by Kurt Palka
“So much going on,” he said.
“I’m also at my desk eight hours a day.”
She told him she was planning a funeral for the children. “A funeral? Who are these kids?”
“The police are trying to find that out.”
She waited, and into his silence she said, “Could you come out for that, Jack? For the funeral.”
“Are you serious?”
“Well…yes.”
“I’m surprised, Margaret. The last time we spoke you didn’t want me to stay because you needed time.”
“I know. But would you come out?”
“Honestly? No, Margaret. I wouldn’t want to. It’s also very busy right now because metals are up everywhere. Especially silver.”
“Is it.”
“And I’ll probably also have to go back to British Columbia soon. So the answer is no, Margaret. Sorry. What else is going on?”
* * *
—
The next day Inspector Sorensen paid her a surprise visit. There were strong winds and rain, and he parked his car and hurried up to the house.
“Wild weather down here,” he said. He took off his hat but kept on the coat. They stood in her little hall by the front door.
“What’s the verdict?” she said. “Any news on our deal?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“So come and sit down.”
He took off his coat and hung it on a peg and put the hat over it. They sat at the kitchen table and she put out some red pepper cornbread and butter and olives and turned on the kettle.
He told her that because the opinion at forensics was that the young people were Latin American, he had widened the search with pictures by police wire into Mexico and further south.
“They were about twenty and twenty-two years old,” he said. “The boy was the older.”
“And?”
“And, well, here it comes. I believe they were couriers. Cocaine, most likely. It all fits a pattern that we’re seeing more and more, and the profile is right too because it’s often the children of the upper middle class. You know, sheltered lives, young and easy to talk into a short adventure, and no one would suspect them. The parents have no idea, of course.
“They come on airplanes and sometimes on ships, mostly up from Mexico. Compared to the States, our coastline is wide open and customs at our airports is very tourist-friendly. Kids bring it in, like on a little holiday, a lark, but for very good money. They are met by contacts like the two men who came to Aileen’s house, and the contacts feed the product into distribution, often south into the States.
“I’m in charge of this coastline down to Yarmouth, so I know a little bit about it. So far it’s only cocaine. You know, body belts and vests and plastic bags of it folded in clothing in suitcases. But then there are also the drops from freighters and the nighttime pickups of much larger amounts, for which they use local fishermen, who know these waters well. We don’t know as yet exactly how the transfers work, or how the kids ended up on that island.” “If they were only couriers, why were they killed?” “We don’t know that either. For one thing, they were disposable. Perhaps there was a problem with money. But more likely they saw or heard something they shouldn’t have and so became a liability. I think the boy fought them off or attacked them, and in the struggle both were killed.” He sat looking at her. “I wanted you to have the facts, in view of your funeral plans.”
“Thank you. It’s very sad.”
The kettle whistled and she spooned instant coffee into two cups and poured water. She pushed cream and sugar his way.
“My grandmother remembered when you could buy coca powder in penny sachets in any drugstore as a little pick-me-up and a cure for headaches,” she said. “Then it was criminalized and suddenly there was big money in it. But this changes nothing. If the parents can’t be found I still want to look after them and arrange a funeral here. Did you file the request for them to be released to me?”
“I did. Someone from the morgue will call you one way or another.”
“Thank you. What about the two men? Any news on them?”
“No, nothing. We’ve spoken to the hospital and sent blood samples to the forensic lab in Ottawa. The results are positive for a match with the blood on the dock. Something went badly wrong here, and either they set up another run or, more likely, they’ve disappeared. Gone home and been replaced by others. But we’re still watching the borders and airports, and their pictures are everywhere.”
He picked up a fork and speared an olive. “Nice. I like them like this, soft and without the pits.” He took a sip of coffee, reached for a slice of cornbread, bit into it and chewed. “Very good. What are the little red bits in it?”
“Red pepper. How long before they decide about releasing the kids?”
“I can’t say. Not that long. Days, not weeks.”
Before he left she scooped the black olives back into the little container and snapped it shut. She wrapped a plastic fork in a paper napkin, put all that into a brown paper lunch bag together with some of the cornbread, and handed it to him.
“For the road,” she said.
Twenty
IN HER LIVING ROOM Aileen lifted the covers on the wine jars and pushed down the heads. She could smell the fermentation working. She put on additional towels to keep the jars warm while she opened the seaside window to let out the fumes.
Later Franklin came up with the alcohol gauge, and he squeezed the bulb and lifted some of the wine and looked at the bubble. “Only three per cent,” he said. “I think we should add sugar. Lots of it. And in a few days’ time, if that doesn’t do it we can pitch in some vodka.”
He was at the sink rinsing the gauge, and as she passed him she clapped him on the back of his head.
“No, we won’t. Not in my wine. And what’s the rush? Three per cent after just a few days is a good start.”
She went to the fridge and fetched him a beer. They sat in the kitchen because she had closed the windows and the fumes in the parlour were strong.
“Margaret was here. That policeman came to see her.”
She told him what Margaret had said.
“But she still wants a funeral for them?”
Aileen nodded.
“Can you explain that to me?”
“Explain what, Franklin? They’re still just someone’s children, far from home.”
He frowned and then for a while he sipped his beer in silence.
“It’s gett’n dark earlier now,” he said. He looked at his watch.
“It is. And she’s changed her hour with it. Coming a bit earlier now.”
“Is she. So let’s wait for her.”
“They were probably students, Margaret says. The kids. She was the younger and he was looking out for her. Protecting her. Maybe because he got her into all this. And now Margaret is back to wanting to talk to the pathologist and to see them at the morgue. This time I gave in and said I’d call Barbie and she’ll set it up.”
She almost went on to explain why Margaret was doing all this, but then she didn’t say anything. She knew Franklin would look at her sideways and ask questions, and she’d try and make him understand, but it was complicated. It was also not her business to explain Margaret to anyone.
He said, “Who do you think took them over to that island? The kids, in a boat.”
“Could have been anyone along here. Anyone.”
“You don’t think it was maybe John Patrick in Danny’s boat, do you? Because what are the chances of these two shooters coming here asking for them by name?”
“In Danny’s boat…no, I don’t think that. And don’t you think it either. Such nonsense. Be quiet now, Franklin. Let’s just sit and listen for her. You want the light on?” “No.”
And so they sat in the dark in silence for a while in the old house, waiting for the fox. He sipping his beer, she empty-handed. But she was upset now.
“Danny is in the clear,” she said. “He has never even seen tho
se men.”
“All right, all right. Sorry. You know he does lend the boat to John Patrick. He said so himself. I was just thinking out loud.”
“Then don’t you be doing that. Not about stuff like that. If word gets out about your loud thoughts.”
“All right. All right. Sorry.”
They sat waiting. They could hear the water and the rocks. The screen door banging over at Margaret’s house.
“But if the boy is in the clear like you say, then why is she still here? Why hasn’t she gone back to her job in Toronto by now?”
“Because she likes it here, and to arrange the funeral. She said if possible she might stay here until Thanksgiving. I know she’s working in that boathouse all the time. I see the courier coming and going, and she’s got a heater in there and a typewriter too now, and the phone. And there’s the telex at the post office. So will you finally stop talking? You want another beer?”
“No, thanks, Aileen. I’m fine.”
* * *
—
Danny did come home that night, but not until three in the morning. She heard the truck and then the front door, and when he came up in his sock feet she stood on the landing in her nightgown and clicked on the light.
“Where you been, Danny? Do you know what time it is?”
He stood shielding his eyes. “Turn it off, Mom. And what are you doing out of bed?”
“Well, I heard you. What’s that on your hand?”
“It’s nothing. There was a broken window at the Brewers’ and I had to board it up. I’ll have to go back tomorrow and do it properly, but I cut myself on some glass.”
“So let’s put something on that. Come in the bathroom.” “Mom, just go back to bed.”
“Not until we’ve put some iodine on that, and a bandage. Come along.” She went into the bathroom and opened the first aid cabinet.
She washed his hand with warm water and soap and patted it dry. The cut was in the fleshy part at the base of his left thumb. Clean edges. She brushed on some iodine.
“Danny,” she said, and she held his hand for the iodine to sink in. “I know it stings a bit, but it kills the germs. You didn’t lend our boat to John Patrick so he could take those men out to Crieff, did you? Or take the kids, or anything like that? I have to ask, Danny.”
“What? No, I didn’t. What’s all this suddenly?”
“You be honest with me, Danny.”
“Mom. For heaven’s sake. What’s with you now? I had nothing to do with that. And neither did John Patrick.” “You don’t know that. Letting him use our boat. You don’t know what he did with it.”
“But I do know. I know the man.”
She peeled off gauze, then unspooled some tape and cut off two lengths.
“Nothing that big, Mom. It gets in the way. Just a good-sized Band-Aid.”
“This needs more than a Band-Aid. Any deeper and it would need a couple of stitches.” She cut the gauze and the tape smaller. “And you didn’t take the men or the kids out yourself, did you?”
“No! Stop it now. I’m gett’n angry. I’ve never even seen those characters or the kids. I told you. And I told the policeman, and I told them at the morgue. I thought we were done with all that.”
“Well, it turns out they were bringing in cocaine or something. The kids were. Probably. And those two men were meeting them. So how did they all get out to the island? Hold still now. I’m putt’n this on.”
“How does anyone get out there? In a boat. Maybe they had their own.”
“I hope that’s all true, Danny. I want to believe you, that you had nothing to do with any of that.”
“Well, I didn’t. When did I ever lie to you?”
“I don’t know. I hope never. Did you?”
“Never about anything important.”
“I hope so.” She pressed down the ends of the tape with her thumbs. “There,” she said. “Don’t get it wet.”
“All right. Go to bed now, Mom. You’re wearing me out.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around and out the bathroom door. “Night, Mom. Go to sleep.”
Twenty-One
THE NEXT DAY Jack called to say they were sending him back to British Columbia. As he’d suspected. So even if he’d wanted to come out for that funeral, he couldn’t.
Problems at the Tannhead silver mine, he said. And it was urgent. Metals were becoming a headache. Had she by any chance seen the price of silver? Twenty dollars an ounce and going up. And so of course they all wanted to increase production right away. He gave her the phone number of the mine office. A trailer camp in the bush, he said. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone.
After she’d hung up she sat for a while looking at the telephone. It rang again, but it wasn’t Jack. It was Hugh asking about progress with the new corporation transfer, the 65-million-dollar deal for a Hong Kong client. She told him she’d spoken with the client’s office in London several times already and had begun writing a draft agreement. The case was progressing well, she said. She’d send him the draft in a day or two. The New York case was still in the research stage, and for the Hydro case she was planning a meeting in Toronto sometime in the week after Thanksgiving. Perhaps on that Thursday. Jenny was always fully informed, she said.
* * *
—
Aileen came with her to the hospital morgue, but then in the parking lot she changed her mind and said she’d rather wait in the car.
“Oh? Why?”
“Hospital politics. I’d just rather not be seen off-duty in there.”
The pathologist was a woman her own age. Dr. Mary Snell, said her name tag. She led the way to a wall of steel drawers and put on glasses to search among the labels. She turned around to Margaret.
“Ready?”
Margaret nodded.
The drawers came out on rollers and rested side by side. The doctor drew back the sheets and there lay the children, pale and bare naked, with their eyes closed now and their hands one on top of the other on long, crudely stitched incisions down their chests and abdomens. Wide, clear faces. The girl had small breasts and fine-boned hands and nice fingernails. The boy had a small scar through the left eyebrow. Andrew had a little scar like that, in the other eyebrow, from some hockey practice on the Deer Park rink.
Behind her Dr. Snell stood and waited. After some time she cleared her throat and came forward.
“All right?” she said, and when Margaret nodded she pulled up the sheets and pushed the drawers shut again. She turned and led the way back up the concrete stairs and through the steel door into the lobby. There she stopped and turned around.
“You do know how they died?”
“Yes. More or less. Inspector Sorensen told me. She was probably standing right behind him.”
“Yes, that’s what it looks like. I understand you are hoping to arrange a funeral for them?”
“I am. In our church and our cemetery.”
Dr. Snell nodded. “We’ll have to wait for the paperwork. But good luck with it.” She offered her hand.
* * *
—
After some minutes on the road, Aileen finally said, “So? Are you going to talk about it?”
And Margaret tried to describe what she had seen and how it had affected her. Talking about it helped, but it was still difficult. Both so very young and pale. Their dead, young faces up close. So utterly defenceless.
* * *
—
That afternoon she was at the co-op when Reverend McMurtry saw her and came up to her.
“Margaret,” he said. “I should tell you, I am sorry but I have decided against it.”
They were standing at the far end of the hardware section, where she’d found plastic tags and small nails to label her trees with. They were the only people there. He stood in his black suit and white collar, in his cracked black shoes. He was holding a brown paper bag with both hands.
“It’s all just too irregular,” he said. “Quite outside conventions. And I hear they ma
y have been smugglers.” “They weren’t smugglers. And even if. Does that matter? They were kids who made a mistake.”
“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t want their graves in our cemetery to become some sort of future romantic Bonnie and Clyde tourist attraction. Why not have them buried at La Roche, like your family?”
“I suppose I could, as a last resort, but they died here. Not on the North Shore.”
“So did your grandmother, AJ.”
“Oh, I see. It’s because my grandmother wasn’t buried here. Is that it?”
“No one from your family is buried here, Margaret.”
“And you know why. Because there was a Joubert family plot in La Roche already and Grandmother wanted to be buried next to her husband.”
“Well. Be that as it may. I have decided, and my answer is no.” He took a step back and nodded at her, and turned and walked away.
“But they died here among us, Reverend,” she said loudly to his back. “Doesn’t that mean we have a certain obligation?”
He pretended not to hear, and she hurried after him. At the cash register they stood side by side. He paid and turned to go, stiff-necked and stubborn, and she told the clerk to weigh her nails and count the tabs and add it all up. She’d be back in a minute.
Outside he had just folded himself into his little Morris, and she walked up to it and put her hand on the door before he could close it.
“Reverend,” she said. “Please wait! Did you hear what I said? What about our obligation as a community? Or even just an opportunity to come together as decent human beings. Have you thought about that?”
“Margaret, yes, I have thought about it. And I’ve given you my answer. Please let go of my door.”
She did, and he slammed the door shut and started the engine and drove away.
* * *
—
Later she walked her forest to calm herself, and with the help of her father’s book she began to identify trees from bark and needles and leaf arrangements. She printed each name with an indelible pen on a plastic tab and tacked that to the trunk.
