Surface Rights

by Melissa Hardy

  Later that afternoon Verna drove into Greater Gammage to hit the ATM for cash to pay Winonah and to pick up some groceries at the Pump and Munch — a combination gas bar and convenience store where locals could purchase white bread, cigarettes, and lottery tickets and where hunters and fishers could stock up on canned goods and tackle, propane and bait. Romy went along for the ride.

  Greater Gammage had started life as Gammage’s Trading Post on a steep bluff overlooking the Black River. Once track had been laid for the Temiskaming and Northern Ontario Railway from North Bay to Cochrane, a ragged community of sorts began to accumulate around the post, and, later, across the river. Those who lived on the bluff called their community Greater Gammage (it being the original settlement and higher in altitude), while those residing on the opposite shore had to settle for Lesser Gammage, scorn and condescension and a certain amount of seasonal flooding.

  Over the decades that had intervened since Verna had last been north, Greater Gammage had begun to describe itself in a hopeful, yearning way as a destination for outdoor enthusiasts, fishermen, and hunters. Throughout most of its history, however, its chief claim to fame had been its propensity to catch on fire — and this to such an extent that, in the course of not quite a century, Greater Gammage had burned down and been rebuilt a total of five times. Moreover, when Greater Gammage wasn’t burning down on its own, it burned down in conjunction with other hamlets, as it did in 1916, when 244 people died in a fire that swept through not only Greater Gammage, but also the villages of Beverley, Kelso, Val Gagne, Porquis Junction, and Iroquois Falls. Low-lying Lesser Gammage, on the other hand, not being situated on a bluff, had more immediate access to the river, not ideal during the spring thaw, but handy when one had a raging fire to douse.

  It all came to a head in 1932, when a lightning strike ignited a ground fire on the outskirts of Greater Gammage. This was in the process of boiling through town when the severely undercut bluff on which Greater Gammage was poised suddenly gave way and tumbled fifteen metres into the river, taking a good deal of the upper town with it. Those denizens of Greater Gammage who survived the double disaster were forced to acknowledge that, despite its lowliness and soggy cellars, Lesser Gammage appeared to have something of an advantage over Greater Gammage as far as staying power went. They relocated to Lesser Gammage, which promptly became Greater Gammage.

  “This is a pretty poor excuse for a town,” Romy observed, as they drove past the four or five boarded-up storefronts that constituted the outskirts of Greater Gammage and pulled into what passed for the Pump and Munch’s parking lot.

  “It’s not a town,” Verna replied. “It’s more like a hamlet.”

  “Well, it’s a pretty poor excuse for a hamlet.”

  “Fern and I used to call it ‘Hoserville.’”

  “Hoserville,” Romy repeated with relish. “That’s a good name for it. Hoserville.”

  “Just don’t say it too loud,” Verna warned her. “Hosers tend to be thin-skinned.”

  While Verna shopped, Romy, wraithlike, ranged the five aisles of the Pump and Munch, gawping at the cans of beans and soup and dusty candy bars as though she were at a carnival freak show. “I’ve never seen so much disgusting food in one place,” Romy told her in a stage whisper. “No wonder the locals are so massive!”

  “Shhh!” warned Verna.

  “No, seriously, you should see the one who just came in. She’s gigantic!”

  Verna looked up to see Carmen standing in the gas bar’s door wearing a gravy-stained peacock-blue caftan and bright white, high-topped running shoes.

  “What? Is she, like, Moby Rapper?”

  But before Verna could respond, “Hey, Verna!” the realtor was calling. “I thought that was the Volvo!” She waddled their way, as wide as the aisle.

  “You know her?” Romy gasped.

  “Hush!” Verna warned. “Carmen! How are you?”

  “Out of breath and out of smokes, that’s how,” replied Carmen. “In other words, in desperate straits, but not for long. Mind you, at these prices … forty-nine bucks a carton!” She shook her head. “Talk about sin tax! How are things up at your dad’s place?”

  “Good,” said Verna. “I wanted to thank you for sending Winonah along to me. She’s been a godsend.”

  “She’s handy, all right,” Carmen agreed. “Handy with attitude. God knows she’s handier than poor Lionel ever was. All thumbs, that boy, plus not a great gag reflex. That reminds me, maybe you could ask her to bring me a couple of cartons of smokes from the rez. This should cover it.” She gave Verna a twenty, a ten, and a toonie. “The butt-legged ones were going for around sixteen bucks the last time I bought from her.”

  “Butt-legged?” Verna wondered.

  “Sixteen bucks?” Romy was interested. “That’s cheap!”

  “And who’s this?” Carmen asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Verna said hastily. “Romy, this is Carmen. Carmen, this is Fern’s daughter, Romy. The baby.”

  Carmen peered at Romy. “The baby, eh?” she shook her head. “Not much of a resemblance.”

  “What do you mean?” Romy asked.

  “Too thin,” Carmen replied.

  “‘You can never be too rich or too thin,’” Romy retorted.

  “Oh, yes, you can,” said Carmen smoothly. “Too thin, that is. I don’t know about the too-rich part.” She laughed. “Probably never will the way I’m going.” She glanced at Verna’s shopping basket. “You might want to stock up on some Off,” she advised. “Blackflies should be starting up any time now.”

  Verna moaned. “Blackflies! Oh, Jesus! I’d forgotten about the blackflies!”

  “What are blackflies?” Romy asked.

  The two women stared at her.

  “Are you serious?” Verna asked.

  Romy blinked back at her.

  “You’re serious,” Verna concluded. “And what country are you from again?

  The wizened crone perched atop the high stool behind the cash register burst, apparently spontaneously, into a cackle of song: “Always the blackfly, no matter where you go/I’ll die with the blackfly a-picking my bones/In North On-tar-i-o-i-o, in North On-tar-i-o.” Then, as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped, and, once again folded in on herself like a collapsed bat.

  “I’m off,” Carmen told Romy and Verna. “Don’t forget about the smokes!” Turning, she lumbered back to the counter. “Pack of Du Mauriers, Darla,” she told the cashier.

  Romy tugged on Verna’s sleeve. “Who is Lionel? What was that about his gag reflex? Do you think Winonah would pick up some of the cigarettes for me? Could you ask her because I don’t think she likes me.”

  When they arrived back at the cottage, Winonah was sitting on the hood of the battered Buick, whittling. Verna recognized the stick. It was the one Lionel had been whittling when she saw him from her window that morning, the one he had abandoned on the stone wall, the one which she had retrieved to show Winonah and Romy.

  “Wow!” said Verna. “You whittle!”

  “Of course I whittle,” replied Winonah.

  “I knit!” declared Romy, not to be outdone. “They make you knit at the Birches. Keeps you from running around. Calms you down. Once I knit a scarf. It was very long.”

  Winonah looked at her, shook her head and turned to Verna. “No’okomiss is waiting. You can pay me now.”

  “Who’s No’okomiss?” Really, Romy is like a toddler, Verna thought, all questions.

  “Winonah’s granny,” Verna told her.

  “The one who had to eat grasshopper legs?”

  Verna ignored her. “Oh, and before I forget, Winonah, we ran into Carmen in town and she gave us some money to give to you — for two cartons of reservation cigarettes.”

  “Butt-legged cigarettes,” Romy clarified.

  As Verna counted out first Carmen’s money, then an additional ten twenties into the handywoman’s palm, she debated with herself: should I ask her to come again tomorrow? On the one hand, Romy was he
re, which meant that she would not be alone, should the spectre of Lionel happen to rematerialize. On the other hand, Romy probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. Yes, she was nervy and presumptive in a Jack Russell terrier sort of way, but wasn’t Winonah’s unflinchingly stubborn orneriness a safer bet when it came to fending off threats, real or surreal? Besides, Lionel was the round woman’s brother, the twin with whom she shared a psychic bond. Presumably such a twin could sway the spirit, were suasion required. That cinched it. “Can you come again tomorrow?” she asked.

  Winonah blinked at her. “Why?”

  “There have got to be things that need fixing. It stands to reason.”

  “Such as …?”

  “I don’t know. The dock? It’s looking kind of twisted. The boathouse? God knows what’s up with that. And what about vermin? There was mouse dirt in my old bed …”

  “You didn’t tell me that!” Romy fumed. “You wanted me to sleep there.”

  “We would have brushed it off,” Verna defended herself.

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll come.” Winonah slid off the hood of the car, tossed the stick she had been whittling aside, and pulled car keys from her jeans pocket.

  Suddenly Verna remembered Lionel’s cremains on the front porch. Maybe if she sent them home with Winonah, Lionel would not reappear. After all, hadn’t his spirit explained its presence in Donald’s room by saying that it was too crowded downstairs? Maybe spirits require more Lebensraum than live people. Or maybe that was just Lionel: “Give me land, lots of land, and a starry sky above!” Like the old Cole Porter song. On second thought, Lebensraum might be the wrong word for it. “Wait!” she told Winonah. She turned to Romy. “Romy, run and get the cremains on the front porch. Not your mom or grandfather. The other cremains.”

  “The what?” Romy asked.

  “The … you know! The cremains! The ashes!”

  “Cremains?” Romy repeated.

  “Don’t bother …” Winonah began.

  Romy was puzzled. “What kind of a word is ‘cremains’?”

  “A stupid, made-up word,” Verna snapped. “No, really, Winonah, you should take them with you. Romy, please!”

  “Oooh!” Romy was reluctant. “How will I know which one to get?”

  Winonah finished her sentence: “… ’cause I’m just going to bring him right back here tomorrow.”

  Verna wheeled around to face the handywoman. “What?” she demanded. “Do you just carry him around with you? What’s that about? Don’t you think that’s a little ghoulish?” To Romy she said, “The cartons are labelled. Get the one that says ‘Lionel.’”

  “He gets carsick,” said Winonah. “He’s a bad passenger. Better he stays here.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” said Romy. “Lionel? Isn’t he that dead guy?”

  “They’re all dead!” cried Verna. “Romy, get the carton.”

  “But …!”

  Winonah closed the car door and put her key in the ignition. “I told you. No’okomiss don’t like dead people in the house.”

  “Neither do I!” Verna said. “Run, Romy, run! It’s exercise. You’ll burn calories! Hurry up now!” Really, she would have done it herself, but she felt far too rickety at the moment what with having breached Fern’s bedroom.

  Too late.

  “Bye! See you tomorrow!” Winonah leaned out of the car window to shout as she drove off down the laneway.

  “Damn!”

  “What is it with you?” Romy asked. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Oh …!” Verna toyed momentarily with the idea of telling Romy about her visit with Lionel, or, to be more precise, his visit with her, but dismissed it as too risky. What would be the point? The girl would just think she was crazy, and, who knows? Maybe she was. She picked up the stick Winonah had been whittling and noted that the handywoman had taken up where Lionel had left off — her buck knife had coaxed from the curve of peeled wood at the stick’s end the sleek head of a water bird. “What kind of a bird do you think this is?” she asked.

  “Auntie Verna! Don’t change the subject!”

  “It’s nothing,” Verna replied. ‘“Nothing you’d understand, at any rate.”

  Romy was undeterred. “Try me.”

  But Verna only scrutinized the carving, turning it this way and that. “I think it’s a loon,” she decided. “Look. See. There’s its eye.”

  Romy and Verna sat on the screened-in porch, watching the sun ease itself, like a tentative bather, into the lake’s western end, taking with it that meagre allotment of vernal warmth it had afforded during daylight hours. Jude lay on his side by the front door, humid and dreamy, in what Donald used to call his beached-whale pose. Verna glanced at Romy, who was white around the gills and shivering. “Cold?” she asked.

  “And you’re not?”

  “Not so much, but I’m menopausal. I’ve got the thermostat to my central heating cranked up high.”

  “Not me! Everything in me is turned way down low.”

  Verna stood. “I’m getting a drink. I’ll fetch you a jacket. There’s a pile of them in the mudroom.” She returned with a vodka and tonic, a tricolour Hudson’s Bay blanket coat for Romy, and, for herself, a heavyweight black-and-plaid flannel shirt — not dissimilar to the red-and-black one sported by Winonah and by Lionel’s apparition. “Here.” She handed Romy the blanket coat.

  “Thanks,” said Romy, slipping it on. “What’s the lake’s name? It does have a name, doesn’t it?”

  “Marguerite,” replied Verna. “Lake Marguerite. After my aunt. Margie for short.”

  “Your Aunt Margie had a lake named after her?”

  “Well, my grandfather … your great-grandfather, that is, discovered it,” said Verna, remembering what her father had said on the subject: “A lake has to be called something. A topographical feature on a map, once noted, cannot go unnamed.”

  “How did he discover it?” Romy asked.

  “He was a geologist and a cartographer with the Bureau of Mines,” Verna replied. “George Dewey Macoun. His map of northeastern Ontario — the Macoun Map it was called — formed the basis of all future maps of the area.”

  “Wow.” Romy was impressed. “So why do you call it ‘the lake’? Why don’t you call it Lake Marguerite?”

  “Because my grandmother forbade it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it upset Aunt Evelyn.”

  “Who was Aunt Evelyn?”

  “Your grandfather had four children,” Verna explained. “George Junior, Evelyn, Dad. Margie was the baby.”

  “So Evelyn was jealous of her sister.”

  “Apparently.”

  “What happened to them all — your aunts and uncles?”

  “Uncle George died on August 31, 1944, in the battle of Pozzo Alto Ridge, a lieutenant in Lord Strathcona’s Horse,” Verna recounted. “He had been working as a geologist at the Athabasca oil sands out in Alberta when he enlisted. As for Aunt Evelyn, she married an American and moved to California. Salinas, California. There were children — a boy and girl, cousins we never met. I can’t remember their names now. Strange, American non-names. Tracy? Chip? Up until 1996, Dad always got a Christmas card from her, then nothing. When he finally checked into it a year or two later, he found that she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and put into a home. As for Marge, she killed herself in the late eighties.” A pang of pity for the only one of Donald’s siblings that Verna had actually known. Verna shook her head. Once her father’s darling, Margie had become a soft, spongy, middle aged woman whom her husband — Uncle Phil — would discard along the way. When Donald called Verna to tell her of the suicide, this was how he put it: “Your Uncle Phil had a midlife crisis from which your aunt never recovered.”

  “Oooh!” crooned Romy. “How did she do it?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning,” Verna replied, remembering with a flash of pride, that, when it had come right down to it, Margie had proven herself not only more resourceful, but also far more vindictive tha
n anyone would have given her credit for. On Day Two of Phil and his impossibly young bride’s honeymoon — a ten-day cruise down the Mayan Riviera — Marge somehow managed to break into the garage of the newlyweds’ Etobicoke side split. There she hot-wired the girl’s sporty new Suzuki Samurai, climbed inside, and curled up on the back seat as the garage filled with exhaust. By the time Phil and his bride returned home eight days later, Margie had managed to go very badly off indeed, ruining the car’s interior, and, as Donald could not refrain from observing, “reeking a good deal more than havoc!”

  “That’s not very exciting,” Romy complained.

  “Oh, trust me,” Verna assured her, remembering the note Marge had left on the new bride’s dashboard, “it was plenty exciting.” The note had read: “Loons mate for life.”

  “I can’t imagine Aunt Margie breaking into a house,” Verna had said at the time.

  “Never mind that,” her father had replied. “Where did she learn to hot-wire a car?” Secret lives, she thought. We all have them.

  “So, Auntie Verna,” Romy’s next question muscled its way into Verna’s consciousness. “What are your feelings about popping an Oxy?”

  “What?” Verna asked, then, remembering Fern’s painkillers, “No. Absolutely not. And you shouldn’t ‘pop’ one, either.” Setting her drink on the Queen Anne table between the Heywood rockers, she pulled on the flannel shirt and sat down. “Honestly!”

  Romy shook her head. “I hate to inform you of this, but you are so not the boss of me. I can do whatever I want.” As if to illustrate this, she produced a cigarette from the depths of her clothing along with a Zippo lighter.

  “Oh, no!” declared Verna. “No, you don’t! You are not going to smoke that foul cancer stick on this porch!”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” replied Romy. “And I’m going to have an Oxy, too. If I want.” She lit the cigarette and took a deep drag on it. “Come on, Auntie Verna! What’s the harm? So my mother’s dead! So, these pills are, like, her gift to me, her legacy.”

  “Her legacy? For cripes’ sake! Her legacy? You do know, Romy, that it’s not fair to me, you smoking in my vicinity. Haven’t you ever heard of second-hand smoke? People die from it.”