One of the sailors nudged the other when one of the girls bent right into the ice cream freezer to get at the bottom of a bucket. Tom idly thought the girls should wear longer skirts or Karla should put a half wall behind them.
“Cute, aren’t they, at that age,” Karla said. She’d sidled up beside him without him noticing and pressed her shoulder against him. Startled, he folded over the letter and put it in his pocket.
He gave her a half smile, then walked down to the dock. There were a couple more yachts anchored in the harbour. “Big bastards,” the locals called them, the words expressing their envy and admiration.
There hadn’t been a woman in his life for two years, and Karla was giving off all the right signals. How much of it was teasing to prove she was still attractive, and how much of it was meant to end in bed? He wondered if her low-cut blouses and short skirts were more responsible for attracting business than the pickerel fillet dinner.
There were six white punts overturned on the beach. A faded sign said it was two dollars an hour to rent them, but there was no one there who looked like he was in the renting business. There were no oars or oarlocks, so Tom took a piece of board to use as a paddle. He tipped over a punt and pushed it into the water. It leaked, so he hunted for a can he could use for bailing. He pushed himself off and paddled around the harbour, looking over the boats. They were mostly middle-class sailboats, the kind your average doctor or dentist owned. Keeping the punt moving while bailing took some effort. No one paid any attention to him.
When he’d finished with the docks, he paddled out to where the bigger sailboats and the yachts were anchored. There were seven of them. Sleek and, from the antennas, they had all the latest gadgets. One of them was obviously a tug that had been remodelled. Here and there wine bottles and liquor bottles were floating in the water.
There was a light sheen on the water from spilled oil. There was no holding tank for the boaters to pump out their sewage, and he wondered if they flushed it into the harbour or if they sailed out into deeper water where there was a current. They got their drinking and washing water from a standpipe at the foot of the dock.
He picked a whisky bottle out of the water. Glenmorangie. Nothing but the best, he thought. He took a sniff. This was the closest he’d get to something this expensive. He dropped the bottle back into the water. No Two Buck Chuck here. Nothing here but the rich at play, he said to himself. He resented the rich—or maybe just their lifestyle. His colleagues had sometimes kidded him, calling him Commie Tom. He had to admit that he enjoyed stopping a Ferrari or Mercedes going too fast. He knew the cost of the ticket didn’t mean anything, though. Travis would have been too obsequious to actually hand out a ticket—maybe a warning, but he’d do it in his sucky voice. It all depended on how expensive the car was and the address on the licence.
When he got back to the beach, he thought about calling Sally from the store’s phone. Karla would bill him at the end of the month and add 10 per cent. He couldn’t get Joel’s letter out of his mind. He wondered if Sally had received an identical note. If she did, she’d have thrown it out. She’d had enough of all of them. He couldn’t blame her. All she wanted was a respectable, stable husband, with no hang-ups and no black marks on his record, and kids whom she could brag about when she got together with her girlfriends. Who wants to brag about a daughter with so much metal in her face that it blinds you in sunlight?
He wandered over to where Frenchie was unloading cases of goods for the store. The ground had dried out in the heat, but there was a dark spot at the back corner of the truck. Frenchie was inside unloading a dolly. Tom knelt down to look at the corner under the wet spot. Water was dripping from the truck, but when he put his hand on the bed, it was dry. The water was coming from below the bed. Tom ran his thumb over the spot where the water was seeping out and held it to his nose. It smelled of fish. He wiped the spot again and took another sniff.
Frenchie appeared around the corner of the truck. “Whaddaya think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“I’m Tom Parsons.” He held out his hand. Frenchie ignored it. “We met on the dock. You were bringing in your fish.”
“Good for you. Leave my truck alone. There’s always people hanging around, wanting to swipe stuff. Some kid made off with a box of chocolate bars a couple of weeks ago. It comes out of my pocket.”
His voice was sharp, but Tom sensed fear in it, or maybe worry. And Frenchie made a point of grabbing a box marked Beans, except from the way he picked it up, Tom could see it was light. Tom followed Frenchie inside. The emporium was crowded; the staff were all busy waiting on customers. There was a noisy hum from all the voices. Frenchie had stacked his delivery at the door to the storeroom. The last box, the one marked Beans, was on top. Tom rummaged on a grocery shelf and then turned and lifted the box. It was light, so light it obviously didn’t contain tinned goods. He ran the tip of his pocketknife across the top of the box. Inside was women’s underwear. It looked like stuff out of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Who in this town, he wondered, wore stuff like that?
“Dirty old man, are we?” Karla said, coming up behind him and closing the lid.
“I was looking for beans. I was hoping you had some Heinz with maple syrup.”
“Those are for our lingerie parties. Ladies only. You want to look, find yourself a woman and buy her some.”
He backed up and said, “Sorry, sorry. But it did say beans, and the tins on the shelf looked like they’d been left over from the Great War.” Karla wasn’t amused.
Just after he got home, Ben drove up. When he got out of the truck, Tom could smell beer on his breath and clothes. Ben opened the back of the truck. He began pulling out two-by-fours.
“She drowned,” Ben said belligerently. “They said you found her. How can you drown lying on the ground?” His face was angry and red. He stumbled, then braced himself. “What was she doing at your place?” He was asking questions but was too angry to be interested in Tom’s answers.
“She wasn’t at my place,” Tom replied. ”She was over there.” He pointed to the sticks and tape, then led the way. Ben shuffled after him.
“There was just you and her,” Ben insisted stubbornly.
“Yes,” Tom agreed, then said, “No. Albert was there. He was there before me. Over by that boat that’s propped up with gas barrels.”
They both looked toward the dock, toward the boat that was waiting to be scraped and painted.
“Albert,” Ben said. “He’s good to kids. Kids go there. He makes things for them. Toys. Whistles and things. He’s a good guy.”
They stopped at the tape. Ben hung back as if he didn’t want to get too close to where Angel had been found. “Come here,” Tom said. “You want to see where she drowned?” Ben edged closer but still hung back.
“You see this rut,” Tom said, pointing at it. There was more than one, so Tom ducked under the tape and went right up to it. The water had evaporated and the sides of the rut had hardened. “It was full of water. She was lying face down.”
Ben came closer to study the ruts. He looked like he didn’t believe what Tom was saying. His face was swollen and his eyes were red. With the water gone, the ruts seemed harmless. Ben edged right up to the tape so he could see better. “You’ve got to try hard to drown in something like that,” he said, refusing to believe something so inexplicable. “What was she doing here? You tell me that.”
“How am I supposed to know?” Tom asked. “I was going to ask you the same thing. What was she doing there? You tell me.”
“How am I supposed to know?” Ben said defensively, angrily, as if he’d been accused of a crime. “I had to do an overnight trip. I sometimes have to stay. She’s always been okay. She wasn’t wild.” He was clenching and unclenching his hands. “I done my best. Where are your kids? Do you know where your kids are?” His face had grown darker, angrier as he demanded an answer.
&
nbsp; Tom lifted up the tape and came back outside the barrier. “No, I don’t know where they are.”
It was obvious Ben wanted to fight with someone. To distract him, Tom said, “The red GMC. Is that Frenchie?”
“That prick.”
“His truck’s got a leak.”
“Maybe he’s carrying some ice,” Ben said bitterly but immediately turned back to the subject of Angel. “She was taking music lessons at school. She was doing good.” He stood there as if it was impossible for him to move. He wanted something or someone to rage against, to argue with. He wanted to demand an explanation that made some sense, but there was nothing there that he could attack, nothing he could destroy. Tom waited until Ben turned and made his way back to his truck. After Ben got into his truck, he leaned forward with his head on the steering wheel for a time before he managed to back away.
Ice, Tom mused. He hadn’t seen any evidence of ice. Frenchie delivered perishables, but he had a cooler and freezer in the truck. The red truck was now parked at the side of the fish processing shed. Tom went over and saw that there was a difference of about two inches between the top and bottom of the bed.
He knocked on Sarah O’Hara’s door. “Trouble and tea,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
She stepped aside so he could come into the room. He was familiar with the kitchen now, and he realized how high the counter was, how big the handles on the cupboards were. The plank table was immense and the benches on either side higher than normal. His mother had told him stories about giants living in caves in the lava fields in Iceland.
“Ben just brought a delivery. He’s drinking.”
“Is he now? He needs to stay away from the drink.”
“He could lose his licence. Maybe talk to him. Get him to take a few days off. He’s running on shock. I’ve seen it lots of times. People keep going until they crash.”
“Angel may as well have been his kid, he loved her so much.” She stood there, her body tensed as if they were having an argument. “The mother’s got the habit, you know.” She tipped her hand up to her mouth like she was taking a drink. “She stays off for a while, but then a beer or two to celebrate being sober and she isn’t sober anymore. Maybe not for weeks.”
“He’s got a grandson too, I heard.”
Sarah had been making bread and her hands were white with flour. She turned back to the counter and punched down the risen bread dough with more force than necessary. She folded it over and put it under a tea towel to rise a second time.
“He does. Derk.” Her words were sharp, chopped. “Older than Angel. He’s a handful. He makes regular runs up here. Stops at the fish camps. Stops at some of the cottages. He’s always welcome. He’s got what people want.”
“What do people want?”
She looked like she was going to reply but then stopped, uncertain. She looked away from him the way that he’d seen many people do who wanted to avoid answering one of his questions. She put another tea towel over the board where she’d been making bread. She was going to make more bread, and the towel would keep off the flies.
“I don’t know any of this. Just idle gossip. Used to be hash, marijuana, magic mushrooms. Now it’s other stuff. Chemicals. He’s a favourite with the boaters. He delivers right to their door.”
“And his sister?”
“I don’t know. It’s all just moccasin telegraph anyway. There’s nothing to do here, so we gossip. Someone sees you having a drink and the next thing you’re a raging alcoholic. Look at me. Support my kids fishing, trapping, cooking for hydro crews, road crews, fish camps, and people say I’ve made a fortune on my back.”
“Ben said Frenchie might be transporting ice. He had water running out of his truck. Looks like it might have a false floor.”
“Ben used to have that job delivering mail and store goods. Horst helped Frenchie push him out. They’re thick as thieves. You like your tea strong or weak? Now, tell me, you ever been to Disneyland? I always wanted to take my kids to Disneyland. Never had the money. Six kids. That’s the way it is.” She poured him his tea. It was as dark as coffee. “Indian tea. If I’d been making it in the bush for you, I’d have boiled it in a jam tin.”
“We took the kids to Disneyland once. It’s overrated. We spent a lot of time in lineups.”
It was true that they had stood in lines a long time, and he’d been irritated at having to wait instead of doing the things they’d come for, but he’d enjoyed himself and didn’t want to say how much.
She went to the window then, pulled aside a lace curtain. She was looking at the harbour. “See all that? All those boats? All the cottages? You know what they’ve got? Everything. A big house in the city. Cottages better than the houses we live in year round. You’ve seen their kids come up to the store. They’ve got all the gadgets. All the toys. Our kids dig ice cream for them and babysit and they see all these things and you can’t buy any of it for minimum wage and kids working don’t even get minimum wage. You don’t think we want things for our kids? You don’t think I didn’t dream of taking my kids to Disneyland?”
Not taking her kids to Disneyland was obviously a sore point with her, an old sore that broke open anytime it was scratched.
Sarah dropped the curtain. “We live here, you see. If you stay, you’re going to feel what it’s like. You’re going to see the boats and the clothes and the toys. There’ll be lots of work for someone who knows what he’s doing fixing things. You’ll see lots that needs fixing, but that doesn’t mean there’s the money for fixing it. Someone said you’re doing a good job on the Ford place. You’ve got to learn to be grateful for anything the summer people give you. You need to learn to doff your hat. People here get into fist fights over minimum-wage jobs.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He’d wanted the best for his kids, same as everybody else. The school trips. The sports. The latest fashion that every kid just had to have. There were a few kids in the school who could afford to have it all and more. They had the latest, the best, the most. Stuff they’d wheedled out of their parents or shoplifted or paid for with after-school jobs or selling drugs. They had followers, but most of the kids ignored them, created their own groups. He wondered if that was why Myrna became a goth, because he and Sally couldn’t afford the latest trends, or why Joel retreated into the private fantasy world of computers.
“You look like you’ve got a black dog on your back,” Sarah said.
“Thinking.”
“It’s a bad pastime. You want to waste your time, take up making birdhouses. That’s what Jumpy Albert does. Sells them to the tourists. Go look at them. Buy one. He never bad-mouths a customer.”
“Birdhouses,” he said skeptically, but he took the hint.
Chapter 10
Birdhouses
At Jumpy Albert’s, every tree was festooned with whirligigs of every size and colour made from plastic bottles. There was a slight breeze from the lake, but it was enough for the trees to look like they were getting ready to rise into the heavens. The picket fence that enclosed five goats and a few chickens and geese had every post painted a different colour and topped with a birdhouse, and every birdhouse had a brightly painted roof.
Jumpy Albert’s house was small, with green trim and open yellow shutters. Flower boxes filled with gaudy blooms sat under the windows. The house, Tom thought, looked like a larger version of the birdhouses. Everything was persnickety, overdone, as if the house were actually a toy. Two life-sized carvings of pelicans perched on the roof.
The goats eyed Tom suspiciously. The chickens and geese ignored him. A turkey came around the corner of the house, scratched aggressively at the ground and glared at him, ready to defend its territory. As Tom locked the gate behind him, the billy goat lowered his horns, as if to protect his harem. Tom moved slowly along the path to the front door, always half turned to face the goat. It had four hor
ns. Two larger ones at the front and two smaller ones behind. Its eyes were large, and the golden slits of its pupils made Tom think of the devil. He wished he’d brought an apple or two. When he got close to the house, he realized that the brightly coloured flowers were wood carvings. The billy goat followed and stood right behind him as he knocked on the door. When there was no answer, Tom followed the limestone walk around the house.
Every limestone pad was painted so that the path resembled the gradations of a rainbow. At the rear of the house was a shanty workshop. The whole front wall was made from two doors that were swung wide open. Albert was sitting on a stool, bent over a bench, carving a piece of wood. When the goat went over to him, he put out one hand to pat its head, then looked up.
“What do you want?” he said. “I told the Mounties what I saw. That’s all.” His voice squeaked with anxiety. He looked like he was ready to jump off his stool and flee.
“Sarah O’Hara said you’ve got birdhouses for sale.” Tom went over to admire five birdhouses that were lined up on the bench. Purple, orange, green, yellow, red roofs. “What birds are they for?”
“Different ones,” Albert said, giving nothing away. “You going to start making birdhouses?”
Tom restrained a smile. Albert was worried about competition. His birdhouses were exquisite. Carved and painted in detail, they were more decoration than birdhouse. More suitable for a mantelpiece than a tree. There also were carvings of fish. They reminded Tom of the leaping pickerel on the Valhalla sign. “Nice,” he said of a jackfish. “I’m surprised you don’t have them up for sale at the store.”
Albert’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Did before. But then Horst sent pictures of my birdhouses to China and got them made from plastic. Doesn’t matter what’s good or not. Buy them cheap; sell them cheap. Give the tourists whatever they want. You’d think he had enough things going for him. He doesn’t need to grab every dollar the tourists bring. Takes away my business, but he still wants me to pay for my groceries.”
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