by L. R. Wright
But when she struck him, a crevasse opened in his head and Ivan fell like a tree, his blood pouring over the kitchen floor.
Chapter 16
“HAVE YOU HEARD from Alan since you got here?” asked Eddie’s father that morning, casually, over breakfast.
“That’s over, Dad,” she said abruptly. “I told you.”
“Yes, but I just wondered; you’re bound to feel lonely, at first, a new place, a new job—and—”
“I’m not at all lonely, Dad, but thanks for asking.”
“I thought he cared for you, Edwina. I thought you cared for him.”
“Dad. Can we talk about something else, please?”
He had made pancakes and bacon for their breakfast. He had brought the pancake mix with him—and the bacon, too, and even a pound of butter and some syrup, realizing that Eddie’s cupboards would probably be bare.
“Okay,” he said, with a sigh. “Sure.”
Eddie was pushing a piece of buttermilk pancake around in a pool of syrup. This was her father’s favorite breakfast. It wasn’t hers. She thought that if he had really wanted to do something for her, as opposed to doing it for himself, he would have brought eggs and hash-brown potatoes.
“I think you’re going to feel somewhat strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Living as a policewoman in this community.”
“What on earth do you mean by that?” she said, looking up at him in surprise.
“Everyone will know who you are. Your neighbors. The people in all these houses”—he waved expansively—“up and down the street.”
“Everyone knew who I was in Burnaby, too. Everybody up and down the hall. Everybody on every floor. So what?”
“It’ll be different here,” said her father, nodding sagely. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your pancakes?”
“I like them fine, Dad. I’m just not very hungry. Too much on my mind.”
He looked around the kitchen. “We’ve made a dent, though,” he said. “And at least you’ve got your windows covered now.”
“You’re right, Dad,” she said. “And I’m glad of it, too.”
He had insisted that she provide him with precise measurements of every window, and had brought with him, as well as food, venetian blinds for the whole house.
“And I thank you again,” said Eddie.
He touched his napkin to the corners of his mouth. “You’re welcome.” He sat back with a sigh, resting clasped hands on his paunch, and tilted his head at her. “And what is life like, exactly, in the Sechelt detachment of the RCMP?”
Eddie laughed. “You don’t want to know, Dad. Why pretend that you do?”
“No, really,” he protested, smiling. His thinning hair was tousled and his short-sleeved shirt was open at the throat, revealing loose skin. He wore slippers over bare feet and trousers that were baggy at the knees. These were the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, but today Eddie sensed in the casualness of his appearance a studied intimacy that she resented.
She studied him across the table. “Okay, Dad. A woman disappeared last Monday.”
“Probably missed the last ferry from the mainland,” said her father with a smile.
“We found her body the next day, in a shallow grave, an indentation, really, no more than that, earth and leaves scattered on top. She’d been murdered.”
Her father was frowning now.
“Yeah, and it’s the second body buried in that same spot. Can you believe it? The first one was found sometime last year.” Eddie leaned forward, resting her forearms on the tabletop. “Dad. How many homicides do you think I worked on in Burnaby?”
“I don’t want to know,” he said quickly, reaching for his coffee cup. “This is not a fit subject for mealtime discussion, Edwina.”
She sat back. “You did ask, Dad.”
After a while Eddie started to clear the table, and when her father offered to help with the dishes she poured him more coffee and made him sit down and tell her about his garden.
An hour later she drove him to the ferry.
When she got home her phone was ringing. But it stopped before the answering machine kicked in.
“Shit,” said Eddie. She knew the detachment would have waited and left a message, but she called in anyway and was disappointed to learn that nobody at work had been trying to reach her.
She sank into a chair and looked around the living room, which she had to admit was a lot more welcoming now. Her house was actually starting to look like a home, thanks to her father, who had unpacked every single box in half a day. It had taken a lot longer than that to find a place for everything, of course, but he had insisted on doing this, over Eddie’s protests. She would have to rearrange her bookshelves, and she had refused to let him put away her clothes, which were stacked in piles on her bed, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to find things at first because her father’s idea of where stuff belonged was frequently poles apart from Eddie’s. But there was hardly any clutter left, and Eddie hadn’t realized until it was gone just how much the disorder had been jangling her nerves. She needed to feel some permanence, and this was now starting to happen. And she was grateful to her father.
She only hoped that he wouldn’t find it necessary to visit her often. She could say no, of course—but she knew how much he still missed her mother, and doubted that she’d have the heart to refuse him, at least for a while. But maybe his garden would keep him busy, she thought, now that spring had come.
Eddie pushed herself up from the chair, surprised by the extent of her weariness. She would have a long, hot bath and put away her clothes, do some laundry, have a light dinner—and then go to bed early. And first thing in the morning she would once more turn her mind to the homicides. She felt a shiver of impatience, wishing it were already tomorrow.
She stripped off her clothes—socks, jeans, denim shirt, underwear—remembering to close the blinds first, turned on the taps of the bathtub, then walked around her house, enjoying the fact that she actually owned it. Maybe her father was right, a little painting might be a good idea. A blue accent wall? Or should she stick to off-white?
The phone rang and Eddie picked up the portable in the living room. “Hello.”
There was a pause, and then, “Hi.”
She became rigid. “How did you get this number?”
“Come on, babe. Give me some credit.”
Eddie looked around for something with which to cover herself. She went quickly into the bathroom and grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door. “I said, how did you get this number?” She returned to the living room and sat down, huddling into an easy chair, and began rubbing its arm with the palm of her hand; the touch of the nubbly fabric against her skin was comforting.
“How’re you doing over there, anyway? How much do you miss me?”
The chair was quite worn. Eddie had bought second-hand furniture and now she wished that everything in the place was brand new.
Abruptly, she hung up. She turned down the volume on the portable phone and switched off the answering machine.
When she walked into the bathroom and lowered herself into the steaming water, she was shaking with rage.
***
“Thanks for coming, Bernie,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” said Bernie Peters, placing her handbag on the table as she sat down. “I gotta eat lunch. Might as well eat it here as anywhere.” She settled into the chair, patting her bright auburn curls, encased in a hairnet, with both hands, then folded her hands in her lap.
“So, what’ll you have, ladies?” said Earl.
“Tomato soup, brown toast, and two percent milk, please,” said Bernie.
“I’ll have a shrimp sandwich with fries,” said Mrs. O’Hara, “and a glass of water.”
“Okeydoke,” said Earl.
Mrs. O’Hara glanced around the restaurant, which was filling up with the after-church crowd. “You used to do some cleaning over at the school, didn’t you?”<
br />
Bernie nodded vigorously, whisking crumbs from the table with the edge of her hand. “For a while I did. Gave it up though. Too much work. And it was no fun anyway, not with all those damn kids running around.” She cocked her head and regarded Mrs. O’Hara shrewdly with small, bright eyes. “Are they looking for somebody? Oh well. They’re always looking for somebody.”
“I thought I’d look into it,” said Mrs. O’Hara vaguely.
“So what do you want from me?” said Bernie, as Earl delivered a glass of milk and another of water.
“I know you as a tolerant person, Bernie,” said Mrs. O’Hara, “and I know you’re observant, too. You mentioned the kids. Kids I can deal with. But what about the staff? Are they bossy? Do they get in your way?” She smiled across at Bernie. “I like to know all I can about my clients. So what can you tell me about the teachers?”
***
How long has he been lying there? thought Denise. All scrunched up in the trunk of his car, his bloodied head on a pillow—a quixotic touch, that, cradling his poor dead cranium on a pillow—with his limbs awkwardly folded: how long?
Not that Ivan cared how long it had been.
How much—deterioration—would have occurred by now, given the unseasonably warm weather? What effect would that have had on his carcass? Denise was surprised by her mind’s choice of word, and wanted to find another one, but it was too late. And besides, it was the right word: it wasn’t Ivan lying there. It wasn’t even Ivan’s body. It was only a carcass.
I must have been mad, she reflected, rubbing her palms together, splayed fingers clinging to their opposites. Mad. And for these last several days some kindly god or other had set Denise’s life in abeyance and waited, patiently, for her madness to retreat. But now that she was sane again, something was required of her. She knew this: she just couldn’t think what it might be.
Denise rose from the rocking chair and wandered through the house, looking at things that were Ivan’s: his shaving kit in the bathroom, on the back of the toilet; the clothes that overflowed a closet and several drawers; a golf bag leaning against the wall by the back door; in the drawer of his bedside table, a package of mints, a paperback book about investing for early retirement, a ballpoint pen and a notepad, and some condoms. They had only recently begun to use condoms. Denise, closing the drawer, acknowledged that she was a very stupid woman.
She would have to get boxes from somewhere and fill them with his belongings. Would his mother like to have them, Denise wondered? Or should she give everything to the Salvation Army?
She gripped her head with both hands. How was she going to deal with this? She wanted things to go on as they were, quietly and serenely, in the continuing absence of Ivan, away at a conference. But she knew that was impossible. It was Sunday, now, and that woman would be calling again. And even if Denise put her off, it would be temporarily. As soon as she was back in school tomorrow morning, and Ivan didn’t show up...
She thought suddenly about the car; Ivan’s car. Since nobody had come to her door to tell her it had been found, perhaps it hadn’t been found. Although that seemed unlikely. Had she locked it? She must have. But stuck off in the middle of the woods as it was, surely nobody coming across it while walking their dog or looking for whatever people look for in the woods—mushrooms (was it mushroom season?) or blooming things—anyway, anybody coming across Ivan’s car would surely think it abandoned. And if they didn’t report it, they’d smash it up for fun.
Or else they’d try to find a way to steal it. It could be broken into it without much difficulty, and she knew there was a way to start a car without its key. So perhaps somebody had driven away in it.
With Ivan in the trunk...
How long before he would begin to smell? And what would the thief do then? Denise grew dizzy considering the possibilities, both likely and improbable.
If she were to go back there and find the car gone, what would that mean? How would it change things?
Rain was falling again, from a sky dank and heavy with gray clouds that hovered so close to the surface of the earth they left scarcely enough air for people to breathe. Or so it felt to Denise, standing at the window, clutching her cardigan closed at the throat.
She put on a navy slicker with a hood, plucked the car keys from the empty sugar bowl in the cupboard and put them in her pocket, and stepped out into the rain.
Denise trudged along with her hands in the pockets of her slicker, her eyes mostly on the ground to keep the rain out of her face. As she walked, she observed the toes of her sneakers, which were pink and gray, dirty and torn. She slowed and stopped and stared down at her feet in their tired old sneakers, while the rain flung itself against her slicker like handfuls of marbles. She wanted to retreat, to withdraw to her bed with the blinds drawn and the covers over her head. She wanted to stay there until she fell asleep and, once asleep, never waken.
But there was something massive and unpredictable teetering directly above her head. It was preparing to fall on her, to kill her in her sleep, if she allowed herself to sleep before dismantling it, whatever it was—a house of cards, perhaps; a chimera, anyway. But it was a fantasy with substance; a nightmare with authenticity. Denise shivered and plunged on, through puddles, splashing rainwater onto the legs of her jeans.
When she reached the end of her street she turned right and walked through the village, past cafes and the hardware store, past a tearoom and a crafts shop, past an occasional pedestrian huddled beneath an umbrella, splashed sometimes by slow-moving vehicles. Now there were houses on her right and the shopping mall on her left, rain bouncing from the roofs and hoods of the automobiles and four-by-fours crowding the parking lot. Denise proceeded past the houses, along the edge of the highway, then around a bend and up the hill. She was very cold, now, beneath the slicker, and wished she had worn gloves. Her face was wet with rain despite the hood. She had no idea where she was going. But something in her head apparently had a map, so she kept on walking.
Her legs had started to ache, and she tried to slow down—she was traveling uphill, after all—but she was unable to slow down, her body simply wouldn’t do it. This created in Denise’s blood a shudder of panic, but she beat it down, beat it out like a brushfire and quick-marched up the hill as if this pace were her own personal choice, swinging her arms with counterfeit enthusiasm. The hood fell back, allowing rain to smear her cheeks and forehead. It leaked into her eyes, and crept under the slicker at the back of her neck. Denise strode along, panting, her thighs throbbing. She was hurled around a corner and past a group of houses that were so new they looked raw: the new, tender grass in their front lawns was so vividly green that Denise thought for a moment there was concrete there, slathered with DayGlo paint.
Then, abruptly, there were no more houses and no more pavement, and Denise was being propelled rapidly along a wide gravel road. The rain fell in bursts, slapping fretfully at her face and her ungloved, swinging hands, directed by impish gusts of wind. Denise pulled the hood back over her head, but it had gotten wet inside and stuck to her hair and the sides of her face, clammy and mean, so she brushed it off again. She was panting heavily. She had a stitch in her side and she badly needed to rest, or at least to slow down but, helpless, she continued her swift passage along the road, which was turning into a lane now, narrow and rutted. Denise stumbled frequently but her legs, although almost spasming from this unaccustomed effort, possessed extraordinary strength and refused to let her fall. They churned savagely, her arms flailed, and she remained upright, driving onward.
Soon she was brushing aside wet leaves and branches, greenery having encroached upon the narrowing lane. She barreled ahead, ducking when necessary, raising her arms to protect her face. Eventually the forest enveloped the lane completely, and whatever had been propelling her onward evaporated.
Denise’s body trembled in its wake. She leaned forward, her hands gripping her screaming thighs, her eyes shut tight, and rested, panting, waiting for her heartbeat to de
celerate. When it did, she opened her eyes and stood upright.
The sound of the rain flew among the trees of the forest like slightly discordant notes of music. The scent of the earth was strong, musky and fecund. From far away the barking of a dog drifted toward Denise on the cool, moist breeze.
Directly ahead of her, perhaps fifty feet away, Ivan’s metallic blue Cavalier was barely visible.
She looked at it for a long time before moving toward it, slowly, pressing through the brush, elbowing aside salal and blackberries, treading on ferns and weeds and infant trees. The Cavalier squatted in the embrace of foliage, practically invisible. In six months, if left alone, it would be engulfed by the rainforest.
Denise pulled the keys from her pocket. She lifted a branch of salal away from the trunk and unlocked it. The trunk door lifted several inches and hung there, suspended. Denise closed her eyes, wrenched it all the way open, and stepped back, hurriedly, blindly. Her back found a straight solid tree trunk to lean against. Oh please god, please god, she was saying under her breath.
When she opened her eyes and looked into the trunk, she didn’t know whether god had answered her prayers or not. The trunk was empty. There was no Ivan. No bloodied pillow. No flattened black plastic garbage bag. Denise turned slowly around in a full circle, peering through the trees, her eyes scouring the ground. But Ivan was gone.
Denise stood rigid in the forest, listening to the rain.
***
“Look at this,” said Cassandra, scrutinizing a wedding photograph displayed on top of one of her mother’s bookcases. “It’s an awful picture. We aren’t even smiling, for heaven’s sake.”
“Marriage is a serious business,” said her mother. “It’s nothing to get all giddy about.”
Helen Mitchell’s room was reasonably large and comfortable. She would like to have had a separate bedroom, but such accommodations weren’t available at Shady Acres. The bed took up a large portion of the room. She had tried—with modest success—to make it look less intrusive and institutional by draping it with a handmade quilt from Nova Scotia and several throw cushions. She had perked up the bathroom, too, in an attempt to camouflage the fact that it was equipped for a wheelchair: a bright fabric calendar covered one wall, there was a rubber-backed, rainbow-striped carpet on the floor, and an arrangement of dried flowers sat on the counter.
