Unravelling

by Josephine Boxwell

  Todd does most of the cooking now because he doesn’t think she’s capable. That’s fine. She is tired of cooking for him. She cooks dinner when she feels like it and only left the gas on once just for a minute.

  Todd can’t roast a piece of meat without using a thermometer to guarantee it’s done to perfection. Cooking was one of the things he took an interest in when he hit middle age, along with fine wine. The money was really coming in back then. They jetted off to upmarket destinations and kept company with a better sort of person. It was clear he felt like a small-town hick, even though it was he who had been born and raised in a Vancouver suburb and Vivian who had grown up in a coal mining backwater. His father managed a car dealership that did well enough. Vivian’s father did infinitely better. She came from Stapleton’s most prominent family and was sent off to private schools from a young age. She knew everything there was to know about life’s finer things.

  Only recently has Vivian begun to understand her husband’s fear of appearing inadequate. Along with the frailties of age come the judgments of others than can erode one’s confidence. She knows she has little slips—a consequence of being old. She also knows it’s more than that; more confusing and frustrating and terrifying than she lets on. There are only so many times she can put off doctors’ visits before Todd will drag her there.

  “What do you think of the beef?” he asks her.

  He’s marinated it in something. He wants her to guess what. She lets a smile slip across her mouth as she chews. “Excellent,” she says, because after all, he has gone to the effort of cooking it. She has never derived the same degree of joy from eating that other people seem to experience. There is a specific spice she can identify, but what is it called? Its name has escaped her. She changes the subject before he has a chance to engage her in a guess-the-spice game.

  “Have you spoken to the ...” What’s the word? She fumbles for it and finds something. “The reference people.”

  “Who?”

  “The reference people, Todd!”

  He looks at her blankly. She huffs at him. Then it comes to her, the word.

  “Refuse. You know what I meant. Have you spoken to the refuse people?”

  “You asked me that before we sat down.”

  She doesn’t remember. She wonders if he’s lying; if he’s begun to use her little slips as a way to control and belittle her.

  “Do we have a deal with them or not?”

  “Not yet, Vivian. As you know, these things take time.”

  “There’s always a way to speed things along.”

  “It doesn’t work like that these days. We have to be patient. They’ll come through. We need to give them time.”

  “We don’t have time, and I sure as hell don’t trust the rest of the council to push this through without us. This could be Stapleton’s last chance and who knows how long you and I have got left?”

  She puts her fork down and pouts at the French bulldog, who grunts loudly in her sleep from her spot on the sofa. Sometimes Vivian feels that dog is her closest companion in this world. Cherie is old, too, but that allows her the dignity of sleeping most of the time, a luxury Vivian doesn’t have.

  “I’m not hungry,” Vivian declares, leaving most of her meal on her plate. She hobbles over to the sofa. Cherie shuffles out of sleep and onto Vivian’s lap before nodding off again.

  Vivian picks up her knitting. She hates knitting. Always has. The mayor’s wife, Carol, who is excruciatingly enthusiastic about everything, is running a campaign to send knitted blankets to refugees. Vivian tried to explain that a blanket she purchased would do a much better job of keeping someone warm, but Carol found her an extra set of needles and some wool so she could “take part.”

  Vivian is just about ready to stab Carol with her knitting needles. She has made so many mistakes she could have knitted ten blankets in the time it has taken to undo stitches and start again. If Vivian takes something on, though, she sees it through. This blanket will be perfect, eventually. She picks up the shamefully small beginnings and the rhythmic clicks become slower and slower until she, too, falls asleep.

  Vivian rifles through old mail stuffed into the narrow drawers of the hallway table. Todd has hidden the car keys again. He says there’s a problem with the engine and he’s going to get it fixed. He’s always been a terrible liar but he’s getting sly in his old age. It’s all she can do to leave the house without him.

  Abandoning the key search, she grabs her beige jacket to guard against the early morning chill. Todd hears her from the kitchen. “Wait. I’ll come with you.”

  “I can manage a walk to the post office on my own.”

  She slams the door behind her before he can respond.

  The route to her planned destination sometimes eludes her.

  The network of little roads connects in unexpected ways. The grinding of metal on metal grows louder as a freight train passes and she knows she can’t be that far off course.

  The quiet residential street is a mix of cared for older homes and a string of others that have been boarded up. She turns a corner and stops abruptly. The stranger she met at the gas station is standing in front of Pam’s house and he’s holding something in his hand. Dressed handsomely again in jeans and a pressed white shirt, he hasn’t noticed her.

  He seems captivated by the house and Vivian wonders if there’s someone inside looking out at him. She checks her watch: 11:30 am. It’s bingo day. Pam will be at the community hall with the other gamblers. She can’t think of anyone else who would be inside the home. Pam’s son Logan hasn’t been seen in Stapleton for many years.

  It is a rock, in his hand. He turns it over a couple of times before rolling his arm back and pitching it through the front window. An explosion of glass, then a dull thud as the rock drops into the room.

  Vivian clacks her cane on the tarmac. The stranger stumbles backwards and spins around, as if her presence is more shocking than his mischief.

  “Vandalising our town already?” she calls out to him as she approaches.

  He looks at her, mouth half-open. “I’m sorry ... I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You might want to come up with a better explanation before you talk to Pam.”

  “Pam?”

  “Yes, that’s Pam’s window. Pam’s house.”

  The man stares back at the house in disbelief. “No. This was the Petersons’ house, and it’s obviously been abandoned.”

  “Oh yes, it was the Petersons’ house, but that was a long time ago. Before the incident at the mill. Now it’s Pam’s house.”

  “It can’t be. It looks ...”

  His eyes scan the buckling roof shingles and the sloping front entrance with the rotting steps. The homes on either side are boarded up. The yard is a dense mat of weeds, dead and living, slowly choking each other.

  Vivian pokes her stick at the foliage. “Pam has never been a particularly talented gardener.” She turns to the young man, waiting for a better explanation, but he’s fixated on the jagged hole he just created in Pam’s living room window.

  Vivian changes tack. “Everybody knows Mr. Peterson was a ... difficult ... person.”

  The man steps back a couple of feet, running one hand through his thick black hair. He finally faces Vivian. “It’s not an excuse, but I went to school with Kyle, his oldest boy, and it was hell. Kyle shot me with a pellet gun out of that window once. Old Man Peterson was there beside him laughing and there was nothing I could do except run.”

  Vivian shakes her head. “Nobody ever was able to put Mr. Peterson in his place.”

  “I heard he died.” No pity in the stranger’s voice.

  “Yes, he did.” She stalls. It’s a topic she doesn’t like to discuss. “I’m Vivian Lennox.”

  She puts out a hand which he shakes firmly.

  “Dean Masset.”

  Masset. She tries to place the name. It doesn’t ring any bells, but names don’t stick the way they used to.

  “Tel
l Pam you were driving by and you saw two kids causing trouble. You feel responsible because if you had been paying more attention you might’ve been able to stop them. Offer to pay for the damage. She’ll refuse at first but if you offer again, she’ll let you pay for it. She doesn’t have much.”

  “Thank you. Not everyone would be so understanding.”

  Vivian waves her hand airily. “I’m old. I live vicariously through the mistakes of others. And in small communities, we have to help each other out when we can.”

  She’s thrilled to have him feeling indebted to her so quickly. That’s the secret to success in business and in life. Making others believe they owe you.

  Dean hesitates. “Can I buy you lunch? To say thank you.”

  She smiles. “Where would we go? The gas station?”

  “No. The Inn.”

  Vivian’s smile flattens. “I should be on my way, and the Inn isn’t my sort of place.”

  “It isn’t my kind of place either, but I just inherited it. I’m Frank’s son.”

  She blinks. There is familiarity, in the hair and the eyes, sharp features and slender build. He even shares some of his father’s expressions. Aside from his youth and vastly superior manner and dress sense, he looks just like Frank.

  “I didn’t know he had a son.”

  “It’s a long story. I really would like to buy you lunch. I could do with more of your advice.”

  He is charming, like Frank, but in a very different way. A few moments later, she’s in his car (it is an Audi) and wondering at her compliance. She is allowing her curiosity to break the rules she laid down for herself with good reason, and there’s no way to back out now.

  The mustiness in the bar is overwhelming. Stale smoke in the walls even though cigarettes have been banned for years. It is so dark that she has to pause in the doorway to let her eyes adjust and her heartrate slow. There is no sign of that woman, the one who brings it all back like it was yesterday. Where is she lurking? And where is Frank? He isn’t here, she reminds herself. He’s gone.

  Gently, Dean takes her arm in his and guides her to a table. Frank kept the old tables, heavy dark wood, scratched and stained. Not much has changed; a couple of newer TVs, a board with neatly chalked daily specials and fake miniature sunflower centrepieces in tiny ceramic vases. Did that woman add those touches?

  They’re alone except for an older couple slurping soup and a village maintenance worker who nods at Vivian from the bar. A girl with purple streaks in her hair comes over to take their order. Vivian relaxes a little. Perhaps that woman isn’t here after all.

  Dean insists on ordering her a drink because he says he needs one. He tries the wine and then scrunches his face a little melodramatically.

  Vivian sips her whiskey. “Frank wasn’t a wine connoisseur, but he always had a decent rye.”

  “It’s that sort of information I need more of,” he says with a smile. “It’s strange to talk to people who knew him so much better than I did.”

  “But you lived in Stapleton as a boy?”

  “I did. With my mom and my stepdad. When I was 12 my mom decided she’d had enough of my stepdad and this town, so the two of us moved to the Lower Mainland. Stapleton was a different place back then.”

  “Did you see much of Frank?”

  Dean stares at his glass of vinegary wine. He pauses long enough for Vivian to wonder whether he’ll answer.

  “A lawyer contacted me a few weeks ago to tell me this eccentric guy I barely knew from my hometown had written me into his will. I called my mom and she finally told me that Frank was my dad.”

  Dean traces a scratch on the table with his index finger, then taps it repeatedly, a hint of tension in his attractive face. Vivian finds it hard to match it to the angry man who lobbed a rock through a window.

  “What will you do with the Inn?” she asks.

  “Burn it down.”

  He laughs.

  “I imagine profit margins are slim.”

  “It barely pays for itself. But Frank had a live-in manager who has been running the show since he got sick, and she seems capable enough. She can handle things until I decide what to do next.”

  The manager. He must be referring to that woman. Vivian craves fresh air. There’s no reason to panic, she reminds herself. She hasn’t even seen her yet. Perhaps she won’t. Perhaps she’s out.

  “So, you’re considering running it yourself?”

  Dean shrugs. “The lawyer said Frank gave it to me because he wanted it to stay a family business. His sister can’t handle taking care of it herself and his nephew didn’t want it. He hoped if I came here and saw the place, I might take an interest in running it. But I have a life and a successful career in Vancouver.”

  Vivian has spent the past twenty odd years trying to make Stapleton attractive again. It frustrates her that others struggle to see the potential here but he is not to blame for the sad realities of this town.

  “What line of work are you in?”

  “I’m a management consultant.”

  Vivian raises her eyebrows. “I’m sure Frank would’ve been very impressed.”

  Dean takes a large swig of wine. Apparently, the taste has improved. He taps the table again. “Was he such a bad person?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mom thought it would be less damaging for me to think that my dad was a stranger she had a one-night stand with.”

  Vivian considers his question and forms a delicate response. “Small towns shrink to the size of fishbowls when it comes to gossip. She might have been trying to protect you by keeping Frank out of it.”

  He finishes his glass and orders a rye. Vivian declines another. The atmosphere in here is making her fuzzy-headed enough.

  “You won’t hear this from many people because it isn’t widely known yet, but Stapleton is on the cusp of a revival.”

  He grins, and she is reminded of Frank. He thinks she’s joking. She doesn’t blame him.

  “I’m quite serious, Dean, and in all my years here I’d say this opportunity could be the one to turn Stapleton’s fortunes around. You’d be wise to hang onto your investment a little longer. It could be worth a lot more in a year or two, even if you do decide to sell.”

  That catches his interest. She knows it’s not just about the money. Business excites him. He is exactly the sort of person this town needs.

  “What kind of revival should I be expecting?” he asks.

  “We’re in the middle of negotiations with the company at the moment so I can’t disclose any specifics, but it’s an enterprise that will bring jobs to our community by providing a valuable service to other residents of our beautiful province.”

  He seems impressed. He should be. She gives a good sales pitch but the plan is brilliant on its own merits. All she needs is a bit more time to bring the company on board officially. The town will follow.

  Their food arrives and Dean removes the limp lettuce from his burger before taking a bite. “How is it?” she asks.

  “The bun’s freezer burnt, but apart from that, not bad.” Dean is much more straightforward than his dad. Frank could never give a clear answer, even to the most mundane question. That’s what made him useful. If there ever came a time when Vivian needed to make excuses, she could argue that she never really knew what he was up to, and people would believe her.

  Vivian spies her husband hobbling in through the side entrance, thin strands of white hair dishevelled by the breeze. He gasps when he sets eyes on her.

  “Vivian! I had no idea where you were! What are you doing in here?”

  “Oh, please. Stop fretting.” She turns to Dean. “You’ll have to excuse my husband, Todd. He’s become quite a worrier in his old age.”

  Vivian rolls out the usual polite introductions, with Dean issuing an unnecessary apology to Todd for whisking her away to lunch.

  Despite her husband’s annoying protectiveness, it is freeing to step outside into the warm air and see the sunlight again. To
dd drives her home and sits her down at the kitchen table, placing two yellow pills and a glass of water in front of her. She looks at him incredulously. What is he trying to do now? Sedate her?

  “I’m not taking those!”

  “Your doctor prescribed them. You need to take them.”

  “For what?”

  He loses his patience. “Why, for once, can’t you just take them when I ask you to? Why do we always have to fight about it first?”

  “What do you mean, ’for once?’ I’ve never seen these before.”

  “You have, Vivian. You just don’t remember.”

  CHAPTER 5

  1 9 9 4

  ELENA HAD SEEN it in a documentary once; an entire city rising up out of the desert, surrounded by nothing but sand. It seemed impossible. That’s how the school looked in that moment. It was hard to comprehend.

  Army vehicles fronted the entrance and soldiers stood scanning the area like hungry eagles watching the river. Metal fencing enclosed the playing fields. Inside, groups of people sat, paced or just stood and stared. Overnight, the military must have scooped the townspeople up and dumped them in clumps behind the high fence while guarding the only exit. Were they all captured by the curse, or protected from it? In that moment, she didn’t care. She just wanted to see her family.

  Elena took up her own perch on the grassy slope overlooking the school. She lay beside a dead ponderosa pine and watched the soldiers coming and going. She fidgeted with the tree bark that fell like puzzle pieces around its trunk, trying to figure out how everything had fallen apart so quickly since the night before.

  She needed to get closer. She couldn’t see whether her family were behind the fence. She scrambled down the slope on hands and knees hoping the tall clumps of grass would disguise her. Sagebrush roots, rocks and clusters of prickly pear cactus tore at her palms and shins.

  Familiar faces came into view. The grocery store manager was chatting animatedly with one of Elena’s former teachers. She recognized some of the little kids chasing each other around the perimeter, colliding and giggling. She inched closer. Her elderly neighbour, Mrs. Dubov, sat alone on a bench. Chief John’s son Terry towered above the other boys at the basketball hoop. Terry was one of Rob’s teammates and the best player in the school but Elena couldn’t spot her brother on the court. She slammed her knee into a rock and bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.