by Sky Curtis
He was a cop and, in general, I was grateful for cops. That could be my first thing I was grateful for. Yesterday was a terrible day, and thank heavens there were cops to call. It was very comforting to know we had that safety net. My mind wandered. It always did. Was I losing it? No, I consoled myself, stress does a number on a brain. It was just stress. I tugged my thoughts back from the swirling drain in the dark chamber of my brain. Yesterday. What a fuck of a day.
I had a feeling that Kowalchuk and I would be seeing each other again. I wondered why only Niemchuk had been attacked. What was so special about him? Maybe it was young male testosterone. Perhaps that threatened the bear. If he hadn’t been there, would someone else have been the object of the bear’s frenzy? I didn’t think so. The bear had burst through the forest directly for Niemchuk. Not a sideways glance at anyone else. I wasn’t sure if bears did sideways glances, but this bear did not. Is that what had happened to Darlene? No sideways glance? Had the bear sniffed the air and aimed for her like a homing missile? What did Niemchuk and Darlene have in common? We all know that bears can’t see worth a damn. I had read somewhere that if you stand perfectly still, a bear will not be able to see you. I probably got that off the internet, and we know how reliable that is. Bears sniff air. Their noses can smell a squirrel a mile away. Niemchuk and Darlene must have given off the same odour or something. On the other hand, my breath this morning could be used as bear spray.
Focus. Where was I? No more drinking. Gratitude. I was also grateful for Cindy. Sure, she drove me bananas, what with all that tree climbing business and her bad manners, but she had been very kind to me after finding the body and then when I fell down in a faint. I couldn’t remember my own mother ever touching me so gently. Cindy was a good friend. I was sorry that her date hadn’t gone well. It was hard to be gay in a predominately hetero world. She was having such a difficult time finding someone who was on her wavelength. In the meantime, I’d try to be a better friend to her.
And I was thankful for my Buddhist practice. Sure, I would be a little self-conscious later, chanting with other people in the cottage, rubbing my beads together, clackity clack, making noise. I mean, how weird is that? But it made me feel good. And I could sense my life was changing, which was the point. Human revolution began with one’s self. World peace would result. I thought about my relationship with my brother. I’d been chanting for his happiness, with great difficulty I might add because I didn’t like him. But surely, he was miserable behaving the way he did, and low and behold, chant chant chant, and he was actually nice to me. And I think I was pretty civil to him. Outwardly anyway. It was a start towards world peace.
So that was my three things. Cops. Cindy. Buddhism. Maybe I would stop drinking soon. Maybe not. I would see Sally Josper when I got back from the cottage. So far I wasn’t having much luck, but she had said not to worry about it. So, I I decided not to worry about it for the rest of the week. I simply loved my wine. I was already looking forward to a glass, okay, a jug, of it in, oh let’s see, only ten hours.
I slowly slid out of bed, being careful not to jiggle the mattress and wake Ralph, which was no small feat considering I was manoeuvering a whale out to sea from a comfortable harbour. I padded into the bathroom across the hall. Lucky, who’d been sleeping on the floor, followed me, his nails clicking on the wooden floors. I guess he thought if I could watch him pee, he could watch me. I turned on the bathroom light and yelped when I looked in the mirror. I hastily averted my eyes. My hair was bunched up on the left side of my head and salad was caught in my teeth. Good thing I got up before anyone saw me and I could make some adjustments.
What was I going to do today?
Research. I formulated my plan as I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. First of all, I was going to talk to Darlene’s parents. I hoped they would talk to me, despite my being a reporter, because they knew Andrew. Imagine how painful it would have been for them, being at the same party as that awful David Sparling, knowing what he did to their daughter, getting off scot-free, and him not knowing who they were. God. It must have been infuriating. What was Andrew thinking, inviting them both? Nit-wit. I’d ask them all sorts of questions. Delicately. They would have likely just found out their daughter was dead. I wanted to know if she had ever been in the bush before, if she knew how to deal with bears. Did she even have bear spray? I was pretty sure they’d talk to me.
And I would read up on all the things a person should and shouldn’t do in the woods in the spring. Cindy could help me with this. She had wanted to be a forester. There was probably a bear book that she’d read, somewhere in her youth. Plus, I’d ask her to google stuff. And then the article could legitimately say, “with files from Cynthia Dale.” I left the bathroom and bumped into her in the hall, just as she was coming out of the bathroom she had cornered for herself.
“Hi. You hungry for breakfast? A little coffee?” she asked me.
“Ralph’s still asleep, but he may saw logs for hours, so let’s go ahead and get going on the day. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.” Cindy scratched her rib cage and yawned. “Sounds good. But I’m always starving, too. I was thinking we should do some research on forest etiquette. I could do that, if you like, given it’s your story.”
What the hell was “forest etiquette?” Maybe if you bumped into a tree, but no one was around, you would still have to say you were sorry?
But at least I didn’t have to ask her to help. She volunteered. That was a relief. I could tell though that she was still a little bitter that I had gotten the story. I thought I could smell the smouldering ashes of anger wafting through her voice. I grovelled a bit to put the fire out. “That’s so nice of you, Cindy. What a good idea. You’re always thinking ahead. I mean, we know some basics, given that we are Canadians,” I flexed my right arm, “and have some familiarity with forests, but I’m sure there are facts we don’t know. Like what colours to wear and not wear, what perfumes to use or not use. That sort of thing.” I could tell my soothing platitudes hadn’t taken the edge off her frustration.
“Bacon and eggs sounds perfect.” Her green eyes were flashing.
I hadn’t fooled her. And she didn’t like being an underling. Yes, as bitter as day’s old coffee in a corner café. Didn’t like being told what to do. My mistake. It was only eight in the morning. Great start to the day. “Let’s get dressed and make a feast.”
We made breakfast and I told her my plans for the day. “I thought I’d try and get an interview with Darlene’s parents, you know, to get some insights into what happened to her daughter. I am really puzzled by this bear’s behaviour and want to ask them why they thought the bear went after her the way it did. Whether or not she knew about bears and how to avoid an attack.”
Cindy broke off a piece of her toast, thinking, and was mopping up bacon grease and egg yolk off her plate. She shoved it in her mouth. Chewed a bit too hard. “I think the better approach…”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I don’t want to see your food half-chewed.” Cindy’s manners were terrible.
She swallowed quickly and stuck out her tongue at me. I think she meant it. “If you approach it like that, they will think you’re blaming the victim. I think they will be very sensitive to that, given her court case with Sparling.” Her movements were a little jerky.
“I didn’t think of that.” Cindy had a point.
“It might be better,” she said, being uncharacteristically diplomatic, or perhaps holding back a roaring tide of anger, “if you let them know you were writing an article to warn people about the terrible things that can happen if you enter the woods in the spring, and that Darlene’s example will save lives.”
I threw back some coffee. Delicious. Made by Cindy, not me. “That makes sense.”
But Cindy wasn’t done. No, she was just beginning. It was a tidal wave of anger, now unleashed. Riptides. I braced myself. “A lot of
women won’t report sexual assault now because of what happened to Darlene in her case against David Sparling. She was shredded by the judge, shredded, called a liar, an unreliable witness, had a faulty memory, behaved like she asked for it and had consented, given her begging emails and texts to him. Which all came after the alleged assault. And so on. The case was so high profile that the public even turned his name into a verb. ‘Don’t report that assault, little miss, or you’ll be Sparlinged.’”
“I’d heard of that. But I didn’t really connect with what it meant.”
Cindy pointed her fork at me while she chewed. Luckily, this time, she waited until her mouth was empty before she began spewing her fury. “It means,” she shook her fork, crumbs of toast flying over the table like missiles of indignation, “that the effects of sexual assault are not recognized for what they are, a mixture of the Stockholm Syndrome and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It means that prosecutors do such a fuck-up of a job for the victims, such a slipshod asswipe of a job,” Cindy was getting really wound up, “they don’t even put on the stand a psychiatrist that specializes in assault as an expert witness to explain the victims’ actions. It means,” she sucked on her glass of juice like a Shop-Vac on high, “that judges are completely uneducated about sexual assault. About what it does to a woman.” She thumped down her glass. I leaned back, staying out of the line of fire. There was more; she wasn’t half done. “It means…” she paused and ripped a piece of toast in two, scrubbing her plate with it, “…that fuckheads like Sparling, arrogant little pricks who abuse their power, doctors and teachers and priests, with their fancy-schmancy defense lawyers, get off, because they have evidence of lovey-dovey emails and texts and photos before and after the assault, which all, ostensibly, illuminate the consenting behaviour of the victim.” She shouted, “That’s what being Sparlinged means.” Her eyes flashed with flaming spikes of hot green fire as she looked at me, daring me. To do what, I didn’t know.
I waited for the air to stop vibrating with her outrage. The morning sunshine that had floated through the window ten minutes ago was now glinting like shards of glass. I looked down and finished off my bacon and eggs, chewing slowly. Once her breathing returned to normal, I ventured into the minefield, and not that meekly to give myself credit. “So, best if I don’t insinuate, in any way, that she was responsible, somehow, for a bear attacking her.”
“Right. That’s what I fucking mean.” She slapped her palms on the table and got up. Breakfast was over.
“Okay, then.” I followed her stiff back into the kitchen with my plate. I would need to smooth this over. “I’d really like you to come with me. That is, if they will agree to see me. You seem to have a good handle on her case and it might be pretty awkward, you know…” I couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a daughter.
She turned to face me. The storm had passed. “I think you’d be surprised at how well they are doing. Don’t forget, Darlene had been missing for weeks. This is the north. Women go missing in the north and they end up dead. Period. It’s a given. Don’t get me going on that. Her parents probably came to terms with her being dead weeks ago.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, though I wondered if Cindy wasn’t maybe making a huge assumption. Nevertheless, I really wasn’t on my game. I’d been so focused on the puzzle of a bear attacking someone for seemingly no reason that I had missed the reality of the here and now. “I really want them to talk to me, but they are probably pretty wary of the press. But maybe Andrew will introduce me to them.”
“Andrew? Your brother?” She said this the same way she had said “asswipe” a minute ago.
“Yeah, they’re clients of his.”
“Of course they are.” She didn’t like him either. “And they live locally?”
“The next lake over.”
“I think you need to mention his name. That’ll be enough to get you in the door. You don’t need to ask him to call them or anything extreme like that.”
“Ask who?” Ralph.
He was leaning against the door frame and gazing into the kitchen. He looked handsome in his faded pajama bottoms. He had a towel draped over his arm so it fell in front of his body. I looked at his crotch and then met his eyes. He winked and I think Cindy noticed.
“Cindy and I are going to the next lake over to talk to Darlene’s parents this morning. I was wondering if I should ask Andrew to introduce us first, you know, by phone, to make sure I could get an interview.”
“Good idea. They’ll never see you.”
Cindy bristled. She didn’t like being contradicted. “Sure they will. She needs to say she’s Andrew’s sister. No need to make a big hairy deal about it.” She looked at the towel pointedly. Yup, she’d noticed his wink.
He shrugged his strong right shoulder. He didn’t give a shit what Cindy thought and turned to walk away. The sun bounced off his smooth skin. “I’m taking a shower. And then I think I’ll go to the station and meet up with the local gang. Say hi to Kowalchuk. Catch up on old times. Meet you back here for lunch.” He did a Queen Elizabeth wave over his shoulder as he went back upstairs.
I unplugged my phone from its charger and googled 411.ca to find Darlene’s parent’s number. Gibson. Right, there it was, on Lake of Bays. “I found their number, and now I’ll call.” Well, duh. I looked at Cindy. For what? Moral support?
“You don’t sound too certain about that. Want me to do it?” She looked up from putting the butter in the fridge.
I kept my butter out of the fridge. That way it would be nice and soft, ready to dip a cracker into. Ready to spread on soft bread. I loved butter. Almost as much as wine. “Thanks, you’re right, I don’t want to, but no, you don’t have Andrew as your brother. That’ll be our ticket into their house.” I deliberately used the word “our.” I tentatively tapped their number and put the phone on speaker. Cindy and I passed each other as she walked into the living room and I went into the kitchen. She bent over to pat Lucky and I opened the fridge door with my free hand to take the butter out. The phone was ringing, its buzz filling the air with a staccato jangle.
“Hello?”
Darlene’s mother’s voice was timid and sounded bruised. This was not a good idea. It was too soon. I felt like I was invading a small bird’s nest with a bazooka gun. “Mrs. Gibson?” I tried to keep my voice soft. “This is Robin MacFarland.”
Her voice found some strength. “Oh, Duncan’s daughter. Andrew’s sister. How nice of you to call. I understand you found Darlene.” Her words shook in the air. “Thank you so much for handling that terrible situation the best you could. Officer Kowalchuk let me know that you and your friend came across her body in the woods next to your house and called them in. I’m so sorry you had to find her.” Mrs. Gibson’s voice cracked.
Oh God. This was terrible. Her daughter had died and she was worried about me? Sincere. I’d try to do sincere. Not that I’d have to try. I was feeling sincere. Actually, I was feeling terrible about doing this. All for a stupid story. Sometimes I hated my job. “My friend Cindy and I would like to come over this morning, if that’s okay with you. We are very sorry for your loss.” I had to come up with an idea for why we had to go over. There was a gourmet store on the way to her house. Hopefully, they sold frozen lasagna or something, “We’d like to bring you a casserole,” I said. “We could be there in half an hour.”
“Oh, you are so kind, of course. I’d love to see you. It would be a good distraction. Bring your friend. Do you know how to get here?”
“You’re not too far along Highway 60 and then the first right turn? I take it to the end?” If they had enough money to be Andrew’s client, they probably had waterfront at the end of the road.
“That’s right. We’re the pale yellow house on the right, at the very end of the road. We’re the last building on the point that juts into the lake. Is Andrew there with you, too? Such a nice fellow. If he’s there, he�
�s more than welcome to come over as well.”
Nice fellow? “No, he’s in Toronto. It’ll just be Cindy and me. Will your husband be home?”
“Harry? Yes, he’s around here somewhere. Probably working on that old boat of his. It’s his project this year. Needs a complete refit. And I’m Sandra, by the way.”
“Thanks, Sandra. See you about eleven, then.”
“The pale yellow house, at the very end of the road. The name of the cottage, “Moot Point,” is over the front door.”
“Right. I won’t forget.” How could I ever forget a house the colour of butter? Now that was a moot point.
17.
MY RUSTY OLD SENTRA bumped through the green tunnel of bushes leading to the Gibson’s house. Dried grass tickled the underside of the car as we lurched slowly down the lane to the pale yellow abode by the water’s edge. Every time a branch snapped against the car, Cindy gasped and jerked her head back, instinctively shying away from the noise. I, on the other hand, didn’t bat an eyelash.
“Will you relax?”
“I am relaxed.” Another branch slapped at the car and she twitched involuntarily.
“No, you’re not. The branches are outside the car. You’re inside. And I really don’t care about the paint job.”
“Well, I guess there are advantages to having a shitbox for a car.”
“Low blow.” I patted the dash. “Don’t you listen to that big, bad Cindy. You are a beautiful car.”
Cindy rolled her eyes.
As we approached the bungalow, I could see dappled sun shimmering over the freshly painted wooden siding. Small buds graced the trees around the house with that slightly pink tinge of new growth that only occurs for a few days in the early spring. Being further north, the trees in Muskoka were a week or two behind Toronto’s. In the back seat perched a frozen lasagna, frosty with condensation. It was going to be a warm day for May.