by Donna Milner
To the salesman’s obvious discomfort, the owner insists on accompanying them as they tour the ranch. In an accent heavy with guttural consonants, she does most of the talking. Following her through the outbuildings, Julie feels a twinge of sympathy for Richard, who is being so firmly usurped from his role, until she notices his twitches of pleasure at Ian’s obvious buying signals. The novice realtor actually rubs his palms together while answering Ian’s telling question about the equipment in the sheds and barn being included in the sale. Julie can almost see the salesman mentally calculating his share of the commission.
Outside, she joins Ian as he strays over to the horse corral where he leans on the wooden fence, resting one foot on the bottom rail. “Beautiful,” he says to himself, as two enormous chestnut workhorses plod across the dirt towards them. Their hides reflect the light in a coppery sheen; jet-black manes sway across arched necks. In stark contrast, the markings on their long faces and legs are snow white. Their feathered stockings, which look freshly combed, splay out over platter-sized hooves as they rise and fall with each heavy step.
“They must be at least eighteen hands high,” Ian says.
Julie glances over at her husband, surprised that he knows this term for a horse’s height. But, why not? He’s a numbers man after all.
“Clydesdales,” Richard says as he and Elke join them. “They’re included along with the four saddle horses out in the field.”
The two workhorses walk up to the fence and lift their massive heads over the top rung.
“Yah, they are Virgil’s babies,” Elke says reaching up and stroking the heavily muscled withers of the closest one. “His gentle giants, he calls them. At least that was what my husband told me. I wouldn’t know. I don’t see Virgil so much. He did business mit Helmut.” At the mention of her husband’s name something changes in the woman’s eyes. She quickly blinks herself back to the moment and points to the far side of the meadow. “The west side of the property goes to the top of the plateau,” she says, then begins to describe the boundaries.
“I have all the maps and overhead forestry photographs,” Richard announces in an attempt to take the lead.
While the verbal tug-of-war over property lines, hay production and timber values continues, Julie scans the countryside. Across the valley, below the western ridge, dense forest hugs the hillsides, a tapestry of variegated greens with rusty brown peppered throughout, as if Mother Nature has prematurely arrived with a hard autumn frost. From a distance it looks beautiful. But Julie knows exactly what causes this effect. The dead pine trees stand like tinder dry skeletons, remnants of the unchecked pine-beetle infestation, which continues to devastate the province’s forests.
“This is one of the few properties in the area that hasn’t been clear-cut,” Richard says as if following her thoughts.
“Helmut would not do this.” Elke strokes the velvet muzzle of the other horse. “He did not want to ruin the view.”
“The beetle-killed timber will have to come down,” Julie says, surprising herself.
Ian’s head jerks up. He smiles at her, and she is glad to see his delight at her joining the conversation.
“Virgil will log it mit der…” Elke stops. “With the horses,” she corrects herself.
“There’s a market for those dead trees now,” Richard interjects. “The lumber dresses out nicely. Denim pine they call it, because of the streaks of blue grain that the beetles cause. I did the wainscoting in my kitchen with it. Looks great.”
He turns away from the corral fence, effectively ending the conversation. “Now let’s see the rest of the property.” He directs them toward his crew-cab and Julie climbs into the back seat beside Elke. A few minutes later they turn down onto a driveway flanked by mountain ash trees.
“The rental cabin is just down here,” Richard says nodding ahead. “We’ll have a look at that first.”
Elke leans forward, shaking her head. “No. No. We cannot go inside.”
“You didn’t give the tenant notice that we were coming?” Richard asks slowing the truck to a crawl.
“Why would I? It is his home.”
The back of the cabin, nestled on the water’s edge, comes into view. Typical of the ancient settlers’ homes sprinkled throughout the Chilcotin, the weathered, square-hewn log cabin has a low slung roof and few windows. Except for the dented, road-weary pickup truck parked behind it, there’s no sign of life.
“I’d like to see inside,” Ian insists.
“There is nothing to see. It is just a small cabin, of no value. I have never been in it. Just my husband. No.” Elke sits back. “We must leave.”
“Sorry, folks,” Richard says, the frustration evident as he throws the vehicle into reverse.
During the jaw-chattering drive to the northeast fields, in answer to Ian’s questions about the tenant, Elke explains that Virgil was already living in the cabin when she and her husband bought the ranch. “He was here before we came, and he will be here when we are gone.” Her husband had promised Virgil Blue he could live in the cabin as long as he wanted. She means to keep that promise.
“He does so much work around the ranch,” she adds firmly. “You will be glad.”
Uncharacteristically, Ian does not press the point. Another tell. Julie watches in amazement as he nods in agreement. He turns to face the road and she studies the back of his head. For the first time in months he is sitting up straight. Lately it seems as if he is shrinking, that the essence of who he once was is diminishing, and the solid walls that once made up his defences are caving in. She is afraid that something beyond weight and size is being lost. Even his neck looks different, like a turtle’s retreating into its shell to shore itself up from the outside world. Is it possible that this crazy idea of his, this getting away from it all, might be their saving salvation after all?
Inside the ranch house Ian’s buying signals escalate. Even a wet-behind-the-ears realtor can’t miss Ian’s need to touch things, to run his hand along the smooth logs, the polished wooden doors, as he wanders from room to room. In the prow-shaped living room he stops to admire the massive central rock fireplace, and then walks over to the floor to ceiling windows. Beneath the high open beam ceiling, he stands in front of the plate glass staring out at the lake. “Amazing, just amazing,” he says to himself, before heading to the next room. Julie follows silently, skirting the glossy black bear rug splayed out in front of the fireplace. An involuntary shiver grips her at the sight of the bear’s enormous head, its fierce open-mouth display of carnivorous teeth.
In the large office adjoining the living room, Ian paces off the floor, measuring the space. Julie can see him mentally placing his desk and furniture to take advantage of the views from the wall to wall windows. She walks over and opens one of the French doors that overlook an ambitious garden on the east side of the house. The smell of freshly turned earth wafts in with the breeze. Feeling the need for counter measures, finding something negative to balance Ian’s overly positive enthusiasm, she closes the door. “Mosquitoes? Black flies?” she asks, eyeing the screens.
Elke shrugs. “Not so bad. The wind from the lake helps.”
“Yes, I imagine that the north wind must be brutal in the winter. I’m surprised you built the house at the head of the lake instead of in the shelter of the trees.”
“Yah. Virgil, he tells Helmut the same thing, not to build here. But,” she shrugs again, “the view.”
She leads them to the den on the opposite side of the living room. “Look at the light in here, Julie,” Ian says. “Don’t you think this would make a great office for you?”
An office for what? she wonders, then not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm any more than she has she nods and returns his smile. But something about the view of nothing except the barn and empty meadows stretching south makes her cringe. Mental isolation is one thing, but physical isolation? Could what was left of their marriage survive it?
Heading upstairs Julie tries to ignore the stuffed
animals, the deer, mountain goat, and moose heads gazing down from the log walls. Ian doesn’t ask if they stay, and like herself she senses him avoid their glass-eyed stares. While they tour the upstairs bedrooms, she feels him checking her reaction every now and then. It’s difficult not to be impressed with the opulence of the house, the oversized master suite with a private balcony overlooking the lake. Back downstairs, she concedes, “You have a beautiful home, Mrs Woell,” as they follow her into the kitchen.
The widow opens a maple cabinet and takes out four pottery mugs. “Yah. It is beautiful,” she says, placing two of the mugs under the coffee machine spigots. “I tell my husband he is spending too much.” She turns to face them. “I say, ‘Helmut, you will never get your money back.’ But it didn’t matter he says, he wants to live here for the rest of his life.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms in front of her. “Und,” she says, “he did.”
Richard clears his throat and places his briefcase on the table. “You couldn’t build this house today for the list price of the entire ranch,” he says, gesturing for Julie and Ian to take a seat.
“Yah, the price is good. Firm,” Elke announces, oblivious to her agent’s slumping shoulders. “Everyone tells me, it is too soon, you must not sell so fast. You must give it some time. Virgil will look after the ranch. So yah, I could stay.” She places steaming mugs in front of Julie and Ian. “But no.” She shakes her head and straightens up. “Now, I go to the city. This was Helmut’s dream, not mine.”
Hearing the woman’s statement—so similar to her own thought earlier today—Julie watches for Ian’s reaction to her words. But Ian is too intent on studying his surroundings to notice.
Sipping her coffee, Julie, too, looks around the immaculate stainless steel and granite kitchen. It would be impossible not to admire the imported European appliances, the gleaming wood walls and beamed ceiling, the wood-fired oven built into the kitchen side of the rock fireplace. And, Julie has to admit, the comforting aroma of baking bread wafting from that oven, is the perfect touch. Through the bay window over the sink, Julie catches a glimpse of the lake’s sun-sparkling surface. At that moment a loon glides past the shallow reeds near shore. It lifts its ebony head and releases a warbling call, a haunting plea to some unseen mate.
A professional house stager could not have planned it better. Beside her, Ian tilts his head and listens with an appreciating grin as a volley of answering cries echo across the water.
In another life Julie would just as easily have allowed herself to admire the beauty of it all. She envies Ian’s ability to do so now.
3
“Purging?” her sister asks from the kitchen doorway.
Julie looks up from where she is sitting on the family room floor attacking the lower shelves and drawers of the wall unit.
“Something like that,” she says straightening up and arching her back. Even with the professional movers there is still so much to do. Such a nasty job.
“I’ve finished cleaning the fridge,” Jessie says, snapping off her rubber gloves. “Why don’t I start packing the kitchen dishes?”
“No, the movers can do all of that. I’m just finishing up the personal stuff.”
“Well then, how about I make a pot of tea?”
“That would be great. I’m almost done.”
Watching her sister head into the kitchen, Julie says, “Jess, I know it couldn’t have been easy leaving the girls in Vancouver with Mom. Have I thanked you yet for coming?”
“Only a half-dozen times,” Jessie calls over her shoulder.
Julie smiles at her retreating back then returns to her final task in this room.
Moving forces a sorting of the bric-a-brac and dust collectors of life, forces a culling of the past. The last time she did this job was twelve years ago, when they moved from their first modest home across town to this executive home above the Waverley Creek golf course.
Back then, it was so much more difficult to pick and choose which ‘stuff’ to hang on to and which to let go. Darla, who was four years old at the time, hadn’t made it any easier. While Julie had sorted and packed, her daughter had followed behind rescuing most of the discards.
This time Julie finds it easy to chuck anything and everything. There’s nothing to prevent her from sweeping the tacky travel souvenirs off of the bottom shelf into the share-shed box, and she does so with morbid relish. One at a time she pulls sales awards and wall plaques from the drawers to toss them thumping and clattering into the recycle boxes.
Opening the end cabinet she is stopped short by the sight of the collection of pink albums, standing spine out, labelled from one to thirteen. She still hasn’t put together Darla’s fourteenth and fifteenth years. She wonders if she ever will. The neglected and unsorted photographs are stored in the shoebox on the bottom shelf. Her hands shake as she slides the box out now and places it on her lap. Unable to stop herself, she removes the lid. At the sight of the top photograph, a bittersweet memory of the moment Ian took the picture of her and Darla on Darla’s fourteenth birthday floods through her. Now she is glad that she had swallowed her shock and kept her opinion to herself about her daughter’s new haircut that day. Staring down at Darla’s Irish black hair—shaved to the scalp on one side of her head with a long careless swatch hanging over a mascara-laden eye on the other—Julie wonders why she had hated the style at the time. It was so much better than the purple and orange spikes that would follow.
She places the shoebox on the floor, pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. It’s the dust, she tells herself. Picking up the photograph again, she studies the image of Darla standing beside her, their arms around each other’s shoulders. She tries to read the thoughts behind her daughter’s ‘say-cheese’ smile, searching for any clue, any hint that things were about to change. She detects nothing in the round-cheeked face, which looks so much like her own had at the same age, minus the haircut and make-up.
When Darla was a little girl, Julie remembers other mothers warning her about the terrible teenage years to come. She had laughed off their stories about living with mother-hating she-monsters. She had sympathized when a co-worker’s seventeen-year-old daughter ran away and ended up on the streets of Vancouver, but secretly she had felt immune from it all. Julie believed that her and Darla’s relationship was different, special, too close to follow that route. Unlike her friends and female co-workers, she had only one child—not from lack of trying, but simply the way it turned out—and so she could focus completely on her daughter. She had foolishly believed that was all it took.
Then Darla turned fourteen. From that exact day it seemed, the little changes, small shifts in her personality, started. The changing-hormone moodiness was to be expected, certainly, but the silences, the irritation at most things Julie said, the rush to criticize or challenge her values, where had that come from? Where had her little girl gone, the one who had brought home a heart-warming Mother’s Day essay from school, which concluded ‘and when I grow up I want to be just like her’?
How could it all have changed so quickly? During her fourteenth and fifteenth year the only thing her shape-shifting daughter ever gave her was the dreaded shoulder shrug in response to the simplest of questions. Still, it hadn’t been all bad; there were the odd moments when she forgot her rebellion, the moments that brought out the little girl excitement, and exposed the wears-her-heart-on-her-sleeve daughter. Through it all, Julie always knew that, beneath the trying-to-be-tough teenager was her same sweet Darla. She just had to wait the stage out, she had told herself. And then last year there were signs that it was coming to an end when Darla had taken a sudden interest in the American presidential race.
“Do you believe it’s possible, Mommy,” she had asked while watching Barack Obama’s declaration speech in February of 2007.
“Of course, anything’s possible,” Julie had replied, more thrilled at the ‘mommy’ slip than the question.
Overnight it seemed, Darla turned into a new
s junkie, watching and taping everything she could find concerning the Illinois senator. Her bedroom walls became a shrine—like to the rock stars of Julie’s youth—to the presidential candidate. She and some of her friends started a ‘Canadian Students Supporting Obama’ group at school that graduated to the Internet and mushroomed to other schools across the country.
Julie picks up another photograph and smiles at the image of herself, and a very different-looking Darla, both wearing matching I’ve got a crush on Obama t-shirts. Using a time delay Julie had taken that photo herself last summer. At fifteen Darla was already five foot two. She had begun to tease her mother that she would soon be looking down at her. Yet in this picture Julie appears so much taller than her daughter, who never felt the need to exaggerate her height with high heels. How well Julie recalls the night when she took the photograph. The evening of the Democratic presidential candidates’ debate. June 2007. Was it really almost a year ago? It seems like yesterday, and it seems like another lifetime. A lifetime in which Julie had foolishly thought that she had everything under control again. She knows only too well now that no one, and nothing, ever is. Like the difference in their height in the photograph, it was all an illusion, the life she had built, her marriage, her family.
But on that June night, two months before Darla’s sixteenth birthday, it was easy to believe everything was as it should be. After watching the debate on CNN together, they had worked side by side preparing dinner. While she diced cucumbers, Darla had gushed, “Wow, this could really happen, couldn’t it?”
“It certainly could,” Julie had answered, giddy with relief that they had finally found something to share, something to be passionate about together.
