by Gail Bowen
She didn’t wait to be asked in. She walked past me and sat down on the bed. She was still wearing the overalls and striped shirt she’d had on in the car, but she’d splashed water on her face, and her hair curled damply at the temples. Christy never wore makeup. Her good looks were the kind that didn’t need help, and that afternoon, as she smoothed her hair nervously and tried a tentative smile, I was puzzled again at her mystery.
Anyone who walked into that room would have been struck by the sum of Christy Sinclair’s blessings. Physically, she had great charm; moreover, she was bright and educated and privileged. But somewhere, buried in her psyche, was a dark kink that distorted her perceptions and subverted her life.
I went over and sat beside her on the bed. My presence seemed to encourage her. She moved closer.
“I’m sorry about that business in the car, Jo,” she said. “I know that kind of language is totally unacceptable to you.”
I was horrified. “Christy, this isn’t a problem of diction. It wasn’t your language that upset me. It was the way you dismissed Bernice Morin. Whatever Bernice’s life was like, her death was a terrible thing.”
What I said seemed a statement of the obvious, but my words hit Christy like a blow. The smile faded, and when she spoke her voice trembled.
“Understand one thing, Joanne. Your death would be a terrible thing. Mieka’s death would be a terrible thing. But when girls like Bernice die, it’s just biological destiny. They’re born with a gene that makes them self-destruct. They’re all the same – antisocial, impulsive. They take risks that people like you and Mieka wouldn’t. They never learn. They just keep taking risks, and sooner or later their luck runs out.”
I felt cold. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Christy. Bernice Morin was murdered. She didn’t self-destruct.”
Christy’s voice was weary. “It was her fault, Jo. Believe me, I know. I’ve done a lot of reading on genetic profiles. These girls are born with a gene for self-destruction. Nobody can change what’s going to happen to them. Whatever girls like Bernice do, the disease is in them. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I refuse to believe that,” I said.
“That doesn’t make it any less true,” she said quietly. Then she did a surprising thing. She reached down and pulled off the wide silver band she always wore around her wrist and held it out to me.
“You always said you admired this, Jo. I’d like you to have it.”
I didn’t want the bracelet. At that moment, I didn’t want anything that would connect me to Christy Sinclair. But as I looked at the smooth circle of silver on the palm of her hand, I didn’t know how to refuse. I took it. When I slipped it on my wrist, it was still warm from her body.
The bracelet was engraved with Celtic lettering, and I read the words aloud: “Wandering Soul Pray For Me.”
Christy smiled. “I will,” she said. She touched the silver band with her forefinger. “I love this bracelet, Jo, but I love you more. I didn’t want you to go on thinking I was a bad person.”
I moved closer to her. “Oh, Christy, I never thought you were bad. I’ve never felt as if I knew you at all. If you could just –”
I never finished the sentence. There was a knock at the door. Taylor came running out of the bathroom to answer it, and the moment was lost. Christy stood up and moved toward the doorway; she looked at the man who was standing there, then turned to me.
“Thank you for taking the bracelet, Jo. People aren’t always what they seem, you know.”
I went over to say goodbye, but she was gone.
“That’s the worst introduction I’ve ever had,” said the man in the doorway, “so I’ll try to make up for it.” He was holding a drink and he offered it to me. “Vodka and tonic with a twist. Your daughter said that’s what you like on a hot day.”
I took a long swallow from the drink. “God bless Mieka,” I said. “It’s turning into a vodka kind of afternoon.”
He laughed. “I’m having one of those afternoons myself. I’ll keep you company. Incidentally, I’m Greg’s uncle, Keith Harris.”
“I’ve seen you on television a thousand times,” I said. “You’re much nicer looking in person.”
“So are you,” he said. “But I have a more politically correct compliment for you. I read a review copy of your book on Andy Boychuk. It’s the most intelligent biography I’ve read in ten years. You’re going to be on the best-seller list.”
“Kind words and a cold drink. Keith, I really am glad to meet you at last. And the kids were so worried we wouldn’t get along.”
Keith raised his eyebrows. “I tried to reassure Greg,” he said, “but I think he and Mieka were convinced that the moment you and I met, we’d lock horns.”
The talk of locked horns caught Taylor’s attention. She was too young for metaphor. She moved between us and looked up expectantly.
“This is my daughter Taylor,” I said. “Taylor, this is Mr. Harris. He’s Greg’s uncle.”
Keith dropped to his knees to be eye level with Taylor. I saw her look with interest at his tanned and balding head. So did Keith.
“No horns,” he said. “Although your mother might have been surprised to discover that, too. When people talk about locking horns with somebody they just mean they don’t get along very well.”
“Why wouldn’t you and Jo get along?” Taylor asked.
“Because our politics are different,” he said. “I work for one party, and your mother works for another party. Not much of a reason to fight, when you come right down to it.”
But Taylor was not interested in politics. “We saw a field of swans,” she said. “When we were in the car, we saw a field of swans. They were resting on their way home to the Arctic Circle. That’s north,” she added helpfully.
“Sounds better than my afternoon,” he said. “I spent the last hour on the phone talking to … Well, never mind who I was talking to. It’s boring. I can’t offer you any swans, but if you and your mother come outside, I can show you the hill where once a long time ago a man saw a million buffalo coming down to the water.”
Taylor looked up at him, dark eyes keen with interest. “A million buffalo,” she said. “I wish I’d seen that.”
He smiled at her. “I wish I had, too,” he said, and with the easy camaraderie of people who’ve known each other for years, the three of us started toward the lake.
Angus caught up with us when we were halfway down the hill. He was running and his face shone with sweat and excitement. “There are frogs down there. Little ones –”
“No,” I said.
“No to what?”
“No, you can’t ask Mieka for a jar. No, you can’t capture them and sell them. No, you can’t take any back to the city and give them to your friends.”
“I’m not a kid, Mum,” he said. “Come on, Taylor. Let’s go down to the lake and look at frogs. But don’t get your hopes up. We already heard the answer about taking one home. See you, Mr. Harris,” he said.
We watched them run toward the lake. “You’ve met my son?” I asked.
Keith nodded. “When I was getting ice, Angus was in the kitchen looking for …” He trailed off innocently.
“For a jar,” I said.
“I’ve been in politics all my life, Joanne. I’m not walking into that one. Now, come on, and I’ll show you where Peter Hourie saw that amazing sight. If you’d like, that is.”
“I’d like,” I said.
We walked down to the shore and looked up at the hill. “It was right over there,” he said. “Hourie had just started building up Fort Qu’Appelle, and he was camped out here with some of his men. They looked over there and the buffalo were coming down to the water. Hourie and his group stayed here twenty-four hours, and the buffalo never stopped coming. They really did estimate there were a million animals in that herd. It must have sounded like the end of the world.”
For the next half-hour we sat on the grass, talking about everything and nothing: the buffalo hunts, p
olitics, friendships. Taylor and Angus, absorbed in the mysteries of the shore, were wading contentedly in the water that lapped the stony beach. The smell of barbecue and the sounds of music drifted down from the house. Finally, sun-warmed and at peace, I lay on the grass and closed my eyes.
“Happy?” Keith asked.
“God’s in Her Heaven. All’s right with the world,” I murmured.
I’d almost drifted off to sleep when I heard Mieka’s voice. “Here we were, worried sick that you two were going to kill each other and all you’ve done is put one another to sleep.”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked at Keith.
He shrugged. “Vodka and sunshine. A lethal combination.”
Mieka shook her head. “Time to straighten up, Keith. Your dad’s car just pulled in. Lorraine says he’ll want to see you as soon as he gets settled.”
“I’ll be right up,” Keith said, and he sounded weary and sad.
“Troubles?” I asked.
“My father,” Keith said. “Blaine had a cerebral hemorrhage at Easter. It’s hard to be with him now. For seventy-five years he was one man, and now he’s another. The worst thing is he knows. He knows everything.”
Keith stood up and held his hand out to me. “Do you want to come up to the house and meet Blaine? He’s always enjoyed the company of intelligent women.”
“I’d be honoured,” I said. Then we called the kids and walked up the hill.
Keith’s father was sitting in a wheelchair by the pool. Even the ravages of his illness hadn’t eroded Blaine Harris’s dignity. He was wearing golf clothes, expensive and well-cut, and he was beautifully groomed. But there were surprising notes: his white hair was so long it had been combed into a ponytail, and he was wearing not golf shoes but moccasins, soft and intricately beaded. He looked like a man on the verge of embracing another lifestyle.
When he saw his son, Blaine Harris raised his left hand in greeting, and garbled sounds escaped his throat. Keith went to him and kissed the top of his head.
His tone with his father was warm and matter of fact. “Blaine, this is Mieka’s mother, Joanne. She teaches political science at the university and she’s written a pretty fair book about Andy Boychuk.”
Blaine made muffled noises that even I recognized as disapproval.
Keith looked at me. “My father’s politics are somewhat to the right of mine.” He turned back to his father. “Blaine, it’s a wonderful book. We can start reading it tonight if you like.”
Blaine made a swooping gesture toward me with his good arm. “Pancakes,” he said.
Beside me, Taylor, recognizing another practitioner of the non sequitur, laughed appreciatively.
Keith patted his father’s hand. “Yes, Dad, Joanne’s book deals with campaigns, mostly the provincial ones.”
The old man made a growling sound in the back of his throat.
Keith shook his head. “Yeah, Dad, I know it’s awful when all the words are in there and they just won’t come out. But what the hell, eh? You’ve got me. Now come on, it’s time to eat.”
It was a fine spring meal: barbecued lamb, the first tender shoots of asparagus, carrots, new potatoes, strawberry shortcake.
We sat outside at the tables around the pool I’d noticed earlier. I was surprised to see that Mieka had asked Christy to sit with Greg and her. Christy had changed clothes; she was wearing a white dress that looked cool and elegant. When Lorraine Harris joined them, I noticed she was wearing white, too. Midway through the meal, Greg and Mieka left to greet some latecomers, and as Lorraine and Christy bent toward one another, deep in conversation, I thought they looked like a scene from The Great Gatsby: handsome women in dazzling white, insulated by their money against the sordid and the wretched.
The kids and I sat with Keith and his father. Eating was a torturous process for Blaine Harris. He had the use of his left arm, but as he lifted his fork from his plate to his mouth, the signals sometimes got scrambled. His hand would stop, and Blaine would look at the fork hanging in midair as if it were an apparition. It was agony to watch, but Keith eased the situation. He was quick and unobtrusive when his father needed help, but he didn’t hover, and he kept the conversation light.
To celebrate Greg’s and Mieka’s engagement, there were going to be fireworks later. Keith told the kids that when he’d been in Macau for the Chinese New Year in February, the fireworks had been loud enough to blow his eardrums out. He said the streets had been filled with people from Hong Kong because firecrackers were illegal there.
“And they’re not illegal in Macau?” Angus asked approvingly.
“Nothing’s illegal in Macau,” he said. “The restaurants serve endangered species in the soup.”
Angus shuddered.
“To build up your blood for the cold winter months,” Keith said.
“Jo makes us take vitamin C,” Taylor said.
“Probably a more responsible move environmentally,” Keith said.
When Keith took his father into the house to rest before the fireworks, Angus turned to me. “Mr. Harris is a really neat guy, you know.”
“Meaning?”
Angus grinned. “Meaning, I think it’s about time you had a man in your life.”
“Thanks, Angus, I’ll take that under advisement.”
“You wouldn’t not go out with him because of politics, would you?”
“Nope,” I said, “but it would be a problem. Keith is a good friend of the prime minister’s, you know. In fact, a lot of people think Keith was the one who got him in as leader.”
Angus grimaced. “Well, we all make mistakes.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but that one was a lulu.”
Angus laughed. “I still think he’s a nice guy.”
I looked at the house. “There he is,” I said, “bringing me coffee and brandy.”
“Then we’re out of here,” said Angus. “Come on, T. Let’s see if we can find a radio and catch the baseball game.” He gave me the high sign. “Be nice to him, Mum.”
I was. When I took my first sip of brandy, I leaned back in my chair. “What a perfect night,” I said.
“ ‘Calm was the even and clear was the sky, and the new-budding flowers did spring,’ ” Keith said.
“Dryden,” I said, “ ‘An Evening’s Love.’ ”
Keith Harris looked at me in amazement. “There’s not another woman in Canada who would have known that.”
“No,” I agreed, “there isn’t. You’re in luck. It’s a magic night.”
“You wouldn’t have a spell that would keep Lorraine away, would you?” Keith said. “She’s about to swoop. We’re going to be organized for some after-dinner fun, I can tell by the glint in her eyes.”
Then in a cloud of Chanel, Lorraine Harris was upon us. She embraced her brother-in-law, then she turned and bent to kiss the air by my cheek. Out of nowhere, a poem from childhood floated to the top of my consciousness:
I do not like you, Dr. Fell.
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and I know well.
I do not like you, Dr. Fell.
I do not like you, Lorraine Harris, I thought. But what I said was, “You look wonderful, Lorraine. That’s a beautiful suit.”
“Sharkskin,” she said. She sat down on the arm of Keith’s chair and balanced her clipboard on her knee. She was tanned, and the setting sun warmed her skin to the colour of dark honey and made her grey eyes startling. She was a stunning woman, and her most striking feature was her hair. In defiance of all the rules about how women should wear their hair after forty, Lorraine’s grey hair was almost waist length. That night she had clasped it at the back with a silver barrette, and as she talked, she reached back and pulled the length of her hair over her shoulder. The effect was riveting.
“How do you two feel about croquet?” she asked.
I smiled at her. “I haven’t played croquet in thirty-five years, but I think it’s a terrific idea.”
Keith sighed. “If Jo
’s in, I’m in.”
Lorraine’s grey eyes narrowed. “So you two are getting along, after all,” she said. “There’ll be some raised eyebrows about that.”
“Not any eyebrows that matter,” Keith said mildly.
Lorraine looked at him quickly, then she pulled part of a deck of cards out of her jacket pocket and held it out to me. “Choose one, Joanne.”
I pulled out a jack of diamonds.
“All you have to do is find the other people who have jacks,” she said, “that’ll be your team.”
Keith reached over and took the cards from her. He sorted through it and pulled out a jack of clubs. “That’s me on your team, Jo.” Then he found the other two jacks. “That’s one for Angus and one for Taylor. Get the word out, Lorraine. The Jacks are the team to beat.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “It’s supposed to be random,” she said as she wrote our names down on her list, “an icebreaker. But obviously you two have already broken the ice.”
She finished writing and stood. “Come up to the tent in about twenty minutes and see who you’re supposed to play.” Then her face softened, and she smiled at someone behind me. “You have to be Peter,” she said. “I made Mieka show me your picture when Greg said you were going to be a groomsman.”
I turned and there was my oldest son. For a split second he looked unfamiliar. He seemed taller, his face was sunburned, and he had a new and terrible haircut. I thought he looked sensational.
I jumped up and threw my arms around him. “I’m not going to let you go back to Swift Current,” I said. “I’ve decided I don’t believe in kids having independent lives.”
Angus was sitting on the ground trying to get an old portable radio to work. “I think Pete probably figured that one out the night you called him three times because you thought he sounded weird.”
Peter looked at his brother. “Actually, Mum was right.” He turned to me. “I wasn’t going to say anything until you could see that I was still alive, but that time you called a cow had just kicked me in the head.”
I shot Angus a look of triumph. “Okay, okay,” he said, scraping at the batteries of the radio with his Swiss Army knife. “You win. You’re psychotic, Mum.”
