Dark August

by Katie Tallo

  Take me oh take me back, to that place we once called home,

  Take me oh take me back, to that feeling of being so all alone.

  Levi barks. His sharp angry-dog bark. Augusta’s eyes snap open. She’s disoriented. The sun slants low across the field of purple loosestrife. It’s late afternoon. She’s slept the day away. Again. Something she seems to have mastered since arriving at Rose’s. Gus rubs her eyes and shakes off the nap. Levi barks again.

  “I’m up. I’m up.”

  Then she hears it. A soft rhythmic drumming in the distance. Gus looks through the back window of the car. A man bobs on the horizon, then he rises up over it, perched on the saddle of a large white horse. The horse comes into view as the pair trots toward her. Clouds of purple seeds waft up in the horse’s wake.

  Gus gets out of the car. Levi follows, cowering behind her legs. The rider slows the horse as they approach.

  “Howdy.”

  Sounds like a farmer. Looks like one too. Jeans, plaid shirt, tan suede vest, and a cowboy hat that shades his leathery, stubbled jawline. Looks about sixty, though his eyes, spidered by wrinkles and sunken by heavy lids, seem much older. He chews on a thick blade of grass.

  “Howdy,” Gus says, even though she’s never used that word in her life.

  “Car break down?”

  He brings the horse into the shade of the willow. Its muscles shine with sweat.

  “Just passing through. Pulled off the road to eat lunch. Fell asleep.”

  She feels the need to explain herself to this stranger. Might be his land.

  “This your farm?”

  “Was once. This field and up beyond that hill too.”

  He twists in his saddle and stares across the field.

  “Just a few hundred acres of dust and weeds now. At one time, barley and corn grew better than them wildflowers. Not no more.”

  He laughs, but his face doesn’t. He pats the side of his horse’s neck.

  “Me and Jocko, we ride out here time to time. Just to look around. We live about ten clicks that way so it’s a nice ride when the winds aren’t coming from the east.”

  Gus decides to pick his brain since he knows the lay of the land.

  “Is there any way to drive into Elgin?”

  Levi inches slowly toward the horse. The large animal chews at the willow fronds, keeping one eye on the dog. Levi circles. Staying well back. He slowly lowers to his belly and sniffs the horse’s sweaty aroma from a safe distance. The farmer looks at Gus, then points behind her, across the road.

  “You see that gap over there?”

  He points to a massive rocky ridge in the far field. A deep gully runs down the middle of the ridge, scarring the landscape. This great gash seems to stretch for miles in either direction. She nods.

  “That’s a five-hundred-million-year-old crack in the earth.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Gus leans back on her car and waits. Sensing a history lesson coming. She does her best to look interested.

  “A geological anomaly. That’s what that is. See, there used to be mountains around here back in the days of T. rex. When the mountains eroded, they left great big cracks and those cracks filled up with minerals. Limestone. Dolomite. Fast-forward five hundred million years and some dipshit discovers a vein of shale running the length of the Frontenac Axis. Gas companies love them some shale. They start pushing toxic wash deep underground to get the gas outta those minerals. Fracking, they call it. Only what they don’t know is that big vein of shale sits right next to a monster artery. A T. rex–size crack in the earth. That crack.”

  He points to the canyonlike gully across the road.

  Gus sits up. Listens, fascinated now.

  “Runs straight through the county. Straight through the town of Elgin. First it breached underground, but they didn’t stop fracking. Toxic wash got into the groundwater. Killed the crops first. Then the livestock. For miles. Finally, they did a little digging and figured it out. Only it was too late.”

  “And the town? Why the barricades?”

  The horse stomps. Jocko’s getting restless. Levi cowers behind Gus again. The farmer isn’t bothered by the horse’s skittish dance. He goes on.

  “People started getting sores and bloody noses and bad coughs. You could smell gas coming outta the sewers. Ticking time bomb. Then it blew. Whole town went up. Gas company paid off the surviving townsfolk. They boarded up the town. The county put up them signs. And the gas company said sayonara. Overnight, practically. The place became a ghost town.”

  “When was this?”

  “It’s just over five years now. Town burned for weeks.”

  “No one came back?”

  “It was too dangerous. Three-headed babies dangerous.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’s my roundabout way of saying no. There ain’t no way to drive into Elgin. No call to neither. Like I said. It’s a ghost town. You don’t wanna go anywhere near that godforsaken place.”

  He pulls on the reins of his horse and circles once.

  “Name’s James Pratt.”

  He tips his cowboy hat.

  “I’m Augusta and this is Levi.”

  “Best you two head back the way you came. There ain’t nothing left to see in these parts save the stink of chemical waste and greed.”

  “But how is it that you can still live out here?”

  “We got lucky, me and the missus. Our farmhouse is ten clicks over yonder. It’s just the town itself that’s still stewing with toxins and ’bout a five-click radius all the way ’round her. Pretty much right up to them barricades. The county comes ’round to test the water and soil every year. Some folks say it’ll take generations to come back. But nature usually finds a way.”

  “So why ride out here if there’s nothing to see?”

  “Guess part of me’s still hoping for signs of life.”

  He looks toward his forsaken fields. Up the hill into the setting sun.

  “Hope springs eternal, Miss Augusta.”

  And with another tip of his hat, James Pratt rocks forward in his saddle. Jocko instantly takes off in a gallop. Before long they are across the field and up on the ridge. Augusta waves but he doesn’t look back. Then he’s gone and she realizes she forgot to ask him if Senator Halladay is still around.

  It’s late in the day so Gus takes the farmer’s advice. Gets in her car. Dog in the back. Pulls onto the deserted highway and drives away from the barricade, past the gas station, past the cemetery. Time to go home. Regroup. Come back another day when she has more daylight ahead of her. Sounds like the town of Elgin isn’t going anywhere. She glances at the cemetery in her rearview mirror.

  Something about the sad little plot of headstones makes her turn back. Maybe it’s the saggy wooden fence surrounding it or the crooked headstones sitting alone in the middle of a dead field. Or maybe it’s because she can picture her mother walking up the grassy slope toward the cemetery.

  Even before Augusta hikes herself over the wooden fence, her eyes are drawn to the large plot at the center of the graveyard. A family plot that dominates the cemetery. Towering over the others. Surrounded by an ornate iron fence with an archway. She moves closer. The name carved in the archway comes into view. Halladay. The plot is overrun with wild bracken and ivy. Unkempt. Neglected.

  Levi is busy burrowing his nose through the long dry grass that weaves between the graves. Augusta steps inside the Halladay enclosure and pulls ivy from the largest of the headstones. A carved granite spire topped by two bronze winged angels.

  KEP JACOB HALLADAY

  MAY 30, 1935

  AUGUST 4, 2006

  And just like that, she’s found him. There are no words of sorrow or love or mentions of resting in peace written on the headstone. Nothing. She takes a photo.

  Right next to this massive winged monument is a smaller headstone with only one angel on its top. This one looks older than the other one.

  AMELIA GRACE HILLCOTT-HALLADAY

&nbs
p; BELOVED WIFE OF KEP JACOB HALLADAY

  BORN APRIL 22, 1955

  DIED JUNE 17, 1979

  AGE 24

  Husband and wife. Next to these two but set back a few feet from the others is a small plain headstone. It’s crumbling. Cheap. Engraved on it is a name. June Halladay. The one who died in the car accident. Nothing else. No dates. Not even a mention of June’s daughter, Gracie, who was left behind. There’s a mean-spirited energy inside these iron fences. Gus scribbles the dates and a few notes in her notebook and snaps shots of the Halladay gravestones.

  As she steps out of the family plot, she sees a small grave. Close, but not inside with the others. It’s modest but sweet. Carved with a simple daisy chain design that circles writing at the center. Gus stares at it in disbelief.

  IN MEMORY OF OUR DEAREST GRACIE ANNE HALLADAY

  ONLY DAUGHTER OF JUNE

  MARCH 31, 1995–APRIL 1, 2013

  DIED TRAGICALLY AT THE TENDER AGE OF 18.

  SHE WILL REMAIN FOREVER ALIVE IN OUR HEARTS.

  Gus sinks to her knees. She’s found the ballerina. The girl on Shannon’s wall. Not knowing it until this very moment, she was so hoping to find Gracie alive. To talk to her. To see if she knew why her mother kept her picture and obsessed over her.

  But Gracie died five years ago. She’s a ghost.

  Gus is sad for her. She lost her entire family. And yet, she was set apart from the others in death. Outside their inner circle. Gus wonders who chose the headstone, if they were all gone, and why they chose to place her outside the family plot. She ponders the tender words.

  She will remain forever alive in our hearts.

  Whose hearts?

  Gus takes a photo of Gracie’s gravestone.

  Levi’s found a stick and is twisting his head back and forth, bending low then jumping and turning. He wants to play. The sun has set. Only a hint of lilac on the horizon suggests that it was ever there. Standing amid the dead, Gus shivers.

  Levi drops the stick and barks. He’s looking behind her. Lip curled. Augusta turns. A distant figure stands on the horizon about two hundred yards away. A man in a red lumberjacket over a gray hoodie. Tall rubber boots. She can’t see his face, but he’s looking in her direction. It’s not James, the farmer. Smaller build. Different clothes. She calls out to the stranger and waves. But he simply turns and walks away, limping slightly like he’s got a stone in his boot. Levi growls. The man disappears over the hill and out of sight. Augusta suddenly feels incredibly vulnerable. In the middle of nowhere. By the side of a deserted dead-end road. No one for miles.

  Gus and Levi make their way quickly across the ditch and jump into the Buick. Soon they’re heading down the 15 toward Ottawa. Augusta can’t shake the feeling she’s missed something, like a lone spider crawling up the back of her neck. Something she saw. Not the man on the hill. Something else. Then it comes to her. It was right in front of her eyes.

  She slams on the brakes, pulls onto the gravel shoulder. Grabs her phone and flips through the photos she took at the cemetery. Now it feels like a million tiny spiders are crisscrossing her entire body. A car whips past, rocking the Buick. She finds the photo. Tingling head to toe. There. The one she took of Kep Halladay’s headstone. She pinches the image to enlarge it. To confirm her hunch. She reframes it so she can read the dates on the headstone. Specifically, the date of his death.

  August 4, 2006.

  It’s right there. Carved in stone.

  How could she have missed it?

  August 4, 2006.

  A day she thought she’d never forget.

  The exact same day that her mother died.

  13

  Charlie

  BEFORE HEADING BACK TO ROSE’S, AUGUSTA ROLLS THROUGH the neighborhood where she once lived with her mother. Edge of Hintonburg. West of downtown where small two-story houses stand inches apart on narrow one-way streets. Shannon bought into the neighborhood when it was considered sketchy. A Hells Angels hangout. A halfway house on every block. Prostitutes perched at corners after sundown.

  Up-and-coming, the real estate agent called it. He was right. Twelve years later, it’s hip. The “in” place to live according to Ottawa At Home Magazine. Two yoga studios, three coffee shops, a juice bar, a vegan bakery, and an organic market. Yuppyville central. From Rosemount to Bayswater, hints of the rough edges still linger, but most of the old rooming houses have been converted into high-end condos and the riffraff’s been moved out. Gus pulls up to the address on Hilda Street where they used to live.

  Darkness has fallen. Streetlights have flickered to life. And in that lonely muddy light between dusk and nightfall, Gus wants nothing more than to go inside their old house and curl up in her old bed.

  But it’s gone. Replaced by a modern town house all glass and chrome and sharp edges. She can see her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Distorted. Unrecognizable. Just like the old neighborhood. Levi is curled up asleep on the front seat, tail swept across his face. Dog’s at home anywhere.

  Gus remembers what that felt like.

  * * *

  Her mother buys it sight unseen. She reads Gus the description. Cozy two-story cottage with covered front porch. Needs some work. Priced to sell. Up-and-coming area. They’re leaving Kingston and moving to Ottawa. Gus has just turned five.

  A roof over our heads, a cozy bed, and a front porch. What more could two gals moving to the big city ask for?

  Shannon is right. They move and they’re happy. Summer nights when the upstairs gets too hot, they camp out on the front porch. Side by side on the wooden swing, wrapped in a cool bedsheet, rocking to stir up a breeze. Gus loves those nights. Just the two of them. Rebels. Sleeping wherever they want. Breaking the rules. Sometimes, when they’re sitting there quietly, she asks her mother how she met her father. Shannon laughs.

  Sugar Bunch, I’ve told you a million times.

  Augusta snuggles closer and asks for a million and one.

  It was the first week of basic training at Depot Division in Regina. Day one of Police Defensive Tactics. Shannon took an instant dislike to the tall, brash redhead. He was all talk. Too sure of himself. Cocky. His name was Charlie Monet. She preferred the quiet guy. Rory Rump. He was safe. No trouble. Easy to be friends with. But nothing more.

  Rory’s one of the good guys. Did the best he could.

  Shannon described him like she was making excuses for him. But Rory was no Charlie. Rory stood at the back and had a nervous stutter. Charlie sat up front and showboated when he knew the answer, and even when he didn’t. Rory held the door for her. Charlie didn’t think he had to. Rory abided by the rules. Charlie liked to bend them. They couldn’t have been more different. Charlie had a big mouth and a big heart. His energy was infectious. He took Rory under his wing. Everyone loved Charlie. Shannon tried not to. But once Charlie decided he wanted her, she was done. His green eyes seemed to read her mind. She hated that. And loved it too.

  By week four, the three musketeers were inseparable. Out every weekend, running track together, practicing ground fighting, studying together. They were best friends. Having the time of their lives. Shannon was one of the guys. Just how she liked it.

  She graduated top of the class. Charlie a close second. Rory passed with a little help from his friends. Thirty-one cadets graduated following twenty-six weeks at Depot. After the swearing in, the parade, the drill, and the badge ceremony, the graduating troop gathered for a formal banquet and right after dessert, in front of everyone, Charlie dropped to one knee, looking devastatingly handsome in his red serge, and proposed to Shannon. She said yes.

  They were married that summer at the Sandbanks Winery in Prince Edward County. Small ceremony. A few friends from Depot. Some from high school. Mostly Charlie’s. Both Shannon and Charlie had lost their parents young and neither had siblings so there was no family. Shannon’s only living relative was her grandmother Rose and she was too frail to travel. Rose sent her love in the form of cash. Rory was not only Charlie’s best man,
but he also did double duty and gave away the bride.

  Four weeks after graduation, they got their rookie postings to O Division in Kingston. The three friends were posted together. They moved into the same apartment complex. Rory into a bachelor. Shannon and Charlie into a one-bedroom. They shared Sunday dinners and talked about the future over spaghetti and beer.

  That’s where Shannon’s story usually trails off.

  Sometimes she gets all the way to the part where she got pregnant a month after they got married. Was pulled off patrol training. How Rory and Charlie got fast-tracked to assignments in the Border Response Unit. How she got slow-tracked to a desk job.

  The end of the story, Gus only hears once. It comes out of nowhere when Gus is seven. They’re making tuna casserole in the kitchen one day after school. Shannon tosses some cheddar cheese in a pot of hot milk on the stove. She stirs while Gus opens the can of tuna and pours the contents into the bowl of cooked macaroni. Shannon doesn’t look up from stirring the cheese. She just begins.

  I was making tuna casserole for dinner that night.

  What night, Mama?

  You should know what happened. So you’re not wondering your whole life.

  Then she tells Gus how her father died.

  It was 1998. Late April. Shannon was due in two weeks. Less than a year into Rory and Charlie’s stint with the Border Response Unit. They were partnered this one night because both their training officers were out sick with a bug that was going through O Division. Charlie and Rory were following up on a tip about a possible parole violation at a residence on Howe Island. Should have been a routine call.

  But it wasn’t.

  They drove straight into a pile of shit. Shannon’s words. The residence was deep in the woods at the end of a laneway. Their cruiser rolled down the laneway. Came to a clearing by a large cabin where three males and a female were smack in the middle of loading eighty bricks of cocaine into a Ford cargo van with no license plates. Chaos erupted, shots were fired, and the foursome jumped in the van. They floored it, slamming into the RCMP cruiser and bouncing it out of the way. A high-speed chase ensued across the island, onto the mainland, and down the 401. Charlie and Rory called for backup as they gave chase toward Kingston at upwards of a hundred and ten miles per hour.