Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  I didn’t say good night to the bishop and his wife. Not that they noticed. But I embraced Miss Cameron and thanked Mr. Dalhousie for his hospitality, hoping he had not seen Kilgour’s gesture to me.

  To my surprise, he took me aside. “I was hoping to talk to you in a more private setting, Miss Alexander. But I have been so riddled with shame for my unthinking words that evening at your house, I felt I must speak before this evening was done. I fear that you think me a prejudiced dolt.”

  I held up a hand to protest.

  He continued, “No, no. Please allow me to offer my most abject apologies and to tell you that, in my heart, I do not have the narrow-minded and bigoted thoughts I was accused of by Mr. Kilgour. I blush with shame to think that you might have misunderstood me. Please say you forgive me, Miss Alexander.”

  His apology was so gracious that I said, “Of course, I forgive you. Apology accepted.”

  “Then we are friends again?”

  “Indeed we are, Reverend Dalhousie. Think no more about it.”

  He bowed. “I do not deserve such kindness. But I wonder if I might call on you tomorrow, Miss Alexander? I didn’t have a chance to go over the Christmas service one last time with you, and I have something I wish to consult you about.”

  Duncan Kilgour pushed me in the small of my back to hurry me along. I stood fast and agreed to a late-morning visit with Robert Dalhousie just as Ivy and Papa interrupted with their own thanks. I rushed outside to climb aboard the sledge ahead of everyone else and sat right behind Minty. As I hoped, Papa sat next to me.

  People called good night from all directions. Runnered carrioles, sleighs, and sledges left the vicarage one by one, horses puffing clouds of vapor, bells and harnesses ringing. The ride home was invigorating, the night air frigid and still. When we arrived, Kilgour helped Papa down, which gave me an opportunity to rush past him with a curt good night.

  When I crept into my room, I was relieved to find the three girls and Grandmother asleep. I undressed quickly, climbed into the cold bed, and lay awake for a long time, my fingertips pressed against the side of my mouth.

  Now, as the sun readies itself to lift the curtain of night, I will finish this entry and dress without disturbing nôhkom or the girls. I have slept very little. Only two good things came out of last evening. Robert Dalhousie and I are friends again. Perhaps “friends” is too strong a word, as we really know so little about each other. But it takes depth of character to apologize as nicely as he did. I noticed, when he touched my arm, his hand had been trembling slightly. Of course, I mustn’t read too much into that. But at least he behaved like a gentleman should, unlike Duncan Kilgour, who has no sense of good manners. I can only hope no one noticed his behavior to me before we left. Ridiculous man!

  The second good thing is that Papa enjoyed the time with his friends and looked better than I have seen him since my return.

  Note to myself: For both those things, you must be content. Try not to care a fig for Duncan Kilgour’s rash behavior!

  24

  CASS

  As we drove along River Road, I was in the middle of telling Martin about how we could sneak out of the party early, when I saw something. “Stop!” I cried.

  “What?”

  “Just stop … STOP.”

  As soon as he pulled over, I jumped out and floundered through deep snow toward the river. “I saw her! With another person. Over there! By those trees!”

  He caught up to me. “Saw who?”

  I looked around. “Her. Beatrice Alexander. Walking. There! A man was with her. I know it was her.” I bent over to catch my breath.

  Martin stood quietly beside me.

  “Okay. I’m nuts. She’s not here. Let’s go.”

  “You must have seen something, Cass. Your face lost all its blood. Hey! Look!” I looked. “Santa Claus. Heading toward your house. On skis!” A cross-country skier in a red hat was pumping his way down the middle of the river.

  I picked up a handful of snow and threw it in Martin’s face. He lunged at me and we fell together, half-buried in a snowbank.

  “I hate you,” I laughed, mashing snow into his collar.

  He showered my face with more snow and tried to stand up, but I knocked him over. Just as he lunged again, I rolled over and tried to crawl away, but he grabbed my foot and pulled me back. I yanked my hat down over my ears to keep the snow out. He hauled me to my feet. I was debating whether to give him another shove when I turned and there was Beatrice. She was making a snow angel not far from us, swishing her arms, her moccasined feet moving back and forth. She stopped when she saw me, pure shock on her face.

  “You’re here!” I cried. “I didn’t imagine you!”

  A man, his back toward me, moved across my line of vision. When he turned to see what she was looking at, they both vanished.

  Martin spoke in my ear. “Do you see her? Is she really there?”

  I pointed, and he looked down. There was a perfect angel cut deep into the snow.

  We were still talking about it when we drove up to the house. We agreed there were no footprints leading to or from the angel. It just appeared. He’d finally become a believer.

  There was no parking space left in front of the house, so Martin pulled in by the barn and we walked across the road holding hands – it was nice. But nice ended at our gate.

  The low bushes beside the house were covered in nets of twinkling lights, and a lit garland framed the door. I guess Jean got Dad to put them up. Why didn’t he wait for me? We always put up decorations together. Always. We walked around the side of the house to find a lighted Santa grinning at us. It wasn’t one of ours.

  Inside, a person I didn’t know, in a white apron and black dress, was working at a counter in the kitchen. We took our jackets and boots off. Our jeans were wet with snow. The place smelled of food, mulled wine, and coffee. Voices sounded in the main part of the house. Christmas music floated through the air.

  “Are you Cassandra?” the woman asked. She looked me up and down. “I was told to tell you to go upstairs and change if and when you got home.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. Change into what? Cinderella? An elf?

  “I’m Minna Stannard. Caterer and all-round helper.”

  “You don’t need to help me with anything, thanks,” I said, ignoring my wet knees.

  She shrugged. “Just the messenger. Can you carry out some food?”

  I took two plates. “Come on,” I said to Martin. “May as well get this over with.”

  As soon as I said it, the door swung open. “Here you are,” Dad said. “Got lots of schoolwork done, did you?”

  Before I could answer, he rubbed his hands together and continued, “Good, good. Glad you’re home. Everyone else has arrived. Jean thought of calling you, but didn’t think you’d mind either way.”

  “Mind what? Missing out on decorating the house or just missing out?”

  Dad’s smile morphed into the stiff toothy one he puts on when he’s uneasy. I handed him the plates of food and walked to the living room. It was crowded. Martin’s aunt Betty waved from a distant corner. She looked nice all in gray, with a blue scarf around her neck. I could see Walter, beer in hand, talking to another old guy. The fire crackled and a CD choir sang “Do you see what I see?”

  Yeah, I saw something all right – my aunt Blair in silky black slacks, high heels, and a white blouse with a high collar. She was also wearing Mom’s black crystal earrings and choker. Her hair was piled on her head. She wiggled her fingers at me. I guess she didn’t like the look on my face because she turned to Betty.

  What the heck was she doing here? I headed toward her, only to stop halfway across the room. In front of the middle window stood a fake white Christmas tree, its branches decorated with blue-and-white bobbles and matching lights.

  Daisy came over to me. “You guys put up a fake tree?” I asked.

  She smiled at me, but when I didn’t smile back, she looked at Jean, who was chatting to a small
group of people. Jean wore a wine-red velvet skirt and matching silk blouse. Her hair was pulled back with a glittery barrette. She looked like the nerdy teenager who never knows what’s in fashion.

  “Oh, there you are, Cassandra!” she cried. “We thought you’d left home! You missed out on the tree hoisting and decorating. Couldn’t wait all day, could we?” She laughed and described how she and Daisy had struggled to put all the fake white branches into the metal trunk. A few people tittered, but most of Mom and Dad’s old friends looked uncomfortable.

  “You didn’t tell me you were putting a tree up today,” I said stiffly.

  “Well, it is a Christmas party, after all. But, as I say, you weren’t here.”

  “We always put up a real tree together.” My voice sounded strangled. Someone moved beside me. I smelled my aunt’s perfume, but I didn’t look at her. I was too busy looking at a young woman floating across the front of a different tree – a dark green one beside the white monstrosity. It was Beatrice and she was looking right at me.

  My heart lurched. I lifted my hand in greeting. I knew I was being watched by some of the guests, but I didn’t care. I was sure I could smell real pine needles, along with that cold snow odor that sweats off icy branches in warm air.

  Beatrice whispered, “What is upsetting you? Is it me?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s her.”

  Beatrice’s eyes followed mine. I saw Jean’s white face and a lot of others behind her.

  Suddenly Dad said loudly to the room, “I wasn’t home when the tree went up. Out getting more wine and mixer. No big deal.”

  That broke the spell. Beatrice disappeared. People started talking again, avoiding me. Aunt Blair took my arm in a gentle grip.

  “It’s okay, honey. Let it go.”

  I shrugged her off and said to Dad, “Yeah, no big deal … who cares, right? You, Mom, and me always put the lights up together. And the tree. With our special decorations. But Mom doesn’t count anymore, does she? So … therefore … neither do I.”

  “Cass, Jean and Daisy did it as a surprise,” Dad said quietly.

  “No, no, you don’t understand, Cassandra,” Jean called out. “Your dad and I are going to make a big announcement tonight, and I want everything to be perfect, so –”

  “Not a good time right now, Jean,” Dad interrupted.

  “But why not? Everyone we know is here. It will save on phone calls!” She cried, “Everyone! Jonathan and I are pregnant!”

  There were mild oohs and aahs and some scattered clapping. I could hear Aunt Blair’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, God, not now,” she whispered.

  Dad gave Jean an exasperated look. “Cass, honey, I was going to tell you.…”

  I pushed past him and stalked out of the room. Someone was following right behind. I pulled on my jacket and boots.

  Aunt Blair said firmly, “Jon. Let her go. Just let her go. This is not the time.”

  Beside me, Martin was yanking his boots on. I banged the back door open. When I got to the road, I kept walking. Martin came crunching up behind me. He touched my shoulder, but I twisted away. Jean hated me – hated Mom – and she was getting even by having a kid with Dad. Wasn’t she too old to have a baby? Why didn’t Dad buy a proper tree? I asked him twice when I was sick, and he said he would. What’s the matter with him? What would Mom think? How could he have another kid at his age? What was Aunt Blair doing at the party? Was it because of the baby? Did she know about it? How? A new baby would arrive soon, and Dad would love it, and … our Christmases – his, Mom’s, and mine – were over. I stumbled on a ridge of snow and the shock of it forced out a loud sob.

  “You’re going the wrong way. Turn. Go to my truck. Your aunt’s just left. She said to go to her place. Come on, Cass.” Martin touched my arm.

  I pulled away from him again, but I turned around anyway. I didn’t know what else to do, where to go. When we walked past the house, I could see Dad’s outline in the front glass door. He opened it when he saw us.

  “Go away!” I shouted. “Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to hear you!”

  Martin pointed at the truck. “I’m taking her to her aunt’s place. She’ll be okay.”

  Dad nodded and backed into the doorway, tripping over the edge. Daisy was behind him and caught him before he fell. No Jean. Of course.

  We were quiet until we pulled onto the highway.

  Martin said, “Can I ask you something?” I shrugged. I was empty, exhausted. “Do you think your dad is happy with Jean?”

  I rolled my eyes. “He married her, didn’t he? If he’s not happy, he has only himself to blame!”

  The wind was blowing ground snow across the icy road in thin white curtains. Martin kept his eyes straight ahead, his face still.

  I sighed. “Okay, I think he’s happy sometimes.”

  “Are you and Daisy making things tense for them? I’m not accusing, okay? Just asking.”

  I was too tired to talk about Jean or Dad, so I didn’t answer.

  “And if you keep on at your dad, you might break it up, right?”

  “Just be quiet, Martin, okay? You know nothing.” I stared out the window.

  We drove through the whiteness for a while. I suddenly realized that I was leaving Beatrice behind. Would she be able to find me at Aunt Blair’s? I felt for the brooch through my jacket. Yes, it was still pinned in my pocket. Surely she’d find me, wouldn’t she?

  “So what was your dad like after your mom died?”

  He wasn’t going to give up. “He got up, he went to work, he came home, he went to bed. His eyes were dead – like no one was in there.”

  “And you?”

  “I got up, went to school, came home, made dinner, went to bed. It was like a huge semi had crashed through our house, smashing half of it to bits. The way she left … it was … I was … there is no way to explain. Aunt Blair took me to her doctor after the funeral. He gave me something that helped me sleep, so I could at least get to school.” I stared out the window again.

  He put a hand over mine. “Sorry.”

  “Sometimes, at school, I heard kids talking about their makeup or their hot weekends, or griping about their parents, or crying over some guy or girl, all stupid superficial stuff. I just wanted to shout at them, ‘Don’t you get it? We’re all going to die! Who cares about any of this crap! What’s the point of anything?’“

  “Still feel that way?”

  “It got better. Then Dad married her. And she’s done her best to – oh, just never mind, Martin.”

  “You clearly can’t stand Jean.”

  I put my head against the backrest. “You think? She’s uptight, jealous, bossy, and has absolutely no sense of humor. None. Zilch. My mom was all over the place, but she was easy to be around, and funny. Jean hates me. And my father just wants everything to be normal.…”

  The sign for Jackson’s Grange, a tiny hamlet between St. Cuthbert’s and Selkirk, loomed up ahead. We pulled off, and a mile farther, came to a narrow stone house. Beside it stood a brick building that had been a local telephone station in the 1920s. My grandpa, Duncan Andrews, bought it and turned it into an antique store in the early 1960s. Now it was my aunt’s. People came from Winnipeg, Selkirk, and as far as Brandon to buy stuff here.

  Martin pulled into the driveway. “You aunt’s just getting out of her car. Maybe being at her place will give you some space to think.”

  I smiled sadly. “Maybe thinking’s the last thing I want to do.”

  25

  BEATRICE

  I have found out that in her clear-out of the house when she married Papa, Ivy threw away all of my mother’s handmade Christmas decorations. I was not surprised, but angry even so. This morning, after milking the cows and cleaning the house, the girls and I opened the doors between the parlor and the dining room, lit the fire, and set out paper, paste, brushes, and paints.

  As I organized a big pot of tea and a platter of scones for the girls in the kitchen, Ivy grumbled to Papa, “All
this hullabaloo for Christmas! It’s not right. It’s not Godly!”

  Papa said quietly, “Then just steer clear of it, Ivy, and all will be well.”

  She pulled herself up like an affronted hen and glared at me around her long beak. Soon after we began our work on the decorations, I saw her accusatory eye appear every so often around the parlor door.

  I hoped Duncan Kilgour would stay away, but it wasn’t long before he was poking his nose in, too, acting as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. I couldn’t confront him with the girls there, so I told him he could help nôhkom down to the dining room, instead of eating all my scones. Off he went.

  The Three Graces and Dilly chatted brightly as they sifted through the bits and bobs in the box I keep under my bed. It was filled with beading supplies, porcupine quills, tiny pine cones, flattened and curled birch bark, leaves and flowers, pretty stones, and other things I’d collected on my summer and fall rambles.

  “Look,” cried Anna Grace in Cree. “Leather and bags of beads!”

  Soon they were making tiny moccasins. Grandmother was tooth-biting simple designs on smooth pieces of pale birch bark lining, looping red wool through them as hangers. She said she learned it from a friend she once knew “up north.” I fashioned paper-loop garlands and stars using precious silver tissue. As the morning wore on, our pile of little things to put on the tree grew and grew.

  As we worked, Duncan wedged the balsam’s trunk solidly into the wooden pail, using pieces of wood to hold it in place. Then he lay balsam boughs along the mantelpiece, tucking smaller pieces behind the long picture wires on the walls. All the while, he sang Christmas songs. He began with “The Contest of the Ivy and the Holly,” looking toward the hall door now and again.

  When he loudly intoned, “ ‘Ivy hath chapped fingers, she caught them from the cold, So might they all have, aye, that with Ivy hold,’ ” I heard a gasp, and footsteps retreated quickly down the hall. Duncan chuckled and hummed a new tune.