Somewhere In-Between

by Donna Milner

  24

  The next day Julie uploads the digital photographs onto her computer in the den. Sorting through the ones that she took at the north end of the lake, she is disappointed in their amateurish quality. Obviously there’s a great deal more to learn, much more to photography than simply taking a snapshot of an interesting landscape. She spends some time testing her new software, playing with colours and hues, cropping and enlarging, in an attempt to recapture whatever excitement she had experienced at the original thought of this new hobby. But the spark of passion has fizzled. Feeling inertia threaten, she moves on to the images of Virgil working with his horses. Like the others, the shots are technically unskilled as well, shadows and light, settings and distances, she sees now, are all wrong. Still, in these images there is something that she hadn’t noticed from behind the camera. She goes back through them slowly, glancing over her shoulder every now and then to check that Ian is still in his office. She studies each shot: Virgil watering the Clydesdales; guiding them through a narrow path, the green of the forest all around; one of the horses nibbling an unknown treat from Virgil’s open palm; leather reins hanging loose over chestnut backsides while giant heads are turned toward their master. Looking at the images now, Julie realizes that they are more than photographs of a man and his horses. Each one told a story. A story of trust, connection and undoubted love.

  Over the next few days, whenever Julie hears the distant drone of a chainsaw in the forest, she feels the urge to return to the landing. But she can’t find a good excuse to do so.

  Throughout the following nights Ian keeps a fire going in the central fireplace. Before dawn on Friday morning Julie comes downstairs while he is stoking it up. The reflection of the flames glow orange on his face as he closes the fireplace doors. He glances up at her. “That should keep it going for another six hours or so,” he says straightening up. “Just throw another log on around noon.” He brushes his hands on his pants. “Did you make a list of what you want in town?”

  She goes into the kitchen and returns with the list. “Oh, and some red wine,” she adds.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed we’re getting low,” he says accepting the list from her.

  Julie feels herself flush. Before she can reply, the jarring screech of Jake brakes and the roar of a truck engine sound outside.

  “That’ll be the logging truck,” Ian says standing up. “They’re picking up a load of logs this morning.” A flash of headlights sweeps through the office.

  Julie leaves him peering out the window and goes back to the kitchen.

  A few minutes later Ian comes out of his office carrying a box of files. “I don’t know how late I’ll have to work,” he says crossing the living room. Then as if it’s an afterthought he adds, “I might stay in town overnight.”

  Julie’s coffee mug stops on the way to her lips. Staring at him over the rim, she shrugs.

  Ian stops at the kitchen entryway. “What? What does that look mean?” He drops the box to his feet. “Why don’t you just say it, Julie?”

  “There’s nothing to say,” she answers placing her mug on the counter with measured care.

  “Look, the roads can be treacherous at night now; there are deer every few miles. I don’t want to drive in the dark if I’m tired. But, if that’s a problem...”

  “No, of course not,” Julie says. “Really. Give me a call if you have to stay. It’s okay.”

  Ian studies her for a moment as if contemplating her sincerity. They both know what they are not talking about.

  She considers telling him about running into Valerie Ladner the other day at the grocery store. Considers letting him know how she had extended the hand of forgiveness to her. But that would require talking about the night that Darla died. A forbidden subject with Ian. And it would require Julie to explain to herself why she had found it so easy to let Valerie off the hook, while a part of her still hangs onto her anger at Ian. Would I be this unforgiving over a single, thoughtless kiss, if Darla hadn’t died? The unbidden thought takes her by surprise, as does the answering one. If Darla hadn’t died, would it have ended at one kiss?

  An hour after Ian has left for town, Julie hears the rumble of an engine. She makes it out to the back patio in time to see the fully loaded logging truck head up the hill, Virgil’s pickup following behind in the early morning light.

  Listless after her conversation with Ian she tries to study her photography book, but finds she can’t concentrate. The coffee isn’t cutting it this morning. She considers going for a hike but can’t summon up the energy. If it wasn’t so early she’d pour herself a glass of wine. Well, why not? She uncorks a bottle of Merlot. She hadn’t missed Ian’s remark about the wine supply. It’s true that she’s having a glass or two more often in the evenings than she used to. It helps her sleep. Ian has his sleeping pills, she has her wine. She pours a glass, and takes a long sip, thinking that wine has replaced the women friends with whom she once shared the petty complaints of life. Women who listened to each other with the unspoken understanding that it only meant something while they dumped whatever they needed to dump, and then promptly forgot it. The only sounding board she has now is her own mind. And that is better when she doesn’t listen to it. She takes her glass and the bottle, along with her book into the living room.

  She wakes to the sun glaring in her eyes. The sudden roar of a low- flying airplane startles her to a sitting position. Shielding her eyes, she rises from the couch, makes it to the front window just as a float plane screams over the house, flying so low that she can see the watermarks on the bottom of the pontoons. It races down the lake then circles over the treetops at the north end and heads back. The engine cuts, and for a moment the plane seems to hang on the wind before dropping in altitude. Sunlight glints on the wing tips as it skims over the water and touches down; a rooster-tail spray follows behind as the plane heads toward Virgil’s bay.

  Julie has no idea whether Virgil has returned while she was napping. But something tells her he hasn’t. She goes upstairs and from the balcony off the master bedroom watches the float plane taxi through the water to its destination. It drifts to a stop, the door pushes open and the pilot climbs out to jump onto Virgil’s dock. He ties the aircraft down then begins to unload cargo. When there’s still no sign of their tenant, Julie combs her hands through her hair. She’ll have to go over and let the visitor know that Virgil is away.

  By the time she reaches the front of the cabin, the pilot, who has replaced the headphones with a battered straw cowboy hat, is kneeling in front of a large animal crate.

  “Virgil’s not home,” Julie calls out from shore.

  The pilot stands. “Well, that’s too bad. I was hoping to have a visit with him.”

  Julie hesitates for only a second before stepping onto the dock. From a distance, judging by size, the denim jacket and blue jeans, it was easy to assume that the pilot was a man. But to Julie’s amazement, according to the well-endowed bustline of the person grinning down at her, it’s a woman. Trying to hide her surprise, Julie takes the huge work-worn hand being offered to her.

  “Well, you’re just a little bit of a thing, aren’t you,” the pilot says pumping her hand as firmly as any man. “Terri Champion.”

  “Julie O’Dale,” Julie answers wondering briefly if her breath smells of alcohol, then decides it’s impossible for the Amazon pilot to smell it from that height. “Virgil’s not home,” she repeats. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. This delivery’s for you anyway.” A yelp comes from the animal crate.

  Julie skirts around an old willow-switch chair on the dock and kneels down to peer into the kennel. A black nose presses against the wire grate. “Oh, no,” she says straightening up quickly. “No. This is some mistake.”

  “Nope. No mistake. This little fellow is bought and paid for.”

  “By whom?”

  “Can’t say who paid, but Virgil ordered him. He’s from the same line as his own—a mixture
of Australian sheepdog and German shepherd. If there’s a little wolf in there, no one’s saying,” she gives Julie a wink, which might have been comical under other circumstances. “But you won’t find a dog better suited to this country,” she continues, “I should know. I breed ’em.”

  The puppy flops down inside his crate, placing his grey-and-black head on his paws.

  “He’s a little traumatized by the flight. But he did pretty good.” The pilot leans over. “Didn’t you, fella? What a good boy you are.” The crooning words sound odd coming from such a mountain of a woman.

  “He’s six months old. Housebroke. Trained him myself, so of course he’s bonded with me.” She looks up at Julie and grins while the dog licks her fingers through the grate. “He’ll bond with you in no time. A few days? A few weeks? Depends.”

  “Not me,” Julie says. “I’m sorry. Look I don’t care if it was Virgil, or my husband, who’s responsible for this, but I never asked for a dog. And I don’t want one.”

  “Well, he’s not going back with me. So you can either let him sit out here on the dock and argue it out with Virgil when he comes home, or you can help me take him over to your place.”

  25

  Fifteen minutes later, in spite of Julie’s futile objections, Terri-the-Pilot carries the dog kennel onto the back porch of the ranch house. Julie follows behind with the puppy tugging at the leash.

  “You should bring his crate inside for the first few nights,” Terri says, setting it down. “It’s his safe place. After he adjusts to his new home you can decide if he’s an inside or outside dog.”

  “Virgil can decide,” Julie corrects her. “I’m not keeping him.”

  “Right.” Terri straightens up. “He needs lots of walking. Take him out into the fields for the first while, where he can see the house. And keep him on the leash until he transfers his loyalty to you. It won’t take long. You’ll know when.”

  Julie shakes her head. There isn’t any point arguing—the woman just doesn’t listen. Perhaps if she stalls long enough Virgil will return and then he can deal with her. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee, or tea?” she asks.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Terri grins. “Tea’s great. I’ll just go back and get the pup’s food while you make it.” She gestures to the dog and says, “Stay, Pup.” Then striding across the porch, calls back over her shoulder, “And I like my tea strong… none of that chintzy waving a bag through the water.”

  The dog whimpers but remains at Julie’s side, the leash hanging loose between them.

  Inside he sits on the kitchen floor, his black eyes following Julie as she fills the kettle then puts muffins on a plate. At the same moment the kettle starts its high-pitched whistle, the mudroom door opens without a warning knock and Terri calls out, “Hello this place.”

  “In here,” Julie calls, pouring the boiling water into the teapot.

  “Wow,” Terri whistles, coming through the living room. “Fancy digs. Looks different from when the Woells lived here.”

  “It’s the stuffed animals,” Julie says placing two mugs onto the table. “They’re gone.”

  “Ahh, well to each his own.” Terri plunks herself down at the table. She picks up the pottery mug. “I don’t mean to be picky, Gal, but have you got any china teacups in that fancy hutch of yours. Tea tastes so much better in real china don’t you think? Something like wine in crystal,” she adds glancing at the wine bottle and glass on the living-room coffee table.

  Trying to hide her surprise, and her embarrassment, Julie removes the mugs from the table. She returns with the teacup, and sets it in front of her guest.

  Terri sits back after Julie settles in her chair. “Look,” she says looking directly at her, “I heard about your daughter. Darla, right?” Her voice, like her face has softened. “ I just want to say right off, that I’m darn sorry. I don’t have any kids of my own so can only imagine how hard that was, is, for you.”

  The directness of her words has a grace that erases the awkwardness of the moment. This rough-around-the-edges woman has just cut through the inevitable getting-to-know-you questions that Julie has come to dread. Especially those about ‘…any children?’ How do you answer that one? Worse yet, are those encounters with friends who don’t know what to say so avoid mentioning Darla at all, as if she’d never existed. Instead of being startled to hear a stranger say her daughter’s name, Julie finds a measure of comfort in it.

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. She picks up the teapot and pours a little into Terri’s teacup. “Dark enough?”

  “Good enough. Fill ’er up.”

  After Julie pours, her guest cups the teacup in her huge palms, her fingers surrounding the rim, and asks, “So how are you doing out here in the wilds, Gal?”

  Julie shrugs. “I’m fine.” Then she meets Terri’s eyes. The genuine concern she sees there, and the candour in her voice deserve more than a dismissive answer. She leans back. “I’m getting used to it, I guess. But it’s different. Hard, in many ways. It’s beautiful here, yes. But there are certainly things about living in town I miss. Mostly our home. But I suspect that it’s the memories of our daughter there that I miss, more than the actual house. There are no memories of her here.” She looks down at her cup, surprised at what has come out of her mouth. She has said more to this stranger than she has to anyone in the last year. “It’s lonely here,” she continues in spite of herself. “Lonely in ways that have nothing to do with isolation.” She shrugs. “But then I suppose right now I’d be lonely no matter where I was.”

  “I expect so,” Terri answers quietly. “Well, anytime you feel like company I’m just over the ridge.”

  Julie meets her eyes again and smiles. “So what about you?” she asks pushing the muffin platter to her. “What brought you to the Chilcotin?”

  “The short story is that I came from Montana in the late fifties,” she says accepting the offering. “On a holiday with my folks, met my future husband, Sam Champion, and stayed. Been ranching ever since, even after my Sammy died—God rest his soul—I kept the place going. We’re just northwest of here. I could have driven over, or come on my ATV through the bush, but I like to fly any chance I get, especially before the ice starts to form on the lakes.” She breaks her muffin in half and slathers it with butter. “I was hoping to get a visit with Virgil, too,” she says taking a bite.

  “He went out with the logging truck this morning. I’ve no idea when he’ll be back.”

  “Sorry I missed him. Virgil used to wrangle for me. He was my lead hand, ’til about twenty years ago. He moved over here, when my spread went from a working ranch to a ‘dude’ ranch. Likes his privacy, as you may have noticed.”

  “Elke Woell told us that he doesn’t have much use for women, so I’m surprised to hear he worked for one.”

  Terri lets out a barking laugh. “He probably never even took notice that I was a woman. No, Frau Woell was a blondie. That’s probably it. He steers clear of fair-haired women.” She studies Julie’s hair. “Your hair isn’t really blonde, or brown, is it? It’s somewhere in-between. Me, I used to be auburn, but now I’m just grey.” She lifts her hat to reveal her close-cropped silver hair.

  “Besides, Virgil and I have something in common.” She reaches for another muffin. “We’re both Yanks. He showed up at the ranch looking to cowboy for us back in 1971.”

  Julie picks at the corner of her own muffin. “Was he one of the Vietnam War resisters?”

  “Nah. He’d never have been accepted even if he had been drafted. Have you seen his hands?”

  Julie nods. “How did that happen?”

  Terri chews the last bite of muffin and washes it down with a long swallow of tea. Her teacup rattles into the saucer. “Can’t say,” she says wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s Virgil’s story to tell, not mine.”

  “Well, that’s hardly likely, is it.” Julie picks up the teapot and refills Terri’s empty cup. “When did he lose his voice?”
>
  “Oh ’bout four years ago. But he didn’t talk all that much before that, anyway.”

  By the time the pilot leaves, Virgil still hasn’t returned. Julie stands on the dock watching the float plane lift off the water and skim over the treetops at the north end of the lake. She is surprised to find that she’s sorry to see it go. She glances at the piece of paper that Terri wrote her telephone number on, ‘just in case,’ folds it and places it in her pocket.

  After the plane is out of sight, she looks down at the dog whimpering at her side. “Well, now what am I supposed to do with you?” she asks. The puppy looks up. He tilts his head as if contemplating her question, and Julie finds herself scratching his ears.

  “Okay, let’s get you some dinner.” She tugs lightly on the leash and the dog follows her off the dock without resistance. On the shore Julie stops to study the front of Virgil’s cabin. Today is the first time she has seen the front side of his home. On the covered veranda, a second willow chair, which matches the weathered one down on the dock, sits in the corner beside a wooden planter barrel, spilling over with marigolds—the hardy yellow and orange flowers an unexpected sight on a bachelor’s porch. For a brief moment Julie is tempted to climb the few steps and peek in the front window. Her conscience gets the better of her curiosity, and she heads home, passing under the mountain ash flanking the driveway. Earlier, before closing the cockpit door, Terri had pointed out the trees, their branches laden with orange-red berry clusters. “Brace yourself for winter, Gal,” she’d warned. “That heavy berry crop is a sure sign of a harsh one coming.”

  Julie shivers. She doesn’t need Terri, or the mountain ash, to tell her. This will be a hard winter no matter what the temperature.

  26

  Every season, every month, every day, looms before Mom with torturous memories of ‘what was’—what I did then, and will never do again.

  As long as she keeps looking at the world through eyes of ‘before’ nothing will change, and she will remain stuck, unable to move on. And so will I. I don’t need Mr Emerson to explain that. I wish I could tell her though. Not for myself, I’m okay, but for her sake, for Dad’s, for Levi’s. I wish that I could stop her from sinking deeper and deeper in the sludge of ‘what used to be’—a nowhere place. She lives in past tense now—the future too empty to consider—marking time by the day of my death.