by Joan Boswell
For a moment, Silent Woman’s determination wavered. Lily stepped out from behind the tree. No! thought Silent Woman. I would rather die here than be lost again.
Silent Woman tried to pull back behind the tree, but Lily Underhill began to speak, her anguished voice filling Silent Woman’s head. “Let me go. I promise you, I will not forget you. I will visit the graves of The Ancestors, and there I will burn sweet grass and sing an honour song to them. I will find your people, my people, and I will tell them of you and what you did here. And at the gathering of the people, at the summer pow wow, I will bang a drum for you.”
Silent Woman considered Lily’s words. She would be remembered. In the heartbeat of the people, her name would be honoured. The drum would speak for her. “Bang the drum loudly for me, Lily Underhill,” she whispered.
Lily stepped out of the shadows and stumbled across the clearing towards the man. “I’m here,” she croaked.
The author of nine inspirational books, two corporate business books and a best-selling audio program, Pat is also co-author of three humorous books on life in the Maritimes. Her short stories have appeared in several anthologies as well as Storyteller Magazine, and she has published a mystery novel, Lucky Strike, with co-author Kris Wood. Having lived on an island off the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia and now near the sandy beaches of the Northumberland Strait, Pat writes about what she loves best—the coastal regions of the Maritimes.
Opera Lover
Joy Hewitt Mann
An opera lover named Moore
Felt the diva was ruining the score.
From where he sat
She was grossly fat
And her range was decidedly poor.
Next time the Fat Lady sang
The opera house thunderously rang.
Moore rigged a bomb
So that she would come
On with a whimper and out with a bang.
For the Sake of Francine
Sandra Beswetherick
Kelly sat in the courtroom quietly composed, eyes forward, hands folded neatly in her lap. She’d committed a crime. She’d commit it again if she had to. She’d accept the consequences as well, if it came to that.
The circumstantial evidence had already been presented. The boot print in the soft ground next to the shell casing, the matching boot. The tire treads and the matching tires. The murder weapon, the hunting rifle with identifiable fingerprints on trigger and stock. The court had heard from the forensic experts and listened now to the testimonies of the witnesses.
“The prosecution calls Mr. William Thomas.”
Kelly shifted slightly in her chair and from the corner of her eye watched the older man approach the witness stand. So much depended on Billy T. She was certain only Billy knew she’d done it all for the sake of Francine.
Francine had walked through the door of Gus’s diner one Tuesday afternoon in early summer. And Kelly had fallen not simply in lust, but in love. The kind of love where she would do anything to make Francine happy and to keep her from harm. Slender, petite—she was no taller than Kelly’s collarbone—dark-eyed, her black hair curling in the damp air. She carried one child, dark like her, in her arms and held the hand of a second child, fair-haired, as she hesitated in the doorway. Her blue station wagon with “je me souviens” plates sat in the lot out front.
Kelly grabbed the highchair on wheels stationed at the far end of the counter and rolled it, one wonky wheel clattering, to the corner booth. She’d told her boss, Gus, a thousand times that they needed more highchairs. That it wouldn’t hurt to encourage customers from the new housing development that had sprung up nearby. “Yeah, yeah,” Gus always said, but never did anything more about it.
The diner, along with a grocery store of sorts, a hunting-and-fishing emporium and the ever-popular provincial liquor store, occupied a small strip mall that stood at a junction between the expanding civilization of the Fraser Valley and the wilderness of the Cascades. The customers who frequented the diner were mainly loggers, guards from the local forestry camp, hunters and fishing enthusiasts. The type of clientele Gus related to, even though he wasn’t at the diner half the time.
Kelly held the highchair steady as Francine lowered the younger child in. “Merci beaucoup.” Francine’s voice was as rich and sweet as maple syrup, pleasing Kelly no end.
“Pas du tout, “Kelly immediately responded.
“Vous parlez français!” Francines eyes shone with both delight and desperation. Which came to Kelly as no surprise. This was British Columbia, after all. A long way from Quebec. Why should anyone in B.C. speak French? The province had more in common with Washington State than Quebec.
Kelly held up her hand, a quarter inch gap separating index finger and thumb. “Un petit peu.”
Francine’s smile faded, and Kelly had to have it back. She swore she would drive all the way to Chilliwack that very evening and borrow every French grammar book and language tape the public library offered. “Je m’appelle Kelly,” she said, dredging her memory for any high school French buried there, and surely grinning like a fool. She learned Francine’s name and the names of her two children, Nicole, in the highchair, and Daniel.
“Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît. “Kelly indicated the bench in the booth. “Pommes frites pour les enfants?” she asked. “Un café pour vous?” She pointed at the coffee maker behind the counter.
Billy T, in the adjacent booth, raised his cup as she swept past. “Can I have a refill, Kelly?” Billy wasn’t a permanent fixture but was almost always there. His grey hair stuck out at odd angles, and scrawny wrists and hands showed from his too-short sleeves. His plaid shirt and jeans were faded, like a scarecrow that had done too much duty in the sun.
He could be as silent as a scarecrow, too, when he wanted. “Sure, Billy. No problem.”
Billy T had been her father’s friend, and he’d lived as long as she could remember in the ramshackle log house perched like an eagle’s nest on the bluff overlooking the mall. Long before the mall, of course. Either for want of company or because he couldn’t cook, Billy ate breakfast in the diner every morning and the daily special Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights.
“Here you go, Billy.” She’d returned with the coffee, but her attention was fixed on the corner booth, on Francine, and her face must have been lit with her amour. Billy rapped his empty cup on the table, then raised it eye-level so Kelly would see his cautionary look.
Billy T wasn’t the only person in the small community who knew she was gay. As long as she didn’t flaunt it—no gay-pride activism, no snuggling with a girlfriend at Al’s Bar and Grill, no hitting on customers in the diner—she remained a well-liked, respected community member. After all, her father had been a popular hunting and fishing guide in the area, and, since his death, she’d returned and was taking up guiding herself. She was a single, independent girl who hadn’t found the right man yet.
That perception suited Kelly fine. She’d rather keep her snuggling private, and anonymity in Vancouver was only a two-hour drive away.
“C’mon, Billy! She couldn’t be more straight. Just being friendly, all right?”
She filled Billy’s cup, then continued to the corner booth where she poured the last of the coffee into a cup for Francine. “Potage?” she asked, positive “potage” was the French word for soup.
At the blast of a truck horn outside the diner’s window, the carafe slipped from her fingers and exploded on contact with the tiled floor. “For the love of—” A truck door slammed and the diner door crashed open. Jay Pierce, his face purple with rage, pushed his way inside.
“Where’s the French bastard who parked his damn car in my spot?”
Kelly winced when she realized the station wagon with its Quebec plates was parked in the spot Jay considered his.
“Was it you?” Jay pointed an accusatory finger at Francine. “I want it moved! Or I’ll move it, my way!”
When he charged at Francine, arms windmilling, Kelly stepped into
his path, her shoes crunching the carafe’s remains. “For crying out loud, Jay, she doesn’t speak English!”
“That ain’t my problem, is it?” Jay roared back.
With Francine’s kids whimpering behind her, Kelly stood her ground. Jay wasn’t that much taller or huskier. Still, better to face him than turn your back. “It’s not like you’ve got a reserved sign posted out there!”
“I don’t need one,” Jay snarled. “Everybody knows!”
“Okay! Calm down.” Most of the locals did know about Jay’s spot and gave it a wide berth. It was the only parking space hidden from the view of Billy T’s front porch by the Gus’s Diner sign perched on the diner roof.
Kelly turned to Francine. “Les clefs de votre voiture?” Kelly could only mime her intention of moving the car. “You sit here, okay?” Kelly breathed a sigh of relief when Francine fished her car keys from her handbag and handed them over.
“Jay, you’re coming with me!” No way was she leaving Jay with Francine.
As she fitted the key in the door lock, Jay crept up behind her and whispered in her ear. “Hey, Kelly, let’s do it. The back seat looks big enough.”
“If I feel your hand on my butt,” she warned, “I’m charging you with sexual assault.”
Jay had mentioned more than once his desire to have his way with her. Preferably when she was unconscious, she’d discovered one night at Al’s Bar. She’d been on her way to the Ladies and happened to glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, Jay had been adding something extra to her unsupervised drink.
Everyone knew Jay hunted and fished out of season, sold bear paws and gall bladders illegally to the Asian community in Vancouver and supplied certain restaurants, also illegally, with salmon caught by local aboriginals. His other crimes included petty theft, uttering death threats and, according to Billy T, attempted murder.
Cursing softly, Kelly slowly backed the station wagon, trying to see around Jay’s black, half-ton pick-up that obstructed her view. She then parked the wagon five spaces over, knowing Jay would clip it somehow if it weren’t out of harm’s way. With a roar of engine and squeal of tires, Jay moved his truck, then leaned across to the passenger window and leered down at her. The jerk.
By the time she got back inside, Billy T had swept up the glass with the broom and set another pot of coffee brewing. “Voilà!” she said, returning Francine’s keys.
“Hey, you!” Jay had followed her in. He stabbed his finger at his pick-up. “My truck, my spot!” Then he stabbed his finger at Francine. “Remember that, you ignorant Frenchie.”
“If you want me to bring you anything, Jay, you’d better sit down and shut up.”
Jay smirked, hitched a thumb in a belt loop and sauntered to his customary stool at the end of the counter. He sat down and seemed to notice Billy T for the first time. “Hey, old man, got your cataracts out yet?”
Billy looked at Jay with that poker face he’d perfected, then nudged with his elbow the small pair of binoculars sitting on his table. His way of telling Jay he wouldn’t be played the fool the next time
Eighteen months before, late evening, Billy T had witnessed a mugging in the mall’s parking lot from his front porch. The attacker had kicked his victim, who was lying prostrate on the ground. At the sound of sirens, the assailant had fled. The jogger had no memory of who’d leapt at him from the shadows. Billy had insisted it was Jay. But Jay’s lawyer, who also happened to be Jay’s uncle and a recipient, it was rumoured, of Jay’s ill-gotten gains, had gotten Jay off, yet again.
“How old are you, Mr. Thomas?” Jay’s lawyer had asked. “How good’s your eyesight at that distance after dark? Can you describe the attacker’s clothing? Did you see his features clearly?” Unfortunately, Billy had sworn an oath and couldn’t bring himself to lie. “But it was Jay,” he had persisted. “I know how he walks, the way he moves. It was something Jay off-his-nut would do!”
This was the reason Billy carried binoculars with him everywhere and had a second extra-powerful pair sitting by his chair on his porch. He’d even acquired a night scope, Kelly had heard. “Jay’s too damn dangerous to be loose on the streets,” was Billy’s outraged opinion.
Kelly poured Jay a beer to keep him quiet and dropped handfuls of cut potatoes into the deep fryer. She then set a bowl of clam chowder in front of Francine. “Je le fais,” she said, pointing at the soup. She ached to touch Francine’s hand in reassurance. “Jay’s an asshole,” she confided, even though Francine couldn’t understand. “Once he’s had his beer, he’ll leave.” Normally Friday was the day Jay, half-pissed from drinking at Al’s, dropped into the diner to harass her and Billy T. The vehicle with Quebec plates parked in his spot had drawn him in today.
Francine didn’t leave until Jay was long gone, and Kelly despaired she would ever see her again. “Come back soon, okay?” Kelly had urged as she’d seen Francine and her children out.
Every day thereafter, Kelly watched for the blue station wagon. She thought she saw it driving past a few times and willed it to turn in. When it didn’t, she cursed Jay for spoiling everything. In the meantime, she studied French, poring over the grammar books she borrowed from the library, lugging them to work. She’d even purchased a few kids’ toys and colouring books just in case.
Monday of the following week, the third consecutive day of the pouring rain typical of the area, Kelly spotted through the rain-streaked glass a woman in a green raincoat pushing a stroller covered in rain-splattered plastic, a child in a yellow slicker trotting at her heels. Kelly’s heart leapt in recognition, and she dashed outside. “Let me help!” She gathered Daniel up, and the four of them tumbled through the diner door, accompanied by Francine’s laughter.
“Bienvenue, bienvenue!” Kelly couldn’t begin to tell Francine how welcome she was. “J’ai une surprise!” Once she’d helped everyone out of their wet clothing, she spread the children’s books and toys she’d purchased on the table. Nicole and Daniel shrieked their delight.
Unexpectedly, Francine took Kelly’s hand, her touch slamming a jolt of electricity up Kelly’s arm.
“Mon amie?” Francine asked. Kelly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. From the ache in Francine’s voice, it was obvious she had no other friend.
“Mais oui,” Kelly assured her, daring in turn to squeeze Francine’s hand.
“My ‘usban,” Francine whispered, “want me to learn English. I—”
“You want me to help?” Kelly couldn’t believe her good fortune. “Pas de problème, eh? Chaque jour, vous venez ici. Okay?”
“Merci beaucoup.” When Francine smiled, Kelly felt she might weep with joy.
There was a rustling now in the courtroom, of spectators leaning toward their neighbours and whispering. Remarking, perhaps, on Billy T’s changed appearance as he stood before the court. His clean-shaven face, his closely cropped hair, the jacket and tie. Kelly took advantage of the disturbance and searched out Francine, who’d returned from Quebec for the trial. At the sight of her, Kelly drew in a deep, heartfelt breath, closed her eyes, and turned away.
Kelly savoured every second she and Francine had spent together, heads bent over grammar books most afternoons. But just as Francine had been making progress, her appearance at the diner became sporadic. When she did come, she was distracted and visibly unhappy. Even Daniel and Nicole were cranky and whiny.
“What’s wrong, Francine?” Kelly hoped it had nothing to do with Jay, whom they’d been careful to avoid, their lessons ending Friday well before he appeared.
Francine stared at her reflection in the diner window. Her eyes filled. “I miss my family, my friends, speaking French.” Her sob wrenched Kelly’s heart. “I miss the sunshine.”
“Have you told your husband?”
“Gilles want us to stay. He like his job. It is good money, a good position for him and for his advance. He like the woods too. Now every Friday he fish. He want to learn hunting with his guys at work.” She shrugged.
Terrific, Kelly thought,
another urban suburban gone native. With the wilderness at your doorstep, it was simple to pack up your camping gear, fishing rod or rifle and head out for the weekend, usually leaving wife and kiddies behind. Although she shouldn’t complain too much, she reminded herself, because she intended to make good money from this sort of customer.
“Couldn’t you go home for a visit?”
Francine shook her head. “He know I don’t come back.”
“Go anyway,” Kelly insisted, her dislike for Gilles a smouldering ember. “You’re unhappy, the kids are unhappy.”
“He say his company think bad of him if I leave. How can he be a good manager...” A word they’d had to look up in the French-English dictionary. “...if he cannot manage his own wife? He shouts this at me.”
Kelly’s dislike burned hotter as she learned more about Gilles. That he denied Francine use of the car, afraid she’d drive home to Quebec, that he constantly phoned, keeping tabs—her English classes one of the few acceptable excuses for her being out. On the day Francine burst into tears, saying Gilles had threatened her and the kids if she ever mentioned leaving again, Kelly decided something would have to be done.
As if fate had taken a hand, an opportunity presented itself the next afternoon.
Francine and her kids had settled themselves in their customary booth, after greeting Billy with, “Bonjour, Monsieur Billy,” and Kelly had gone to the storeroom for the grammar books. When she returned, the blue wagon was parked outside, and a man sat opposite Francine in the booth. He held Francine’s wrist in a tight grip and was berating her in French, demanding to know why she was here and not attending her English classes. Who she was meeting in this place?
“Your wife meets with me, monsieur. I’ve been helping her learn English.”
He let go Francine’s wrist, and Kelly saw the red mark his hand had made. She saw the alarm in Francine’s eyes as she drew as far from her husband as possible in the confines of the booth. Kelly’s dislike flared into hatred and fury.
