Surface Rights

by Melissa Hardy

  Ignoring Verna’s protests and her flailing attempts to restrain him, the Lab struggled to his feet, jumped off the bed, and ran around the rocker to the stranger, docking between his legs as he had done earlier with Winonah. His entire back end wagged as the stranger bent over and paddled him on the rear, again, in much the same way as Winonah had done that morning.

  “Hey, Verna,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to scare you there.”

  “Who are you?” she stammered, her heart racing at the same time as her ears filled up with fog.

  “Lionel Madahbee.”

  “Lionel Madahbee? But … but that’s not possible!”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” Verna shuddered. “Because he’s dead.”

  The stranger shrugged. “Be that as it may.”

  “Turn around so I can see you!”

  “Are you sure? I’m dead, eh? Maybe I look okay. Maybe I don’t. Choked to death, eh? Not too pretty.”

  “But Jude …”

  “Dogs are good at sensing spirits. How you look don’t matter; it’s how you smell. And I smell pretty good, don’t I, boy? Yes, I do.”

  Jude laid his head on what would have been the stranger’s knee and sighed.

  Verna wrung her hands. Had it come to this — to seeing things, ghosts, in broad daylight? Was it the drinking? Had it gotten that bad? Or maybe, just maybe, she was crazy. “What are you doing here? If you are here, that is.”

  “Oh, I’m here all right!”

  Verna winced. “I was afraid so.”

  “Why afraid?”

  “Because you’re a ghost and only crazy people see ghosts,” Verna explained. “I don’t want to be crazy.”

  “So it’s all about you?” Lionel asked.

  Verna reflected on this for moment. “In this case, I’d have to say yes.”

  “Well, too bad,” said Lionel resolutely. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  Verna was alarmed. “Ever? You’re not going ever?”

  “Well, of course, ever,” replied Lionel. “What do you think? When I’m through waiting. Then I’ll be gone. Then I will take the three-day road to the Sky World.”

  “And what exactly is it that you’re waiting for?”

  “To be returned to the earth.”

  “Uh … This might sound rude, but can’t you wait somewhere else?”

  “Nope,” said Lionel.

  “Why not?”

  “Too crowded downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “Too many spirits. Go back to sleep, Verna. When you wake up, I’ll be gone.”

  “Am I asleep now and dreaming you?” Verna asked.

  “Maybe,” said Lionel. “Or you could be having a vision. It’s hard for me to tell. Are you on a quest?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Verna. “Maybe. I’ve been thinking of changing my life around, shaking things up, you know?” Her glance snagged on the spotty mirror above the chest of drawers. Given the position of the rocker — turned at an angle toward the door — she should have been able to see Lionel’s reflection in the mirror — but the chair appeared empty. Verna gasped and slid back down into the bed. “How come I can see your back, but not your reflection?” She pulled the covers up to her chin.

  “How should I know?” Lionel asked and began rocking. The chair groaned; the floorboards creaked. Verna rolled over to the side of the bed nearest the wall, pulled the covers over her head, and cowered until, little by little, the sound of the rocker squeaking against the floor grew more and more indistinct and she slept.

  Verna sagged against the lintel of the door to the kitchen. She felt groggy and weak, but her headache was of an altogether lesser magnitude than previously and her stomach, while sullen, was not so rambunctious. “How long have I been out?” she asked Winonah, who sat at the trestle table with a mug of tea and a can of Eagle Brand condensed milk in front of her.

  “How should I know? It’s four-forty-five. Soon as I finish my tea, eh, I’m out of here.”

  Beside her was the large green garbage bag that contained, among other detritus, Bob’s cremains, and, at her feet, Jude. The dog was wet — must have gotten into the lake again. Verna didn’t remember him leaving the bedroom. Who had opened the door for him? No! She told herself. No! No questions. Nobody opened the door. Maybe Winonah opened the door. Ask her. No, don’t. Instead, “You’re going?” Verna struck out on her wobbly own across the floor and ratcheted down into the chair opposite Winonah. “Really? I thought Lionel was the tea drinker.”

  “I’ve been here since nine,” Winonah reminded her. “And I take both.”

  “Will you be back? I mean, isn’t there more to do?”

  “The cottage is opened, if that’s what you mean. That’ll be two hundred. Make it cash and I won’t charge you the tax.”

  Suddenly the last thing Verna wanted was for Winonah to go. Her brush with Lionel, whatever the nature of that brush had been, had rendered the idea of being alone, except for a dog who liked everybody, in the woods in the dark extremely unattractive. “But surely there’s more to be done?”

  Winonah shrugged. “There’s always more to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like cleaning out the gutters, like checking the roof and the chimney for birds’ nests …”

  “Well, that’s all got to be done, hasn’t it?”

  Winonah eyed her suspiciously. “If you say so. What’s up?”

  Verna ignored her question. “So you’ll come back tomorrow?”

  “If you want. What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. Nothing at all,” Verna blathered, then brightened as she had an idea. “In fact, why don’t you stay the night? Then you wouldn’t have to make that long drive back.”

  “Ten kilometres?” Winonah asked.

  “Still! You could sleep in Fern’s old room.”

  “The room where she died? No way! That room’s got bad vibes.”

  “Bad vibes?” Verna was appalled. “What do you mean ‘bad vibes’?”

  “Bad vibes,” Winonah repeated. “Besides I got to make supper for my no’okomiss before she goes to Bingo.”

  Verna froze. Her no’okomiss? Hadn’t Lionel mentioned something about a no’okomiss? “Your what?”

  “My no’okomiss. My old granny. If I don’t feed her, she’ll die.”

  But Verna was desperate. “Can’t she feed herself? I mean, if she can go to Bingo, surely she can eat something!”

  “Can,” replied Winonah. “Won’t.” She stood.

  “But why? Wait a minute,” Verna bargained. “How about I pay you fifty dollars to stay the night?”

  “How about you pay me the two hundred dollars you owe me now?”

  “Yes, of course! Now where did I put my purse?” Verna rose from her chair and looked anxiously around before spotting it on the counter next to the three boxes of cremains … Wait a minute, she thought, what’s Bob doing here? Didn’t I put him out by the woodpile where Winonah found him? Didn’t she throw him into the garbage bag along with the curry? Am I making that up too?

  Winonah solved the mystery. “Oh, that box, there,” she said. “That’s Lionel.”

  Verna blanched. “Who?”

  “Lionel. My brother. His cremains.”

  “His cremains … are here?”

  “Either that or he gave me somebody else and told me it was Lionel. I wouldn’t put it past him, that white undertaker.” Winonah’s eyes slanted toward the purse. “Are you getting me the money? Because right about now Granny’s asking herself, ‘Where’s my fishsticks?’ I don’t like to keep her waiting. She’s old. You got to show respect for elders.”

  “The money, yes!” Verna made a raid on the counter, returning with her purse. As a rule she didn’t carry much cash, but, thinking that Greater Gammage might be lacking in ATMs, she had gotten a wad of cash back at the North Bay LCBO. She counted out ten twenties and was on the point of adding another fifty when Winonah’s hand closed on the cash.
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  “I’m going,” Winonah told her. She stood.

  Verna leapt to her feet. “I have an idea. You could bring Granny here.”

  “Granny doesn’t want to come here,” Winonah said flatly. “Granny wants to go to Bingo.” She started towards the back door.

  Verna followed her. “But after Bingo!”

  “After Bingo she wants to go to bed.” Winonah opened the door.

  “She could go to bed here!” Verna followed her out onto the porch.

  “Look, Verna.” Winonah was firm. “Granny was sent to a residential school. No-Talking-Indian School — that’s what our people called it. Because kids were beaten if they spoke our language. She ran away once. They locked her in the boiler room for two days, down in the basement where it was hot and dark and full of spiders and big rats. They would have locked her in the broom closet, but another runaway, she died, eh? From breathing ammonia and bleach fumes for so long. Going to that school put my granny right off most kinds of white people.”

  “But …!”

  “And even if she did trust white people long enough to close her eyes when she’s around ’em, the last thing she wants to do is go to bed in a house full of dead ones. Me neither.” She headed toward the rusted-out Chevrolet Impala parked next to the Volvo.

  “Winonah!”

  “See you in the morning!” She climbed into the car and rolled down the window.

  “Winonah, wait!” Verna started down the stairs.

  “Mind your socks, there,” Winonah warned her, gunning the Impala’s engine. “That grass, it’s wet, eh?” She ground the car into reverse.

  Verna glanced down to see that she was still in her stocking feet. As she did, the Impala lurched forward and began to toddle lopsidedly down the service road in the direction of town.

  “Wait! Wait!” Verna wailed. “Winonah! Wait! You forgot Lionel!”

  “See you in the morning!” The Impala melted into the forest.

  It was tender sunlight that woke her, that and the bright sounds of the forest briskly reconstituting itself. Tiny white-throated warblers, scissor-tailed flycatchers, gray-crowned rosy finches — neotropicals come north to breed, singing as they feasted on insects. An all-you-can-eat buffet; an orchestra tuning itself. A slight breeze ran its fingers through the boughs of fir and larch and thumbed the ruddy buds of birch. She could hear the lake lapping against the cobble beach below, like water sloshing in a shallow bowl.

  What day was it? Of that she wasn’t quite sure. Really, she advised herself, when you look at it, what day it was depended on whether yesterday — that being Wednesday to the best of her recollection — had ever actually ended. She didn’t remember it ending.

  Oh, wait a minute. She did.

  She remembered being frightened — or, at the very least, creeped out — when Winonah left. Not that she believed in ghosts; she just didn’t want to be alone with the idea of them. She remembered tossing around the idea of throwing the dog and her suitcase into the Volvo and driving back to Beverley so that she could stay the night at the Vi-Mar Motel or the Bel-Air. She remembered having a couple of drinks — V and T’s, not Scotch (she had an uncanny feeling, all of a sudden, of being watched, and, therefore, a greater need for circumspection; see, she wasn’t an alcoholic; see, she could temper her drinking) — then deciding rather emphatically that she was fifty-four bloody years old, that there were no such things as ghosts, and, in case she were wrong about this, Lionel’s had seemed disinclined to harm her. In fact, all he had wanted was to hang out in the rocking chair — hardly sinister. Later she remembered eating room-temperature chili from the can and feeding the dog something slightly less appetizing before letting him out and then in. She remembered locking up. She remembered unlocking the front door and putting the three boxes of cremains out to overnight on the screened-in porch — for some reason, she wasn’t entirely sure why; well, yes, she was — before relocking the front door. Finally, she had made herself a big drink, gone upstairs, repositioned the rocking chair in front of the window, checked for any further evidence of Lionel, and, finding none, unpacked her suitcase and arranged the contents of her overnight bag on top of the chest of drawers. And she had done all this riding the fluttery edge of a panic attack like one of those freaky Jesus lizards skittering across the surface of the water. Then she had turned in early. Really early. Old-person early — eight o’clock, maybe. That’s right. That’s what had happened. That long nap must have confused her, thrown her off. Naps wreak havoc with one’s circadian rhythm, she told herself. Naps make you see things, people that are not there. No more naps.

  She sat up, pushed off the sheets, and examined herself. An old navy-blue T-shirt — no bra, she scarcely needed one — and a raggedy pair of “pitters.” That’s what Fern called underpants with a high waist, because they came, as she would say, up to your armpits. Fern always wore bikini briefs and sometimes, to Verna’s horror, thongs — thongs had always reminded Verna of the string tied around roasts by butchers — the way they pressed into flesh. As for the jeans and flannel shirt Verna had worn for the past two days, they lay in an unceremonious heap on the floor, next to a slumbering Jude in his iconic bearskin manifestation. Apparently she had undressed before coming to bed. That, as Martha Stewart would say, was a good thing. A sign that things were returning to normal, when she did not sleep in dirty, two-day-old clothes.

  She swung her naked legs over the side of the high bed. Not a pretty sight. Ricotta cheese came to mind. Maybe she could have liposuction when the cottage sold. Have all the loose, wobbly bits sucked out of her. And why not breast implants while she was at it, so that, in her old age, she could go bob, bob, bobbing along? The prospect was grotesque. She dispensed with it.

  At least the rocking chair had stayed put, she noted with relief. No ghostly rearrangement of the furniture overnight to contend with. And who knows? Maybe she had dreamed up the entire enchilada — the repositioning of the chair, her conversation with Lionel. Of course she had dreamed it. But maybe not. It was disconcerting — this not knowing.

  She slid off the bed and padded over to the window. Mist mantled the lake; it emanated from it in spiralling wisps. Donald had been fond of pointing this out — the way the threads of mist spun up from the water, like cotton candy wound onto a stick. “Ojibway ghosts,” he would remark. “On their way to the Happy Hunting Ground.”

  Except for one, that is. Except for Lionel, whom, now that she focused, she could just make out sitting, with his back turned to her, on the stone wall that separated the lawn from the beach. At least, it looked like Lionel — the same broad back, the same red-and-black plaid lumberjack jacket. She forgot about talking herself out of seeing him the previous day; that seemed counterintuitive given the fact that he was right there. And what was that in his hand? A long stick? Was he whittling? Could ghosts whittle?

  Verna unlatched the casement window and leaned out. “Lionel!”

  He flinched, but did not turn around.

  “Don’t go anywhere!” she cried. “I’m coming down.” She closed the window and latched it. “Come on, Jude!” She prodded the somnolent dog with her toe. “Wake up! Lionel’s downstairs. Let’s go see him! Lionel, your buddy Lionel! Come on, you lazy dog, You’re supposed to protect me! Are you even listening?”

  The Lab half-opened one sleepy eye to peer unseeingly at her before rolling over to his side. He sighed heavily; the one eye closed.

  There was no time to waste, she told herself. Snatching her jeans off the floor, she clambered into them — they felt simultaneously stiff and clammy — and, still zipping, headed for the hall. She didn’t want Lionel disappearing on her before she had time to ask him … what? What did she want to ask him? She had no idea, but she knew that whatever it was, it was urgent. Taking the stairs two at a time in her stocking feet, she unlocked the front door, hurtled across the porch, and burst through the screen door to collide head-on with Winonah.

  The impact sent both women staggering backwards. Win
onah’s red Canadian Tire Toolbox exploded open, spewing wrenches and bits and clamps onto the grass.

  “What the …?”

  “Sorry!”

  “Are you okay?” A wraith of a girl, age indeterminate, leaning on the hood of Winonah’s battered Impala, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to keep herself warm. She was faintly yellow in hue and knobby, with pale blue protuberant eyes that stared at Verna — ogled her, actually — and limp, patchy blond hair crammed into a banana clip. “Are you okay?” she repeated. A knob of Adam’s apple rode up and down her crane-like neck like an exposed elevator up a shaft.

  “Holy Moses! You knocked the wind out of me!” Winonah complained.

  Verna remembered Lionel. She wheeled around and looked toward the stone wall on which she had seen him sitting a few moments earlier. Gone. He had disappeared without a trace. Damn! What? Wait! “The stick!” she cried.

  Gleefully she hopped across the wet expanse of lawn to retrieve the stick Lionel had been whittling. “See!” She held it up for the women to see. It was a metre long with a natural curve at the top. The ghostly Lionel had managed to peel the bark from it and had just begun to carve something into the curved portion when she had routed him — the head of a bird, from the looks of it. Holding the stick in one hand, she hopped back across the lawn. “See!” She showed the stick to Winonah and the girl.

  “It’s a stick,” said Winonah.

  “I know it’s a stick, but, look. Someone has peeled the bark off it. See? It’s a bird. See the beak? And there’s its eye.”

  “It’s a stick,” Winonah repeated.

  “But …” Verna caught herself. Slow down. They’ll think you’re crazy. “Why, yes it is,” she agreed, leaning the stick up against the porch. She blinked at the girl. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Romy,” the girl replied.

  “Romy?” Verna repeated carefully. The two syllables tugged a little at her brain.