The Rain Barrel Baby

by Alison Preston

  “Eat the sandwiches your sister made for you. I’ll go on up and see your mum.”

  “I don’t think Mummy wants to be disturbed right now, Daddy,” Sadie said.

  “Well, maybe she’ll make an exception for me. Now, what do you say to Emma for making such a nice lunch?”

  “Thank you very much for the sandwich, Em,” Sadie said.

  Frank kissed his younger daughter as he left the kitchen.

  Denise lay awake on the bed in her terry towel robe. She had showered and her long wet hair was fanned out around her face like seaweed on the pillow. She didn’t look at her husband when he entered the room.

  Frank got a towel, laid it gently under her head and switched pillows on her. The one she had been lying on was soaking wet. Her face was puffy and bruised looking as though she had beaten herself up.

  “Oh God, Frank, what must our children think of me?”

  Frank couldn’t think of a single thing to say so he put his arms around her and she let loose with a barrage of tears. Her hair smelled like apples, the same as it had the first time he had been close enough to notice. He had seen her then as filled with light, knowable. She had put old fears to rest. He denied for years that she had conjured up new ones that he hadn’t known before.

  He handed her some Kleenex now and waited.

  “Do you hate me, Frank?”

  “No, I don’t hate you. I’m worried about you and I’m worried about our family, but I could never hate you.”

  They sounded like old words to Frank, used words that should have been thrown out with yesterday’s garbage. But he didn’t want to upset her, he didn’t feel up to it. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him if he loved her.

  In the beginning, their conflicts had erupted and resolved themselves, securely fastened within the boundaries of their love. But as the years went by, those boundaries quivered and thinned; words and actions could bust clear through and fly around out there, testing the waters of a vast loneliness.

  “Do you still love me, Frank?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t pretty it up and he could see his doubts on her face, but it was the best he could do.

  She stopped crying. “I’ll go back to the hospital, Frank. Will you help me?”

  “Of course.” He kissed her on the temple as he got up to leave. “See if you can sleep awhile and I’ll try and have it worked out by the time you wake up.”

  “Thanks.” She sighed and laid down her head.

  Frank was enjoying her absence in a way. The house was easier without her. It took a little getting used to, not trying to keep everyone quiet, talking in whispers. It was noisier, healthier. And Emma was old enough now that he probably wouldn’t need to get Uncle Bosco to come from Regina to help with the kids. Gus would be happy to help out if it came to that. Poor Gus. He still seemed a little wobbly after the events of last Sunday.

  Frank carried his coffee outside to a bench in the yard of the police station. New blades of grass poked through the matted lawn and a green sheen attached itself to the Manitoba Maples. The sun warmed a patch big enough for one person on the park bench.

  Was there any way in the world that Denise would be able to turn her life around? Frank doubted it — she had tried on other occasions. He would be here for her again this time, but he didn’t know if he could go on this way indefinitely. It was wearing him down.

  He thought about Audrey, his girlfriend from high school days. They’d had a brief dalliance two summers ago. He wasn’t proud of that, but not ashamed either. How had Audrey put it? Old business, something like that. Not to be worried about. Amazingly enough, he hadn’t worried.

  He admired the way she had just taken off. He didn’t even wish he’d gone with her. It wasn’t Audrey he wanted.

  Frank couldn’t let go of a thin shred of hope. Maybe some day he and Denise would do that — take off. Maybe on a motorcycle. When the kids were grown and he’d saved some money they could do it.

  A squirrel approached; it was fat and fearless. Frank had nothing to offer.

  He figured he wasn’t cut out to be happy. Even when things were going well, like when Denise went for a period without drinking, he felt that he wasn’t really inside of his life. Oh, he noticed the spring air and even felt an inkling of excitement at the change in the season. But it was tempered with something. There was a giant “if only” hanging over his head. If only I could really be here so I could smell that air and feel that excitement. I know it’s good but it doesn’t penetrate to the soul of me. Frank feared for his soul. He thought maybe it was lost.

  What if Denise managed a new start and he was the one to let everyone down?

  Frank apologized to the squirrel.

  A wave of hopelessness washed over him. They weren’t going to be taking a trip to anywhere. It was too late for motorcycles, maybe even motor homes.

  He went back to his office, avoiding the main lobby. He didn’t want to hobnob with the group of boisterous uniformed cops behind the reception counter.

  The clock on the wall in his office told him he should be getting home soon. He couldn’t put so much responsibility on Emma. Frank sat down at his desk and opened the rain barrel baby file. The mystery of the baby was very likely unsolvable. A week had already gone by since Gus had found her. Frank went over the facts of the case, forcing himself not to speculate. Just the facts.

  The baby had lived outside of the womb. She was born alive approximately thirty-three weeks after conception and she died minutes later. She had breathed the air but had not tasted her mother’s milk. Frank thought a baby would be bigger at eight months; she was so small. The birth and death occurred last fall. And as Gus suspected, the tiny girl wintered in the rain barrel.

  It was a very small comfort that she was smothered before being dropped into the cold water. At least she didn’t drown. Frank imagined drowning to be the worst death of all.

  One last fact glared up at him from the medical examiner’s report. The baby had been HIV-positive.

  The only fingerprints on the barrel and its coverings were Gus’ and Greta’s. The same with the ladder and other items that could have been used to climb up on.

  Fred Staples, one of the detective sergeants who worked under Frank, had checked with every hospital in the province for records of slightly premature babies born during the period in question. Nothing connected.

  Frank phoned Fred to see if he was in. He was, so Frank asked him to drop by his office.

  “The way I see it, Fred, there are three possibilities.” Frank counted them off on his fingers. “One, the baby came from further afield than Manitoba; two, she was born outside a hospital; or three, she slipped through the cracks at a hospital within the province.”

  Fred stood at attention in front of the desk. Frank wished he wouldn’t do that. Frank stood up and moved to the window where the late afternoon sun warmed the cold glass.

  “I’d been thinking along the same lines,” Fred said. “And I’m inclined to think that possibility number two may be the ticket: born outside of a hospital.”

  “In which case we’re pretty much out of luck, aren’t we?” Frank rattled the change in his pocket. “This may just end up being a really sad story that we can do nothing about. I mean, even if we found the mother that did this, what good would it do? She’s pretty much got a death sentence anyway. The baby was HIV-positive, so she must be too, mustn’t she?”

  “She should be taken to task, sir.”

  Frank sighed. He didn’t want to take anyone to task. And he wished Fred wouldn’t call him sir. He’d asked him not to, but Fred couldn’t seem to help it.

  “Let’s check hospitals in north Ontario and south Saskatchewan and then I think we may as well let it go,” Frank said.

  “I’ll get on that right away, sir.” Fred spun around on his heel. Frank wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d saluted or if he’d continued spinning, clear around till he was facing the same way he’d started.

  “How’s Frances?” Fra
nk asked before Fred closed the door.

  He poked his head back in. “Fine, thanks, sir, I guess.”

  Frank had hoped that Fred’s new wife would help loosen him up some, but so far there had been no evidence of it.

  Frank sat down in his ergonomically correct chair. His ankles ached for no good reason. He worked for a few minutes trying to clear at least one item from his desk. It was a request from one of his sergeants for a transfer, out of Frank’s division. He wondered if it had anything to do with him.

  Reason for Transfer: Desire for change.

  That didn’t tell him much.

  Frank set it aside. There was so much paperwork. His job now seemed to be mainly paperwork. And he didn’t feel like doing it; he never felt like doing it.

  So he opened his second from top drawer and dragged the soft woolen contents from their hiding spot over to his lap. He found his place and began to knit. Frank wasn’t sure yet what he was building. The wool was blue, an irresistible blue. There was a ways to go before he had to decide on a particular item.

  Just fifteen minutes and then he would go home and give Emma a break.

  CHAPTER 6

  1956

  “It kinda goes to me,” the kid says and the saleslady laughs.

  The mother has taken her downtown to buy something to wear for the first day of grade one. The dress is covered with butterflies and the kid loves it. A tiny net butterfly perches on the black velvet belt. Perfect.

  Suddenly, in the middle of the new clothes, her mother disappears and ladies hover. They know all about it.

  “Your mummy had to go for a ride, dear, in a car. These nice men will take you home. They know where you live.”

  “Can’t I go with my mum?” the kid asks.

  “Don’t worry, honey. She’ll be fine. There was just a little misunderstanding. I’m sure that’s all it was. You go now with the nice men.”

  “What about the butterfly dress?” she asks.

  “We’ll keep it for you, dear, and you and your mum can come back for it.”

  An ice-cream cone appears in her hand and she rides home in a black and white car. The nice men are police.

  They don’t go back for the dress and a few days later a girl in her class wears it to school.

  The kid cries, right there at her desk.

  “What is it, dear?” the teacher asks. “What’s wrong?”

  But she can’t say. She doesn’t have the words to describe what’s wrong. She can’t even make a start.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Present

  Emma kissed her pillow. Then she kissed her arm. She hadn’t kissed a boy yet, but she hoped to soon.

  Emma and Delia had explored each other’s bodies pretty thoroughly, but they hadn’t kissed. They hadn’t wanted to.

  Delia had given her the idea about practising on her pillow and on her arm. She had already kissed a boy and said it was really great. Emma believed her and couldn’t wait. She wished her arm didn’t have quite so many freckles.

  She had a picture of the boy she wanted to kiss: Donald Griffiths. He was in her home room at school and when they’d had their pictures taken she had asked him for one. Her bravery had astonished her. She thought she camouflaged her desire fairly well in the hubbub of laughter and trading going on when their school pictures arrived.

  He didn’t seem surprised, just smiled and said, “Sure. Can I have one of you too?”

  Emma suspected he had asked just to be polite but she gave him one and wrote on the back: To Donald, from Emma Foote. He didn’t write anything on the back of his, which was a little disappointing, but she hadn’t wanted to force him into anything further.

  Emma loved Donald and thought about him all the time. Delia knew how she felt and was pretty good at encouraging her and cheering her up when she felt there was no hope.

  Emma had decided that she would let Donald touch her breasts after they had kissed several times on different occasions. That’s if he wanted to. Her breasts weren’t very big but he might want to anyway. She figured it was okay to go that far and wanted badly for it to happen. She was pretty definite about not doing anything more than that though.

  What she had done with Delia didn’t really count. It was more for educational purposes.

  And what she did on her own was something else entirely. She did that now as she imagined kissing Donald. She kissed his picture but that didn’t work as well as her arm. It was too flat and smooth.

  Afterwards she thought about her science project. Her idea was to build a volcano that would actually erupt. It wouldn’t be easy but she figured it was something she could pull off. Maybe her dad would help. Maybe Donald would help! He was a bit of a science geek.

  If only my breasts were a little larger, Emma thought, and pushed them together, making a feeble cleavage. It hurt, so she let go and turned sideways to look in the mirror. Oh well, at least I don’t have wiener breasts. That was Delia’s expression. Her mum had wiener breasts, so Delia figured she was doomed to the same fate. They weren’t wieners yet, though. It was more of an older woman’s thing.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ivy Grace sat on a park bench outside The Forks Market. She faced the river and beyond it the beauty of Old Saint Boniface, but her eyes didn’t take it in; she was contemplating her next move. For two years, four months, one day, fifteen hours and — she looked at her watch — fourteen minutes, she had been working on her plan, and it was falling into place. Actually, she had begun long before that, she just hadn’t realized it. She’d known she was working towards something, probably since the day she walked out of her mother’s house twenty-nine years ago, but she hadn’t known what. It hadn’t come clear all at once, far from it.

  But now, she had completed the first steps and it was time to move on. She thought back to the Saturday morning, two and a third years ago, when she had gotten started. In the practical sense.

  On that day, when the plan shaped itself in her mind, Ivy had stood admiring herself, the result of her efforts, in her full-length mirror. She smiled slowly, worked at it. She knew the smile was important.

  Her notebook had lain open on her desk and she’d gone over to consult it: Admire self in mirror. Okay. Practise smiling so it includes eyes. Okay.

  Next came something she didn’t like to do. Pray. It was important. She would be lost without her prayers, without whatever it was she prayed to, telling her what to write in her notebook. It was just that she hated the process. She wished she could just open the book each day and find the words neatly in place.

  Praying hurt — her stomach mostly. And sometimes it made her throat ache. The trouble was, sometimes the hurt wouldn’t go away but would stick with her all day. Even into the night.

  Her sleep used to be as deep and black as death when she had been seeing Dr. Braun. He gave her pills — pills for this, pills for that. They worked, but she didn’t like the man. She had given him up and with him her sound sleeps.

  It had to be done, so she did it. Knelt by her bed, laid her head on the soft sweet scent of the goose down comforter, carefully, so as not to disturb her hair or face. It didn’t take long for the words to come. They started and ended abruptly. The voice that spoke to her was female, familiar, but nothing she could tie a name to. So she made one up. Gruck. It fit. Sometimes she thought of it simply as G. That morning, as always, G gave her the words to get her through that day and part way through the next.

  Ivy wrote the words from G with pencil in backhand till she filled one page of her notebook. Then she went back to where she began, to double check her next move. The writing was almost unreadable: Scout out a man, any man.

  Sometimes she wished Gruck would give her more complete information, the hows and the wheres. But that part was left up to her. Ivy supposed there was a reason for this, so didn’t question it, just wished sometimes it could be easier.

  For instance, it was awfully early in the day to find a man in the sense that she knew G wanted her to find one. But she
would have to try. It was for the men that she took such care with her appearance. G insisted on it.

  The bars weren’t open yet. The supermarket, she supposed, and if that didn’t work she could try an art gallery or a museum.

  She erased the sentence declaring the task at hand.

  At the Safeway things went much more easily than she had anticipated.

  “I never know how to pick a cantaloupe,” she said, holding the round fruit helplessly in both hands, squeezing gently.

  “Here. Let me help.” The man jumped in as she knew he would. He had a white puppy tucked into his coat.

  The rest was easy, except for the part where she insisted that he not use any protection. That had put him off, just for a bit, and he’d thought she was strange.

  Well, she was strange and she was also fixin’ to die. That was the way she liked to think of it, to phrase it.

  Now, all this time later, she had what she had been looking for and it was time for the next step. Frank Foote didn’t know it, but he was the key.

  Ivy stood up and gazed upon the river that had drawn her there in the first place. Across the water the spires of Saint Boniface caught her eye. So sharp. It distressed her to look at them, but at the same time, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  CHAPTER 9

  Frank stopped in to see Greta on his way home from work on Monday to tell her that there was no news about the rain barrel baby. She didn’t seem to care. In fact, she didn’t want to talk about that baby at all.

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Frank? I’ve got some open.”

  Frank didn’t like to drink on weekdays if he could help it. “That’d be nice,” he said.

  He could celebrate not having to answer the questions of a more inquisitive person, questions like: was she born dead; did she drown; did she suffer much?

  Greta placed a glass of Italian red in Frank’s hand and he settled himself across from her at the kitchen table.

  There were at least one hundred cherry tarts cooling on racks right there in front of him. He would have loved to scarf down a couple of those, but he knew they were for business purposes and didn’t like to ask. Surely she would offer! Or maybe she made the exact number required and there was no room for casual munching.