Cold Mourning

by Brenda Chapman

  The bed springs creaked and her heart jumped. She kept her body still. She took a deep breath and turned her head toward her husband. He was a dark outline leaning against the headboard.

  “Clinton. How long have you been sitting there?” she asked.

  “Half an hour.”

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I got lonely downstairs. It’s Christmas Eve after all.”

  She heard him swallow and then ice cubes clink against glass. Oh no. Keep him talking. “I thought the officer was nice, considering why she came,” she said. She turned on her side and propped herself up on the pillow, her head resting on her elbow so she could watch him.

  He looked down at her. “You were home that night?”

  “Of course. Why would you ask?”

  “I called and you didn’t answer the phone.”

  “What time was that? I was home all evening,” she paused, “except when I went for a walk. But I wasn’t gone long.”

  “Long enough. I tried calling for an hour and then gave up.”

  “I’m sorry, Clinton. If you’d said you planned to call, I would have waited at home.”

  He grunted and took another drink from his glass. She could smell rye from where she lay. His hand reached down and his fingers pulled a lock of her hair. She closed her eyes.

  “I’ve got a present for you,” he said. “Just a bit lower.”

  He tightened his hand in her hair and pulled her face toward his hip. Her cheek felt the skin of his leg and her mouth grazed his penis. She pulled away and pushed herself up with one hand until she was half sitting.

  “Clinton, I’m not feeling well. I’m not up for this tonight.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m up for it. I’m sure you noticed.” He laughed again. “It’s your wifely duty to spread your legs more than once a month, or have you forgotten?”

  “I just haven’t been well this month. I need some time.”

  “And I need some ass.”

  He grabbed her head and pulled her level. His mouth found hers and he forced it open until his tongue filled her mouth. She tasted rye and garlic. She tried to push him away, but he had her against the headboard. His hand worked under her nightgown, snaking up her stomach and squeezing her nipples. The pain was sharp and tears started in the corners of her eyes. Still his mouth kept pummelling hers as his tongue darted in and out. He pulled away as suddenly and roughly pushed her lower in the bed. His breathing was raspy and excited. He forced her onto her side, her face away from him. She felt his erection pressing against her back.

  “All I want is what you promised to give me when you signed the marriage contract,” he said. “If you want it this way so you can pretend to be somewhere else, no fucking problem.”

  She felt the first thrust rip through her and couldn’t stop the scream that rose up her throat. It excited him even more. His breath was hot in her ear.

  “You like it rough,” he whispered. “You like it this way, my little Suzy. Wake up little Suzy. Wake up my sweet … little … Suzy.”

  He flipped her onto her back and she bit with all her might into the pillow just as the full weight of him pushed deep inside her, again and again while she kept on screaming inside her head in a place so far down, nobody would ever hear.

  14

  Saturday, December 24, 5:40 p.m.

  Kala filed her daily report late that afternoon before packing up her gear and heading downtown in her truck. She was becoming familiar with the rabbit warren of streets in the ByWard Market, but the mission was just outside the core and close to Ottawa University. She easily found the three-storey, red brick building on Waller Street just before six o’clock. She followed an army of footprints up the snowy walkway to the front entrance. Red arrows posted on the walls led her to the packed hall.

  The place was hopping.

  Overhead speakers crooned Bing Crosby singing Silent Night. His voice mixed with the noise made by the tables of street people and assisted living families who’d come in for turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. She heard the clink of cutlery and plates being slid onto tables by volunteer servers, and people speaking in loud voices, trying to make themselves heard above each other. Cheap loops of silver tinsel hung from the ceiling. Multi-coloured lights flashed on a plastic Christmas tree near the washrooms. The room was as warm as a sweat lodge and steam blurred the inside of the windows. Moisture trickled down her back under her heavy parka.

  She threaded her way through the long rows of tables and sea of people to the kitchen at the back. It took a few minutes to catch the attention of a large black woman who looked to be in charge. She was dressed in a red skirt and shiny green blouse with a reindeer brooch pinned just below the collar. Rudolph’s red nose flashed on and off like a turn signal. The woman held a clipboard and was directing volunteers with trays of food-laden plates.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she asked, spotting Kala. Laugh lines creased around her eyes behind red-rimmed glasses.

  “I phoned this morning about helping out. My name’s Kala Stonechild.”

  The woman looked down at her clipboard. “Kala Stonechild. I was hoping you’d show up. A few of the volunteers are wanting to get home to their families. Welcome aboard. Take that apron over there and … you said you’d waited tables before? Then, that section by the door is all yours. This is the one day of the year our patrons don’t have to line up for their food. If you have any questions, just ask. My name is Maya.” She snapped her fingers in the direction of a heavily pierced girl with purple hair. “Tiffany! Show Kala here the ropes. She’s going to help feed these hungry folks.”

  Tiffany smiled, said hello, and led Kala through the door into the kitchen. She set Kala up with a tray, notepad, and pen and showed her where to place orders and where to pick up the food. “You don’t have to worry about clearing the tables,” Tiffany said. “We have volunteers for that. If they finish eating, try to move them along to free up some tables. If we’re lucky, we’ll feed everybody by midnight. It’s a madhouse this year.”

  “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Tiffany laughed. “Even people with nothing can be happy at Christmas. Track me down if you need anything else.” She waved and disappeared to deliver a tray of salads.

  Kala looked around at the room of people and wondered what she’d gotten herself into. A few deep breaths and she headed to the first group of waiting people. Three tables later and she was in the thick of it. Taking orders. Back and forth from the kitchen with soup, salads, and plate after plate of turkey and dessert. Pouring coffee. Getting milk and juice for the kids. Everybody was in a good mood and laughter echoed off the corners of the room and down from the ceiling. After a while, she couldn’t believe how much fun she was having.

  She didn’t forget the real reason she was spending her Christmas Eve working for the Mission. Every five minutes she scanned the room, looking for an Aboriginal woman with a twelve-year-old daughter. Twice she thought she saw them, but both times she was disappointed.

  People weren’t coming into the hall as often now, and hadn’t been for the past hour or so. She was finally able to manage her tables without rushing. It gave her time to notice how tired her legs and feet were feeling. She made one last trip to the kitchen for an order of turkey that she delivered to a table of three homeless men. She straightened from setting down the last plate and felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself a foot away from Maya’s beaming face.

  “Well, now. You’ve done more than your fair share of serving people. It’s starting to slow down. Time to have a plate of turkey and some pie and coffee,” said Maya, taking her by the arm. “I’ve got it set up on the table over here. I could use a rest too.”

  “Now that you mention it, that pie does look good,” said Kala. “I’m not hungry for turkey though. I ate earlier.”

  “It’s fine pie. I baked them all myself.”

  They took seats across the tabl
e from each other. Kala added cream to her coffee and took a sip. She lifted her fork and took a bite of pumpkin pie. She rolled the filling around her tongue before swallowing. “Ah, I needed this. Thanks, Maya.”

  “You’re welcome, girl. Now, tell me the story of what brought you to us on this fine Christmas Eve.”

  “What makes you think I have a story?”

  “Everyone has a story. I’ve heard enough of them to fill a good number of books.”

  “I started a job here a few days ago. The reason I picked Ottawa was I got word my cousin was living here. I’ve been looking for her for a long time. We lost touch.” She stopped talking and drank from her coffee cup. She looked up at the narrow window near the ceiling. “It’s snowing again,” she said.

  Maya turned and lifted her head. She sighed. “Some folks’ll be glad we’re having a white Christmas. I’m not one of them.” She turned back around. “So, you thought your cousin might be dropping in here for supper? It’s a big city. We aren’t the only place offering supper to people with no place to go.”

  “The address I had for her was downtown, near here, but she’s moved on. I thought she might be in the same neighbourhood since her daughter’s in school.”

  “That makes sense. How old is the daughter?”

  “Twelve. Her name’s Dawn and my cousin’s name is Rosie. I’m wondering if you’ve seen them?”

  Maya leaned her head sideways and studied Kala until she seemed satisfied. “A lot of people I see don’t want to be found for one reason or another. Some are escaping their old lives that caused them pain. Some are sick or drinking too much and don’t want anybody to see how far down they’ve fallen. If they change their minds, we do all we can to help them get back to their old lives, but that doesn’t happen all that often. Sometimes we’ve had luck with teenagers, you know, getting them back to their families, but that’s less often than you’d think. This Rosie girl, did she have it tough?”

  “Yeah, she had it tough.”

  Maya’s inky black eyes held Kala’s so that she could not look away. “Looks like you might have had it tough too, child,” she said softly.

  “I’m doing okay.”

  Maya nodded. She chewed her pie while she considered the request. “A Native girl came in by herself when we first opened today. She looked to be around twelve. I went over to talk to her because it was so odd her being here all alone. She said her mom was too sick to come for supper, but she hoped she could bring some food home.”

  Kala’s heart quickened. “Did she say where they were living?”

  “No, but it had to be in the ByWard Market area somewhere. Somewhere nearby. We packed up two plates of food and sent her home with them.”

  “So close,” murmured Kala. “I wonder if I could leave my phone number with you in case you see them again. It’s really important that I find them.” It was even more important if Rosie was too sick to come for dinner.

  “You been looking a long time?”

  “Yeah. A long time.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.” Maya took the card Kala handed her and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll spread the word at the Ottawa Mission and see if I can find out anything for you.”

  “I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  Kala walked out into the brisk winter night. She jogged back to her truck and started the engine while she scraped the snow off the windshield of her truck. Flakes sparkled like granulated sugar in the street light. She took a moment to watch their silent descent before tossing the scrapper into the passenger seat and climbing in after it. The heater was on high but cold air was blasting into the cab. It would take a few more minutes to warm up. The street was all but deserted. She liked the calm of the night and the snow drifting down. What more did one need but a truck, homemade pie in the belly, and a warm bed waiting?

  A man in a dark coat and Santa hat came out of a tavern and started walking toward her. He glanced in her direction as he passed her truck and nodded his head. His footprints left a crooked path through the snow.

  You might have had it tough too.

  Was her life’s story written on her face or was Maya a witch who saw inside people’s souls? Kala believed in a universe bigger than herself. Not in a god, exactly, but laws of nature that had to be respected. She thought that Maya might be more in tune with the rhythms of the land and water than most. In her home town, Maya would have been one of the Elders — one of the people in the community the others would go to for guidance.

  I’ve seen things that no one should have to see. I’ve done things that I’m not proud of.

  Images in her mind were coming back that she’d long closed away. It was this search for Rosie awakening past terrors. She didn’t want to think about all the places she’d lived. The times she’d been scared and the reasons she lived alone. All the people she’d left behind.

  You might have had it tough, too.

  The snow was coming down heavier. Flakes were sliding down the defrosting windshield while a coating of snow was piling on the hood of the truck. It felt safe in this wintery cocoon where sounds were muffled and the sharp bite of the wind was kept at bay.

  She leaned back until her head was on the headrest and closed her eyes. It would be just fine to fall asleep like she’d done so many summers in her truck on summer canoe trips in the far North. Alone and safe with nobody knowing where she was. All alone, with Taiku, that is, with the exception of the summer before when Jordan had come with her. Two weeks canoeing the Fraser River as if they belonged together. Forgetting for fourteen days that he belonged to somebody else. She had nobody to blame now but herself for letting it go so far. She’d known better even as she kissed him back the first night they spent together after he’d told her that his marriage was over. She’d wanted so much to believe him that she’d ignored the warning signals going off in her head. Stupid. Stupid.

  She forced her eyes open and pushed herself upright. This wasn’t summer, and she wasn’t alone on a bush road with nothing but wilderness stretched out in front of her. It was the middle of a big city in the middle of winter. If she didn’t get moving soon, she’d have to get out and sweep the snow off the truck again. She checked the dark corners of the street one more time, put the truck into gear, and eased her way onto the road, thinking now only about laying her head on a pillow and closing her eyes for a night’s sleep.

  15

  Sunday, December 25, 11:15 a.m.

  Rouleau sat across from his dad and watched him open the gifts he’d picked up the night before. The Brian McKillop biography of Pierre Burton was a stroke of genius and the book on North American birds received a fair bit of attention. His father opened the down comforter last.

  “Tiens, tiens,” he said. “Now isn’t this something?”

  “Do you like it, Dad?”

  “It’ll keep me good and warm I should think. The apartment’s been a bit drafty this winter.”

  Rouleau was pleased. It had taken him a long time to pick out the perfect duvet cover. His father never asked for anything but deserved everything. He always said the same thing before and after opening his gifts. “Je suis un homme content.” Rouleau automatically translated in his head, “I am a happy man.”

  The tradition was the same. After his father opened the gifts, they’d walk the block to his dad’s favourite pub and have lunch. His dad would insist on buying both the turkey special and a bottle of burgundy. After the meal, they’d walk back to the apartment and a bottle of single malt would ceremoniously appear for a short tipple before Jacques drove back to Ottawa in the late afternoon. The remainder of the bottle was his parting gift. Rouleau always locked it in the trunk of his car in case he got pulled over.

  Today, as every Christmas Day, their lunch was served by Lottie McBride, owner and barkeep of the Bide a Wee Pub.

  “Ye enjoyed the turkey, I see,” she said before whisking away their empty plates. She returned with two bowls of trifle, coffee, and a plate of homemade shortbread cookies s
he baked for his father. Rouleau knew there’d be a full tin waiting for his dad on their way out the door.

  Rouleau sat back and patted his stomach. He smiled at his dad. “You made a good choice of restaurant for once.” The same joke every year. His father never considered going anywhere else. He looked down. “Your foot’s more swollen, Dad. Are you in much pain?”

  “Not really. They’ll be operating in the spring.”

  “I’m glad. I’ll get some time off and come stay with you.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “No arguments, Dad.”

  “How are you doing, son? Last time you were down, you said you might have made a mistake taking that job. Do you still feel that way?”

  “Most days. We have a murder case that’s giving us some profile, but it’ll likely be taken away after the holidays.”

  “You should find somewhere that makes you happy. Life’s too short to have regrets.”

  “I wish it were that easy. How’s your book coming? Do you still have your office at the university?”

  His dad nodded. “They’ve even loaned me a research assistant. I’ve nearly completed the opening chapter. It’s a fascinating subject, the making of the canal system. We’ve dug up some new material, if you excuse my pun. Even unearthed a murder to spice up the narrative.”

  “Solved?”

  “No, unsolved. I hope you have better luck with yours.”

  “Solving this case could be the unit’s only chance.”

  Lottie refilled their coffee cups, humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath while she swung the pot from Rouleau’s cup to his father’s. She patted his dad on the shoulder before slipping away.

  His dad watched her go with a smile on his face. He sipped from his cup and set it down. “Frances came to see me.” He paused and studied Rouleau from under his shaggy white eyebrows.

  Rouleau was surprised at first but then not. Frances loved his dad and would have wanted to see him before she got too sick to make the trip. “Did she tell you…?”