by L. R. Wright
Emma followed her several times, over several months, working on a plan.
One day Emma followed her home from work and went to a nearby restaurant and had a sandwich. At about six-thirty she went to Helena’s apartment, in a house on West Seventh Avenue, and knocked on the door.
“Hello,” she said warmly when Helena answered. She held up a clipboard and a file folder. “I’m doing a survey for city hall,” she said, “on the importance of municipal funding to cultural organizations. Could I possibly have a few moments of your time?”
Yes, Charlie had changed, all right, after Helena, thought Emma. The revolver lay on the kitchen table in front of her. She pushed it away from her, using the index finger of her right hand; then hooked her finger inside the trigger guard and pulled it back toward her.
What if I had a dinner party? she thought, and began composing a guest list. She’d invite Lorraine. And the Sokolowskis next door. She could invite Karl Alberg too. She got up and went into the bedroom and looked through the glass doors into the backyard, hands shoved into the pockets of the oversize cardigan she wore over jeans and a denim shirt. She’d re-create the menu from the anniversary dinner, she decided. She’d use the best china, and the silver. She saw herself setting six places, one of them for Charlie. She saw crystal glittering in candlelight; white linen glowing; silver gleaming…and this image led to thoughts of Charlie’s mother, who had given them silverware as a wedding gift.
Charlie’s mother would know, by now, of his disappearance, thought Emma, hurrying back to the kitchen: Alberg would have told her. She wondered why she hadn’t yet heard from Alberg about this, since he’d reported to her promptly about everything else.
And she would have expected a call from her mother-in-law too, she thought, reaching for the phone…
An image popped into her head, full-blown, like a photograph hung suddenly in the air before her. Charlie and his mother were sitting side by side on a long sofa upholstered in fabric with a dark background—maroon—with large flowers splashed on it. There were lace antimacassars on its back and arms. Charlie’s head was resting on his mother’s shoulder. She was sitting tall and straight, with her right arm around him. Charlie’s hands were in his lap. Mrs. O’Brea, knees primly together, had on a white dress with small blue polka dots, and her white hair was soft and wavy. On her feet were dark blue shoes with low heels. Charlie’s dark hair gleamed. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, and an apple-green pullover vest, and a pair of pants the color of butterscotch. They were both looking directly at Emma: unsmiling, unmoving.
Emma, rattled, quickly dialed her mother-in-law’s number.
“I’m sorry,” said a recorded female voice. “That number is no longer in service.” Emma wondered if the voice was a real person or a computer.
She sat down, heavily, convinced that Charlie was in Arizona. She thought about what she ought to do. She wanted to rush directly to the Vancouver airport and climb onto the first available flight to Phoenix.
But the number was out of service. What did that mean?
Maybe they’ve gone, she thought. Scuttled away from there. Gone to South America or Tanzania or New Zealand or someplace.
Emma hurried upstairs to Charlie’s desk and started rummaging through the drawers. Someday she’d have to dispose of all this stuff. She imagined setting it on fire, right here—making a big pile of all this paper right on top of the desk and putting a match to it. To hell with him, she thought, feeling reckless; he isn’t the only one who can start all over again.
She slammed the bottom desk drawer shut and turned to the filing cabinet. There wasn’t much there. CATALOGUES, said one folder. DOCUMENTS, said another. In there was their marriage license and birth certificates and Charlie’s expired passport. HOUSE, said another folder. INSURANCE. Emma had been through all of them. Finally, MOTHER. She took this folder into the kitchen and dumped the contents out on the table—a pile of letters written over several years—and started reading them, looking for clues.
She found references to her mother-in-law’s sister and remembered that the woman lived in Brandon, Manitoba.
Emma dialed 1-204-555-1212. “Operator? I’d like a number in Brandon, please.”
40
SANDUCCI WAS ENJOYING his thirties. He acknowledged this to himself, somewhat surprised about it, as he turned off Roberts Creek Road onto the highway. He was even beginning to give serious thought to finding a nice girl and settling down. Unbelievable.
He was returning to the detachment in Sechelt from a routine investigation into a car theft. The victim was a single mother whose ten-year-old Toyota had vanished from her driveway during the night.
The corporal was feeling pretty good about life, all things considered. He was due to be transferred, and he didn’t like that much; he would miss the Sunshine Coast. But the move would provide a smooth, tidy way to end things with Roxanne, so he wasn’t entirely unhappy about it. Roxanne Baker had been his steady girlfriend for a year now. And although it had at times been excruciatingly difficult, he had actually managed to remain faithful to her. He was proud of himself.
There was a dearth of public transportation in Sechelt, and the single mom was really going to feel the absence of that vehicle. She needed it every day, she’d told Sanducci, to take her kid to day care and to get herself back and forth to work. She had veered during the interview between despair and a rage so towering Sanducci had become alarmed.
He’d never been serious about Roxanne, but he was serious about getting serious about somebody. This relationship had been invaluable preparation. What a relief, to know that monogamy was actually possible. For a year, anyway. And a year was a very long time, he told himself.
He’d see if he couldn’t rustle up some wheels for the single mother, he thought, pulling out to pass a heavy-laden logging truck laboring along at thirty kilometers per hour. He figured they’d find the Toyota, all right—some kids had probably gone joyriding in it, and they’d leave it in the bush somewhere when they were done, or maybe in the shopping center parking lot, if they were cocky enough—but she couldn’t put her life on hold in the meantime.
He’d had a good year with Roxanne. He hadn’t spent so much time with one particular female person since he’d gone steady with Angela Giovando, way back in high school. When you saw that much of somebody, you couldn’t spend all your time in the sack. He’d learned all kinds of things in conversations with Roxanne, who was a medical secretary.
The trees on either side of the highway were a green color so bright it glowed almost like neon, thought Sanducci as he came up behind a gray Plymouth Reliant, even on a day like this, when the sun kept disappearing.
The Reliant had a roof rack that was laden with suitcases. He couldn’t make out how many people were inside. In the back window was a pile of flowers.
Sanducci grinned to himself because the Reliant slowed down in a hurry when the driver saw his patrol car. He decided to just sit there for a while, two car lengths back, doing a steady sixty K. He loved it that traffic slowed to the limit whenever a patrol car was spotted. And he got royally pissed off every time some macho stud jerk shitrat got all defiant at the sight of him and gunned it, giving Sanducci the metaphorical finger. Usually he managed to restrain himself when this happened. He’d radio the guy’s plate up ahead. But sometimes he wanted so badly to take off after the sonofabitch…
The flowers bouncing around in the back window of the Reliant looked familiar. One kind looked like fruit-tree blossoms of some sort. Little flowers, dark pink ones, in clusters along branches… “Flowering quince,” he said aloud, snapping his fingers. He beamed behind his sunglasses. Roxanne’s folks had a big bush of it in their front yard. Flowering quince. He leaned toward the windshield, peering more closely into the Reliant, trying to see what the other flowers were, big yellow ones—oh, boy, he thought.
He turned on the light bar and punched a brief howl out of the siren, pulling the Reliant over.
&nb
sp; He picked up his peaked service cap and fitted it on over his thick, curly hair, opened his door, and ambled over to the small gray car, which had come to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.
The driver had rolled down her window and was looking at him impatiently. “What’s your problem?” she said.
There were three women in the car, and a lot of luggage. The women, all in their early twenties, were dressed casually, in jeans and sweaters. The one in the backseat had been lying down, but she sat up now, observing Sanducci with suspicion.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” said Sanducci with a wide smile. He wished he’d left his dark glasses in the patrol car. The sun had gone away again.
“What is it?” said the driver. “You’ve been following us for five miles. You know damn well we haven’t exceeded the limit.”
“You’re right,” he said, still smiling.
The person in the seat next to the driver was red-haired, with very pale skin. Sanducci figured she’d have to be real careful of the sun. The woman in the back had light brown hair that was a mass of waves falling down upon her shoulders.
“Well, what the hell do you want, then?” said the driver. Her dark hair fell to her jaw on one side and was clipped above her ear on the other. Sanducci liked this effect very much. He decided she was by far the most attractive of the three.
“Actually, ma’am, I pulled you over because of those flowers back there.”
“I told you, Kathy,” said the young woman in the backseat. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken them!” She looked strong and capable, and Sanducci was amazed when she burst into tears.
Sanducci, dumbfounded, looked from one young woman to another. “Hey, it’s okay. Really.” He looked left and right along the highway, thinking about police harassment.
The girl next to the driver turned to look into the backseat.
“Oh, stop it, Caroline,” she said wearily, brushing at the strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail.
“We’ll pay the fine,” the driver said to Sanducci. “Just give me the damn ticket.”
“Ma’am, there isn’t any fine,” said Sanducci. “There isn’t any ticket. Listen, I only stopped you because…those yellow ones, see them?”
“They’re water lilies,” she said. “Caroline, please.” The sobbing abated. “She—we get upset sometimes. Can’t seem to do anything about it.” She rubbed her forehead, as if she had a headache.
“A friend of ours,” said the redhead, “our roommate—”
“Shhh,” said the driver impatiently. She looked up at the corporal. “So? Can we go, or what?”
“Well, see, the trouble is, those aren’t water lilies. They’re skunk cabbages.”
All three of them looked at him as if he were deranged.
“They’re what?” said the driver.
“Skunk cabbages. I know they’re very pretty, but believe me, if you leave them back there, your car’s going to stink like hell in a little while.”
The driver stared at him. Then, “Caroline,” she said, “hand over those water lilies.” The girl in the back collected the bulbous yellow blooms and handed them to the driver, who started to open her door.
“I’ll take care of them,” said the corporal.
She thrust the skunk cabbages through the window, into his outstretched hands. “Thanks.”
There came an angry outburst from the redhead in the passenger seat. “What are you doing, anyway? Pulling people over. Skunk cabbages, for God’s sake. Haven’t you got better things to do?” Her face was flushed, and her hands had curled themselves into fists. “I know you’ve got better things to do. So go and do it.”
“Sandy,” said the driver. “Don’t.” She turned back to the corporal. “What’s your name, Officer?”
He noticed that a wind had come up. “Sanducci.”
“Your first name, I mean.”
Sanducci hesitated. “Eduardo.”
The driver tilted her head to study him; her hair fell away from her face like a dark, curved wing. “Eduardo.” She nodded. “It suits you.”
Sanducci smelled blossoms on the wind. Or maybe it was the girl’s perfume, drifting toward him through the cool spring day.
“We’ve had a bad thing happen in our lives, Eduardo. A calamity.” The other two were watching her as if hypnotized.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“And as a result, we aren’t ourselves these days.” She glanced into the backseat. “That’s Caroline, back there.” She indicated the girl sitting next to her. “This is Sandra.” She pointed to herself. “I’m Kathy.”
“How do you do,” said Sanducci. A few raindrops spattered onto the car.
“We go to UBC. We’ve got summer jobs over here.”
Sanducci found himself listening intently, awaiting epiphany, or at least revelation. But if she’d been about to confide in him, or request his assistance, she changed her mind.
“Thank you again,” said Kathy abruptly, and she cranked up the window, started the car, and moved off onto the highway, leaving Sanducci standing by the side of the road with a heart full of wonder and an armful of skunk cabbages.
41
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Emma awoke early. She got dressed quickly and sat in front of the TV watching Newsworld until she thought it was late enough to go looking for Alberg. But when she opened the front door he was standing on her porch, about to ring the bell.
“I was just going to see you,” said Emma severely.
“And here I am.” He wasn’t smiling. He looked quite grim and not a bit guilty.
She led him into the living room. “Why didn’t you tell me she was dead?”
“I’ve got a question for you, too,” said Alberg.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Emma insisted. “I felt like an idiot, on the phone to that woman, a person I’ve never met, who’ll be wondering forever why on earth I didn’t know my own mother-in-law had died.”
“Can we sit down?” said Alberg.
“I don’t want to sit down.”
Alberg studied her for a moment, and Emma didn’t like that at all. His pale blue gaze swept across her face like a cold breeze, and she became uncertain of his capacity for compassion.
“Where’s the revolver, Emma?” he said.
Instantly, she looked behind him, toward the front door. She thought about the gun, in the night table drawer. She pressed her hand against her chest, to calm her heart. “You’ve found him,” Emma said finally.
Alberg watched her and said nothing.
“Where is he?”
He shook his head.
“Where is he? My God, you’ve got to tell me. You can’t—you can’t do all this work, and find him, and then not tell me where he is!”
“He’s going to get in touch with you.”
Emma’s entire body was shaking. It felt extremely violent. “Where is he?”
“I told you, he’ll be in touch.”
“Oh, to hell with that. To hell with him. To hell with you.” She looked around for something to throw at him. “ ‘He’ll be in touch.’ ‘He’ll be in touch.’ ” She wanted to heave the bookcase at him, squashing him underneath it, but it was too heavy, and she was too weak, because of the trembling.
She whirled around and hurried out of the house. He was calling her name, but she ignored him. She got to her car before she realized she didn’t have her purse, and therefore didn’t have her car keys. He caught up with her there.
“Emma, I’m sorry. I promise you, he will be calling you, or writing. If you haven’t heard from him in a week, I’ll tell you where he is.”
She needed time to calm herself, to think, to work things out. She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair with both hands. “Okay.”
“Emma. The revolver. It’s an unregistered, restricted firearm.”
“Oh, I don’t have that damn thing.” She turned to look at him, keeping her face relaxed. “I assume Charlie told you about… Well? Did he? Abou
t when he pointed the damn thing at me?”
“Yes. He did.”
“I couldn’t possibly have it in my house.” She shuddered. “I found it, and I chucked it out with the trash.”
She could tell that he didn’t know whether to believe her or not, and that in either case, he was not happy.
“I have to know exactly when you did this,” he said quietly. “We have to try to recover it.”
“Really,” said Emma, with interest.
“I take firearms extremely seriously, Emma.”
“My goodness, Karl,” she said, looking him in the face. “So do I.”
42
LATER THAT DAY, Emma, wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, marched outside and pawed aimlessly in the garden with a three-pronged fork for a while.
Then she dragged out the lawn mower and cut the grass. Wiped off the outdoor furniture. Swept the patio. Watered the hanging baskets. When there was nothing more to do, she went to the back of the yard and leaned on the cedar fence.
It was a mild day, a benevolent day. Emma could see the ocean, two blocks away, and smell it in the spring breeze that blew gently from the west. The lilac in the corner of the yard was fragrant with deep purple blossoms. Emma, exhausted, rested her head on the top of the fence. She heard the familiar bird song again—two notes, which she’d identified as the first two notes of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”—and felt herself begin to cry.
Then she heard the neighbors’ screen door open, and bang closed.
Emma lifted her head and looked eastward, to see Sid Sokolowski in the middle of his back lawn, surveying his property with a critical eye.
At last, she thought, swiping tears from her eyes. At last.
Emma moved quickly to the fence that separated the O’Breas’ property from the Sokolowskis’. She took hold of the top of it and with an effort produced a smile. “Hi!” she called out.
Sid turned, and his face brightened. “I heard the good news last night,” he said, heading toward her.
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” said Emma enthusiastically. “Of course, it doesn’t mean the end of my troubles,” she said, casting a sigh. She looked up at Sid bravely. “But it’s the beginning of the end of them. I’m very grateful to Mr. Alberg.”