Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Then he sat down at the computer, called up the Islands Investigations International website that he’d built, made two small adjustments on one of the hyperlinks, and felt pleased with himself. The site, plus their ads in five different phone books, had brought in a number of well-paying but dull cases. Finally he did some preliminary computer research on Campbell River and Quadra Island and went to bed early.

  • • •

  Kyra Rachel threw black jeans, brown pants, a tan skirt, four tops, some underwear, and a pair of low heels into her bag, collected toiletries and her purse, checked it—yes, the Mace was there—locked the door of her condo and took the elevator to the garage. Driving to Nanaimo was a major improvement over sitting home brooding. She could fret in the car. Or not. A plane would get her there too quickly. She had a decision to make.

  Noel had heard it in her voice. “What’s the matter?” he’d asked. Damn, was she so transparent? “Nothing,” and she’d tried to laugh. “Just haven’t exercised my voice this morning.” Kyra did not want to tell him until she had to. And not on the phone.

  Damn speed dating! If she hadn’t gone to that get-together— If she’d continued seeing Jerome— If she hadn’t gone on those dates— Yeah, right, if wishes were floatplanes, beggars would fly.

  She pulled onto the I-5 and let the Tracker galumph over the concrete slabs that paved this part of the interstate.

  All right. The speed dating reception had been fun. Twelve men, seven minutes with each. At the end of the evening she had two matches, men she wanted to see again who also wanted to see her. That part was okay.

  And she couldn’t blame Jerome; she’d broken it off over his goddamn dog. Nelson had bitten her ankle. Again. “It’s either the dog or me!” “But Kyra,” said Jerome, “my son gave the dog to my wife before she died. I can’t just give him away.” Then Jerome took up with Ann Blair who’d taught the art history course where Kyra had met Jerome. Well, she didn’t really mind that either. Except he’d done it within days. And phoned her to tell her. And that damn Nelson liked Ann. And Ann liked damn Nelson.

  The problem is: I am Pregnant. With a capital P. The problem is, what am I going to do? The problem is further complicated: who is this baby’s father?

  She reached Blaine and slowed for the border. She’d driven half an hour without once noticing the intense blue sky or the vibrant green grass, or felt the full heat of early July. Just after the national holidays in both of her countries. Kyra hadn’t given any real consideration to summer border traffic; maybe she should have flown after all? But every booth was open and the traffic bumped along. Her turn.

  “Nationality?”

  “Canadian.” Kyra handed him the correct passport.

  “Your car has a Washington license plate.”

  Kyra smiled. “I’m working in Bellingham temporarily.”

  The young man—did he have children?—scowled at her, but didn’t pursue the point. “Purpose of your trip?”

  “Family.”

  “Anything to declare?”

  “No—”

  “Have a nice visit.”

  “Thanks.”

  —except that I’m Pregnant and don’t know by who. Whom.

  At a rest stop after the border Kyra pulled in to use the washroom. Did she need to pee more frequently already? At least with her Canadian passport there’d been no delay. As a dual citizen she carried two passports—American for getting into the US, Canadian going in the other direction.

  She re-entered the traffic flow. Two choices: have an abortion or have a baby. How do you explain to a child you don’t know who its father is? Kyra remembered a friend telling her about a friend of a friend who had a baby by a sperm donor and said she’d tell it, Into every life some trauma falls and not knowing who your father is, that’s yours. Could Kyra do that? Would she want to?

  Abortion. Of course every woman must have control over her body. Of course in this imperfect world, women have the right to terminate pregnancies. Of course in her perfect world no woman would conceive an unwanted child. Could Kyra have an abortion? Did she want to?

  Turn it off, dearie. Think about something else. She’d purposely left her juggling balls at home. They often relaxed her when she had a knotty problem to deal with: juggle the issue into clarity. But two balls were too easy, and in this case the only possibilities were in the air at the same time: baby or abortion. Damn!

  Kyra took the overpass and drove on to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal. The parking lot looked crowded. July. Of course. “Will I get on the next ferry?” Kyra asked.

  The woman at the fare booth gazed around the lot, back to her computer. “Probably.” She smiled. Kyra smiled back. Her first smile of the day.

  She drew up behind the car in the appointed lane, turned off the engine. Silence, of a sort. Screams of seagulls, music from cars, laughter, demands of children, admonishments of parents. Nothing she had to deal with. Yet.

  Damn. She’d forgotten her book. She turned the key. The radio came on. A discussion: reduced fertility in women since the turn of the century. Damn. Kyra wrenched out the key, got out, slammed the door and crossed the parking lot to the ostentatious new building that contained coffee and restrooms. She used the latter—again—and bought a skim latte. The interminable wait for the coffee turned her mind off. Temporarily.

  Back in the car, sipping, she forced herself to bring up the two men’s—now putative fathers’—names: Mark and Brian.

  Mark: about six feet, styled collar-length brown hair shiny from shampoo, pleasant face with regular features. His dark blue eyes leapt out with singular immediacy; that’s what had grabbed Kyra. He worked from home as an accountant for a Seattle firm. He hated dogs, yay. He made her laugh. Kyra had a drink with Mark. Two days later, Kyra had dinner with Mark. Three day later, Kyra had sex with Mark. The condom slipped off as he shriveled. Too bad. Kyra had had a nice time until then. Then in the morning he was gone. A note said, Thanks.

  Brian: tall too. Thick curly hair, quirky grin, strong chin. A paralegal. He’d been to Reed College, Kyra’s alma mater, graduated a couple of years before her. They had dinner at an upscale restaurant. They had dinner again. Back in his vintage Ford convertible, Brian put his arm around her, kissed her. She kissed back. But Mark’s note still flamed in her brain. But Brian was awfully nice. The next day she invited him up for a glass of wine. He didn’t have a condom and he wanted sex. He had it. Kyra couldn’t call it rape, exactly. How much had she led him on? He was polite, and he told her he thought she was lovely. Although he refused her condom. In spite of that she did have an orgasm, which was very nice.

  Which was the father? She’d gone off the pill seven months ago and her cycles had become irregular. She checked her calendar and her memory. As far as she could think, sex with Slipped Condom had happened two days before the peak of her cycle, Naked Sex two days after. As far as she could think.

  So here she was, alone with Pregnant. The drugstore test had confirmed it. And her breasts were extremely tender and if the ferry didn’t dock soon she’d head to the restroom again. What the fuck to do? She’d pick a delicate time to tell Noel.

  She parked in a guest slot in Noel’s parking garage, used her key to get to his condo.

  “Hi,” Noel said, leaping up from his sofa. “You made good time.”

  “I’m pregnant, I’m keeping the baby, I don’t want to damn talk about it.” Kyra’s eyes filled with tears, from joy or desperation. Her head fell onto Noel’s shoulder.

  “Oh.” He hugged her. Oh dear.

  • • •

  One of the advantages of traveling first class, you were off the plane quickly. Austin Osborne hated sitting in back rows, standing sardined in the aisle as the plane slowly emptied. First class, few passengers, he could stretch. The hatch opened and he moved.

  He punched in his cell phone as he strode past boutiques and coffee outlets to the stairs to the luggage carousels. Ringing, click. “Hi Austin. You on the island already?” />
  Osborne disliked call display. He tched. “Hello Steve.”

  “Just like to know who’s phoning. Eliminates the surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises. Thought you didn’t either.” In fact, Austin knew Steve hated being caught unawares. “I just landed in Vancouver.”

  “Going over tomorrow?”

  “Floatplane, first thing. When are you arriving?”

  “Oh, end of next week.”

  “Get serious, Steve. We have issues to resolve. The season is approaching.”

  “You think I am not fully aware? No worry, I’m booked on the Friday 1:10 to Campbell River.”

  “I’ll get Randy to pick you up.”

  “Thanks, Austin. You are too gracious.”

  “Damn right I am,” said Osborne.

  “When does Shu-li get in?”

  “Thursday afternoon.”

  “How nice for you. Direct from Calgary? Or is she gallivanting?”

  Of course direct. There are direct flights between civilized places. Austin said, “Direct.”

  “See you Friday.”

  Austin broke the connection. He should call Shu-li. Even with her successful if abbreviated career, which had taken her to competitions around the world, her nerves got panic-attacked before any flight. Luckily her recuperative power was strong. Without it she’d never have taken all those silvers and golds.

  No luggage yet—the carousels weren’t even turning. He poked in her number. Answering machine. He broke the connection.

  Shopping? She liked doing that. Visiting someone? A consultation? No, definitely not. Shu-li was far too careful. They all had to be careful.

  • • •

  Ten AM and Kyra and Noel, down in the underground garage, got into his Civic. Suitcases in the trunk, on her lap her big sack purse containing her needs: make-up, camera, iPhone, Mace, flashlight, tissues, Band-Aids, tampons. Which she really didn’t need, now.

  Earlier they’d futzed about with breakfast. Kyra didn’t want much, piece of dry toast and milk. Thanks. Last night she’d drunk milk at dinner. No wine, Noel, really. She’d flopped onto the chesterfield and taken control of his TV remote.

  The elephant in the living room, Pregnant, swished its tail but fortunately not its trunk. Noel respected Kyra’s desire to not talk about it so the only conversations took place on the TV screen. What had she been thinking? She’d gone off the pill after nearly two decades when she read about terrible side effects on the body as it responded to synthetic estrogen. She’d detailed them to him in vivid and gruesome disgust: she wouldn’t do that to her body any more. He hoped she’d be careful. He thought: Pregnant.

  For a few minutes Kyra flicked channels and complained, Nothing on. Then she pleaded fatigue. She took herself and her fetus to Noel’s study sofa-bed. Early.

  Before turning in Noel manoeuvred around the elephant to phone Jason. He and Kyra would meet him at the Campbell River hospital around three. The elephant followed Noel to his room. He lay flat on his bed. How is she going to manage a baby? What will Triple I do with a baby? Where do I fit in? What happens to Triple I? The elephant moved into bed with Noel. A long time before he fell asleep.

  What with Kyra’s fatigue, Noel’s insomnia, and the elephant, it was late by the time they got going. He drove onto the street. “We have to talk about this baby.”

  “Yes, we should.” Kyra sounded academic and distant.

  “What are you thinking about it?”

  “Not.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Ehhh.”

  “What may I do?”

  Kyra sighed, a deep blow-out of breath. “What can you do? All I know is I think I’m keeping the baby and that’s as far as I’ve got.”

  Noel sighed too. The elephant in the back seat patted his shoulder with its trunk. “Want to talk about this case or about visiting my parents?”

  “Your parents. We’ll talk about the case between Qualicum and Campbell River.”

  “I didn’t tell you, Alana’s been there for a week,” Noel said.

  “What is she now? Thirteen?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “No!”

  “Yep. Graduating high school next spring. She came down to Victoria with Mum and Dad and me when I drove Dad to his treatment last week. Alana and Mum shopped while Dad and I went to the clinic.”

  Over the past month Noel had been driving his father to Victoria for prostate cancer treatment. Over that time she’d taken on a couple of small cases for Triple I, one on Lummi Island, one on Mercer—not much of an island, it had two bridges. Minor problems, low fees. Bad in two ways—reducing the balance in her bank account, giving her lots of time to worry. Now she thought, Noel can run the business while I have a baby. She breathed deeply against a wave of nausea. “And how is your dad?”

  “Well, they say the treatment’s working.”

  “And your mum?”

  “It’s been hard on her. And she can’t do highway driving because of her eyes, and Dad can’t drive with the chemo.”

  Driving. They both looked out the window at the road, the cars and trucks whizzing by, a July-blue sky, black sheep and white sheep in the browning green fields. Kyra pressed a switch and her window descended. Real difference in outside color, the tinted windows easier on the eyes but distorting too. Warm scented air blew in.

  “My parents are delighted you’ll be there for brunch.” Noel said.

  “I haven’t seen them in ages. And I haven’t seen Alana since she was about six.”

  “They don’t come up much.” Idle chat. The elephant, taking up a lot of room.

  “How far is Qualicum?”

  “Oh, thirty minutes.”

  “I have to pee. Pretty immediately.”

  They were passing Nanoose Bay. With the tide out, the mudflats were ripe. “Hang on,” Noel said. “There’s a gas station at the stoplight.”

  Kyra did not like Pregnant having such control of her bladder. She tightened muscles. Goddamnittohell.

  Of course the stoplight was red. Kyra tightened more muscles. Noel whirred into the gas station. She got out, walked swiftly, collected the restroom key, peed with relief, returned the key. Satisfied. “Thank you.”

  Noel wondered if needing to pee abruptly grew from pregnancy or anxiety. The elephant in back was momentarily asleep.

  • • •

  Tim Cooper enjoyed working their woodlot, and being with his father was great. But did they have to decide today what to take out in the fall? And parts of the southern lot, over 386 hectares, hadn’t been checked on in a year. They should walk the land, see what had happened, before making any firm decisions. But not this morning.

  His mind kept wandering from their fir, maple and cedar, heading in only one direction: over Discovery Passage to Campbell River, up to the hospital, to the bed his brother lay in. Derek hadn’t moved in three weeks. Would he ever move again? Those were the issues of the moment, not a bunch of trees. His dad was planning on the noon ferry, still a couple of hours away. His mother, in the same hospital as Derek, wouldn’t be at his side, but wherever a nurse was needed. Though she couldn’t do much for Derek right now. But Derek needed someone with him. Someone other than Cindy. Cindy was—oh, okay, and she did care for Derek but she wasn’t family. Tim had read that people in comas can maybe hear what’s being said or feel someone’s hand, they just can’t react or talk back. If he had his driver’s license, he’d take Derek’s truck and be there right now. But that had to wait eleven months. What’s going to happen to Derek before next year? He glanced at his watch again—

  “Hey, Timmy! Come look at this!”

  He jogged ahead and spotted his father bending over, staring at the ground. “What’s up?”

  “Here.” Jason Cooper pointed a little way into the woods at a heap of earth nearly five feet high. It seemed to be moving. “And here,” he gestured down to their feet.

  “Wow.” A trail of ants three wide marching across the dirt road, many
carrying tiny white eggs. They were transporting them from the heap which, as Tim looked closer, was actually a huge ant hill. “Neat. What are they doing with the eggs?”

  “Probably starting a colony somewhere on the other side of the road.”

  “Should we let them?”

  “Course. They break down leaf matter.”

  “And maybe trees?”

  “Only when a tree’s down. They’ll speed up new soil production.”

  One of the things Tim most admired about his father was the precision of his explanations. His father hated waste, in language as in most aspects of daily life. “So ants are good for the woodlot.”

  “Part of the system. Take them away, the system’s that much poorer.” Jason looked his son square in the eye. Tim and Jason stood about the same height, each half an inch under six feet. They both had high foreheads and blue eyes. Jason’s beard was going white, Tim had yet to grow more than fluff. They both wore jeans and thin long-sleeved shirts. Jason said, “How come you were hanging back?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Derek?”

  “Yep.” Tim dropped his father’s glance. “You think—he’ll come out of it?”

  Jason lay his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I think.”

  “But you don’t know, do you.”

  “I can’t see the future, son. Much less control it. Except here on the lot.” He dropped his hand to his side. “This I can plan. We can plan.”

  “Can we go over now? I’d like to.”

  “Let’s take another half hour here. We’re too late for the 11:00 anyway.”

  Tim looked at his watch. If they pushed, they might still make the 11:00. But he didn’t argue. More than anything Tim wanted Derek to get better, and quickly. Right after that he wanted the mystery solved, why his brother was so god-awful beaten. If he could be the one to solve it, even better.

  They walked for ten minutes to the northwest sector, the only sound the tromp of their boots on the forest floor among the big firs. The high sun was penetrating the thick foliage canopy, raising the tangy scent of newly growing branch tips and warming duff. A squirrel chittered and a pileated woodpecker rat-a-tapped. His father, staring at the near distance, said, “Oh dear.”