“Robin Hood? How’d you come up with Robin Hood?” his friend asked.
The tall jerk ignored him. “Hey, it’s Cass, right? You on dope or something, Cass?”
“You’re the only dope I’ve ever seen around here lately!” I said.
His friend punched his arm and laughed. With a sneer, Tall Jerk started putting ketchup on his hot dog.
So the school was still talking about it. I felt sick. Martin took my elbow and steered me toward the tables on the other side of the room. “Don’t pay them any attention. They’re bottom-feeders. I gotta check in with Donna. I’ll find you a place to sit.”
“Hey, there, Martin!” an old man called from one of the booths whose window faced the parking lot. He was small and wiry with thick white hair. In the booth with him were two other men and a plump woman, her straight gray hair caught up in a barrette. They were drinking coffee and sharing big Styrofoam tubs of fries. They waved us over.
The snow was falling so thick now, you could hardly see the cars outside.
“That’s my great-aunt Betty,” Martin said, moving me toward the table. “The guy talking is her boyfriend, Walter. He owns a market farm. Won’t sell it, even though his family wants big bucks off land developers. They’re with their usual Sunday morning guys. We call them the Grease Monkeys – but never to their faces – because they’re all wrinkled and they eat tubs and tubs of fries.”
“Hi, Auntie Betty, Walter, Ted, Bill. This is Cass.”
Bill, saggy-eyed and heavy-jawed, said, “You’re getting to be quite the lad there, Martin. Didn’t I just see you with another girl last week at that corner table?” He waited for a reaction, like all tattletales do.
“Don’t tease him, Bill,” said Martin’s aunt, but she was smiling. She blinked at me with interest.
“Cass is my project partner in English class,” Martin explained.
I waved one arm like a windshield wiper. “Hi. That’s me. Project partner.”
“Well, she’s an angel, this one, ain’t she?” said the one called Ted, who had wild eyebrows and a “ski” nose. “All that fluffy red hair like a halo floatin’ in the air, eyes as blue as blue.”
“Sit down, you two!” Walter ordered. “We got plenty of chips.” He slid over in the booth, shoving Bill along with him. The table was piled with mitts, hats, and scarves, all smelling of damp wool.
“We’re not staying,” said Martin. “School stuff to do. Just checking in with Donna.”
Bill looked at me closely. “Aren’t you the gal whose dad married Jean Dennett? Didn’t your mom –” Walter nudged him. “Yeah, well, I met your dad a while back. Nice fella. Glad to hear about him and Jean. She’s good people, is Jean. Worked hard on her dad’s farm, I’ll say that for her. Ex-husband weren’t worth half of her. A mean drunk.”
My jaw dropped. “Really?”
“She could’ve been in the symphony or taught music in a big school,” Walter said, “but her dad needed her after her mom died. So she came back from Winnipeg and worked for him. Then she met that Sean. Glad she got out of that mess.”
Martin’s great-aunt nodded. “Yep. She’s well away from there, all right.”
It was like hearing about someone I didn’t even know. Her husband was a drunk? Had he been mean to Daisy, too? I couldn’t take it in.
Martin caught sight of a small woman behind the cash counter with a red poinsettia stuck into the base of her ponytail. “Be right back. Sorry, Cass.”
His aunt waved him away. “She’ll stay here ‘til you’re done, Martin.”
“I’m fine,” I said, squeezing in next to Betty.
“Haven’t seen you in Pelly’s before, Cass,” Betty said. “But I’ve been to your place a few times. You were at school, though.” She looked at me hard. “I met your Mom, Fiona, at the WI. I liked her a lot. She was funny.”
“Yeah, she was. But I don’t remember you.”
The creeps took a table way on the other side of the room. I breathed easier.
“Fiona and I had lunch a few times,” she said. “We hit it off. But then she got really sick again. Last time I saw her … let’s see … was when three of us brought some meals over for you and your dad. That’s right. You were there, but you were focused on your mom. I wish I got to know Fiona better. I helped out with her care with the WI near the end, but there was no time for small talk, you know?”
“Well, Jean is glad Mom’s not around anymore.” I tried to make it sound light, but failed.
The men sipped their coffee and fidgeted. Then Bill said he had to get going, followed by Ted. Walter stayed. He picked up a crumpled newspaper and looked at it intently.
Betty didn’t comment on Jean. “I know your house, well,” she said. “I used to play there when I was little. My mom was old Bart Andrews’s housekeeper. I was glad to hear your mom and dad were fixing it up. Man, that house was filled with weird vibes sometimes. I felt it even as a kid. Did some research on it when I got older.”
I sat forward. “You did? Ever hear of an Alexander family living there?”
“I did. The book I read about the area indicated that Gordon Alexander was an important local builder before he got hurt in an accident. About 1920, there was a fire in the rectory where the records were kept, and a lot of the really old papers were lost, including most of the Alexander family records. The files about the building of the church were kept, though, in the church office. His accident is mentioned in there.”
Walter put down his paper. “My family’s been here since 1840. Most of our records came through that fire. I got them all photocopied, but my family doesn’t seem interested. They only want to sell the place off.” He sounded more hurt than angry.
“What did you finally learn about the Alexander family?” I asked Betty.
Martin came back and sat beside Walter. “I got staffing problems again.”
His great-aunt held up her hand. “He had a wife from England,” she said to me.
“Anne Alexander?” I prompted.
“Could be. I’d have to check that. Gordon’s mother was a Swampy Cree woman named Aggathas who married a Scot named Alexander. I speak that Cree dialect pretty well. My own grandmother came from Norway House. I lived with her for a long time when I was a kid, ’cause I was sick a lot. The name Aggathas probably comes from the Swampy Cree for âkathâs, which means ‘English,’ maybe because she married a man who spoke English.”
“And her son had a daughter?” I asked.
“Yes. Gordon and his wife had one daughter, but the wife died young. I think the child’s name was Beatrice.”
“Wow,” I whispered.
“The person who wrote this book claimed that the Gordon Alexander who lived at Old Maples probably was the same Gordon Alexander who became one of the first members of the Council of Assiniboia, set up to control the whole Red River settlement at the forks. This fellow was what they now call an Anglo or English Métis, but the thing is, his wife was still alive in the 1860s.”
I blurted out, “I can explain – it was his second wife. Her name was Ivy. His first wife was Anne. She was English and died about 1849. Later on, he married Ivy Comper. She was Scottish, and after her first husband died in Scotland – his last name was Kilgour – she married a farmer from here called Comper. She already had a son, Duncan, in Scotland, who came here when he was older. I wish I knew what happened to him because –”
They were all staring at me. Oh, oh. Too much information. Martin’s frown was deep. I was sure my face matched the color of my hair. “Sorry. Don’t know what I’m saying. I can’t prove any of it. I was sick and had some weird dreams. I’m getting them all mixed up with the real history of the house. I’m sorry.… I-I’d really like to see that book, though.”
Martin snorted. Walter retreated behind his newspaper again.
“Cass, did you read anything about the house before the dreams?” Betty asked.
“No.”
“Comper,” she mused. “Not a common name hereab
outs. They may have been an early family who died out. Could check the church records. Maybe they survived the fire.”
Walter said, “One of my long-ago aunts married a Comper. My great-great-aunt Marianna, but she and her family went off to Portage La Prairie at some point. Other Compers are probably in the old burial site down by the river – under bushes and trees roots. There was a log church there, I’m told.”
“Really?” Betty said. “I didn’t know that, and I’ve lived around here as long as you. But my family records went up in smoke, like so many others. No wonder we can’t find some relatives.”
Walter shrugged. “I can show you where the site is in the spring.”
“That would be great. I bet Anne Alexander is buried there,” I said.
“The Comper farm …,” Betty said thoughtfully. “I wonder where that was.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Listen, Aunt Betty, you should know that Cass –”
“I worked it out on the way here,” I said, leaning forward. “I think it was right where that old feed store is.”
“That section belonged to another family for years,” Betty mused. “Cochranes. Mmm. Not to say a female Comper didn’t married a Cochrane and the name ended with her. Have to check out land deeds.”
Martin was staring at her. “Aunt Betty, you’re not really going to check out someone’s dreams, are you?”
“Why not? I’ve tried to tell you about the traditions of the people we come from, but you don’t listen. Dreams are important, Martin.”
I said, “Sometimes in that house, I feel like one part of me is here now and another is in 1856. I can almost feel what it was like back then. I guess that’s why I dream about it.” No point in mentioning a diary I couldn’t produce as proof.
“The mid-1800s was a complicated time in this settlement,” said Betty. “All made difficult by mixed heritages, country marriages, children from two cultures, and so many English coming in. A lot of the Company men in the big settlement deserted their country wives and brought over British women as their ‘real’ wives. Many of the native wives were forced to find their way back to their families or find another man willing to take them and their English Métis children in. Otherwise, they faced a pretty harsh life.”
“I bet,” I said.
She smiled at me. “So don’t you worry what other people think, Cass. You know what you know.” A knot loosened in my gut. She believed me!
Martin narrowed his eyes. “Auntie Betty, Cass doesn’t actually know any of –”
I bristled. “Excuse me, but I think you should just –”
“You know, thinking about it, what bothers me is how many of the older families in this area still deny having native blood,” Betty said.
“I thought people were sort of proud of that these days,” I said.
“Mmm. Younger ones, maybe.”
Martin frowned. “I’ve never given it any thought. Who even knows who’s got native blood or not? I only know I do because of you, Auntie Betty.”
She shrugged. “After the Riel Rebellion, many powerful English Métis quietly moved into white society, as if their ancestors never existed.”
Walter nodded. “My whole family avoided mention of it for years, until one of my grandsons applied for Métis status. Got me to do it, too. That kid appreciates the land.”
I had a pretty good idea who’d be inheriting Walter’s farm. I wondered if his grandson would sell it.
“Anyway, Martin,” Betty said gently, “what Cass saw in her dreams might be important. Her spirit may be moving through time.”
He rolled his eyes. “Auntie Betty! You take the spiritual part of your aboriginal DNA way too seriously. Cass is pulling your leg. She does that. Talk at school is she played a trick on the bus driver that could’ve caused an accident.”
I sat up with a jolt. “I did not! I would never do that!”
His aunt said, “So that’s what those boys were teasing you about. What happened?”
My heart was pounding. “I fell asleep on the way home ’cause I was feeling sick. I had a dream. It got mixed up with being on the bus. I called out, and Gus put on the brakes. The bus stopped in a snowbank.” I told her the rest.
“And everyone is saying you did it just to make trouble –” Martin said.
Walter said, “Hey, hey, enough of that.”
“I didn’t say I believe it,” Martin said. “I said there’s talk that she made it up.”
Walter shook his head. “That don’t make it better, son.”
“And it’s really you fudging over the fact that you do believe it!” I said.
I stood up. “Nice meeting you, Walter. Thank you for telling me all this, Miss Pelly. And thank you for believing me. Please don’t tell Jean. I haven’t said anything to her because she would only –”
“I understand.”
“I don’t feel like working, Martin. Don’t bother driving me home. I’ll walk.”
As I strode away, I heard his aunt say, “Martin. What’s with you? Anyone with any sense can see the girl …”
I didn’t hear the rest. My bottom lip was trembling, and if I went back to say more, I knew I’d just cry. I ran out into the snow. I was sure his aunt would make Martin follow, so I took the footpath down along the riverbank that eventually comes out at the road.
The snow wasn’t deep under the trees by the river. As I ran along the path, I heard a truck grind out of the parking lot. Martin was waiting at the road, leaning against the driver’s door, exhaust hanging like a white cloud in the cold still air. I walked right past.
“Come back, Cass. Have something to eat. We’ll talk.”
“No.”
“If you don’t, Aunt Betty will never let up on me. Please? With mustard and relish on it? Best hot dogs in the world. And those creeps have gone.”
“That leaves just one then!”
“Look, Cass, Betty believes you and that’s good enough for me. I’m sorry. I really am. But you do have quite a mouth on you sometimes.”
“I’d never do anything to deliberately distract a bus driver with kids on board!”
“I know that. Come back. Please? With vinegar and salt on it?”
If I went home now, I’d have to help Jean with her stupid party. I climbed into the passenger’s side. The silence in the car was like damp smog. The afternoon sun was going down behind the curtain of snow. We met up with Betty and Walter getting into their truck. His aunt stood at the open door on the driver’s side, snowflakes tumbling over her woolly tam.
“Good for you, Martin,” she said. Then she took my arm and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. There’s a reason for everything. You’ll figure it out. I’m sorry if I sound like some kind of phony wisewoman, but it’s truly what I believe. I’ve lived a long life, Cass. I’ve seen many things that don’t make sense, and then something happens and it all fits together.” She laughed. “Come on, Walter, let’s get you home.”
Inside Pelly’s, Martin went straight to an empty table that said Staff Only. The place was hopping, country Christmas music throbbing through the air. Lots of greetings, laughter, and noise. The woman with the poinsettia in her hair called, “We could use some help here, Martin!”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Just for half an hour,” the woman said. “I need you on the grill, Martin. Racine hasn’t shown. She’s fired for sure.” She looked at me. “You can pitch in, too, can’t you? I pay ten bucks an hour.”
“I’ve never worked in a restaurant,” I said.
“We’ll just have you clear and wipe tables.” She took my arm, dragged me into the kitchen, and gave me quick instructions. “Pile what you can on a tray, wash tables, check seats for grease, wipe them if they need it, dry them really well, come back, sort in marked bins, throw away, go back, repeat. Change the water with that mixture over there regularly. Oh, and make sure all the ketchup, salt, and vinegars don’t run out.”
She was a terrifyingly organized person. Martin gave me a thumbs-up
and ran over to wash his hands at the sink. I grabbed a cloth and trays and took off.
The rush finally slowed down around six-thirty. I was so hungry, it felt like my stomach was folded in half. Martin came out of the back room smelling of grilled bread and grease. He put down a tray loaded with food, and we sat across from each other in the staff booth. He shoved a vanilla milk shake toward me. I wolfed down a hot dog – loaded – half a dozen onion rings, and a small order of fries.
“I don’t eat this stuff much anymore,” Martin said, “but when I work the grill, I get hungry for it.”
“Are you a good cook?” My hands smelled of vinegar.
“Not bad. Tom Harrow’s the best.”
“The guy with the tattoos, the blue scarf on his head, and all those earrings?”
“Yeah.” He looked out the window. The lights were now on in the parking lot. “Listen, can I ask you a question?”
I sighed. “I was telling the truth about my dreams, okay? Only what I didn’t say was that, a lot of the time, I’m awake when it happens. Laugh. I don’t care.”
“That’s what I was going to ask. So … you think your place is haunted, right?”
“Haunted? It’s more like she’s actually living there. If I tell you everything, you’ll think I’m nuts.”
“I know you’re not nuts. Not entirely.” He smiled, showing the gap in his teeth.
So I told him everything.
When I finished, he leaned over the table, his arms stretched out, hands almost touching mine. “So you are seeing the ghost of Beatrice and some of the people she knew. So, why, when I asked you if you heard music, you laughed it off?”
“I thought you wouldn’t believe me. I’m reading her diary. As she writes it. Laugh that off! The thing that scares me is, she must have died young.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how I see her – young.”
“But she sees you, too, right? You’re not dead.”
“She died over a hundred and fifty years ago, Martin. She is dead.”
“But it doesn’t mean she died young. You said she’s writing the diary as you read it. Maybe she goes on writing in that diary for forty more years.”
Winter Shadows Page 13
