Somewhere In-Between

by Donna Milner

  Over the next few days the returning cattle fill the south pasture. Most mornings and evenings Ian helps Virgil spread hay bales in the field for the gathering herd. Julie spends most of her time looking at the world through the eye of her camera, taking photographs at every opportunity, then photoshopping any promising ones and emailing them to her sister. And even the odd one to her mother. She is certain though—and she has to admit that perhaps it is deliberate—that the ones she chooses to send to her mother will do nothing to improve her opinion of life in the ‘wild’: an opaque layer of ice forming along the shoreline; the glint of sunlight captured in the icicles hanging from the willow branches; a bruised sky above the north ridge, dark with the promise of snow.

  Thursday morning she sets up the new tripod on the front porch and takes random shots of the cows out in the pasture, docile and complacent in their captivity, milling about with fresh snow dusting their backsides like powdered icing sugar. Later, while playing with the settings on her camera in the den, through the back window she catches sight of a horse and rider at the end of the field. She pulls on a sweater, rushes back out to the porch and re-attaches the camera to the tripod. Focusing and refocusing she clicks over and over while the silhouetted image grows larger in her viewfinder. And as it does she decides that, regardless of how her aching body feels, tomorrow she will go out on the mare to help round up the cattle again. Back at her computer she uploads the images, labels each one and attaches them to a brief email to Jessie. “Thought Emily and Amanda might like to see what the real ‘wild west’ looks like.” Then, for the first time in far too long she realizes, she ends the message with, “My love to the girls.”

  Before pressing the ‘send’ key, she takes one last look at the photograph labelled ‘Bringing in the strays.’ And once again she is taken by the perfection of the image of Virgil Blue astride the high-stepping black gelding, looking for all the world as if he is one with the animal.

  39

  Virgil’s story

  The Chilcotin seeped into his pores. From the moment he returned to his mother’s birthplace, and his father’s adopted home, he took on the land like a lover, ignoring her unpredictable mood swings and rejections.

  His mother’s family, what was left of them, her brother and his family in NaNeetza Valley, welcomed him. It was all he could hope for. Acceptance would have to be earned. At first he moved from ranch to ranch learning his father’s trade; between jobs he went horse logging with his uncle.

  It was from his uncle that he learned the reason his parents had taken his twin brothers and left the Chilcotin to return to the United States before he was born.

  “Your father, that man, he don’t wan’ see his children herded up like cattle and taken away to Indian Residential School,” his uncle told him one night, while he sat staring into a campfire.

  His own children hadn’t escaped the forced removal from their people and their culture. After their return, one by one, his three sons had scattered to the four winds. One became lost to the mean streets of East Vancouver; one was somewhere in Alberta; and the eldest perished in a hotel fire in Waverley Creek.

  The youngest child, a daughter, Marilyn, returned to her family at age twelve. She was there in body, but whenever Virgil visited, she sat in a kitchen corner like an old woman, a mute testament to the Catholic-run school’s mandate to ‘kill the Indian in the child.’

  “But that Indian, her not dead,” his uncle told him. “Her spirit just sleeping. Hibernating, like the bear.”

  Often, whenever he stayed at his uncle’s home, just as he had done for his little sister, he made things for his young cousin in an attempt to coax a smile. He hollowed out birch logs to make birdhouses, which he placed in the trees outside her window. He carved tiny wooden animals from deer horns and made her a necklace. He wove a dreamcatcher in a circle of willow and hung it over her bed to catch the good dreams and keep out the nightmares. But still the nightmares came.

  Then, one warm summer day, he climbed out of his pickup truck carrying a battered violin case. He sat down on the discarded car seat outside of his uncle’s home and opened the case to remove the second-hand instrument he had found in the Swap Shop in town. Placing the violin under his chin, he picked up the bow, and for the first time since the bones had healed, he willed his gnarled fingers to play. Before long the door opened, and his cousin, her hair tangled and matted, her feet bare, stepped outside and stood before him. When the song was finished, he lowered the bow and looked up to meet her dark eyes.

  Placing her hand on his cheek, she said, “You make my heart come glad.” From that day on, his young cousin and his uncle’s family became the touchstone for him as he reclaimed his mother’s heritage.

  As ancestral memories of these vast mountains and valleys, forests and plateaus, lakes and rivers awakened in his blood, the self-pity and anger that he had embraced that snowy night on a faraway campus slowly seeped away.

  He took to cowboy life as if born to it, the solitude suiting him just fine. Finding work was easy in those days. Every spread could use an extra ranch hand, especially one with so few needs, a warm place to hole up, three squares, enough wages to cover tobacco, a beer now and then, gas for his pickup truck, and a good book to replace the last one. Fortunately there were no shortages of dog-eared paperbacks in the bunkhouses.

  He had long ago lost track of the Western novel in which he had found his adopted name. But he never forgot the feeling of familiarity when he first came across it, the feeling that this name belonged to him. In that very moment he replaced his birth name—the slave name of a dead president—with Virgil Blue. Now he cannot remember being anyone else.

  Five years after arriving in the Chilcotin he became lead hand on the Champion Ranch, and because that job came with a cabin of his own he stayed on. He might be there still if it hadn’t turned into a dude ranch. He moved on to the Spring Bottom Ranch and has been there ever since. He’s seen two owners come and go, and wonders if he can stay with the latest.

  For many years he hoped that his mother, too, would return to her homeland. But his sister Melody had been born in a world too far removed. Their mother could not take her daughter away from the only life she knew, from her school, her friends. His sister finished high school, university and then married. And still his mother never came. When she became a grandmother, he knew that she never would. And now this letter from his sister reminding him of a long ago promise. But it’s too late.

  40

  Persistent stars still sprinkle the early morning sky as Julie pulls on the silk-thin Merino wool leggings. She has learned her lesson about riding in blue jeans. The New Zealand long underwear will keep her warm today, as well as buffering her from the skin-chafing denim seams rubbing against the saddle.

  Downstairs, the cold rolls in on clouds of crystallized vapour, as she opens the mudroom door to let the dog out.

  In the kitchen, Ian glances from the open fridge door when she comes into the room. His eyes travel up and down her body, taking in her outfit. “Good morning,” he says, then returns to studying the inside of the fridge. “Going hiking?”

  “Uh, no.” She walks over to the stove and feels the coffee pot. “I thought I’d help Virgil with the cows. Would you like an omelette?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” He closes the fridge door, and leans against the counter. “Virgil’s done though,” he says, concentrating on peeling the orange in his hand.

  Julie feels a quickening of her pulse. “Done?”

  “He’s finished the roundup. Except for a few stragglers,” he says, glancing up to meet her eyes, “which, he says either will or won’t find their way back; the cattle are all in.”

  Catching the telltale tic at the corners of Ian’s mouth, the thought crosses Julie’s mind that in some strange way he is relishing this particular piece of news. Then as quickly as the nervous twitch appears, it is gone.

  “Why don’t you come to town with me today?” he says, popping an oran
ge section into his mouth. “Maybe we could get a motel for the night, catch a movie.”

  Doesn’t he realize what day tomorrow is? She studies his face, looking for any sign, one way or the other, but sees nothing there. Nothing to indicate that he is aware. How can he not be? Or perhaps he is, and like the rest of the year, this is his way of handling it. Ignoring it. How she wishes she could.

  Still, if she is being entirely honest with herself, she has to admit she had intended to as well; going out to round up cattle again today and tomorrow was to be her escape.

  But go in to town? “No,” she says, knowing he will not protest. He won’t mention, neither of them will mention, nor bring up the fact that tomorrow is the anniversary of the day that is always there on the edge of their lives. She has no idea if, like herself, Ian tortures himself with all the ‘should haves,’ and ‘could haves,’ of Darla’s last day. She only knows they are unable to share their grief, here, or in town. She retreats to the den with a cup of coffee, closing the door behind her.

  She checks her email, deleting all but her sister’s. Jessie, dear Jessie, her simple message thanking her for the photos, then asking if she wants to talk. Perhaps she will have a glass of wine and call her later. Listening to Ian preparing to leave for town, she mentally counts the full bottles in their cabinet. Seven bottles of red, Chianti, Pinot Noir, and Merlot, and seven bottles of white in the cooler—who cares what kind? She realizes with a start that she is constantly aware of every ounce of wine in the house. Just like an alcoholic. If you’re not careful you’ll become the horrid cliché of a wino housewife. The little voice in her head sounds too much like her mother’s.

  After she hears Ian’s vehicle drive away, she sits and stares out of the den window. In the growing light of dawn, she watches Virgil spread hay in the pasture, and then return to the barn. Before long the barn door opens, and he comes out with his dog and heads back to his cabin.

  A blush stings Julie’s cheeks when he opens the cabin door. “I, uh, I brought you some potatoes,” she says holding up the paper sack. “We’ll never eat half...”

  She lowers the bag. “Really, I came to apologize for going inside your home the other day—with the grouse from Terri Champion. I’m sorry, I should never have, I—”

  The stuttered apology dies on her lips as Virgil, appearing unsurprised at seeing her there, nods a greeting. Still wearing his jacket and hat, he steps back and ushers her inside. Relieved, she enters without hesitating, passing by so close that she can smell the earthy aroma that fills the warm air between them.

  She stands waiting in the kitchen area while he closes the door, removes his jacket and hat and hangs them on metal hooks. In no hurry, he lifts the stove lid and pokes at the embers inside, as if he has forgotten her presence in his home.

  “I’m sorry,” Julie repeats. “I really had no business being in here the—”

  Virgil dismisses her concern with a wave of his hand, and then gestures to one of the kitchen chairs. Without waiting for her to sit down he leans over and grabs a handful of kindling from the wood box.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you. I should go,” Julie says, but even to her own ears her words carry no conviction.

  Virgil straightens up and meets her eyes. She reads the silent plea there and lowers herself slowly onto the indicated chair.

  She places her hands in her lap, and watches him rekindle the fire. Before long a flame flickers up between the sticks of wood. He adds larger pieces and closes the lid. By the time he slides the coffee pot from the back of the stove to the front, the fire is crackling beneath the cast-iron surface.

  Without warning, he disappears into the bedroom door at the back of the cabin. A moment later the sound of a door closing is followed by the metallic whine of a bathroom tap being turned on.

  While she waits for Virgil to wash up, Julie slips out of her jacket and hangs it on the back of her chair. From outside comes the playful growling of the two dogs wrestling on the porch.

  No longer feeling like an intruder, Julie takes a closer look at her surroundings. She checks the top of the roll-top desk, empty now of any sign of the letter that was there a few days ago. Had Virgil detected anything amiss with it?

  At the far end of the room, a black violin case, which she hadn’t noticed last time, leans in the corner. The thought of asking Virgil to play for her comes to mind, but she knows she will not. Not yet anyway. She will have coffee, she assumes that is what he meant by asking her to stay. For the moment she is glad to be here, relieved that Virgil was not affronted at finding her at his door, and she is willing to drink warmed-over morning dregs if that is what it takes to pass part of this day in his silent company.

  She is reminded of the peaceful moments sharing coffee with him up on the landing; her mind races ahead to future visits with Virgil in the warmth of this cabin, and at that thought she is filled with a comfort that if asked to, she could not define.

  The changing morning light pools on the kitchen counter and her attention is drawn to the window above the sink. Still disturbed by the dreamcatcher hanging there, she forces herself to look past it, to concentrate on the sun lighting up the western ridge, the wind skittering down the lake’s surface like a shiver. And she is struck by how different her life is now, how strange, and sad, and heartbreaking, the road that has led her to this moment, sitting in this ancient cabin, in the depths of the Chilcotin, listening to the water run in another room while she waits, with calm anticipation, for the occupant to return.

  She’s glad Ian is in town, that there’s no likelihood that he will show up looking for her today. For some reason she doesn’t want to share this time, this space, with him. She suspects he feels the same way about his visits with Virgil. She tries to imagine him sitting here on those days he comes to collect Virgil’s rent. Does he notice the things she does? The violin in the corner? The grand collection of books? Does he ever wonder about the photographs on the wall, about Virgil’s life, his family? And had he ever noticed the dreamcatcher in the window before she mentioned it? No, she thinks, he wouldn’t have, or if he had he would never admit, even to himself, that it was like the one that hung over their daughter’s bed. Something in her believes, that like her, Ian wants this place to remain separate, free of reminders of their other life, a place of refuge from memory. Perhaps that’s why the sight of the talisman hanging above Virgil’s sink bothers her so. She tells herself she is being silly. Ian is right, why wouldn’t there be other dreamcatchers like it, many perhaps. Still she wishes it was not there.

  She turns to the sound of the door opening at the back of the cabin. Virgil emerges from the bedroom and comes into the kitchen wearing a fresh shirt and smelling of Irish Spring. His close-cropped hair glistens with dampness, emphasizing the pewter-grey at his temples.

  He smiles slightly at the sight of her, as if relieved to find her still there, then looks quickly away and concentrates on checking the fire. When he is satisfied, he goes over to the cupboard, takes out a mug—one mug, not two?—and places it on the table along with a bowl of sugar and a teaspoon.

  Pleased that he remembers how she takes her coffee, and grateful for something to do with her hands, Julie cups the empty mug while she waits for him to pour. After he does so he fills a glass of water for himself and joins her at the table. The water surprises her, given how evident it was that he enjoyed his coffee on the landing, bringing two Thermoses with him each day.

  The warmed-over coffee is as strong as she expected. She reaches for the sugar bowl again. At the same moment, anticipating her reaction, Virgil slides the bowl closer and their hands touch. At the feel of his flesh, she stops and stares down at his fingers. Without thought, she gently brushes his deformed knuckles with the tip of her fingers. He pulls away slowly, leaving her hand hovering in mid-air over the table, picks up his glass and studies the bottom of it.

  Astounded at her lapse of judgement, Julie stands and walks over to the roll-top desk. Keeping her back to Virgil, she
concentrates on the portraits. She will leave, she tells herself, the moment she has recovered from this faux pas, she will leave.

  After a while she clears her throat. “Family?” she asks, indicating the large studio photograph of his younger self, then glancing over her shoulder.

  He nods.

  She points to the woman sitting in front of him in the portrait. “Your mother?”

  A nod.

  “And sister?”

  Another nod.

  “They’re lovely,” she murmurs, studying the display once again. Minutes pass with the only sound in the room the growing fire.

  “Is this your father?” she asks touching the small sepia snapshot.

  Glancing back for his response, she catches him—his glass held motionless mid-way to his mouth—watching her. Has she trespassed that badly? But he nods once again.

  “A handsome man,” she says looking away. She wants to ask him about the people in the other photographs, but wonders if perhaps she has pressed too far. And yet a part of her senses that he has something on his mind. Is it her imagination? Does he have something he wants to say to her? Or does he feel she is pushing the boundaries and only indulging her because he is a tenant on their land? She decides to keep the one-sided conversation going and chance one more question. She leans closer to a photograph of an older First Nations couple and a younger woman with a smiling toddler on her hip. “And these people?”she asks.

  Behind her Virgil’s chair scrapes across the floor. She senses his approach and spins around so suddenly she almost bumps into him when he reaches past her to pull out the desk drawer. Startled by his closeness, she moves away quickly, grabs her jacket from the back of the chair and heads for the door. “I’ve got to go,” she mumbles. “Thanks for the coffee.” She reaches the door without looking back.