by Jaclyn Dawn
“Done,” I called, smiling from ear to ear. I did it!
Mike’s shirt was drenched with sweat, but he was smiling too once he was on my side of the fence again. The rope was long enough for him to inspect the calf at a safe distance. Some missing patches of hair and some scratches, but no major injuries. Mike injected antibiotics into the calf’s neck using a 16-gauge needle, which to me looked more like the tip of a pen than a needle. Then we reunited the cow–calf pair.
“I’m starving. Any banana bread left?” Mike asked. “Don’t tell Judith, but yours is better.”
CHAPTER 11
A RUSTY VOLKSWAGEN AS OLD AS ME FREED UP A SPOT in the school parking lot. After I parked my Jeep, Mom and I joined the stream of people flowing toward Main Street, pulling wagons and carrying blankets, ice boxes, and lawn chairs. On any other day, parents would have found the kids weaving in between them irritating, but today it was memory-making. Everyone in the county came to town in sandals and sunglasses for the Canada Day celebration. Almost everyone.
The sunshine, the break from the farm, and the kids’ enthusiasm put me in a good mood. Coming had been Mom’s idea. Dad was well enough to spend a few hours home alone. This was everyone’s last chance for a semi-normal afternoon before Dad’s second surgery.
Mom got sidetracked, again. This time by Mrs. Smith. I wasn’t really part of the conversation, so when my phone vibrated in my pocket, I pulled it out to read the text message.
How’s Hicksville?
Not so bad today
Why today?
Canada Day.
Town’s hopping
Ha! So hot dogs cooked over an open fire followed by a Roman candle show?
What do you want?
A feature. Promised advertisers high sales. You’ve slacked big time this issue and we go to press tomorrow
Will get back to you ASAP
I wasn’t worried. Today I was researching Kingsley firsthand. My red notebook was in the tote bag over my shoulder, and I was surrounded by potential headlines.
If all else failed, Nathan and I had a file of back-up articles ready for print. Every week we catalogued the material from both the contributions box and the email inbox. Sometimes Nathan hired Journalism students from one of Edmonton’s universities to ask questions, but we usually researched using the internet. Community boards for the town and local sports teams, schools, and businesses were surprisingly interesting if you read between the lines. We had started a Kingsley buy and sell site under the name Edmund Pevensie, which gave us access to the Facebook pages of nearly everyone in town and the surrounding area. Only paranoid people used privacy settings, and even then we had our ways. No one questioned the deceiving Edmund Pevensie—or had read C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe apparently—as long as they had a place to sell baby clothes and purchase winter tires for cheap.
Aside from my own, we also used Mrs. Pumpernickel’s Facebook page for research. She was a nonfiction, slightly batty ninety-year-old living in Sunshine Manor. I used to work at Grandma’s Kitchen, which was shuffling distance from the manor. I knew her password like anyone else who had ever paid her any attention knew her passwords, underwear colour, and the name of the boy who won her virginity. (Breaking News: It Wasn’t Mr. Pumpernickel) No one denied Mrs. Pumpernickel’s friend request. And since she was known in town for her terrible short-term memory and addiction to Farmville, no one questioned the random Facebook activity. I justified this moral grey area by telling myself that aside from sending friend requests, we never actually pretended to be Mrs. Pumpernickel. We only read her newsfeed and poked around on other people’s pages.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket in time to catch the end of Mom’s and Mrs. Smith’s conversation (Pensioners Robbed! Another Senior’s Money Missing at Sunshine Manor).
When we finally reached Main Street, Mom and I joined the dozen families sharing the lawn in front of the Town Office. Danika had her hand on an expensive jogging stroller. I was willing to bet that neither Danika nor that stroller had ever been jogging (Ridiculous Beat-the-Joneses Purchases).
The first note of the bagpipes pierced the air. The parade was starting. A cop car with flashing red-and-blue lights led two bagpipers … ten members of the gymnastics club, ranging from ages six to fifteen in matching blue spandex … two borrowed county floats … a dozen homemade floats by local businesses and clubs led by one displaying a bright-red first-place ribbon … some kids on decorated bicycles displaying purple participation ribbons … two horses pulling a carriage advertising free hayrides after the parade … lawn tractors scheduled to race that afternoon … random kids in costumes practicing their Queen wave ….
Nathan wouldn’t have known what to make fun of first. Benton was happy, though. He collected the parade candy, and a clown, who was also my former third-grade teacher, handed him a balloon with red maple leaves on it. Today his whole world had turned into a playground filled with music and laughter. I was a little bit glad Nathan wasn’t there to trivialize my small-town Canada Day memories. I wasn’t nostalgic enough to want to go to the creek that night, though.
“Who is babysitting tonight? Baba?” I asked Danika.
“Heck no. She loves our chunky monkey, but Baba just doesn’t have the strength to lift her anymore,” Danika said. Water splattered the sidewalk inches in front of us, startling us both and making Danika shriek. “Watch the baby!”
Armed with water guns, Mike and Austin stood smiling on top of the parade’s grand finale: a big red fire truck. (Baby Traumatized by Volunteer Firefighters). Mike was staring at me. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Mom and Danika were too busy fussing over Abigail. RC was helping Benton open a lollipop. Anyone else? If so, would they think of that article in the Inquirer? When I looked back, Mike was climbing down the ladder on the back of the moving fire truck. He jumped off the bottom rung, onto the pavement (Firefighter Calendar Candidates).
“We need to talk,” he said. The day we freed the calf, Mike had seemed disappointed when I didn’t take him back to my parents’ place for banana bread. Except not disappointed–sad; more disappointed–aggravated. I had opted to walk home. That seemed to be forgotten, though. Something had changed, like he had regained the upper hand. “It’s about the Inquirer. I got a lead on something interesting.”
My stomach dropped. He winked at me, but it had nothing to do with the Inquirer. He revealed a water balloon, suddenly turned, and hit RC square in the chest. Laughing and dripping, RC scrambled to his feet intending to do who knows what, but Mike was already climbing back up the ladder to join his cheering comrades.
“Get him, Daddy, get him!” Benton called.
RC threw a toffee from Benton’s parade candy, hitting Austin on the side of the head. Mike found this especially funny. I barely mustered a smile.
The parade was over twenty-three minutes after it had begun (Blink and You’ll Miss It). At the park, a retired bluegrass band played live music. The band wasn’t retired, but every member of the band was (The Show Must Go On! Despite Banjo Player’s Arthritis and Fiddle Player’s Glaucoma). Every organization in town was selling something: the 2016 graduating class sold hamburgers; the baseball players sold lemonade; the United Church volunteers sold freshly baked cakes and cookies. Mom and I voted on the chili and pie competitions (A Race to the Finish: Diabetes vs. Heart Failure). There was face painting, bouncy houses, party games, a petting zoo, and balloon animals for the kids. And everywhere was a familiar face.
I snapped a lot of pictures with my phone because people rarely contributed pictures for the Inquirer. We often used representative, scenic, or blurred-out pictures. We were careful, very careful. I was probably more familiar with the privacy act than most lawyers and cops. Mostly, though, I enjoyed the day with only a small part of me worried about Mike’s “lead” and all the things that could go wrong at the fireworks that night.
CHAPTER 12
“WELL, THERE’S SOMETHING YOU DON’T SE
E EVERYDAY,” Dad said. He was looking out the window from overtop of his reading glasses, which were perched on the end of his nose. Outside, a silver two-door import with tinted windows and green ground lights parked in the driveway. Never in a million years would I have thought either Danika or RC would ever drive a car like that.
“Not in Kingsley,” I said. I pressed send on the email I had been writing to Nathan, made sure to close my laptop, and grabbed my coat.
“Have fun, honey. Drive safe,” Mom called, completing my time warp back to high school.
As I neared the car, the driver leaned over from the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door.
“Danika’s Taxi,” he called. Like his car, he wasn’t what you’d expect to find in Kingsley. His thick hair swept perfectly across his forehead above one eye with the help of hair product, and he wore a grey designer jacket. He was cute in a non-Kingsley sort of way. Thank you, Danika.
“Hi, I’m Amiah,” I said.
“Yep, we met when I was four,” he said as I buckled my seat belt and he put the car in reverse. He looked over his right shoulder to reverse, and as he did, I got a better look at his face in the dark. He had one of those resting expressions that as a kid made him look pouty; all grown up, he looked pensive. I couldn’t believe it. Alek Rooker, Danika’s younger brother. Not only did they look nothing alike, but they had been polar opposites in school, too. A grade below us, Alek had been keen on rebelling and Danika on fitting in. Baba had ended up sending Alek to a boarding-type high school in the city. After that I had seen him only in passing on holidays. He had usually holed himself up in his room whenever he was back in Kingsley.
“What’s with the taxi service?” I asked.
“Baba and Judith think you need to get out more and I was blackmailed, so here we are going to the shindig at the creek.”
“I don’t need to get out more. I get out plenty in Vancouver, which is where I live now.” Why was I explaining myself to Alek Rooker? “How were you blackmailed?”
“If I didn’t run her little errands, Danny said she’d tell Baba I—” He pinched his finger and thumb together in front of his mouth as if smoking a joint.
“Isn’t that why you were …” I trailed off, realizing the question was rude.
“Banished?” he finished for me. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Well, don’t be pissy with me. This wasn’t my doing,” I said, not liking being an errand any more than he liked having errands.
“Uncle, what’s pissy?” a little voice interrupted.
I spun around to find Benton strapped into a child seat behind me. He covered his face with his hands and peeked at me through his fingers.
“Ben’s my wingman,” Alek said. Even when he found something funny, he kept a straight face. The corners of his mouth twitched and something about his eyes betrayed his humour, though. “RC has to work tomorrow, so he’s checking out with the kids right after the fireworks and before things get too crazy. Wouldn’t want Benton picking up on any foul language. Hence Danika’s Taxi.”
“Uncle,” Benton said again, vying for his Uncle Alek’s attention, “what’s pissy?”
I groaned. I didn’t need any more strain between Danika and me.
“Let’s listen to our tunes, Buddy,” Alek said. He turned on some lyricless dance music that rattled the front speakers. He had the sound moved to the front for his nephew’s sake.
The music drowned out the need to talk in a comfortable sort of way. I wished the drive had been longer when we arrived at the abandoned lease near the lazy creek that bordered Kingsley. The lease was hidden from the main road by a treeline and offered a great view for the fireworks that would be launched from the high school football field on the outskirts of town.
Alek drove past the vehicles lined up on either side of the gravel. A half-dozen pickup trucks were backed up to the bonfire in a semi-circle, their lowered tailgates serving as benches. Heads turned to see the glowing-green eyesore as Alek pulled onto the grass only a few car lengths away from the fire and blocked in several vehicles. I was relieved when he cut the ignition along with the green glow that was drawing attention. We could hear the music outside, New Country infused with hip-hop. I liked it. Alek didn’t.
Danika appeared as soon as I opened my door.
“Sorry I had to send Alek. There wasn’t enough room in RC’s truck for everyone,” she said as she unbuckled Benton. “Alek is blessing us with his cynical company while his apartment gets fumigated.”
“Renovated,” Alek corrected.
“So he says. He’s driving me nuts, but Benton loves him.” Danika reapplied her lip gloss with the help of the car’s side mirror. Lip gloss for an outdoor party by a creek in the dark. I tried to meet Alek’s eye to share in this irony, but he was watching the police cruiser pulling down the lease toward us.
“That’s just Bobby. He’s probably bored on night shift,” Danika said. “The farmer doesn’t care if we’re here as long as we clean up our bottles.”
“I know. I used to live here, remember?” I said.
“A lot changes in two years, you know,” Danika said.
“Not really,” Alek and I said at the same time. Danika shook her head.
“Did you get my drinks?” she asked Alek.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He popped the trunk and held out a case of rum coolers. Danika pulled out one bottle, expecting Alek to keep the rest stored until she needed them. Holding Benton’s hand, Danika merged into the crowd. Alek opened and handed me a bottle. I would have preferred a beer but took a long drink of orange-flavoured liquid courage. It didn’t taste too bad. He handed me another bottle.
“Can’t fly on one wing,” I said. Alek raised an eyebrow at me and I could feel my face warm. “Something my dad would say.”
An hour later, I was sitting on one of the tailgates close to the fire. I was enjoying myself, making a bit of small talk with old acquaintances but mostly people-watching with Alek. Warm legs weren’t worth listening to Finley Brodowski much longer, though. Alek had left with the excuse of fetching more drinks, but he was taking a suspiciously long time. I scanned the crowd for Danika, who had turned avoiding me into an art form.
“Yeah, so I’m at my parents’ place for now. Renting my own place would be expensive and a waste of money. Same with school unless you know for sure what you want to take. May as well wait until I know for sure what I want to do, eh? What are you taking again?” Finley asked.
“General studies, but this year I have to choose a major,” I said. I wondered if Finley’s high school diploma said ‘participation’ on it like the purple ribbons at the parade.
“You were always real good with kids. Maybe major in them,” he said, as a small burp escaped. He was drinking something out of a Mason jar and his breath smelt of apples. He had made a show of waiting for Officer Peterson to leave before he brought the drink out in the open. “Try it,” he said, seeing me eye the Mason jar. I shook my head, but he kept holding it in front of my nose. “Try it.”
I took the drink so he would quit pestering me. It tasted like apple pie. Alek appeared with another rum cooler as I handed the jar back to Finley. My head was already feeling a bit fuzzy.
“She prefers beer,” Mike said. I jumped. Where did he come from? Standing next to him was his sidekick, Austin. Each held a beer.
“These are fine. Thanks, Alek,” I said.
“Miah’s bitch, I see,” Mike said.
Austin laughed. “Good one.”
“Hey, Mike, my man!” said Finley, always louder than necessary. Oblivious, at least he managed to break the tension. He stuck his hand out to shake Mike’s. The motion put Finley off balance, and he bumped into the tailgate. He looked at himself as if confused by his own instability. He shoved the Mason jar in my direction and took short wide steps in the direction of the bushes like a giant inebriated penguin.
With Alek standing on one side of me and Mike and Austin on the
other, I felt like I had borrowed someone else’s skin and it didn’t fit right. I looked around, noticing how big the party had gotten. There were probably a hundred people there. Conversations were getting louder. There was a lot of laughter elsewhere. I nervously took a drink that tasted like apple pie. Wrong drink. Embarrassed, I put down Finley’s Mason jar.
“Be careful. Fin’s moonshine is homemade and potent,” Mike said. “Give us some privacy, will ya, Rookie? I want to talk to Miah for a minute.”
“Haven’t you already told enough, Mike Hayes?” I asked, referring to the Inquirer headline. No one got the joke, which made things even more awkward. I needed to know what Mike had meant at the parade about having a lead, but I didn’t want to be left alone with him, not if he’d been drinking. Failing to pick up on my apprehension or simply not caring, Alek shrugged his shoulders and left. Austin watched him go with a cocky smirk on his face.
“You, too,” Mike said to his sidekick. He handed over his truck keys. “Go get more beer.”
We were alone in the crowd.
“So?” My nerves weren’t feeling up to small talk and pleasantries. Mike took a swig of his beer. “At the parade, you said we needed to talk about the Inquirer.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to talk about the Inquirer the other day in the truck,” he said. “That article wasn’t my fault. The only ‘mutual’ friend who knew about the ring was RC. That’s what I found out: he admitted he told Danika when I bought the damn thing and, typical woman, she either clucked to the paper herself or whoever she told did.”