by Gail Bowen
Then, miraculously, it was over. The fingers loosened. I fell against a chair and gulped air thirstily. When I was able to focus, I saw what had happened. Eli had grabbed Lucy from behind. His arm was around her neck in a kind of stranglehold. Slowly but inexorably, he brought her to the floor and pinned her there.
A few seconds later, when Alex came through the door, everything was taken care of. He nodded at Eli. “Good job,” he said.
Eli gave him a small smile. “Just the way you taught me.” Then his face broke into misery. “She killed her Mum,” he said. “She killed her own Mum.”
“I know,” Alex said. He went over to Lucy, pushed her arms behind her back, and handcuffed her. “Stay there,” he said. “And don’t move.” He looked up at me. “Could you call headquarters, Jo? Get them to send some backup.”
As the three of us waited, Lucy’s eyes never left my face. It was obvious that, despite the events of the past few minutes, she still saw me as someone with the potential to be her advocate. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said in her low and thrilling voice. “Should have just stayed home with your rocking chair and your kids.”
“Why did you do it, Lucy?” I said.
Lucy shifted position and groaned a little. She was obviously in pain. “Justine never invited us to the party. No matter how hard we tried or how perfect we looked or how much we accomplished, it was never enough. She never invited us to the party.” Her voice was heartbreakingly sad. “ ‘Three little girls in virgin’s white, swimming through darkness, longing for light.’ I killed my mother because she never once invited us to come in out of the dark. And do you know what? If I had the chance, I’d kill her again.”
“And Hilda?” I asked. “Would you try to kill Hilda again?”
Confusion flickered across her face. “That was a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes, right?” She tried a gallant smile. “I just make more than most people.”
For the next few minutes, Lucy rambled through her apologia pro vita sua. Much of the time she was incoherent, but two key points emerged. Lucy herself had been the one who went to Richard Blackwell with the lie about Justine’s affair with Eric Fedoruk; nonetheless, she blamed Justine for her father’s death. “He loved her too much,” she said. “It didn’t leave enough for me.” Lucy held her mother responsible for Tina Blackwell’s botched medical procedure, too. Although Justine had given Lucy a substantial amount of money to get The Sorcerer’s Smile produced, when the boxed set of Lucy’s musical legacy failed to take off, Justine refused to write the cheque that would have given her daughter the saturation ad campaign Lucy believed would salvage her dream.
“The only option she left me was Tina,” Lucy said sulkily. “How do you think it makes me feel every time I have to look at my sister’s face?”
The rest of Lucy’s tale was equally ugly, equally filled with self-pity and bitterness. I was relieved when the sounds of a siren split the night. For three decades, I had loved Lucy Blackwell’s voice, but I never wanted to hear it again. When the uniformed police arrived, it was over quickly. Two officers helped Lucy to her feet and led her towards the front door. As she walked by me, she gave me a sidelong smile. “So, are you still my number-one fan, Music Woman?”
“Not a chance, Lucy,” I said. “Not a chance.”
When the door closed behind her, Eli turned to me. “I want to watch them take her away,” he said.
We walked out to the balcony together. The rain had stopped. The plaster owl which Alex and I had designated as our sentinel sat jauntily on his railing perch, and the air smelled fresh-washed. Down the street, the bells at the United Church were ringing. It was a good evening to be alive. Eli and I watched silently as Lucy was put into the squad car. Just before Alex got into the front seat, he called up to us. “I love you,” he said.
Eli looked at me. “Did he mean me or you?”
“Both of us,” I said. “Now, come on. Let’s get inside. You and I have a lot to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like when you think you’ll be ready to get together with Dan Kasperski and when you think you’d like to meet Ms. Greyeyes and get started at school.”
“I’d like to come by your house some time again, to see the kids.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”
“I’ll need to tell Taylor I’m sorry about what I did to her painting, won’t I?”
“Yes,” I said, “you will.”
“Do you think she’ll listen to me?”
“She’ll listen. She’s a good little kid.”
I could see the relief in his face. For a moment he was silent, then he turned to me. “Do you know what I wish?” he said softly.
“What?”
“I wish we could have that dragon-boat team we talked about – the one with all of us.”
“There’s no reason we can’t,” I said. “But, Eli, do you really think Taylor’s up to taking on all the obligations of being our drummer?”
Eli grinned. “Sure she is. We just have to let her know we think she can do it, and give her time.”
* * *
A few days later, when Angus and I were helping Hilda move from the hospital to the Wascana Rehabilitation Centre, I remembered Eli’s words about the importance of faith and time. Angus was wheeling Hilda out to our car, and we were talking about what she might need in her new home.
“A good poetry anthology,” Hilda said. “Do you have one, Joanne?”
Angus screwed up his face with distaste. “Why would you want to read poetry? It’s all about death.”
Hilda touched his hand. “It’s not about death, Angus. It’s about time. All poetry is about time.”
Therapy was about time, too. At least, that’s what Dr. Dan Kasperski believed. There were no quick fixes for Eli. When Alex and I had gone to talk to him about Eli’s prognosis, Dan Kasperski had been realistic. “He’s got a lot going for him. He’s smart and he’s strong. He’s come through far more than anyone should be expected to endure. The fact he acted heroically with Lucy Blackwell was a big move forward. But it’s up to him. He has to decide what he’s going to do with the time ahead. If he wants to give it up to anger and self-pity, he’ll be screwed. If he uses his time wisely and bravely …” Dan Kasperski shrugged. “Who knows? Sky’s the limit.”
My horizons weren’t sky-high. On our shared fifty-second birthday, Keith Harris and I went out for dinner, and I told him that Alex and I were going to try again. Keith didn’t seem surprised, but he didn’t offer congratulations. “I want what’s best for you, Jo, but even if I can’t be in the picture, I’m not sure if Alex is the right one. Somehow I can’t see a future for you two.”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” I said. “Alex and I may have to be content with the present.”
Keith smiled. “Then let’s drink to that.” He raised his glass. “To the present. I hope it will be enough for you, Jo.”
I raised my glass. “So do I,” I said.
By Thanksgiving, Justine Blackwell’s tragedy had reached its dénouement. Lucy Blackwell was awaiting trial; Eric Fedoruk had brokered an agreement between Culhane House and Tina Blackwell about Justine’s estate; and the College of Physicians and Surgeons had set in motion procedures to revoke Dr. Signe Rayner’s licence. There was, however, one piece of business still to be finished.
Thanksgiving Monday, I picked up Garnet Dishaw at Palliser Place, and together we drove to the Wascana Rehabilitation Centre to get Hilda. The day was grey and still, a day for remembering. As we made our way to the cemetery where Justine was buried, Garnet and Hilda traded memories of the woman they had known and cared for. When we turned onto the road that led to Justine’s burial plot, I spotted Eric Fedoruk’s Eurobrute pulled up beside Wayne J. Waters’ elaborately painted van. As soon as we parked, the two men came over. Wayne J. reached into the back seat, pulled out Hilda’s wheelchair, snapped it smartly into place, and helped her into it; Eric, after greeting Hilda warmly, hel
ped Garnet Dishaw over the uneven ground to Justine’s grave. Tina Blackwell, dressed in black, was waiting by the new headstone. She acknowledged us with a shy smile, then turned to Wayne J.
“Are we ready, Wayne?” she asked.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” he said. The tombstone was covered with a beach towel. “I hope you don’t think this is in bad taste,” he pointed to the towel. “I should have thought ahead, found something appropriate. But I like the idea of an unveiling.”
“I do too,” Hilda said. “It gives the moment a sense of importance.”
“Okay,” Wayne J. said. “Here goes.” He grabbed the corner of the towel between his thumb and forefinger. “This is a present from Tina and from all of us at Culhane House. Hilda chose the words. They’re from Proverbs.” He flicked aside the towel to reveal a creamy marble headstone. On it were chiselled Justine’s full name and a simple inscription: THE MEMORY OF THE JUST IS BLESSED.
