by Gail Bowen
“I’m not very good at garage sales. I never seem to find the bargains.”
“Even a blind pig gets an acorn once in a while,” she said. “Give it a try.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”
She picked up a fresh skein of yarn. “Now tell me again what you’re going to do.”
“I’m going to hit the garage sales and look for Barbies. I won’t pay more than two bucks apiece, and I’ll check their feet to make sure they’re not chewed.”
Bebe Morrissey stared at me in disbelief. “Jesus Christ and all the saints of heaven,” she said. “How did you ever get a job teaching at a university? What you’re going to do, Joanne Kilbourn, is go to your friends at NationTV and tell them to start sniffing around the African prince and the guy with the birthmark. And you’re going to tell them to leave our Kyle alone.”
CHAPTER
7
We own the last swimming pool in our neighbourhood. Savvy people, sick of summers plagued by sluggish pumps, cracked tiles, clogged filters, and four-figure bills for chemicals, have had their pools filled in. More than once, as I’ve opened the envelope from Valhalla Pool Service, I’ve considered them wise, but Taylor loves to swim. She is not a natural mermaid. Her body is small and dense, but she fights gravity and churns through the water with such antic joy that every spring we pull off the pool cover and begin again. And because she is too young to swim alone, more often than not I struggle into my shapeless old suit and join her.
That Tuesday afternoon, there was no altruism in my decision to take the plunge. By the time I got back from visiting EXXXOTICA, my head was reeling from the aftershocks of a martini and wine at lunch and a day’s worth of information that had wrapped itself around my brain and wouldn’t let go. A big-time headache was on its way, and I was counting on hydrotherapy to banish it.
Ed Mariani had been wise to dig out his Proust. It was a sweet spring day. The lemony afternoon sun was warm, and the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs. It was a day to swim and, apparently, a day to bask. Willie followed us down to the pool and, as soon as he’d settled in at poolside, Taylor’s cats, Bruce and Benny, streaked out of the house and took their places across the pool where they could catch a few rays and keep an eye on him.
After fifteen minutes, the water began to do its magic. With every lap, the tension loosened its grip on my temples; by the time Taylor, tired of paddling alone, began to swim beside me so we could chat, I was ready to keep up my end of the conversation.
“There’s a meeting tomorrow for the parent-volunteers before we go on our field trip to the Legislature,” she said.
“T, when our kids were little, I just about lived at the Legislature. I don’t think I need to be oriented.”
She duck-dived and swam a few strokes underwater, conveniently out of earshot. When she surfaced, she was ready. “There may be stuff you don’t know.”
“Try me.”
She dipped under and came up, showering drops. “What’s the building made out of?”
“Italian marble.”
She bobbed back under, and came up with a new question. “How many Members of the Legislative Assembly are there?”
“Fifty-eight.”
Now it was a game. This time she swam underwater to the end of the pool. “What does the Speaker do?” she asked breathlessly.
“Keeps things moving along; keeps the members in line.”
“Okay,” she said. “I guess you know enough.” As suddenly as if a cloud had passed over it, the joy went out of her face. “Have the police caught the man who killed Ariel?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said.
“But they are going to catch him.” The water beading her eyelashes made her look like a frightened naiad.
“Taylor, what’s making you so scared?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just remembered how that woman at the vigil said men had to be stopped or they’d kill us all.”
“I don’t remember anyone saying that.”
Taylor swiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You weren’t there. You were talking into the microphone. It was that lady with the flowers on her shawl …”
“Livia Brook.”
She nodded. “Livia said it to the woman you don’t like – the one who told us that men couldn’t come to the vigil.”
She shivered; whether it was from the power of the memory or the chill of the water I couldn’t tell. I put my arm around her shoulder. “Time to get out,” I said. “But Taylor, I don’t want you to worry about this any more. Everyone was upset the other night. People said things they didn’t mean. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“Or you.” Her tone was urgent. “Or Madeleine or Mieka.”
“No one is going to hurt any of us,” I said. “There isn’t an enemy out there.”
“Good.” She tried a small smile. “Can I stay in the pool a little bit longer?”
“Nope, your lips are turning blue, and you know the rule.”
“When lips are blue, the swim is through,” she said morosely.
“You’ve got it,” I said. “Now, I’ll race you to the house.”
We grabbed our towels and started to sprint towards the deck. We were halfway across the lawn when Angus and Eli strutted out the back door. It was obvious at a glance that Taylor and I were getting a dress rehearsal of the grad outfits: blindingly white dress shirts, subdued but deadly ties, sports jackets and slacks that still dangled price tags, real shoes.
The boys struck GQ poses. “So do you think Brad Pitt should pack it in?” My son’s words were confident, even cocky, but his eyes were anxious.
“Brad’s lucky he lives in a two-income household,” I said. “You guys are dynamite.” It was no exaggeration. Angus’s resemblance to his father was so striking I could feel my throat close, and Eli looked both handsome and uncharacteristically assured. Alex’s nephew had not had an easy life, but as I looked at him that afternoon it was almost possible to believe that all the valedictory-speech clichés about new dreams and new lives might prove to be true.
The moment was too precious to lose. “Let me get the camera,” I said.
They groaned, but they pulled out their combs.
As soon as I had the boys posed in front of the prettiest of our lilac bushes, Taylor dropped her towel, and squeezed in between them. “This is so much fun,” she said.
By the time we’d snapped photos of every permutation and combination of the boys, Taylor, Willie, and the cats, we had used up a whole roll of film, and it had been fun. Too much fun to keep to ourselves. On our way back inside, I touched Eli’s arm.
“Let’s call your uncle,” I said. “Tell him what we’ve been up to. He should be a part of all this.”
Alex picked up on the first ring. “No civil servants listening in,” he said when he heard my voice. “You can be as brazen as you like.”
“Brazen will have to wait,” I said. “Right now, I’m standing with a shivering seven-year-old and two young men in extremely expensive new sports jackets. We’ve just taken some world-class pictures, and we thought you might want to hear about them.”
“I wish I was there,” he said.
“So do I. But having Taylor describe the scene will be almost as good.”
Taylor had a deft hand with narrative, and she described the photo session in meticulous detail; she also told Alex about Florence Nightingale and about how she, herself, got to sleep with Madeleine all three nights when we were at the lake. When Angus finally wrested the phone from her, she ran upstairs to get changed. The boys gave Alex separate but equal play-by-plays of their team’s last three ball games. When Eli gave the phone back to me, he was grinning. “My uncle says he’s proud of me.”
“He has every reason to be,” I said. “Now, you guys vamoose. It’s my turn.”
Alex seemed relaxed and happy. “The boys sound good,” he said.
“They are good.”
“Anything new with
you?”
“I’m one of the parents going on the tour of the Legislature with Taylor’s class on Friday. There’s an orientation meeting tomorrow which I’m skipping.”
“Tell Taylor that if she needs back-up to keep you on the straight and narrow, she can call on me.”
“Taylor is unavailable,” I said. “She finally decided to get out of her bathing suit. She was turning blue and her teeth were chattering, but till the end she maintained she wasn’t the slightest bit cold.”
“Stubborn like you.”
“Inner-directed like me,” I said.
He laughed. “I miss you. Ottawa’s beautiful, but this isn’t exactly my scene. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. It’s good to close my eyes and imagine you and the kids at home enjoying the spring.” Suddenly, his tone became grave. “From what Bob Hallam tells me, though, it’s not all blossoms and birdsong there. I take it there’s a reason you haven’t mentioned the Ariel Warren case.”
“It wasn’t because I didn’t want to,” I said. “But every time I weakened, I remembered all the work you’d put into that course you’re giving. And Alex, you know as well as I do that there really isn’t anything you can do from there but listen.”
“Actually, Jo, I can do better than that. I can give you some advice to pass along to Howard Dowhanuik. Robert Hallam is very anxious to talk to Charlie. Unfortunately, both Charlie and his father seem to have pulled a disappearing act. As close as you and Howard are, I’m guessing you can reach him with a message. Tell him to bring Charlie back to Regina. There are a lot of questions that need answers, and Bob Hallam will go easier on Charlie if he’s co-operative.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said. “Alex, I miss you.”
“Think how great it’s going to be when we’re together again.”
“Do you remember what Napoleon wrote to Josephine?”
“We didn’t do much French history at Standing Buffalo.”
“Then it’s time to complete your education. Napoleon said, ‘I’m coming home in three days. Don’t wash.’ ”
“So you’d like a three-day warning.”
“I’ll settle for three minutes,” I said. “Time enough to warm the hemp oil.”
When I hung up, I tried calling Good Shepherd Villa in Toronto. The woman I talked to told me Howard and Charlie left after Marnie had her supper, but she promised she’d have Howard call me. The mention of supper reminded me that I hadn’t done anything about ours. I rummaged through the cupboard till I found a box of fusilli and put on a pot of water to boil. The kids liked pasta salad and I had some ham left over from the weekend.
Just as I dumped in the fusilli, Eli walked into the kitchen. He’d changed out of his sports jacket and slacks into the summer uniform of shorts and sandals. As he came over to the stove, I saw that his mood had changed, too. His exuberance had been replaced by a kind of tense watchfulness.
“I was just talking to your uncle,” I said. “He’s getting anxious to come home.”
“It’ll be good having him back.” Eli’s tone was flat.
“Something on your mind?” I said.
“Charlie D isn’t doing his show today. He didn’t finish it on Thursday and he didn’t do it Friday or yesterday either. I got a buddy of mine to tape the show when we were at the lake. This guy named Troy is doing ‘Heroes’ now.”
“And you’re worried,” I said.
“It’s not just some stupid fan thing,” Eli said defensively. “Charlie D has really helped me. Last fall, when I’d just started going to Dan Kasperski, I felt like such a loser. Not many kids are so messed up they have to see a shrink.”
“Lots of kids are,” I said. “And lots of adults.”
Eli went to the drawer, took out a big metal spoon, came back and stirred the fusilli. As we talked, he kept his gaze on the boiling water. “I know that now,” he said. “But it’s because of Charlie D. I found ‘Heroes’ by accident. I was looking for some hard rock and all of a sudden there was Charlie D talking about how the first law of Buddhism is that life is suffering.” He turned to me. “Can you imagine how great it felt to find out that I wasn’t a freak? That it was the same for everybody?”
“I can imagine; in fact, I can remember.”
His obsidian eyes widened. “You felt that way, too?”
“I felt that way, too.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re so nice now.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“It’s true. And it’s because of what Charlie D says. Once you know that everybody’s suffering, you can get past your own skin, and that’s when the fun begins.”
“He’s right,” I said.
“It worked for me.” Eli’s voice rose with excitement. “As soon as I realized that everybody had garbage to deal with, things started getting better. When I told Dan, he said that a lot of his patients never missed ‘Heroes.’ Dan said life’s a wild and wacky ride, and we all need a lot of guides to get us through. Then he said I could do a lot worse than to travel with Charlie D for a while.”
“That’s a pretty high recommendation,” I said. “I don’t know many psychiatrists, but I think Dan Kasperski is brilliant.”
“So is Charlie D,” Eli said. “Even my Popular Culture teacher, Ms. Cyr, thinks so. For the last couple of months, she’s been letting our class listen to ‘Ramblings.’ That’s the part at the beginning of the show where Charlie talks about the topic of the day. We’ve had some good discussions about what Charlie’s said.” Eli stirred the pasta mechanically. “He was so sharp and so funny, but lately he’s gotten really bitter. One of the kids said Charlie sounded like he was going through a major meltdown.”
“Did it sound that way to you?”
“Yeah.” Eli made a gesture of helplessness. “You didn’t have to be a shrink to know Charlie was in serious trouble. I can’t describe it, but I’ve got some of the tapes. Ms. Cyr is letting me do my major project on Charlie’s show.”
“Could I listen to the tapes?”
“Sure. I’ll get you some from the last couple of weeks and some from before so you can hear the difference.”
“Good. And Eli, I can put your mind at rest about one thing. Nothing’s happened to Charlie. He just had to get away for a while. He and his dad went to visit Charlie’s mum in Toronto.”
Eli’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I was afraid he might have tried to kill himself.”
“Did he sound that bad?”
“Yeah,” Eli said. “At the end, he did.”
By the time I’d drained the pasta and mixed the dressing, Eli was back with a carrying case. “The ‘Ramblings’ are all in order,” Eli said, “and they’re all dated. Listen to them. You’ll see what I mean.”
I didn’t open the tape case until Taylor had had her bath and we’d read two chapters of Charlotte’s Web. I wanted to give Charlie D my full and undivided attention, and that would have been impossible with Taylor bouncing around. After she and I had said our final good nights, I went downstairs, made myself a stiff gin and tonic, and carried it and the tapes up to my bedroom.
In a house where anarchy and noise are the order of the day, my bedroom is an island. It’s an airy room with ecru walls, flowering plants, and stacks of books and magazines that I intend to read some day. The two stars of my room are the mahogany four-poster that had been in Ian’s family for two generations and the deep, pillow-strewn window seat that was my treat to myself when we renovated the house. From the window seat, I can look out onto our backyard and the creek beyond it. It’s a view that always brings me comfort, and as I slid the first of the tapes into my stereo, and Charlie’s dark-honey voice filled the room, I knew that, in the hour ahead, I would need to draw comfort from every source I could find.
Charlie didn’t interpose a filter between himself and his audience. The stream of consciousness I heard seemed to flow uninterrupted from a deep and private place within him. As I sat in my pretty room, with my children just a touch or a phone call away, the ima
ge of this lonely blood-scarred man, isolated by the glass of the control booth, offering up his lonely acts of communion with strangers, broke my heart.
None of the “Ramblings” was longer than three minutes. In all, there were perhaps thirty-six minutes of tape. Not much, but enough to know that when Eli said Charlie was in the middle of a meltdown, he was right on the money. The formula of “Ramblings” was a simple one: Charlie chose a quote, then played verbal riffs on it.
The early “Ramblings” were a lot of fun. Most of Charlie’s sources wouldn’t have made the cut for Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, but they were great jumping-off points for his particular brand of edgy wisdom. He played some wicked variations on Kris Kristofferson’s observation that “You should never sleep with anybody crazier than you,” and he went the distance with Roughriders’ quarterback Steve Sarkisian’s musings on mindset: “You can’t get too high or too low. You have to keep chucking.”
But in the two weeks after Ariel left, Charlie began to draw from a well that grew progressively deeper and darker. The emotions driving the riffs described an arc familiar to anyone who had ever been dumped: disbelief, confusion, anger, bitterness. But on the show he did the day before Ariel died, Charlie had found himself in a place the lucky among us will never know.
On that show, Charlie took as his text a poem by a man named Peter Davison. The poem was called “The Last Word,” and in it Davison used the metaphor of an executioner standing axe in hand over his kneeling victim to describe the pain of a lover who wants to become an ex-lover. The image goaded Charlie into a diatribe whose words froze the marrow.
“Hey, all you executioners out there, cringing in horror at having to watch the edge of the axe nick through flesh and creak into the block, do you want to change places? Do you want to be the one who hears the axe singing through the air towards the small bones in the back of the neck? No more crocodile tears, executioner. In a minute, you can wash up and go home to a bed warmed by a new lover. No new loves or new beds for the one on the other end of the axe. He’s finished, sentenced to purgatory, doomed to an eternity of remembering the scent of your perfume as you leaned close to make sure the blow was fatal.”
