Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  “Carmine and Sandro,” Marybeth corrected him.

  “Right… Now what about this one? What do you think?” he asked, holding up the sample chip he’d picked up before they left the store. “It’s called white oak. It’s put it on thin, then wiped off. Has a very modern, clean look. Light, with a bit of the grain showing through.”

  Marybeth gave him a big smile and said, “Go for it!”

  Chapter 14

  Greg's Letters

  Early Sunday, Marybeth decided it was high time to sort through Greg’s belongings. She stood in the middle of her bedroom wondering where to start. More than nine months had passed since she’d received the shocking news of his death. His body had been shipped back to his parent’s home in Everett, where they insisted he be buried in one of the family plots. Marybeth had been too upset to fight with them about it, later realizing it didn’t matter to her where he was buried. She missed him; that was all that mattered.

  Pulling his clothing from the closet, she went through the pockets, folded the pants and jackets and slipped them inside a black plastic garbage bag to take to the Salvation Army. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, holding a large biscuit tin on her lap. She had found the tin under some sweaters on the cupboard shelf. A little fearful of what she might discover in the box, she gazed into space, procrastinating, wondering where Tom was.

  Finally, she opened it. Full to the brim, the tin contained mostly photographs. She began to sort through them and discovered many duplicates of pictures she had put into her albums. Several of the two of them, taken during their courtship and marriage; pictures taken during his teens with school friends, some of whom she had met, some not and several primary school classroom photos. As she looked at those, she caught herself smiling. For a long time she hadn’t allowed herself to think about the good times they’d had before he’d gone north to the oil fields in Alberta.

  She thought about them now. How they’d met at the library in Seattle. How cheeky he often was, knowing exactly how to push her buttons, and how he always managed to get her to forgive him, always claiming he was only joking. Mostly fond memories, others not so good. Greg had begun spending more and more time away, always had some excuse about working overtime, making extra money for their future. Now she realized that he’d never intended to start a family with her, had resisted, for a long time, even discussing the possibility. She now knew that, although he had agreed to purchase the house with her, he’d hadn’t really been interested in it, not even at the beginning. All along she’d felt they’re had to be some logical reason but had avoided thinking about it.

  She heard Tom’s truck coming into the driveway, then the door to the laundry room opening and Tom’s voice calling her. She placed the duplicate pictures aside – no use keeping them – closed the box and went to see him.

  Tom told her he was going to work on her computer desk and hoped the noise wouldn’t disturb her.

  “Of course it won’t. Would you like some lunch soon?” she asked him.

  “Not yet, hon,” he replied, “I’m not really hungry. Maybe in an hour or so. What are you up to?”

  “I’m going through Greg’s stuff. It’s time I got rid of it. I’m finding it hard, though. Brings back memories.”

  She looked so forlorn Tom put his arms around her. “You’ll be fine,” he told her, patting her back, thinking it was about time she faced this chore. “You can tell me all about it over lunch, okay?”

  Returning to the bedroom, she decided to go through the large, brown cardboard box of personal effects the oil company had shipped to her after Greg’s death. She lugged it into the kitchen in order to cut the thick sealing tape. On top lay his fur lined parka and his heavy work pants. Several sets of regular and long underwear as well as three sweaters and a pile of socks were folded underneath. Two pocket novels, one with a bookmark inserted in the middle, a few pens and pencils and a sketchbook lay at the bottom, along with his wallet and some loose change.

  A sketchbook? Marybeth picked it up and scanned through it, surprised. She hadn’t known Greg had a talent for drawing. Thumbing through the pages, she saw accomplished sketches of oil rigs, outstanding portraits of men with whom he may have worked and some of streets and houses. There were also several of a very attractive girl with beautiful dark eyes and hair. Marybeth was fascinated. He was very good. I guess I never really knew him. Feeling a little regretful, she wondered who the model in the pictures was.

  At the bottom of the box she found a thick stack of letters she had written to him. As she rifled through them, she was baffled. Some had never been opened. Then she found another bundle, held together with an elastic band. She looked at the topmost one, addressed to him in purple ink, not in her handwriting. Who would use purple ink? She leafed through the envelopes, not removing the elastic, knowing she wasn’t yet ready to read them. All opened, in contrast to mine.

  She picked up the brown leather wallet. It was one she’d given him their first Christmas together. Inside were three hundred and thirty-five Canadian dollars, along with his driver’s license, a Visa card, his union identification card and a black and white picture of them standing on the church steps after their wedding. Then, a coloured photograph of the same beautiful woman she’d seen in his sketchbook. Marybeth sat staring at it for a few minutes, trying to figure out how she felt. How do I feel? Am I angry?

  She stashed the clothing from the box into one of the garbage bags along with the rest and dumped the duplicate photographs into the wastepaper basket to burn in the fireplace. Everything else she put back in the box, which she carried it back to her bedroom.

  Finally, thinking, Let’s get this over with, she picked up the stack of purple addressed letters and pulled off the elastic. Might as well start at the beginning. She began reading the oldest first. It was written on a blank greeting card.

  October 30

  Dear Greg,

  Here’s the letter I promised you. Also the picture. Hope you like it. The flight back home was okay. I was worried it might be rough like the trip down. I think I told you I got sick. Anyway, it’s back to school tomorrow. I hope the kids missed me and are glad I’m back.

  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get down to Edmonton again. I’ll let you know if it’s a possibility.

  Until then, write soon.

  Your friend,

  Annette.

  Friend? Marybeth put the letter back in its envelope. She looked at the return address. Some place called Fort McMurray. Unfolding the next one, she read:

  November 12

  Hi again,

  Thanks for the picture, Greg. Did you have it taken just for me? Ha ha.

  Yes, the kids were glad to have me back. Seems they didn’t like the temporary teacher that came to fill in while I was away. How do I know? Several of the girls came and told me, that’s how.

  Anyway, life here is pretty boring. I wish there were some places here like there are in Edmonton. Nightlife here pretty much consists of watching CBC television or marking papers!!

  Yes, if I can manage to get over to Edmonton again, I would love to go out with you.

  Write again soon,

  Your friend, Annette.

  It seemed to Marybeth, from what she’d read so far, they’d been just pen pals. Annette lived in Fort McMurray, 280 miles from where Greg was working near Edmonton, Alberta. (She looked it up on a map). Of course, she had no idea how often Greg was writing, or what, but Annette’s letters did not seem to express any real affection. Yet.

  The third and fourth letters were similar. Casual chitchat. And, a rather expensive-looking Christmas card. She looked on the back. Hallmark - $6.95 It was expensive!

  Then, the fifth letter:

  January 8

  Hi Greg,

  I’m coming to Edmonton on the 15th for 4 days. I hope we can get together. I’ll be staying at the Holiday Inn again. It’s a teachers’ conference, so I will be busy during the day (Tues., Wed., Thurs. and Friday morning), but fre
e every night! I hope you’ll be able make it into Edmonton during that time. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again. Phone calls are nice, but face-to-face is so much better. Let me know as soon as possible please. I can hardly wait!

  Love, Annette.

  So now it’s ‘love, Annette’ They’d been having phone chats. She looked again at the date of this letter. Two and a half years ago. What was happening with us then? She tried to remember what was going on back then, but found it difficult to place anything in the time slot. Nothing, I guess. He was already staying away from home a lot. He came home for Christmas though. We went over to Everett. He didn’t seem particularly happy. I do remember that. He seemed anxious to get back to work. And he never seemed to want to make love! Now, I know why!

  The following two letters confirmed that Greg had stayed overnight with Annette at the Holiday Inn in Edmonton at least twice and from what Annette wrote in her letters, he must have been writing pretty steamy messages to her ever since. Her written responses were becoming more affectionate. She’s falling for him in a big way.

  Marybeth was afraid to continue reading, but there were at least five more letters. In for a penny, in for a pound, she told herself. Why quit now? She forced herself read the rest. “More of the same,” she muttered aloud, disgusted.

  She actually gasped aloud when she read the next to last letter, dated a month before Greg’s accident. Apparently he had been to Fort McMurray to visit Annette again and had asked her to marry him. But he must have told her about being married already and explained that it would take some time to get a divorce. Annette must have been shocked.

  My dearest Greg,

  I loved our weekend together and I hope you did too! It was so fun. I love my ring!

  But, I’ll admit it. You were right. I was upset when you told me we couldn’t get married right away. I was shocked you hadn’t told me about Marybeth right from the beginning. I really wish you had.

  As I told you on Sunday, I love you, but if I’d known you were married, I might have been a bit more cautious about getting together with you. I don’t like the idea of being ‘the other woman’. But I’m not mad. And I still want to marry you! And yes, I do want to have babies with you!

  I can’t wait for your next long weekend off, my darling!

  Love forever,

  Annette.

  Marybeth sat quietly on her bed for several minutes, trying to figure out how she felt. She decided she wasn’t so much hurt as angry.

  She put the letters back in the tin box with the pictures, put the sketchbook on top, then jammed the lid on, thinking, I’ll deal with this lot later. Dumping her opened and unopened letters to Greg into the wastebasket, she carried it to the living room and threw them all into the burning fireplace.

  “That’s over, finally. Now I can get on with my life,” she said aloud, just as Tom came in, announcing he was ready for lunch.

  “What’s over, hon?” Tom asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  Over lunch, she told him about the letters. When she tearfully admitted Greg had been having an affair, Tom said, “I often wondered if he was. I imagine you’re upset.”

  “A little, I guess.” Then, coming to terms with her feelings at last, she confessed. “Actually, I’m very angry. If I’d known then, I would have been hurt, but not now. Now I’m just angry. I spent so damn many hours thinking of him, dreaming of having a family with him and all the time, he was with her, wanted her. I’ve wasted so much time and emotion over somebody who didn’t even want me. It really makes me angry! At him. At myself.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tom replied, sympathetically. “I hate what he did to you.”

  After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you still want to have children, Marybeth?”

  “Someday, I guess,” she replied, her brow puckered, looking down at her plate. After a few moments, she looked up at him, “Why do you ask? Do you want children?”

  He smiled. “Yes. With you. Of course, I do.”

  Chapter 15

  A Chat with Lisa

  While chatting over glasses of wine in Marybeth’s living room, Lisa announced, “I finally got together with Sandro and Val.”

  “That’s wonderful, Lisa. I was hoping you’d make that happen.”

  “It wasn’t easy. I called Val. We talked for a long time and she ended up telling me how Sonny feels about my Dad. How he and Cal are my Dad’s biological sons. Until I read that thing Dad wrote, I didn’t know they were my real brothers, you know. We both cried. It’s terrible how Dad didn’t tell anyone about them being his kids, not even my Mother. I can understand why they’d be hurt.”

  Marybeth wondered if she knew about Frannie and Nichole, but decided not to ask. “How did Val talk Sandro into a meeting?”

  “I don’t know, but she telephoned and asked me to bring the twins up to their place for the afternoon. So we went up there last Sunday. It was uncomfortable at first. Tense, you know, between Sonny and I. But Val kept reminding us about things we had in common and gradually it did get easier. We talked a lot about Dad – how he took us camping in the bush, how we practiced tracking and other Indian stuff. Sonny seemed to enjoy talking about those times. We even had a few laughs. He’s pretty ‘off’ on Dad though.”

  “Do you think it’s because your Dad never told anyone he was their real father?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s one of the main reasons.”

  “You know he teaches school?”

  “Of course. Deaf children and teens. He does have a way with kids. The twins really like him.”

  “Did he mention Carmine at all?”

  “To me, Carmine is Cal, Marybeth. And yes, he did. He told me Cal’s down on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota. They don’t have any contact with him though.”

  Another lie? Why don’t these people trust us ? Marybeth felt frustrated by that seeming lack of trust even in Lisa.

  Then, almost as though she’d read Marybeth’s thoughts, Lisa said, “Val told me they didn’t tell you where Cal was because they didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t go after him for those fires. You don’t believe he and Sonny had anything to do with those, do you?”

  “No. We don’t think either of them had anything to do with the fires. We had to investigate the possibility though. We are intrigued with their stories, though. I have to admit I’m very curious about what happened to them, both before they moved in with you and your parents. And, what they’ve been up to since then. Especially Carmine, now we know a bit more about Sandro.”

  “Did you know the woman who looked after them in California used to lock them in a closet for hours on end while their mom was at work? And one of those guys she lived with brutalized them? Sonny told me a long time ago. He wasn’t specific about what actually happened, but he’s obviously traumatized.”

  “Oh, my God! Did Kate know? Maybe that’s why she came back to Washington.”

  “No. Apparently she didn’t know and of course she was horrified. The boys finally told her, after they’d moved in with us. Probably they felt they were finally safe to divulge the truth. Kate was dying by then and was devastated. She refused to admit any knowledge of any mistreatment. Sonny said Dad was so angry he threatened to go down there and ‘take those queers out’. It’s no wonder they were so difficult sometimes. I was pretty young so I didn’t really take much notice unless Mom was upset, but I do remember a few times when things got pretty bad.”

  “Horrible! Dreadful!” Marybeth exclaimed, so angry she was almost speechless. “How can anyone be cruel to little children? Lisa, did Sandro ever say why he never told your mom he and Carmine were Ben’s real sons? Did she never find out, do you think?”

  “No. Apparently they promised they wouldn’t and despite everything, they kept their promise. I don’t believe my Mother knew.

  “Anyway, let’s not talk about that.” Lisa was taken aback at how curious and intense Marybeth had become. Wanting to turn the conversation back to the prese
nt, she said, “I’m just relieved we’re back together, you know? I intend to have them over for dinner soon. I want to hear about what they’ve been up to since they left home. It’ll be so good to have them back in my life. And I think it’ll be good for my kids to get to know them.”

  “What did they - the kids - say about him?”

  “Oh, as I said before, they really like him. And how could anyone not love Valerie? The twins were fascinated by Sonny’s marvelous Indian artifacts collection. Strange, he insists on being called by his Mexican name, but it seems to me he’s very much into his Indian heritage.”

  “It’s your heritage too, Lisa. How do you feel about your Indian ‘self’?”

  “I rarely think about it, to tell you the truth. Most of the time I don’t feel Indian. I don’t know what all the fuss is about anyway. Who cares if I’m ‘half ‘ Indian? Or a ‘quarter’?” then added, “In Canada, we’d be called Métis. Have you heard about the Métis?”

  “They’re descendants of marriages between aboriginal people and French Canadians, sometimes Scots and English, aren’t they?”

  “Half-breeds, that’s what we’re called. Awful term… Anyway, I consider myself a part of the human race. I don’t like pigeonholing people.

  “Many members of our family would like the Kwilicoom tribe to be recognized by the federal government, but I just want to be who I am – ‘Me’. Of course I don’t look Indian, so it’s probably easier for me. I’m like my mother, the only one in my family who doesn’t look at least part native. My kids are fascinated by their Indian blood, though and will, no doubt, want to learn about their heritage in the future. I’ll certainly support them if they do. I think most people can tell they have Indian blood.”