by Katie Tallo
An hour later, Augusta is sitting on the back stoop, a mug of fresh coffee warming her palms. Levi is happily digging at the base of the crab apple tree. The rising sun slowly transforms the dawn. Illuminating the yellow-green ferns lining the back fence. She tries not to let Rory’s words nudge at her.
Leave it be so you don’t end up like her.
Something splashes into her mug. A clump of dirt floats on her coffee. Gus looks over at Levi. He’s feverishly digging with his front legs. Sending chunks of dirt in the air behind him. Belly blackened. Head deep. He’s excavated a large hole at the base of the crab apple tree. Gus dumps her coffee, runs over, and hauls him out of the hole by the collar.
“Seriously, dog? Chill out.”
He squirms free and dives back into the hole. She pulls him back out. This time he’s got something in his mouth. A craggy root. Gus yanks it from his teeth. It’s no root. It’s a skeleton. A cat skeleton. The four legs dangle from the small hollow rib cage. Yuck. She flings it away. Rose’s cat, Lucky.
Levi scrambles after it, grabs it up in his mouth, and races into the house.
“No! Levi, stop.”
Gus runs after him. Follows a trail of muddy paw prints through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room. Finds him on the sofa. Sitting pretty. Like he’s done nothing. Just chilling out. Happily licking dirt from his paws. Lucky’s bones lie abandoned on the carpet.
Augusta heaves Levi off the sofa. He picks up the skeleton and slinks under the dining room table, hiding behind the lace tablecloth that’s draped over it.
As she scrubs the sofa cushions with a wet dish towel, the rising sun reflects off the windows of the houses across the street and bursts through the bracken obscuring Rose’s front window. It dapples Shannon’s wall with orbs of golden light.
The wall comes to life.
Gus stops scrubbing and approaches the wall. She runs her fingers across each photograph, each article. Along the red lines. Searching for patterns. Feeling for clues. Like her mother did. Rory was right about one thing. She is like her mother and the way forward is here. Surrounded by her mother’s work. Somewhere on this wall. She just needs to find one detail. One clue. One step. Somewhere to start.
Gus looks over at Levi. She can see him, through the lace tablecloth, gently licking Lucky’s skeleton. She doesn’t remember when Rose’s cat died. Gus was very young at the time. The cat was ancient. It scratched her once when she tried to play with it. Hissed at her. She never liked it. And now her dog is gently chewing on that grouchy old cat’s tiny spine. And enjoying every minute of it. His eyes are closed. His mouth quivers. Drool drips from his tongue.
Augusta looks back at the wall and her eyes come to rest on the newspaper article about June Halladay’s car accident. She thinks back to what Rory called it.
That whole business with June Halladay.
Gus reads the byline on the header of the article.
Written by Renata Corrigan.
There’s a detail. She finds her notebook and writes down the name. Beside it she writes journalist and June Halladay article.
Gus flips through the pages of her notebook. Comparing her notes to the photos on her phone. Looking for more details. She finds another. It’s in the photo she took of the barricade outside Elgin. The sign on the barricade says it was erected by order of the County of Leeds Grenville Public Works and Records Office and the Chief Medical Officer of the Ontario Ministry of Health. She hears the farmer’s words.
Whole town went up. Gas company paid off the surviving townsfolk. They boarded up the town. The county put up them signs.
She examines the deed of trust hanging on the wall. Yes. His name is among those who signed away their mineral rights. James Pratt. The farmer. And an Alison Pratt is named too. Gus notices something else. The deed is stamped with a Leeds Grenville County Public Works and Records Office crest. Their address is at the bottom. It’s in Brockville, Ontario. Same office that put up the sign on the barricade. She writes the address in her notebook.
“That’s a step, right, dog?”
Levi ignores her. He’s busy chewing on old bones.
16
Bebe
GUS SPREADS HER MAP ON THE KITCHEN TABLE. BROCKVILLE looks to be a little over sixty miles away, a straight shot south of Ottawa, on the St. Lawrence River. Forty-five minutes east of Elgin. The Records Office is on Central Avenue. Pen, notebook, map.
Who needs a GPS?
Gus puts on her dad’s ball cap. Grabs a box of raspberry Pop-Tarts for the road. In the foyer, she laces up her sneakers. Levi peeks from under the lace tablecloth. Head framed like he’s wearing a wedding veil. Gus rolls her eyes.
“Up for another road trip, dog?”
Levi springs from under the table. Tail wagging.
An hour later, Augusta is standing in front of Bebe Foothold, the official gatekeeper of Leeds Grenville County’s records. Bebe sits at a desk behind a large window. Her nameplate is propped on the counter in front of her. She has long dark braids, golden skin, piercing brown eyes. Massive biceps and freakishly broad shoulders. Bodybuilder for sure. Or she-goddess. Early forties. Tight white blouse. Sleeves rolled up like she means business. Bebe isn’t to be messed with.
A steaming bowl of noodles sits in front of Bebe, next to a tall glass of white pus that looks like raw egg whites. Gus tries not to gag. Bebe looks up but doesn’t speak. Instead, she slowly puts down her plastic chopsticks, making it very clear that her lunch is being disturbed. Gus keeps things short and sweet. She tries playing the age card.
“Sorry to interrupt your lunch, ma’am, but I’m doing some research for this, like, school project about the fire in Elgin, Ontario. Think it was in 2013 maybe.”
Bebe rolls her eyes. “That’s a new one.”
Without looking where she’s reaching, Bebe grabs a pink form from a slot in her metal desktop organizer.
“Fill this out so we can get this party started, hon.”
Bebe shoves the form and a pen across the counter toward Gus. Hon? Maybe Bebe’s not as stone-cold as she looks. Bebe picks up her chopsticks and starts twisting her noodles. Augusta takes the form.
“You lift weights?”
Bebe looks up and stares. Gus gulps, then smiles and nods toward the woman’s biceps.
“Impressive is all.”
Bebe stares. Brownnosing is not working. Gus shrinks away and takes a seat on the wooden bench across the lobby. The building is old. Government issue. Circa 1950s. Shiny institutional floors that smell like lemon polish. Reminds her of Ridley College in St. Catharines.
“Two-ten.”
Gus looks up. Bebe’s no longer staring at her. She’s leaning over the counter, stirring her egg pus. Her shoulders are relaxed. Jaw unclenched. She liked the compliment after all. Seems Bebe’s a woman of few words but two-ten is definitely the icebreaker Gus needs to keep things moving.
“Two-ten?”
“Two hundred ten pounds. That’s what I can bench-press.”
“Wow.”
Bebe’s eyes smile, even though her mouth remains permanently locked in a straight line. Gus has no clue if two hundred and ten pounds is good or not, but it’s clear Bebe thinks it is.
“World record tops three hundred.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
Bebe downs the egg whites in a single gulp as if to prove her point. Augusta’s eyes widen in awe. Bebe’s mouth wavers and the edge of a smile emerges like a crack in a huge iceberg. She waves her over. Gus approaches the counter.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you, hon?” Bebe says, her tone warming.
“Who?”
“Gas company paper pushers.”
“I’m a student.”
“I get it. Procedure. Forget the form. I know what you’re looking for. You people should just call ahead.”
Bebe disappears through a swinging door behind her that leads to a back room. Gus glimpses rows of filing cabinets and shelves stacked high
with boxes. She waits at the counter. Bebe takes her time. Gus wanders over to the front door and checks on Levi. He’s sitting up in the car. He barks when he spots her. She ducks back toward the counter. Out of his eyeline.
Bebe hip-checks the swinging door and comes out. Arms holding a large file box marked Office of the Ontario Fire Marshal, April 1, 2013, Elgin Fire.
The date rings a bell.
Bebe shoves the box across the counter.
“I’ll need a picture ID.”
Gus opens her wallet and hands over her Ontario driver’s license. Bebe examines it briefly then places the ID below the counter.
“You can use the table down the hall. You’ll get your ID back when you’re done.”
Gus hoists the heavy box into her arms with some effort.
“Like I told the others. There’s been no new filings this past six months. No amendments or addendums or motions or appeals. Nothing. No new lawsuits relating to the original fire marshal’s report. Nothing new of any kind.”
“Really, I’m not . . .”
Bebe holds up her hand. “I know, I know. Due diligence and such. Have at it, hon.”
Gus doesn’t bother arguing. And besides, she’s about to drop the box. She makes it to the table and plants it with a thud.
“You can make copies there.” Bebe points to a photocopier at the end of the hall.
“Can I take photos with my phone?”
“Suit yourself.”
That’s why the date rings a bell. Gus has seen it before. In one of the photos on her phone. She scans through them and finds it. Gracie Halladay’s gravestone.
March 31, 1995–April 1, 2013.
She died the day of the Elgin fire. She was just eighteen.
Gus opens the file box lid.
An hour later, she’s done. Done skimming and photographing documents and taking notes. She can hear Levi barking. Time to go. Gus heaves the box onto the counter. Bebe swivels in her chair and picks up Augusta’s ID. She looks at it one more time.
“Augusta. You know there was a Saint Augusta. Of Treviso. Fifth century. Her own father pulled out all her teeth then decapitated her for converting to Christianity.”
“Wow. My dad just liked golf, so he named me after Augusta, Georgia.”
“Can’t pick your parents.”
They both smile.
Levi barks.
Bebe hands Gus her ID.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“Not sure yet.”
Levi howls like a wolf.
“You’re not with the gas company, are you, Miss Augusta of Georgia?”
Bebe leans on the counter and winks. Despite her muscle-bound exterior, she’s really a big softie inside. Gus smiles.
“Thanks for all your help.”
Gus heads for the door.
“You want to know all about that town, Miss Monet?”
Augusta turns back.
“Talk to Renata. She sat on the Heritage Society board for years. Wrote for the daily paper for most of this century. Renata was in here all the time doing research. Knows Elgin like a mama knows her child.”
Gus flushes. Feels like Bebe has read her mind.
“Renata?”
“Renata Corrigan.”
Gus remembers writing that same name in her notebook that very morning. Bebe scribbles something on a Post-it note. Holds it out for Gus.
“You’ll find her here. Retirement home in Smiths Falls.”
Gus walks back to Bebe, takes the note, glances at it, then slips it in her back pocket. Levi howls again.
“Thank you, Ms. Foothold.”
“My pleasure, Miss Augusta. You talk to Renata.”
Outside the Records Office, Gus lets the dog out of the car. He’s got amazing willpower. Has a super-long pee against the curb. Then they head back toward Ottawa. About twelve miles down Highway 15, she passes the sign to Smiths Falls. She decides against popping by to see Renata Corrigan. She’ll make an appointment tomorrow.
Gus has someone else she wants to meet first.
The sole survivor of the fire in Elgin.
As she drives back toward the city, her mind flits across the contents in the fire marshal’s box. Photographs of the charred aftermath of the fire. Statements from the mayor, the fire chief, local residents, police officers, and the ambulance attendants first on the scene. All cataloged. The photos and accounts describe the terrible devastation. Scorched storefronts. Heat-warped roads and telephone poles. A toxic black plume that turned day to night and wafted across the US border all the way to Chippewa Bay. From the photographed evidence, it’s impossible to imagine anyone surviving such an inferno. But one man did. His name dances across the windshield of Rose’s Buick.
Desmond Oaks.
The fire marshal’s report said he sustained devastating injuries. Medical forms list his current address as an apartment in Vanier in the east end of Ottawa.
She’s hoping he still lives there.
The fire officials were detailed in their final report. Listing each resident by name, age, and occupation. The entire population of Elgin was accounted for. All three hundred forty-two. All except five. On that particular day in April, the town had been shut down. Most of its residents were at the annual spring agricultural fair in Merrickville. A stroke of luck, the town’s mayor declared in his statement. He offered his thoughts and prayers to the families, coworkers, and friends of the five souls who perished. Bodies were never recovered. But everyone knew who they were just the same. They were the five who went missing that day. Never seen again.
Lois Greenaway, 63, Dance Academy Proprietor, Mortuary Cosmetologist.
Edgar Greenaway, 23, Unemployed.
Margo Dargavel, 83, Pensioner.
Rhonda Dargavel, 83, Pensioner.
And Gracie Halladay, 18, Assistant Mortuary Beautician.
Gus already knew Gracie was dead. That much was obvious from her gravestone. But until now, she had no idea how Gracie died. Now she had the written evidence. She was one of the victims of the Elgin fire. The others, Lois and Edgar, were mother and son. The Dargavel sisters were identical twins. Hadn’t stepped foot outside their childhood home in sixty-eight years according to the town librarian who brought them books every Friday. Agoraphobic bibliophiles, she called them in her statement to a fire marshal official.
It’s these statements made by the decent folks of Elgin that stick with Augusta most. Claims of close personal relationships. High school chums. Valued customers. Good friends. Longtime neighbors. Seems everyone had a claim on one of the dead.
All except Gracie Halladay. Most maintained they knew nothing about her. Some described her as different. Odd. One even called her the town freak. Another divulged that Gracie had a thing for roadkill. None expressed sorrow at her passing. Most focused on what they had lost instead. Their homes. Their livelihoods. Their cherished possessions.
Ironically, the sole survivor didn’t even live in Elgin. Desmond Oaks. He said he was passing through that day. Stopped for gas. Wrong place, wrong time. The Red Cross Emergency Response Team and the Prescott paramedics who coordinated his airlift to the Ottawa General were credited with saving his life. Paperwork documented the personal injury claim filed by Reed, Howe, Lowell, and Associates on behalf of Desmond Oaks against the gas company, insurance companies, the province, the county, and the town. Astonishingly, documentation from the fire marshal’s office indicates that officials deemed the incident a natural disaster. Caused by an earthquake. They cited a fracture in an active fault line, which led to a catastrophic explosion at the town’s epicenter. Concluding there was no definitive link between the fiery explosion and the fracking activities in the region. One insurance form called it an act of God. In the end, the gas company paid out less than two hundred grand in cash settlements just to make any future lawsuits go away. The money was divided between Mr. Oaks and a half-dozen relatives of those who died in the fire.
Gus drives on. Back to Ottawa. She glanc
es at the map next to her where she’s circled the town of Elgin in red. A town her mother circled on another map years ago. Seems they’re both captivated by this place marked by tragedy. By accidents, disappearances, deaths, a terrible fire that took lives and, ultimately, destroyed the town. And then there’s the stranger. Maimed for life just because he stopped for gas in that same town. Looks like no one but God has been held to account for what happened in Elgin.
Gus wonders how Desmond Oaks feels about that.
And what else he might have seen that day.
She aims to find out.
17
Dez
GUS PULLS INTO THE PARKING LOT BEHIND THE LOW-RENT apartment complex off Montreal Road. A late day tangerine sky hovers over the outdoor pool. She leaves the dog asleep in the Buick and approaches the metal gate surrounding the two-story stucco building. There’s an intercom panel attached to the gate. Nameplates sit next to each button. She scans the list. Finds it. Oaks. Unit 202. She buzzes. Waits. Nothing. She leans over the gate to see if anyone’s in the courtyard. It swings open. So much for security.
Augusta follows a cement path leading to a rusty staircase at one end of the complex. Two flights up, a long balcony stretches the length of the building. The air stinks of curry and mildew. Paint chips are piled like flakes of coconut along the sills of each apartment window. Most have their curtains drawn. Cracks in several windows are bonded with duct tape.
Gus knows what it’s like to live in a place like this. The dreary sad-sack atmosphere of a seedy motel. Familiar from her days with Lars. Seems like years ago, but it’s only been three weeks since she lived in a place just like this. The lackluster decor. Each unit indistinguishable from the next. Stained carpets. Fake-wood laminate furniture. Musty beds. Every motel was the same. The predictability became strangely comforting. Until it wasn’t. Until there was nowhere for her imagination to wander. No way to fix what was broken or paint what needed painting because none of it belonged to her. They were just passing through. Everything was temporary so what was the point of fixing or painting or imagining? They were just good places to hide out. Even better places to put in the rearview. No heartache. No fond memories.