Last week we made the long journey into town — one day there and one day back. The Indians say the trip takes “two suns.” The road is no more than a cut through the forest, so narrow that the wagon wheel hubs strike the tree trunks on each side. At times water covers the trail, and George must make a “corduroy” road by cutting willows and laying them across the mud with a blanket of straw on top. The ride is so rough that I simply hang on to the wooden bench with both hands and pray for deliverance.
It is a great relief to come over the last hill and see the broad river valley below, with the rustic community of Juniper nestled on the eastern shore. George says I should have seen it in “the olden days,” which makes me laugh since he means all of twenty years ago. There has been great progress in the last two decades although the first inhabitants — trappers, mostly — don’t call it progress since they regard civilization as the enemy. The sound of the locomotive whistle is simply poison to their ears.
Alexander Mackenzie, who was working for the North West Company, set up the first fort here in 1792. Twenty years later the Hudson’s Bay Company (jokingly called “Here Before Christ”) began to open trading posts along the river, but it wasn’t until 1912 that this area opened up for homesteading. Then the settlers began to pour in. When the Great War started, many of the Englishmen living here, including my dear husband, made the long and weary journey across the Atlantic to defend the land of their birth. Only the lucky ones returned.
From its humble beginnings as a trading post, Juniper has become quite cultivated. There are a number of buildings framed with milled lumber, brought by train from the south; and even the log homes are painted white with red roofs. An oil well sits on the island in the river, named Tar Island, seventeen miles downstream from the little community, surrounded by a thick layer of black tar used by settlers to weatherproof their roofs. Several companies have begun to prospect for oil and gas in the area.
The bridge across the Peace River is shared by trains, wagons, and pedestrians! When a train is approaching, everyone hastens off the bridge to make way for it.
Two rival missions serve the community’s spiritual needs: one is Roman Catholic, and the other Anglican. A four-room school educates the children although it is difficult to keep a teacher since she usually marries a local settler within months of her arrival! Most of the men here are “batching it,” and all longing for companionship with the fair sex.
Along the main street are ranged the livery stable, blacksmith shop, butcher, banker, telegraph office, land titles office, and newspaper office. A cottage hospital cares for the sick while a rural doctor makes his rounds on horseback. The foursquare house painted dark red belongs to the Commanding Officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It is the largest house in town, but I venture to say it is not as fine as my own!
The “Mounties” are decent, compassionate men who patrol this vast region on horseback, sharing their food, treating illnesses, and providing companionship to the lonely settlers. They attempt to keep order although several drinking establishments cause no end of trouble.
While sleeping at the Excelsior Hotel, we heard a ruckus and peeped out to see five or six men rolling around in the muddy street below, striking and kicking each other. I was surprised to see our own Polish count in the thick of the battle — apparently he had been crooking his elbow at the tavern as well. To my astonishment, a woman emerged from the tavern door, took off her shoe, and began beating the nearest man on the head. That’s one story I won’t be telling me poor sainted mother!
I was eager to return home and unpack the wooden crate that was waiting for me at the station, since I knew it contained my wedding gift from Granny. As we jolted over the corduroy road, I heard clanking sounds from the box behind me and thought gloomily that it would never survive the trip. But when we arrived home at last, I found a beautiful Belleek tea set without even the tiniest chip, thanks to the hand of Providence!
Days remaining: 316
11
October
As we drove along the main street on the first day of October, I studied Juniper with fresh eyes, trying to envision its origins. The wide street was now lined with muddy trucks rather than horses, although the Excelsior was still here. The buildings were still no higher than two storeys, but now they were made of cinder blocks or covered with corrugated metal siding. Only the hockey arena had a high arched roof, still bearing last year’s metal triangular Christmas tree skeleton lined with strings of coloured lights. A large sign advertised the annual Juniper Rodeo in July.
I turned off Main Street and cruised slowly up and down the residential area, past small but well-kept bungalows and ranch houses, some covered with vinyl siding and others with painted clapboard or stucco. All had tidy front yards, most of them with flowerbeds and flourishing purple Japanese maples. The backyards, what I could see of them, were filled with luxurious vegetable gardens and huge stacks of firewood.
We passed a two-storey house shaped like ours, in the foursquare style. A sign on the front gate read: “Former RCMP Commanding Officer’s Residence.” So it was still here! I gazed at it critically, comparing it with my own foursquare. My great-aunt was right in thinking that her house was superior to this one.
In contrast, the elementary school was surprisingly modern. A painted mural of wild geese flew across the exterior wall. Children were playing outside, running and laughing. Bridget watched them intently as we drove past, her face pressed to the window. She had never played with another child.
As we turned the corner, the river valley opened out before us. What hadn’t changed in the past thousand years was the spectacular setting. Folds of land shaped into gigantic naked hills sloped down to the broad river dancing at their feet. A steel bridge with four silver arches joined the town with the opposite bank.
I left our truck at the service station to have the winter tires installed. It seemed ridiculously early, but Roy Henderson told me to have it done sooner than later. Then we walked to the lawyer’s office.
When we came inside, Bridget went straight to her colouring corner. Lisette’s face lit up with her usual dazzling smile and she jumped to her feet, placing her book face down on her desk. The cover showed a woman with plenty of cleavage, her blond hair flowing in the breeze, and the title Ripe for Seduction.
“Hi, Molly! It’s so nice to see you! How are you girls doing?”
“So far, so good. We made it through another month.” I resisted a shudder as I remembered Bridget’s close call in the bush.
“I have your envelope right here. Mr. Jones left it for you.”
“Thank you, Lisette.” I resisted the urge to count my money in front of her, and shoved the envelope into my bag unopened. It always bulged satisfactorily, since Mr. Jones preferred to pay me in twenties.
Today Lisette was wearing a pair of high-waisted, pleated blue-and-red plaid pants that narrowed to her ankle, and a crimson rayon blouse with a pussycat bow under her chin. Her hair was sculpted, as usual, into a towering mass of brassy curls, rigid with spray.
“How often does Mr. Jones come to town?”
“The second Thursday of every month. He drives up in the morning for the monthly Rotary Club luncheon and works here in the afternoon, then spends the night at the Excelsior.” A blush rose on Lisette’s fine golden skin, and she turned her face away.
By now I was certain there was something going on between Lisette and her boss. I felt a wave of compassion for the poor girl. How well I understood her yearning, the hopeless fantasizing about a future that would never come.
“Has Mr. Jones been in practice very long?” I asked.
“Twenty-five years. He took over the firm from his father, Franklin Senior. The old man started the business right after the Second World War. He was a real good man who never collected from people who couldn’t afford to pay, but he never got rich that way. Franklin, I mean Mr. Jones, does a lot of work negotiating oil leases and road access to well sites, things like that.
”
“I take it that’s big business around here?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty controversial, especially now, with fracking.”
“Fracking? What’s that? It sounds like a dirty word.”
“Well, plenty of people would agree with you. Fracking is short for fracturing. The oil companies inject water and chemicals into the ground to fracture the shale and release the natural gas trapped inside. Not everyone around here likes the idea. Some think it triggers earthquakes, others say it contaminates the surface water. Colin McKay is livid about it. He and his parents are always writing letters to our Member of Parliament and organizing petitions. But Mr. Jones says it’s a free country, and lots of farmers have done very well by selling out to the oil companies.”
“Hmm.” I couldn’t help wondering what my great-aunt would have thought about fracking.
Lisette dropped her voice, as if someone besides Bridget was listening. “Mr. Jones has made a whack of money himself from the oil companies. I’ve only seen photographs of his house in Edmonton, but it’s really something. It has a Jacuzzi and a four-car garage. And he owns a condo in Hawaii, too.”
She was obviously longing to talk about the object of her affection. “Is he a good employer?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! He’s an awesome boss. He’s taught me so much.”
I had a pretty good idea what he was teaching her. “Well, we’d better pick up our truck and then do our shopping.”
“Molly, don’t you miss talking to other people? Adults, I mean.”
To my surprise, I realized that I didn’t. People were like batteries — some of them had their energy recharged by people, and others had their energy drained by people. I belonged to the latter category.
“All I really miss is hot showers and an electric stove and a toilet that flushes. But we’re going to soldier on. We only have nine months to go!” I was trying to sound brave, but that seemed like a very long time, long enough to have a baby.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful, the way you’re managing out there all by yourself!” Lisette’s voice was enthusiastic, and I realized she wasn’t just being polite. With a sense of incredulity, I realized that she admired me.
It was a feeling unique in all my experience. No one had ever looked up to me as a superior being except Bridget, and sometimes I wasn’t even sure about her.
We loaded up on groceries before making a second visit to the thrift store. As I stood beside the crowded racks of winter clothing wondering what to buy, tiny red-haired Gladys came to my rescue. Not only did she remember me from our first visit, she knew enough not to speak to Bridget.
While Bridget hid behind a rack, Gladys and I selected a pair of children’s boots with thick felt liners and rubber treads, a knitted scarf, and waterproof mitts. More importantly, she found a quilted snowsuit in the very hottest of hot pinks. “You’ll be able to see her a mile away in this!” she said.
The most unusual item was a woollen hood called a balaclava, designed to cover her little face with holes for eyes and mouth. I slipped it over her head. It made her look like a tiny bank robber. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Gladys had told me to buy a space suit and an oxygen mask.
For me, Gladys selected a pair of black ski pants shaped like bib overalls and a puffy down jacket with a fur-lined hood. A pair of long mitts, with drawstrings to tighten around my forearms, came with a second pair of fleece gloves to wear inside.
Then she gave me another warm woollen hat called a toque, plus a knitted tube that went around my neck called a neck-warmer. Finally, she handed me an adult-sized balaclava like Bridget’s. We would look like a northern version of Bonnie and Clyde.
Gladys glanced at my black leather boots, which seemed so warm and sturdy to me, and led me to the footwear section. She selected a pair of huge boots with felt insulation and thick rubber soles that looked like something a sasquatch might wear. And finally — a one-piece set of flannel undies with a trap door on the seat that Gladys referred to as long-handled underwear.
As we drove home, I thought about Lisette and recalled my own wretched affair with a married man.
The college years passed without incident. My talent for math, combined with my obsessive studying, meant that I graduated third in my class and was offered an internship back in Phoenix, at a large company called Aztec Accounting.
For the first year I worked like a madwoman. I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I volunteered for every assignment. I was an employer’s dream come true.
Not only was my work satisfying, but I had finally become more attractive. My acne cleared up, and I plucked my heavy eyebrows. I had my springy hair professionally straightened and wore it in a sleek chignon.
Since I had little confidence in my fashion sense, I decided to play it safe and stick with black. I had to dress as modestly as a Mormon to hide the raised, red patches of skin on my arms and legs. My eczema couldn’t tolerate woollen fabric, so I went to Dillard’s and bought two pairs of black cotton pants, a long-sleeved raw silk black dress for the cool season, and a black linen shift with a cotton cardigan for the warm season. I wore smart black leather flats and carried a black laptop case over one shoulder.
Work was the panacea for my emotional neediness, and for a while I was almost content. But during my second year at Aztec Accounting, I became obsessed with one of the married partners. He was only fifteen years older than me — certainly not old enough to be my father, I told myself. Tanned and fit, he played golf every Friday and belonged to a tennis club. His office was filled with trophies, and I soon became one of them.
For six months we met every Saturday afternoon at a motel near the airport. I imagined myself to be madly in love. I doted on him until he told me irritably not to stare at him during our staff meetings. Like all young women in thrall to married men, I was convinced that he would leave his wife and we would live happily ever after. This, in spite of every magazine article, book, and movie that says the opposite.
One Saturday, as he was getting dressed before leaving our motel room, he told me that he had applied for a transfer to the Houston office. “I will never forget you,” he said soulfully, and perhaps he meant it.
In two weeks he was gone. I attended his farewell party and drank too much, then called a cab and went home to wallow in grief. For weeks I had to take shallow breaths because it hurt so much to breathe normally. The edges around my emotional crater crumbled and the hole became deeper and wider yet.
Wynona’s customary triple knock sounded at the back door. I was reading My Antonia by Willa Cather, and I remembered her words: “In farmhouses, life comes and goes by the back door.” That was certainly true in our case. We hadn’t opened the front door once.
Riley didn’t bark because he recognized Wynona as his personal saviour. He was proving to be a good guard dog. Each morning he greeted us with delight, especially when his breakfast appeared. Then he played with Bridget for a while before going about his own doggie business. I felt sorry for any dog that lived in a city, unable to run around as freely as this one. He always came home for supper and slept in his doghouse.
I opened the door while Bridget vanished into the dining room. Wynona was wearing her usual burgundy hoodie. Today it smelled like cigarettes. I hoped she wasn’t smoking. She sat down at the table and watched silently while I stirred my pot of chili.
“Do your parents know where you are?” I finally asked.
“My mother’s dead. She got cancer and died two years ago. My father doesn’t care where I am.” Wynona spoke in her usual deadpan voice.
My heart swelled with sympathy. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Wynona. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I got one brother, Winston. He’s eight. He’s in foster care. Social Services said I can stay home with my father now because I’m twelve.”
“I’m sorry, Wynona,” I repeated, at a loss for words. “That must be so hard.”
“It’s okay. My father just
lives his own life, and I live mine.”
Wynona’s face was stiff and her eyes had gone dead. I remembered that feeling so well: the rush of dread and sorrow, the fear that I might cry if someone mentioned my parents, the extreme effort to control myself. It was impossible to accustom myself to the idea that I was alone in the world with no centre but my small insignificant self.
My heart went out to this poor girl, so unappealing and possibly unintelligent. Most adolescents struggled to find their identity, but Wynona had an uphill battle ahead. Unfortunately I was the last person in the world who could help her.
“Do you want to stay for supper, Wynona?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
I set the table for two, since Bridget was still in hiding. I would feed her later.
Wynona was reaching for the bread when I asked: “Would you like to wash your hands?” She snatched her hand back, then went over to the washstand and scoured her hands in the enamel basin.
Since we had just done our shopping, I had made chili with ground beef, canned beans and tomato sauce. It wasn’t much of a meal, but Wynona bolted down two big bowls of chili covered with ketchup.
“Who does the cooking at your house, Wynona?”
“Nobody. My father isn’t around much. Most of the time he’s in town, at the Excelsior. I eat a lot of frozen pizza.”
“You’re welcome to come here whenever you like.”
I filled a bowl with chili and took it to Bridget in the dining room. When I returned to the kitchen, Wynona had her eyes on the table. “How come she doesn’t like me?”
Wildwood Page 12
