Where the Bodies Lie

by Mark Lisac

  “She had the baby. It was a boy. She named it Thomas. Tom Simonson. She had gone back to using her real name when she came home. She called him ‘my little lamb.’ We didn’t see much of her then. A neighbour woman who knew about those things helped with the birth and then helped her take care of the little fellow.

  “Farber came to see her about a week later. It was a secret. He arrived at night. She said he was in a bad way and was ready to give everything up after all. He kept saying he had ruined her life. She didn’t know what to do. She was in love with him, although I thought there was some question about whether it was just him or the thought of being married to a premier.

  “She was in love with him, I guess. Maybe not quite as much as he was in love with her. But enough that she wanted to be with him. She was one sad girl. Angry too, because he had listened to Manchester and sent her away.

  “I saw her after he came for that visit. She cried a lot and then she stopped. It felt funny. I was talking with her. She was crying and crying and then just stopped. It wasn’t like she stopped feeling bad or somehow just got fed up. It was like she had run out of tears. The well was dry.

  “Things were a lot rougher in those days. People got sick, they didn’t recover as easily. The little boy got sick. Diphtheria. He died when he was a few weeks old. Mary and her father buried him not far from their house. They didn’t have us at the funeral. I saw her twice after that. Once soon after the funeral. It was like all the life had been drained out of her. Then I saw her the next month, when she was sick with diphtheria herself. She died shortly later. I don’t think she wanted to go on living.

  “Farber died several days afterward. They gave out that it was something like pneumonia or a heart attack. But old Simonson still had some contact with the family and heard there were empty whisky bottles all over his room.

  “Simonson buried her next to the boy. We did go to that funeral. He hung on for awhile, then sold out to dad the following year. I heard he went back east, Manitoba or maybe Ontario.”

  Asher took it all in. He never interrupted a good witness. He thanked Palmer and said he was going to ask a question that might sound crazy but he had to ask it. “Is there any chance at all that the boy didn’t die? That they sent him off to be raised by someone — maybe relatives, maybe an orphanage, anywhere — and buried an empty coffin to wipe out any trace of him?”

  The old man looked at him. Asher saw him thinking it was a loopy idea but also thinking he had heard crackpot notions before. No need to react to another.

  “You never know about people,” he said finally. “I don’t think so. The boy was sick. The neighbour woman told me. Mary was so taken with him I don’t believe she could ever have given him up. ’Course, if she did give him up, that would probably have made her shrivel up and die herself, just like she did in the end anyway. But his dying would have done the same thing. No. It’s possible she gave him up. It’s also possible lightning will blow a hole in the roof here tonight. I think that’s about as likely. But I’ll knock on wood as I say that.” And he did.

  “The reason I ask,” Asher said, “is that a fellow was claiming to be the boy. He was bothering Manchester last year. It looked like Manchester believed him.”

  “Takes a storyteller to believe a story.”

  “Yet how did someone know what kind of story to tell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. No. Wait. I can tell you one thing. The woman who was looking after Mary had a grandson. He was no good as a kid. Sneaky, always looking for some kind of advantage over people. He went off years ago. He might have heard some stories in the family. You know how people can’t resist gossip. Especially around here, where there isn’t much to gossip about.”

  “You don’t know where he might have gone.”

  “No. Had the impression he headed west. Your part of the country. Maybe to some relatives, but he was ornery enough to be willing to stick things out on his own. Half the people living out there started out this side of the line. This is where the story begins.”

  “But you can’t say for sure.”

  “I guess you could dig up the coffin and look inside. That wouldn’t be respectful.”

  Asher felt a bitterness rising in the back of his throat. “No, it wouldn’t. I can’t claim always to be respectful of people. I try. But I’m not going to be digging a hole in the ground to see if I can find some old bones.”

  Palmer considered Asher’s response. “You could see the graves if you wanted. That way you’d at least know they’re there. The graves. They’re not far from here. The old Simonson place was up the road a ways. The graves are back from the road and a little off what used to be the drive to the house. The house is gone, but you can still see the foundation. The graves should be visible. Last time I saw them was years ago. Can’t even remember how many years. There was a little brush around, but the stones should still be there. Hers was taller than the grass. Maybe visiting them would be respectful. They haven’t had a lot of visitors. Not in years.”

  Asher felt tears welling in his eyes. He told himself he was ready to cry for two unfortunate souls, a mother and a son, and perhaps for the father as well — but he wasn’t sure that he was feeling sorrow only for them. He remembered his daughter who had died, his daughter whose ready smile and laughing eyes had summed up for him all the world’s potential joys that could sometimes be found amid endless loss and sorrows, and a retching reflex convulsed his stomach. He did not want to see more graves but he knew he would.

  He fought for control so that the old man would not see tears spilling down his cheeks. When he was fairly sure he could speak without a quaver he said that visiting might be a good idea.

  Palmer asked if he would stay for lunch. The hired man, Tyler, would be in any minute to fry up some hamburger and hash browns. He could take Asher up the road to the old Simonson place, take care of a short chore up in that area, and then drive Asher around the narrow eastern arm of the park and back to the parking area at the head of the trail. Along the way, Tyler would be happy to show him the secluded flat where the grouse gathered.

  Asher said thanks. He had lunch and learned a little bit about ranching. Tyler cooked up the burger meat but had a large peanut butter sandwich himself.

  “He’s our vegetarian,” Palmer joked. Tyler said that was only for lunch. He liked a steak at supper and ham or sausage with his eggs at breakfast.

  Afterward, Asher climbed into the old half-ton with Tyler. He wondered why a working truck had so much chrome on it but decided style was probably important in an area with few things other than the land, the animals, and the weather.

  Palmer told him where to look for the stones. Tyler dropped him off at the barely visible remains of tire tracks leading to the site of the old Simonson place and said he’d be back in about half an hour or a little more.

  Asher walked up the track and veered right when he reached a little coulee short of where the house had stood. Palmer had said Mary liked to walk up there when she was young. It had been her favourite place. He told himself he had to end his visits to the dead and end his fears at the same time. He had been thinking about Sherry Kozak and decided to call her when he got home. She was safely out of the office now and not in a vulnerable position if she wanted to say no to him.

  He walked through the grass. Brush lined the sides of the coulee. He was looking at one side when he saw a deer, a doe. He and the doe stopped walking and regarded each other for a moment. Then she was off, vanishing into the brush that Asher had thought was sparse enough that he should have been able to see her through it.

  He started walking again and came to a flat area near the southern slope. He saw two stones. The larger one, a conventional upright slab with
a rounded top, had a name on it. The letters had eroded and been partly covered with orange and green lichens, but were still readable: Mary Simonson.

  Beside it was a much smaller stone set flat in the ground. It would not have been noticeable from several steps away. There was no name on it, only a carved image of a lamb.

  Asher felt like he was surrounded by silence. He lifted his head and realized he was not. He could hear the grasshoppers and the birds as well as the early afternoon wind. He saw a hawk high above and knew the doe was not far away, possibly with a half-grown fawn nearby.

  He looked back down the length of the coulee at the short dry stems of grass that survived in a place that seemed like it should be an empty desert. There were many things to see here if you looked closely enough. It wasn’t a mystery. It wasn’t even all that unusual. It was just life.

  Acknowledgements

  CREDIT FOR THIS BOOK IS OWED TO MANY PEOPLE. NEWEST Press, which has long been and remains a vital cultural presence in Western Canada, agreed to publish a manuscript that I did not initially expect to reach printed form. Board editor Douglas Barbour, Paul Matwychuk, and Matt Bowes all made the book better during the editing process.

  Thanks are also due to friends who suggested improvements to various drafts: Elinor Florence, Richard Helm, Rich Vivone, and, as always, Ellen.

  Producing this work was a happy experience. Any remaining flaws are my responsibility alone.

  MARK LISAC, ORIGINALLY FROM HAMILTON, WORKED AS A journalist in Saskatchewan for five years. He began writing about Alberta politics in 1979 as a reporter for The Canadian Press and then as a columnist for The Edmonton Journal. From 2005 to 2013, he was publisher and editor of the independent political newsletter Insight into Government. He published The Klein Revolution in 1995 and Alberta Politics Uncovered in 2004. He also contributed a chapter to Alberta Premiers of the Twentieth Century and edited Lois Hole Speaks.