“You do, sweetheart? Who’s your husband?”
“He was my best friend. He axe me if I trusted him. I did. And then he axe me if I would let him do something for me. Like a gift. I did. But then...he leff me. He went away. And now he doesn’t ‘member me.”
Bexy put down her fork and looked at the girl. Asked her if she trusted him, asked her if he could give her a gift. My Lord, what do you say to that? “This husband, honey? Did he do this to you? Did he put the baby in your tummy?”
“Uh-huh,” Mary said. She looked down at her plate. “I’m scared. I wanted the gift. I did. But now I don’t...It’s too hard.”
“Well, honey…,” Bexy said, struggling with what to offer now. She thought of pressing it with Mary, making her tell who this ‘husband’ was, to learn his name, to get all broiled up about it, tell the doc, tell the Chief, have those men hunt him down and make him take responsibility.
But that feeling simmered. Most of it escaped like steam off a boiling pot of water.
But not all of it.
It didn’t matter, did it? Bexy thought it might not. Not anymore.
“We’re going to take care of this,” she finally said of Mary’s tummy and how she didn’t want the gift anymore. “You’ll see. We’re going to make everything better.”
She exhaled. She could feel her heart pumping heavily again, still holding a shadow of that anger. Of wanting to know who it had been, of anger at not knowing, of wanting to hunt some poor schlep down and carve his dick off with a kitchen knife.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up having a heart attack through all this.
“Okay, hon?” she said, belying her heart’s misery over it.
Mary gave a little smile. “Okay, Missa Cloud. Okay.”
7.
They missed The Young and the Restless but Bexy wondered if they’d already had enough soap opera drama for one day. She didn’t mention to Mary that they’d missed it. But when she put the TV on in the family room after dinner, she knew the girl remembered but caught herself before she complained. Happy Days was on and Mary knew that one so she was instantly absorbed in it. Bexy felt bad for using the TV to babysit, but she was so tired—even after her long sleep this afternoon. The altercations with both that despicable Troyer woman and the self-righteous Father Frye had worn her out.
The irony was that she’d sold herself into the ideals of people like that for so long. And she knew that’s why her own daughter had left her here alone. She knew it.
Before Doc had left to spell Agnes’ nurse for the evening, he’d said that Mary’s nurse, Anne, had called him. She was set to wrap things up with her brother. Her parents were coping about as well as could be expected but he would be out of hospital and into a physiotherapy care home by the end of the week. Nurse Anne would be back a day or two after that.
When she’d heard that, Bexy felt a strange mix of relief. Certainly happy that Anne’s brother would live to ride dangerously again. And also happy that routine would be re-solidified for Mary. But also a tinge of sadness. This holiday from the loneliness of Bexy’s day-to-day in her house on Lannen Lane would be over.
She had a fondness for Mary she couldn’t explain. And tonight might be their last night in the little cocoon of the Banatyne house before things changed. The specialist was coming from the mainland, she’d told Father Frye. And, who knows from there? Would everything go back to normal? Hopefully Troyer would just let things go. Hopefully, the church would too. Not that it would matter.
Bexy would bring the girl home and nurse her as best she could. She’d get ice cream for her and spoil her until she started to feel better—physically, at least.
Happy Days went black and up came a commercial for Kool Milds. Bexy craved a cigarette, a want that hit her with a firmness and weight she hadn’t felt in years. She hadn’t smoked since before her accident but her throat and her lungs and her mind needed a cigarette like perhaps no other time in her life.
She wheeled away from Mary and back into the kitchen. She pawed through the cupboard drawers. Mrs. Banatyne must have smoked. She’d seen her in town, spoken with her the odd time over the last few years. She was always caked in makeup and smelled of mint gum. There must be a stray pack in here somewhere.
There wasn’t. Bexy took a deep breath. Why was she so stressed out now? It felt like everything had finally hit her. But it was more than that. It was something specific.
She let out a little gasp. Goddammit. I told Father Frye the specialist was coming tonight. I told him. Stupid-stupid-stupid!
The dark kitchen window was a simple, flat panel. Not even the trees in the yard were visible. She whirled in her wheelchair, half expecting Father Frye to be standing there at the mouth of the kitchen. He wasn’t.
But Bexy’s heart fluttered anyway. She pulled out of the kitchen and rolled into the family room. Mary was still there—of course she was—sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the big TV. Ron Howard was shrugging his shoulders at something Fonzie said and the Fonz was saying, “Ayyyyy” and putting both his thumbs up. Mary giggled.
Bexy wheeled herself over to the doorway, into the hall and then the front foyer. On the other side was the formal dining room and formal living room. Both were dark. Up those wide stairs, the second floor was dark too.
She wheeled slowly towards the front door. She went right up to it, reached out a tentative set of fingers, and peeked through the sheer curtain at the night. Clumps of black trees against dark blue sky and the wink of a few stars. The wet path leading down to the sidewalk now twinkled with the night’s coming frost. Nothing more. A pervasive silence and stillness out there. She clicked the door handle lock and then fastened the deadbolt above it. She felt a cool draft and that made her shiver. It seemed like it flowed down the mountain of stairs to caress her here at the bottom. She wondered if Nurse Anne had opened the registers up there for winter. Maybe there was an airflow problem. Whatever the case, Bexy was sure she wouldn’t figure it out. This was a big, strange house and she barely understood the workings of her own—even after being the soul caregiver for years and years since Oren’s death.
She turned and drove back around the corner into the warm family room. The flickering glow of the TV seemed to add another homeyness. Mary giggled again. Bexy smiled.
At bedtime, they brushed their teeth together at the sink and got into their pyjamas. Bexy recited Mary Had a Little Lamb a few times and read two books. Then with prodding for more, Bexy gave in and recited The Muffin Man. After that, she pecked a grinning Mary on her cheek and tucked her in. She wheeled over to the doorway and flicked out the light.
“Honey?” she said, rotating back around on her big wheels enough to see the mounds of the girl under the blankets.
“Uh-huh?” Mary said, the whites of her eyes almost glowing in the dim light.
“Did you put your tooth under your pillow t’night? The one from breakfast?”
“No.”
“It’s okay, Mary. You don’t need to lie to Mrs. McLeod.”
“Well. Yeah. I did. I want new stones, Missa.”
“I know, sweetheart. Can you do me a favour?”
“What?”
“Can we put the tooth under your pillow tomorrow instead?” Mary started to whimper with coming tears. “It’s just for one night, honey. Can you do that for me? For Missa Cloud?”
“How come?” Mary asked earnestly.
“Well, just because, honey. I know it doesn’t make much sense to you, but I need you to get a big sleep tonight. The tooth fairy, I think he wakes you up—”
“—No he doesn’t.”
“I know, I know. You probably don’t remember, but he really does, honey. And you need your big sleeps for when the doctor comes.”
Reluctantly, Mary shifted in the bed and reached under her pillow. She dug out the little wad of Kleenex that now looked so familiar to Bexy, who was struck by the realization that this girl seemed to be losing a tooth each day since she’d met her
. Such a thing had to be unhealthy. Bexy felt a pang of panic. This had to happen. And soon. She checked her watch. It was eight-forty-seven. She wheeled back and took the Kleenex packet from Mary, who sniffled but otherwise kept herself under control. “You understand, Mary, I’m only going to keep this until tomorrow. We can put it under your pillow tomorrow, okay? The tooth fairy won’t forget.”
“Okay,” Mary whined.
Bexy kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the girl’s forehead. Without thinking, she said, “Love you.” Her face tinged with red at that but Mary thought nothing of it. She reciprocated.
“Love-you-too,” Mary said and closed her eyes. She said it like a mantra. She said it like it was a given of average proportions.
And even though it was only three little words, said in an automatic way, Bexy’s heart heaved with the weight of it. She rolled out and eased the door closed.
8.
She chose Eight is Enough instead of M*A*S*H*. The latter was funnier, but she didn’t need the images of war that went along with it. Not tonight. Eight is Enough was gentle, family fare. No edge to that show. Bexy didn’t need any edge, not tonight. Maybe never again.
She sat and she watched in silence, trying not to think about the cigarette she didn’t have, trying not to think about what would happen when the specialist arrived. The phone rang partway through Eight is Enough. It was Doc.
“My guy’s gonna be late,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking...Is this specialist—is he going to...come to the house here? Is that where this happens?”
“He can,” Doc said. “He can really do it anywhere, is my understanding. He brings his own instruments and...equipment.”
“Oh,” Bexy said, considering that word, equipment.
“But what I’m trying to tell you, Bex, is that there’s a storm front rolling in. Weather Service says it’s a big, nasty winter brute. Shoulda known. We always get a fair day followed by a dump of ice and snow. This year’s no different, I guess. So the ferries are all on hold. I’m not sure if we’ll see him tonight or in the morning. And if it’s tonight, he might be too tired. I know there’s a sense of urgency—”
“—Especially now, Doc. Heard through the grapevine about my run-in today, did you?”
“I have indeed,” Doc said. He’d likely hoped to avoid the topic altogether, but Bexy McLeod was always one for hitting things dead-on. Certainly in these last years since taking up her causes.
“Well, then you know why we need to get this done. Once it is, no one can do anything. They lose their power. Over the girl—” Bexy said the girl, but she really meant herself. They had power over her, and be damned if she was going to let that go without fighting.
“I’ll call when I know more,” Doc said. “Aggie’s sleeping. I’m going to get some rest too.”
“All right,” Bexy said. “Bye.”
They hung up. Feeling stunned, Bexy rolled back out to the family room. She picked up the remote and switched from Eight is Enough over to One Day at a Time. She tried to let all of this roll out of her head. Valerie Bertinelli reminded her a bit of Teeny. She smiled. And in a few minutes, she was caught up in the plot of high school homework gone missing and that sleazy—but hilarious—building super getting caught up in the girls’ plot. She was laughing hysterically after only a few minutes of watching.
Thoughts of Father Frye and Gladys Troyer hitting the rhubarb in the Banatynes’ front yard were gone.
9.
She got into bed a little after nine and lay there awake, staring at nothing in the half-light spilled from the kitchen stove out into the family room. This mattress was awful. She realized her shoulders hurt. She reached up and tried to massage the connective tissue between them and her neck. It helped only a little.
In a few minutes her hand grew tired and she set it down again. Now she was warm and sleepy. Unconsciousness claimed her. Then it was churning dreams of Father Frye shouting, “For shame!” and of Mrs. Troyer wagging that pointed finger and asking, “You think I’m jealous? Of you?”
She woke to the sounded of ripping fabric.
shrik-shrik-shrrriiiiik.
In the dark, she saw movement. Down at her waist, it was the heavy black shadow of a cat. The animal was pawing at her waist. Bexy used her hands to get herself up. Her heart hammered at the thought of that nasty cat returning. Her hand shot out and pawed at the chair-side lamp. She almost knocked it over but found the switch and turned it.
Light poured onto her and the cat. It cringed back and gave her an open-mouthed hiss. At Bexy’s waist was the torn, tattered sheets and blankets. Like the hole in Mary’s window screen, there was now one torn down through the layers of Bexy’s bedsheets. And the tatters were bloody. Her leg oozed from the wounds the cat had inflicted but there was only a distant tingle, no real pain. Bexy hadn’t felt many sensations down that way in years.
“Hey, what are—?”
Mixed with the bloody sheets and flecks of Bexy’s skin, there were little bits of white, powdery Kleenex. The tooth. It made no sense, but the damn cat was hunting in Mary’s pyjama pocket for Mary’s lost tooth.
The cat roared its wide, fanged shout at her. Its eyes flickered white and then it swooped out a paw and drew a bloody gash into Bexy’s neck. “Oww!” she screeched.
Instinct took over. She retaliated and gave a violent backhand to the feline. That batted it four or five feet from the bed. It landed with a shriek of protest. She thought it would leap back up and come for her but it didn’t.
She strained up to see it. It went for Mary’s room.
Without thinking on it further, Bexy yanked herself into her wheelchair, customarily sitting with its brakes on and pulled right up beside the bed.
She got herself in, even though it was a struggle to do it so fast. She disengaged the brake and wheeled around in time to see the cat return from the doorway of Mary’s room. It paused. Again, it roared that shrill sound. It was directed at Bexy, she knew it was. Behind her, Mary appeared, rubbing her eyes. “A kitty,” she said, sleepily.
The cat hightailed it across the floor. Bexy was sure the thing would leap up onto her and plant itself right onto the woman’s face, clawing her mercilessly. She threw her arms up in a reflexive gesture of defence. It didn’t. It gave her wheelchair a wide berth and shot past her. “Kitty!” Mary screamed and chased the cat.
“Mary!”
The girl ran past Bexy too, out of the family room and into the hall. Bexy got her hands on to the wheel rails and followed as quickly as she could. “Wait! Mary!”
The cat was doing two stairs at a time. It was at the top and up on the catwalk part of the hallway. Mary stumbled and fell. “Stop Mary, don’t,” Bexy shouted after her. “You don’t known about that cat. It’s dangerous!”
But Mary got back up. “It’s the toofairy, Missa Cloud. It has my stones. It’s mad cuz I don’t have my toof!”
She started up the stairs. She got to the top and disappeared.
Bexy backed up to gain some speed. She got going as fast as she could—aiming straight for the stairs, pumping her arms around and around. At the last moment, she shut her eyes tight against the vision of the second-floor risers growing to gigantic. She slammed into the bottom stair and the momentum launched her off her seat cushion and into the air, straight ahead. She put her arms out and got purchase on the face of the ninth hardwood stair as she slammed into the ones below. That knocked the wind out of her and she let out a violent breath that felt like she was sucked dry of everything inside, critical organs too.
She opened her eyes. Her strained fingers held her. She lowered them to the eighth tread and squeezed her muscles to get herself up to another one. It was no use. There was no way she’d be able to drag herself up all these stairs. There had to be sixteen or seventeen of them before the top. And then there was no way for her to maneuver up there, anyway.
The cat screeched again. Somewhere upstairs. She bet that nasty animal had clawed through anothe
r window screen up there. How it had gotten through glass and wood, she had no idea. She wanted to shout. She wanted to cry. But she had almost no wind in her. Laying on the stairs with each lip pressing up into her, it had stolen her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut and gathered up the mental strength...
No good. She couldn’t do it. “Mary,” she called again. But she couldn’t muster any volume.
Then she heard voices. Mary’s and a deeper one. From up there. She couldn’t tell what they were saying. My God, she thought. Was there someone else up there? This whole time?
She had to get up there. Had to.
She should have thought it through first. Should have called Police Chief Birkhead or woken the Doc up. But there might not be time for them to help.
One by one, she pulled herself up each step. Every ridge was a new triumph. She did eleven of them before the top lip of the second story appeared. She eased her nose over it, then her chin. Her bloody throat and then her boobs. She slapped her palms on the hard wood and pulled herself along. “Mary!” she called. “Mary! Say something, sweetie!”
But no voices now. No sound at all. There was, however, the dreary cold draft she’d felt before. An open window. She cursed herself for not investigating it before. But how could she?
She pawed her way down the hall, dragging her legs along the slippery floor like two long sacks of heavy laundry.
She got to the first doorway. No one was there. No—!
Movement. A shadow jerking on the wall and along a bureau mirror. Someone was here. Bexy lifted her head to strain up and scan the whole room. It was Father Frye. He was at the open window, just his head and shoulders. Bexy had become an impossible witness to his presence and he seemed to panic. He dipped out into the blackness. The top arms of his aluminum ladder wiggled on the far side of the open window. The window itself was missing its screen. And the spot where the latch was screwed on—which should have been white-painted wood—was chipped and broken.
Bexy’s mind spun. He took her! She couldn’t believe it. HE TOOK MARY.
Unwed (Dovetail Cove, 1976) (Dovetail Cove Series) Page 9
