Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  “I honestly don’t know. I had the feeling they might be holding something back. I got the impression Agnes didn’t approve of her brother. You know what else Nick told me?”

  “Don’t make me guess.”

  “Apparently Ben himself was a bit of a ‘fire bug’ as a youngster.”

  “Lots of kids are, Tom. Fire fascinates them. Most grow out of it, though. I don’t think it means anything.”

  They drove on, each in their own thoughts, when, out of the blue, Tom chuckled.

  “What?” Marybeth asked, wondering what was funny.

  “I just remembered something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When we were about thirteen, my cousin Joe and I, along with a friend of ours, Frank Cox, were wandering around after dark, maybe about ten o’clock. We probably should have been home, but it was the summer and we didn’t have to go to bed early. Anyway, we were walking by a closed gas station, the only one in town. I don’t remember who suggested it, or even discussing it – but we took the gas nozzle out of the tank – there was only one – and dribbled what gas was left in the hose onto the ground. I don’t actually remember which one of us did it. This was before they starting locking gas tanks at night.”

  “Pretty stoo-pid!”

  “Yeah, but you know kids at that age, boys especially. No common sense.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Joe lit the little pool of gas on fire. We all smoked a little then, and we always had matches.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, I’m not. Lucky for us there wasn’t much gas – just a tiny puddle. We were pretty taken aback when it sort of exploded with a whoomf, almost right at our feet. Frank yelled ‘piss on it!’ So we did. All three of us did. That’s when the cop car drove up.”

  “Oh, no! Then what happened?”

  “Well. There we were, all three of us, pissing on this little gasoline fire. It didn’t burn for long. I don’t think the pee actually put it out; it was burning out on its own. The cop came over and watched until it went out. Then he loaded us into the squad car, made us sit for several minutes thinking about what we’d done, what was happening. Lectured us on the danger – what could have happened. He asked us our names, and where we lived. At that time, Joe lived with us and Frank lived right next door so he drove us all home. Spoke to my Dad and Frank’s dad – warned us not to be caught doing anything wrong ever again and left. All of us were grounded for the rest of the summer.”

  “Did you learn your lesson? Did you get any other punishment?”

  “Actually, yes we did. Lectures, lots of lectures. Nag, nag, nag. None of us ever set fires again. Not that I know of anyway. Frank owns the gas station now, the same one. He worked there as a mechanic for years and ended up buying it. My cousin, Joe, was killed in a pile-up when he was in his early twenties. We’d grown apart by then.”

  “That’s a shame. Funny story, though. You were a firebug, Tom! A child arson.”

  “Yeah, guess I was. I’d forgotten about it until just now. Long time ago…”

  “I wonder if those two lads did go to Vietnam?” Tom pondered after a few minutes.

  “Not Sonny, if Agnes was right about the diabetes,” Marybeth responded. “Unless they put people with illnesses like that in support positions… but I doubt it.”

  “We should be able to find out. And I think it’s about time we found out if ‘Howie’ is still alive, too. Talk to him, like Marilyn suggested.”

  “He would be about the same age as Ben, wouldn’t he?”

  “I would think so.”

  “What about Father Dwyer? We should go talk to him.”

  “Tomorrow,” Tom replied.

  He stopped in front of Marybeth’s house, then sat waiting for her to get out of the car.

  “You coming in, Tom? I’ll fix us some supper.”

  “Not tonight, Marybeth,” he replied quietly. “I’m tired and I think I’d like to get an early night, maybe read in bed for awhile. I need to spend some time with the cats too.”

  “Fine. Be that way.” Marybeth said lightly, thinking he might still be annoyed with her. Pretending she didn’t care, she opened the car door and got out. “See you in the morning, then.”

  Tom drove off feeling guilty. He wasn’t feeling up to dealing with her tonight. Sometimes this girl tires me out...

  Marybeth felt a sudden pang, a little worry about what was happening to their relationship. She vowed to try to stop blurting things out. It’s not gonna be easy!

  Chapter 8

  The Pastor Talks

  “Father Dwyer?” Tom called out as he and Marybeth approached the front door of the Episcopal Church parsonage.

  “That’s me,” the white-bearded, long haired parson replied, as he locked the door behind him. “Didn’t use to have to do this,” he declared, “but it’s become a necessity the last couple of years, unfortunately.”

  “I’m Tom North and this is Marybeth Laughlin. We’re from the Leffler Police. Might we ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course. Let’s go into the office over at the church. It’s more comfortable there. A little ‘comfy’ goes good on a day like this, don’t you think?”

  It was raining hard as they made a dash for the side door of the little wooden church. Once inside, they removed their damp coats, then hung them on hooks on the vestibule wall.

  “Comfy sounds very good to me right now,” Marybeth shivered slightly.

  The office was indeed cozy. A wood fire burned in the brick fireplace and the worn leather-covered easy chairs were very comfortable. Obviously the room was a place where Father Dwyer wanted his visitors to feel at ease. On either side of the fireplace, wooden shelving, filled with books of all kinds, extended from the polished floor to the beamed ceiling. A large, battered, mahogany desk, empty except for an antique telephone, was shoved up against the window wall, an ancient oak, tilting, office arm-chair, complete with a worn flower-patterned seat cushion, placed in front of it.

  “Lit this fire before breakfast,” Father Dwyer commented, sitting down opposite the scarred coffee table, looking first at Tom, then at Marybeth. “Now, what can I do for you two? A donation to the police Christmas party, perhaps? We often give a little to that fund, as I’m sure you know. In fact, Tina and I have often attended. It’s always a fun time. Don’t believe I’ve seen you there though?”

  “No. It’s not about that,” Tom replied. “We hoped you might be able to help us with some information about Ben George and his family.”

  “Hmmm…. They’re dead now, as I’m sure you know. I mean, Ben and Margaret, not their children of course. Very sad... What is it you’d like to know?”

  “Well, actually,” Tom said, “we’re investigating an arson that took place in 1968, over at the Bellevue Apartments on 7th Avenue. You might recall that a baby died as a result of that fire? We’ve got the job of trying to find out who is, or was, responsible. Ben George, as you may recall, rescued the baby and her mother from that fire.”

  “I remember it very well. Terrible thing it was. Ben was never his old self after that poor little baby died. He had a heart attack right afterward, as I recall, and never fully recovered his health.”

  “Did he talk to you about it?”

  “I counselled him some. He was very upset, as I said, when the infant died. To tell the truth, I don’t think he ever really got over it; he was never the same.”

  “We’re in possession of some documents he seems to have written. In one, he suggests that his adopted son, Sonny, might have set the fire,” Marybeth told the pastor.

  “Oh dear. I seriously doubt that. I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

  “He certainly seemed sincere about it, but it’s really only a hand-written note, so who knows? We have no idea to whom it was written even. In another one, he mentioned he’d talked to you about the boys. The Mexican boys.”

  “Oh, yes, he did that. Although of course, they’re not Mexican.”
r />   “No?” Tom replied, somewhat baffled. “He mentioned that he heard about the boys and their mother from you.”

  “Hmmm…” Father Dwyer looked down at his desk as though trying to decide how to answer. Finally he said, “I’d like to read them both, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Marybeth took several pages from her purse and handed them over.

  When he finished reading, the parson looked up and said, ” Ben wanted to have it all down on paper. Asked me to do it, but I suggested he write it. This is pretty much what happened, from what I recall. He never showed it to me.”

  “Do you know if he ever did acknowledge the boys as his sons? Did he tell Margaret?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Father Dwyer thought for a moment or two. “You know, I don’t believe he ever did. Not to my knowledge anyway. Perhaps he might have, some day. If they hadn’t died. Shame really.”

  Marybeth nodded in agreement, then handed him the second document. Looking up with a mystified expression, he said, “I really don’t know what to think about this. Ben was disturbed at the time, of course, very disturbed. But he didn’t talk to me about Sonny and any fires. I can’t understand it. Margaret didn’t tell me anything about any fires either and I believe she would have. I hope and pray it’s not true. I certainly don’t believe it is.” Looking down at the penciled pages, he remarked, “Strange, it’s a carbon copy… Anyway, I don’t believe it. Never knew Ben to lie, but I don’t believe this.”

  “You also counseled Margaret?” Tom enquired, realizing the pastor had been very close to the family.

  “Well, yes. The whole family, sometimes. I tried to help them out with the boys’ problems. It was a quite a heavy load for Margaret, you know. She was a very patient girl, but quite young to have taken on such a big responsibility. In fact, both of them were. Ben didn’t seem to realize just how difficult it often was for his wife. She bore the whole brunt most of the time, I’m afraid. So yes, I tried to give her, and them, the best advice I could.”

  “You were going to tell us about the boys and their mother,” Marybeth reminded him.

  “Yes. That’s rather a long story though. Let’s have a cup of tea while I tell it.” He rose, picked up the antique phone, dialed, then spoke into it. “Tina, I wonder if I might prevail upon you to get us some tea. And maybe some biscuits? There are three of us here.”

  “What you have to realize is that Ben didn’t know the identification of the boys and their mother when I first told him about their plight. It was only later, after he’d already made the decision to help them, after he and Margaret had met them, after they’d moved in with them. Then we, Tina and I, told him the whole story. Only him, though, not Margaret. We left that up to him.”

  Both Tom and Marybeth, eager to hear what he had to tell them, had to be patient until after Father Dwyer’s wife brought in the tea.

  “Marybeth, Tom, I’d like you to meet my wife, Tina,” he said, as he took the loaded tray from the tiny red-haired woman. “Would you like to join us, dear?”

  Tina shook hands with the young couple. “Very nice to meet you,” she said. “No tea for me, thanks, Tim. I’ll leave you with these good people. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.” She closed the door quietly as she left the room.

  Tim took a sip of tea, leaned back in his chair and announced, “Now, about Katia. That was the boys’ mother’s name. It’s quite a sad story really.”

  “Okay, we’re listening,” Marybeth and Tom responded together, leaning forward expectantly.

  “I hope you’ll reserve judgment until you’ve heard the whole thing,” the pastor warned them. “It’s a tragedy, as I’ve said, but a very human one.”

  Taking another sip from his china cup, he selected a shortbread cookie from the plate then sat back in his chair, relaxed and began telling them about Katia.

  Chapter 9

  Katia

  Kate, baptized Katia, sat waiting for the Number 29 bus to Seattle. Seattle wasn’t her destination. Her objective was Los Angeles. California. She could almost smell the beach; could imagine herself rolling skating on the boardwalk at Venice Beach. Her small cardboard suitcase, holding all her worldly possessions – her bunny-rabbit pyjamas, changes of underwear and extra jeans, sweaters and socks, her diary and her Bible, sat at her feet. She hadn’t forgotten her Bible. Her wallet, containing her hard-earned baby-sitting money, her new driver’s license and pictures of her two best friends was sequestered in a pocket inside her skirt waistband.

  A young man came to sit beside her on the worn wooden bench. She didn’t look at him, had decided she wouldn’t talk to anyone she didn’t know until she reached California. Once there, she’d look for a Baptist Church. Surely she’d be able to trust people who attended church, even in California. I’m not scared, I’m not afraid.

  “Are you traveling to Seattle?” the young man asked her.

  Kate ignored him.

  He tried again. “Where are you going?”

  Before long, he gave up and walked away. Kate was thankful. Hoping she wouldn’t have to keep ignoring people – it was so rude – she wished they’d all just leave her alone.

  When her parents declared they were going to a three-day church conference, she’d decided to grasp her chance to leave home. She begged off, telling them she had stomach flu and couldn’t go. They had reluctantly agreed after all the usual warnings. “Don’t open the door to strangers.” “Don’t tell anybody your name, except if you meet them at church.” “Don’t hang out with boys – you can’t trust them.” “Don’t go out after dark.”

  They just don’t get it. I’m an adult, not a child anymore. Almost twenty and they still think I’m a baby. I’ll never have a life of my own if I stay here. Never, unless I seize the chance to leave, go somewhere they can’t find me and hold me down.

  Her parents, particularly her Spanish-American mother, were overprotective. She believed girls of Katia’s age should never be alone with a boy. She’d never been allowed to go on a date. Both her parents were even suspicious of group outings. Church groups were, of course, allowed, but only if they knew the group was adequately chaperoned. Her father talked regularly about those ‘slutty girls in town’, some of them her own friends. “My friends aren’t sluts,” she’d often wanted to tell him, but didn’t dare.

  The late-day bus trip to Seattle was uneventful. Kate had chosen a window seat and spent most of her time looking out the window at the scenery. It was a beautiful fall afternoon and the sun shone on the distant mountains. By the time the bus was traveling west through the Rockies, it was almost dark. They’d stopped at a filling station restaurant for supper and she’d been shocked at the prices of the food. Realizing she’d have to be very frugal until she got a job, she’d chosen a grilled cheese sandwich and coffee, the cheapest selections on the menu.

  The bus arrived in Seattle near midnight. Kate stayed in the dimly lit station, waiting for the bus to Los Angeles, due to leave at 6:00 a.m. She spent a long frightening six hours not daring to let down her guard, not allowing her eyes to close. She found herself wishing she hadn’t left home where, despite feeling trapped, she’d at least felt out of harm’s way. There was no food available, the snack bar was closed; by the time she boarded the bus to California, she was ravenous. She was even hungrier before the first meal stop in Portland, Oregon but at least on the bus she’d been able to shut her eyes and even sleep a little. She felt infinitely safer on the bus.

  Late in the day, about halfway through Oregon, they stopped in Eugene for lunch. It was beginning to get dark. While she sat alone in the bus station restaurant, eating her third grilled cheese sandwich, a young serviceman dressed in Navy whites approached her table.

  “Would you mind if I sat with you, miss?” he asked politely.

  Startled, she looked up. He was slim, tall and tanned with brown eyes. Very nice looking, but I won’t talk to him. He can sit here, but I don’t want to talk to him. A little voice inside told her to say “no”, but sh
e heard herself saying “yes”.

  “Hi. My name is Ben. Ben George,” the young man introduced himself, holding out his hand.

  She sat for a long few seconds, trying to decide what to do, what to say. Finally she said, “I’m Katia. Kate,” then reached out and shook his hand.

  “Are you going to Los Angeles?” Ben asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. Now I’ve done it! I wasn’t going to talk to anybody, not a stranger, particularly not a boy!

  “I’m on my way to San Diego. I have a ship waiting for me there,” Ben told her. “Probably going out to the Pacific.”

  “That’s nice,” was all she could think to say.

  “Would you mind if I sat with you on the bus? There are a lot of old people. They’re nice enough, but a bit past it, if you know what I mean. You’re the only one about my age.”

  “Suit yourself.” Kate said, almost rudely, and then surprised herself by adding, “But you’re right, it would be nice to have someone to talk to.”

  They spent the whole trip chatting. Talking and talking, non-stop, while the bus rattled mile after mile through Oregon and south through California. Katia thought she’d never had so much fun, ever. She told Ben about her friends Margaret and Marilyn back in Langdon. Ben told her about growing up in Kwilicoom, Washington, part of the Indian community there.

  “Where’s Kwilicoom?” she asked.

  “It’s not far from Tacoma. It’s Washington’s oldest incorporated town. Not that it means much,” he told her. “I spent my teens in Tacoma, though. A lot more civilized there.”

  “You’re an Indian?” Kate had always been curious, had often wondered if Native Americans lived differently from the people she knew in Langdon. “What’s it like, being Indian?”

  “It’s like being poor. It’s like being separate,” he snapped, an angry frown on his face. “It’s like never being good enough,” he added bitterly, recalling the many horrible times at school when he’d been bullied, just because he was Indian.

  She didn’t know how to react to this sudden negative outburst. Now she wished he’d move away to another seat, away from her. He’d been so nice, and she’d been so impressed, but now she wasn’t sure she liked him at all.