by Ron Chudley
Forcing her features into the caricature of a smile, she came to him, impulsively taking his hand. The contact was brittle with tension. “Oh, good, you’re here at last,” she said quickly. “Your mother will be so relieved.”
“Yes. But what . . . ?”
“Now I must be off,” Lucy continued, without pause. “Mary, I’m so sorry about everything. But Greg’s here now. If there’s anything more I can do, please let me know. Goodbye. I’ll see myself out.”
Lucy let go of Greg’s hand, using it to literally launch herself in the direction of the hall. A moment later came the sound of the front door closing.
Her departure was so instantaneous that Greg was at a loss for words. What had caused Lucy’s manner to change so dramatically? It had to be whatever Mary had been saying when he arrived. But what could be so dreadful as to cause that reaction? Instinct told him that he didn’t want to know. And when he turned back, he was relieved, albeit freshly surprised, to see his mother calmly pouring more tea.
“Did you get your work finished, dear?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, Mum, thanks. Sorry I had to run off yesterday.” He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but that seemed crass and obvious, so he continued lamely, “But I’m here now. And Jill will be over on the weekend, to—you know—help with the arrangements and everything.”
“I understand,” Mary said. “You’re both good children. Daddy knew that, you know, though he didn’t always show it. Lucy’s a nice girl too. So open and honest. Hasn’t changed a bit since she was a child.”
She sure changed a lot in the last hour, Greg thought. But he said, “It certainly was a surprise to see her again yesterday.”
“She’s been coming around a lot since she moved back. We’ve become real friends. Did you know that Daddy was giving her lessons?”
The revelations were coming thick and fast. “Lessons?”
“Painting lessons. She’s very good, as a matter of fact.” Mary put down her teacup. “Want to see?”
Bemused, he stared, unable to read her. Something was going on here, more than just reaction to the recent tragedy, but he couldn’t make it out. Masking it—or maybe part of it—was this strange charade. “See what?”
“Lucy’s work. Come on!”
On the back of the kitchen door hung a familiar, old blue sweater. Mary heaved it on and took Greg’s arm, leading him out and along the deck to the breezeway to his father’s studio. This was a large building, finished in cedar board and batten, with windows on the river side and several skylights positioned for north light. The entrance was a heavy door, painted with Coast Salish designs, which swung inward to reveal the full sweep of the studio.
It was a veritable forest of paintings; every wall was hung with them, as high as the rafters, and easels displayed several more, in various stages of completion. In many places, except against the big wood stove in the centre of the room, canvasses were stacked six and eight deep. The subject of this vast outpouring of creativity was the wilderness of Vancouver Island: landscapes and seascapes, birds and animals and fish, in infinite variety and exquisite detail; form and composition, light and colour, drama and design, all treated with vibrant energy and consummate skill. Greg, who’d known this place since childhood, his familiarity blending with an innate—or perhaps reactionary—indifference, drew a sharp breath. Was it the length of time he’d been absent? Had more art appreciation seeped into his unwilling soul than he’d realized? Or was it simply that the turbulent creator of all this had finally departed? Whatever the reason, for the first time in his life, his father’s work truly moved him. “Wow!” he breathed.
After putting on the lights, his mother had paused at the door. “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am.”
“You’d forgotten how wonderful his work is?”
“I don’t think I ever realized.”
She took hold of his arm again, surveying the studio fervently. “He was a master, Greggie. BC’s very best. If he’d only known how to market himself, like some of those others, we might have been rich. Then perhaps, it wouldn’t have mattered . . .”
Greg felt a prickling at the back of his neck. “Mattered? What?”
Instead of answering, his mother led him to the far end of the studio, stopping in front of a small easel with a modest-sized canvas. This painting was different from the rest: a landscape, less dramatic in form and not so spectacularly deft, but with a shimmering, airy quality that was quite magical. “This is what I wanted to show you,” his mother said.
“Lucy’s work?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Daddy thought she was very talented, and I never heard him say that about anyone. He was going to . . .” She broke off, gazing at the painting. Her grip shifted to his hand, which she held in a tight grip. “Greggie?”
“Mum?”
“If it were up to you—would you let Lucy keep using the studio?”
He felt the neck-prickling again. “What do you mean, ‘up to me’? That’s for you to say.”
“Of course. Never mind.” She leaned up and kissed him, administering a quick, fierce hug. “You’re a good son, Greggie. I’m sorry Daddy was always so busy. That he wasn’t—nicer to you. Now, because of—what happened—he’ll never get a chance to . . .”
The words drifted into silence. Greg waited, but a conclusion never came. From Lucy’s painting, his mother’s eyes moved outward, scanning the whole studio. Afterwards, she took a deep breath and stepped back. “Thank you, dear.”
“What for?”
“Being here. Being you. Now, you really should get some rest. I know that’s what I’m going to do. Good night.” She slipped out the door, a wraith drifting into the dark.
Greg stood for a long time, contemplating his father’s handiwork: shining beauty created by a man who had rarely spoken a civil word. Then he roused himself and went back into the house. The place felt peaceful at last, the sadness muted, the strange tableau that had confronted him on his arrival now almost like a dream. Whatever it had been about, he was too exhausted to care.
At the end of a corridor leading off the kitchen, Greg could see light under his mother’s door, and he decided to wait until it went out before going to bed. Wandering aimlessly, he remembered where his father’s whisky stash had always been kept. He checked and, sure enough, in a cupboard over the sink were some bottles of Glenfiddich. Single-malt Scotch was not usually his drink, but now it seemed like a very good idea. He found a glass, poured a shot and downed it. The strong liquor burned, but then he was rewarded with a pleasant buzz, the best feeling he’d had for a long time. He poured another shot, drinking it more slowly as he moved out of the kitchen, circling through the rest of the house, idly examining familiar objects, the whisky doing its slow, blessed work until the glass was empty and he was back in the kitchen again.
By then half an hour had passed, and he saw that the light under his mother’s door was still on. Either she couldn’t sleep or she’d passed out. Suspecting the latter, he decided to slip in and kill the light, so it wouldn’t wake her prematurely. Only when he reached the bedroom door did he realize that it was ajar. Slowly he pushed it open, to discover the room flooded with light, the big bed unmade and quite empty.
As was the room itself.
On the far side, French doors led onto a patio, overlooking a broad stretch of lawn that ran down to the river. One of these was open, drapes billowing fitfully in the night breeze.
Greg stood quite still, while his heart, which the whisky had soothed, began to pick up speed again. He started to call out, then stopped, knowing this to be useless. Instead, he strode across the room, thrust aside the curtains and peered out. The patio was also deserted. Light from the house streaked across the lawn, a slash of yellow reaching almost to the river.
Without thought or decision, he was racing, across the patio and the lawn, his shadow preceding him like a monster down the slick corridor of light.
At the end of this, beside the softly whispering water, he found it: a small pile of clothing, neatly folded—and on the top, his mother’s old blue sweater.
FIVE
Greg drove north on the Trans-Canada Highway, turning off near the small town of Ladysmith onto Cedar Road. His destination was five kilometres along this road and was impossible to miss, so he’d been told. He drove for a long time amidst semiwoodland and scattered farms, and just as he was thinking that he had indeed missed it—there it was: lawns and flowers and a forest of tiny memorial plaques, neat and cheery in the spring sunshine. Beyond, a looming presence, masked by a funeral chapel and with, happily, no smoke rising from its stubby stack, was the crematorium.
Off to one side of the complex was the general office. The sun was hot on Greg’s back as he trudged across the parking lot, adding physical discomfort to his gloom. It would have been a relief to remove his suit jacket but, considering his errand, that might have seemed frivolous. So it was with relief that he entered the office, though the hardest part of this dismal exercise was yet to come.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the attendant, trying to make his voice as natural as possible. “My name is Gregory Lothian. I’ve come to pick up my parents’ remains.”
The attendant was a pale young man whose sombre suit seemed a size too big. “Yes, of course, Mr. Lothian,” he replied, in surprisingly well-modulated tones. “Mother or father?”
This was it, the question he had been dreading. He took a deep breath. “Er—both, actually.”
It was spoken, the clue that would probably alert the attendant to the uncomfortable situation. How many double cremations could they have, after all? And they’d hardly be unaware of the unfortunate publicity these particular deaths had engendered: the naked body of the wife of a well-known artist dragged from the Cowichan River three days after his own unexpected demise. Mortifying, to say the least.
In the news reports, the word suicide had never been mentioned, but what sixty-five-year-old woman went innocently skinny-dipping in April, right after her husband’s death? So the facts were pretty obvious. As if this weren’t bad enough, the body had been discovered by some native fishermen on a snag below the Native Heritage Centre, hung up for all the world to gawk at. Since it lacked ID and was battered about by the current, foul play had been suspected. Though the truth had swiftly emerged, this added a falsely sensational under-tone to a sad tale which, due to the Lothian reputation, had already received too much press coverage. It had had a few days to die down, but Greg still felt cold embarrassment as he identified the subjects of his sad errand.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lothian, yes,” the attendant said, with neutral solemnity. Was that a knowing flicker in his eyes as he produced the file? Greg wasn’t sure, but at least nothing was said, which was a relief. Forms were provided for signature and discreet information offered about the availability of a variety of services. Greg declined everything but the ashes.
Grim task over, nervousness replaced by relief, Greg retraced his steps across the parking lot, now the possessor of two plain carrier bags, each with a plastic cylinder containing what was left of one of his parents.
He got into his car, depositing the bags on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Then, feeling this to be somehow inappropriate, he shifted the bags to the seat itself. He’d done little more than glance inside, since the contents gave him a sick feeling, but his overwhelming reaction was still mostly amazement. A week ago, the individuals represented by these anonymous containers had been vibrantly alive. Then, apparently, something appalling had happened. Causing a rage in Walter, it had precipitated the events that had run their brief but fatal course. What this dread “something” was, Greg still had no idea. He just knew that his mother had considered herself somehow responsible. And his father had evidently passionately agreed. The old man’s words at their last fateful meeting still rang in his mind: “She’s just lucky I did break my hip. Otherwise I might have wrung her neck.” Sickeningly extreme, even for Walter. But the cause of all this was still a mystery.
Greg turned on the ignition and prepared to depart. He put on his seatbelt, dismissing a ridiculous impulse to do the same for his companions. The car’s electric motor made no sound as he slipped out of the bright gardens and headed home.
Apart from brief notices in the Victoria Times Colonist and the Duncan papers, Greg had as yet done nothing about memorial arrangements. His father had been a devout atheist and his mother, typically, never dared to express any conflicting views, so he had no guidelines. When he had contacted his sister with news of the second tragedy, she’d been shocked and, he felt sure, genuinely grieved, especially by the manner of their mother’s death. But she’d seen no need for a formal ceremony. Remarking that he surely didn’t want her to come and hold his hand, she’d made it clear she wasn’t coming to the island anytime soon. But she hadn’t been embarrassed to ask one question: had he seen anything of a will? He hadn’t, but said he’d look and let her know when he’d found it, and they’d left it at that. If nothing else, that conversation made one thing clear: however untimely the older Lothians’ deaths, there hadn’t been a real family for a long time.
Twenty-five minutes after leaving the crematorium, Greg found himself on the strip of auto dealerships and fast-food outlets that skirt the city of Duncan. He’d been heading for Victoria, then realized that he didn’t want to have the ashes in his apartment. The idea of them sitting on his coffee table, or even tucked away in some cupboard, was too unsettling right now. So in Duncan, he turned right at the Trunk Road light and headed west.
In fact, there was one thing that held a clue to whatever had occasioned his parents’ deaths. Greg had left town, passed the hospital on Gibbins Road, and was almost at the Riverbottom turnoff when he recalled it: the extraordinary change he had observed that last night in Lucy Lynley. Meeting her the first time, then talking later on the phone, he had thought the young woman seemed confident and very secure, just as he’d remembered her. But at their final encounter, she had been disturbed—the word that came to mind was “aghast”—and this was almost certainly because of something told her by Mary.
The entrance to the Lothian property was a regular farm gate, fronting the gravel driveway that wound through the trees toward the river. Greg opened the gate and drove slowly down, stopping in front of the deserted house. In the days immediately following his mother’s death, there had been considerable activity here, mainly by police, at first searching, and then, after the body was found, reiterating explanations and clearing up details for the coroner. That concluded, Greg had closed up and escaped. Home in Victoria, he fitfully immersed himself in work while trying to adjust to the tragedy. That brief hiatus was ended by the call from the crematorium.
Now he was back at the house. Specifically, his purpose had been to store the ashes. But as soon as he emerged from the car—stretching his back while taking in the silent and already forlorn-looking scene of his childhood—he knew it was going to be more than that.
It was Saturday, so he didn’t have to be back in town for a day and a half. This would be an ideal time to get started on what he’d so far avoided thinking about: the depressing business of sorting out his parents’ affairs.
He entered the house, noting its musty and deserted feeling. His footsteps echoed as he moved from room to room, and although the day was still bright, he found himself putting on lights. When he got to the door of the master bedroom, he paused, vividly recalling the moment when he’d stood there, thinking that his mother was sleeping. Then, when he’d entered, he’d found emptiness, the gaping French door, blowing curtains—harbingers of the great sea-change about to be visited on his life. And on the bed, the only sign of a mother he would not see again until days later on a mortuary slab: the head-dent in a solitary pillow.
To Greg’s mild alarm, that depression was still there. Putting down the bags containing the ashes, he hurried to the bed, smoothed the quilt and plumped the pillow, r
emoving all disquieting traces of its last occupant, then straightened and looked enquiringly about. In the far corner was a big old English wardrobe, a necessity, for this room had no built-in closet. That would suit his purpose well enough. As he went to open the wardrobe, his image in the door-mirror stared back, a tense, pale young man, in a business suit that looked a trifle pompous. Greg grimaced at the image and opened the door. The clothes hanging there were mainly his mother’s, but the odour was not: pipe tobacco and linseed oil and paint, the all-pervading smell of the artist’s studio. God, you old bugger! Greg thought. Even here, in Mum’s own wardrobe, you still managed to dominate her.
But at the back, behind the clothes, was what he needed: a place to store—he would not let himself think of it as hide—the ashes. Thrusting aside the garments, he tucked the bags, side by side, in the dark. “There!” he muttered. “Now you two will just have to work things out.”
Hearing himself, feeling foolish and weirdly giggly, he closed the door and hurried back through the house.
SIX
After dealing with the ashes, Greg realized that he badly needed to get out of his suit. It was his everyday apparel in town, but it seemed, in the present surroundings, not only uncomfortable but faintly ridiculous. His old room at the far end of the house had been turned into a sort of office—by his mother, no doubt, since Walter had never soiled his fingers with practicalities—but the bed was still there. Also remaining was a well-remembered chest of drawers, containing some of the clothes he kept here for his rare visits. He rooted out some jeans and a sweater, exchanging these for his more formal attire, which he draped neatly on the bed.
Only then did he pay proper attention to the room itself. The most obvious change since his own time was the addition of a battered but substantial rolltop desk. Feeling like an intruder, Greg reached for the catch and found it unlocked. The top emitted a throaty rattle as it rolled up. What was revealed looked to his orderly eye like disaster: papers and letters and bills and chequebooks and bric-a-brac obscured the desktop completely. In the centre of the pile, balanced like a climber on an alpine summit, was a shallow basket, and in this, neatly folded and tied with a ribbon, was a document. Greg picked it up and read the inscription: Last Will and Testament of Walter Lothian
