Aileen was smart. She made the best rhubarb crisp in town. She would do anything for her grandson, Owen, whom she bragged about constantly. And until she was struck down by cancer a little over a year ago, she jogged every day in her bright red runners, even in the rain.
Marge misses Aileen very much. The whole book club does. When Aileen got sick, the club started meeting in her living room where she would lie in the orange recliner. It was her chair.
Before she died, Aileen made the club promise that they would continue to meet at her house, and she left them with a reading list to keep them busy for years. What she was really asking them to do was look out for Neville. Neville now lets them come and go as they please.
Occasionally, someone at a club meeting will bring up Aileen’s funeral and the poem that Owen wrote and read during the service. It moved everyone to tears, including Marge, who told Owen so at the reception right after the service. Upon hearing how she felt, he fled from the room. To this day, she still feels bad that she upset Owen when she only meant to be kind.
Marge pulls out a frying pan, gives it a dollop of corn oil and sautés the celery, green pepper and onions. A nice homey smell fills the air. She turns up the radio.
The kitchen door is fixed now, and Hardy has returned to the basement to retrieve his oil can. He comes back up and puts a few drops on the hinges of the back door he has just hand-planed.
“Is anything else squeaking?” he asks after turning down the radio.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Marge says.
She grits her teeth, straining to hear CBC.
Hardy heads out of the kitchen to parts unknown.
Marge turns up the radio. She pulls out a baking dish and scoops the sautéed vegetables into it. She browns the ground beef in the frying pan, overcooking it to be safe, and adds the meat to the vegetables. Then she adds the canned tomatoes, barley and spices, including the chili powder, which she measures precisely. She sprinkles the grated cheese and breadcrumbs on top. She slides the casserole into the oven and sets the timer.
Marge goes into the living room with its bold sunflower-patterned curtains, plucks her knitting from the basket beside her chair and sits down to do a few rows while she waits. As she settles in, she thinks about the most recent conversation she had with Neville, just before he moved into his son’s house to take care of Owen.
Neville was in the backyard repairing his fence when Marge arrived a week ago with a warm casserole — this one pork, beans and sausage.
“You ladies don’t need to keep sending over casseroles,” Neville told her. He had his tool belt on. “Really, I’m grateful, but I can manage.”
Neville says this each time a casserole appears, but he eats them all the same.
“Of course you can,” Marge replied as she always did. “Shall I put this in your oven to keep it warm?”
“Yes, please.”
Marge ducked inside. She was not snooping — she never did that — but she had a quick look around after she slid the casserole into the oven and turned it on Low.
Nothing was amiss in the house. Sure, it could have been tidier. There were magazines and paperwork strewn on tables and empty coffee mugs scattered about. The vacuum stood in the corner at the ready, but Marge was pretty sure that it hadn’t moved since her last visit. Still, the house was in good shape.
But something made Marge pause in the living room. It was the orange recliner, Aileen’s orange recliner. Marge crossed the room and picked up a photo album that was lying on it. She was about to flip through the pages when Neville quietly entered the room.
“Is that yours?” he asked.
Marge felt sheepish. Her cheeks burned bright red.
“I’m so sorry, Neville,” she sputtered, caught in the act. “It’s so unusual to see anything on Aileen’s chair. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Whose chair?”
“Aileen’s.”
Neville looked at her for a long minute.
“Who’s Aileen?” he finally asked.
Marge opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. What did he mean, who’s Aileen? Was he joking?
“Is that yours?” he repeated, pointing to the album she held awkwardly.
“Of course not. Why do you keep asking?” Marge said, her confusion mixed with growing alarm.
“I’m asking because I don’t recognize anyone in those photos,” Neville said matter-of-factly.
Marge sat down on the sofa and opened the album. It was full of photographs of a younger Neville and a younger Aileen. They were on picnics, on a sailboat, at county fairs, at the hot springs in Banff, at the Calgary Stampede — all happy moments early in their marriage.
“Neville,” Marge said. “These photos are of you. You and Aileen.”
Neville said nothing.
“Aileen,” Marge prompted. “Your wife.”
“I’m married?” Neville asked.
“You were married. To Aileen.”
Silence pressed against the four walls of the room.
Neville gave a small nod and sat down.
“How about a nice cup of tea? I’ll go fetch us some,” Marge suggested.
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she bolted to the kitchen and tried not to cry. Jóhanna and Pauline had been reporting Neville’s odd behavior for months, and she had seen some things, too, but not like this.
Marge placed the teapot and two blue china cups on a tray after she pulled herself together and brought the tray into the living room. Neville had been flipping through the photo album. As soon as he saw her come in, he shoved the album aside.
“I could use a cup of tea,” he announced brightly.
He seemed more himself. The cloudy air had lifted.
They sipped their tea for a bit, sitting next to each other on the sofa.
“What is wrong with the fence?” Marge asked, making small talk.
“I need to replace a few rotten boards,” Neville said. “I’ve been thinking about getting a dog.”
“A dog?”
“Yes. For company,” Neville said. “Maybe a little fox terrier. Or a sheepdog. I can’t decide.”
“A dog is a lot of work,” Marge said. “You’d be forever vacuuming.”
Marge glanced at the neglected vacuum standing in the corner behind Aileen’s orange recliner.
“I know. I’m still weighing my options.”
“What about your grandson? Doesn’t he keep you company?”
“Owen’s great company. But he’s getting older. More independent. Creating his own life. You should see him with a camera.” Neville sighed. “Anyway, I haven’t decided about a dog. I know it would tie me down. I’m not sure I want to give up my freedom just yet.”
“Yes, it’s nice to be able to come and go as you please,” Marge said.
“I used to travel a lot more,” Neville admitted. “I miss it.”
Neville grew quiet and Marge did not press further. When she finished her tea, she set her cup down on the tray and took Neville’s cup when he was finished. She got up to do the dishes, and Neville followed her into the kitchen.
While at the sink, she said, “Pauline will be by tomorrow. She wants to try out a new chicken and broccoli recipe.”
“Tell her I won’t be here. I’m moving into my son’s house while he and my daughter-in-law go to Las Vegas,” Neville said, picking up a tea towel to dry the dishes.
“Then we’ll drop off casseroles at your son’s home,” Marge said. “For you and Owen.”
Marge’s thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of the oven’s timer. She sets her knitting aside and pulls the casserole out from the oven. It is oozing hot bubbling goodness. She wraps it up for transport in clean tea towels and calls down the basement stairs to Hardy.
“I’m leaving now!” she shouts.
> Marge heads out the front door, carrying her warm casserole along with her knitting bag and half-read book. She climbs into their car. She drives down the wide suburban streets of Red Deer to Owen’s home, which is six blocks away.
The car is making that noise again.
She pulls into the empty driveway. Neville’s car is not there. This strikes her as peculiar. Neville is supposed to be minding Owen. She checks her watch. School is dismissed by now. Where is everyone?
Marge climbs out of her car and carries the casserole to the front porch.
Strange.
Another casserole is resting on one of the rocking chairs by the door. She recognizes the daisy-patterned dish. It’s Jóhanna’s. She touches the glass lid. The casserole is stone cold.
Marge stands uncertainly with her own warm casserole.
She scans up and down the street. A freight train whistles, and a lonely dog barks in the distance. On high alert, she hears both. Otherwise, all is quiet.
She hesitantly knocks on the door.
There is no answer, and now she is not expecting one.
She sets her casserole down next to the cold one and spies through the living room window. The lights and television are off, and everything appears to be in order.
She knocks again, knowing it is futile but not knowing what else to do.
Where are Neville and Owen? How long have they been gone for?
Marge gingerly tries the doorknob.
Locked.
Then Marge does something she is not at all comfortable doing. She lifts the lid of the wall-mounted mailbox next to the front door and peers inside, hoping she will not be caught snooping. She gasps. There is a handful of envelopes stashed in the box.
The daily mail has not been collected!
A wave of foreboding chills Marge. She backs away from the door, climbs down the porch stairs and scrambles into her car. She heads straight to the book club that is assembling at Neville’s house for their monthly meeting. She is breathless, and her heart is racing. She almost misses a stop sign.
Calm down, she tells herself. Calm down. Deep breaths.
“You’re late,” Pauline announces loudly as soon as Marge rushes in. “Where’s your book?”
Everyone is already seated in Neville’s living room. It is a full house. Only Aileen’s orange recliner is empty, since no one ever dares to take her spot.
“We’re got more things to worry about than the whereabouts of my book. I’ve just been to Neville’s grandson’s house. Neville’s not there,” Marge reports.
Some club members close their books. Others stare.
“Perhaps he just stepped out,” Jóhanna says. “On an errand.”
“A pretty long errand,” Marge says. “When did you drop off your casserole?”
“Just before lunch,” Jóhanna says. “I left it on the porch. Why do you ask?”
“It’s still there,” Marge says.
Everyone who is wearing a watch now checks the time.
“Neville’s been gone all day?” Jóhanna asks, alarm creeping into her voice
“Worse,” Marge says. “I looked into the mailbox. Their mail hasn’t been collected from yesterday.”
“And there’s no sign of Owen?” Jóhanna asks.
“No. Both are gone.”
“But where? Today is a school day!”
Marge wraps her arms around herself and starts pacing.
“I … ” She hesitates.
“What?” Pauline demands.
“I had a strange conversation with Neville when I dropped off a casserole last week.”
“Strange? What do you mean?”
“He was looking at a photo album. He …” Marge gulps. “He couldn’t remember Aileen.”
Everyone glances at the orange recliner as if Aileen is still there and would be offended.
“Oh, dear,” Pauline mutters.
“And then he talked about traveling. How he missed it. And how quickly Owen is growing up.” Marge shrugs. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”
“Oh, no. You don’t suppose …” Jóhanna cuts in.
“I don’t know what to think. It’s just, they’re not at home, and I’m sure they’ve been gone since some time yesterday.”
Pauline stands.
“This is crazy. Let’s just call Neville. Who’s got his cell number?”
“No!” Jóhanna stands, too. “We can’t call. He already suspects that we’re on to him about his memory issues. You know how testy he gets. There’s got to be another way to find out where he is.”
Silence fills the room. Nobody moves.
“I’ve got it,” Jóhanna says. “I’m going to call Kevin.”
“Kevin?” Marge says. “That maniac skateboarder?”
“Yes, that Kevin. He happens to take care of my cats when I’m away. He’s also Owen’s best friend. Maybe he knows something.”
“That’s brilliant,” Pauline says. “Give him a call.”
Jóhanna fishes out her cell phone from her giant purse. She consults the contact list and makes the call. She puts the cell on speakerphone as members of the Red Deer River Readers Book Club gather around her. A girl answers, Kevin’s sister.
“Hi, Kayte. It’s Jóhanna Porter. Is Kevin there?”
“Yes, I’ll get him.”
Marge starts to pace again.
“Hello?” Kevin says.
“Hello, Kevin. It’s Jóhanna Porter.”
“Oh, hi. Do you need me to take care of your cats?”
“No, it’s not that. I am actually looking for your friend Owen.”
“Owen? He’s in Iceland.”
“Pardon me?” Jóhanna manages to ask.
“Iceland,” Kevin repeats matter-of-factly.
“That can’t be right.”
“I didn’t believe him at first, either. But then I heard airport sounds when he called me on his granddad’s cell.”
“So he’s with his granddad.”
“Yes.”
“Why would they want to go to Iceland?”
“Owen said that his granddad has to return a friend’s medal.”
“A friend’s medal? Gunnar’s medal?”
“Gunnar? Yes.”
“Thank you, Kevin. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Is Owen in trouble?”
“No, of course not. He’s with his granddad, as you say.”
Jóhanna mumbles goodbye and hangs up.
Everyone in the room knows about Gunnar and the Order of the Falcon. A conversation with him never went by without Gunnar mentioning his medal at least once.
“Well, that’s it. We absolutely must call Neville,” Pauline declares.
“He’ll be furious with us,” Jóhanna says. “He’ll cut us off, and then we won’t be able to look out for him like Aileen asked us to. He’ll end up in a seniors’ residence well before his time like my cousin Buddy Clark.”
“No one’s going to ship Neville to a seniors’ residence! And anyway, there’s Owen to consider.”
“Neville wouldn’t hurt him!”
“Not intentionally. But he’s forgetful. His memory is getting worse.”
Marge turns her back on the crowd and faces the silent and empty orange recliner, looking for the answer to an impossible question.
What would Aileen want them to do?
Five
A blue-uniformed flight attendant quietly makes her way up the darkened aisle, offering water to any passenger who is still awake. Owen opens his eyes and nods to tell her that he would like some. Moments later, he has to go to the washroom and regrets drinking the water. Now he either has to wake up his granddad to ask him to stand, or he has to crawl over him to get to the aisle.
Owen studies his granddad. He
is still snoring, eye mask firmly in place.
Owen decides to crawl over him. At first, he manages okay, barely touching his granddad by precariously balancing on one leg and bracing himself on the backrest of the passenger’s seat in front of him as he lifts his other leg over his granddad’s lap. But Owen’s legs are not quite long enough, and in the end he clumsily drags his other foot across his granddad’s legs.
“What’s going on?” Neville demands in a voice that is loud enough to wake up the passenger who glared at Owen earlier when Owen opened the window shade.
“It’s just me, Pops,” Owen whispers.
“What? Where am I?” Neville asks.
“On an airplane,” Owen whispers.
“What? I can’t see!”
“Take off your eye mask,” Owen whispers.
“What eye mask?”
“Your eye mask,” Owen whispers urgently. “You put it on to go to sleep.”
Owen’s granddad gropes his face and hauls off his eye mask. He blinks as he looks around, confused, his white hair sticking up at the back. He digs into his shirt pocket for his glasses and puts them on.
“Where are we going?” Neville asks again, his glasses crooked in his haste.
“Where are we going?” Owen repeats. “What do you mean? We’re on our way to Iceland. Remember?”
But Owen’s granddad continues to look baffled. Then he abruptly stands up to scan the airplane, front and back.
“Iceland?!” Neville repeats at a high volume. “That can’t be right!”
Owen grows alarmed. Why is his granddad acting this way when he was the one with two free tickets to Iceland? Perhaps his granddad is not quite awake, Owen tries to reason. Perhaps he is still dreaming.
“Pops,” Owen says gently, nudging his granddad’s arm. “Wake up.”
“Why is everyone asleep?” Neville asks loudly, yanking his arm away from Owen. Now Owen’s granddad sounds frightened.
And that frightens Owen.
“It’s nighttime,” Owen says. “You should go back to sleep. I’m going to the washroom, and when I get back, I’ll sleep, too, like you told me.”
The Things Owen Wrote Page 4
