I’m tidying up the living room when I overhear a low conversation between Mom and Uncle Jack in the kitchen.
“Come on, Jack. You’re my brother-in-law, and I’ve never seen you so unhappy.”
Uncle Jack sighs. “I’m just tired. It takes a lot to run a pub.”
“Especially since Kate’s come to town?” I hear Mom open the cutlery drawer, the forks clinking as she sorts them.
My heart quickens, and I duck under the piano so I can spy on them.
Uncle Jack turns away.
“What’s up?” Mom asks. “You keep avoiding talking about her, and whenever we mention her, you turn red.” She stands there with her arms crossed the way she does when she’s confronting Dylan and me.
Uncle Jack picks up one of Dylan’s Dead-Eye darts on the counter and pretends to be interested in it. He sighs. “Well, you have to admit she’s a really good fiddler. And she’s so funny, and ...”
My heart falls.
“So ask her out again,” Mom insists. “It’s not like you’ve ever had trouble getting dates, Jack.”
Desperation claws at me. No, Mom. Don’t! We’ll lose him! He’ll always be with her and we’ll hardly ever see him.
“I don’t know,” Uncle Jack says, still fingering the dart.
“Is she seeing someone else?” Mom uncrosses her arms.
“I don’t think so. I never see her with anyone. She just comes and smiles and laughs. She’s a great entertainer, and she tells really old stories about what happened in the 1800s and what it was like back then. She knows a lot about history.”
My heart sinks deeper as I hear him go on about her. Stupid, red-headed uncle stealer!
“And everyone hangs on her every word. And then she plays something that’s related to her story.”
“So have you asked her out before tonight?” Mom inquires cautiously like she does when she snoops in my affairs.
I hold my breath.
“I asked her to meet for supper a few times, but she always has excuses,” he says, his head lowered. “And I asked her to go fishing with me once too.”
Fishing? What girl in her right mind would want to go fishing?
“What did she say?” Mom sounds concerned.
Uncle Jack sighs again. “She just laughed that loud, ringing laugh she has. And then she started to play I’s the B’y.”
I stifle a giggle. I’se the B’y is a tune from Newfoundland about fishing that we sang back in grade four.
“I even asked to walk her home late at night to protect her since there’s a prison camp over the mountains, and she always says she’ll be okay.”
Uncle Jack’s story pulls at my heartstrings even though I’m relieved she doesn’t seem interested, but I’m curious about this woman I saw skulking in the graveyard. Who is she and why is she here?
I climb the stairs and sit down at my computer. Clicking on the search engine, I type in her name.
The page instantly opens up. ‘Kate McDonough, solicitor and barrister.’ Shaking my head, I scan down to the next entry. ‘Kate McDonough, psychologist, Los Angeles.’ The next one says, ‘Kate McDonough – Facebook.’
“Aha!” I click on the name only to find a blond, middle-aged woman’s photo tucked in the corner.
Disappointed, I close it and scroll down the page to another heading. ‘Kate McDonough, 19th century fiddler.’ Curious, I open it up.
‘Kate McDonough was one of the finest fiddlers during the eighteen sixties. Born and raised in Cape Breton, she died in childbirth. Her fiddle, aptly named ‘The Golden Fiddle” was considered to be of the same calibre as a Stradivarius. After her death, it disappeared …’
I close the site. “Definitely not. She’s alive.”
On the third page, I find what I’m looking for.
‘Kate McDonough performs at Morris’ Pub, Val Marie, Saskatchewan.’ I open the entry. My red-headed enemy stares back at me.
“Gotcha,” I say and read the caption.
‘Kate McDonough, Cape Breton fiddler, performing nightly at Morris’ Pub, Val Marie. Bring your friends for an evening of fine fiddling and storytelling.’
Scrolling down further, I find ‘Kate McDonough performs at Martin’s, Vegreville, Alberta’, and then ‘Kate McDonough performs at Sam’s Tavern, Deer Lake, Newfoundland’. There are more. All of them are less than four-month gigs in small towns in out-of-the-way places.
Wonder why she only stays for a while? Is she running away from something?
I take out a piece of paper and jot down the dates of her gigs.
1997, 1998, 1999, 2001, 2004 … what does she do in between? How does she live?
A million questions run through my mind. I don’t have the answers, but I sure want to find out. There’s something not quite right about her – those eyes, the effect she has on everyone. I’ve got to know more.
Chapter 14
The Preparation
We barely see Uncle Jack over the next few weeks. Then, a few days before Halloween, the front door flies open and Uncle Jack bursts in, pulls his cowboy boots off, and strolls into the kitchen right up to Dylan.
“Hi there, Superman,” he says, rustling up Dylan’s hair.
“Uncle Jack,” I cry, slamming the fridge door.
“Hey-a, kiddo. How’s it going?” He embraces me in a one-arm hug.
“Good,” I lie. “Are you staying for supper?” I eye the fridge again.
“No.” His face is serious. “I’ve gotta get the pub ready for Halloween. It falls on a Friday this week, so I’ve got a lot to do.”
My shoulders fall.
“How are the decorations going?” Mom pushes her stack of marking aside.
“We’re hanging up cobwebs everywhere, and all the staff will disguise themselves as something ghoulish. I’m going to be a mummy with a top hat.” He stretches out dead arms and bulges his eyes as he plods after Dylan on heavy feet. Dylan screams.
“How is Kate dressing up?” asks Mom with that expression she gets when she’s prying.
Uncle Jack catches Dylan, and then stops.
“I don’t know. You know she’s moving into a cabin out in the woods this weekend, eh?”
“By herself?” Mom furrows her brows. “That’s not very safe for a young woman. Not in these parts. Which one?”
“The one at the end of Pinegrove Road.” He lets Dylan go. “I’m helping her move.”
“Oh?” Mom raises one eyebrow. “You’re helping her move?”
“Ew, is she your girlfriend, Uncle Jack?” asks Dylan.
My teeth clench.
“Dylan.” Mom warns. She turns back to Uncle Jack. “Does she have any furniture?”
“Not that I know of. After all, she’s been living in a hotel all this time.”
“Hmmm. We have some stuff we could give her … and probably the Morins too,” Mom says, her index finger resting on her upper lip.
“Yeah, like the old couch downstairs that smells funny.” I stifle a snicker.
The couch has had a strong odour since the day Charlotte brought over Buddy, and the pup peed on one of the cushions. Not wanting to get in trouble, we cleaned it as best we could, and then blew it dry with my hairdryer. Mom never guessed the truth, and Dylan and I never let the secret out.
Uncle Jack throws his mummy arms out again and hobbles toward me. I leap out of the way, glad for the attention.
“Not that one, Kira,” Mom looks over the top of her glasses at me. “We have some furniture in the bedroom downstairs, and I know the Morins have a spare couch … that doesn’t smell funny.”
“I’ll tell her.” Uncle Jack stops chasing me much to my disappointment.
“And if you need help decorating the pub,” Mom says, “we’d all be glad to pitch in. Right, kids?”
I give a weak smile and nod.
“That’d be great. We’re going to have small, carved pumpkins on every table instead of regular candles. If you could all carve three each, that’d really help.”
“Yay, pumpkins! Can we Mom?” Dylan’s face is lit up.
“Sure.”
“And if you’re planning on coming, Pierrette, you’ve got to dress up. There’ll be prizes for the best costumes. Winners get a free drink.”
“Well, I sure can’t pass that up. I’ll see if the Morins want to go too. Then as soon as the trick-or-treaters are done, we can all meet there.”
“Good. I’ll reserve a table for you.”
Chapter 15
The Halloween Dance
When Halloween finally arrives, Mom comes down wearing a scraggly ghost costume that looks like it might fall apart if she catches it in the door. I guess that’s why she wears white pants and a plain, long-sleeved t-shirt underneath.
Dylan and I wolf down our breakfast of bacon and eggs, and then race upstairs to put on our costumes.
Charlotte and I have a dance at school. I’m wearing a costume I found in Mom’s old trunk last night. It’s a clown outfit complete with wig and giant shoes. Charlotte’s dressing up as a witch.
Spending a good half hour in the bathroom, I spread pasty, white makeup over my face, and add a red pout and patches over my eyes. “No one will recognize me,” I say, smiling to myself as I tie the oversized, floppy shoes that feel like giant flippers.
Picking my way down the stairs, I stumble as the right toe of the shoe folds under my foot. For a moment, I teeter, waving my arms around. Miraculously, I grab the rail and save myself from falling. After that, I take care to raise my toes as high as possible, practicing the steps a few times until I get the hang of it.
Dylan meets me at the bottom of the stairs. He’s a grim reaper with a bleeding skeleton face. I scowl with disgust at the realistic red dye that drips inside his mask. We pick up our backpacks and head out.
Charlotte, as usual, meets us halfway. She’s wearing her mom’s black afghan and a pointed dollar store hat. She lets out a huge guffaw when she sees our costumes.
The school is a bustle of excitement as everyone guesses peoples’ identities and laugh at their costumes. My feet are a big hit, and lots of kids point them out. I wonder if they would bother it they knew it was me. Problem is, the shoes are so long that lots of people step on them by accident.
The IGs show up with no costumes.
“Guess they’re too cool,” I whisper to Charlotte in French.
Charlotte nods. “But where’s Taylor?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
We survive the excitement through morning classes until the dance begins at one. Charlotte and I wander in, gazing in awe at the walls decorated with giant Frankensteins, witches, and werewolves. Ghosts hang in white wisps from the ceiling. Black and orange lights lend an eerie feeling to the gym.
The music begins thumping out the rhythms of The Monster Mash, while we dance and watch the images on a large screen. As usual, the guys stand together in small groups, eyeing the girls while the girls cluster in the middle of the gym, dancing together since no one is asking them anyway.
Charlotte looks beautiful in her witch costume complete with bright red lipstick, and I wonder if maybe I should have gone a little easier on my clown makeup. After all, I’m secretly hoping Peter will notice me.
About halfway through the dance, a cold draft fills the gym when the door flies open and the IGs make their grand entrance. They’re wearing traditional Chinese clothes, their eyes outlined in black eyeliner stretched out in little points at the edges, the girls’ hair tied in a single braid hanging down their backs.
“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” Charlotte’s face melts.
“Oh, my gosh!” My jaw drops. “Quick, Charlotte. Look away. Don’t let them know you saw.” I grab her arm, bent on protecting her. “Let’s go dance.”
I whisk her to the center of the floor where a large group of girls move to the music. Charlotte casts a glance over her shoulder.
“Don’t look,” I say, but it’s no use because Sydney’s slipped in beside us.
“Wah chong mah,” she says, pushing her teeth out over her bottom lip like she needs serious orthodontics.
“Chong chung chin,” replies Samantha, with the same buck teeth.
“Wah wah ming,” adds Travis, breaking into a vicious laugh, echoed by Kyle.
I grab Charlotte and move her away to another part of the gym.
“Ignore them!” I order, but I still hear the raucous laughter of the IGs as we distance ourselves from them.
Charlotte’s face is smouldering.
I glance over to where our enemies dance. One of the chaperones accosts them, exchanging angry words, and points them to the door. Amid protests, they exit.
“There, you see,” I say. “They’re gone. And a good riddance to them.”
“Thank goodness,” says Charlotte, but her face doesn’t lift. She looks like the saddest witch I’ve ever seen.
We lean against the wall of the gym in silence, listening to the music, when a slow dance begins. The floor clears while couples take over.
“There’s Taylor,” I say, pointing to a girl in a ‘Little Bo Peep’ costume walking arm and arm with a grade eleven guy. “See? She wasn’t even a part of it.”
Charlotte nods, but her face is still long. She jabs me in the side with her elbow. I glance up to see Peter taking uncertain steps toward me. His face seems pale even in the dim light. I smile to encourage him.
His gaze travels from Charlotte to me. “Would you like to dance?”
My face grows warm, and I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blush. “Sure.”
We walk to the middle of the room, me lifting my clown feet high so as not to stumble. Peter takes me in his arms. He places uncertain hands around my waist, and I rest my hands on his shoulder, hoping I’m doing it right. It feels good, and I wonder what it would be like to hold him closer. I sigh. The music washes over me. Moving together, we sway. Then Peter steps on my clown foot. We both laugh. He draws me closer so his feet fit between my giant shoes. A thrill washes over me, and I wish the IGs could see me now. Maybe Taylor can. I mean, I’m actually dancing with a guy, and an older one at that. My heart soars, and I cherish every minute until the music fades away.
We stand for a moment after the song ends. Then Peter withdraws his arms.
“Thanks.” He looks into my eyes and takes a deep breath.
“You’re welcome,” I say, every nerve in my body tingling and trying as hard as I can not to show it.
I clump back to where Charlotte stands alone against the wall, her mouth turned down in a pout.
“You’re so lucky,” she says. “He definitely likes you.”
“I think you might be right,” I say, still in a dream. “He …”
Before I can get the words out, Charlotte turns and makes a beeline for the washroom.
“Charlotte?” I call and follow her, but not fast enough because by the time I get there, she’s locked herself in a stall. “Charlotte?”
I hear her trying to stifle sobs.
“Charlotte, let me in,” I say.
Her sobs grow louder.
“Charlotte? What’s wrong?”
A minute later, the lock clicks and she opens the door. I squeeze in and shut it.
“Everything,” she cries. “First, the IGs make fun of me for being Chinese.” She sniffs. “And then Peter asks you to dance.”
“It’s only one dance.”
“Yeah, but at least you got asked.” Charlotte dabs her eyes.
“Yeah, but it’s not like I had twenty guys lined up.”
“But at least someone did. I mean, I’m the one who wore the lipstick, and you look like a clown.” Her tears pour like a faucet. “It doesn’t matter what I do, how pretty I am, how smart I am. I’ll never fit in.”
Placing my arm around her, I say, “Yes, you will. You gotta believe that. You’ve got a lot going for you.” But Charlotte can’t stop crying, and I’m starting to get worried. “Tell you what,” I say. “Our parents are all going
out tonight. Why don’t we go to a real dance?”
“What do you mean?” Charlotte’s tears begin to slow.
“Let’s sneak into Uncle Jack’s pub tonight. No one will know it’s us because we’re as good as grown, but you’ll have to put green makeup on to hide your face – and fake glasses and a nose.”
Charlotte lets out a giggle. “But our parents will know it’s us. They’ll recognize our costumes.”
“We’ll sit in the back somewhere. We’ll peek in the window first, see where they’re seated, and then sneak in.”
“But what’ll we drink?” she asks, wiping her eyes.
“Umm ... I hadn’t thought of that. We can order virgin drinks – you know, no alcohol.”
“Okay!” Charlotte breaks into a smile, and wipes her eyes one last time. We open the stall door and come out. The school dance is wrapping up. Turning around, I take one last look at the gym and the students heading back to class and break into a wicked smile. To heck with all of them – we’re done here. We’re going to the Stompin’ Boot Pub tonight!
Chapter 16
The Stompin’ Boot
When I get home, nine mini-pumpkins lay on our doorstep ready to be carved for the Stompin’ Boot Pub.
“Woohoo!” shouts Dylan, scooping one of them up and carrying it into the house. He races to the drawer, pulls out a paring knife, and stabs it with a dull thud.
“Wait.” I reach over for a felt pen. “I’ll draw some designs, and you can carve them. Let’s see. Maybe I can make this one into a witch.”
“Oh, good. Then we can name it Alice!”
“Dylan,” I say with the same voice Mom uses on me when she’s reprimanding me.
“What?” he replies, trying to look innocent.
We draw and carve, creating goblins, witches, ghosts, and even black cats until nearly six o’clock when nine spooky lanterns stand in a row on the kitchen counter, ready to go.
“We’ll hand out candies until about eight o’clock,” Mom says as we eat a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese. “Then Dylan will go to his friend’s house for the night, and you and Charlotte will watch a scary movie.”
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