After that she was quiet. “So,” she said, “how do you want it? On top, underneath, behind?”
He didn’t bother to answer.
“No. I’m too old, too ugly. Is that it?” She pulled her top lip in and clasped tight on it with her lower teeth. “People should have enough talent to make it or no talent. Hell is having just about enough talent. Just enough drags you out, wrecks your life. If you didn’t have just about enough talent to make it, you could be happy being a secretary or a housewife or lots of things.”
He found it difficult to look at her. She was crying now. Silently, her head forward, tears streaming down her face. “Do you know why I go swimming every day, why I have two and three showers a day, why I wear so much perfume? I can’t get the stink of french fries out of my hair, off my skin. Everything I own stinks of french fries.”
Karla took a deep breath, closed her eyes as she let it out. “Frenchie says you know about the pickerel fillets. People take the cash from Frenchie. When Siggi got in trouble, lots of them gave him loans. What are they going to do with the cash? They can’t put it in a bank. He owes everybody money. He promised to pay it back with big interest. They won’t lend Horst and me anything. They take the fish money, but they won’t help us. I told them if we get the money and build a good place, the customers will come. You’ve got to have class to have classy customers. Business brings business. More work for everybody.” Her voice was aggrieved, bitter at the perceived injustice.
“Angel’s dead,” he replied. “Sometimes the price of what you want is too high.”
“You don’t understand.” She didn’t look at him but at the table. “It was pouring rain. There was no moon.”
“You saw her floating.”
“Merlin got a flashlight. We couldn’t get her into the punt. He rowed and I held onto her.”
“And you dragged her up onto the beach. Merlin had the foresight to bring along a bottle of whisky.”
“No, he went back for it.” She shuddered at the memory. “She was lying on her back. He wouldn’t let me turn her over because he wanted to pour whisky into her mouth.”
“Her grandmother was Aboriginal. Ben says you ‘don’t like Indians.’”
“They’re unreliable,” she said. “They don’t have to pay taxes. They can fish anytime they want.”
“Is that why you took her to Merlin’s hotel room? Why didn’t you take Tracy?”
“He didn’t want Tracy.”
“I think you should close down the store pretty quick, start packing, get Frenchie to take you somewhere far away. Stay too long and I’ll call my friends in Winnipeg.”
“It was an accident,” she repeated.
“It wasn’t an accident when you took Angel to the hotel room. It wasn’t an accident when you got your teenage waitresses to have underwear parties for the boaters.”
She stopped and her face twisted in a grimace. “Why did you have to come here?” Her voice was tight and filled with pain. She moved her head from side to side, as if to shake off a nightmare. “Why have you got to interfere in things you don’t understand?”
Tom left her then, sitting slumped at the picnic table. He was walking to Ben’s when he saw Derk and waved him down. Derk pulled up beside him and he got into Derk’s car. They sat there facing the harbour and the lake. Derk had the windows down and they could hear the shouting from the dock as kids pushed each other into the water. There were puffy island clouds sitting in a blue sky.
“We got business?” Derk asked. “Is this going to be a sermon on changing my life and becoming a preacher?”
“No,” Tom said, and he told him about Angel, and Karla and Merlin.
“You going to call your friends and have them haul them away?”
“No point. There’s no evidence. He’s got lots of important friends. He’s got money. Karla is scared shitless about losing her place and going to jail. He’ll hire a hotshot lawyer for himself, another for her. Karla will suffer a memory lapse. They’ll delay, delay, delay. Who’s got the clout? An ex-cop with a bad leg and a bad attitude and a kid with a rep for dealing drugs? You and me, we’ve got a credibility problem.”
“I’ll take care of it. He’s a client. He’s anchored at Gull Harbour right now.”
“It isn’t worth twenty-five years.”
“Accidents happen. There’s new stuff in Winnipeg. Too pure. People are dying from it every day. The Magician likes nothing but the best.”
“I don’t want to know about it. If he knows people know, he’ll leave. He won’t be coming back. He goes back where he came from and the Whites don’t get their financing. They’re done. They’re hanging on by a thread. Suppliers won’t give them any more credit, and the salvage places deal in cash.”
“No store? There’s got to be a store.”
“Bankruptcies happen all the time. They’re over ninety days late. No more credit for them. You said you’re dealing but not using. That means you must have lots of money stashed away. You could get the business cheap. Change professions.”
“Me?” Derk exclaimed. “Groceries. A café. Rentals. There’s no bling to it. Besides, I’m too young.”
“Two dealers were found floating in the Red River just before my accident. Some guys shot up a house in retaliation.”
“Look at this watch,” Derk said, sticking his arm in front of Tom. “This is a Rado integral diamond ceramic bracelet watch.”
“Pizza,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” Derk replied. “The pizza is a good idea, but you can’t live on two months of business a year. People want my spices every month. Siggi could finance it after he gets his debts paid. Local hero.” He hesitated, then said, “If your friends would stay away and I could sell spices out of the store, it might work. You pull some strings and make me a licensed dealer.” He laughed out loud at the idea and clapped his hands, once.
“Siggi gets his debts paid and if he has any brains at all, he is going someplace like Saudi Arabia to drill wells. If he’s smart, he’ll stay there until his business associates forget his name or end up dead.”
“You want me to sell creamed corn?”
“You’re better dressed than Horst. You’re a smart aleck, but you’re much pleasanter than Horst. You could give Ben his contract back. He could help run the business.”
Derk pointed at his watch, lifted up his necklace with its gold nugget. Waved it in front of Tom.
“The two guys in the river. They were wrapped in black plastic. It doesn’t look like they were dead when they were thrown in. You like that idea, your ankles and wrists duct-taped together, then being wrapped in a couple of garbage bags and thrown in the water? There was air in the bags. They floated down the river for a couple of miles knowing they were going to die.”
“You want to go for a ride?”
“No, I got a couple of phone calls to make. My kids. My daughter is two years younger than you. My son’s a year younger than that.”
“The red-headed chick with the great shape. She’s got you on the hook.”
“That, too,” he said. He was going to take Freyja with him when he took Barbara to meet Anna, and without having to pay for a hotel room, he could take Freyja to listen to good live music, go to City Park. She had said she loved going to City Park; they could have lunch at the restaurant, and buy condoms in bulk. That’s what a line of credit was for.
“What about Ben?”
“Later,” Tom said. “After their place is shut down. After the Whites have gone. We don’t want him taking his shotgun and blowing them away. He’s too old for prison. They’ll go away and live an unhappy life.”
“Copper man,” Derk said. “You’re a wimp. Ain’t you seen the movies? Going through the door with guns blazing. Bodies everywhere.”
“It’s just in the movies,” Tom said. “They never show the consequences.” He knew it was
a waste of time, but he decided to say it anyway. They were just words, and they couldn’t compete with an expensive car, gold chains, flashy clothes, a roll of money. What kind of work was grade eleven going to get? Esso, 7-Eleven, McDonald’s? “I used to pick up the consequences. Siggi can’t protect you anymore. He’s hiding out because he can’t protect himself. You get caught in his problem and my former colleagues will be pulling what’s left of you out of your burned-out car or out of the river. Or somebody will punch you full of holes outside of a club. Your competition are assholes who can’t think three moves ahead. They dial direct. Give it up. Ben’s got enough grief.”
When Tom got out of the car but hadn’t yet closed the door, Derk leaned toward him and asked, “You gonna pay my mother’s rent?”
Chapter 34
Barbara
Tom took Freyja with him to see Barbara’s parents. Freyja had been Barbara’s teacher, and he knew that would carry weight. Tom emphasized that Barbara hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was a misunderstanding. He ignored the ugly bruise on the side of Barbara’s face. Tom explained about Anna Kolababa, who she was, what his relationship was to her, explained about her daughter, Tanya, and her need for a babysitter.
He’d seen a lot of houses like this—uncared for, unkempt, empty beer bottles on the table, kids a bit grimy—and he wondered how Barbara managed to keep herself tidy. She sat there, her hands clenched between her legs, staring at the floor, waiting for a verdict. He could smell urine, and he realized that it was from the youngest child who was wearing a soaking-wet diaper that hung nearly to the floor.
Barbara’s mother whined, her voice high, irritating. She was concerned because she’d never lived in the city and feared that terrible things might happen to her daughter. Barbara’s father was wearing an undershirt and kept pulling at hairs on his chest that stuck out from the shirt. He’d pull out a hair, examine it as if looking for something significant, then flick it onto the floor. What he wanted to know was how much Barbara would earn, how and when she would get paid, and if her employer would mail him her cheques for safekeeping. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, and his face was covered in dark stubble. There were clothes piled on chairs or hung over the backs of chairs, more dishes on the kitchen counter than in the cupboard. A summer with Anna would be a relief. Maybe Anna and Tanya would need Barbara’s services longer than the summer. If she worked out, it was at least a possibility.
“Why are you doing this for Barbara?” Freyja asked.
“I am partially responsible for her losing her job,” he said, and he explained what had happened.
The next day, when Tom and Freyja pulled up to her parents’ house, Barbara was sitting on the front step with a backpack. As Barbara got into the truck, her mother came to the door holding the baby. That may have been why she didn’t wave goodbye. Tom got a glimpse of Barbara’s father’s face in the kitchen window. He was still in his undershirt.
The wind had died down during the night but had sprung up again with the dawn. Tom had gone to see Ben earlier to ask him about the wind. Should he wait to see if the wind died down so he could try to retrieve the rifle, or should he give up and go to Winnipeg? Ben had replied by searching in the shed for another paddle, picking up one end of the canoe while Tom took the other, and together they carried it down to the shore. They paddled to where Tom thought he’d dropped the rifle, but there was more than one place where the cliffs jutted into the water, and with the lake having risen with the wind, it was hard to pick the right spot. Ben held the canoe away from the cliff while Tom searched for the pencil stub he’d jammed into a crack. They looked at three places before he found it. The wind wasn’t strong, but it was strong enough that the waves constantly pushed the canoe toward the cliffs.
“No good,” Ben said. “You take the girls to Winnipeg. When it calms down, I’ll go and drag.” He was probing the lake bottom with his paddle while Tom kept them away from the cliff. He found the hole and went around the outside with the paddle. “Not a good place to go swimming,” he said, and after a moment Tom understood it was a joke.
“You asked me one time if I knew where my kids were,” Tom said. “I don’t. I tried to call my daughter to get a phone number so I could talk to my son. No answer. I’ll look for her when I get to Winnipeg. I’ll try to track down my son.”
As they paddled back to Valhalla, Tom tried to think of something to say that would help Ben, but every thought was a cliché. Ben’s life had gone wrong and there was no point in searching for someone to blame. The loss of his wife couldn’t be repaired. Wanda danced to a different band. Ben put everything he had into supporting Angel and she, like so many, died because of the careless cruelty of others. They paddled strongly, holding the canoe away from the sandbars. The roar of the waves meant there was no point in trying to have a conversation. Derk, Tom, thought, was Ben’s last hope. Henry would have said Derk’s life was doomed, the outcome predictable, but Tom hoped not.
After they carried the canoe back to Ben’s, Tom said thank you, then, not knowing what else to say, simply said, “I’m sorry about Angel.” But it wasn’t just Angel he was thinking about, it was the girls he’d helped fish out of the Red River, the girls he’d found with needles in their arms, the girls who’d disappeared, gone, never to be found, not just on the Highway of Tears but all across the country. Reduced to photographs in files. Drawers of them. “I’m sorry,” he said, and they shook hands.
When he picked up Freyja, he mentioned that he’d talked to Karla and that the Whites might be going out of business. Freyja said, “Oh, shit. I hope not. No more pizza. I thought they were doing great. I love their pizza.”
Barbara was sitting sideways on the small back seat, her backpack beside her. Tom watched her in the mirror. He thought she might have turned to look back at her mother, the house, Valhalla, but she looked straight ahead. She’d never been to the city, knew it only from what Angel and others had told her, small shared fragments, but she wasn’t going to ask him to stop the truck so she could jump out and rush back.
Barbara said nothing until they got to the road that turned south along the lake. “Would it be all right to say goodbye to Angel?” she asked.
Tom slowed down, stopped and turned onto the lakeside road. He paused to look at his land. The grass was bending in the breeze, and the tips of the trees around the barn were fluttering slightly. Seagulls were riding the updrafts. His land. He hadn’t given it much thought—just a place to cut firewood, hunt ducks and geese—but now it had possibilities.
“What are you thinking about?” Freyja asked.
“A horse,” he replied. “Maybe lamb and fish in the freezer. Possibilities.”
The crushed limestone surface was as dusty as ever. The roadside weeds and trees looked bleached.
He pulled up in front of the church, and they waited for the dust to settle, then climbed out and walked across the road. As they followed the path that had been cut for the burial, grasshoppers made graceful arcs. The lake spread out before them, its surface endless points of reflected light. A hawk floated overhead. Having grown up in the city, on a street where traffic never really stopped, he was still astounded by the silence.
Angel’s grave had no headstone. Ben had said he would buy one when he could afford it. Wanda wasn’t sure that it was necessary, and Derk had rolled his eyes at their response and pointed to himself. The earth over the grave was no longer dark. Instead of a rich black, it had a greyish crust. Freyja had stopped to pick wild daisies. She laid them on the centre of the mound.
A raven called its clunky, wood-chopping cry, and Tom spotted it sitting on the arm of the church’s broken cross. A second raven swung in a circle, dropped to the ridge of the church roof, flapped its wings twice, then settled to watch. Tom made a mental note to negotiate for a ladder from Johnny Armstrong, maybe hire him to cut down the big spruce around the house. Make amends. Tom would cut a new arm for the cross and screw it into place. A favour for Pastor Jon in return fo
r a favour received.
He’d been here twice before—the first time for Angel’s funeral, the second as he fled from Siggi. Now, the churchyard had a feeling of familiarity about it. The weathered headstones showing above the grass, the lake to the east, a broad swath of pale blue to the horizon, the overgrown road he’d followed, the manse and church with the well; he could feel the cold water again as it numbed his mouth and throat. Pastor Jon’s truck was gone, but the equipment lying around the yard, the small greenhouse and the beehives all kept it from looking abandoned. The sheep were lying in the shade of some moose maple trees. He turned slightly, picked out McAra’s grave and wondered where his bones might be. Lying on the bottom of Lake Winnipeg, buried in shifting sand or mud, or walking around a wealthy neighbourhood in California. And gold, tins of it, boxes of it, in a cave or crevice, or like the bones, on the bottom of the lake or perhaps buried on one of the local islands, a fortune for the finder.
Barbara stood at the side of the grave, staring at the bouquet of white daisies. Her head was tipped forward, tears trickling down her cheeks. Finally, she put her hand on Freyja’s arm and said, “We were practising this. We were going to sing it together on a Friday night. I wanted to sing it at the funeral, but Mrs. White said no.” Barbara shut her eyes, and still holding Freyja’s arm, she began to sing, her voice sweet, rich, her words precise.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swelling,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay
For love o’ Barbara Allen.
Freyja took Tom’s hand. For a while, the silence was filled with Barbara’s voice. When she had finished, Barbara turned to Freyja, and Freyja put her arms around her and held her, then Barbara stepped back, attempted a smile and licked a tear off her upper lip.
In Valhalla's Shadows Page 54
