’t forget to lock the doors.” The door sticks when she tries to open it so Geneva’s dad has to give it a yank. Then they are gone.
Geneva bathes the kids while Terry cleans the dishes—Bill is a stickler for neatness, likes everything in its place. When he goes to out-of-town games Terry lets things go, and when Geneva visits they make chocolate fudge and watch late night TV and leave the tidying until the next day, like little girls, giddy with chocolate.
Before they settle into a movie or Johnny Carson, Terry lets Geneva sample her perfume and eye makeup and puts their hair in rollers for the night while they play records (instead of listening to the game). Terry sings “Love Me Tender” along with Elvis. It’s her song because Bill sang it to her when they were dating.
Geneva puts on “Travellin’ Man.” “Every time I hear it I think of Kenny Peterson,” she says. Her face turns red. She thinks Kenny even looks like Ricky Nelson; he slicks his hair back and has the same sexy lopsided grin.
“Ooh, don’t think I know Kenny.”
“He’s new to town.” Geneva envisions living with Kenny in a rented house, just like Terry and Bill, but she doesn’t mention that. Besides she might want to be an interior decorator, and that means going away to school, not to mention the fact that she and Kenny have never been on a date. Nonetheless she imagines a two-bedroom bungalow, like Bill and Terry’s, which she decorates to the amazement of everyone, especially Kenny. She envisions moss green satin curtains against green-and-cream striped wallpaper, plus dark velvet cushions on a cream brocade couch. She and Kenny roll on the couch.
The next day Terry makes sure makeup and bobby pins and samples of perfume are cleared from the dresser while Geneva bounces Denise and Jeffy on the bed. Terry dusts powder off Bill’s leather case. “Bill never leaves this behind,” she says.
Geneva blurts, “Do you know what’s in it?” She wishes she could take it back though because it’s none of her business.
“Uh unh.” Terry shakes her head. “Everyone needs to keep something for themselves. Bill says even married people should keep some things private from each other. Someday you’ll understand.”
“And you’ve never peeked?”
“No.” Terry sounds unsure of herself, like maybe she should have looked.
Denise and Jeffy chant, “Daddy, Daddy!” when Bill arrives on Sunday. They clamp onto his legs as he sets his duffle bag down and tries to walk across the floor. He grabs Jeffy and swings him up onto his shoulders. Denise is frantic to have the same, but Bill grabs her by the hands and swings her back and forth into the living room. They are delirious as Bill throws them up in the air and catches them on the way down, each impatient to have their turn.
Terry manages a kiss, and Bill tells her he scored the final goal and made two assists and was picked number one star of the game. Then he hoists the children up again. Geneva watches and grins with her hand across her nervous stomach before each potential drop of a cousin, but Bill catches them every time. He looks bigger, more muscular than before.
The energy in the house finally subsides, except Bill seems to have a tic. He paces, going from room to room, maybe inspecting (Terry has tidied up), and then comes out with his case.
“You forgot it,” says Terry.
“You need some milk,” says Bill as he looks in the fridge, and suddenly he is out the door with his case, like the tail of a tornado, leaving eerie silence in his wake.
Terry and Geneva are speechless, and the children whine so they are put down for a nap.
Bill is gone longer than it takes to buy milk and when he comes back he is mellow. Terry is showing Geneva how to make pastry. Bill stretches on the couch and listens to Ray Charles.
“Are you okay if I have a quick bath?” says Terry. “You just slice the apples then mix in sugar and a tablespoon of flour and sprinkle with cinnamon and dabs of butter. Then roll out pastry for the top.”
“Sure,” says Geneva, and she quickly slips into an apple pie world, trying to cut long curly peels, slicing round and round, rolling the pastry in crisscross rhythm. The sound of the periodic furnace blast, the water swooshing in Terry’s bath, and Ray Charles’s voice all fade away. The kitchen is her world.
Suddenly two hands are on her waist.
“How are you doing there?” says Bill.
“Oh, you scared me!” First she freezes, then she moves closer to the counter in the little space that’s left. “I’m making apple pie.”
“I see that.”
She feels his heat across her back. She breaks away, manoeuvres to the sink as though she needs to wash her hands and spouts whatever she can think of. “Mom and Dad are coming to get me and are staying for supper. I hope this turns out. First time for making pie. So you were the star? Good for you. I think I need Terry to help finish this off.”
Bill grins. “I think you’re doing fine.”
She can hear the bath water draining. “Oh, I hear her coming out.”
Geneva’s parents come to take her home. Dinner is very good, the pie is delicious, so everyone says. “You’ll make someone a good wife,” says Bill and winks at Geneva.
“Not anytime soon,” says her dad.
Geneva’s dad asks Bill about the game. Scouts were there from St. Paul, Minnesota and have put Bill on their list.
“That’s a long way from here,” says Geneva.
“You’d be able to come stay with us on vacation,” says Terry. “You always say you want to travel.”
“Yeah,” says Geneva. She glances at Bill and looks down. “Or you could come here, when Bill is on the road.”
They say their goodbyes and, again, as they try
to leave, the door sticks. Bill moves in and pulls hard to let them out. He is bent on fixing the door as Geneva and her parents go down the walk and get into their car. He is kicking the door as they drive away.
People in Bradshaw like to talk about Bill these days. Geneva hears them in the hardware, talking to her mom and dad. Their boy has been called to the twin city Rangers—one step closer to the Rangers in New York. They notice he’s been doing more body checking in Stampeder games, clean or otherwise, which they agree you need to do to play with the big guys. So what if he’s been in the penalty box more often? He’s out of their league. Wait’ll he gets to St. Paul. Geneva’s father says very little, considering his brother-in-law is on the verge of fame.
Terry and the kids are waiting in Bradshaw; the Roberts’ house is bursting with too many bodies. Bill has to find a place for them to live, other than the motel where he is staying. They wait and wait until Bill surprises everyone by arriving at suppertime on a Friday. He says he flew to Edmonton before catching the bus. His face is puffy, the rims of his eyes are red, and he looks sad, very sad, and rumpled and bulkier than before. It must be all the travelling. It hasn’t been that long but Geneva thinks memories have a way of tricking you. This is the Bill that girls have a crush on?
Terry hangs onto Bill as though she needs to prevent him from leaving without her. Bill brags that he’s already top of the heap in St. Paul. It’s just a matter of time. Terry gazes at her star.
Geneva is excited for another reason: Kenny Peterson has asked her to the dance. She purposely hangs back when Kenny arrives at the house so he can see that the soon-to-be-famous Bill Ackerman is a part of her life. Kenny, however, is in a hurry—his buddy Ron is waiting in the car, anxious to go pick up his girlfriend who lives out on a farm.
Kenny, with one arm across Geneva’s shoulders, manoeuvres the gravelled country road. With Ron on her other side Geneva feels cozy, though at times, when the tires seem to slide, she wishes Kenny would have two hands on the wheel. On the way back to town, the radio blasts “She Loves You” by the Beatles and they all sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” They turn into a sheltered side road, and Kenny pulls out his mickey of rye. He shares swigs with Ron and his girl. The radio is off but they still sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then Kenny draws Geneva’s face close to his—Ron and his girl are busy in the back—and she tastes Kenny’s Ricky Nelson lips. Not bad, in spite of the whisky breath.
Dear Hearts Page 7
