Plots

by Sky Curtis

  “Ow,” she yelled.

  I looked up and saw her through the thick bush, holding her hand against the side of her face, her eyes scrunched up. Now what?

  “That fucking branch snapped into my face.”

  I didn’t laugh, which I felt was kind of me.

  She swiped away a bit of bark. “Good thing it didn’t get my eye.”

  I finally caught up to her and peered at her face. Her cheek by her ear was bleeding. “Cindy, your cheek is bleeding,” I looked at it more closely. “It’s actually a bad cut.”

  She looked at her hand and saw a streak of red blood over her palm. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”

  And indeed she had. Cindy had been shot, knifed, and strangled within an inch of her life. A brick had been thrown through her living-room window. Her staid neighbours hadn’t thought much of that. A few months ago, she had nearly been blown to bits by a car bomb, placed there by some drug gang or another. Their response to her poking about gangs in Toronto. It had detonated when she clicked the locks open with her remote, about twenty feet away. A miraculous malfunction caused by an uneducated bomb-maker. Bye-bye Honda Accord. Now, every time she got into her new car, another Honda Accord, she checked underneath for a bomb. Every time. Maybe that’s why she wanted to come in my jalopy for this little sojourn into peaceful northern country. Peaceful my ass.

  I followed her through the clearing and marvelled how she could tap away on her phone while beetling across uneven ground. I would certainly be flat on my face, my lard oozing over the flattened grass. “Finally I have service. I have to send a text to Doug,” she tossed over her shoulder, “to let him know that there’s a story coming through shortly and to hold up the deadline for ten minutes.”

  He’d be happy about that. Not. But he would do it. Cindy was one of their top crime reporters. She let the screen door slam behind her as she bounced up the stairs to get on her iPad. I stood in the living room, uncertain, as usual, about what to do. Lucky danced around me, sniffing at my clothes and rubbing against my leg where I had probably lain in deer poo or something else lovely.

  I checked my phone. Service. I should call Shirley to let her know what had happened. If nothing else, this would slow down my week of researching a real estate deal and she should know I would be late on that. In any event, she would shortly hear the news about the bear from Doug, second-hand, and then I would be in hot water, again, for not telling her about it. But how to phrase it? “Hi Shirley, Cindy and I…”?

  She would screech, “Cindy? What the hell is she doing with you? You’re writing a nice little story about real estate in the north. You were taking your dog, not Cindy.” I would have to phrase the Cindy connection carefully. There were about a hundred barriers to get through before I could even tell her the whole story. How I had kept from her that there was a massive sale of wilderness right next to my very own cottage, for starters.

  I might as well face the music. Before Doug got to her. I pulled out my phone.

  “Shirley Payne.” Throaty chimney voice. Pain in the ass, I thought. No, that was uncharitable.

  “Hi Shirley, checking in to let you know that things have escalated here a bit in the north.” An understatement. I imagined her silk, or maybe it was polyester, blouse rustling as it tugged against her rather large battleship of a chest. I heard her ever-present costume jewellery beads clatter. And then there was silence. Good, I had her attention. “I’ve been pretty relieved, actually, that Cindy had time off and could come with me.” Good job Robin. No screech. More clattering. “We were walking on the huge plot of land next to my cottage because I’d heard a rumour that it had been sold.” So far so good, a cigarette was being lit. “I thought we should check it out. As we were walking through the woods, we happened to stumble across a body. Probably someone surveying the land. He had a clipboard. Attacked by a bear.” A sharp intake of breath. Did she clock the irony? Or was that a drag on her smoke? And then there was a ping.

  “Hang on,” she said. She’d received a text. I was put on speaker. I strained to hear what was happening. Her nails, probably painted vermillion were tapping. Doug. She was texting Doug. I knew it. I head the swoosh. I heard his reply. She took another drag.

  “What did Doug say?” I asked innocently.

  An exhale. Smoke was probably coming out of her nose. “Doug doesn’t control this. You’re my reporter and you are there at my request. So, the question, Robin…. The question is, what do I say?’”

  Geezus. Who would have guessed that Shirley was currently in a power play with Doug? Probably over salaries or some benefit. Or even column inches. But I acquiesced. “What…” I paused. “Shirley, what do you say to all this.” I paused again. “Shirley.”

  “I say, Robin,” she was matching my tone, mimicking me, “I say, Robin, it sounds like you’ve fallen into the shit again, so be very careful. This is your story, not Cindy’s, so do not let her boss you around. She may try to submit a story to Doug. Perhaps she is doing so right now.”

  I could hear Cindy reading her story aloud upstairs. She always did that right before she submitted to make sure it sounded okay. So cute.

  “Her story is going to be rejected by Doug, because, as I just said to him, or texted rather, to be accurate, that this is your story. You were sent there by me. Your story can have Cindy’s name below yours, you can work that out with her, but I repeat, this is your story. You answer to me on this, not Doug. Got it? This is probably a real estate story. It’s about how real estate can get people killed. Greed. Money. You know the regular stuff. No, give me a second. It can’t be that.” Another puff off her cigarette. She was thinking. “You say it was a bear attack? Hmmm. More likely it’s a story about the dangers of walking in the woods in the spring. Yes, I like that better.”

  I didn’t think so. But I’d play along. “Sounds good.”

  “You get to the bottom of this. Not Cindy. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  The phone went dead.

  I hated office politics.

  12.

  FIRST THINGS FIRST. I had to tell Cindy not to bother sending off her story. She hated rejection, and I knew that Doug, in order to keep the peace with Shirley, was going to have to turn it down, no matter how good it was.

  I called up the stairs, “Hey, Cindy?”

  “Hold on a minute, I’m almost finished here.” I could hear her reading what sounded like a closing paragraph.

  “Cindy? Wait.”

  “Okay, I’m finished.” I heard a whoosh. She’d sent it. Damn. It’s in. “What? Wait for what?”

  Shit’s going to hit the fan in about two minutes. “Nothing. Just wondered where you were.”

  She came down the stairs, scraping her hand through her wild hair, joggling her iPad in one hand, smiling as pleased as punch. “There. That’s in. Doug will be so happy!”

  No, he won’t. “So, you got it in on time for the deadline.”

  “Yuppers. That old tightwad’ll be thrilled that he wrangled a story out of me while I was on holiday. Great photos, too.”

  Lucky picked up on her good mood and jumped on and off the couch in rapid succession. Cindy looked at him and shook her head, an indulgent smile on her face. “That’s one untrained dog, if you ask me.”

  “But loveable.” I patted Lucky and covered his ears. “Don’t you listen to that red-headed weirdo. You’re the best.”

  “So, where are the cops? They want our statements or what?”

  “They said they’d be by shortly.”

  I heard gravel scrunching in the driveway and looked out the window behind the dining-room table. Cindy peered over my shoulder. Not the cops. An ambulance. Too late for that, I thought.

  “Oh look, they sent a full-length ambulance.”

  She was so disgusting sometimes.

  “I’ll go out a
nd show them the beginning of the trail through the woods.”

  And where was that rejection text from Doug?

  I met the two young guys on the path to the cottage, intercepting them and saving them from Cindy’s “Stop while you’re a head” comments. One carried a body board under his arm and the other had a zippered body bag. They looked about sixteen years old. “The trail begins over there, where that orange tape is. See it?”

  The younger one, who was perhaps fourteen, shaded his eyes with his hands and looked where I was pointing. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Oh God, save me. I was a “Ma’am.” I said, “I’m Robin, Robin MacFarland.” Now that I’d set that straight, I thought I’d better warn them. “It’s pretty gruesome in the woods, only a torso, really, and scattered bones.”

  The older one opened his mouth and let out a deep hoot. “Cool. Sounds like a bear got him. Shouldn’t go in the woods in the early spring. Those mother bears can sure act crazy.”

  I guess they hadn’t heard it was politically incorrect to say “crazy.” Nonetheless, they didn’t know from crazy. This was a completely frenzied attack. And that big dead bear in there was no female. Its young were nowhere to be seen. But the guy’s hoot somehow reassured me that they would be okay with a torso and some bones, so I said, “The police are still with the body, probably waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Ma’am,” said the younger one as they turned tail and headed off to the woods.

  “Robin,” I said to their retreating backs. “Robin MacFarland.” Not that they heard me, but it made me feel better. “Ma’am” indeed.

  When I got back into the cottage, Cindy was sitting on the couch, smiling away while patting Lucky. “His ears are so silky soft.”

  “I know. Listen, would you like a snack or something before the police return?” I had to eat. Then again, I always had to eat.

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  I foraged in the fridge and while hiding behind the door, bit off a hunk of cheese. Dead bodies sure built up an appetite. Where was that text from Doug, spiking Cindy’s story? I wanted to get this sorted out before the police returned. And I really wanted this story. It felt so off. I wanted to get my teeth into it. Clearly, I liked getting my teeth into lots of things. I took another bite of cheese and then tried to smooth out the bite marks so Cindy wouldn’t know how uncouth I was. This story wasn’t what it looked like. No bear attacks like that, ever, for no reason. Should I call Shirley? There’d been no text from Doug to Cindy. I smacked my lips and tried to clear out the cheese slime from my throat while I dialled my editor’s number from behind the fridge door.

  “Shirley Payne.” Still a pain in the ass.

  I looked over the door into the living area to see if Cindy was listening. No, she was whispering to Lucky. “Hi, Shirley. So, about that story? Cindy’s heard nothing from Doug.”

  Her gravelly voice boomed into my ear. I hastily turned the volume down. “She will. Doug’s licking his wounds. He read it, liked it, said the pictures were terrific, and he wants to print it. I said no, it was your story. He said it would sell papers. I said it was your story. He said it would go on the front above the fold. I said it was your story. He said he would do it in colour. I said it was your story. And so on. And then I said a few other things and now it’s your story.”

  She laughed a dirty laugh and I didn’t want to know. Cindy’s phone pinged in the living room. “Thanks, gotta go.”

  I watched my friend from behind the open fridge door. I scooped some hummus out of the container with my fingers and stuffed them into my mouth. Cindy’s hand was poised in mid-air over Lucky’s head while she read her phone. Then one leg crossed the other. A faint blush crept up her neck. Then her hand fiddled with an earring. Touched the raw wound from the branch. Her lips pressed together. She put the phone down, turned her head and looked out the window behind her. She did not do rejection very well. Me? I was great at it. I had so much practice.

  So now I had a dilemma. Did I pretend that I didn’t know what the text said, or did I meet this issue head-on? On one hand, it would look as if I’d been talking behind her back if I let on that I already knew her story had been rejected. Well, I had been talking about it behind her back, and that didn’t look good. On the other hand, if I came out and acknowledged it right away, like now, then my prior knowledge might get buried in her rejection angst.

  I bit off a hunk cheese. Dipped a corner of the hunk into the hummus and ate that too. I was out of control, oh yeah.

  I was ashamed by how much I wanted a story on the front page. I took a fingerful of hummus. It had been months since the last big story and I hungered for it. But not at my friend’s expense. Well, okay, maybe a little at her expense. She wouldn’t even be in the vicinity of Huntsville if it weren’t for me. I was the one who was here working. She was the one on holiday. It was next to my family’s land and had nothing to do with her. By rights, it should be my story. I ate more cheese as I talked myself into being honest with her. But I did feel badly. She wanted the story. She’d no doubt written a good one.

  I walked into the living room, nervous as all get out, wiping my mouth.

  Cindy looked back at me. “Don’t worry so much. I’m not going to take my toys and go home. We can play together. I’ll even lend you my great photographs.”

  Well. That was easy.

  “Thanks, Cindy. I feel badly that you won’t get the story and I will, but…”

  “Don’t give it another thought. I’m on the front page all the time. You haven’t been on the front page since the water mess. It’ll be good for your career. Doug explained it all to me. It really is your story. You’re working, I’m on holiday. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. You will be more passionate about the story because it’s next to your family’s land. So, don’t worry, I’m cool with it. I’ll be in a mentor/small contributor role. But I want some credit for that.”

  What she meant was her name on the piece below mine. Maybe even “With files from Cynthia Dale.”

  “Of course.” I sat down on the couch beside her and started patting Lucky as well.

  She frowned. “Well, aren’t you going to write it now? Get it in?” She looked at her watch. “You still have twenty minutes before the late, late breaking news deadline.”

  “Naw.” I played with Lucky’s ear. “I’m not sure what the story is yet. I need to think about it.”

  She pulled herself up straight. “What’s to think about? It’s a simple plot. A big bad bear killed a dumb guy who ventured into the woods in the spring with no bear spray. Probably he was a land surveyor, what with the clipboard and all. Pretty ironic that, don’t you think? Him being killed by a bear. I mean, the bear’s habitat gets threatened by development so it attacks the person who’s responsible for dividing the land into small little plots. Next thing you know, he’s in his cemetery plot. I think that’s ironic, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but you know…”

  “And then the big bad bear, who has now been put on high alert and has tasted human blood, is antsy, which is how bears get after being threatened, so it charges a police officer. I got great photos of this to prove it wasn’t a frivolous shooting. You know how the public gets about cops shooting bears.”

  “I’m sure Andrechuk and Kowalchuk will appreciate it.”

  “So, there’s your story, Robin. Write it down, it’ll only take a minute, and get it in!”

  She’d leaned over Lucky and literally put her face right in front of mine. “You have time, right now.” I leaned back and held up my hand as if I were pushing her away.

  “You have to get out of my face, Cindy.” She was bugging me. Her sense of urgency wasn’t mine. Her drive and her aggression toward work wasn’t mine. I needed to think. There was something not quite right about all this. Bears simply didn’t do what that bear did. And this wasn’t a mother bear. I had seen no
baby cubs around anywhere. This was a great big daddy bear.

  Cindy’s eyes widened as she pulled back her head. She wasn’t used to me being assertive. “Sorry. I just think that if you…”

  “No, this is my story and I am not happy with the facts. I am not going to post anything until I am. Nothing. So back off.” Wow. I had never spoken to Cindy like that. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, inviting her to my cottage for a whole week. At this rate, we’d be in a cat fight.

  She turned her head and looked out the window behind the couch again. Now I felt badly. She really didn’t do rejection very well, and here I was, right after her story had been tossed out, telling her to back away from me. I tried to make it better.

  “How many pictures did you take?”

  She mumbled, “Fifteen, four usable.”

  Great. I’d hurt her feelings. “So … can I see them?”

  She handed me her phone, head still turned. Lucky sniffed it as she passed it to me over his head. The dog probably was confused by a phone that didn’t smell of wine and cheese. I tapped on the photo icon and scrolled through her last pictures. “Holy smoke, Cindy. These are fantastic.” And they were. She had a series of aerial shots of the bear charging ever closer to the group of officers. Her finger must have been quickly tapping the button. “They could be laid out like small freeze-frames. They’re all usable. What an angle! You should get danger pay for taking these while up in a tree. The progression is striking.” Had I overdone it? Was I being obvious?

  “Look,” she said, “it’s not your job to make me feel better about losing the article. And I’m sorry I get so rabid.” She was still looking out the window. I didn’t like this Cindy, the one where she lost her mojo.