In Winter's Grip

by Brenda Chapman

  “Okay. Will it take that long?”

  “I think so. There’s a bit to straighten out.”

  “Was it a heart attack or stroke?”

  “No. They’re still not certain. The autopsy will show the exact cause. How was your trip?”

  Sam’s voice lightened, “Great. I sealed the deal, and it means a big bonus. I was hoping to take you out to celebrate, but that will have to wait.”

  “Yes. But we can do that when I get home.” I heard a voice in the background saying something to Sam. “Is someone with you?”

  There was muffled speaking then Sam removed his hand from over the receiver. “Lana stopped by with some papers I have to sign. George should be here any minute.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you then,” I said, suddenly not wanting to keep the connection any longer.

  “I’ll call tonight,” Sam said. “Try not to let your dad’s death get you down.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s the last place I want to go.”

  SIX

  Around two thirty, Claire, Gunnar and I decided to drive up the mountain to go cross country skiing. Claire more than any of us was showing signs of stress, and she’d leapt on my suggestion of an outing. She was unable to convince Jonas to leave the sanctuary of his workshop, to which he’d retreated after Claire and Gunnar had returned home early afternoon, and by the rigid way she held her neck and shoulders, I knew she was angry. It wasn’t until after we’d parked in the empty parking lot backing onto Christie trail, unloaded our equipment, fastened our skis and started down the path, that she started to relax.

  Claire had been a champion skier in her late teens and early twenties, even trying out for the U.S. Olympic team. Although she hadn’t made the cut, she’d been first on the waiting list—no small accomplishment. Marriage to Jonas, a child and the need to make money had ended her Olympic dream. I sometimes wondered if she regretted the decisions she’d made. I’d known Claire in high school but hadn’t been in her circle. Her father was a lawyer who started up a practice in Duved Cove when Claire was in tenth grade. By then, she was away training most of the year and back in the summers. We’d both worked as life guards one summer at the community pool, and through me, she’d met Jonas. I was still baffled as to how they hooked up, because Jonas was as far from self-assured and competitive as a dove from a hawk. Claire must have seen him as a gold-medal challenge, because she’d done all the pursuing.

  “I’ll meet you at the lookout,” Claire called over her shoulder just before she picked up speed crossing the field and disappeared onto the trail into the woods. She was wearing navy spandex pants, a turquoise shell and a red toque and made a vibrant splash of colour against the white snowscape and the darkness of the trees ahead. Gunnar was well in front of me, dressed completely in black with a grey toque. His gangly limbs couldn’t match his mother’s smooth strides, but he managed to widen the distance between himself and me with every ski stroke.

  I’d borrowed Claire’s old set of skis and boots that pinched. It had been twenty years since I’d last skied, and I struggled to find my rhythm. After a bit of awkward trial and effort, my strokes felt natural enough that I could enjoy the swoosh swoosh of my skis in the ruts of the trail and the reach and push of each arm as I jabbed the ski poles into the snow.

  I entered the dark silence of the waiting forest. Snow weighed heavily on the overhead boughs and swooped in graceful arcs against the tree trunks. I raised my eyes at intervals to look up through the gaps in the trees. Since we’d left the van, the sky had changed from a silky blue to grey as snow clouds moved in from the north. I felt protected in the woods. Noises were muffled, and row upon row of giant pines encased the trail like a cocoon. I began to enjoy the solitariness of my path and the cold wind on my forehead and cheeks. The physical exertion felt good, even when I had to struggle up hills. I gained confidence on the downhill sections, invigorated by rushes of adrenalin. Time passed without me noticing. I rounded a long looping curve and climbed another hill. At its crest, I met Claire and Gunnar leaning on their poles and looking out over the cliff and the sharp rise of the mountain across the gully. They both turned their faces towards me as I glided alongside.

  Gunnar’s eyes flashed dark and angry. “I’m going back, Mom,” he said.

  “I’d like you to wait until we all head back together,” Claire said, her body angled towards him, her face looking down at his.

  Gunnar pretended not to hear. He adeptly rotated his skis and levered himself forward. One thrust with his ski poles, and he shot down the hill and out of sight.

  Claire straightened and shrugged. “He’s not very sociable these days. I think it’s a phase. We’ll rest a few minutes and then I’ll start after him. He’s mad that he can’t keep up with me.”

  I looked across the fence that was strung along the edge of the precipice towards the snowy peak on the other side of the valley. The clouds had thickened, and I felt stray wet snowflakes land on my face. “Looks like we’ll be getting another storm,” I said.

  “It was an early winter and could be a late spring.” Claire hesitated. “Maja, has Jonas said anything to you about...about your father?”

  I shook my head. “Jonas has hardly said anything to me about Dad. Why, is there something I should know?”

  Claire began tracing a pattern in the snow with her ski pole. “Jonas was very angry with your father lately, but you know Jonas. He’s not good at expressing his feelings. He just withdraws.”

  “What caused him to get angry? Jonas doesn’t usually get worked up, or at least not so you’d know.”

  It was Claire’s turn to shake her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Maja, how come Jonas never talks about your mom or why you stopped speaking to your dad? He’s never said boo about anything, even after all our years together. It’s like there’s a wall of silence between us that keeps me shut out.”

  “The things that happened were a long time ago and were hard to talk about back then. Jonas has his reasons for not wanting to bring them up again.” As did I. “Jonas never liked reliving those days or speaking badly of our father.” I didn’t know whether or not to be surprised that Jonas hadn’t talked about our parents to Claire. I guess it put his relationship with Claire in a new light. He hadn’t trusted her enough to share what probably still haunted him.

  “I know,” Claire said. “He avoids emotional upsets like the plague.”

  I smiled gently. “It’s a family trait.”

  The snow was picking up steam, and a gust of wind rolled across the hilltop. It was time to go back. I took in a deep breath. It was now or never. “Claire, whatever happened to Billy Okwari? I was just wondering, because we’ve talked about everybody else that I could think of except him.” I kept my eyes carefully averted from hers.

  Claire wiped a gloved hand across her forehead. “Billy Okwari? That scrawny Native kid in our class?”

  “Yes.”

  “He married some girl from Lutsen and moved away. Odd you should ask about him, though, because I saw him in town the other day. At least, I think it was him. Somebody said he’d moved back to the area recently. Boy, you have a good memory. It’s not like he was part of our gang or stood out in any way. He was one of those kids who never spoke up in class or got involved in anything. Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason. I just remembered him from those days.”

  Claire had given me more information than I’d expected. Back in the area again? No wonder I hadn’t been able to find his name in the phone directory the times I’d looked. My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him. We were both married, so it would be alright to make contact again, or at least that’s what I told myself. The rapid beating of my heart should have warned me otherwise.

  Jonas had supper waiting for us when we got home around five. He’d stuffed a lake trout with crab, breadcrumbs and lemon juice and served it with baked potatoes and garden salad. We sat around the kitchen table and dug into the food lik
e we hadn’t eaten for days. A combination of fresh air and exercise had whetted our appetites. I couldn’t remember when food had last tasted so good.

  Gunnar sat across from me, and I watched him without him noticing. He kept his head lowered, his thin shoulders hunched inwards and his blonde hair hiding his eyes. His fork moved steadily from plate to mouth, the only sign that he was conscious. Finally, he stood and grabbed his full milk glass and the empty plate in one quick motion, leaving the table without having uttered a word. The rest of us had barely spoken either, except to comment on the food and the trek we’d made through the woods. It was as if my father’s murder had sapped our energies, and we didn’t have the strength to rise above our lethargy.

  Jonas lifted his head. He pointed his knife at Gunnar’s empty seat. “What’s with him?” he asked Claire.

  “He’s been in a foul temper. I’ll talk to him later.” Claire stood and gathered up her dishes and cutlery. She carried everything to the counter then moved across the kitchen to the stove, where she picked up the kettle. “A cup of tea, Maja?” she asked.

  “That would be lovely.” I lowered my fork, realizing that there was nothing left on my plate.

  Jonas pushed back in his chair. “Would you like to go for a walk after supper? We could make it as far as Hadrian’s for a nightcap, if you feel up to it.”

  It would be good to have a chance to talk with Jonas, because I knew the next day we’d be making funeral arrangements. Tobias had stopped by while we were skiing and told Jonas my father’s body would be delivered to the funeral home in the morning. Not to mention as soon as I laid my head on the pillow, all the worries would keep me from sleep. Maybe, a shot of something strongly alcoholic would help relax me. “Yes, that would be good,” I said. “I’ll wash up after my tea, and we can head out.”

  Jonas lumbered to his feet. “Come get me in my shop. I’ll be ready to go when you are.”

  The wind was still blowing in gusts, periodically whipping up billows of snow that wet our faces, making us lean into their strength. The snow had stopped falling, however, so Jonas and I were able to make good time between the blasts of wind. The temperature had dropped since the afternoon, but the bank of cloud cover kept the cold from being unbearable. I’d dressed in the borrowed jacket, hat and scarf that Claire had said were mine for the duration of my visit. Jonas had two flashlights that we used for the first part of our trek because streetlights didn’t extend this far out of town. Their two shafts of light crisscrossed through the darkness in front of us and illuminated shadowy hollows in the snow drifts as we trudged through the unpacked snow. The walk to Hadrian’s was about two miles and would take us half an hour. We didn’t speak much, preferring to let the night’s silence and the soughing of the wind in the trees envelop us. I heard a wolf ’s plaintive howl from somewhere deep in the woods and shivered inside my coat. I was thankful to have Jonas’s solid presence striding alongside me.

  When we finally entered Hadrian’s, it took a moment to adjust from the darkness of the outside to the noisy brightness of the pub. The heat of the room struck me in a wave after the coldness of the winter wind. I took a moment to look around as I shrugged out of my coat.

  During my high school years, Hadrian Senior had owned the bar, a squat, bald Swede who’d emigrated from Sweden at the age of five. His son, also named Hadrian, had inherited the bar when his father had retired ten years earlier, or so Jonas told me as we stepped away from the entrance. In some perverse trick of genetics, Hadrian the son was close to six and a half feet tall with a full head of cocoa brown hair that fell in lank strands to his shoulders and a bristly moustache trimmed in an uneven line above his lip so that he looked like he was perpetually sneering. He half-turned and glanced up at us from where he sat at a bar stool, both burly arms resting on the counter as he watched the wrestling channel on TV. His sharp blue eyes darted between Jonas and me, and I could see recognition glinting from their depths as they finally rested on me. He stood and stepped behind the counter as we crossed the plank floor. Bob Seger was singing “You’ll Accompany Me” from speakers over the bar. Two men sat at the opposite end, hunkered down over pints of beer, and they shifted enough so that I knew they were watching us.

  “Jonas.” Hadrian nodded at the same time as he placed a mug under the tap and pulled a long swill of draft beer. “Howdy, Maja. Sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Thanks, Hadrian,” I said. “It looks like you’re doing well.” I looked around the room. He’d kept the same oak panelling from his father’s day, but the dark stained chairs and tables looker newer. A modern gas fireplace cast a cheery glow on the far wall; otherwise, the pub had not bowed to anything remotely trendy. This was a drinking man’s bar.

  Hadrian tilted his head in acknowledgment. He focused his eyes on Jonas. “So Tobias went easy on you?”

  “I didn’t have much to tell.”

  “Nobody can believe that somebody killed your old man,” Hadrian said. “I’m sure going to miss him coming around. What can I get you, Maja?”

  “A Scotch on the rocks.”

  “Coming right up.” Hadrian reached for the bottle of Johnny Walker Red. “Jonas tells me you’re a doctor living up in Canada.”

  “Yes, I married a Canadian.”

  “Haven’t seen you back here in a long time.”

  He’d stated the obvious, and I didn’t reply. Jonas reached for his beer.

  “Let’s sit at a table,” he said.

  “Staying with Jonas, are you?” Hadrian asked as he slid the glass of Scotch to me.

  “Yes, for a few more days anyhow.”

  As I picked up the glass and turned to follow Jonas, I took a better look at the two men sitting on the barstools. One met my eyes, and an electric shock travelled up my spine. For one moment, I thought I was looking into Billy Okwari’s black eyes until I realized time could not have stood that still. This man was half my age. He nodded at me before lowering his eyes and draining the last of his beer.

  Jonas had chosen a table as far away from the other patrons as possible, and I slid into the seat next to him, still shaken but also exhilarated by the encounter.

  “You look flushed,” Jonas said.

  “I’m getting to the hot flash age.” I hung my parka over the back of my chair and ran a hand through my hair. It sparked with static from wearing the wool hat. “It sounds like Dad never gave up the drink, if he was a regular here.”

  “He moderated his drinking after Mom died.”

  “God knows he didn’t when she was alive. You’ve never told Claire about life with him when we were kids?”

  “No point to that.”

  “It would have helped her to understand. . .”

  “Understand what? Why I’m an emotional cripple?” Jonas’s voice rose. He glanced around to make sure nobody had been listening, and his shoulders relaxed when he saw nobody looking our way.

  I couldn’t explain the urgency I felt to disturb the family waters we’d avoided. I feared for what I’d seen in Jonas and in his interactions with Claire. “If Claire had known about the things he did, the things he made us do, she would certainly have given you strength. It would have helped your relationship.”

  “She married me as I was. I didn’t need to explain myself. I didn’t want her pity. The choices she’s made had nothing to do with how our father treated us.”

  “Tobias said that our father was a charming, well-liked man. His mask never slipped in public then?”

  “Only with his nearest and dearest. He fooled Claire too. She should have known. If she’d really loved me, she would have known.” Jonas’s voice broke and he quickly lifted his beer mug to take a long drink.

  I wanted Jonas to understand about our father. I pushed on. “I studied personality disorders as part of my studies in university. In fact, I read everything I could about them, trying to sort out why Dad was like he was. You know, so outwardly friendly but so deeply disturbed and controlling at home. The times he made us g
et down on our hands and knees to clean and reclean every square inch of that house, and still we couldn’t please him. The punishments and the groundings over nothing. Belittling us and making us feel so small then turning around and acting like we were the most special children on earth. We were always off-balance. That wasn’t a normal way to grow up, Jonas.”

  “Knowing it and getting over it are two different things. I thought by not talking about it to anyone, I’d be able to live with it,” Jonas said. “Did you ever tell Sam?”

  “A bit. Not all of it. I never told him how Dad would wake us up with the muzzle of his shotgun and line us all up in the bedroom against the wall with the gun trained on us, where we’d stand for hours until he fell asleep.”

  Jonas hung his head. “I don’t want to talk about this, Maja.”

  “I know. Mom wouldn’t talk about it either.”

  “He was seeing a woman in town these last few months.”

  “Oh? Is she married?”

  Jonas nodded. “The only kind he got involved with.”

  “Figures. It fed something in his ego. A narcissist doesn’t care about anyone else—we may as well be hollow shells for all they care about us. They also have fragile egos that need constant reinforcement. Having married women fall for him would have given him a feeling of power.”

  “You figure he was a narcissist?”

  “Yes, a person who has no empathy for others and needs constant adulation. They go into rages when they don’t get their own way. They’re also incredibly charming and manipulative.”

  “Dad’s photo could be next to the definition.”

  “They also can make their spouses feel like worthless shit. It explains a lot about our parents’ relationship.” I sipped my drink, trying to keep my hand steady. “Do you know the name of the latest woman he was seeing?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I think it’s important that I know. I’m not going to go to the police.” I didn’t add “unless I found out it led to the murderer”. I looked across at the bar. The young Native man who so resembled Billy was putting on his coat and throwing money onto the bar. He had shoulder-length hair as poker-straight as mine and high cheekbones in a thin face. When he stood, he was taller than I’d thought and beanpole skinny. He headed towards the back of the bar, where an oversized finger on the wall pointed toward the washrooms.