Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  They sat in silence watching the flow and ebb of the ocean. Shu-li asked, “Have you had any more dealings with Harold?”

  He’d enjoyed her voice from the moment she arrived. Her words seemed washed with melody. After a few weeks apart the sweetness of her speech would fade so that when they were together again her words and her voice sounded new. But now he turned to face her. “Let’s not ruin this evening.”

  “Of course not. It’s just, I despise him so.”

  “That’s why we’re here, why Steve is coming. For now, let’s talk of other things.”

  She nodded, and sipped her drink.

  She often repeated, like a mantra, her loathing of Harold Arensen. She had every right to hate him; he’d ruined her skating career. When the rumors finally stopped, it was too late. Austin had been able to trace them back to Arensen, a memo from him to several coaches in the Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal sweep. No evidence, just innuendo: from Shirley (her ice name) Waterman taking male hormones, to her being born with abnormally male characteristics, to her having had a sex-change operation, to her actually being a boy. Anyone who saw her in dance costumes would recognize these insinuations as lies: flawless skin, small but obviously feminine breasts, no bulge between the legs. True, she was five ten; hardly unusual for a young well-nourished North American woman. Strong, yes, but the strength of any serious female athlete. The rumors flourished for months, Skate Canada made its inquiries, the insinuations proved to be lies, but the harm was done. Austin, for all his detective work, could not convince the powers that controlled the figure-skating industry that Harold Arensen should bear the blame. The man had too many allies—then as now.

  He also had enemies, chief among them Shu-li, Steve and Austin. Each had good reason for regarding Arensen a nefarious adversary, still perilous after these many years.

  “Shall we cool our feet in the water?” That lovely mellow lilt.

  “Great idea. A refresher of Pimms?”

  “Please.”

  Glasses refilled, they walked down the trail, fingers intertwined. When they reached the gentle stroking water they slipped off their footwear. She led him to a flat stone bar at the left of the rocky beach. When the tide was up and at the right height, as now, they could sit on the bar and let the water lap their feet. They sipped their drinks. He put his arm about her shoulder. She let her head rest against his. An evening of peace.

  He rarely felt such moments of tranquil excitement. It started seven years ago, she then nineteen, he thirty. He’d seen her skate and was enraptured. Her short program was grace in motion, the revelation of sudden loveliness enhanced by a red silk scarf about her neck flowing behind her to contrast her long raven hair. He had to meet her, and he did. She, flattered that the great Austin Osborne had taken an interest in her, agreed to have dinner with him. And each was quickly in thrall to the other. She spoke of their living together; he was uncertain. They spent time with each other when she was free, a day here, two days there. He had never been married, never lived with a woman—or even had a housemate. Despite how much he cared for Shu-li—which he called her from the moment she told him her Chinese name—he had to be mostly alone. She found this strange and told him so. He agreed, but couldn’t change himself.

  Then, one day, out of nowhere, the rumors about Shirley Waterman had begun. At first her skating was thrown off stride. Soon she was hospitalized for psychic exhaustion. She returned to the ice, the rumors quelled, but she could practically hear whispers from those who had believed the lies. She had increasing difficulty with her routine. She did not get the points. One day she decided it was useless and gave up her career as a competitive skater. She moved to Calgary where she easily found work as a coach.

  Austin would visit, two days, sometimes three. They did try the Mexican holiday. Not the cure she needed. She turned to face him and kissed his lips, gentle as the setting sun. She drew back lightly and whispered, “Shall we go in?”

  • • •

  Shane came into the kitchen. “His bike’s not there.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Shane shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”

  Linda hovered about the stove stirring a chicken casserole, wooden spoon in her left hand, half-empty beer stein in her right. The potatoes and carrots were ready. Alana had made a salad. Noel and Jason sipped red wine, Kyra and Alana cranberry spritzers.

  “He knows better,” said Jason. “He’s a responsible kid.”

  Noel glanced at Jason. “Visiting a friend?”

  “He’d be home by now.”

  “Worth a call to wherever his friends live?”

  “I don’t think—”

  Linda said, “I’ll call Robbie and Turk and Leo, they’d be the most likely.” Avoiding the phone on the kitchen wall, she went into the den.

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” Alana asked.

  “No!” Jason knew he’d spoken too loudly. He looked away. “No.”

  Noel crossed to the stove, took up the spoon and stirred. He didn’t want this great-smelling casserole to burn. He glanced at his watch, quarter after seven, still more than two hours till dark. “When we drove off to meet Bertina, I saw someone on a bicycle heading up Heriot Bay Road.”

  Jason turned to face Noel. “Was it Tim?”

  “Could have been. I only saw him from the back.”

  “What kind of bike?”

  Noel shrugged. “I don’t know bike brands.”

  “Dirt bike? Mountain bike? Color?”

  Noel closed his eyes. “Thick tires.”

  “Timmy’s is a mountain bike. We got it for him last Christmas.”

  Kyra excused herself, lay on the living room couch, closed her eyes. She set one hand on her belly, which felt comforting. Except Pregnant didn’t go away. What to do about little Pregnant? And when was her empty stomach going to receive some of that delicious casserole? Had she ever considered abortion seriously? Not that she believed abortion was wrong, just if someone had to be blamed and punished it was her. What kind of a mother would she be if she treated the fetus as if it really were a problem? Kids.

  Like Jason and Linda’s kids; each was more of a pain than the next. The first a dope dealer, the next completely self-engrossed, and the youngest can’t even get home in time for dinner. What if the baby turned out like one of them? Or all three? Or worse? Come on, your baby could turn out a lot better. Yeah? Why? Because I’d be raising it. What makes you think you could be a good mother? Better than Jason as a parent? Better than Linda? She closed her eyes and saw a baby all wrapped up, just its face visible. Would a boy or a girl be better?

  She heard voices in the kitchen. Then Linda’s return and report that none of Timmy’s friends had seen him, and that they’d now eat with or without Timmy. Kyra stood and ambled to the table. She was truly weary.

  Linda served. They ate. Good casserole, great carrots; that from Alana. Linda noted they’d come out of the garden this afternoon. Nearly 8:00 PM.

  Noel felt the press of silent fear at the table. The parents weren’t about to admit to it. Shane was unlikely to show concern about his brothers. Alana surely knew it was there, she was good at picking up nuances and states of mind. Kyra? The poor woman just looked wiped. He had to break into the mood. But that wasn’t what they’d been hired for. Oh, do it for Jason as friend, forget job. “There’s still a couple of hours of daylight left. Let’s go look for Tim.”

  Linda closed her eyelids before she looked up. “We could. Let’s finish here and head out.” A sudden energy took the table as they all, Shane included, scraped the last of the casserole off plates and cutlery and drained their drinks.

  Kyra felt the energy too. Fed, so anything was possible. Alana stood and began to clear the plates but Kyra said, “I can do that.” Dishes and cutlery in the washer, pans in the sink. She said to Jason, “Where should Noel and I be looking?”

  Jason thought for a couple of seconds. “He liked to bike down to April Point. Sometimes he sat up there and read. You
could try in that area. Linda and I could start at the village and—”

  “Mom? Dad?” Shane was at the door. “I think I should go. Noel could go with you, Dad, and I’ll go with Kyra. They don’t know the island, there ought to be someone from here in each car. You better stay, Mom, for when Tim calls or gets back. Alana, you okay about staying with Mom?” Alana, alone allowing her surprise to show, nodded. Shane turned to Kyra and Noel. “You guys have cell phones?”

  They both did, and left their numbers with Linda. Kyra’s glance caught Noel’s and watched his eyebrows shrug. “Okay if I take your Honda?”

  He handed her the keys. “Don’t get any scratches on it.”

  She tchhed at him and turned to Shane. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Noel followed Kyra and Shane out the door, watched them get into the Honda and head out the drive. Jason searched for keys. Shane’s notion, that Kyra and he should split up—and where had that ping of intelligent analysis come from in surly Shane?—made good sense. Still, Noel didn’t like her going off by herself. Well, with Shane. Likely Shane could handle most island situations. But in her condition, she needed to be—what? Protected? By him? Too often she protected him.

  “Found them,” said Jason. They got into his Corolla. Shane had said he and Kyra would check out the area between here and April Point. That left Quathiaski Cove, both harbor and village, or up toward Heriot Bay.

  At the end of the driveway Jason turned left. Noel said, “What’s to the right?”

  “Road dead-ends at Gowlland Harbour. A couple of lodges—Seascape Waterfront Resort and the Gowlland Harbour Resort. They’re both nice without being too fancy. Timmy’s had a summer job at each and doesn’t much care for the guests they get.”

  “Fishing, whale and bear-watching, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah. Big on kayaking. All guests get their own kayak.”

  “Tim’s not big on kayaking?”

  “Looking at water’s what he’s best at. And running.”

  They drove in silence for a minute. Noel said, “How are we going to do this?”

  “Depends on why he didn’t come for supper.”

  “Yeah.” Noel nodded. “He didn’t head off to see his usual friends. His less usual friends maybe?”

  “No idea who they might be.”

  “You reacted pretty abruptly about a possible girlfriend. What was that about?”

  “I just couldn’t see Timmy with a girlfriend already.”

  “He’s a big kid. Kind of private.”

  When Jason didn’t respond, Noel went on, “Okay, Derek whom he admires is messed up around drugs. That hurts. So Timmy’s gone somewhere to lick his wounds.”

  “I think that’s what it is.” Silence. “Hope that’s what it is.”

  “Or he’s gotten into a fix, maybe hurt, somewhere he can’t help himself.”

  Jason sighed. “God, I hope not.”

  “So? You want to go to Quathiaski Cove Village and ask around? You know some of the merchants?”

  “Yeah. Most of them.”

  They reached West Road. Jason pulled off. “Got your cell phone?”

  “Yeah, ’course.”

  “Get Linda. She can call around over there. We’ll head the other way, toward Heriot Bay. Check the sides of the road. Keep your eye on the right, I’ll look left. And we head down side roads. There aren’t a lot, though. Pretty heavily wooded through there.”

  Noel powered his cell phone. Searching for signal. Searching . . . searching . . . “No signal.”

  “Wait till we get to higher ground.” They drove up a hill. “Try now.”

  Yes, a signal. Noel poked in the number. Linda picked up. No, nothing from Tim. Yes, good idea, she’d call the merchants at the village. He closed the phone. Jason made a U-turn.

  • • •

  For the first minutes Kyra and Shane didn’t speak except for his telling her to head left at the top of the drive. Her jeans felt tight around the waist—too much food, or the growing occupant? Kyra tried to make conversation: When’s your next competition? A date and silence. How much time a day do you spend on your programs? Four to six hours. Any skating friends around Campbell River? No. When are you coming in from outer space? She didn’t ask that. But she was getting there.

  Shane said, “Turn right.”

  She did. She kept trying: “You figure Tim’s okay? You worried about him?”

  “Timmy can take care of himself.” He paused, adding, “Usually.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “He doesn’t need a little help from his friends?” But from Shane’s face it was clear he didn’t get the reference. From before she was born, but her parents shared their own popular culture, The Beatles a large part of it. She wondered what Jason and Linda shared with their kids. Or did their lives revolve only around figure skating and hockey? What would she share with her kid? If. Right now she had to pay attention to the oncoming traffic—lots of it. Probably the ferry unloading. Narrow road. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Just a van, far enough back.

  “Everybody needs help. Sometimes.”

  Hey, Shane actually spoke. A curious inflection, or was it a catch, in his voice. “Yeah, that’s true. I need help a lot of the time. You need help?”

  His head jerked her way. “Me? Why should I need help?”

  “You just said it. Everybody does, at some point.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You got a problem, Shane?”

  “Turn right up ahead, before the road curves. Balsam.”

  She slowed, made the turn, accelerated. “I asked, you got a problem? Something you want to talk about?”

  “What makes you think I’ve got a problem?”

  “You don’t exactly act relaxed. You act tense and worried.”

  “How do you know what relaxed is for me?”

  “I can figure relaxed for lots of people.”

  “I’m not lots of people.”

  “No, of course not. You’re special. You get to mouth off at your parents, you get to be rude to your father’s friend who wants to find out who beat up your brother, you get to ignore a cute young woman in your house. That does make you near to extraordinary.”

  Shane slumped in his seat. “I don’t need this, Kyra.”

  The van behind her was coming on fast. She slowed and pulled onto the verge. The van roared past—too much of a damn hurry. She turned to Shane. “You can tell me to mind my own business. I’ll be gone in a few days. But you’ll be here and right now you’re wreaking hell on a few good people who don’t need that from you.”

  He stared straight ahead. She pulled out and drove on. Nothing. No bike. She glanced at him. Keeping his face cool but something sure was burbling in there. She figured he wouldn’t let himself, but he looked close to crying. Maybe she’d pushed too hard. She peered down side drives, no Tim, no bike. Shane, slouching in his seat.

  “Turn right at the Tee.”

  She did. April Point Road, winding and twisty. She had to pay attention so didn’t glance Shane’s way. “Sit up and check the sides of the road.” Shane did as he was told. Slowly and defensively, but now he flicked his eyes from right verge to left and back again. Few driveways off the road, she realized. An ultra-lonely island.

  • • •

  “That’s a good place to stay.” Jason pointed to Quadra Island Harbour House B&B. “Good friends of ours run it. Great garden.”

  “Stop by and ask if they’ve seen Tim?”

  “They’re in Vancouver, wedding of a couple who’ve stayed with them often. Place is closed for a week. Imagine—high season.”

  They drove into Heriot Bay, west side of lower Quadra. Resorts, more B&Bs, vacation rentals, the ferry to Cortes Island. Jason stopped the Corolla at a gas station, got out. Jason talked to a man with curly red hair going to grey. No, hadn’t seen Tim since last week. Back in the car, to the dock. Conversation with a rotund woman; no, no sight
of Tim. At the kayak rentals a young woman in tight jeans and a halter top also said she hadn’t seen Tim. To Noel, Jason said, “Sonia. She and Derek dated for a couple of months.” Similar negative answers at the Heriot Bay Inn and the Heron Guest House.

  The pub at the Inn looked inviting, summer guests enjoying the warm evening, a light meal, a couple of beers. Noel was beginning to sense futility. Needle-on-an-island kind of thing. He checked out some postcards, one of an impressive stretch of peninsula called Rebecca Spit. “Think Timmy might have gone out there?”

  “A long ride on a bike. Timmy doesn’t much come even as far as Heriot Bay.”

  Then why are we here, Noel heard his growing irritation ask. Not good investigative practice, beginning with the long shots. “Give Linda another call?”

  “Sure, but if she’d heard anything she’d’ve called.”

  Noel responded by poking at the phone pad. No, no signal.

  • • •

  To the right a road led down to the April Point Marina, moorings for private boats. Shane said, “Let’s try down there.”

  Kyra turned down a slope to the water, parked, they got out. An old warehouse, piles of crab traps. A dozen salmon fishing boats in the water. Kyra wondered if Noel would ever fish again. Not Brendan’s kind of pleasure, so Noel had given up the fishing passion for a far greater one. Brendan was now gone. Maybe Noel would return to, at least retry, the lesser one.

  Shane walked down to the docks, gave the moorings a cursory glance, and came back. “No sign of him.”

  Kyra pointed to what looked like an RCMP vessel tied to the near dock. “Let’s see if the cops are around.” They stood beside the Mountie boat, a large Boston Whaler with a small central enclosure. No one there. Shane noted someone leaving the warehouse and jogged up to him, a guy about his age. Kyra watched their conversation as she approached them. Shane nodded, and the other kid walked off. “Anything?”