The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  Mieka turned to me. She was wearing a new Arctic parka Greg had given her for Christmas, and her cheeks were pink with cold. My daughter had always despaired of her looks, but that morning she was beautiful.

  “Mum,” she said, “let’s take one last walk on the lake. These guys are their own best audience.”

  We walked onto the ice, past the wood huts of the ice fishers, toward the centre of the lake. It was a long walk and when we finally turned and looked back toward the inlet where the boys were skating, their orange and blue jerseys were just scraps of colour in the grey sweep of land and lake and sky. They seemed so far away and vulnerable that I shivered and pulled my jacket tight around me.

  “Cold?” Mieka asked.

  “No, it’s just … I don’t know … usually the sun’s out and the sky’s blue and everything’s like a postcard, but when it’s grey like this, the lake scares me.”

  Mieka widened her eyes in exasperation. “The ice is about three feet thick here. We’re perfectly safe.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just …” I smiled at her. “You’re lucky you’re sensible like your dad. Good gene selection. Come on, let’s change the subject. It was a great holiday, wasn’t it? And, Miek, I really enjoy Greg. He fits in so well.”

  Mieka smiled and looked toward the far shore. We were silent for a while, then she turned to me and took a deep breath. “Mum, I’m glad you like him. That makes my news a little easier.”

  Pregnant, I thought, looking at her bright, secret eyes. My mind raced – a wedding, of course. But why ‘of course’? Women didn’t bolt to the altar any more, but still, a baby. A new life …

  “I’m quitting school to set up a catering business with Greg,” she said.

  “What?” I asked stupidly.

  “A catering business. They’re renovating the Old Court House, and there’s a great space on the main floor – central, very posh, perfect location for what we’re planning. Here’s our idea – we’re going to specialize in catering for businesses. We come to your offices or your boardroom and when you break for lunch or supper we serve you a really fine meal. No waiting. No wasting time. Everything fresh – supplies will be key. We’ll pay for the best. Everything freshly prepared – we’ll do the mise en place in the main kitchen and bring everything with us. Then when you’re having a glass of wine – good wine, we’ll have a nice wine list – we’ll cook for you, everything à la minute, and everything served by people who care about food. The place I’m after is the old small claims court – I’m going to call the place Judgements.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said harshly. “You’re not calling it anything. You’re going back to university next week.”

  She looked at me levelly. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

  “Mieka,” I said, “I’m sorry. It was a shock – even the French – you got forty-three in French last semester. Where did all this fluency come from?”

  She bit her lip and looked across the lake.

  I started again. “Opening a catering business isn’t something ordinary people do. It’s something you talk about doing, like writing a novel or living on a Greek island. The food business is brutal, Miek. There was an article in the Globe and Mail last week that said for every two restaurants that open, three close.”

  She took a breath and turned to me. Her voice was controlled and it was determined. “Mum, I’m not opening a restaurant. Now come on. I have our business plan at the cabin: feasibility study, marketing surveys, projected financial statements – the works. We figure we can open the doors on Judgements for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Mieka – a hundred thousand! You’ve got to be crazy. Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

  “Some of it we’ll get from a bank – the way everybody else does. They’re not keen about financing upscale catering businesses. The bank people I’ve talked to say they’re too risky – capital intensive, labour intensive – you’re right about that. But Judgements is going to work. Greg’s uncle is going to arrange for a line of credit and Greg has a twenty-five-thousand-dollar inheritance from his grandfather that we’re going to use.” She took a deep breath. “Now, I guess you know what I’m going to ask you for …”

  “Your money for university,” I said.

  “The money you and Dad put away for my future,” she corrected gently.

  “I’m not going to give it to you. Mieka, you got a thirty-two in Economics last semester. How in the name of God do you expect to run a business?”

  She looked at me hard. “Do you realize that’s twice you’ve mentioned my grades in the last five minutes? But maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a clue in those numbers. Maybe the fact that, except when you beat it into me, I’ve gotten terrible grades should tell us both something. I’m not a student, Mum. I don’t like to learn from books. I like to do things with my hands. And you know what? I’m good at what I like to do. Be happy for me.” She laughed. “Lend me money. Give me my money. Daddy had enough set aside to get me through grad school. I know that. Well, I don’t want grad school, and they won’t want me, but I do want a chance at my business.”

  “No,” I said.

  “And that’s it?” she said in a small, tight voice.

  “Damn it, Miek. What am I supposed to say when I see you walking away from any possibility of a decent future? What did Greg’s mother say when he told her he was quitting university?”

  “He’s not quitting.”

  I could feel the anger rising in my throat. “Well, that’s just great. The girl quits school to put the guy through school. Mieka, I’ve seen this movie a hundred times.”

  “No, Mum, you have not seen this movie a hundred times. I’m not working at a dumb job to put my husband through med school. I’m an equal partner in a business. Greg is finishing his admin degree so when the time comes we’ll know how to expand our business. We’ve made some good decisions here. Now you make a good decision. Face the fact that I’m just not university material.”

  I touched the sleeve of her jacket. “Mieka, please, you’re not stupid.”

  She pulled up the hood of her parka and knotted it carefully under her chin. Suddenly her profile was alien. I didn’t know her any more. When she spoke, her voice was patient and remote.

  “Mum, I never thought I was stupid. I was just never good at school.” She turned toward me and shrugged. “I was just never you.”

  For a few moments we stood there. Finally, wordless, we walked toward the cabin. For the first time in our lives, my daughter and I didn’t seem to have much to say to each other.

  When we got back, the boys were sitting at the kitchen table drying the blades of their skates, and the cabin had the cheerless feeling of a place that was about to be abandoned. It didn’t take the kids long to pick up on the tension between Mieka and me. Even Angus didn’t put up a fight when we started toward the cars. We all knew the holiday was over.

  When Greg and Mieka’s Audi got to the top of the hill, I waved. Greg turned and waved back but Mieka stared straight ahead, and in a moment the car disappeared and she was gone.

  Beside me, Peter said, “I’ll drive the first hour. Angus can bag out in the back seat. He was up half the night with that stupid game he bought himself for Christmas.”

  Peter and Mieka had always been close, and I could tell by the set of his jaw how upset he was.

  “You’re a good guy, Pete,” I said.

  He looked at me wearily. “Mieka’s a good guy, too, Mum. Hang on to that thought.”

  At the edge of the park we stopped for gas. There was a rack full of Saskatoon papers by the cash register. Councillor Hank Mewhort was on the front page under a headline that said, “Vigil at the Mendel.” He was holding a candle and, in the darkness, the play of light and shadow on his face made him look like a slightly cracked cherub. I bought a paper.

  The story wasn’t encouraging. There had been vigils in front of the gallery every night since Christmas. There were the usual interviews
with people talking about pornography and community values, but things seemed to be turning ugly. The night before someone had hung an effigy of Sally from a tree in front of the gallery, and the crowd had pulled the effigy down and burned it.

  It was a disturbing image. I closed the paper and looked out the car window. When the pine trees gave way to the white fields and bare trees of the open prairie, my eyelids grew heavy.

  The radio was on and a man with a gentle, sad voice was talking about the dangers of genetic engineering in poultry. “So many species endangered,” he said, “a virus could wipe out one of these new super breeds or some genetic problem … important to keep some of the original breeds as a safeguard … so vulnerable … the world’s more dangerous now … could die so easily …”

  And then a man was laughing and Stuart Lachlan was saying, “Of course, it would have been better if Sally died,” and I awoke with a start to the sun hot in my face and Stuart Lachlan’s voice on the radio.

  “… realized instinctively that didactic art is trivial art and that the burden of dogma will always crush the artist’s spirit.”

  “What is this, Pete?” I asked.

  “Some arts show. Hey, you must trust my highway driving more these days. You were asleep for almost two hours. That’s Stuart Lachlan talking about some book he’s written about Sally. He just about put me under, too.”

  “You would have been on the edge of your chair if Sally were a quarterback.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, right, Mum.”

  Outside, the sky was grey, heavy with snow. In the car, Stuart Lachlan’s voice droned on, patient, professionally exact.

  “What people don’t understand is that as a maker of art, Sally’s always been a loner. She claims to be uncomfortable with movements and schools and labels. She says, ‘When I’m in the studio I’m just a painter,’ yet for all her disclaimers Sally Love has always been on the cutting edge of change in the art world. How do we explain that?” he asked rhetorically.

  Out of nowhere, a hawk swooped across the highway and picked up a small animal from the ditch beside the road. It was a heart-stoppingly clean movement.

  “Gotcha,” I said.

  “The explanation is simple,” Stu said. “As a painter, Sally Love has always been self-conscious in the best sense of the word. She is acutely conscious of the people and places around her, and she has always managed to get herself into situations where she has been able to make significant art.”

  “And out of situations where she was unable to make significant art,” the interviewer said flatly.

  Stuart laughed, but his voice was tight. “Yes,” he agreed, “and out of situations where she was unable to make significant art.”

  The interviewer thanked Stu; the music came up. I poured two cups of coffee from the Thermos and handed one to Peter.

  “Peter,” I said, “was I dreaming or did Stu say something about Sally dying?”

  He looked at me quickly. “Yeah, it was at the beginning – something about the critic’s art and how it’s always better if the person you’re writing about is dead. What he said was – now this isn’t exact, but it’s close – ‘If they’re dead, they can’t embarrass the writer by destroying all his theories.’ And then, Mum, he said something so shitty. He said, ‘Of course, as far as my critical appraisal of Sally’s work is concerned it would have been better if Sally died.’ I mean, isn’t that a little parasitic?”

  “Parasites live off live tissues. It’s saprophytes that eat dead things.” Angus’s voice came loud and disoriented from the back seat.

  I turned to look at him. He was thirteen – not an easy age, and there were times when he was not an easy kid.

  “I see the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated,” I said.

  “What?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “You slept for over two hours. I’m glad to see you’re alive.” I touched Peter on the hand. “We’d better put this conversation on hold for a while. We can talk more about Stuart and Sally when we get home.”

  But it was a long time before we did. Things happened.

  Sally’s Porsche was still in the driveway when we pulled up at our house late in the afternoon. She came out to help us carry in our luggage, and when it was all inside, she sat down at the kitchen table. She didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

  I went over and gave her a hug. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “I’ve got some unfinished family business to take care of. It won’t take long.”

  She smiled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I picked up the kitchen phone and dialled Mieka’s number. Greg answered. When I asked for my daughter, he sounded the same as he always did, laconic but pleasant. At least he wasn’t mad at me.

  “Sorry, Jo. Mieka’s in the tub, soaking.”

  “Safe from mothers who rail at her about her life,” I said.

  “For the time being, I guess she is,” he said gently.

  “Greg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be involving you. It’s between Mieka and me. It’s just I love her so much and I worry. Have her call me, would you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Damn it, why isn’t anything ever simple?”

  He laughed. “Well, you know what Woody Allen says. ‘Life is full of anxiety, trouble and misery, and it’s over too soon.’ I’ll have her call you, Jo.”

  I hung up and sat down opposite Sally at the kitchen table. Through the sliding doors to the deck, I could see the backyard. A pair of juncos were fighting at the bird feeder.

  “Everything okay now?” Sally asked.

  “Mieka’s boyfriend gave me a Woody Allen line. ‘Life is full of anxiety, trouble and misery, and it’s over too soon.’ ”

  Sally looked thoughtful. “I’ll drink to that,” she said.

  “You know,” I said, “I think I will, too. What’ll we have?”

  “Bourbon,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Bourbon’s good when you’re talking about life.” She was wearing a hound’s-tooth skirt and a cashmere sweater the colour of Devon cream. It matched the bag she had talked Hugh Rankin-Carter into parting with the night of the opening. Her hair was looped back in a gold barrette, and the last sunlight of the day fell full on her face. She looked relaxed and at peace.

  I came back and set our drinks down on the table. Sally picked up hers.

  “So what’s up with Mieka?” she asked.

  “She wants to quit school and open a catering business.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “As a cook? Terrific! And she’s always been a good manager. It’s just that her quitting school scares me.”

  “Does it scare her?”

  “Not a bit, but still …”

  “There is no ‘but still.’ Mieka’s what? Twenty? Let her alone. Nobody likes a control freak. Think where I’d he if I’d let Nina choose a life for me.” She winced. “No, don’t think where I’d be. But look at me. A daughter any mother would be proud to tell her friends about. Now come on, let go. Let Mieka be Mieka. Let’s drink to that and let’s drink to the new year.”

  I smiled and lifted my glass. “To Mieka and to letting go. Happy New Year, Sally. I can tell just by looking at you, it’s going to be wonderful. You look terrific.”

  “That’s because, despite Councillor Mewhort and his campfires in front of the Mendel, things are working out. Stu’s relented about Taylor. She’s coming to live with me after her school has its midwinter break in February. I’ve called a friend in Vancouver to start looking around for a place for us – on the ocean and near a good school. Meanwhile Taylor and I are going to spend some time getting to know each other. Nina’s idea. She says we really haven’t spent much time together – which is true – and she says there’s still too much ugliness about the Erotobiography to have Taylor move in with me, which is also true. There were a couple more incidents when you were away.”

  “Clea Poole?”

  “Among others. A lot of peop
le wrote to me. Half of them wanted me to make the city a better place by leaving, and the other half just wanted me to make them. My studio got broken into twice; someone put sugar in my gas tank, and I got some more Christmas presents.”

  “Oh, Sally, no.”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, and the important thing is I’m getting Taylor.”

  I took another sip of my drink. “That really surprises me. I thought Stu would haul you into the tall grass over that one. What did you do? Sell your soul to the devil?”

  Sally finished her drink and gave me an odd little smile. “No, to a mouse. I sold my soul to a mouse. Look, Jo, you must have a million things to do. I’d better get out of here. Thanks for the drink and for giving me a week in a real bed.”

  “Want to prolong the pleasures of the season and come for dinner tomorrow night? It’s steak au poivre.”

  She slid her bag over her shoulder and stood up. “One of my favourites, but I think I’ll pass this time. I’m going to spend the first day of the new year at the studio working. Even the crazies will have plans for tomorrow, so I might actually get something done.”

  I walked her to her car. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a package the size of a book. It was wrapped in brown paper, and for a minute I thought it must be a gift for the use of the house.

  She handed it to me. “Jo, put this somewhere safe, would you? I don’t seem to have any safe places any more. Just stick it up high where Angus won’t get curious about it. And don’t you get curious about it, either.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What is it? A bomb?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Suddenly she grinned. “It’s my insurance policy. If you lose it, I’m dead.”

  When I went in the house, the phone was ringing. It was Mieka, sounding friendly enough. She and Greg were spending New Year’s Eve with friends but they’d be over, as planned, for dinner with us New Year’s Day. She didn’t say she had reconsidered her decision about school. She didn’t say she realized I was right. She didn’t say she was counting her blessings that I was her mother. All the same, she was coming to dinner. It was a start.