The Ruinous Sweep

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  Bee put her hand up to stop Kali. “What were you hoping for?” she said. “That Donovan was going to take the rap for it? Was that the plan?” Kali looked down at the counter in front of her, its edge chipped and stained. “Well?”

  Kali looked up and shook her head.

  “I mean, you had Rolly as a witness. He’d seen Donovan break stuff earlier.”

  “That was before we got there. We didn’t know Rolly had seen anything. Or anyone else.”

  “Yeah, but you did know the guy next door saw Donovan leave in a hurry. Did you think you could convince Donovan not to mention you’d been there or something? Like, ‘Oh, we didn’t mean to kill him, so you won’t tell on us, will you?’”

  Kali shook her head. “I’ll tell you what I was planning if you’ll listen.”

  Bee glared at her as she tried to rein in her anger. After a moment she nodded curtly.

  “I wanted him — Dono — to know what happened. How it happened. How Al baited Rory. But I’d already made up my mind to give myself up.”

  That caught Bee off-guard. She downgraded her glare but not her suspicion. Kali sniffled, took a tissue from a box on the counter. She looked inquiringly at Bee, as if she were waiting for permission to proceed.

  “Go on,” said Bee.

  Kali sniffed again, wiped her nose. “As soon as Rory dropped me off — as soon as he drove away and I could think again — I knew we had to turn ourselves in. Except I also knew that Rory wasn’t going to go for that. No way. All I could think was to tell Dono to phone the cops and give them Rory’s license plate number and my new address and phone number out in the valley.” Bee’s eyebrows drew together. “It’s true, so help me God,” Kali said, and crossed herself as she said it. “There was no way I could’ve talked Rory into giving us up.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I tried,” she wailed. “I tried the whole way we were following that van with Dono in it.” She paused. “Anyway, you’ve seen what he’s like.” Bee nodded. “I swear it. I tried, Bee, and I failed, and so I had to get the word to the authorities and I wanted Dono to do it. To phone them right away.”

  Bee just stared at her. And Kali stared back, daring the girl to call her a liar. “It’s what Donovan said next that I needed you to hear — hear from me personally.”

  Bee waited. Couldn’t bring herself to speak. Could barely bring herself to breathe.

  “I told Donovan about what Al had said and he started nodding his head as if it made sense somehow — as if he knew perfectly well how Al would do that. Then he looked at me for a long time and he said, as God’s my witness, ‘I killed him. It was me. I did it.’”

  Bee froze, but only for a moment. Then she went as if to put the headset down but Kali stopped her. “No, please, Beatrice. Listen to this. He explained what he meant.” Bee fixed her headset. “He said before he left, the first time, he told his father he was never going to see him again. His exact words were, ‘You are dead to me. Do you get that? From now on you are dead to me.’ Then Dono looked at me, his eyes kind of sad and soft, and he repeated it. ‘I killed him,’ he said. Then he turned and walked into his house.” She stopped and folded her hands on the counter.

  Bee stared at her, her mouth hanging slightly open with this new shock. “What do you mean he walked into his house?”

  “Exactly what I said. He walked in and shut the door. Turned the dead bolt and everything. I was that close, I heard it.”

  “But —”

  “He came back out. Yeah. I know. But right then he was gone, and I . . .” She took a deep breath. Then her eyes glided up to look at the clock. There wasn’t much time left. “I didn’t know what to do. Rory had said for me to wait for him, he’d pick me up. I looked around; the street was deserted as far as I could tell. There were parked cars. No people. I saw lights twinkling through the bare trees on the other side of the street. I walked over there so, you know, Rory could see me when he came back. I could see this pond or whatever it was below and the canal beyond that and the lights along the Queen Elizabeth Parkway; they were shining in the water. I felt a kind of peace, knowing that the nightmare was going to be over soon. He’d phone — Dono — and he’d tell them the story and, hopefully, tell them I had done what I could to stop it. I was ready for whatever they’d throw at me. I’d screwed up bad but I never, never meant for what happened to happen. I’m not sure if you know this but I begged Al — begged him — over the phone not to be there when I came for my stuff. I knew what he’d do. I just never knew it would be so . . . so . . .” She looked up, stripped of hope and hopeful all at the same time.

  Bee could feel the poison draining from her. The woman on the other side of the glass was, just as she’d suspected, pathetic, not evil. That didn’t change the facts. Donovan was dead. That would never change. But hating Kali O’Connor seemed to be a fool’s game.

  “What do you want from me?” said Bee. “Am I supposed to forgive you?”

  Kali shook her head. “No. That’s not it.”

  “And I still don’t know what happened to him,” said Bee.

  Kali’s face hardened. She nodded — seemed to brace herself. “So I was standing over on the other side of the street and then I hear this door open. I turn to look and it’s Dono. Coming over to me. He comes over, crosses the street, and says do I want to come in, have a coffee or something. I can’t believe it.”

  No, you can’t believe it because you don’t know Turn. Bee wanted to shout at the stupid cow but buttoned her lips, needed to know the end — could see it coming.

  “He’s like, ‘It’s cold. Why don’t you come in?’ And I’m trying to think, is this some kind of a trap? But then I think, how can it be a trap? I’ve already told him to call the cops. And I figured maybe he’d done that already. So I ask him. And he shakes his head, explains how his phone is charging up and then he’ll do it. And I can’t believe why he hasn’t done it yet. Then he must have read my mind or something because he says, ‘Or, you know, you could. If the call comes from you, it would look better. And you’d be safe in the house until they got here.’ Safe from Rory, I guess he meant.”

  Bee watched Kali’s face. She looked kind of stunned, as if she still couldn’t figure it out — would never figure it out.

  “So I said to him, ‘Thanks. Yeah.’ And he smiles and turns to go. And then I hear the truck and see the lights and . . .”

  She broke down then, and because Bee did not want to join in on anything Kali O’Connor did, she sat as still and cool as a rock, her back straight, her hands on her knees, watching the woman cry. She knew she would come to feel something like empathy for this wretched creature, but right now she only wanted to watch her suffer. She didn’t like herself for wanting this, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have time for her right now. Her mind was on Donovan. His last act was one of kindness — of reaching out. Just like he had returned to Al’s apartment to check up on his father. Two right things that turned into the wrongest thing he ever did, through no fault of his own. And Bee knew something else. She knew that despite everything else — all the feelings roiling around in her — Kali had given her a gift of this memory. Someday maybe she would thank her.

  The second week in May, Bee Northway and Trish Turner went antique-store hunting and found a ceramic washbowl pretty much identical to the one Bee had hurled at the head of Rory Tulk way back, when, in the middle of a nightmare, she had found herself alone in someone else’s house having to fight for her life.

  Matthew Needham, Jilly’s resourceful husband, had been able to fix the old pine washstand, good as new apparently. Jilly hadn’t said anything about the bowl when they talked on the phone, but Bee was pretty certain neither Matt’s resourcefulness nor Jilly’s magical powers, whatever they were, extended to pottery.

  So Bee phoned Jilly and told her that she and Trish would like to drive out to visit her. Trish wanted to meet Cassie. Jilly suggested they meet Matt, too, and bring Scott, and so the whole thing beca
me a Sunday luncheon.

  It was a good day. Bee was learning how that worked — that there could be good days. You were allowed good days. It didn’t mean you were horrible. It didn’t mean you’d forgotten anything. And it didn’t mean the bad days were over. Your job was to breathe in the good days and breathe out the bad.

  She needed to see the farmhouse again. She knew that. And she needed to see it when there were good people and a good baby and a good dog there to help dislodge the awfulness of what had happened — an awfulness that still kept her up at night sometimes.

  Jilly was a bit distracted on the visit. She looked tired beyond the tedium of motherhood. She couldn’t always hold Bee’s eye, and that was disquieting. Bee already felt terrible; she couldn’t bear to feel even more guilty. She had lured a monster to this place — back to this home, where he had once lived and then been banished from. That hadn’t been her plan, but that’s what had happened. A place that Jilly was lovingly fixing up in what spare time she could manage. And then here was this terrible memory of her earlier life contaminating it — wrecking the joint.

  But the meal was good and Scott managed to make things jolly. He insisted that Bee act out her triumphant defeat of Rory Tulk and managed, somehow, to turn that horrifying experience into something hilarious. He played the part of Tulk himself and hammed it up terribly while she stood at the top of the stairs with the brand-new old washbowl in her hands. Jilly had called up to her, pleading with her not to throw it, if she didn’t mind. It was bizarre, really. Psychodrama.

  Life went on. It had a habit of doing that, Bee had noticed. July came and final exams and late acceptance to her second-choice university. She and Daisy took a road trip there. Life began, inexorably, to become normal. It was a counterfeit of normal, really. It was not a kind of normal you wanted to look at too closely or in too bright a light. But still . . .

  Then one rainy August morning, Jilly phoned her. They danced around salutations, asking about school plans, the baby, the farm, and then Jilly cut it off.

  “Listen, there’s no way to make this sound anything but weird, so I’m just going to say it, okay, and then . . . well, whatever will be, will be.”

  Bee wasn’t sure what to say. She looked through her store of useful responses and could only come up with “Sure.”

  “So, I’ve been seeing Donovan,” said Jilly. “You know . . . like I told you.” Now, Bee really could not speak. “I assume you’re still there,” Jilly continued, “and I appreciate that there is no reasonable reply to what I just said.” She sighed nervously. “Here’s the thing. I’ve sort of been his guide or something. I won’t hear from him for weeks and then suddenly he’ll show up needing help — needing my attention.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Yeah,” said Jilly, “well, I can’t say I’m surprised. But there it is. I guess I’m just delusional or something, but all I can do is play along. So I give him advice — or not advice so much as encouragement, you know?”

  Silence.

  “And, okay, I’m going to cut to the chase, because I can tell this is going nowhere.” She sounded exasperated, but Bee didn’t sense that she was exasperated at Bee so much as at the task she had given herself. Embarrassed, even. “I think he’s gotten through.”

  “Gotten through?”

  “Yeah, you know. He’s There, if you know what I’m saying.”

  If you know what I’m saying. There was no phrase in the English language that made less sense to Bee at that moment than “if you know what I’m saying.”

  “And here’s the thing . . .” Jilly paused and Bee could hear over the line the baby crying. “I’ll be right there, sweetheart,” Jilly called out to her daughter. Then her voice returned to the phone. “Sorry, Cassie just woke up. I’ll make this short. He — Donovan — is going to contact you.”

  Bee froze. For a moment she was horrified and then she was furious. She did not need this! Life was hard enough. Life was just sorting itself out and here was this bonkers woman out in the boonies telling her that her dead boyfriend was . . .

  “I’m sorry,” said Jilly.

  “What did you say again?”

  “He’s going to find a way to contact you.”

  “Jilly, listen, I —”

  “I know. You think I’m not playing with a full deck. Maybe you’re right. But trust me on this. He’s going to get in touch with you this Saturday.”

  This was another jolt. “Saturday. Saturday, August the thirteenth?”

  “That’s right. Is it a special day or something?”

  “Yes,” said Bee. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Well, then. That explains it.”

  “It doesn’t really explain anything.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. I only meant that he would pick that day. It makes sense.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with this? Like do I need to hang out by the phone all day? Or is he going to show up at the door with a bouquet of flowers? Should I dress up? Wear his favorite top?” Bee waited, heard nothing but the baby crying and calling for her mother. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that —”

  “I deserve it,” said Jilly, sounding crestfallen. “Believe me, I didn’t want to call. Been putting it off. I like you, Beatrice. From what I’ve seen, you’re a good person. And I can only imagine what you’re thinking right now: I’m a crackpot — a meddlesome fruitcake, a witch with a screw loose. Like I said, I did not want to even make this call. But I owe it to him. Okay? Can we just leave it at that?”

  Bee nodded and then cleared her throat. “Okay. But Jilly, all kidding aside, what am I supposed to do?”

  Jilly said. “Don’t do anything. He’ll find you. You can’t prepare for it. He’s not going to appear at the party, if you’re having one. He’s not going to freak you out. I’m sure of that much. There will be some sign and you’ll know it when you see it: know it’s him. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Okay,” said Bee. “Uh, thanks . . . I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And Jilly,” Bee said loudly. It took a second for her to reply; she must have been putting the phone down.

  “Yeah?”

  “Give Cassie a hug from me.”

  “Will do.”

  “Good-bye.”

  But Jilly had already hung up.

  Daisy and Jen had thought maybe it should just be the girls, but Bee wanted Max there, too, and Jen’s new friend, Rifat. No, it would not be weird. And since it was her birthday, she got to make the call. There was going to be a party. She was overdue for a party. And the party was going to be at Daisy’s cottage up in the Gatineau. After that, she’d change the picture on her desktop, the one of them sitting on the rock at that cottage.

  She hadn’t told anyone about Jilly’s call. There was a good chance that her friends would think she was losing it, so she’d kept it her secret. But she did wear the top he liked best. It was purple. She didn’t wear much purple; maybe that was what made it stand out. She was going to have a good time. She had made up her mind. She and Turn had only ever celebrated two birthdays together: hers in August, his in October. They had no traditions. She didn’t anticipate missing him any more than she did any other day that he came to mind. And yes, he came to mind a lot, but it was bearable. That was maybe the saddest part.

  And so they partied. They swam and ate and drank and played Twister, at Daisy’s insistence. Her cottage was a repository of games of all kinds for all ages from all eras.

  For some reason, Bee kept checking her cell phone. Ridiculous.

  There was music playing nearly all the time. Until suddenly, just after eleven, it went off. So did the lights. A blackout.

  “But there’s not even a storm,” said Jen.

  “Somebody didn’t pay their electric bill,” said Max.

  “I’ll find the candles,” said Daisy.

  Bee could scarcely breathe. She felt the cottage close in on her, as if
the air was being sucked out of it. “I’m going out on the deck,” she said.

  The moon shimmered on the lake. It wasn’t scary — not outside. Except maybe a little. “A blackout,” she said quietly to the night. “Isn’t that just, like, a little too clichéd?” Standing on the deck alone, she soaked up the darkness and the cool. “I’d have expected better from you, Turn.”

  Then there was music again. Daisy had found her parents’ mammoth old battery-operated radio, and the song was Tor Miller’s “Carter and Cash.” Bee smiled. Turn had loved that song.

  They had been driving somewhere in Toddy the Turtle and it had come on the radio. Turn immediately cranked it up and started banging his fists on his knees, almost in time. He joined in the chorus:

  “And all the while the world / It hit me with the sweetest sound —”

  “No,” she said, laughing.

  “What do you mean, no?” he said, raising his voice over the music.

  “It’s not ‘the sweetest sound,’ it’s ‘the speed of sound.’”

  “No way,” he said. So they listened closely for the next chorus.

  “See,” she said. “I told you.”

  “Bah,” he said.

  “It’s true.”

  “Maybe, but it should be the sweetest sound.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He wanted to listen to the song and he bopped around in his seat so much she wondered whether he’d drive Toddy right off the road. When it was over, he turned the radio off.

  “You’re just sore,” she said. “You hate losing. Even a lyrics-recognition contest.”

  He laughed. “I’m not sore. Not one bit.”

  And she knew he wasn’t. He was happy. Really happy. And she was happy right then, too. She was often happy with him, but right then she was deeply happy, maybe because of the song.

  Inside Daisy’s cottage, the song blaring out of the tinny little speakers of the ancient transistor radio ended and the news came on, only to be turned off right away. And it was quiet again. Blackout quiet. The others were chatting, but sotto voce. The raucous part of the party had been drained off and there was just this warm glow to it now. Or maybe it was just that you don’t ever want to talk too loudly in the dark.