Naomi wiped the tears from her face with Sonny’s large spotless handkerchief. “She’s been after me to get her a cellphone. but I . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Ruth Mather, red in the face, her agitated voice louder than usual, was talking to two uniformed police officers in the living room. She was leafing through a photo album, trying to find a recent shot of Ernie. Brian thought of the one he had tucked in the corner of his dresser mirror, the one of the three of them holding their last catch of fish proudly, all of them wearing their Alberta Dairy Pool tractor hats, and he, Brian, with his on backwards, trying to look like a cool kid. Happy days. It had been taken two years ago, before Ernie was having real problems remembering everything, before Brian and Jess had stopped being friends. What had gone wrong?
Brian stood there in a kind of trance, watching and listening to all the grownups talking. Sonny comforting Naomi and talking about what to do, Ruth and the police discussing where Ernie might have gone, getting a description of the van. The air around them hummed with panic. He had to move.
“I’m not leaving here until we know where they are for sure,” Ruth said. “He might phone. If I don’t answer the phone, he could panic.” She started polishing the coffee table, straightening the magazines.
Brian padded quietly down the stairs to Ernie’s shop, wishing with all his heart that the old man was down there in the musty shop. That was where they’d hung out when he’d been a little kid and Ernie had watched him after school. Ernie had his tools mounted neatly on plywood. Brian’s child-sized tools still hung silent and dusty on their outlined and painted shapes, a red toolbox open on the scarred workbench in front. Brian’s throat tightened in a knot of memory and worry. He fished through the toolbox and found the pliers that were missing from their spot on the plywood. He put them back with care. Like Ernie, Brian put everything in its place. Today everything in his life was out of place.
Brian turned his attention to the beaten-up green metal two-drawer filing cabinet. Ernie kept good records – warranties for appliances, plans for birdhouses, a doghouse, all the different projects the three of them had built together. There were maps of Alberta, Calgary, Edmonton, Red Deer. Ernie always said there was no excuse for getting lost if you had a map.
Brian yanked out the bottom drawer. He wondered whether Ernie had known before any of them that he had Alzheimer’s Disease. The old man had made maps of everywhere they’d fished. There should be a folder of detailed directions with notes about best bait, best lures, and types of fish available at their favourite fishing spots. Brian flipped through the files – Addresses, Appliances, Archives, Birdhouses, Building ideas, Camping spots, Directions, Disease, Finances, Fishing spots… He pulled that file out. It was half empty. All the detailed maps of fishing spots up north were missing, as was the plastic folder that held the fishing license and guidelines for season and catch limits and release rules. The poles and tackle box were gone too from their normal spot leaning in the corner by the laundry tubs. His box of crayons and markers, the pile of drawing paper, the tub of Lego, sat on the shelf gathering dust. How long had it been since he’d come over to play?
Brian sat back on his heels. He could hear the grownups mumbling upstairs, and the thump, creak, thump of pacing feet. The fingers of his left hand felt for his marble bag, the ancient leather pouch with its seven coins. How he wished it were a magic “poke,” only it wasn’t gold he wanted to find, it was Ernie and Jess. What if they had an accident? What if they went off the road, or hit another car? He gulped.
He could have prevented it. If he hadn’t been doing somersaults. If he hadn’t been showing off, he would have spotted Jess. Stupid kid! If anything bad happened to them! He banged his fist on the filing cabinet, skinning his knuckles. Some cool kid. Some smart dude. Nobody’s laughing now. But nobody.
Could Brian talk his dad into going to hunt for Jess and Ernie? He couldn’t go alone. He couldn’t stop his awfulizer head from going crazy, seeing all sorts of blood and bad things – smashed cars, drowning bodies, freezing limbs. All of them making Ernie and Jess deader than the dead cat Midas. They needed rescuing, that was for sure. He shivered.
Curiosity moved his fingers to the file marked Directions and the one marked Disease. He glanced up the stairs to make sure he was alone. Maybe Ernie had moved some of the maps to Directions. He had to find out where the two of them had gone. Strange that Ruth hadn’t sent the police down here already. She was usually so practical. He’d never seen her so flustered. Maybe she had an awfulizer head too. But then again, Jess and Ernie might be just at the giant mall and some security guard would spot them or Jess would phone.
A pile of yellow line foolscap pages with Ernie’s neat small handwriting fell out. Brian glanced through the pages.
How to make coffee – fill pot with eight cups of water. Pour into machine. Put filter in plastic basket. Put four tablespoons of real coffee in filter. Turn on coffee maker. When finished coffee make sure machine is turned off. Light goes off when machine is turned off at little switch beside the dial on the left side.
There were directions for how to make tea, toast, fried eggs, and hot chocolate. Notes on one page were short and sharp.
Ruth is my wife. She likes sugar in her coffee but not in tea.
Shave every day.
The Anglican church is three blocks away. (Keep map in jacket pocket.)
I go to a Seniors choir on Thursday afternoons at 1:30 pm. Ruth drives me.
(Don’t ask about this too often. She gets mad.)
There are seven days in a week. Keep calendar with me.
Brian shoved the sheets of paper back into the folder. His stomach flip-flopped. As he pushed the folder back into the filing cabinet, the one marked Disease slipped off his knee and the contents spilled onto the floor. There were brochures and booklets and information sheets all about Alzheimer’s Disease. An envelope with Ruth’s name on it leaned against his blue-jeaned leg. He picked it up.
“To be opened in case of my incapacity or disappearance.”
Brian flung it back into the folder along with all the material. He was about to close the cabinet when the phone rang. He automatically lifted the receiver.
“Is that you, Jess? Where are you?”
“Hi, I’m Mark Saunders, a reporter with the Landis Leader. I’m phoning for more information about Ernie Mather and the girl he has with him.” The voice was young.
“Hello, Mather house. Brian Dille speaking.”
A police officer upstairs interrupted. “Excuse me, unless you have information related to the disappearance of Ernie Mather, please get off the line.”
“A truck driver going through Landis reported seeing his camper on Main Street. He was hogging the road. So I thought his wife would like to know.”
“Thanks very much. From now on please contact your local RCMP detachment. The family needs the line free.” The police officer’s voice was brusque and unfriendly. Brian felt sorry for the young reporter. The guy upstairs hung up.
Before Mark went off the line Brian blurted, “If my Dad and I come up there, would you help us find Ernie?”
“Who are you?”
“Ernie’s an old friend of mine. He’s got Alzheimer’s and Jess is probably trying to keep him safe.”
“Brian, are you down there?” His dad’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“See you, Mark.” Brian hung up the phone. “I’m coming.”
“What were you doing?” His father’s black eyes peered into the gloomy basement. The hinged lamp attached to the workbench cast an eerie creamy light over Brian curled on the floor by the filing cabinet and the phone.
“Reading his files. Trying to figure out where Ernie and Jess have gone.” He shook his head. “He’s been having a hard time for a long time, Dad. He didn’t let on. He acted like everything was all right. He even had directions written here for how to make coffee, and he used to cook up a storm.” Brian blinked back tears. He didn’t know how his dad felt about
twelve-year-old boys crying. He didn’t know how his dad felt about much of anything.
“Someone spotted the van on Highway Two heading north. A driver with a cellphone called the RCMP to report, saying he thought the driver was drunk, he was driving so erratically. And they’ve been seen in Landis. I thought Ruth hid the keys.” Brian’s dad flipped on the overhead light. He was standing with his huge hands held out, pinkish palms forward, a look of questioning on his serious face.
“Some kid reporter phoned from Landis. The police told him to get off the line. I talked to him though.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t have time to say much. They’re up there though.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I can’t stay here. If I hadn’t been such a goof….”
“It’s not your fault, Brian.”
“Couldn’t we drive up and look for them? I know all our old hangouts. I don’t want to stay here.”
“You said that.” His father was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The two of them headed up the steps. “Not much hope of selling insurance policies on a long weekend…”
“And Mom’s away.”
“As usual.” Brian’s dad paused. “Naomi and Ruth are talking about going up with the police. Ruth is packing a few things. She doesn’t want to leave until someone is here. A friend from the church is coming. Ernie and Jess might call or come back. One of Naomi’s friends will take over at Jess’s house.”
“So can we go? Right now? You could give your smartphone a real workout.”
“True, but-”
“Can we go, Dad, can we?”
“I’m not much of a camper,” Brian’s dad chuckled. “I’ve become a real city boy.”
“There’s a cheap motel on the south side of town. We could stay there.”
Dad was so funny. Didn’t like the outdoors. Didn’t want to dress casual. It was like he was allergic to the country. For a guy who was raised in Trinidad and cut sugar cane before he’d gone away to school, it was pretty weird. Well, Brian, boy, you’ll have to watch your step. You need your dad along so you can make this trip. And it was imperative to make this trip.
He had to find Jess and Ernie – before it was too late.
Chapter 11 – In the Woods
Jess rummaged through the debris strewn around the camper. The sun on her head was hot, the breeze cool. It must be mid-afternoon and she was starved. Two pesky mosquitoes danced before her eyes. She rescued a jar of sugar and a pretty sunflower-painted can of tea bags from a patch of deep green moss where they had flown when the camper crashed. Grandma Ruth’s stretched woolly cardigan lay in a heap at the base of a rotting poplar. She found a jar of instant coffee, a blue enamel coffee pot, a tin of matches, two candles, and thank goodness – sleeping bags, camping pillows, and blankets in a big green duffel bag that had rolled under a dogwood bush. Everything was scattered like toys in an abandoned nursery.
A woodpecker hammered on the crumpled roof, making a tinny racket. Stupid bird. Jess laughed in spite of herself. He wouldn’t get any treats out of the ruined camper. Maybe he was showing off or proclaiming his territory to neighbouring rivals. Look what I’ve got, guys.
The smell of damp earth churned by the crashing camper, plus an overpowering odor of crushed leaves, roots, and grasses, filled Jess’s nose. She coughed. Her shoulders and neck hurt – and her knees. Her right knee had jammed under the dashboard as the van careened down the hill. She shivered, wrapped Grandma Ruth’s sweater around her. It smelled faintly of Ruth’s cologne, and Jess was stabbed with loneliness sharper than any of her aches and pains. She longed for safety and for her mom and Ruth. She shook herself and plunked down on a hummock of wild grass and strawberry blossoms, still clutching the jar of sugar and the fancy tin of tea.
Ernie was curled like a baby under the bright green sleeping bag she had pulled out of the wreck and wrapped around him. His left hand hung limp on the cover, a bluebottle fly walking sedately on its pale freckled surface. The bump on his head had turned blue, but it wasn’t as bad as Jess had first thought. His breathing rasped louder than the woodpecker’s beak on dead aspen.
There was definitely something the matter with Ernie. He was having a really hard time moving. His joints must be stiff and painful. An old man like him could break bones easily. He’d started coughing and wheezing, and Jess was afraid he was catching a cold. His voice when he had cried out to her had sounded croaky, like his throat had a permanent frog in it. This was no place for Ernie.
“Don’t leave me here alone. Please!” he had said over and over again as she had struggled up the slope and down, rescuing things from the ground and the destroyed camper.
She had her survival kit by her side and a plastic bag with fruit strip and granola bar wrappers, two empty juice boxes, and other little bits of garbage from their little lunches so far.
Suddenly, as suddenly as the accident itself, Jess felt cold, colder than an ice cube, colder than standing inside the walk-in refrigerator in the school cafeteria. She wanted to cry, but she had forgotten how to. Her eyes were scratchy, her skin clammy, her throat tight. She was having trouble thinking, shaking so hard she had to clutch her knees. Huddled there on the hummock of grass, Jess rocked back and forth, back and forth. A few tears escaped, rolled down her cheeks and dried in the breeze from the river. Her head hurt. Ernie moaned in his sleep.
“I have to get organized.” Jess was not alone. She was responsible for Ernie. She had to keep Ernie safe. “But you’ve gotten us into a terrible spot, you stupid old man.” The sound of her own voice in the noisy woods eased the loneliness.
The eastern bank of the Athabasca River above Landis was very high and steep, steeper than some places on the North Saskatchewan in the city. In some places it was as steep as a staircase and in other places it sloped like a wheelchair ramp. Here on this particular stretch of the bank, it seemed to have three ridges, like three landings on the stairs of a very tall house. The van had stopped at the edge of the first ridge. Jess planned to set up camp on the second ridge, away from the camper debris, where there was a fairly flat plain about the size of a ball diamond. The flat area was filled with Saskatoon bushes, dogwood brush, and old beaten-down grass. Then the bank dropped away again and sloped to the last abrupt ridge above the river.
She picked her way down a deer path towards the river below, glancing up and down the shore warily, watching for animals. The wide cold brownish river hurried past, rolling over round rocks coated with slime and weeds. Whitecaps rippled around a massive boulder halfway out to a heavily wooded island. The river hummed an unfamiliar tune. Waves splashing against driftwood. No people. No animals. Nothing but a wet and squishy clay beach with bleached rocks and tree trunks, and large paw prints going away from her into the rushing current. Some creature had been here and left. Bear?
She stared into the river, saw rocks and boulders coated with moss and silt on the bottom, a school of minnows. Her head felt dizzy. It was like the river in her nightmare. It looked dangerous, and yet it beckoned her. Just fall in, float away. I’ll carry you back to civilization. Sure, or drown me, thought Jess.
The sun slid towards the western horizon. She and Ernie were stranded on the mighty Athabasca River, one of Canada’s longest and most historic waterways. Funny she should think of that; she’d heard a Canadian geographer talk about “When Our Rivers Were Our Roads,” and it had stuck in her mind. He’d visited their class because he and Mrs. Slater were old school friends. Too bad the river wasn’t a road any more. Every year people drowned in rivers in Alberta. It didn’t matter that they were closer to Landis by water than by road. There was no way she was going into that river. No way. She was no voyageur, no early explorer. She didn’t want her nightmare coming true.
Besides, she still had Shank’s Mare, which was Ernie’s name for feet. Good old Ernie. They’d had so many good times together. She was really mad at this disease for taking him away in bits and pieces. Maybe it was b
etter to go like Midas and never know what hit you. She sighed and stared around her, trying to get her bearings, trying to stop the sadness inside about her dead cat. Part of her heart felt like she would never be happy again.
Across the river, meadows ran right down to the shore. The clay banks were lower. A flock of Canada Geese honked from the driftwood-covered tip of the island. Jess could see no power lines, phone lines, or smoke from chimneys. When she strained her ears she could hear the sound of traffic. Surely there was a road on the other side of the river, behind the rolling fields and poplar windbreak. She had seen farms with No Trespassing, No Hunting, and Rural Crime Watch signs posted on trees and fence posts – but that had been many miles back. She’d seen skinny rutted gas well roads, but no trucks. They were in a wilderness area, probably Crown land belonging to the government. No one came here for anything – except maybe guys on all-terrain vehicles out for a wild roar in the woods, and she didn’t want to meet anyone like that. She’d gotten scared once when the three of them had gone camping at Lawrence Lake. Two guys had circled their campsite, screaming and throwing beer bottles, until Ernie had told them he’d report them. That was back when Ernie could still sound like a school principal, an Army lieutenant. She and Brian had been glad they’d had him as their champion. Now each of them was alone. So very much alone.
She made her way back up from the beach to the edge of the lowest ridge. A red slash on a dead black poplar marked this excuse for a beach. Someone must come here to fish. There were charred logs, rusted tin cans, and a few scorched rocks in a ring. How she wished they’d choose today to come. But it wasn’t likely. May was early to be out camping.
Jess followed the deer path up and over the second ridge to the grassy hummock close to Ernie, catching her breath. Her knee hurt. The backs of her legs throbbed. Climbing ladders would be easier. Her ears had picked up more sounds as she came away from the river. Trucks on that so-distant road, gearing down for a hill. Sound carried a long way when you were in a river valley like this. Too bad she wasn’t Tarzan or Jane, she could swing across and get them rescued. But the river was far too wide for that. What a dreamer!
Jess and the Runaway Grandpa Page 6
