The waitress came to the table.
“Hey, Kate, how are you?”
I looked up. Hidden behind the makeup and country-and-western hairdo was a face I knew. I searched the dustier corners of my brain for the name.
“Doreen, it’s great to see you,” I said, and meant it. I turned to Andy.
“Doreen was my best friend back in school,” I explained. “I was just telling you about her.”
“The one with the horses,” Andy said, shaking her hand.
“Right, remember when we would play warrior maidens?”
“Among other things too embarrassing to talk about,” she laughed, hip cocked against an empty chair.
“So, catch me up,” I said. “What’s your news?”
“Ed and I divorced a while back. You probably heard. The kids are all grown. I’m even a grandma, if you can believe that.”
“No, I can’t, Doreen. That’s incredible. I was sorry about the divorce, though.”
“Ancient history,” she shrugged. “What can I get you?”
I ordered a vodka and tonic. Andy asked for Scotch.
“Coming right up.”
“When you’re not busy, come back and talk,” I said, then after she left, turned to Andy. “That’s sad, her ending up here.”
“Don’t be a snob,” Andy said. “How do you know it’s not exactly what she wants?”
“Not Doreen. When we were in high school we both dreamed about getting out of this place. She even had a scholarship to the university in Saskatoon. But she never made it.”
“How come?”
“The typical story of women of my generation. She got pregnant, married, and tied down to the farm. Her daughter followed in her footsteps, from the sound of it. She’s my age and she’s a grandmother already.”
“There but for the grace of God?”
“You’ve got it.”
I looked around the room. The crowd was mixed, young and old, mainly male. I looked at the middle-aged ones, trying to see if I knew any of them. At a table of business types, one of them caught my eye and raised his beer glass. There but for the grace of God, indeed. It was Oren Roblin, my first serious boyfriend. He and I had spent a lot of time at the nuisance grounds and parked on some of the lonelier grid roads around town the summer before I left home. His uncle owned the drugstore, and he could get all the condoms he wanted, so I had avoided Doreen’s fate.
I hadn’t spoken to Oren in years. I had followed him through the pages of the Indian Head-Wolseley News, the weekly paper. My parents subscribe for me. He’s a big cheese now. Chamber of Commerce. Homecoming Committee. He’s even had a stint as mayor.
He spoke to the other men at his table and got up. As he moved towards us, I could see that the years had played their tricks on him. He had lost the easy grace of his teen years and his chiselled good looks had got lost in jowls. When we were young, he had a wild mane of curly hair. Now, with it cut short at the sides and receding at the temples, he bore an alarming resemblance to John Diefenbaker in his middle years. But the eyes were the same, those blue, blue eyes that still appear in my dreams from time to surprising time.
“How are you, Oren?” I looked up at him and put out my hand.
“Long time no see,” he said, taking it gently in his big palm and looking into my eyes. I broke contact first.
“Andy, this is Oren Roblin, an old friend,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Oren, Andy Munro, from Toronto.”
Oren let go of my hand and grasped Andy’s.
“Why don’t you join us?” Andy asked, mischief in his eyes. He hadn’t missed a nuance.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Oren said, pulling out a chair. Doreen appeared immediately with our drinks.
“Same again, Oren?” she asked.
“Sure, why not?”
She put our drinks down, winking at me.
“Old times, eh, Kate?”
I just shook my head and laughed. Doreen leaned closer.
“Your guy’s a hunk,” she whispered.
“I’m not sure hunks are allowed to be forty-five.”
“Middle-aged hunks are the best. And he’s definitely a middle-aged hunk.”
She went back to work. I turned back to my middle-aged hunk and my old flame and waited for the fun to begin.
Chapter 4
My father was waiting up when we rolled in at about eleven, well past his bedtime, just in case we needed anything, he said. Like an extra dose of guilt. Andy and I slept badly in our chaste little beds, waking up several times in the night to grumble at each other. I gave up trying just before 7:00, and got up to make coffee. My mother had beat me to it. Dressed in her best flowered housecoat, she was already setting the table for breakfast.
I poured myself a coffee and sat down at the table, yawning, my head throbbing a bit from the excesses of the night before. Shadrach lay at my feet and sighed. It was too early for him, too.
“I’m surprised to see you up at this hour,” she said.
“It’s such a beautiful day, I couldn’t resist,” I lied.
“We have a long drive ahead of us. We’d best get an early start,” she said, crisply, opening the refrigerator.
“How do you want to go? I thought Andy and I might drive up to the lake on the way.”
“You know your father likes the direct route, through Regina.”
She took out eggs, bacon, sausages, and butter, then got a mixing bowl down from the cupboard.
“We’ll have pancakes for breakfast,” she said. “Does Andy like pancakes?”
“We don’t usually have time for breakfast. Pancakes would be great. But for the drive, we don’t have to go in convoy, do we? I’d like Andy to see Katepwa Beach. I thought we could stop and have a swim.”
“Your father likes to stop at Davidson for lunch.”
“We could go north from Fort Qu’Appelle and take the Yellowhead for a change.”
“You can ask him yourself then.”
“I will.”
I poured myself another cup of coffee and craved the Globe and Mail. I never feel like my day has begun until I do the cryptic crossword. Besides, I could have hidden my bad mood behind it.
“I guess you made quite a night of it,” my mother said, after a few minutes. She was stirring the pancake batter.
“Not really. We just stopped in at the Sportsman’s for a few drinks. It was hardly a debauch. We ran into some old friends and got talking.”
“Who did you see?”
“Her old boyfriend Oren, for one,” Andy said, coming into the room, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare, his hair sticking out in all directions, and with a greying stubble on his cheeks. He yawned hugely without covering his mouth, which earned him a disapproving glance from my mother that he missed. I didn’t. I got up to get him a cup of coffee.
“Oren Roblin has done very well for himself,” my mother said, pointedly.
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’d think he’d have something better to do than hang around the beer parlour.”
I got up and got a frying pan out of the cupboard, determined to be of some help.
“I’ll start the sausages.”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “But use the cast-iron pan. I’m using that pan for the pancakes.”
We worked together, side by side.
“You can’t blame Oren,” she said, after a few minutes. “Since his children left home, I expect he’s been a bit lonely.”
“What about his wife? What about Julie?”
His wife. My mother looked uncomfortable.
“She passed on several years ago, didn’t you know?”
“I must have missed it in the News,” I said. “How did she die?”
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” she said.
“Who aren’t you speaking ill of now, Helen?” my father asked, coming into the kitchen. He was already showered, shaved, and fully dressed. Shadrach struggled to his feet to offer his master a morning greeting. Then he went to the door and scratched on it. My father let him out.
“Poor Julie Roblin,” my mother said, handing him his prune juice.
“Oh, that was quite the scandal,” my father said.
“A scandal? Julie Roblin?” I asked.
“I’m afraid she took her own life, poor thing,” my father said.
“Why?”
My mother looked uncomfortable.
“She was evidently, well, involved with someone other than Oren,” she said. “Their cars were seen parked together out on the grid road behind the Orange Home and some busybody brought the news directly to coffee row. She gassed herself with carbon monoxide in her car rather than face the music. It destroyed poor Oren. Simply destroyed him. He was mayor at the time.”
“Who was the other man?”
“It was Ed Wade, who had the farm out towards Sintaluta.”
“Holy smokes,” I said, then explained to Andy. “Ed Wade was Doreen’s husband.”
“They divorced shortly afterwards,” my mother said. “I’m afraid he took to drink.”
“That’s not all he took to,” my father said. “He also took it to Doreen, if you know what I mean.”
“He abused her?” I asked.
“Not for long,” my father said drily. “Your friend kicked him out pretty smartly.”
“Well, at least she got that right,” I said. “She mentioned last night that she had divorced, but she didn’t say why.”
“It’s not the kind of thing you mention casually in a bar, Kate,” Andy pointed out.
“I guess not. Anyway, that’s horrible. For both of them.”
“Well, it certainly kept the town talking,” my father said.
“Some of the town,” my mother said, primly.
“Kate’s mother doesn’t approve of gossip,” Daddy told Andy.
“Look what it drove that poor woman to,” she said.
Much as I dislike agreeing with my mother, her point was well taken. In small towns the narrowest minds create community standards, and God help the poor souls who don’t conform.
“Well, I guess you’re right on that one, dear, but most of it is harmless,” he protested.
“If you call destroying reputations harmless, you’re a lesser man than I thought you were,” she countered.
“This is a never-ending battle,” I explained to Andy.
“Your father has become worse since he retired,” she said. “Since he became a regular on coffee row.”
“Coffee row?” Andy asked.
“A bunch of old fools who have nothing better to do than go to the café every morning and jaw,” she said.
“The heart and soul of the community,” my father corrected.
“Not to mention the eyes and ears, and judge and jury,” I said. “Every small town in Saskatchewan has at least one.”
“They mind everybody’s business but their own,” my mother added. By unspoken agreement, we all let it be the last word.
After breakfast, my mother went to change, leaving the dishes for Andy and me. My father took Shadrach for a walk down to the post office. When he came back, he had mail in his hand.
“Letter for you, Helen,” he said. “No return address. Must be a secret admirer.”
“Just put it on the kitchen table,” she called from the living room.
“The rest are just bills,” he said. “Bills, bills, bills.”
He wandered out of the room shuffling through them, Shadrach trailing behind. My mother picked up her letter.
“My glasses,” she said. “Where did I put my glasses?”
“You need one of those things around your neck,” I said, putting the last of the saucers away. “Sit down, I’ll go look.”
I found them on the table beside her chair in the living room. She opened the letter and drew out a sheet of ruled paper.
“Oh, my,” she said, when she had read it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“See for yourself.”
I recognized the handwriting. Not personally, but I know the style from crank mail I get at work. It was written in a tight, angry script. The different colours of ink used for underlining were another clue. Not to mention the exclamation points.
STAY AWAY from Battleford, if you know what’s good for you! Women like you don’t deserve to be in the HALL OF FAME!! This great institution must not be SULLIED with the likes of YOU!! No unnatural women allowed!! JUST STAY AWAY. This is NOT a joke!!!
The last line was in a particularly lurid Day-Glo lime green.
“Charming,” I said, handing the note to Andy. “Another testosterone junkie who thinks baseball’s a boys-only game.”
“Well, he’s certainly hostile,” my mother said, looking uncomfortable.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mum.”
“She’s right, Helen,” Andy said. “People who write letters like these seldom do anything more.”
“Really, we get them all the time at the paper,” I said. “They scare you at first, but they’re not serious.”
“What isn’t serious?” my father asked, coming into the room.
We showed him.
“For heaven’s sake! What is this nonsense?” He looked at us all, alarmed, then took my mother’s hand and patted it.
“Don’t fret, old girl. Remember, you’ve got your own personal policeman along.”
“That’s right,” I laughed. “Andy will keep you safe.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, briskly. “I don’t need a bodyguard. This is just some crackpot. Let’s get going.”
After a round of bathroom stops, Daddy took Shadrach and his dinner bowl down the street to the neighbour who was looking after him, while Andy packed the bags in the cars. My parents had two big suitcases for the four-day trip. Andy and I had everything we needed for a week in a garment bag and a carry-on.
My mother did one last circuit of the house to make sure everything was in order.
“Got your glasses?”
“In my purse.” She patted her white straw bag in confirmation.
“And you’re not worried about that letter?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly, of course not,” she said, going to the hall closet for her raincoat. “It’s not the first one as a matter of fact. Another came last month.”
“From the same guy?”
“Could be.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No, I put it in the trash, where it belonged. It was just a copy of an article from the Battleford newspaper about the awards, and he had written rude things in the margins in that same green ink.”
“Did you show it to anyone? Daddy?”
“I didn’t want to worry him.” She took the house keys from the hook by the door.
“Ready to go?”
I picked up the letter from the kitchen table.
“I’m taking this along.”
“If you must. I don’t want to make a fuss.”
“Maybe we should talk to the police in Battleford, too. I’ll see what Andy thinks.”
“Let’s get going. Mustn’t keep the men waiting.”
She locked the door, then tried the handle.
“Better safe than sorry!”
“Exactly. And that’s why we’ll tell the Battleford police.”
“A lot of fuss over nothing,” she said.
Chapter 5
The River View Inn, the official hotel of the Saskatchewan Baseball Hall of Fame, was a charmless four-storey brick building just past the Battleford turnoff on Highway 16, with nary a river in sight. A �
��No Vacancy” sign flickered feebly through the soggy gloom, under a larger sign welcoming Hall of Fame inductees.
It had rained all the way from Saskatoon, an hour and a half through a heavy, nasty downpour that the windshield wipers could barely control. Andy was driving, and he was not happy. My aunt and uncle are sweet, but, to be absolutely honest, not the most scintillating couple in the world. And Auntie Merle, hard as she tries, will never measure up to my mother in the kitchen. Dinner had been grey roast beef with canned gravy, accompanied by mushy carrots and watery, undercooked scalloped potatoes. The conversation had centred around their most recent trip to see their grandchildren in Kamloops, including reports on the state of all the highways along the way. Uncle Stan had approved of the route we had taken from Indian Head—my father’s route through Davidson, of course. Actually, the lunch stop in Davidson had turned out to be the high point of the trip for me. I had found a surprise for Andy in the washroom, which had a novelty condom machine. I chose a Nite-Glow because I couldn’t resist the sales pitch: “Turn out the lights and watch the glow grow and grow.” Of course, at my uncle and aunt’s we slept in bunk beds. And they didn’t let me smoke in the house.
“Here we are,” Andy said, docking in front of the main door. “Home sweet home away from home.”
“It can only get better from here on,” I said.
“Listening to a bunch of old biddies talking baseball is certainly my idea of a dream vacation.”
I sighed and got out of the car. Andy popped the trunk lock and I got the bags out.
“I’ll go park the car,” he said.
“I can do it if you don’t want to get wet.”
“I’ll get wet anyway, helping your parents with their eighty-seven suitcases.”
I slammed the door, then slapped a smile on my face for my parents, who were just pulling in. I opened the door to let my mother out, then leaned in to speak to my father.
“Andy will help you with the bags in a second,” I said. “Mum and I will check in.”
The lobby was small, clean, and functional, with racks of tourist brochures and a soft-drink machine. A sign by the entrance to the bar, called Shooters, promised “Happy Hour Nitely, 4–6.” Whoopee. The youngish woman in charge wore a bright green vest and a Hall of Fame baseball cap.
Prairie Hardball Page 3
