by Becky Citra
We decide to go to the museum on Friday to see if we can find any more newspaper clippings. The museum is open from one till four, so we’ll have to skip out of school. It’s the last day so it’ll just be pizza and a movie anyway. Since Van and I usually ignore each other at school, I almost make a sarcastic remark about Van preferring to hang out with his youth-group friends instead of coming with me to the museum.
I bite my lip and keep my mouth shut. I’m getting smarter.
Nine
It’s Thursday after supper and something amazing has just happened. I’ve lured Renegade into the round pen. First I opened the pen’s metal gate, and then I got a bucket of grain. I walked slowly down the middle of the corral, shaking the bucket so the grain rattled. Renegade followed me at a wary distance, unable to resist, right through the gate and into the pen! I dumped the grain on the ground, then slid back around Renegade with the empty bucket and shut the gate.
Now I am outside and he is inside.
I take a deep breath. I’m not so cocky now about trapping him, just apprehensive.
In my pocket is a crumpled piece of paper. I don’t need to take it out to read it. I know what I wrote.
Control movement.
Control direction.
Those are the two things I need to work on first.
Renegade finishes his grain. He trots around the pen, his head lowered to the ground, blowing through his nose. He makes three or four circles and then he stops and presses his nose against the metal pipes. They’re too high for him to stick his head over. I wonder if he’s feeling as nervous as I am.
I pick up a coiled rope that I’ve laid on the ground, ready for this moment. It’s soft and about twenty feet long. I felt a small burst of triumph when I found it in the tack room. It’s exactly what the articles from the Internet say I need.
That’s all. Just a rope. I bite my lip and slide the latch on the gate. I slip inside the round pen and shut the gate. It clangs and Renegade jumps. I move to the middle of the pen, my eyes on Renegade. He swings his butt toward me and flattens his ears.
Control movement.
That’s where I’ll start. My plan is to make Renegade move. Anywhere, it doesn’t matter where. As long as he moves when I tell him to. That will establish my leadership. Or, as one article said, I will be the lead mare in this tiny herd of ours. Horses need a leader. They feel safer, more secure. That’s the theory, anyway.
I hurl the end of the rope toward his butt. I don’t mean to throw so hard. It smacks against his flank and wraps around his back leg.
He kicks out hard. The rope jerks from my hand and dirt sprays my face. I duck instinctively. He explodes into a fast gallop, streaking around the pen as if he is being chased by a thousand demons. I’m terrified he’ll fall or crash into the pipe walls. The pen is small, too small for this speed. The eye I can see rolls in fear. Hooves churn the ground into dust. Flanks turn sleek with sweat.
I am rooted to the ground, my legs weak. Every part of me says to stay out of his way. Everything I’ve read leaves my head. I’ve no idea how to stop him. I’m sure he’s going to kill himself. Or kill me.
He gallops around and around, his hindquarters surging, his hooves drumming rhythmically. Dust and the pungent smell of his sweat choke my nostrils.
I’m in awe of his power.
I think he’s gone crazy.
I remember more words. Round pen work is not about mindlessly racing a horse around in circles. A horse that is not fit can run to exhaustion or death.
A random thought jumps into my head: Dad would know what to do.
Change direction.
That’s the second step. Now that he’s moving, I have to tell him which direction.
I’m terrified to try. I’m certain I’ll be trampled. So I do nothing.
After what seems like forever, Renegade slows to a canter and then a trot. Control movement. Change direction. Since I tossed the rope, Renegade has been the boss. I’m nowhere near being the lead mare. Renegade knows it too. He kicks out in my direction—hard, resentful—and then stands still, his sides heaving, blowing through his flared nostrils. He won’t look at me.
The dust settles. I stare at him, my heart racing. Flecks of foam speckle his black muzzle.
Shaken, I open the gate. I leave it open for Renegade. I pick up the rope and loop it over my shoulder. Then I grab the empty grain bucket and escape back to the barn. I need to think. I need a better plan.
Ten
When Van and I get to the museum at twenty after one, one of those plastic clocks saying Back in Ten Minutes is hanging in the window. We go to the 7-Eleven for Cokes and guzzle them on the hot, sunny sidewalk in front of the museum. I’m filled with the joy that comes on the last day of school.
An old rust-speckled car pulls up to the curb and a woman gets out, calling, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She has spiky black hair sticking out of a brightly colored bandanna and piercings on her nose and eyebrow. She walks around to the passenger side and lifts a small blond boy out of a car seat. “Had to pick up Jeremy at the day care,” she explains. “He’s not feeling well. I’m Hana.”
Hana unlocks the door and turns on lights. We’re in a small room filled with glass cases; a display of old-fashioned dresses stands against one wall. “There’s a lot more to see in the other rooms,” says Hana. She sets Jeremy on a blanket in the corner with a couple of picturebooks and a plastic container of Cheerios. “Any questions, just ask.” She eyes our Cokes. “Please leave the drinks out here though.”
We set the cans on the counter. “We’re wondering if you have any old newspapers,” I say.
Hana frowns. “How old?”
“From the fifties,” I say.
“We don’t actually have whole newspapers,” says Hana. “But we have file folders of clippings. You know, stuff that happened in the town that was interesting. I don’t know how far back they go, but you can look. If you can’t find what you want, you might check at the newspaper office. I think they keep archives.”
She directs us to several tall gray filing cabinets in a tiny room behind the counter. It’s more like a walk-in storage closet, filled with boxes of books, tattered magazines, an old clock and a bulging bag of clothes. There’s a kettle and a box of tea beside a sink.
“I’m new here,” says Hana, “and I’m not sure how things were filed. You might have to do some digging.”
The first filing cabinet is crammed with folders with headings like Arctic Animals, The Galapagos, Aviation, Greek Architecture. I peek inside a few of them; they’re filled with articles and pictures cut out of glossy magazines. The second filing cabinet has newspaper clippings, but they’re all recent: municipal elections, the campaign to build a new recreation center, closures at the mill. I’m starting to feel discouraged. Maybe the newspaper archives would have been better.
“In here!” Van bursts out. He’s been rummaging through the filing cabinet beside me. “This goes way back.” And then “Aha!”
He produces a tan file folder with Livia Willard written in black felt pen on the tab. I can’t believe our luck. I had started to think we were crazy.
Inside are five newspaper clippings, held together with a paper clip. I spread them out on the table in the front room. We sit down and I pass Van the article dated July 9, 1954. The headline reads DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT CARIBOO GUEST RANCH. It’s the same one that I found in the guest book.
I pick up another article and start to read.
July 10, 1954
SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL CONTINUES
An extensive search for four-year-old Livia Willard, who disappeared the afternoon of July 7 at the Double R Guest Ranch, continues. Police and volunteers have searched the shoreline of Gumboot Lake and the forested area around the ranch. The police are not ruling out foul play. Beth Ryerson, sister of Wayne Willard, arrived from England on July 9 to be with her two young nieces, eight-year-old Iris and fourteenyear-old Esta, and her daughter Melissa, who has been visiting the
family. She says she would like to thank everyone who is working so hard to find Livia and that the family wishes privacy at this time. Funeral services for Livia’s parents, Wayne and Joan Willard, killed in a car accident as they returned to the ranch, will be held in North Vancouver on July 14.
There’s not much in there that I don’t already know. I pick up the next article. The headline catches my attention.
July 14, 1954
ARREST IN WILLARD DISAPPEARANCE
There has been a breakthrough in the case of the missing fouryear-old girl, Livia Willard, who was last seen on the afternoon of July 7 at the Double R Ranch. Livia’s fourteen-year-old sister, Esta Willard, has come forward and said that shortly before Livia disappeared she saw her sister in the front seat of a truck belonging to Heb Gallagher, an employee at the ranch. Gallagher has worked at the ranch for the past four years as a maintenance and general handy man. His wife, May Gallagher, is the cook. After extensive interrogation, police have charged Gallagher with abduction. He is being held without bail.
My first thought, after the shock of seeing his grandparents’ names, is for Van. I would give anything for him not to know this, but it’s too late. He has already picked up the clipping and is reading.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Grandpa.” He stares at me, stricken. “This is awful.”
I feel sick. I wish I’d never suggested coming here. I have a horrible feeling that I have disturbed something that was meant to stay buried. “Look, maybe we should—,” I start to say.
“No,” says Van. “I need to know.”
The next clipping is only a few lines.
July 17, 1954
CHARGES IN WILLARD CASE DROPPED
Charges against Heb Gallagher, an employee at the Double R Ranch, have been dropped. Police have declined to comment, saying only that he remains a person of interest.
“That was three days later,” says Van. He sounds shaken. He’s probably imagining what those three days must have been like for his grandpa.
There is one final clipping. The paper looks newer, the print not as faded. I check the date. It’s more than twenty years after the other articles. We read it together.
August 2, 1979
CASE STILL ACTIVE AFTER TWENTYFIVE YEARS
Police have reopened several cases of interest in the area, including the disappearance of Livia Willard in 1954. Four-year-old Livia disappeared twenty-five years ago on July 7, 1954, from the Double R Guest Ranch, where she was vacationing with her parents, Joan and Wayne Willard, her sisters, Iris and Esta, and her English cousin Melissa. Despite a thorough search, the little girl was never found. The police are interested in speaking to anyone who lived in the area in 1954. A local man, a former employee of the guest ranch, was questioned extensively at the time. He was charged but released after a few days. Now fifty-eight years old, he remains a person of interest and has been requestioned by the police. He claimed that he was fishing at Marmot Lake when Livia disappeared and has always maintained his innocence.
Van looks sick. I wish we had never come. My head spins, but it always comes back to the same thing. It’s insane trying to connect Livia’s disappearance with Heb, who carves beautiful birds and loves his grandchildren.
Van shoves the newspaper articles back into the folder. “Let’s get out of here,” he says.
We don’t talk as we walk back to school. A horn honks; it’s Dad in his pickup truck. He pulls over to the curb. He says that he’s been in town picking up some building supplies and that he’ll give us a ride home. I wonder if Van would rather take the bus on the last day so he can say goodbye to his friends. I’m going to tell him that I don’t mind if he does, but he says, “That’d be great, thanks,” and we both climb in.
As we drive out to Gumboot Lake, Dad and Van talk across me about where all the good fishing lakes are. Van is polite and answers Dad’s questions, but I’m sure that he’s still feeling as stunned as I am. I stare through the windshield at the road. I can’t stop thinking about Van’s grandfather and Livia.
Eleven
I get out at Van’s house and tell Dad I’ll be home for dinner. Prince, the family’s golden retriever, gallops across the grass to meet us. I kneel down and bury my face in his neck.
Dawn and Ginny are in front of the barn, brushing the ponies. I go over to say hi and then join Van in the kitchen.
Van’s mom is making strawberry jam. Gleaming jars are lined up on the counter, and a huge pot simmers on the stove. “Hi, Thea,” she says. “Help yourself.” I pick a fat strawberry out of a cardboard flat and pop it into my mouth.
Van is pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. I can feel the tension coming off him in waves.
“I know, Mom,” he says finally in a tight voice. “I know about Grandpa and that girl that went missing.”
Jane stops stirring the pot and stares at Van.
“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” he says fiercely.
“Oh, Van,” says Jane. “How did you find out?”
“It’s my fault,” I say. “I found a newspaper article about Livia. And I wanted to know what happened to her. So we went to the museum and we read about it there.”
“I just want to know why you didn’t tell me,” Van says.
A voice says quietly, “We didn’t tell you because we promised your grandpa that you would never know.”
It is May, in the doorway.
“I don’t want you upsetting Grandma,” says Jane.
“Nonsense,” says May.
She asks Van and me to join her for tea in her and Heb’s sitting room.
“It’s a good time to talk,” she says. “Heb has gone to town with Van’s dad to do some chores.”
We go into the sitting room. I marvel again at Heb’s birds. They are so lifelike. They look as if they might burst into flight at any minute. I stroke the feathers on a duck while May pours tea into china cups. She opens a round tin and puts some cookies on a plate.
“Van is right,” May says. “He should have been told. After all, we have nothing to hide. What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” says Van.
May is silent. I wonder if she is doing what I do, picking out the bits she wants to tell, deciding what should remain a secret. After all, some things are nobody’s business.
“First of all,” says May finally, “the charges were dropped. There was no evidence whatsoever that Grandpa was involved. It was just the story of a mixed-up teenager.”
“That’s so unfair,” says Van.
“Of course it is.” May folds her hands, her tea forgotten. “We knew the Willard family well. They came to the ranch every year, right from when Livia was a baby. They always came in the beginning of July and stayed for two weeks. Esta was the oldest, Iris was in the middle and then there was little Livia. The family always took the same cabin, that big one with two bedrooms and a loft.”
A slight shiver runs over me. That sounds like the cabin Dad and I are living in. I wonder if all three girls slept in my room. I imagine them in old-fashioned nightgowns, whispering until they fell asleep.
“The year Livia disappeared, they had their niece from England with them,” says May. “Her name was Melissa. She was a great rider. Her parents owned some kind of fancy riding stable in England. The day Livia disappeared, Melissa went on a trail ride all afternoon and left the two younger girls with Esta.”
Disapproval sharpens May’s voice. “Melissa was in charge. She should have stayed with the girls. Especially Livia. She was only four.”
I try to remember exactly what the newspaper articles said. “The girls’ parents had gone back to Vancouver,” I say.
“That’s right,” says May. “I can’t remember why. Some kind of family emergency, I suppose.” She frowns. “They didn’t want to leave the girls at first. There was quite a to-do, especially about whether Livia should go with her parents. She was so young. Wayne wanted to take her to Vancouver. He adored her. He was absolutely crazy about
her. And he was worried.”
“What was he so worried about?” I ask.
“Livia suffered from asthma. Her asthma had been particularly bad that summer. I remember the poor little mite struggling to catch her breath. But she’d been better the last few days, and in the end they decided to leave her at the ranch. I think they thought she’d be happier there.”
“If Livia had gone with her parents, everything would have been different,” says Van. He sounds bitter.
“If Wayne had had his way, she would have. But Joan said to leave her at the ranch with Melissa. After all, Melissa was in her twenties. She wasn’t a child.”
May pauses. “Don’t get me wrong. Livia was the apple of her mother’s eye too. You see, she was Joan’s only child.”
“But what about Esta and Iris?” I say.
“They weren’t Joan’s. She was their stepmother. Wayne had been married before. Esta and Iris’s mother died of cancer.”
“So Livia was their half sister,” I say.
“Yes,” says May. “Joan was younger than Wayne by quite a number of years. She was ecstatic to have her own child. She was always fixing Livia up nicely. Those curls weren’t natural. Oh no. Joan used to set Livia’s hair every night. I used to think it would be nice if she spent a little bit of that time on Iris. Iris had straight mousy hair and a little peaked face, but she was appealing in her own way. Esta was such an unattractive girl. She couldn’t help it. She had what we used to call a pudding face. And she was big for her age. Awkward.”
“Did Esta and Iris mind that Livia got so much attention?”
“Esta did. Definitely. I don’t think Iris noticed so much. She was crazy about the horses and spent a lot of time at the barn. I remember thinking— after their parents were killed in the accident and their aunt took them back to England with her—that at least Iris would have all those horses to console her.”
“But Esta minded?”
“Oh yes, Esta was fiercely jealous of Livia. I saw her push her right down in the dirt more than once when she thought no one was looking.” May sighs. “Esta bullied Iris too, and I think both girls were afraid of her. It’s a terrible thing, to be afraid of your own sister.”