Our Animal Hearts

by Dania Tomlinson

  Upon seeing the remains of his family’s cabin, Yuri went very quiet. He dropped my hand. All of the blood slipped from his cheeks. He squatted low on the deck of the lakeboat and pressed his palms to his eyes. The guttural sounds that escaped him were new, unfamiliar to me. I bent down and touched his back, but he flinched away.

  “Leave me,” he said.

  I gladly did. It was hard to see him like that, ragged with grief, but after what I knew he had done on the Jezebel to that maid, that child, I was unwilling to feel sorry for him. We had already begun to harden ourselves against one another. As the years went by I wanted to know less and less about Yuri’s life outside of our home. Our marriage was sown with a lie that could only sprout more seeds of the same.

  I walked away from Yuri to the far side of the boat’s deck. An older man in a tweed suit leaned against the railing and smoked a pipe.

  “Used to be a settlement there, you know,” he said.

  “I lived there,” I said, irritated.

  “No, no. Before that. An Indian settlement.” The man looked weary. The smoke from his pipe smelled of vanilla. “A town built upon a burial ground. Bodies upon bodies.” I thought of Henry then and wondered where he was now, what he would think of the burning of Winteridge. I worried about his books.

  Mary was in the hospital. She had been infected by the great flu. Her body was too weak and worn by tragedy to come through the other end of illness. Yuri had her buried in Vernon, next to the remains of Taras.

  Azami’s brother Wu never returned from the war, and so the Koba family, secluded in their orchard up in the hills, remained untouched by both the epidemic and the fire. The isolation of the Japanese in Winteridge protected them in the end.

  Many of the McCarthys and Ebers died, but the sizes of those families meant they could afford tragedy. They restarted somewhere else in the valley. I heard that Joan and Ida Eber and their youngest, that little boy, caught a lakeboat out of town during the first couple of nights of the epidemic, when things were so hectic their family would not notice their absence. Years later, I learned that Ronald and Juliet moved to the prairies together. As far as we knew, Viktor never returned to Winteridge. They found his body days before the fire occurred. It had washed up on the shore in Peachland. The newspaper described his limbs as “nibbled.” One leg was missing from the knee down. There was a hint in the article that the lake monster might be responsible, but it was only in jest. We knew the corpse was Viktor’s by the crescent-moon scar observed on his chest.

  Yuri was gifted a plot of land in Kelowna for his participation in the war. And once we had moved in, I buried my potato daughter in the grave of the garden.

  26

  Somehow I drag the buck’s body down the steps and across the yard to the side of the snow-covered garden. I hope it will be easier to dig a shallow grave there, in the soil. The winter is still young and I have dug a couple of feet when Juro, Azami’s eldest son, who goes by Joe now, arrives at my house in the Kobas’ fruit truck. He marvels at the dead deer, the path of blood. Snowflakes dust the deer’s hide and gather in its eyelashes, its eyes still wide. Joe takes the shovel from me.

  “Where did this come from?” he asks with a grin pinching the corners of his mouth. I know he sees me as some eccentric middle-aged woman. I imagine he might collect these instances and laugh about them later with his friends, or maybe with Azami. I am surprised that the thought of it doesn’t bother me.

  “The forest, I suspect,” I say, and get a laugh from him. “I found it this morning. On my doorstep.”

  “Ah, I see. Have you made friends with a cougar?”

  “A cougar, no.”

  “We might take it to the butcher and have sausage made from it.”

  “Can’t eat an offering,” I say, a little too quiet for Joe to hear.

  Joe has been at my house every day since he brought me home from the hospital. He helps me out around the house, repaired the fence, fixed a stubborn door jamb, and replaced a few windows. At first I thought his visits were at Azami’s urging, that she felt sorry for me, lonely, sick woman that I am, but now I believe his visits must be against her instruction. A few days ago, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and the news of this distant event has turned our valley sour. Someone broke the windows of the Kobas’ grocery store and the Kobas were forced to close for the winter. They had opened their shop in Kelowna shortly after the first war, and I had gone there regularly, in hopes that I might come across Azami and we might confront one another for once, but she was never there.

  I often tell Joe he should stay home and care for his mother, but he refuses. I have to bite my tongue around him, for I am becoming reckless with words. I wonder if he suspects Kenta isn’t his real father and hangs about my house because he somehow knows I might tell him the truth. In fact, I almost told him once, but when I opened my mouth, one of Llewelyna’s old faery tales came rolling out instead.

  Joe sometimes meets up with his red-haired lover, Mirabelle, in my backyard. He says it’s the only safe place for them to visit. I told him to invite Mirabelle over for tea sometime, but he prefers secrecy. They usually slip into Yuri’s old woodshop together. He says Azami will not hear of their relationship. She insists he be with only Japanese girls. Better yet, she wants him to return to Japan and find a bride—maybe even settle down in her old village.

  I can understand Azami’s stubbornness. She is only trying to protect him. I was a mother for only a handful of seconds to only a handful of organs and a few wrinkles of tenuous blue skin—a soul already departed to the world of eternal sleep or maybe never fully awake in the first place—but a daughter nonetheless. And despite my inexperience I have learned something about being a mother. A child is an opportunity to do things differently, to undo the mistakes of the past. But a child is also a resilient echo. And sometimes a child must be permitted this echo. Sometimes old mistakes, mimicked by a child, can lead to something beautiful.

  “Best saw these off,” Joe says, gesturing to the antlers. He has nearly completed the grave.

  “I suppose you’re right.” I doubt I can bear the grind of the saw. “I’ll get some lunch ready.” I head for the house.

  I warm the last two slices of the meatloaf Azami sent along with Joe on the stove. Snow has begun to fall again. It collects in the cedars and the bare branches of the two pear trees in the backyard. When the meatloaf is ready, I call Joe in to join me. He breathes into his red hands.

  “Any word from Kenji or Emiko?” I ask. Joe’s brother and sister live on the coast. Since the bombing in Pearl Harbor, he hasn’t heard from them.

  “Japanese are being shipped from the coast to mountain towns. I imagine they are on board one of those trains.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I just feel so helpless.”

  I serve Joe a piece of meatloaf and pour hot gravy on it. “You should stay home with your mother. I’m sure she could use your company.”

  He ignores me, bored with this topic.

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” I say.

  “Who will bury your dead?” he asks in jest. “And what if you fall again?”

  As if in response, my hand rises to the stitches and miserable green bruise on my chin. “I’m okay, really. Much better.”

  “Have you had one since?”

  “No,” I lie. He doesn’t want to use the word seizure and I am thankful for this small kindness.

  27

  A month ago bone cancer took Yuri to his grave. A week after his death I was in the Kobas’ grocery store holding a vine of tomatoes and the smell of lemon struck me out of nowhere. I hadn’t had a seizure since aboard the Jezebel. I thought that, along with my child, the illness had left me for good.

  When I gained consciousness, Joe had his palms on each side of my face to keep my head from banging against the fruit bins. I had wet myself. Some customers stared at me in fear or disgust. Others tried to be helpful, and offered their purses as pillows, or brought me a glass of water wh
en Joe sat me up. Some casually walked around me as if I weren’t there. They stepped over my spilled groceries: a split watermelon, cucumbers, and rolling oranges. I had hit my chin and was bleeding on the tile. Joe Koba’s eyes were the only kind pair I could find. They were Viktor’s eyes.

  “It’s over,” Joe said. He dabbed my chin with the edge of his apron.

  I glanced towards my feet and saw the jaguar, licking her paws.

  Joe drove me to the hospital in the Kobas’ fruit truck. I made Joe promise not to tell the doctor about my seizure. I had slipped, that was all. As she had before, the jaguar stalked me for a while after the incident. She lay on the floor beside my hospital bed and purred me to sleep. She didn’t bother to move when the nurses tended to me. They casually stepped over her.

  Once my chin was stitched up, Joe drove me home. I slumped in the passenger seat and drifted in and out of sleep. A vaguely familiar porcelain elephant hung from the rear-view mirror. I could see where it had cracked and been glued back together. The elephant swayed from side to side as we turned corners.

  Joe walked me up the stairs of my house as if I were a much older woman. “Do you want me to come in? Help you get settled?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry yourself,” I said.

  “You’ll be all right?” He held the door open. It was clear he really didn’t want to leave me.

  “Of course.” I winked. “I’ve made it this far.”

  That night I found a peacock feather on my pillow. It was only a small azure chest feather, but that feather was the first of many I later found. I searched the house for the source, but Saint Francis was nowhere.

  That next morning I woke to hammering in the backyard. I looked out from behind the curtain and saw Joe fixing a break in the fence with some fresh wood. It had snowed overnight and the heat of his effort steamed from his shoulders. I went downstairs and found the refrigerator full of fresh produce and a meatloaf. I boiled water for tea and took Yuri’s tin cup out to Joe. Despite the cold, sweat beaded his eyebrows.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Couple hours. Mom sent along some food.”

  “I saw that.”

  “She said you two are old friends.”

  “She did?” I couldn’t keep myself from smiling at the thought. I felt the urge to tell Joe about Viktor, and the letters I had destroyed, and how it was me who came between Viktor’s and Azami’s union. But I couldn’t.

  The last time I had seen Azami was during a lantern procession in the city a few years before. I had been surprised the Japanese community had decided to contribute to the parade at all. I hadn’t thought they cared for British royals. It was spring 1937, and the parade was a celebration of the coronation of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. There were cars covered in flowers, cows with the British flag painted on their sides, and beauty pageant contestants with crowns made of cherry blossoms and lilacs. The sunshine had fooled me and I had worn only a thin sleeveless dress. The swooping breeze from the mountains was still crisp. Yuri offered me his coat but I was already angry at him for some triviality. I refused his offer and hugged my elbows tighter.

  I easily picked out Azami from the crowd gathered on the opposite side of the street. She clutched a pink shawl over her head and shoulders as if it might disguise her. She looked the same, dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. She kept wetting her lips and they shone red. Kenta stood next to her wearing an old Vancouver Maroons baseball cap and his easy smile. Arthritis and hard work had turned his hands to claws.

  Azami’s face appeared neutral, uninterested in the parade before her. Her excitement was only revealed when she craned her neck and rose up on tiptoes to see past the crowd. The sound of flutes and drums approached from around a corner. I couldn’t see past a float decorated with a grinning papier-mâché Ogopogo to find the source of the music. Azami had a better vantage point. She smiled at what she saw. A troupe of children from the Japanese school danced out from behind the Ogopogo. The girls looked like butterflies swinging in their colourful kimonos. Azami’s eyes followed one of the girls in a red kimono, Emiko, her daughter. I recognized the kimono from my childhood. Unlike the other straight-faced, serious children, Emiko grinned wide for the crowd, or maybe for only her mother. Azami brought her hands up to her mouth and although she tried to hide it, her face broke with joy. The crowd clapped for the children as they dispersed to find their parents in the crowd. Azami put her arm around Emiko’s shoulders so they both faced the parade. She clutched Emiko against her, lips tight with pride. I tried to catch Azami’s gaze, but she would not meet my eyes.

  The sun had ducked behind the hills and left us in shadow. From behind the scrambling children came a crowd of Japanese teenagers. They each held a square paper lantern. These teenagers were dressed in their street clothes, trousers and sweaters, dresses for the girls. Joe was taller than the rest. His face was solemn in the warm light of his lantern. He stared down intently at the glow, as if the light there was something alive and precious.

  We followed them slowly towards the shore of the lake. Not one lantern went out despite the breeze. The teenagers walked into the water up to their knees. As they released the lanterns into the lake, everyone cheered, or everyone but the Japanese who had gathered. They remained solemn as saints. I looked to Azami and she wiped a tear from her cheek. I had been confused by the gesture of the floating lanterns on what was a celebratory occasion. Azami had taught me the lanterns were meant to guide the dead.

  28

  Yuri and I had lived simply and, for the most part, separately. I started a bookstore in Henry’s honour called Brewster’s Books. Sometimes I saw Mrs. Bell downtown in the shops. We neglected to recognize one another, preferring to let our joint histories rest.

  Yuri spent his days in his workshop. He made tables, beds, and chairs out of pine and maple and sold them at a shop downtown. Sometimes he whittled me butterflies, birds, and woodland animals that reminded me of Winteridge. These little gifts, left for me like secrets, made our life together bearable. They reminded me of the boy Yuri had once been, before the war. And sometimes, even those memories of him were enough.

  The lake monster Henry called Naitaka disappeared from local memory the day Viktor and his mob gutted the fish on the shore of the lake. The demon was replaced by the Ogopogo, a mockery of the original. The Ogopogo has snail-like antennae, forest-green flesh, and cartoon eyes. Children still sing songs about the Ogopogo and dress up as the comic creature at parades and festivals.

  Although the town still chooses to ignore it, the spirit of the lake continues to haunt its depths. Naitaka does not require our belief, nor our food. It does not need our stories, nor our forgiveness. It took me years to understand this, and though I would never claim to have a kind of innate wisdom of this place, for I will forever be a stranger to the land, a thief, I believe the lake monster is not one thing but multitudes. It is a memory, a premonition, a haunted history, and a cursed future. It is a culmination of all our sins and all our wonder.

  I travelled once on the old Rosamond to purchase a collection of encyclopedias advertised in an estate sale in Penticton. I stood on the deck and watched Rattlesnake Island approach. The waves rose and fell against the rocky beach as if the island were floating past the lakeboat instead of the other way around. A canoe was anchored near the shore. A couple of native women were bent over the hull of the canoe. When the lakeboat neared them, the women looked up briefly to return the stare of our gawking white faces. I had a dead mouse in my handbag for a sacrifice. I held it by the tail and dropped it in the lake. One of the women in the canoe saw what I had done. She looked at me quizzically and then laughed at my meagre sacrifice. Long after the Rosamond passed, one of the women reached her arm over the side of the canoe and dropped a long strip of bloody flesh into the water to ensure our safe passage past Naitaka’s home. No one else on board knew how these women had kept us safe.

  Every few years someone disappears in the lake. And eve
ry decade someone reports a long, dark crest rising up out of the water. But these are never more than ghost stories. Some people have even tried to photograph the lake monster, but even the clearest image does not convince most. I never did develop the photograph I took. My belief does not require proof.

  There are sightings of Llewelyna too. She takes the form of a mermaid or water nymph. Cliff jumpers often report seeing a woman sitting on the rocks below or swimming in the water beneath the cliffs. They only see her once they’ve jumped and are in mid-air. When they come up out of the water, she is gone. They call her the lady of the lake. They’ve named a beauty pageant after her.

  For years I have kept the little blue fish in a jam jar wrapped in a bit of velvet and tucked in a locked cabinet in the attic. Like any good robber with a treasure she doesn’t understand, I can hardly bear to set my eyes on the extravagant creature. And yet the fish serves as a token, a reminder of the things I have experienced. It’s all I have of Winteridge. I am not tempted to eat the fish. I know the wisdom it offers is not for me. I’d like to think I am its caretaker, but in truth I have held on for too long and have grown attached to the little thing. Like any secret, like any sin, the fish has become a part of me.

  * * *

  This morning I open the back door of my house and find a raccoon, an orange house cat, and two magpies splayed on the stairs, dead. The jaguar is nowhere to be seen. What am I meant to understand by her presence now, this ancient kami I angered so long ago?

  When Joe doesn’t arrive I have a bad feeling and call the Kobas’ house, but no one answers. I step over the dead animals and take a taxi to the Kobas’ store. Most of the windows have been smashed and someone has painted Leave Japs in crude letters across the front. There is nothing inside but fruits and vegetables shrivelled in their dark bins.

  From there I take the taxi out of town and up the hill along a dirt road to the Kobas’ house. I stand for a moment and take in their land. There are endless rows of fruit trees dusted with snow. A greenhouse leans against the house. Inside the greenhouse are peas, beans, and even a few miraculous strawberries. The windows of the house are dark. The front door has been broken in. I wander through the abandoned rooms; photographs of Azami’s children line the walls. A half-finished bowl of porridge is still on the kitchen table. A cup of coffee has spilled over. In what I imagine is Azami and Kenta’s bedroom, I am astonished to find the red shrine I built for Azami so long ago. It is filled with the old items and a little china plate of sliced orange, still untouched. I pick up the dove feather and spin it between my fingers. Then I see my own old blue marble set upon a nest of yellow silk and it brings tears to my eyes.