Hang Down Your Head

by Janice Macdonald

  28

  ~

  I spent most of the weekend working on playlists for the Folkways performers. Most of the folks had submitted them by e-mail, though there were one or two who were holding out for more spontaneity and a couple whose grasp of technology extended only as far as fax machines. Steve was busy doing festival patrol at Heritage Days, but promised he would come over some time on Sunday afternoon, once he had signed out.

  It was eight-fifteen when Steve knocked at the door. I walked out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on the front of my shirt. I wasn’t quite sure why I didn’t just yell out, “Come in,” but maybe I was acting on the same instinct that kept him from using his key and just sauntering in. He stood in the hallway, head cocked to one side, looking at me.

  God, he was handsome. I took one half-step toward him and he met me in the middle. He smelled of warmth and health and easy feelings. I loved this man, and that was brilliantly clear to me. Woody Dowling could just stay on his side of the table and across the room. When we had to work the Folkways stage the following week, I was going to make sure I was professional but cool. Nothing was going to jeopardize this relationship if I could help it.

  Steve responded to my extra-tight squeeze with one of his own, and then pulled back to look at me. “Are you going to let me come in?”

  I grinned and pulled him into the apartment. “I’ve made black currant iced tea, want some?”

  “Sounds good,” said Steve, untying his shoes and setting them on the mat beside the door. He padded after me to the kitchen, but I poured tall glasses of tea and herded him back into the living room area to the sofa.

  “So, does Iain have any new info on the Finster murder? Or the attack on Paul?” I tried to persuade myself I hadn’t put on a flirty look in order to lure information out of the man I loved.

  Steve shook his head. “You know the drill. Keller would have my scrotum for a tobacco pouch if I discussed the case with anyone, even you. The only thing I can tell you is that tomorrow we’re releasing a statement to the effect that we think the attack on the Barbara Shoppe may be related to the murder of David Finster.”

  “You think? Gee, a brother and sister are murdered within days of each other after making threats to contest a huge bequest to the university. And the police think that may be related?”

  “Randy, there’s nothing more I can say without getting into trouble professionally. I pulled the Barbara Shoppe arson, which is now connecting to the Finster murder, from which I had recused myself principally because of the connection to you. I figure the only reason Keller hasn’t pulled me from the arson is that it’s the middle of summer and we’re short-handed with all the family guys claiming their furlough.”

  “You mean that I’m a suspect, right? I knew Keller had it in for me.”

  “Be reasonable. Keller is not trying to frame you for the murders of David and Barbara Finster. It’s just that you are one of the people who stands to gain from the university keeping the money. You have to see how that makes you involved.”

  “Well, of course I am involved. John Donne and all that—‘each man’s death diminishes me’—but that shouldn’t de facto mean that I am somehow left in the dark and suspected of involvement. I could help if you’d let me.”

  Steve kissed me. It was a great kiss, one of those lip-tingling sorts that make you pity the women who have to pay to have their lips puffed up chemically.

  “What was that for?” I asked as we came up for air.

  “It was either that or a primal scream. You have got to be the most stubborn person I’ve ever come across, and if I weren’t crazy about you, you’d just drive me there.”

  I grinned. He had a point, I suppose. I guess I didn’t mind Steve not sharing every little minute of his work day with me most of the time. It was just that lately every little minute of my work day seemed to be the object of his attention. In the interest of social harmony and justice, I supposed I should do my part. I told him about my time at the Folk Fest office, leaving out my musings on Woody’s Machiavellian manipulation of Aric Skurdal.

  Steve told me that Paul, who had come out of the coma early in the weekend, was going to be moved out of intensive care. It would likely be another week or so before they released him. That meant it would be me working the folkwaysAlive! stage all on my own, although Dr. F was planning to close the Centre for the coming week and I was sure I could count on her to do more than her share of running and schlepping. With Woody along, we should be able to manage. But really, some people will do anything to get out of manual labour. Next time, I should think about a convenient coma.

  Steve and I snuggled in and watched a bit of the news on TV, and then he decided he could likely stay the night if I promised to set the alarm for five-thirty. I thought that was a ridiculous time to wake up during a bank holiday weekend, but Steve had more duty on Heritage Day patrol and needed to head back to his place for his uniform before heading down to Hawrelak Park for nine. As long as I was going to have to get up early, I might as well think about heading to Heritage Days as well. I wouldn’t be able to pal around with Steve, and there was no way I was going to risk going anywhere social with Woody, especially with Steve and half his friends on the force watching, but I didn’t feel like going around the world in eighty tents all alone.

  It was almost ten o’clock but I risked calling Denise to see if she wanted to do Heritage Days with me the next day. Luck was in and so was she. She didn’t seem too ticked off that I’d called so late, and she hadn’t yet been down to the Festival so she was willing to be talked into it. We agreed to meet down there at the Korean tent at eleven a.m. I was hoping Korea wasn’t set up too far from where I’d recalled it being last year.

  By the time I hung up, I had finished a quick tidy in the kitchen. I just never can sit still while talking on the phone. I turned out the kitchen light and the living room lamp and wandered into the bedroom where Steve was already pushing the comforter to the end of the bed. I set the alarm for five-thirty as requested and then popped into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. By the time I came out, Steve was already under the cotton sheet. Asleep.

  Not too deeply, as it turned out.

  29

  ~

  I figure I will eventually be rewarded in heaven for joining Steve for breakfast cereal and coffee the next morning. My initial reaction was to pat his arm and roll over to sleep in when the alarm rang, but his suggestion of sharing a shower was more intriguing than another hour of sleep. Eventually I found myself shampooed and tingly clean, scooping coffee into the drip maker.

  Steve was gone by seven, and I was fully awake. By nine-thirty I was hungry again, but I’d made the date with Denise for eleven, and it occurred to me that we’d eat lunch down at Heritage Days. After all, choosing where and what to eat was most of the fun.

  I was particularly fond of the honey cakes at the Korean pavilion, the jerk pork at the Caribbean tent, and pad Thai at the Thai pad. I munched on a handful of almonds and packed my backpack with a water bottle and some sunscreen. I decided to head out right away and take my bike, so I could detour past SUB to hit an ATM sponsored by my bank on the way to the park. I wasn’t sure they’d take a debit card for food tickets at the Festival, and I knew that few of the craftspeople would. I figured I could have a good time on fifty bucks, but of course, I’d have to push it to sixty, since the bank machines spit money out in multiples of twenty.

  That was the best thing about working for Folkways: I didn’t have to budget like crazy in August for the first time in almost ten years. Sessionals get paid pretty well for what they do, but the money all stops in April or, if you’re lucky enough to land a spring session course, June. You could live okay through the summer if you were a canny budgeter and had saved all year, but I didn’t know anyone who could manage September. You had to start up for fall session with a new haircut, at least one new item of clothing (so you wouldn’t be pitied by returning students who had failed your class the y
ear before and knew your entire wardrobe by heart) and of course, shoes, not to mention all the file folders, cue cards, purple marking pens and photocopying I usually had to pay for out of my own pocket, since Printing Services was always backed up like crazy. I didn’t know how married people or parents did it, but I knew loads of them who covered school fees, various lesson and club fees, insurance, school pictures, school outfits, lunch boxes, school supplies and more by stacking up enormous credit card debt against when they were finally paid at the end of the month.

  So it was kind of wonderful to have steady employment through the summer months and on into the fall. This must be how regular people felt. I got one of those “hey I’m a grown-up” twinges that happen only occasionally. It was so thrilling not to have to budget on a feast-or-famine schedule anymore. Of course, given the precariousness of my job in light of the murders and attack at the Centre, I might be wise to consider cutting back on my spending. I shrugged off the thought; I wasn’t that mature.

  I popped over to SUB and used the ATM, then headed back to 87th Avenue toward the park. I passed the new Edmonton Clinic, next to the renovated Jubilee Auditorium where I went to see travelling musicals, the opera company and major concerts. I scooted over to bike along the side road on the south side of the avenue, in order to be on the correct side of the divided road when I got to the hill heading down to the park. I didn’t want to share the road with cars speeding down the hill toward the Groat Bridge. I would drive accommodatingly slowly behind pedestrians and roll my bike down the trough built alongside the wooden steps down to the back entrance to the park. I am a social bike rider, not a dedicated daredevil, and I try to avoid thoroughfares and stick to bike paths as much as possible. After about three more blocks of residential area lined with the homes of retired professors and assorted wealthy families, a traffic circle at the top of the hill made crossing traffic a bit of a nightmare. Thank goodness most Edmonton drivers are scared of traffic circles and slow down for them. I popped across on the crosswalk with a few families heading the same way, and rode the brakes down the hill behind an older couple dressed alike in orange T-shirts, khaki shorts, navy blue, wide-brimmed Tilley hats and Birkenstocks. They both had small backpacks and walking sticks. They were holding hands as they walked, and I wondered if Steve and I would look like that someday—a matched set, still very much in love. That thought made me wonder about Steve in general, and I scanned the sea of people I was descending into to see if I could spot any red striped legs. I didn’t have any luck, but then, I hadn’t really supposed I could instantly find someone I hadn’t organized to meet here. Heritage Days is probably the best-attended festival in the city, and the one that attracts the most diverse cross-section of people. Many of them are in national costumes, even if they’re not volunteering at a tent. The tents are run by various cultural societies and are set out all around the enormous park. While a set program takes place on the permanent stage in the middle of the park, most of the tents have an adjacent stage of their own. Loudspeakers compete against each other all through the grounds to broadcast music for dancers and choirs.

  I tethered my bike and clipped my helmet to a strap of my backpack before heading to the information tent to pick up a map. A quick perusal revealed that the Korean tent was very close to where I was standing. I lined up to buy some food tickets, and then headed off to meet up with Denise.

  I’d barely been at the tent long enough to read the odd yet encouraging phrases on the little notebooks for sale in the crafts area, when Denise popped up behind me saying, “Boo!”

  “Great timing.” I greeted her with a hug. “Do you want a honey cake now, or should we come back for them as dessert?”

  “Oh, we’d better buy them now. I’ve heard they’re already out of bannock taco pies over at the Métis Society. Graze as we find it should be our motto.” We each bought one of the deliciously gooey sweet pancakes, and headed clockwise around the world while munching. We watched some tiny tots hula dancing, and then some Métis dancers doing what looked like a modified sword dance around two leather belts. I lusted after an alpaca wrap at the Peruvian craft tent, but realized it would be too lightweight for anything but the mildest of fall evenings, and my chances of heading to the symphony on a mild fall evening were low to nil.

  We soon joined the crowd watching an amazing display of dance and balance at the Philippines stage. Five young women balanced half-filled glasses of water on their heads as they swirled around without spilling the same amount in the glasses they held in each hand. They danced, twirled, sat down, stood up, moved about the stage, smiling thousand-watt smiles the entire time. Denise was totally entranced. Something familiar about someone walking nearby registered in my peripheral vision. I turned to see Woody arm-in-arm with Dr. Fuller, heading past the Hong Kong tents and toward the Ugandan pavilion, beyond the tree break halfway along the perimeter of the park.

  Now, I wasn’t actually suspicious of anything between Woody and Dr. Fuller. In fact, Dr. Fuller was by all accounts superbly happily married to Mr. Dr. Fuller over in Romance Languages, who was probably here, too. It would be the most natural thing in the world for her to have invited Woody to accompany them to Heritage Days. After all, he was a guest in the city, and we were a notoriously friendly bunch out here in the Canadian West.

  I was just more than naturally curious about whatever Woody Dowling decided to do, given the whole business of him mysteriously being in town at a time when I’d been led to believe he was back in Washington, DC. I turned back to Denise, who was clapping for the Philippina dancers, and tipped my head to the right in the universal signal of “want to get a move-on?” She nodded and we strolled off—along with the half of the crowd who were going around the world our way, occasionally dodging the half who decided to tackle the fair counter-clockwise.

  “Have you ever noticed that this is the only festival in Edmonton where you see an actual total cross-section of the city attending?” Denise mused.

  “Yes, Steve and I were commenting on that, too. Jazz City is mostly guys of a certain age. The Street Performers’ Festival gets the urban crowd, and The Works caters mostly to the visual artsy crowd, naturally.”

  Denise continued with the festival chronology. “Klondike Days, or whatever they’re calling it now, gets the blue-collar crowd and teenagers. The Cariwest Festival gets the African-Caribbean crowd, and the Anglos all go to the Folk Festival. The Fringe gets mostly the university and drama crowd, and of course, the drinkers. Heritage Days gets everyone. When it comes down to it, for the percentage of Asians in Edmonton, it’s so odd that this is the only festival where I would guarantee a demonstrable turnout of them. Maybe Chinese New Year festivities are enough for them?”

  “You wouldn’t think so,” I said, pointing at a group of dancers in silk and shantung in front of the Borneo stage. “Not when they get to dress up like that; those look like pretty serious party clothes to me. Maybe the Dragon Boat Festival is predominantly Asian-attended?”

  “Well, whatever. I’m glad we have Heritage Days. It’s nice to have a few days a year when we all mix it up together. Good for the system, I think. Ooh, look, the Nigeria pavilion!”

  “Puff puffs!” we both crowed in unison, and went to join the appreciative line.

  I hadn’t spotted Woody and the Fullers since, but I was still trying to keep an eye out. Just as I popped a lovely hot ball of fried Nigerian bread into my mouth, Steve appeared on a sturdy-looking mountain bike. He relieved me of a puff puff, gave Denise’s shoulders a little squeeze of hello and kissed me on the forehead.

  “We have to cover the perimeter on bikes and Segways, but it’s better than sitting in the police motorhome in the centre by the stage; the shift yesterday blew the air conditioning and it’s sweltering in there. Are you just starting, or halfway along or what?”

  We pointed back to the vicinity of the Korean tent where we had begun, and Denise mentioned that she was hoping to get a green onion cake up at the Chinese pavilion around
two, since two former students were performing a Wu Shu demonstration then.

  “It’s sort of like the martial arts they performed in Hero and The House of Flying Daggers, apparently. Anyhow, these fellows are both national award winners, so it’s bound to be pretty spectacular.”

  Steve checked his watch. “I’ll try to make it over to that end around two. See you then!” He pushed off on his two-wheeled steed.

  “There’s just something about a man in uniform,” muttered Denise, nodding him off. I looked at her and we managed to keep our faces solemn for about thirty seconds before giggling like Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble. It was a good thing Steve had firm muscles and great legs, because even he had a hard time pulling off the bike helmet and red-striped shorts uniform of the bike detail. We turned to see a magnificent Indian man walk past in a creamy linen salawar kameez and trousers, covered head to toe, and the juxtaposition made the bicycle cop uniform even more Boy’s Own. It took us all the way to the ­Chilean Pavilion to calm ourselves.

  We were seated by the Chinese display area, munching on heaping plates of pad Thai, when I spotted Woody once more. He was wearing a coolie hat and had a huge pair of bright blue wooden shoes strung over his shoulder. He carried a plate of green onion cakes in one hand, and had a three-foot carved giraffe tucked under the other arm. It was nice to see visitors getting into the spirit of Heritage Days, I thought, trying not to laugh. I glanced around to see if I could spot the Fullers, and just as I found them, sitting in the shade a few feet away from us, Denise tugged on my arm. Her former student had appeared in the performance area, in a gloriously bright red silk uniform that the announcer informed us was in the northern style. He was joined by a girl in pink, another fellow in orange and one in green. They moved into position solemnly, and began a series of movements choreographed to look simultaneously balletic and deadly. As soon as they bowed with one fist clasped in the other hand, they ran off the stage, leaving the boy in orange in the centre of the roped-off area. He stood and then, without any warning or crouching to create a spring effect, he did two backflips in the air and landed in an attack position. It was amazing stuff. Watching these students, it was possible to believe the fight scenes in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon hadn’t been done with wires at all.