by Gail Bowen
I felt a chill, but I tried to sound reassuring. “Pete, everything in high school is hyper-intense. People grow up.”
My son raked his hand through his hair. “I know, and I know Charlie sounds as if he really has it together. I listen to his show whenever I’m back in Regina. He seems like the coolest guy on the block, but…” Peter chopped the air with his hand. “But nothing,” he said. “I’m suffering from Hitchcock overload. You’re right. High school isn’t real life. And Charlie got his happy ending. He and Ariel were a couple. He would have done anything for her.”
In the lake’s dark waters, the moon’s reflection was a vortex. The final lines of the poem Charlie had recited on-air the day of Ariel’s death pressed upon my consciousness with such urgency that I spoke them aloud: “Dig them the deepest well,/Still it’s not deep enough/To drink the moon from.”
Peter frowned. “What’s that?”
“Just a line from a poem.”
Pete grinned ruefully. “If I’ve driven you to poetry, it’s time to change the subject. What do you think about going back to the house and cracking open a cool one?”
“I think it’s a terrific idea,” I said. “This is the old Queen’s birthday, and it should go out with a bang not a whimper.”
Our family logged an album-full of Kodak moments before we went our separate ways at the end of the holiday weekend, but Monday night, as I crawled into my own bed in the city, the image that haunted me was one that existed only in my imagination. It was of Charlie Dowhanuik, heartsick and angry, watching the girl he loved walk away with another boy. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I was still puzzling over two linked and unsettling questions: How much did Charlie know about Ariel’s pregnancy, and when did he know it?
I awakened the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing. When I picked up the receiver and heard Howard Dowhanuik’s basso profundo, I began to wonder about telepathy. As always, Howard wasted no time on niceties. “That priest who’s staying at Charlie’s house called. He says you’ve been checking up on us.”
“It’s a good thing I took the initiative,” I said. “Otherwise I never would have discovered that you and Charlie were in Toronto.”
“I gather from the frosty reception I’m getting now that you’re pissed off because I didn’t consult you.”
“I’m not pissed off,” I said. “Just confused. Howard, what are you and Charlie doing visiting Marnie?”
When he answered, the bravura was gone. “My son wanted his mother.”
“Is Marnie capable of…?”
He cut me off. “Marnie’s capable of nothing. She has to be fed. She wears a diaper. When she laughs, she shits herself.”
I had known him for twenty-seven years, and I thought I knew the full range of his anger: faked indignation at an opponent’s attack; icy fury when a jab hit home; withering disdain for those he believed had betrayed him. But the wrath in his voice as he described his wife’s condition came from a place I didn’t recognize – it was rage at the very nature of existence.
It sucked the sense out of me, and my response was as empty of meaning as one of Livia Brook’s New Age banalities. “But Charlie’s finding something he needs there.”
“Apparently,” Howard said, dryly. He had never been easy with talk of emotion. He coughed to cover the awkwardness. “Jo, I didn’t call to get into all that touchy-feely crap. I need you to do a little asking around at NationTV.”
“For what?”
“Charlie wants to know more about this guy the police have picked up in connection with Ariel’s murder.”
“He can probably get most of what I know from checking the Internet,” I said. “I’m sure the media here are working overtime to keep the curious informed.”
“There’s always stuff that isn’t made public. You know that.”
Remembering his pain about Marnie, I tried to keep the asperity out of my voice. “Howard, you must have a dozen cronies in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office who can give you inside information.”
“I don’t want them to know I’m asking.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” I said. “Nothing I find out about Kyle Morrissey is going to bring Charlie any comfort.”
“Damn it, Jo. Don’t give me a hard time. Just do it.” Then Howard added a word he didn’t often use with me. “Please.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask around. What’s your number there?”
“I’ll call you.”
The phone went dead. I stared at the blank display screen, aware that once again I’d been handed a task I could neither embrace or refuse. As I snapped on Willie’s leash, I remembered how, on dismal mornings after Rose, my old golden retriever, died, I had clung to the thought that, come spring, my new dog and I would amble around the lake, taking time to smell the flowers and whatever else of interest came our way.
I looked into Willie’s anxious eyes. “Time to hit the street, bud, but those flowers are going to have to wait.”
When I arrived at the Political Science office, I noticed two things: the vase beside Ariel’s picture was filled with daffodils, and Rosalie Norman was already at her desk. She was reading, but as soon as she heard my step she slapped her book shut. “Caught me,” she said.
“Something steamy?” I asked.
“I wish,” she said gloomily. She held up the book so I could see the cover. It was an ancient edition of The Joy of Cooking.
“I don’t think reading Irma and Marion Rombauer is an indictable offence,” I said. “Are you planning a special meal for Robert?”
“If only it were that easy,” she said. “Joanne, I’m going to have to confess this to someone, sometime.” She closed her eyes, and the words tumbled out. “I’ve never learned how to cook. I don’t even know how to boil an egg.”
“How did you get by all these years?”
“Mother. She was a born cook, and since she passed away, I’ve just had my main meal at noon here at the university, and warmed up a bowl of soup for supper.” Rosalie handed me The Joy of Cooking. “Mother swore by this, but it was published in 1951. Do you think it’s still okay?”
I looked at the page Rosalie had marked. The heading was “Sweetbreads, Brains, Kidneys, Liver, Heart, Tongue, Oxtails, etc.,” and Irma and Marion Rombauer recommended their use for girls who knew there was no substitute for a juicy steak or a glistening roast but whose slenderized pocket-books made them feel “as broke as the ten commandments.”
“Well?” Her voice was anxious.
“The prose is a little dated,” I said, “but the recipes look good. What kind of meal does Robert like?”
“Anything that starts with a slab of meat and ends with whipped cream.”
I handed the cookbook back to her. “Let the Rombauers be your guides,” I said. “You couldn’t make a better choice. Now, I’d better move along. This is my first day with Ariel’s class.”
Rosalie winced, but she squared her shoulders, obviously determined to soldier on. “Good news there, at least,” she said. “There was a copy of Political Perspectives propped outside the office door when I arrived this morning. It’s in your mailbox.”
When I checked the front page, I saw that the name and office number were Ariel Warren’s. I turned back to Rosalie. “No note?”
“Not if there isn’t one inside.”
I leafed through the book. It was heavily annotated, but there was nothing explaining where it had come from. I told Rosalie I’d see her later and headed for the office of the one person who might be able to shed light on the mystery, but when I rapped on Kevin Coyle’s door there was no answer. It was the first time in two years that he hadn’t been there when I’d stopped by. As I headed for Ariel’s class with the folder containing her class list and syllabus in my hand, I was uneasy. The world was out of joint, and when I walked into Ariel’s classroom, nothing I saw suggested an imminent return to harmony.
In a configuration that was as rare as it was disturbing, all the women were sitting on o
ne side of the room, all the men on the other. The room was layered with emotions: tension, confusion, and grief. There was nothing to gain by adding my own feelings to the mix.
I kept my approach coolly academic. I introduced myself, explained that I’d be teaching the rest of the course, then wrote my name, office and phone numbers, and e-mail address on the board. When I turned to face the students again, they were bent over their notebooks, writing. We were back on track, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.
“I understand from your syllabus that your mid-term is this Thursday. Here’s what you’ll need to know.” An hour and ten minutes later, I had given them a lecture that was comprehensive and deadly boring. It was what an Australian academic I knew referred to derisively as “a chalk and talk class,” but it had done the job. Immersed in a familiar ritual, the students relaxed. As the class ended and they began throwing their notebooks and texts into their backpacks, the tension knotting my shoulders eased. Ariel’s Political Science 101 class and I were on our way.
Relieved, I turned to clean the boards and discovered that I’d exhaled too soon. Solange Levy was waiting in the hall outside the door. She was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and her trademark Converse high-tops. Her henna-burnished hair was slicked back from her face. It had been only three days since Ariel’s death, but Solange, whose marathon bike rides had kept her strikingly fit, already had the gaunt, smouldering-eyed look of heroin chic once prized by fashion photographers.
“It’s okay to come in?” She brushed past me without waiting for an answer. “I have an announcement about Ariel.” The room fell silent. Solange raised a slender arm towards the side of the room where the men had been seated. “Go, if you wish,” she said. Her action was both stunningly rude and uncharacteristic. Solange’s deeply felt feminism had never affected her rapport with male students. The men’s faces hardened, but none of them left.
For a beat, Solange stared at them, then she gave them a curious half-smile. “I’ve set up a Web page for Ariel on the university’s site. There’s a guest book for anyone who wishes to share her memories of our friend.” She took a step towards the women’s side of the class, then chalked the page’s URL on the blackboard. “If you have thoughts about the manner of Ariel’s death, don’t feel constrained about expressing them.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic bag; it was filled with the kind of round metal lapel pins I was familiar with from political campaigns. Without explanation, Solange began distributing them to the women. When one of the men held out his hand, she hesitated, shrugged, and gave him one. The other men in the class approached her, and she gave them pins, too.
Finally, it was my turn. The design on the pin was striking: a stylized line drawing of a sunflower on a black background. Across the upper arc of the circle the words “Never Forget” were inscribed in flowing script. When I put the pin on, the sharp metal point pricked my finger. I watched numbly as a delicate tracery of blood flowed from the stem of the sunflower onto the white silk of my new summer blouse.
CHAPTER
6
When I got back to my office, Kevin Coyle was sitting behind my desk, staring at my computer.
“You should lock your door,” he said. “Vermin are afoot.”
“So it would seem,” I said. I dropped my books on the top of the filing cabinet and sat down in the chair opposite him. It was the chair reserved for students, and a person of sensibility would have taken the hint. Kevin didn’t. He had replaced the missing lens in his Coke-bottle horn-rims. The Dali-esque look was gone, but his magnified gaze was still unsettling.
“There’s new madness,” he said. Then, spotting the pin on my blouse, he leaned across the desk and peered at it. As he absorbed the pin’s message, his face grew grim. “More trouble for me,” he muttered. “And I suppose you’ve heard those women have got themselves some kind of propaganda space on the machine.” He thumped my monitor to identify the source of his latest crisis, then handed me a slip of paper with a Web-site address. “Here’s where they are, but I need you to show me how to find them.”
“Kevin, have you ever even turned on a computer?”
“Why would I?” he barked.
I stared at him. “Because as of five years ago, all the members of this department were supposed to be computer literate; because Rosalie was handling stuff for you that you should have been handling for yourself years ago; because we all have to submit our grades electronically now; and if you win your appeal, you’re going to have to…”
He scowled at me. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready to learn. As the Buddhists say, ‘Leap and the net will appear.’ ”
“And I’m the net,” I said.
He nodded. “I’ll bring you coffee. You can find the propaganda while I’m gone.”
I moved to my own chair, turned on the computer, and waited.
When Kevin came back, he handed me the orange and brown striped mug and examined the screen. “The information isn’t there.”
“Kevin, if I bring up the Web site for you, there’s no leap.”
He dragged the student chair over so it was beside mine. “Okay,” he said. “Teach me.”
For someone who had spent years railing against computers as the handiwork of the devil, Kevin Coyle proved to be a surprisingly quick student.
He made a few false starts, but within minutes the Web site appeared. It was striking: a black screen with a yellow dot glowing in the lower left corner. As I watched, the dot etched a graceful sunflower. It was an image I had introduced myself, yet I felt a stab of anger at this fresh proof that my private memory had suddenly become public property. The sunflower vanished, and Ariel’s name flowed across the screen, followed by the dates of her birth and death. There were some photos and, in the guest book, a dozen e-mailed memories. All grew out of the nine brief months Ariel had taught at the university. Solange had not cast her net wide, and even a quick glance revealed that the Web site had the sweetly elegaic flavour of a high-school yearbook.
I turned to Kevin. “Perfectly innocuous,” I said. “Looks like you lost your status as the last of the Luddites for nothing.”
Kevin stabbed at the computer screen with his forefinger. “What are those?”
“Just links to other sites that may be of interest to people who cared about Ariel.”
“How’s that one connected to her?” he asked, pointing to a site with the address “redridinghood.”
“Easy enough to find out,” I said. I clicked on the word “redridinghood,” and swivelled my chair to face him. “Even a child can do it,” I said.
He was staring at the monitor, transfixed. “That’s not for children,” he said. I followed his gaze. The picture filling the screen was of a woman: her gender was the only fact a viewer could know for sure. Violence had obliterated her other distinguishing characteristics. The hair surrounding her face was a rusty mat of dried blood. It was impossible to tell if, in life, she had been a blonde, brunette, or redhead. Whether she had been pretty or plain was anyone’s guess. Someone had pounded her face into the livid pulpiness of a rotted eggplant. Her naked body had been hacked at, her breasts severed, her genitals slashed.
I scrolled down the page to see if there was explanatory text.
The quotation that appeared on my screen was evocative: “… the better to eat you with my dear” This site is devoted to all the Red Riding Hoods – to all the women who have been devoured by the wolves that walk among us.
I shuddered.
“Someone just walked over your grave,” Kevin said absently. He took the mouse and clicked on “NEXT.” There was page after page, each with a photo of the murdered woman; each had been taken from a different angle, but they were all equally blood-drenched and appalling. The worst picture was the last because, as the caption indicated, it had been taken just hours before the woman died. The photo recorded what must have been a pleasant moment for her: a good-looking young man wearing an Armani suit, a Santa Claus hat, and the punc
hy look of the slightly drunk was raising a glass to her.
Red Riding Hood #1 wasn’t looking at him; she was gazing at the camera with a steadiness that suggested a woman who wasn’t easily deflected by party tricks. Her short black hair had been brushed back sleekly from her heart-shaped face, and a silvery T-shirt glittered through the opening of her smart black jacket. The outfit was festive yet professional, exactly the kind of outfit Marie Claire or Cosmopolitan or Flare would suggest a successful woman should wear to a holiday gathering at the end of a business day. By anyone’s criteria, Red Riding Hood #1 was a success. A newly minted MBA from Queen’s University, her curriculum vitae was so impressive that, the caption said, she had created the job she wanted with a venerable Bay Street brokerage firm and had landed it after one interview. The photograph had been taken at her company’s traditional supper gathering on the last working day before the Christmas break. After the firm’s partners sang “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,” the carol which, for seven decades, had been the signal that the company Christmas party was at an end, the good-looking young man in the Santa cap followed Red Riding Hood #1 home to her shining new condo in the Annex, and raped and murdered her.
Another click took us to Red Riding Hood #2, a real-estate agent with a client who had said he was keen on finding a property that could be a real hideaway. Red Riding Hood #3 was a shift worker in a plant that made pasta; Red Riding Hood #4 was a kindergarten teacher; Red Riding Hood #5 had a husband who couldn’t live without her. In all, there were a dozen grim little folk tales, each with its own stomach-churning, mind-numbing illustration.
The last click took us to a familiar passage. It was the moral Charles Perrault had appended to his version of Little Red Riding Hood three hundred years earlier: From this story one learns that children,
